Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918: A Genealogy of Colonial Religion (Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies) 3031274229, 9783031274220

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Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918 A Genealogy of Colonial Religion Jörg Haustein

Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies

Series Editors Richard Drayton, Department of History, King’s College London, London, UK Saul Dubow, Magdalene College, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, UK

The Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies series is a wellestablished collection of over 100 volumes focussing on empires in world history and on the societies and cultures that emerged from, and challenged, colonial rule. The collection includes transnational, comparative and connective studies, as well as works addressing the ways in which particular regions or nations interact with global forces. In its formative years, the series focused on the British Empire and Commonwealth, but there is now no imperial system, period of human history or part of the world that lies outside of its compass. While we particularly welcome the first monographs of young researchers, we also seek major studies by more senior scholars, and welcome collections of essays with a strong thematic focus that help to set new research agendas. As well as history, the series includes work on politics, economics, culture, archaeology, literature, science, art, medicine, and war. Our aim is to collect the most exciting new scholarship on world history and to make this available to a broad scholarly readership in a timely manner.

Jörg Haustein

Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918 A Genealogy of Colonial Religion

Jörg Haustein Selwyn College University of Cambridge Cambridge, UK

ISSN 2635-1633 ISSN 2635-1641 (electronic) Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies ISBN 978-3-031-27422-0 ISBN 978-3-031-27423-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: German settlers in front of historic Great Mosque of Kilwa. Orig. image title: “Kilwa Kissiwani, Ruins of an old Arab Mosque”, BArch, Bild 105-DOA0232/ Walther Dobbertin This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To all my family

Acknowledgements

This book is based on my Habilitationsschrift submitted to the Faculty of Theology at the University of Heidelberg in July 2020. Therefore, my foremost gratitude goes to my mentor and friend Michael Bergunder who encouraged me to pursue such a project and kept offering his time for critical feedback and advice long after I had left Heidelberg. I am also much indebted to him and Jan Stievermann for writing extensive appraisals of my study for the Habilitation process. Their generous comments have helped me prepare this work for publication. Over the many years of research for this book, there have been numerous of people who have offered help and advice along the way: establishing contacts, sharing sources, supplying their philological expertise, answering questions, and offering feedback on chapter drafts or other outputs relating to this work. Among them, I would like to mention Felicitas Becker, James Brennan, Katrin Bromber, Abdin Chande, Ahmed Elshamsy, Steven Fabian, Emma Hunter, John Iliffe, Fabian Krautwald, Samuel Krug, Roman Loimeier, Oswald Masebo, Michelle Moyd, Salvatory Nyanto, Armin Owzar, Esra Özyürek, Sarah Pugach, Christian Pohl, Alena Rettova, Morgan Robinson, and Mohamed Said. I would also like to thank the staff at the various archives I consulted for facilitating access and assisting with inquiries. Pars pro toto I want to name Wolfgang Apelt at the VEM Archive in Wuppertal, a (now retired) archivist with an iconic combination of photographic memory, friendly helpfulness, and enthusiasm for his sources.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am very grateful to Saul Dubow and Richard Drayton for the keen interest they took in my work for inclusion in the Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies series. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewer of my book proposal and manuscript for their insightful comments as well as Lucy Kidwell and Noorjahan Begum from Palgrave Macmillan for a smooth facilitation of the publication process. Finally, I am much indebted to my family for their patience and support for a husband and father slowly greying over his sources. Cambridge July 2022

Contents

1

Introduction: Studying Islam in German East Africa 1.1 Previous Scholarship and Sources 1.2 Historical Overview and Chapter Plan

1 6 16

Part I Race and Language: Arab and Swahili Islam 2

3

Supplanting “Arabdom”: Race and Religion in the German Conquest 2.1 Islam and “Arabdom” in the Scramble for East Africa 2.2 The “Arab Revolt” in Imperial Reckoning 2.3 Insurgent Coalitions and “Arab” Identity 2.4 Islam and “Arab” Politics Contested Philology: Kiswahili as Religious Language 3.1 Missionary Philology, Religion, and Romanisation 3.2 Kiswahili as Contested Language 3.3 The Christianisation of Kiswahili 3.4 Race and Language: Colonial Religion and the Disavowal of Hybridity

27 31 42 47 60 69 72 81 92 109

ix

x

CONTENTS

Part II Colonial Instrumentality: Islam in the German “Civilising Mission” 4

5

Slavery and Religion: From Anti-Islamic Abolitionism to Christian Serfdom 4.1 The Quick Rise and Fall of the German Anti-Slavery Movement 4.2 Islam and Christianity in the “Civilising” Regime 4.3 Slavery in Missionary Campaigns and Parliamentary Debates 4.4 Bureaucratised Manumission and Coercive Labour Regimes Educating for Islam? The German Government Schools and “Christian Civilising” 5.1 A School for Muslims in Tanga 5.2 “Secular” Schools and Missionary Complaints 5.3 Repression and Simple Equivalences 5.4 Colonial Instrumentality: Islam, Made in the Image of “Civilising”

117 118 124 132 144 149 150 161 171 182

Part III Coloured Justice: Colonial Jurisdiction and Islamic Law 6

7

Islam in the German Legal Order: Constitutional Conflicts and “Native Law” 6.1 The Schutzgebietsgesetz of 1886 6.2 Implementing a Racial Divide 6.3 Defining Religious Exemptions 6.4 Islam in the Colonial Practice of “Native Law”

191 195 203 212 220

Studying Islamic Law: Elisions of German Scholarship 7.1 German Orientalism and Islamic Jurisprudence 7.2 “Native Law” and Islamic “Influence” 7.3 Coloured Justice: The Irreality of Colonial Law

231 231 249 263

CONTENTS

xi

Part IV Political Islam: The Making of “Islamic Danger” 8

9

Phantoms of Muslim Sedition: From Maji Maji to the “Mecca Letters” 8.1 Islam in the Maji Maji War 8.2 The “Mecca Letter” of 1908 8.3 The Liabilities of “Islamic Danger” 8.4 Sufi Piety and Government Interventions Mainstreaming “Islamic Danger”: Scholars, Missionaries, and Colonial Surveillance 9.1 German Scholars and the Geopolitics of Islam 9.2 Becker’s Islamwissenschaft and the Colonial Congress of 1910 9.3 Colonial Press and Missionary Activism 9.4 Surveying Islam in East Africa 9.5 Political Islam: The Swan Song of Wartime Propaganda

269 271 279 287 294 305 306 314 322 329 339

Part V Conclusion 10

Studying Colonial Islam: An Epistemological Coda 10.1 Pluralising Concepts: A Genealogy of Entangled Pretensions 10.2 Provincialising Europe: The Force of the Unrepresented 10.3 Rhizomatic Topography: The Sprawling Study of Islam

353 355 360 365

Appendices

371

Bibliography

373

Index

417

Abbreviations

For acronyms used for archives and parliamentary papers, see the Appendix, p. 367. BMW CMS DKG DOAG DOAZ EMDOA GEA LpMS SchGG SOS UMCA

Berliner Missionswerk (Berlin Missionary Society) Church Missionary Society Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft (German Colonial Society) Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Gesellschaft (German East Africa Company) Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung (German East African Gazette) Evangelische Mission für Deutsch-Ostafrika (Evangelical Mission for German East Africa) German East Africa Leipziger Missionsgesellschaft (Leipzig Missionary Society) Schutzgebietsgesetz (Protectorates’ Act) Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen (Seminar for Oriental Languages) Universities’ Mission to Central Africa

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List of Figures

Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 2.1 Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

2.2 2.3 2.4 3.1

Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3 Fig. 3.4 Fig. 4.1 Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

4.2 4.3 4.4 5.1 5.2 5.3 6.1

Fig. 6.2

Diversity of local notables at the emperor’s birthday celebrations in Ujiji, 1911 General map of German East Africa, 1917 Deutsche Kolonialzeitung agitating against “Arabs” in February 1888 Encounter with Buš¯ıri as depicted in Baumann’s account Bwana Heri and his sons, ca. 1892 Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r al-Lamki Letter in Ajam¯ı Kiswahili from Sulayman bin Said to Büttner, 1890 Inaugural issue of Pwani na Bara, January 1910 The EMDOA teacher, evangelist, and translator Yakobo Lumwe, 1911 The translator and evangelist Elisa Tschagusa, 1918 Revisionist propaganda card: “Hermann von Wissmann freed German East Africa from slavery” Poster advertising the ransoming of slave children, 1896 Ransomed children at the Spiritan mission in Bagamoyo Chained prisoners, 1907 Barth’s classroom in the Tanga government school Government feeder school in Kilimatinde The Gujarati merchant and major donor Sewa Haji, 1892 Delegation to governor’s reception for the Muslim new year in Dar es Salaam Indian merchants in GEA

5 17 37 50 51 57 80 93 102 107 125 134 137 148 156 162 176 207 215

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xvi Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

LIST OF FIGURES

6.3 6.4 7.1 8.1 8.2 8.3 9.1

Open air shauri with presiding German officer, 1902 Shauri in Tanga, 1891 Umar bin S.t.ambul’s list of fiqh texts, 1894 A cotton caravan utilising child labour, 1908 Excerpt of a confiscated “Mecca letter”, 1908 ˇ Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı, 1908 Al¯ı bin Diwani, liwali of Tanga

221 227 238 275 281 300 345

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: Studying Islam in German East Africa

On 25 February 1915, Heinrich Schnee, the last governor of German East Africa (GEA), issued an announcement in German, Arabic, and Swahili informing inhabitants of the colony that the “sultan of Constantinople” had declared a “Holy War” against England, France, Russia, Belgium, and Serbia.1 This was followed by a quotation of the entire corresponding fatw¯ a, drawn from a simplified version that had been published in German newspapers. The affirmative verdicts by the Ottoman Šayh al-Isl¯ am on five detailed questions left no doubt that it was the duty˘ of every “Musulman” to “fight jihad” against the Triple Entente and that a failure to do so would incur the wrath of God. At the time, the Dutch Orientalist Snouck Hurgronje’s commented wryly that the German utilisation of the Ottoman declaration amounted to a “Holy War, Made in Germany.”2 Indeed, Germany’s early wartime efforts seem to lend themselves to such an assessment. Just before the fatw¯ a was pronounced, Max von Oppenheim, an archaeologist and 1 Heinrich Schnee, Bekanntmachung: Der heilige Krieg gegen England, Frankreich, Russland, Belgien und Serbien ist vom Sultan in Konstantinopel am 14. November 1914 erklärt, Europeana Collections 1914–1918 (1915), accessed 15 July 2014, http://resolver.staats bibliothek-berlin.de/SBB0000B29D00000000. 2 C. Snouck Hurgronje, The Holy War, Made in Germany (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915).

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_1

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former German embassy attaché in Cairo, had written a strategy paper titled “Revolutionising the Islamic territories of our enemies,” in which he argued for a strategic utilisation of the Porte to mobilise Muslims against the Triple Entente all over the world.3 Soon Oppenheim was tasked with setting up the Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient (Intelligence Bureau for the East) to pursue this effort, from where he published a new Arabic periodical: El Dschihad.4 Oppenheim’s grand strategic plan and the work of the Nachrichtenstelle prompted historians to centre Germany’s approach to Islam around the geopolitics of the First World War, at times drawing long and somewhat problematic trajectories from Emperor Wilhelm’s “journey to the Orient” in 1898 all the way to Nazi Germany and its alliance with Palestinian Muslims.5 In recent years, scholars have challenged this stock narrative of a deliberate German Islam politics by foregrounding the Turkish perspective on the Ottoman-German alliance and offering a more realistic appraisal of the

3 Tim Epkenhans, “Geld darf keine Rolle spielen”, Archivum Ottomanicum 18 & 19 (2000–2001): 247–250, 121–163. 4 For an in-depth study of the Nachrichtenstelle, see Samuel Krug, Die „Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient“ im Kontext globaler Verflechtungen (1914–1921): Strukturen – Akteure – Diskurse (Bielefeld: transcript, 2020); on its various publications see Krug, 67. 5 See, e.g. Herbert Landolin Müller, Islam, Gih¯ ˘ ad (‘Heiliger Krieg’) und Deutsches Reich: Ein Nachspiel zur Wilhelminischen Weltpolitik im Maghreb, 1914–1918, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe III: Geschichte und ihre Hilfswissenschaften 506 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1991); Donald McKale, War by Revolution: Germany and Great Britain in the Middle East in the Era of World War I (Kent, OH: Kent State University Press, 1998); Lionel Gossman, The Passion of Max von Oppenheim: Archaeology and Intrigue in the Middle East from Wilhelm II to Hitler (Cambridge: OpenBook Publishers, 2013); Tilman Lüdke, Jihad Made in Germany: Ottoman and German Propaganda and Intelligence Operations in the First World War, Studien zur Zeitgeschichte des Nahen Ostens und Nordafrikas 12 (Münster: Lit, 2005); Wolfgang Schwanitz, “Djihad “Made in Germany”: Der Streit um den heiligen Krieg 1914–1915”, Sozial.Geschichte 18 (2003): 7–34; Wolfgang Schwanitz, “Die Berliner Djihadisierung des Islam: Wie Max von Oppenheim die islamische Revolution schürte”, KAS Auslandsinformationen 10 (2004): 17–37, accessed 10 June 2010, http://www.kas.de/wf/doc/kas_5678-544-1-30.pdf?041 110131429; Barry M. Rubin and Wolfgang Schwanitz, Nazis, Islamists, and the Making of the Modern Middle East (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2014). Rubin and Schwanitz seem to shift part of the blame for the Holocaust to the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, Amin al-Husseini, and seek to draw lines to contemporary reformist Islam by linking the Muslim Brothers with Hitler. These are not only historically problematic contentions (see Matthias Küntzel, “Nazis, Islamists, and the Making of the Modern Middle East”, Israel Journal of Foreign Affairs 9, no. 1 [2015]: 133–137), but also give rise to the undifferentiated label of “Islamofascism” current in political debates.

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role of Max von Oppenheim and the German gˇ ih¯ad stereotypes invoked in the First World War.6 The view from GEA would support such a realistic reappraisal. As this book will show, Schnee’s publication of the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a was far from a grand strategic plan as suggested by later historians.7 Rather, it was a misinformed and generally uncoordinated effort that came at the heels of a dizzying pivot in German Islam policy and failed to produce any noticeable results.8 What then was the Kaiser’s Islam policy: a grand strategic embrace of the Muslim world or an inflated and ineffectual play with tropes about “Mohammedans”? This book is based on the premise that the answer to this question is not to be found in Berlin but in the colonial “periphery,” where intense debates about Islam and geopolitics arose more than a decade before Wilhelm’s voyage to the Levant. German East Africa in particular lends itself to studying this longer history of German Islam policy and politics. It was not only Germany’s biggest colony and one of its most expensive,9 but also attracted the majority of the country’s debates about Islam. This is because German colonial rule in GEA essentially consisted of an usurpation and extension of the previous political and economic structures Omani–Swahili caravan economy. Therefore tropes about “Arabs,” their “fanatical” or “fatalistic” religion, or the “Islamic” nature of slavery became a regular feature of colonial discussion. The derivative nature of German rule also entailed leaving in place the political, social, and economic predominance of the Islamic coast, symbolised by the Swahili expression of cultural refinement as being “Arab-like” (ustaarabu). The German government largely relied on

6 See Mustafa Aksakal, “‘Holy War Made in Germany’? Ottoman Origins of the 1914

Jihad”, War in History 18, no. 2 (2011): 184–199; Salvador Oberhaus, „Zum wilden Aufstande entflammen“: Die deutsche Ägyptenpolitik 1914 bis 1918. Ein Beitrag zur Propagandageschichte des Ersten Weltkrieges (Düsseldorf: Dissertation, Universität Düsseldorf, 2007), esp. 131–152, accessed 5 July 2019, https://docserv.uni-duesseldorf.de/servlets/ DocumentServlet?id=3642; Krug, „Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient“ , 57–63. Some earlier scholarship was also more careful in the reconstruction of the gˇ ih¯ad fatw¯a as a bilateral German–Turkish effort with a longer history, e.g. Jacob M. Landau, The Politics of Pan-Islam: Ideology and Organization (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), 73–142. 7 Pesek, Ende eines Kolonialreiches, 292. 8 For a detailed discussion, see Sect. 9.5, p. 339. 9 See Horst Gründer, Geschichte der deutschen Kolonien, 5th corr. and enl. ed.

(Paderborn: Schöningh, 2004), 166.

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employing coastal Muslims and Muslim converts as “native” administrators, while missionary pupils from the interior were seen as unsuitable due to their vernacular education and low social status. Christian missionaries soon found themselves competing with Islam for the interior of the colony and complained that their own government furthered the spread of Islam with its recruitment practices. This led to lasting tensions and policy debates, and perpetual missionary warnings against an “Islamic danger.” At first, these were rejected vehemently by other parties in the colonial discourse but in the end managed to gain currency. At the same time, the various and often incommensurate German attempts to address Islam as a coherent socio-political force constantly ran up against the plurality of Muslim identities in the cosmopolitan environment of East Africa. The Omani elite worshipped in separate Ibad.¯ı mosques, the Swahili population claimed a H . ad.ram¯ı and Š¯ır¯az¯ı heritage while following Sunni Islam in a Š¯afi¯ı legal tradition (madhab), and South Asian traders of Khoja and Bohra extraction brought ¯two branches of Š¯ıah Islam to the East African shore. In addition, the German “protectorate force” (Schutztruppe) consisted mainly of askari (mercenaries) from Egypt and Sudan belonging to the M¯alik¯ı madhab. Meanwhile, ¯ Sufism arrived with new vigour in the Q¯adir¯ıya, which spread from Barawa on the Somali coast and began to reform ritual practice and religious hierarchies. Many of these distinctions were as much about ethnicity, class and occupation as they were about religious practice and beliefs, so that this broad variety lent itself to a range of misapprehensions in colonial discourse (Fig. 1.1). As a result of this complex configuration, the colonial discourse about Islam in GEA extended over a wide array of subjects, ranging from “Arabdom,” slavery, and labour shortages, to schools, language, “native law,” and sedition.10 All these discussions were pervaded by 10 For previous work by the author on some of these topics, see Jörg Haustein, “Strategic Tangles: Slavery, Colonial Policy, and Religion in German East Africa, 1885– 1918”, Atlantic Studies 14, no. 4 (2017): 497–518; Jörg Haustein, “Provincializing Representation: East African Islam in the German Colonial Press”, in Religion, Media, and Marginality in Modern Africa, ed. Felicitas Becker, Joel Cabrita and Marie Rodet (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2018), 70–92; Jörg Haustein, “Religion, Rasse und Recht: Der ostafrikanische Islam in der deutschen Fiktion vom „Eingeborenenrecht“”, in Deutsch-Ostafrika: Dynamiken europäischer Kulturkontakte und Erfahrungshorizonte im kolonialen Raum, ed. Christina de Gemeaux, Stefan Noack and Uwe Puschner (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2019), 181–202; Jörg Haustein, “Religion, Politics and an

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Fig. 1.1 Diversity of local notables at the emperor’s birthday celebrations in Ujiji, 191111

competing knowledge systems, colonial agendas, and political strategies, often influenced more by German politics than developments in the colony. This book seeks to map out the intricate and instable web of German Islam perceptions and politics in GEA as a critical contribution to the history of Islam and colonialism. This requires not only detailed source analyses but also careful epistemological reflections, for it is in the nature of the colonial archive that it privileges the idiosyncrasies of European perspectives. The towering influence of the European record in African colonial historiography necessitates a concerted attempt at deconstructing

Apocryphal Admonition: The German East African “Mecca Letter” of 1908 in Historical–Critical Analysis”, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 83, no. 1 (2020): 95–125. 11 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, no. 005-1113-13.

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this distorted lens. It may be tempting to write a history of Islam in GEA by seeking to peer through this tainted glass in order to spot “lived Islam” however faint it may appear. Yet this would mean to underestimate the epistemic force of the archive in both history and historiography. Instead, it is a contention of this book that a more sustained effort must be made in looking at the contortions and elisions of the colonial reckoning with Islam, in order to elucidate how limited and limiting colonialism was and is for a proper understanding of Islam in Africa, including its effect on contemporary Tanzanian debates. Much of this book will therefore travel “along the archival grain,” to borrow Ann Stoler’s poignant phrase.12 This foregrounding of the colonial episteme does not signal, however, a lack of interest in Muslim identity politics or African articulations about Islam, which are the ultimate vanishing point of this research. In fact, the most innovative insights in this study arose when Arabic or Kiswahili texts were considered with greater care than in previous scholarship. Yet, even these sources were largely transmitted by the colonial archive and thus transport the European interpretation that gave rise to their inclusion. Therefore one must beware of short-circuiting the colonial record by simultaneously seeking to reconstruct its epistemic limits in perceiving Islam and endeavouring to extract a contrasting Muslim “reality” from underneath this distorted lens. If historiography is to make a lasting contribution to the postcolonial understanding of Islam in Africa, then it remains imperative to show how the epistemic structure of our sources and the debates they gave rise to are entangled with the colonial past.

1.1

Previous Scholarship and Sources

This book steps into the crowded field of German East African history. Among the general surveys of the colony, John Iliffe’s early works are still the standard introductory texts. Especially his published PhD thesis,

12 Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009). Stoler’s more narrow focus on archival logistics (from production process to taxonomies) and her episodic approach to telling colonial history differs from this present study, but her understanding of the archive conveying “the rough interior ridges of governance and disruptions to the deceptive clarity of its mandates,” (Stoler, 16) dovetails very closely with the approach to the wider German debates on Islam taken here.

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centred on the years of governor Rechenberg, set a high standard in argumentative clarity and attention to detail.13 Iliffe’s books are essentially political histories interested in tracing out the socio-economic changes brought about by colonial rule. Religion here falls under the theme of “enlargement of scale” as Iliffe traces out how practitioners of “indigenous religions,” Muslims, and Christians fared in the context of increasing connectivity and modernisation. As a result, Islam is discussed mainly in the context of the social upheavals accelerated by German colonial rule. This approach decoupled religious changes from the contentiousness of their observation in German discourse and instead explained them as responses to the social, economic, and political consequences of colonial rule.14 Nonetheless, this is already more than what German political histories of GEA from the same period managed to achieve, which mention Islam in passing at best.15 In the mid-1990s Juhani Koponen produced a monumental reappraisal of the German colonial economy as Development for Exploitation, in which he not only combed through the sources in greater depth than much of previous scholarship but also broadened the historical focus beyond policy makers to include a detailed analysis of other colonial actors such as missionaries and merchant companies.16 This meant that he was much more attuned to the intensity of German colonial debates than his predecessors, but he still offered relatively few analyses of the ideological premises running through these debates, instead tending to explain them in reference to the political and socio-economic structures of the

13 John Iliffe, Tanganyika Under German Rule 1905–1912 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969); John Iliffe, A Modern History of Tanganyika, African Studies Series 25 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), see also. 14 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 186–200; Iliffe, Modern History, 208–216. 15 Detlef Bald, Deutsch-Ostafrika 1900–1914: Eine Studie über Verwaltung , Interes-

sengruppen und wirtschaftliche Erschließung (with an English summary) (München: Weltforum Verlag, 1970); Rainer Tetzlaff, Koloniale Entwicklung und Ausbeutung : Wirtschaftsund Sozialgeschichte Deutsch-Ostafrikas 1885–1914 (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1970); Kurt Büttner and Heinrich Loth, eds., Philosophie der Eroberer und koloniale Wirklichkeit : Ostafrika 1884–1918 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1981). The former two were written by West German historians, whereas the latter collected the research of several PhD students in East Germany. For a more detailed discussion of this scholarship, see Juhani Koponen, Development for Exploitation: German Colonial Policies in Mainland Tanzania, 1884–1914 (Hamburg: Lit, 1994), 16–18. 16 Koponen.

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colony.17 This is particularly pronounced with regard to religion. Apart from a short discussion of German religious policy debates,18 he tended to follow his sources’ claims about the spread of Islam, now explained as the consequence of larger “cosmological” transformations in the colonial period.19 More recently, Michael Pesek published a study of German rule in GEA in dialogue with post-colonial theory, which offers fresh perspectives but in particular on matters of Islam does not sufficiently interrogate the ideological tint of his sources. Islam, therefore, appears mainly as an expansionist movement and a political resource for colonial resistance.20 This is exacerbated by an overemphasis on the role of the Q¯adir¯ıya, which derives mostly from analytical speculation.21 However, in a number of smaller texts preceding his monograph, Pesek has offered insightful and critical analyses of the German colonial debate about Islam, which gave this study its original impetus, even if some of Pesek’s observations do not stand up to scrutiny.22 In addition to these general historical surveys, there are a number of detailed studies on various aspects of German colonial rule in GEA, which

17 See esp. Koponen, 500–527, 577–585. 18 Koponen, 582–584. 19 Koponen, 653. 20 See esp. Michael Pesek, Koloniale Herrschaft in Deutsch-Ostafrika: Expeditionen,

Militär und Verwaltung seit 1880 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2005), 72–77, 187–189. 21 Pesek’s emphasis on the Q¯ adir¯ıya emerges from an amplified version of B. G. Martin’s analysis of the “Mecca letter affair,” see Haustein, “Religion, Politics”, 98, 110. He later extended this idea to the coastal rebellion from to decades earlier, but only presented circumstantial colonial musings as evidence, Pesek, Koloniale Herrschaft, 187–189. 22 Michael Pesek, “Kreuz oder Halbmond: Die deutsche Kolonialpolitik zwischen Pragmatismus und Paranoia in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1908–1914”, in Mission und Gewalt: Der Umgang christlicher Missionen mit Gewalt und die Ausbreitung des Christentums in Afrika und Asien in der Zeit von 1792 bis 1918/19, ed. Jürgen Becher and Ulrich van der Heyden, Missionsgeschichtliches Archiv 6 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2000), 97–112; Michael Pesek, “Sulayman b. Nasr al-Lamki and German Colonial Policies towards Muslim Communities in German East Africa”, in Islam in Africa, ed. Thomas Bierschenk and Georg Stauth, Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam 4 (Münster: Lit, 2002), 211–229; Michael Pesek, “Für Kaiser und Allah: Ostafrikas Muslime im Großen Krieg für die Zivilisation, 1914–1919”, SGMOIK bulletin 19 (2004): 9–18. In particular Pesek’s analysis of the “Mecca letter affair” and the politicisation of the “ˇgih¯ ad fatw¯ a ” tend to overreach as will be shown in chapters 8 and 9.

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are of relevance to various parts of this book. There are several excellent monographs about the German acquisition of the colony, from the diplomatic exchanges with Zanzibar to the military suppression of the coastal insurgency against the German takeover.23 The later Maji Maji War has been covered in even greater detail, in particular as it became an anchor point for appraisals of African resistance in post-colonial historiography.24 The topic of slavery in GEA has been covered extensively by Jan-Georg Deutsch and a few others,25 and the military history of GEA has recently attracted substantial scholarship as well.26 Further clusters of scholarship with significant relevance for GEA have formed around the

23 See esp. Jonathon Glassman, Feasts and Riot: Revelry, Rebellion, and Popular Consciousness on the Swahili Coast, 1856–1888 (Portsmouth, New Hampshire: Heinemann, 1995); Jutta Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot über Ostafrika!” Deutsche Kolonialpläne und afrikanische Realität, Europa - Übersee: Historische Studien 5 (Münster: Lit, 1997); Heinz Schneppen, Sansibar und die Deutschen: Ein besonderes Verhältnis 1844–1966, Europa - Übersee: Historische Studien 11 (Münster: Lit, 2006). 24 See esp. Gilbert C. K. Gwassa and John Iliffe, eds., Records of the Maji Maji Rising, Part 1 (Nairobi: East African Publishing House, 1967); Gilbert C. K. Gwassa, The Outbreak and Development of the Maji Maji War 1905–1907 , InterCultura 5 (Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2005); Jigal Beez, Geschosse zu Wassertropfen: Sozio-religiöse Aspekte des Maji-Maji-Krieges in Deutsch-Ostafrika (1905–1907), Precolonial and Early Colonial History in Africa 1 (Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2003); Felicitas Becker and Jigal Beez, eds., Der Maji-Maji-Krieg in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1905–1907 (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2005); James Giblin and Jamie Monson, eds., Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010). 25 Jan-Georg Deutsch, Emancipation Without Abolition in German East Africa c. 1884– 1914 (Oxford: James Currey, 2006); Abdul Sheriff, Slaves, Spices & Ivory in Zanzibar: Integration of an East African Commercial Empire into the World Economy, 1770–1873 (London: James Currey, 1997); Paul V. Kollman, The Evangelization of Slaves and Catholic Origins in Eastern Africa (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2005); Henri Médard and Shane Doyle, eds., Slavery in the Great Lakes Region of East Africa (Oxford: James Currey, 2007). 26 Marianne Bechaus-Gerst, Treu bis in den Tod: Von Deutsch-Ostafrika nach Sachsenhausen – eine Lebensgeschichte (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2007); Pesek, Ende eines Kolonialreiches; Tanja Bührer, Die Kaiserliche Schutztruppe für Deutsch-Ostafrika: Koloniale Sicherheitspolitik und transkulturelle Kriegführung 1885 bis 1918, Beiträge zur Militärgeschichte 70 (München: Oldenbourg, 2011); Michelle Moyd, Violent Intermediaries: African Soldiers, Conquest, and Everyday Colonialism in German East Africa (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2014).

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topics of colonial law27 as well as racism and colonial violence.28 Finally, there are several important monographs on Christian missions in GEA,29 as well as a few helpful local histories.30 27 Claudia Lederer, Die rechtliche Stellung der Muslime innerhalb des Kolonialrechtssystems im ehemaligen Schutzgebiet Deutsch-Ostafrika, Ethno-Islamica 6 (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 1994); Margita Boin, Die Erforschung der Rechtsverhältnisse in den “Schutzgebieten” des Deutschen Reiches, Münsteraner Studien zur Rechtsvergleichung 19 (Münster: Lit, 1996); Marc Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung: Die Kompetenzen des Reichstags für die deutschen Kolonien in Gesetzgebung und Staatsrechtswissenschaft des Kaiserreichs (1884–1914), Beiträge zur Rechtsgeschichte des 20. Jahrhunderts 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001); Klaus Richter, Deutsches Kolonialrecht in Ostafrika 1885–1891, Rechtshistorische Reihe 237 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2001); Norbert Berthold Wagner, Die deutschen Schutzgebiete: Erwerb, Organisation und Verlust aus juristischer Sicht, Juristische Zeitgeschichte 11 (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2002); Ralf Schlottau, Deutsche Kolonialrechtspflege: Strafrecht und Strafmacht in den deutschen Schutzgebieten 1884 bis 1914, Rechtshistorische Reihe 349 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2007); Falk Weckner, Strafrecht und Strafrechtspflege für Afrikaner und ihnen gleichgestellte Farbige in Deutsch-Ostafrika, Rechtsgeschichtliche Studien 32 (Hamburg: Verlag Dr. Kovaˇc, 2010). 28 Martin Schröder, Prügelstrafe und Züchtigungsrecht in den deutschen Schutzgebieten Schwarzafrikas, Europa-Übersee: Historische Studien 6 (Münster: Lit, 1997); Michael Schubert, Der schwarze Fremde: Das Bild des Schwarzafrikaners in der parlamentarischen und publizistischen Kolonialdiskussion in Deutschland von den 1870er bis zu die 1930er Jahre (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2003); Dominik Nagl, Grenzfälle: Staatsangehörigkeit , Rassismus und nationale Identität unter deutscher Kolonialherrschaft, Afrika und Europa: Koloniale und Postkoloniale Begegnungen 5 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2007); Ludger Wimmelbücker, Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari (c. 1869–1927): Swahili Lecturer and Author in Germany (Dar es Salaam: Mkuku ny Nyota Publishers, 2009). 29 John Anthony Patrick Kieran, “The Holy Ghost Fathers in East Africa, 1863 to 1914” (PhD thesis, University of London, 1966); S. von Sicard, The Lutheran Church on the Coast of Tanzania 1887–1914; with special reference to the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Tanzania, Synod of Uzaramo–Uluguru (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksells, 1970); Marcia Wright, German Missions in Tanganyika 1891–1941: Lutherans and Morovians in the Southern Highlands (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971); Gustav Menzel, Die Bethel-Mission: Aus 100 Jahren Missionsgeschichte (Neukirchen-Vlyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986); Gustav Menzel, C.G. Büttner: Missionar, Sprachforscher und Politiker in der deutschen Kolonialbewegung (Wuppertal: Verlag der Vereinigten Evangelischen Mission, 1992); Klaus Fiedler, Christianity and African Culture: Conservative Protestant Missionaries in Tanzania, 1900–1940, Studies of Religion in Africa 14 (Leiden: Brill, 1996); Kollman, Evangelization; Johannes Henschel, Argwöhnisch beobachtet: Das gespannte Verhältnis zwischen deutschen Kolonialbeamten und katholischen Missionaren in Bagamoyo/Ostafrika (Berlin: trafo Wissenschaftsverlag, 2013); Christian Pohl, Evangelische Mission in Tanga und im Digoland: Der Beitrag einheimischer Mitarbeitender zur Kirchwerden 1890–1925, Beiträge zur Missionswissenschaft/Interkulturellen Theologie 37 (Münster: Lit, 2016). 30 See e.g. Andrew Roberts, ed., Tanzania Before 1900 (Nairobi: East African Publishing House, 1968); Helena Jerman, Between Five Lines: The Development of Ethnicity

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Compared with this proliferation of historical works on GEA, there is a relative paucity of monographs that focus on East African Islam under German rule. B.G. Martin and after him August Nimtz have studied the Sufi .turuq in mainland Tanzania and in doing so showed that the German colonial period functioned as an important catalyst for their expansion.31 Yet again, both scholars tended to take the German archive at face value without sufficiently regarding the politics behind the recorded observations. The most extensive and relevant body of work for the topic of this research has been produced by Felicitas Becker.32 Becker’s main project was a longue durée survey of Islam in south east mainland Tanzania from 1890 to 2000, based on archival sources and oral history.33 Accordingly, she was primarily interested in elucidating the socio-structural changes undergirding the expansion of Islam during this time period. The corresponding focus on local understandings of Islam and vernacular explanations for its spread is one of the strengths of her book, yet it also meant that German colonialism features mainly as the geopolitical and socio-economic background. Colonial-political debates about Islam (and their possible influence on local views) therefore do not

in Tanzania with Special Reference to the Western Bagamoyo District (Saarijärvi: The Finnish Anthropological Society, 1997); Steven Fabian, Making Identity on the Swahili Coast: Urban Life, Community, and Belonging in Bagamoyo (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019). 31 B. G. Martin, “Muslim Politics and Resistance to Colonial Rule: Shaykh Uways

B. Muhammad Al-Barawi and the Qadiriya Brotherhood in East Africa”, The Journal of African History 10, no. 3 (1969): 471–486; B. G. Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods in Nineteenth-Century Africa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976); August H. Nimtz, Islam and Politics in East Africa: The Sufi Order in Tanzania (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1980). 32 Felicitas Becker, Becoming Muslim in Mainland Tanzania 1890–2000 (Oxford:

Oxford University Press, 2008); Felicitas Becker, “Cosmopolitanism Beyond the Towns: Rural–Urban Relations on the Southern Swahili Coasts in the Twentieth Century”, in Struggling with History: Islam and Cosmopolitanism in the Western Indian Ocean, ed. Edward Simpson and Kai Kresse (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008), 261–290; Felicitas Becker, “Freeborn Villagers: Islam and the Local Uses of Cosmopolitan Connections in the Tanzanian Countryside”, in Cosmopolitans in Muslim Contexts: Perspectives from the Past, ed. Derryl N. MacLean and Sikeena Karmali Ahmed (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 10–30; Felicitas Becker, “Islam and Imperialism in East Africa”, in Islam and the European Empires, ed. David Motadel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 112–128. 33 Becker, Becoming Muslim.

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come into focus. In addition to these works, there are a number of monographs about Islam in British East Africa and the Indian Ocean circuit, which are of wider contextual relevance to this present study.34 Recent Tanzanian scholarship on East African Islam, like Becker, tended to prioritise the later British period, and only few of these works explore the German rule to a limited extent. Lawrence Mbogoni’s historical overview of Christian–Muslim relations in Tanzania from 1880 to 1990 contains several chapters about the German period, but his treatise remained largely on the surface because Mbogoni only consulted English primary sources and had little secondary literature to fall back on for his broad interests.35 Abdin Chande, likewise, did not study the German record for his relatively short treatise of the German period in his thesis on Islam and community development in Tanga, but he did draw on valuable Kiswahili sources from private collections.36 Mohamed Said, an activist and historian, has also produced some works on Islam that contain notes about the German period, though these are influenced by a revisionist argument about Islam forming a main anti-colonial force, that is aimed at contemporary Christian–Muslim debates.37 Finally, there is some scholarship on the religious and cultural identity of Kiswahili, which

34 Randall L. Pouwels, Horn and Crescent: Cultural Change and Traditional Islam in the East African Coast, 800–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), See esp. Anne K. Bang, Sufis and Scholars of the Sea: Family Networks in East Africa, 1860– 1925 (London: Routledge, 2003); Roman Loimeier, Between Social Skills and Marketeable Skills: The Politics of Islamic Education in 20th Century Zanzibar, Islam in Africa 10 (Leiden: Brill, 2009); Anne K. Bang, Islamic Sufi Networks in the Western Indian Ocean (c.1880–1940): Ripples of Reform, Islam in Africa 16 (Leiden: Brill, 2014). 35 Lawrence E. Y. Mbogoni, The Cross Versus the Crescent: Religion and Politics in Tanzania from the 1880s to the 1990s (Dar es Salaam: Mkuku na Nyota Publishers, 2005), 21–106. 36 Abdin Noor Chande, “Islam, Islamic Leadership and Community Development in Tanga, Tanzania” (PhD thesis, McGill University, 1991). Unfortunately Chande could not make these sources available as they were only consulted on location and their owners have since deceased, E-Mails to author, 6 April and 10 July 2020. 37 Mohamed Said, Islam and Politics in Tanzania (1993), See esp. Accessed 25 April 2012, http://www.islamtanzania.org/nyaraka/islam_and_politics_in_tz.html; Mohamed Said, The Life and Times of Abdulwahid Sykes (1924–1968): The Untold Story of the Muslim Struggle Against British Colonialism in Tanganyika (London: Minerva Press, 1998). For a further discussion of his claims, see p. 195.

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addresses the German period only in passing and also without consulting German sources, showing the need for further research in this area.38 The primary interest of this project, namely to provide a thorough analysis of the politics behind German Islam perceptions and policy as well as the German struggles in coming to terms with what they sought to address, so far has only been the subject of smaller publications that are focused on specific events, persons, or constellations.39 These offer insightful analyses and form important dialogue partners for this study, while also indicating the desirability for a more synthesising analysis. Moreover, even where there was well-trodden ground in the discussion of Islam in GEA, substantial discoveries were still to be made. For example, the still extant handwritten Arabic copies of the so-called 38 See e.g. Alamin Mazrui, Swahili Beyond the Boundaries: Literature, Language, and Identity (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2007); Aloo Osotsi Mojola, God Speaks My Language: A History of Bible Translation in East Africa (Bukuru, Nigeria: African Christian Textbooks, 2020). For more on the contemporary debate, see p. 51. 39 See esp. the following works by Katrin Bromber and Armin Owzar in addition to

the above-mentioned articles by Pesek: Katrin Bromber, The Jurisdiction of the Sultan of Zanzibar and the Subject of Foreign Nations, Bibliotheca Academica 8 (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2001); Katrin Bromber, “Disziplinierung – eine europäische Erfindung? Das islamische Bildungswesen an der ostafrikanischen Küste des späten 19: Jahrhunderts”, in Alles unter Kontrolle: Disziplinierungsprozesse im kolonialen Tansania (1850–1960), ed. Albert Wirz, Andreas Eckert and Katrin Bromber (Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2003), 37–53; Katrin Bromber and Jürgen Becher, “Abdallah bin Hemedi: Ein Vertreter der administrativen Elite im Transformationsprozess zwischen Busaidi-Herrschaft und deutscher Kolonialadministration”, in Alles unter Kontrolle: Disziplinierungsprozesse im kolonialen Tansania (1850–1960), ed. Albert Wirz, Andreas Eckert and Katrin Bromber (Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2003), 54–70; Armin Owzar, “Swahili oder Deutsch? Zur Sprach- und Religionspolitik in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Sprachgrenzen - Sprachkontakte - kulturelle Vermittler: Kommunikation zwischen Europäern und Außereuropäern (16.– 20. Jahrhundert), ed. Mark Häberlein and Alexander Keese, Beiträge zur europäischen Überseegeschichte 97 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2010), 281–303; Armin Owzar, “Das Deutsche Reich – offizieller „Träger der mohammedanischen Kultur“? Katholische, protestantische und staatliche Schulpolitik in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Protestantismus und Gesellschaft : Beiträge zur Geschichte von Kirche und Diakonie im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert. Jochen-Christoph Kaiser zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Tobias Sarx, Rajah Scheepers and Michael Stahl, Konfession und Gesellschaft 47 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2013), 353–365; Armin Owzar, “The Image of Islam in German Missionary Periodicals, 1870–1930: A ‘Green Peril’ in Africa?”, in Missions and Media: The Politics of Missionary Periodicals in the Long Nineteenth Century, ed. Felicity Jensz and Hanna Acke, Missionsgeschichtliches Archiv 20 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2013), 133–150; Armin Owzar, “Protestantism, Catholicism and Islam in German East Africa”, in Mission & Science: Missiology Revised 1850–1940, ed. Carine Dujardin and Claude Prudhome (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2015), 355–369.

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“Mecca letter,” an innocuous religious missive that changed German Islam policy and therefore is discussed by most relevant histories,40 had not been analysed in any of the previous research. When a historical critical edition of the fourteen copies was produced in the context of this study, it led to new insights into the letter’s origin and proliferation, which corrected many previous assumptions and allowed a new interpretation of the events.41 Similarly, a set of Arabic responses to an early German survey about Islamic law in GEA had been ignored by all scholarship prior to this study, beginning with the Orientalist Eduard Sachau, who had initiated the survey and went on to produce a book on Š¯afi¯ı law, as well as the wellknown founder of German Islamic Studies, Carl Heinrich Becker, whose treatise on East African Islam is still cited as a standard reference.42 Even with regard to less specialist topics and sources, a lot of work remained to be done. A systematic survey of all major colonial and missionary periodicals in German and Kiswahili generated a rich source pool for articulations about Islam and helped map out the fluctuations of the German Islam debate.43 Missionary archives equally provided scores of hitherto hardly used material about Islam. One of the more surprising gaps in research was the absence of works on the German efforts to Romanise Kiswahili and suppress the use of Aˇgam¯ı (Arabic) script. Previous studies had only mapped out the later British adoption and standardisation of Romanised Kiswahili, but largely ignored its German forerunner, which was intricately connected to colonial debates about Islam and Swahili identity.44 Even the often-discussed German government schools, disputed because of their alleged role in the spread of Islam,45 were in need of a more careful genealogy, which as a byproduct

40 See part IV. 41 Haustein, “Religion, Politics”. 42 Eduard Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht nach schafiitischer Lehre, Lehrbücher des

Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen zu Berlin 17 (Stuttgart: W. Spemann, 1897); Carl Heinrich Becker, “Materialien zur Kenntnis des Islam in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Der Islam 2, no. 1 (1911): 1–48. For more on this, see chapter 7, esp. p. 231. 43 Some insights of this survey were published in Haustein, “Provincializing”. For a thorough introduction into the rich media landscape of GEA, see Martin Sturmer, The Media History of Tanzania, rev. ed. (afrika.info, 2008). 44 On this, see Sect. 2.4, p. 60. 45 See Sect. 5.1, p. 150; cf. Koponen, Development, 500–527; Franz Ansprenger,

“Schulpolitik in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Studien zur Geschichte des deutschen Kolonialismus

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yielded the true identity of the Yemen traveller Leo Hirsch, who had been misidentified in previous scholarship.46 As such, this book is the result of a decade-long project of scrutinising the colonial record on Islam in GEA. This included, first of all, the large store of German government files housed in the Bundesarchiv BerlinLichterfelde (German National Archive, Berlin-Lichterfelde) (BArch) and the German Records in the Tanzania National Archive (TNA) as well as supplementary records at a few other archives.47 German missionary archives formed the second largest set of sources, with the main collections consulted being the records of the Berliner Missionswerk (BMW) at the Landeskirchenarchiv Berlin, the files of the Evangelische Mission für Deutsch-Ostafrika (EMDOA) held by the Archiv und Museumsstiftung of the VEM in Wuppertal, and the archive of the Benedictine Mission in St. Ottilien. In addition to these stores of internal documents there is a large record of public debate that was systematically surveyed for this study, made up of the deliberations of the Reichstag and its predecessors, and, more importantly, the numerous colonial periodicals. The latter were published in Germany and in GEA by various colonial associations and missionary societies. Most of them were consulted for their entire print run, including the three most important Kiswahili periodicals published by the government and the missions.48 Together, these sources contain a thick set of themes and arguments around which the German discourse on Islam in GEA revolved. Colonial periodicals often defined the contours of debate and as such were monitored by the Colonial Office or even used to plant government

in Afrika: Festschrift zum 60. Geburtstag von Peter Sebald, ed. Peter Heine and Ulrich van der Heyden (Pfaffenweiler: Centaurus Verlagsgesellschaft, 1995), 59–93; Jürgen Becher, “Missionen im kolonialen Bildungs- und Erziehungsdiskurs: Strategien und Methoden der evangelischen Missionsgesellschaften in Tansania unter deutscher Kolonialherrschaft, 1885–1904”, in Afrika und das Andere: Alterität und Innovation. Jahrestagung der VAD vom 3.–6.10.1996 in Berlin, ed. Heike Schmidt and Albert Wirz, Schriften der Vereinigung von Afrikanisten in Deutschland 17 (Hamburg: Lit, 1996), 79–89. 46 See Uwe Pfullmann, “Leo Hirsch”, in Durch Wüste und Steppe: Entdeckerlexikon Arabische Halbinsel - Biographien, Orte, Berichte, ed. Uwe Pfullmann, 3rd, rev. and enl. ed. (Berlin: trafo Verlag, 2017). 47 See the appendix for a full list of consulted archives, parliamentary records, and systematically surveyed periodicals. 48 For a media history of GEA, see Sturmer, Media History.

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propaganda.49 Reichstag debates further amplified various points and on occasion forced the government to adjust policy. In GEA a similar dynamic was obtained but without democratic representation. Here it was often left to newspapers and pressure groups to influence the government, either directly in Dar es Salaam or via public pressure in Berlin. Scholarship, in all of this, was often somewhat behind the curve, with some support in Berlin but limited influence in Dar es Salaam. Nonetheless, invoked as experts, academics played an important role in hardening certain perceptions or judgements. Altogether, German colonialism thus took the form of an erratic machine in its encounters with Islam, recycling tropes and producing policy at whim and in constant shifts. In conjunction with the pervasiveness of white supremacy and colonial brutality this left little room for self-correction and often produced undesired effects.

1.2

Historical Overview and Chapter Plan

This discursive machine producing “colonial Islam” is best understood via thematic nodes around which debates and policies converged. Accordingly, the chapters of this book do not follow a chronological order but are grouped around major themes. It therefore seems appropriate to provide a basic chronology over the main events and debates before presenting the individual chapter arguments. German colonial involvement in East Africa began in 1884 with Carl Peters’ Gesellschaft für deutsche Kolonisation signing treaties in the coastal hinterland between Saadani and Dar es Salaam, followed by further such expeditions from 1885 to 1887 here and in the region north of the Pangani river, now financed by its successor organisation, the Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Gesellschaft (DOAG).50 When Bismarck issued an Imperial Charter for Peters’ “acquisitions,” this led to diplomatic negotiations with England about territorial “spheres of interest,” and an agreement was forced upon the sultan of Zanzibar in 1886 to recognise German acquisitions outside of a ten-mile wide strip along the coast. Soon, the DOAG pushed for a takeover of the whole coast and secured a lease from the sultan to this effect in 1888. The subsequent abrupt

49 See Haustein, “Provincializing”. 50 For details and a map, see Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 194–238.

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and provocative instantiation of DOAG rule led to a rebellion, which the DOAG was unable to contain. This paved the way for a full-scale military invasion of the coast in 1889 under Herrmann von Wissmann and the establishment of German East Africa as an Imperial colony from 1 January 1891 (Fig. 1.2).

Fig. 1.2 General map of German East Africa, 191751

51 The Times, History of The War, vol: X (London: The Times, 1917), 123.

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During this initial period, the Reichstag made a basic constitutional choice which placed the German protectorates under prerogative of the crown with only very limited parliamentary and judiciary oversight. This left German colonialism vulnerable to executive overreach and scandal. The constitutional settlement also led to a two-tier legal system in the colonies, which would ultimately relegate all matters of Islamic jurisprudence to the unregulated sphere of “native law,” a judicial system consisting of the executive whims of colonial officials and delegated jurisdiction. Moreover, a diverse set of tropes about “Arabdom” also emerged during this time of rising conflict, which led to competing analyses about the nature of Islam, the “Arab” race, and the role of anti-slavery sentiment in the German expansion to East Africa. The initial period of conquest lasted far into the 1890s, as German colonial rule expanded into the interior. Militarily this was marked by a “struggle for the caravan routes”52 as Germans established military posts and district offices, and by the Hehe Rebellion in south central Tanzania, which was not fully suppressed until 1898. Politically, the initial years were dominated by a struggle between a militaristic and a civilian approach to colonising. The first governor after Wissmann’s initial commissionership was Julius von Soden (1891–1893) who had already served in Kamerun and was “the most experienced colonial administrator Germany had produced.”53 Preaching restraint in colonial expansion and building up a civil administration, he constantly ran into conflict with the military and resigned within two years. Nonetheless, a number of measures under his governorship set the course for the following decades: an approach of non-interference toward slavery and small-scale slave trade, a racial demarcation of “native law” (initially treating all “non-Whites” as “natives”), and the establishment of government schools for the training of “natives” for administrative employment. The next four governors—Friedrich von Schele (1893–1895), Hermann von Wissmann (1895–1896), Eduard von Liebert (1897–1900), and Gustav Adolf von Götzen (1901–1906)— had risen through military ranks and took a more strident approach to managing GEA and colonial debates, for which they occasionally ran into conflict with Berlin as their actions gave rise to colonial opposition.

52 Iliffe, Modern History, 98. 53 Koponen, Development, 98.

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Economically, these years were characterised by the appropriation of the extractive caravan and plantation economy the Germans had inherited from the previous Omani rulers, including a swift integration of the formerly despised “Arabs” into the economic and political fabric of the German colony. With the location of GEA’s capital in Dar es Salaam, the utilisation of Kiswahili as administrative language, and the success of the government school system rooted in Tanga, German colonial rule remained firmly embedded in the socio-economic predominance of the Islamic coast. The cultural superiority of ustaarabu was thus reaffirmed and spread throughout GEA, despite rising missionary opposition against its alleged contribution to “Islamicising” the interior. Corollary arguments about the religious and cultural identity of the colony typically turned into debates about whether to “civilise Africans” via Christianity or Islam. The urgency of these thoroughly racist debates came from a perpetual labour shortage in a growing plantation economy, which various coercive regimes of labour recruitment failed to solve. The administration’s negligence to address the persistence of slavery, in contrast to the early British abolition of the institution in Zanzibar and British East Africa, was also motivated by these economic concerns and was framed by parts of the opposition as the continuation of an Islamic institution. Götzen’s governorship was marked by the Maji Maji War of 1905 to 1907, a brutal campaign to repress a large-scale revolt against German rule that had spread through the entire south east of the colony. As one of the biggest colonial wars on the African continent, the Maji Maji War left in its wake up to 300,000 African victims, either killed in warfare or by famine and illness following the German scorched-earth approach. Its chronological proximity with the suppression of the Herero and Nama revolts in German South West Africa played into an overall sense of colonial crisis and led to the dissolution of the Reichstag in December 1906 with subsequent elections delivering a strengthened government bloc. In the wake of these wars and colonial crises a reformist colonial policy took hold. This was driven by the realisation that a less extractive approach was needed to make the colonies profitable (or at least less expensive owing to wars). The near simultaneous appointment of Bernhard Dernburg in Berlin and Albrecht von Rechenberg in Dar es Salaam (1906–1911) brought about a new emphasis on economic policy and administrative professionalisation. In Berlin, Dernburg established the Colonial Office as a separate cabinet-level entity (it had previously been a subordinated Department in the Foreign Office) and pursued a

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more programmatic and less reactive approach to colonial policy. In GEA Rechenberg led a major pivot from the cash-crop model of a plantation economy to one premised on the maximisation of tax revenue by stimulating local economic growth through investments in infrastructure, petty trade, African agriculture, and Indian entrepreneurship.54 Rechenberg became the longest-serving governor of GEA and saw the success of his reform policies play out to a large extent, but his approach brought him into perpetual conflict with settlers and planters. Thus, the Rechenberg years were marked by incessant debates about colonial policy. Rising missionary warnings about an “Islamic danger” were at first dismissed by settlers and the government alike, but when in 1908 the so-called “Mecca letters” appeared in multiple places in the colony and sparked a short-lived Islamic revival, settlers and planters joined missionaries in invoking the spectre of another rebellion and sought to leverage this against Rechenberg’s policies. Slowly, the hitherto predominant perception of Islam as “fatalistic” and “docile” began to erode, and Rechenberg’s continued “friendliness” with Muslims became another of his political liabilities. Ultimately, Rechenberg was tired of the political struggle and tendered his resignation in 1912.55 His successor, Heinrich Schnee, offered important concessions to settler and planter interests and was more receptive to calls for monitoring and regulating the spread of Islam.56 However, this shift was soon overtaken by the First World War and Germany’s attempt to capitalise on the Ottoman alliance. The book’s eight chapters traverse this history in four parts, each grouped around a specific theme. The first part studies how Islam was invoked in the demarcation of ethnic and racial identities in GEA. This entails, first of all, a close look at the construction of “Arabdom,” a category of German discourse that was overdetermined by the stereotypes of Semitic culture, slavery, and “Mohammedan fanaticism.” This enabled a versatile and tactical employment of idioms of “Arabness” during conflict, but as the chapter also shows, claims to “Arabdom” were mobilised in a similar tactical fashion by the resistance movement as well. Religion, 54 For details on this shift, see esp. Iliffe, Tanganyika, 49–81. 55 As Iliffe makes clear, this was also against a changing international market, which

once again favoured cash-crop economies, see Iliffe, 141. 56 On his concession toward settlers, see Iliffe, Tanganyika, 203–204. On his measures toward Islam, see the below, p. 240.

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the chapter argues, remained a subordinate and auxiliary identifier in these early years, though warnings of Islam were regularly employed in mobilising anti-“Arab” sentiment. The second chapter shows how this occupation with “Arabdom” led to a classification of Kiswahili as a language contaminated by “foreign” and “Mohammedan” thought. This began with the earliest missionary translations, which pushed to replace the Aˇgam¯ı script with Roman letters as a way to curb “Semitic” and Muslim influences on the language. As many missionaries left Kiswahili behind for the vernacular languages of the interior, the Romanisation of the language became a government project, which would then be held up against missionary accusations that the administration’s reliance on Kiswahili aided the spread of Islam. When missionaries could no longer avoid embracing the language, they did so for the price of a radical revisionist programme, which sought to move Kiswahili firmly into a “Bantu stock” by purging all Arabic (and allegedly Islamic) influences. Hybridity, then, emerged as a main challenge in the German appraisal of “Arabdom” and Kiswahili alike, with Islam forming a particularly threatening dimension in the colonial taxonomy of East African cultural flows. The third chapter begins a new part which focuses on how Islam and Christianity were profiled against each other in the German “civilising mission.” The chapter shows how the anti-slavery platform of the conquest years quickly gave way to a focus on the “labour training” of “indolent” Africans. This came with remarkable patience for the continued existence of the institution of slavery and small-scale slave trade. While this was a political liability for the government, the chapter shows how missionary efforts to revive the public outrage about “Mohammedan” slavery failed to succeed in an environment that saw African “laziness” as the root cause of the “labour issue” and judged the Christian contribution to colonial “civilising” by its accomplishments in “labour training.” A second flash point in colonial “civilising” was the establishment of “secular” government schools, from which the colonial administration recruited most of its non-German personnel. The fourth chapter traces the genealogy of these schools, in particular how the perception of a “religious resistance” to early German educational efforts led to the establishment of a secular government school system that mainly catered to Muslims. As missionaries accused the government schools of omitting Christianity from German “civilising” and aiding the spread of Islam, the

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administration argued that its efforts actually led to the erosion of traditional Islamic education. The chapter shows how this apologetic claim was based on the German administration applying direct pressure on traditional education and argues that the German debate furthered an identification of the traditional schools as “Islamic” whereas for locals the educational choice was likely not signified primarily in religious terms. The third part of the book studies the place of East African Islam in German colonial law. This begins with Chapter 5 detailing how the foundational legal order for the colonies emerged from a German constitutional conflict and how this led to the creation of a sphere of “native law” that remained outside the regular German legislative and judicial control. Applying this fiction of “native law” to the cosmopolitan environments of the East African coast at first led to its racial demarcation, which was then further qualified by a religious dimension: “non-Mohammedan Syrians,” Parsis and Christian Goans could come under German law, whereas “Arabs” and Muslim Indians were “native” by default. The chapter also shows how the administration’s management of “native law” took little interest in Muslim judicial practices and reasoning. In scholarship, as the sixth chapter shows, a similar elision of East African Muslim jurisdiction and jurisprudence took hold. Whereas Orientalists initially endeavoured to compile and codify the prevailing Islamic precepts for Muslims in GEA, they paid little attention to local scholarship and practices, and this changed little even as their standardisation efforts were soon replaced by calls from the emergent Islamic Studies to focus on “indigenous Islamic customs” instead. Similarly, when scholars of law launched multiple investigations into “native law” they endowed this category with primitivist assumptions, which framed Muslim legal practices and precepts as a later corruption of original local law. Together both chapters on law argue that the systematic elision of Islamic jurisprudence from the German consideration of law brings into focus the fictional nature of colonial justice. The final part looks at how a notion of “political Islam” emerged in GEA in the second half of German colonial rule whereas before, East African Muslims were often characterised as “docile” and politically compliant. Chapter 7 shows how the so-called “Mecca letter affair” of 1908 became a turning point for missionary warnings against an “Islamic danger” gaining wider currency. As the chapter argues, this was not due to the “Mecca letter” itself but the German political dynamics, which allowed the rather innocuous proliferation of letters to become a liability

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for the administration. A culture of paranoia toward Islam set in, which attached itself to Sufi revivals in particular and gave more alarmist voices the upper hand within government circles and in the colonial press. The eighth chapter shows how this initial reaction congealed into a more sustained policy of surveilling and regulating Islam. Apart from continued agitations by missionaries and other parts of the colonial public, the emergent Islamic Studies around Carl Heinrich Becker was instrumental here because he occupied a middle position that argued that East African Islam was mostly “docile” but could still be mobilised through “Pan-Islamic” ideals. Political pressure to survey and regulate the spread of Islam ensued, despite there being no sign of an anti-colonial movement. In the First World War, this perception was suddenly turned on its head: “Pan-Islamic” sentiment now became a weapon to be wielded by the Germans in the mobilisation of Muslims against the Triple Entente. The chapter closes by tracing in detail the erratic way in which the socalled gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a reached GEA and argues that the idea of East African Muslims uniting around a “Pan-Islamic” ideal was a chimera rising out of the German colonial machine and driving it to paranoid extremes in how it addressed Islam. The concluding chapter ends with epistemological reflections on the study of colonialism and Islam that serve as a theoretical anchor point for the book’s findings and seek to provide a methodological orientation for traversing the complex and entangled discourses and perceptions of Islam that emerge from the German archive.

PART I

Race and Language: Arab and Swahili Islam

The almost two millenia long Arab settlement of the east coast has led to the genesis of a mixed people, the Suaheli or “coastal people.” It is well known that such mixed races develop wherever African people come in contact superior races from other continents; everywhere they take on the religion, the dress and many of the customs of the culturally superior race with the innate African talent for mimicry. Thus the Suaheli are Islamised, even if their Islam is, just like their Arabic culture, only a thin coat of paint […] —Julius Richter at the German Colonial Congress, 1905 This Arabization of Swahili Bantu in the translation of Christian scriptures extended to quite a number of the languages of the East African hinterland. Naturally, many Christians felt that using Islamic words in Christian Scriptures posed a problem […] Topan has put it well: “If Swahili, as a lingua franca had to be used, then it had to be de-Arabized,” or freed from its Arabic character. —Aloo Osotsi Mojola, God Speaks My Language, 2020

CHAPTER 2

Supplanting “Arabdom”: Race and Religion in the German Conquest

When Germans began to pursue their colonial interests in East Africa, they entered a complex field of “transitory, shifting and plural” cultural identities marked by centuries of Indian Ocean trade.1 Islam had been an integral part of this complex configuration from the twelfth century onward, not least because coastal culture was distinguished from the 2 hinterland by its claims to a heritage from the H . ad.ram¯ut and Persia. Another layer of Islamic and Middle Eastern identity was added in the nineteenth century, when Omani Arab rulers and traders established control over the coast and the Zanzibar archipelago, with caravans and trading networks extending far into the interior of the African continent, decades before the first Europeans followed in their footsteps.3 The Omani emphasis on paternal descent from Arabia and the exclusivism of 1 See Roman Loimeier and Rüdiger Seesemann, eds., The Global Worlds of the Swahili: Interfaces of Islam, Identity and Space in 19th and 20th-Century East Africa, Beiträge zur Afrikaforschung; 26 (Berlin: Lit, 2006). 2 See Pouwels, Horn and Crescent, 17–31; James de Vere Allen, Swahili Origins: Swahili Culture and the Shungwaya Phenomenon (Oxford: James Currey, 1993). 3 Cf. Iliffe, Modern History, 40–87; Norman Robert Bennett, Arab Versus European: Diplomacy and War in Nineteenth-Century East Central Africa (New York: Africana Publishing Company, 1986), 21–50; John C. Wilkinson, The Arabs and the Scramble for Africa (Sheffield: Equinox, 2015), 3–170.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_2

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Ib¯ad.¯ı Islam created a new social boundary that was not easily crossed but at the same time amplified the identification of cultural sophistication with “Arabness” (ustaarabu).4 It was this political, economic, and cultural hegemony of Omani Arabs under the hegemony of the sultan of Zanzibar that German explorers and colonial advocates began to identify as “Arabdom” in their narratives of geopolitical competition and enmity. This culminated in the identification of the 1888 coastal rebellion as “Arab Revolt” (Araberaufstand), revealing a serious misreading of the popular resistance against the maladjusted and disruptive attempts of the DOAG to supplant the existing structures of Omani–Swahili patronage. Nonetheless, the diagnosis of European–Arab conflict would prove politically useful here, as it prepared the German military conquest of the coast against the terms of the Sultan’s lease. Numerous historical writings have since critiqued the German monolithic understanding of “Arab” culture in East Africa and have sought to reconstruct the complexity of political, economic, and cultural relations along the coast and the caravan trade. The academic debate followed a somewhat oscillating pattern. Shortly after independence, a nationalist paradigm was predominant, in which the coastal rebellion was analysed under the rubric of African resistance.5 Such accounts typically disputed the centrality of Arab agency and sought to contrast the Zanzibari sultan’s passiveness and political compliance with the agency and agility of the resistance on the African coast. While acknowledging the diversity of the coastal society, they tended to gloss over its political and social hierarchies and instead offered comparative analyses with other African rebellions

4 Wilkinson, 8; cf. Amal Nadim Ghazal, “Islam and Arabism in Zanzibar: The Omani Elite, the Arab World and the Making of an Identity, 1880s–1930s” (PhD thesis, University of Alberta, 2005), 2, 13; Caitlyn Bolton, “Swahili Arabic: Imitation, Islam, and the Semiotics of Race in Zanzibar”, in Routledge Handbook on Islam and Race, ed. Zain Abdullah (New York: Routledge, forthcoming). 5 Gilbert C. K. Gwassa, “The German Intervention and African Resistance in Tanzania”, in A History of Tanzania, ed. Isaria N. Kimambo and A. J. Temu (Nairobi: East African Publishing House, 1969), See esp. J. A. Kieran, “Abushiri and the Germans”, in Hadith 2: Proceedings of the Conference of the Historical Association of Kenya 1968, ed. Bethwell A. Ogot (Nairobi: East African Publishing House, 1970), 157–201; Robert D. Jackson, “Resistance to the German Invasion of the Tanganyikan Coast”, in Protest and Power in Black Africa, ed. I. Robert Rotberg and Ali A. Mazrui (New York: Oxford University Press, 1970), 37–79; cf. Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 10.

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and their demise. As such, these publications shifted the historiographical focus to the interests and agency of non-Arab actors on the coast, but inasmuch as they acknowledged and even critiqued the diversity and fragmentation of “African” resistance, they also showed the limits of their pan-African interpretative paradigm.6 In the 1980s, Norman Bennett began to challenge the stereotypical portrayal of Arabs in East African historiography and sought to reappraise Omani interests and political tactics in Africa. In a way, his contribution swung the pendulum of historical agency back closer to what Germans understood to be the main political force in Eastern Africa. Conceptualising “Arab” as a “cultural term encompassing disparate members of the Islamic world,”7 Bennett’s Arab versus European tells the story of a broader nineteenth-century conflict when “the followers of two major world religions met in intense competition for the mastery of East Central Africa’s lands and peoples.”8 Accordingly, he framed the coastal rebellion as an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to defend Arab economic and political interests in the region, explicitly recovering the agency of Sultan Hal¯ıfah against the earlier claims of an African identity of the resistance.9 ˘ Bennett’s notion of “Arabdom” as a cultural rather than ethnic idiom was useful as it shifted the focus away from a bounded social entity and toward the political alliances formed through this label, but unfortunately Bennett’s interest to emphasise the sultan’s geopolitical strategy and agency led him to gloss over the manifold divergences and conflicts within his networks of “Arab” patronage. This flaw was corrected in the 1990s by Jonathon Glassman’s landmark study of the coastal rebellion, which shifted the attention back to coastal society, this time with a special attention to class consciousness and plebeian agency in a revolt directed against German and Omani hegemony alike. Analysing the “struggle for Swahili citizenship,”10 Glassman showed how the interests of the Š¯ır¯az¯ı patrician class,

6 See Gwassa, “German Intervention”, 90–97; Jackson, “Resistance”, 78–79; Kieran, “Abushiri”, 193–194. 7 Bennett, Arab Versus European, 9. 8 Bennett, 3. 9 Bennett, 144–184, esp. 174–175. 10 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 23.

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local chiefs (majumbe), porters, and slaves aligned against both the tightening grip of the Omani state and the German lease of the coast. The Germans were tolerated and supported as long as they could be seen to compete with and challenge Omani rule, but when their acquisition of the coast put them in the place of the former overlords a rebellion arose that contested Omani and German hegemony alike. Thus, the uprising was not an “Arab Revolt” but essentially one directed at extractive rulers, carried by a plebian rebelliousness in alignment with Š¯ır¯az¯ı patricians and African chiefs. Most recently, John Wilkinson has critiqued both approaches; Bennett for his conflation of Swahili and Arab actors, and Glassman for his overreliance on analysing plebeian consciousness. Wilkinson’s larger project was to reassert the importance of Omani influence in nineteenth-century Africa by drawing out the long and interconnected history between Oman and the East African coast while not neglecting the strong self-distinction of Omani Arabs from Swahili society via their ethnic ancestry and Ib¯ad.i Islam. His narrative of the German conquest therefore was mainly situated in Zanzibar, foregrounding Omani politics in relation to the concert of European colonial powers. As such, Wilkinson shifted attention back to the Arab side, with an interest in highlighting the non-compliance of the sultan with the German incursions and demands. Though he implicitly challenged Glassman’s idea that the revolt had a decisive anti-Omani thrust, he concurred with him that after the initial resistance “it was essentially a Swahili and not an Omani revolt.”11 Omani officials may have been the first to protest, but the subsequent rebellion was led and sustained by upcountry, rural folk with a vested interest in running the caravan economy. This oscillations of historical scholarship shows how notions of Arab agency remained contested far beyond the colonial period, often driven by a juxtaposition of Arab ethnicity with other socio-political identities. Such attempts to determine the historical identity of Arabs as an agentive social group or geopolitical force in East Africa tend to occlude, however, how the largely virtual notion of “Arabness” itself formed a fertile rallying ground on both sides of the German conquest. This chapter seeks to scrutinise, therefore, the contemporary political dimension of claims of “Arabdom,” in order to show how the overdetermined nature of the

11 Wilkinson, Arabs, 281.

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“Arab” lent itself to building fluid alliances, establishing or subverting political claims, and mobilising broad coalitions for warfare. The place of Islam in this construction and invocation of “Arabdom” or “Arabness” is particularly interesting because it fluctuated in role and importance. Among colonial powers, matters such as race, the slave trade, dress, allegiance to Zanzibar, or a general anti-European sentiment were invoked alongside and in place of religion as primary character traits of “Arabs.” The same is true for those contesting the imposition of German rule. The mobilisation of religion fluctuated in similar ways in the construction of a joint identity. This “buffet” of political options essentially made the invocation of Islam a tactical choice when seeking defining the “Arab Revolt” and the core causes behind the resistance. The chapter will begin with identifying the various components of the “Arabdom” trope as it emerged in the early colonial press and was subsequently used by Germany in its diplomatic efforts with Britain as the coastal rebellion began. This will be followed by a closer study of the main characters of the “Arab Revolt” and how they used the notion of “Arabness” to build and maintain anti-German alliances. As these analyses will show, Islam and any notion of a Christian–Muslim antagonism remained ancillary to the conflict at best, leading the final section to explore why this was the case.

2.1 Islam and “Arabdom” in the Scramble for East Africa The short-lived phase of German charter colonialism in East Africa began with Carl Peters’ first expedition in 1884, during which he collected dubious protection treaties with local rulers. At the end of this expedition his Gesellschaft für deutsche Kolonisation (Society for German Colonisation) laid claim to a territory of roughly the size of Southern Germany, for which he managed to secure a protective charter by the emperor.12 Peters and his contemporaries were aware of the fraudulent and legally disputable manner in which these acquisitions were made, but he had little regard for such scruples, for he feared that Germany would 12 A good overview over this Usagara Expedition is offered by Bückendorf, “Schwarzweiß-rot”, 101–210. See also Schneppen, Sansibar, 81–92; Arne Perras, Carl Peters and German Imperialism 1856–1918: A Political Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 52–66.

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lose out in Scramble for Africa through focusing on political “deliberations” rather than taking decisive action.13 Accordingly, his travel reports, published in the Tägliche Rundschau shortly after his return, exude a sense of urgency and an “unclaimed territory” fantasy with little regard for Omani hegemony over the caravan trade and its political allegiances.14 Peters simply claimed that he was operating outside of the coastal territories of the sultan, which rendered moot any consideration of Zanzibari politics or religion in his accounts. “Arabs” are mentioned in only a few passing remarks, none of which were concerned with political or economic interests, let alone religion. Peters’ haphazard acquisitions and his under-funded Gesellschaft were viewed with much scepticism by more established colonial interest groups, who called for a strategic and measured approach. Only two years prior, the Deutscher Kolonialverein (German Colonial Association) had been formed to unite various colonial associations under one umbrella.15 Its main outlet, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , was not enthusiastic about Peters’ acquisitions and rather seemed to reflect the going concerns of already established trading ventures in Zanzibar. This was especially evident in a series of three articles in 1885, written by an anonymous author who was characterised as “closely familiar with the actual conditions of the East African coast.”16 The articles provide an elaborate introduction into politics, trade, and tariffs of Zanzibar and the East African coast and criticise Peters’ “lack of political tact.”17 Though not inimical to the colonial project overall, the author was primarily concerned

13 Carl Peters, Die Gründung von Deutsch-Ostafrika: Kolonialpolitische Erinnerungen und Betrachtungen (Berlin: Verlag von C. A. Schwetschke und Sohn, 1906), 36–37. 14 See Carl Peters, “Die Usagara-Expedition”, in Carl Peters: Gesammelte Schriften, vol. 1, ed. Walter Frank (München: C. H. Beck, 1943), 285–318. 15 See Klaus J. Bade, Friedrich Fabri und der Imperialismus in der Bismarckzeit: Revolution – Depression – Expansion, 2nd internet ed. (Osnabrück, 2005), 289–305, accessed 10 June 2014, www.imis.uni-osnabrueck.de/BadeFabri.pdf. 16 X. Y. Z., “Das Gebiet des Sultans von Sansibar”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 11 (1885): 359; cf. X. Y. Z., “Einiges über Sansibar”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 12 (1885): 376–386; X. Y. Z., “Unsere ostafrikanischen Erwerbungen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 21 (1885): 670–674. See also a published letter from a German merchant, which is very similar in style and argument, see “Die deutsch-ostafrikanische Kolonie”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 8 (1885): 246–249. 17 X. Y. Z., “Das Gebiet”, 358.

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that these acquisitions must go in concert with Zanzibar in order to avoid conflict. It is in the context of these political concerns that Islam was first invoked, characterised here as a double-edged sword in colonisation. On the one hand, the author argues, Islam might be a powerful ally for German trade on account of the “civilising influence” Muslims exerted on the coast and in the African interior. Yet on the other hand, any attempt to disturb the slave trade, outlaw polygamy, or conduct Christian missions in these areas would spark fierce resistance. With reference to the Mahd¯ı Rebellion in the Sudan, the author contends: The Sudan demonstrates for everyone who believed Islam was in decline, that this is not the case. England’s failures should be a warning, bringing to moderation all those who commence relations with Mohammedans. As of yet, the Mohammedan on the East Coast does not know fanaticism; war and bloodshed have not yet caused him to view Christians as enemies of his religion and his institutions. Whatever Germany wants to achieve on the east coast, it will more easily be achieved peacefully and in alliance with Islam rather than against Islam.18

The invocation of the Sudanese mahd¯ı was of course to be expected just months after the fall of Khartoum and the demise of General Gordon, but it also betrays an inadequate monolithic conception of (Sunni) Islam. There was no appreciation of the religious and political plurality within African Islam, and the author even seemed to be unaware of sectarian nature of Ib¯ad.¯ı Islam, claiming that the “Arabs” of Zanzibar recognise the Ottoman sultan as their caliph.19 If “Mahdism,” could be avoided, the author saw benefits in forming an alliance with the “Mohammedans” on the coast, because the Arab, Swahili, and Comoro population was “sober, frugal, and easy to govern,” not least due to the prohibition of alcohol. This placed “Mohammedans” in an intermediary position along an assumed racial hierarchy between “Negroes” and “Whites:” Despite the centuries-long rule of Portugal, Christian or pagan Africans in the Portuguese territories on the East Coast are still what they once were:

18 X. Y. Z., 359. 19 X. Y. Z., “Einiges über Sansibar”, 376.

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savages. In any case, with every rebellion of the Negroes (and just like other nations we will not be able to form colonies without bloodshed), Mohammedan troops would stand with their white leaders, not least for the sake of their safety.20

Their intermediary position made it important to consider the interests of “Arabs” where they diverged most strongly from European norms in the author’s estimation. Slavery, accordingly, is cast as an “Arab internal affair, that is none of our business,” akin to polygamy and “other social matters that have arisen from the Mohammedan world view.”21 Germany must therefore limit its energies to eradicating the worst atrocities of the slave trade rather than abolish slavery altogether, especially since colonisers themselves might need to rely on some kind of “forced labour” for building infrastructure.22 In the next few years, the three elements of religion, race, and slavery that are invoked in this article series would remain central to the German debate of “Arabs” and Muslims. This was catalysed by developments in East Africa. Though Peters had achieved his primary political aim with the recognition of its protectorates in 1885, his Gesellschaft quickly found itself in a corner economically. The German trade with East Africa continued to be monopolised by Hanseatic merchants while tropical diseases dissipated hopes for a large-scale settler movement. Major cashcrop plantations were also beyond reach, given the modest resources and inexperience of German planters as well as the absence of a wage labour force in an economic environment reliant on subsistence farming and slavery.23 After eighteen expeditions, the Gesellschaft für deutsche Kolonisation had established ten stations, most of which were incurring losses and were not well linked to the established trade routes.24 Peters’ political interests thus turned from the hinterland to the coast itself, at first only seeking to establish one or two trading ports, but very soon eyeing the lease of the entire Tanganyikan shore. 20 X. Y. Z., “Unsere ostafrikanischen Erwerbungen”, 672. 21 X. Y. Z., “Das Gebiet”, 359. 22 X. Y. Z., “Unsere ostafrikanischen Erwerbungen”, 672–673. These statements in

essence already summarised the entire German debate about slavery that would continue to play out throughout German colonial rule, see chapter 4, p. 117. 23 See Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 290–317. 24 Schneppen, Sansibar, 200.

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By July 1887, Peters Gesellschaft had been recapitalised and turned into the DOAG. Protracted negotiations ensued, leading to the Treaty of 1888 through which the DOAG secured a lease for the coast including taxation, large portions of jurisdiction, mining rights, trade control, and other privileges.25 These political efforts were flanked by articles and opinion pieces in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , marked by an increasingly aggressive stance toward “Arabs.” By now, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung was published by the Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft (DKG) (German Colonial Society), which had managed to consolidate all major wings of the German colonial movement under one roof, including the Deutscher Kolonialverein.26 Its roughly 15,000 members came from upper or welleducated classes, with almost half invested in industry and trade, turning the DKG and its periodical into the main lobby venue for colonial interests.27 By 1890 the paper had reached a print run of 18,500 copies, and 30,000 by the turn of the century.28 The consolidation of colonial interest groups also meant that the more expansionist and nationalist wing of the colonial movement was in danger of losing out to more cautious, economically established elements. As Peters was increasingly side-lined in the negotiations with the sultan of Zanzibar, his supporters began to agitate in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung . Otto Arendt, a parliamentarian for the Free Conservative Party and close ally of Peters, launched this effort in January of 1888 with an article titled “Germany and England in East Africa.” Comparing England’s advances with Germany’s stalling endeavours, he called for an end to all “pedantic, doubting criticisms” and the prevailing “huckster mentality” (Krämergeist ), reminding his readers of the great “national enterprise” awaiting Germany in East Africa.29

25 For details, see Schneppen, 187–202. The full text of the treaty (German text) can be found in Das Staatsarchiv: Sammlung der officiellen Actenstücke zur Geschichte der Gegenwart. Vol. 50 (Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1890), 1–7. 26 For a detailed account, see Bade, Fabri, 471–512. 27 See Bade, 495–499. 28 Print run figures are provided regularly in the paper as of volume 3 (1890) and roughly parallel the increase in membership, cf. Bade, 499. This indicates a limited reach of the paper beyond the DKG, forming something of a German colonial echo chamber, see Haustein, “Provincializing”. 29 Otto Arendt, “England und Deutschland in Ostafrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 2 (14 January 1888): 10–11.

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Naturally, such a patriotic endeavour needed a higher cause and this is where militant anti-Arab sentiments came into play. In February 1888, the editor of the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , Gustav Meinicke penned the lead article under the title “Transformations” (Fig. 2.1).30 He drew on a lecture by the Egyptologist Heinrich Karl Brugsch, who had been invited by another close ally of Peters to speak at the inaugural meeting of the Berlin chapter of the DKG.31 As an early activist in the colonial cause, Brugsch was a fitting speaker and could be expected to provide a strong argument for East African expansion.32 In his lecture, Brugsch had presented his peculiar race theory on “Hamites,” who he identified as the “red” race from inner Asia that had brought “civilisation” to Egypt, Somalia, and East Africa but had gradually been replaced by the “yellow” Semites.33 This, Brugsch proposed, was about to change: […] now the hour has come, in which Japheth commences his civilising mission. This is the spirit of the colonial endeavours of our time. The Semites, the Arabs, still have great power. They know the land, all roads, and footpaths, they are familiar with the Negroes, they are merchants, soldiers, and missionaries in one, who together with Islam also spread the hate against Christians and Europeans. The battle will not be easy, and the war requires the joint powers of all. But the task is a noble one, worthy of

30 Meinecke. 31 This was the geology Professor Theodor Ebert, who had joined Peters’ Gesellschaft

für deutsche Kolonisation in 1885 and was a prime architect of its fusion with the Kolonialverein into the DKG, Karl Ackermann, “Dr. Theodor Ebert, Selbstbiographie”, Abhandlungen und Berichte des Vereins für Naturkunde zu Kassel 45 (1900): 17–17. 32 After building a research career in Egyptology culminating in a professorship in Göttingen, Heinrich Karl Brugsch (Pascha) spent nine years in the service of the Egyptian Khedive. In 1879 he returned to Germany where he lived and lectured for most of his time until his death in 1894. Brugsch was a founding member of the DKG’s predecessor, the Deutsche Kolonialverein, serving in its first managing board, see Bade, Fabri, 293, 298; on his life see also Conrad Weidmann, Deutsche Männer in Afrika: Lexicon der hervorragendsten deutschen Afrika-Forscher, Missionare etc. (Lübeck: Verlagsbuchhandlung Bernhard Nöhring, 1894), 20; Karl Heinrich Brugsch, Mein Leben und mein Wandern (Berlin: Allgemeiner Verlag für deutsche Literatur, 1894). 33 Hamites, in Brugsch’s understanding, were not Africans but migrants from “Mesopotamic India” or who were at the root of Egyptian culture and left their trace on the coast of East Africa. See also Francis H. Underwood, The True Story of the Exodus of Israel Together with a Brief View of the History of Monumental Egypt, Compiled from the Work of Dr: Henry Brugsch-Bey (Boston: Lee and Shepard Publishers, 1880).

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Fig. 2.1 Deutsche Kolonialzeitung agitating against “Arabs” in February 188835 the best, worthy also of German blood, even though it pains us to see it spilled.34

Meinecke’s editorial echoed Brugsch’s crude race theory and went on to diagnose an “ever rising tide of Arab influence” in Africa, which was equated with “Mohammedanism” and “fanaticism,” fuelled by the h.aˇggˇ . East Africa was key to breaking this “Arab” hold, since its “tribes” had not yet converted to Islam could be formed by Europeans like “warm wax” once “liberated from the oppressive Arab domination.” Meinecke concluded:

34 Meinecke, “Wandlungen”, 49. 35 Gustav Meinecke, “Wandlungen”,

February 1888): 49–50.

Deutsche

Kolonialzeitung

1,

no.

7

(18

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In Africa, fetishism is our natural ally and Mohammedanism will be our eternal enemy. The noblest hope rests on gradually nurturing the Negro into Christian civilisation, which will and must gain the advantage over the semi-barbarity of Arabdom, when the European nations which are interested in Africa, apply themselves to the task with rich means, and in a prompt and vigorous measure. Then the Arabic tide, which has brought a curse rather than a blessing, will be contained, freeing the way for the cultural mission of Japheth.36

These racialist, geopolitical musings soon found their practical equivalent in the paper’s advocacy for a German Emin Pasha expedition, a new project by Carl Peters. Emin Pasha (born as Isaak Eduard Schnitzer) was a trained medical doctor of German Jewish descent, who after some unsteady years ended up in the service of a Turkish official in the early 1870s. Here, he adopted Turkish dress and manners, and possibly Islam.37 In 1876, he joined General Charles Gordon in the Egyptian province of Equatoria, and was eventually appointed governor of the province in 1878. With the Mahd¯ı Rebellion, Emin was cut off from communication and supplies, and his predicament attracted the geopolitical interests of British colonial advocates, who financed Henry Morton Stanley’s 1887 relief expedition with the ambitious plan of reaching Equatoria from the Congo.38 Already in 1886, German interest groups had also briefly considered the idea of a relief expedition, but at that time there was little incentive for Peters and his associates to take up such an endeavour. In 1888, however, Peters could use an Emin Pasha relief expedition to put himself back at the centre of colonial endeavours in East Africa, once again outflanking German politics in the region, which he and his allies perceived as too timid. With no reliable news from Stanley, this still seemed like a plausible undertaking, and in June 1888 the Emin Pasha Relief Committee

36 Meinecke, 50. 37 The nature of Emin’s “conversion” is disputed. He wrote to his family during this

time that he had not converted to Islam, but in later writings posts consistently identified as Muslim. See Roger Jones, The Rescue of Emin Pasha: The Story of Henry M. Stanley and the Emin Pasha Relief Expedition, 1887–1889 (London: Allison & Busby, 1972), 41–43. 38 The choice of route had less to do with geography and exploration, but with the political motives of the Belgian king, by whom Stanley was nominally employed, see Jones, 76–82.

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was founded, accompanied by regular mention of the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung .39 The Committee soon attracted seasoned Africa travellers like Georg August Schweinfurth and Hermann Wissmann. Given his high-level political contacts, Wissmann was a particularly an important member, even though his own ambitions to reach Emin Pasha took some efforts to integrate.40 Like Stanley after him, Wissmann had traversed Africa from West to East in 1880 to 1883 and possessed first-hand knowledge of the Omani and Swahili trading networks of the interior and their complex and brittle political alliances. Moreover, he was an outspoken advocate for colonial intervention in the region. The published account of his journey was full of open disdain for Arab rule, calling for the “extermination of the annihilator and defiler of the African race.”41 Conversely, he saw among Arabs a “racial hatred” toward Europeans, which did not arise from religion but geopolitical competition and would ultimately make military conflict inevitable.42 In September 1888, before news of the coastal rebellion against the DOAG had reached Germany, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung reprinted an article Wissmann had penned for the Deutsches Wochenblatt . Here, he projected a dire geopolitical scenario if the Emin Pasha relief efforts failed: If Emin Pasha falls, the Arabs of the South and the Mah.dists will shake hands. The Sudan, together with the lakes region and the Eastern Congo state will become a massive territory under Arab rule.43

Forecasting a redirection of ivory and weaponry trade via North Africa, as well as a booming slave trade and the depopulation of vast areas, Wissmann continued:

39 See also Perras, Carl Peters, 131–144. 40 Perras, 136–139. 41 Hermann von Wissmann, Unter deutscher Flagge quer durch Afrika von West nach

Ost: Von 1880 bis 1883 ausgeführt von Paul Pogge und Hermann Wissmann (Berlin: Verlag von Walther & Apolant, 1888), 299. 42 See e.g. Wissmann, 197, 282. 43 Hermann von Wissmann, “Die Bedeutung der Emin Pascha-Expedition für die

Erschließung von Afrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 39 (29 September 1888): 309.

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The interior of the continent, the opening of which has already demanded so many sacrifices in human lives and money, will once again be shut even tighter than before, because a continuum of religion and common interests will motivate cohesion among the rulers of the vast lands, the Arabs. […] Everywhere the same concern arises, whether in the Congo or in Egypt, at the Nyasa or in East Africa, whether among missionaries (Cardinal Lavigerie) or merchants; they all recognise only one terribly dangerous enemy: the Arab.44

Given Wissmann’s familiarity with the complexities of the African caravan trade and the broader geopolitical picture, such statements can only be read as mobilising propaganda. In contrast with his early writings, Wissmann now also invoked religion as part of this inner “Arab” bond, mirroring the European alliance between the missionary and the merchant. Moreover, Wissmann’s mention of Lavigerie linked his project to the politics of abolitionism, completing the anti-“Arab” triad of religion, race, and slavery. Cardinal Charles Lavigerie, Roman-Catholic archbishop of Carthage and Algiers, Primate of Africa, and founder of the White Fathers missionary order, had always taken a strategic, geopolitical approach to missions. In his latter years, he appropriated the anti-slavery cause for his aims and in the summer of 1888 travelled through Europe in search of political and financial support for a new military endeavour. A band of Christian mercenaries was to be formed in the template of the religious orders of the crusades and be tasked with setting up militarily protected settlements in areas affected by slave raiding.45 Though Lavigerie’s campaign was widely ridiculed and ultimately failed to secure political support, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung followed him with much interest and helped consolidate his narrative about the “right if not a duty of Mohammedans” to enslave Africans.46 44 Wissmann, 309. 45 See François Renault, Cardinal Lavigerie: Churchman, Prophet and Missionary

(London: The Athlone Press, 1994), 367–338. 46 “Das Auftreten des Kardinal Lavigerie und die Araberfrage: I.”, Deutsche Kolo-

nialzeitung 1, no. 34 (25 August 1888): 267; see also “Das Auftreten des Kardinal Lavigerie und die Araberfrage: II.”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 35 (1 September 1888): 274–277; “Kleinere Mitteilungen: Kardinal Lavigerie”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 36 (8 September 1888): 292; “Die Araberfrage und der Sklavenhandel”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 43 (3 November 1888): 352–355; “Die

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Protestants were also contributing to the anti-“Arab” platform of religion, race, and slavery. In April 1888, Alexander Merensky, inspector of the BMW, penned a lead article for the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , titled “The Mohammedan Counter-Push Against Christian Influence in Central Africa.” The article linked together a recent attack on Livingstonia missionaries around Lake Malawi with Sudanese Mahdism, the predicament of Emin Pasha, and a number of other real and feared attacks on Europeans in Africa, painting a similar picture as Wissmann: The experiences made so far demonstrate, that the real enemy of Christian culture in Africa is the domineering, violent Mohammedanism, and that this enemy is rising up to an energetic attack wherever threatened by European influence.47

The colonial press of 1888 therefore accompanied the negotiation and impending implementation of the sultan’s lease to the DOAG with a rising clamour about “Arabs.” This was part of a push to press the German government into a hard stance toward the sultan and mobilising the colonial public for a potential conflict. In the months leading up to the coastal revolt against he DOAG, all registers of the “Arabdom” discourse were pulled: “Arabs” were portrayed as a racially inferior influence on Africa, a geopolitical foe, ruthless slave traders, and religious fanatics. The alignment of all of these arguments provided a robust political platform of anti-“Arab” sentiment. Whether one was concerned with the racial order of the world, the geopolitics of rescuing Emin Pasha, the atrocities of the slave trade, or the danger of “Mohammedan fanaticism,” the underlying analysis was the same: “Arabs” formed an obstacle to “civilisation” and as such became the natural enemies of German colonial endeavours. Thus, a versatile and politically potent notion of “Arabdom” was already in place in German discourse before the so-called “Arab Revolt” had even begun, much less acquired its name.

Antisklaverei-Bewegung und Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 44 (10 November 1888): 352. 47 Alexander Merensky, “Der mohammedanische Gegenstoß gegen christliche Einflüsse in Zentral-Afrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 17 (28 April 1888): 129.

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2.2

The “Arab Revolt” in Imperial Reckoning

The sultan’s lease of the coast came into effect from 15 August 1888, but the transition of power was ill prepared. The DOAG agents failed to understand the political conditions of the coast and some of them, including the new DOAG director Ernst Vohsen had no previous experience in East Africa at all.48 In their legalistic interpretation of the treaty, they attempted to replace, with immediate effect, the sultan’s loosely knit and partially contested political system of patronage with an administrative state-like apparatus under the auspices of the DOAG. In preparation of the takeover, Vohsen visited every port and announced that taxation, administration, and all representatives of the sultan were to come under German command.49 After arriving at their new posts in August, the local representatives of the DOAG immediately issued orders, appropriated jurisdiction, and demanded the registration of all real estate in order to administer “free land.”50 All this was backed by little more than brusque confidence in the legal text of the treaty, small bands of mercenaries, and the intermittent menacing presence of German boats. On 16 August 1888 flag raising ceremonies were to be held in all major ports to symbolise the transition, and virtually everywhere the DOAG encountered resistance when seeking to appropriate the sultan’s flag. As German commanders sought to assert their authority through harsh measures, the situation quickly deteriorated. By September open revolt had erupted, first in the northern towns of Pangani and Tanga, then in Kilwa, Lindi, and Mikindani in the south. In Kilwa both DOAG agents were killed, whereas elsewhere they managed to escape. The two remaining DOAG ports, Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam, were not attacked by rebel forces until November 1888 and January 1889, respectively. With the marine now concentrated in these two remaining locations, the Germans fought off the assaults and kept the towns under tenuous 48 For notes on Vohsen’s life, career, and views, see Christian Davis, Colonialism, Antisemitism, and Germans of Jewish Descent in Imperial Germany (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2012), 139–142. Vohsen allegedly brought with him a “testimonial signed by a very large body of influential Mahomedans” from his time in Sierra Leone, in the hope of winning the support of East African Arabs, Euan-Smith to the Marquis of Salisbury, 1 June 1888, NAUK FO403/105, No. 239. 49 Ernst Vohsen, Denkschrift über die Vorgänge in Ostafrika, 12 April 1889, BArch R1001/697, 64–78, here 68. 50 Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 347.

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control. The DOAG now demanded that the sultan restore order in the rebel towns, but his military and diplomatic attempts failed, and the overall situation quickly exceeded the military and financial capabilities of the DOAG. The events forced Bismarck to act. Suspecting a clandestine complicity of the sultan in the revolt, the government formally asked Britain to put pressure on Zanzibar through diplomatic channels and the British press.51 The request was firmly premised on a common cause of anti-slavery. A memorandum claimed that Germany and England shared a common “civilising mission” on the East African coast and that the “animosity” to the coastal lease was “traced principally to slave dealers,” who had also opposed the “energetic” English companies. Britain reacted with reservation and pushed back against the German assertions of the sultan’s involvement. Prime Minister Salisbury, who also kept the Foreign Office at this time, instructed his ambassador to reassure Berlin that “we shall press sultan to do his best, and have no doubt that he will do so,” but also signalled his doubts that this would help quell a rebellion “caused by a combination of race feeling, religious hatred, and commercial jealousy.”52 A more extensive memorandum followed three days later and asserted that the root of the rebellion lay in the “nature of the people themselves,” who are “unruly both by race and religion.”53 This could only be overcome through patient policy, rather than by force. Thus, the signals from London clearly invoked the other registers of “Arabdom”: this conflict was not about slavery, but about race and religion; caution was of the essence. Berlin disagreed with this assessment and tried to push the anti-slavery button in subsequent communication, but to no avail.54 With the situation in East Africa deteriorating further, Berlin adjusted its pitch only two weeks later with two memoranda sent by Chancellor

51 Memorandum enclosed in Edward Malet to Marquis of Salisbury, 18 September

1888, NAUK FO403/106, No. 203, emph. orig. 52 Marquis of Salisbury to Edward Malet, 22 September 1888, NAUK FO403/106, No. 214, 215. 53 Memorandum, Marquis of Salisbury to Edward Malet, 25 September 1888, NAUK FO403/106, No. 231. 54 In Germany’s copy of Salisbury’s memorandum, the phrase “nature of the people” is underlined and “slavery!” is written (in English) in the margins, BArch R1001/706, 15. For Germany’s official reaction, see Edward Malet to the Marquis of Salisbury, 26 September 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 1.

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Bismarck to the British Foreign Office. He now raised the idea of a joint naval blockade of the East African coast and integrated Britain’s arguments about race and religion. On the one hand, the chancellor reassured the British that any intervention would be to support the eroded authority of the sultan against the “agitation of the fanatical and stranger-hating (‘Fremden-feindliche’) Arab element.”55 On the other hand, he argued that there was a religious element to the anti-slavery efforts, diagnosing a: […] reaction on the side of the slave-traders and Mussulmans against the work of the Anti-Slavery Societies and their efforts to introduce Christian culture. This spirit would resemble the one which caused the movement of the Mahdi, and inspired the intrigues of Tippoo Tib and others on the West Coast.56

The notes coming back from London showed that this readjustment of argument was still not going to change the British advice of de-escalation. Bismarck’s counterparts rejected the German allegation of a universal “fanaticism” and claimed instead that a German lack of religious sensibility had caused a local revolt.57 Accordingly, the British government refused to collaborate in the naval blockade, suggesting at first that the sultan should try to regain possession of one coastal harbour and shield the DOAG there. When Germany persisted, Salisbury continued to advise against the blockade and demanded to exempt the English spheres of interest if Germany were to pursue this.58 Bismarck now scaled up his rhetoric. The English insistence on excepting their spheres of interest was “disconcerting” (befremdlich), he telegraphed his ambassador in London. If England was not willing to suspend commercial interests in order to take sustained measures against 55 Memorandum communicated by Count Leyden, 8 October 1888, NAUK FO403/ 107, No. 27. 56 Leyden to British Foreign Office, 8 October 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 26. This part of the memorandum was confidential, as Bismarck also acknowledged the brashness of the DOAG. See also Jonas Fossli Gjersø, “‘Continuity of Moral Policy’: A Reconsideration of British Motives for the Partition of East Africa in Light of Anti-Slave Trade Policy and Imperial Agency, 1878–96” (PhD thesis, London School of Economics, 2015), 122. 57 Leyden to Bismarck, 9 October 1888, BArch R1001/706, 51–57. 58 Marquis of Salisbury to Euan-Smith, 13 October 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 46;

Marquis of Salisbury to Euan-Smith, 15 October 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 62.

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the “anti-Christian and culture-hostile movement in interior Africa and its main pillar of ammunition import and slave export,” then Germany would not feel obliged to spare the sultan, whose “honesty” and cooperation could only be assured if England and Germany worked in concert in the interests of “Christian civilisation.” Preparing this more confrontational approach, Bismarck instructed his Foreign Office to draft a rationale for further discussions with London, offering very specific wordings, which asserted that one large movement of “Mohammedans and slave traders” lay behind the Mahd¯ı Rebellion, the hostile behaviour of Tippu Tip, and the events on the German coast. This had originated from “religious fanaticism” and must concern all “European nations.”59 The final draft of the memorandum linked even more events together and began as follows: The movement of the Mohammedan Arabdom, supported by slave traders and first expressed in the Mahdi Revolt in the Egyptian Sudan, has since expanded and led to a collision with European endeavours in other places in the African continent. The attack on an Italian expedition by the Emir of Harar in 1886, the Arab harassment of stations on the Eastern border of the Congo State, the behaviour of Tippu Tip toward Stanley’s caravan and his companions, the attacks on English mission stations in Uganda and on the trading establishments on Lake Nyasa, the unrest on the coastal areas of the sultan of Zanzibar which are under German and English administration – all these events leave the impression of being connected as one, bearing testimony to a slowly progressing, but deeply rooted movement within the Mohammedan population toward a reaction against the Christian and civilising endeavours, especially in the area of slave trade. All nations which take part in the promotion of Christian morality [christliche Gesittung ] have an equal interest to confront the dangers of such a movement.60

The remainder of the memorandum simply restated the German request of British collaboration and made clear that Germany intended to increase the public pressure on London.61 Accordingly, Bismarck merely drew on the established tropes about “Arabdom,” rather than seeking 59 Rothenburg, 16 October 1888, BArch R1001/706, 89–90; cf. Schneppen, Sansibar, 242–245. 60 Bismarck to Hatzfeld, 21 October 1888, BArch R1001/706, 99–100. 61 See also the parallel instructions to the ambassador, noting that Germany would

make public its assessment in parliament, Rothenburg, 20 October 1888, BArch R1001/ 706, 102–103.

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to offer a sober analysis. In particular, the references to Mahdism would have been intended to serve as a poignant reminder to Salisbury that his predecessor had fallen over the tacit British response to the Sudanese mahd¯ı. Before ambassador Hatzfeld could react on these instructions, however, the British government consented to the marine blockade for its own political reasons. Salisbury realised that the operations of the German fleet might very lead to measures against the sultan despite British warnings, which would set London on an inopportune collision course with Berlin.62 Moreover, a brief riot had erupted in Mombasa in October, which highlighted the precariousness of the situation and may well have persuaded the British government to join in with a display of strength while seeking to moderate the German response from within.63 Therefore, Salisbury ultimately gave his consent to British involvement in the naval blockade, offering the face-saving claim that he had never opposed a disruption of the slave and weapon trade between Zanzibar and the coast but only a full embargo, which he had misunderstood the Germans to demand.64 When Berlin reacted to this shift, it became clear that the various arguments about “Mohammedan fanaticism” had only been tactical in nature. The German ambassador was instructed to reassure Salisbury that no blanket measures were planned, but only a targeted approach to weapon import and slave export, and that the authority of the sultan of Zanzibar would be upheld. Islam or religious “fanaticism” were no longer invoked, but instead the letter agreed with Salisbury’s suggestion to restore order to one coastal town first and let the sultan’s flag fly there, in addition to the DOAG giving reassurances for the protection of mosques. The naval blockade itself and all publicity about it in the Reichstag and the press were only to invoke anti-slavery measures, while the “Christian civilising influence” was mentioned just in passing.65 The blockade was put in place in December 1888 while Germany prepared for a larger military expedition. In securing the necessary funds 62 NAUK FO403/107, No. 77. 63 For a report on the Mombasa riot, see Euan-Smith to Salisbury, 22 October 1888,

NAUK FO84/1910, No. 312, cf. related telegraphic reports of 17 October 1888, and 18 October 1888, NAUK FO430/107, No. 74, 79. 64 Salisbury to Beauclerk, 23 October 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 113. 65 Bismarck to Hatzfeld, 23 October 1888, BArch R1001/707, 24–28.

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from the Reichstag, the slavery argument once again rose to the forefront as will be shown in a later chapter.66 When parliamentary support had been secured, Bismarck selected Hermann Wissmann as commander of this military intervention. As a lieutenant of the Prussian army and a seasoned Africa traveller, Wissmann was an obvious choice from an operational perspective, but he was also the most suitable political candidate, given his advocacy for the Emin Pasha expedition, his excellent reputation in colonial circles, and his previous lobbying for a military campaign in response to the situation on the coast.67 Once commissioned by Bismarck in February 1889, he formed the so-called “protectorate force” (Schutztruppe) out of a thin layer of German officers and African soldiers, mostly Sudanese mercenaries recruited in Egypt. Wissmann’s conquest began in May 1889. His forces quickly dispersed rebel camps and had regained control of the northern ports by the summer. In December 1889 the most powerful and agile of the leaders of the rebellion, Buš¯ıri bin S¯alim al-H . ¯arti was captured and hung, but it ¯ was not until May 1890 that the last leaders of the resistance had surrendered and the southern ports had been recaptured. The war left a military occupation in its wake and together with the failure of the DOAG served as a catalyst in turning the erstwhile protectorate of GEA into a German colony. The Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty of 1890 delimited the German and British spheres of influence in the region, and the sultan was pressured to fully cede the coast to the Germans for a sum of four million Marks. On 1 January the Imperial government took over the reins from the DOAG.68

2.3

Insurgent Coalitions and “Arab” Identity

While the German characterisation of “Arabs” oscillated between the three main aspects of religion, race, and slavery, the monolithic notion of “Arabdom” itself was not an object of debate. It designated the primary 66 See chapter 4. 67 Already on 13 October 1888, Wissmann submitted a strategy paper calling for mili-

tary operations, titled “How can the Arabdom, which destroys European influence, held back and combatted forcefully south of the Equator?” He followed up about a month later with more detailed plans. See BArch R1001/690, 78–82; BArch R1001/693, 126–129; cf. Schneppen, Sansibar, 239, 263. 68 On the details of this process, see esp. Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 428–442.

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foe of German colonialism before and during the conquest war, despite the many instances of Omani collaboration. Accordingly, the complex social and political hierarchies of the coast were cast in a simple dichotomy between “Arabs” and “Negroes,” with the anti-German resistance movement acquiring the label of “Arab Revolt” (Araberaufstand). A brief look at some of the main actors of the rebellion, however, can help highlight the social and cultural diversity of the anti-German coalition and the different ways in which the various actors themselves laid claim to “Arabness.” The most prominent rebel leader was Buš¯ıri bin S¯alim al-H . ¯arti, in whose home town of Pangani the armed resistance ¯ lease had erupted. Buš¯ıri quickly centred the rebelagainst the German lion around himself and placed Pangani under the control of the rebels, defying both the DOAG and the sultan, whose attempts to negotiate peace were welcomed by the town’s Omani elites but blocked by the rebel groups. By November 1888 Buš¯ıri moved south to attack Bagamoyo, which was the main caravan terminus of the Tanganyikan coast and home to the DOAG headquarters. Forming an alliance with various local headmen (majumbe) around the town, he launched three major assaults, all of which were repelled by German shelling from the sea, causing major damage to the town. Buš¯ıri retreated to the hinterland and consolidated his leadership over the insurgent forces. He obtained German hostages that had been captured by other parties and led the negotiation over their release while also agreeing to a temporary truce with the Germans in March 1889. When Wissmann arrived with his troops in May, the truce was soon broken. Wissmann’s attack on Buš¯ıri’s camp forced him to evade inland, where he resisted the German-led forces and avoided detection until the end of 1889 when he was betrayed and captured, and finally hung on 15 December.69 Buš¯ıri was a good example for the complexities of “Arab” identity on the East African coast. Born in East Africa by an African mother, he was considered an Omani Arab based on his patrilineal descent from the 70 al-H . ¯arti family boasted . ¯arti clan, as indicated by his nisbah. The al-H ¯ ¯ a long-standing presence in East Africa with well-established trading

69 For a compact but detailed summary of the war with Buš¯ıri, see esp. Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 388–403. 70 His mother was probably a slave, but this would not have tarnished his Omani descent in patrilineal construction of ethnicity, see Wilkinson, Arabs, 6.

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networks.71 They also had a history of meddling in Zanzibar politics, supporting the later Sultan Bargash ˙ in a revolt against his predecessor M¯ajid. Buš¯ıri, however, had fallen out with Bargash ˙ and harboured a “fierce disdain” for the Sultan.72 Unlike his Omani contemporaries in Pangani, Buš¯ıri’s wealth did not come from sugar plantations, but from the caravan economy and his journeys into the interior. As a result, he commanded a significant network of African chiefs with numerous dependents, and in contrast with Omani planters, his relation to his slaves was more akin to traditional patronage.73 From all available sources it is clear that Buš¯ıri projected a decidedly Arab identity that was aristocratic and Omani in appearance, with no reference to his own plural heritage or strained relations with the Omani planter class. Though he was more versed in Kiswahili than in Arabic, he referred to himself as one of the three most important Arabs on the East African coast, signed correspondence with his full nisbah, and dressed and behaved like an Omani Arab.74 Toward his “upcountry” followers Buš¯ıri took the pose of an Arab aristocratic patron, oscillating between accommodating their demands and distributing money, or lashing out with a whip and treating them like slaves.75 His act so impressed Oscar Baumann and Hans Meyer, two explorers who were held hostage by him, that Baumann described him with considerable esteem and affection, reminiscing that his “face showed some resemblance to the recently deceased Sultan Said Bargash ˙ of Zanzibar” (Fig. 2.2).76 Buš¯ıri’s display of “Arabness” was a device he used both to contest and to draw upon the authority of the sultan. When Baumann and Meyer

71 See Jonathon Glassman, “Bushiri bin Salim”, in Dictionary of African Biography: Volume 2: Brath–Haile, ed. Emmanuel Kwaku Akyeampong and Henry Louis Gates (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 13–14; Wilkinson, Arabs, 47–53, 123–129, 282–283. Wilkinson appears to suggest that Buš¯ıri’s nisbah may be a later attribution, but Buš¯ıri already used it in some of his letters in Henricus Gerardus Maria Tullemans, Transcripted Letters and Documents of the Bagamoyo Mission During the Arab Revolt 1888–1890 (Niemegen: Katholieke Universiteit van Nijmegen, 1982), 181, 182. 72 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 237. 73 Glassman, 237. 74 See Baumann, 138. 75 Baumann, 143; cf. Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 234–235, 245. 76 Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 137, cf. 135–141.

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Fig. 2.2 Encounter with Buš¯ıri as depicted in Baumann’s account. The drawing clearly relays the aristocratic features Baumann ascribed to Buš¯ıri77

questioned him about his rejection of the sultan’s envoy in Pangani,78 he straightforwardly denounced the authority of the sultan because he was selling out the hard-won previous “Arab” conquests.79 By contrast, when writing to Semboja a few months later, he invoked the sultan’s authority for issuing commands, claiming that he had a letter for him from the sultan, which Semboja should treat like an order by God himself.80 Similarly, he demanded that the sultan’s flag be restored when negotiating the March 1889 truce with the Germans through the Bagamoyo Spiritan Fathers, but just two months later in a letter to the same missionaries, he

77 Oscar Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika während des Aufstandes: Reise der Dr. Hans Meyer’schen Expedition in Usambara (Wien: Eduard Hölzel, 1890), 133. 78 See below, p. 66. 79 Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 138–139. 80 Buš¯ıri to Semboja, 6 April 1889 in Tullemans, Transcripted Letters, 152.

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Fig. 2.3 Bwana Heri and his sons, ca. 1892. Though he had joined in Buš¯ıri’s rebellion, Bwana Heri received clemency82

heralded his own authority as the “Lion of the coast” with no mention of the sultan.81 Other leaders of the “Arab Revolt” had no Omani roots at all. The most prominent insurgent after Buš¯ıri was Bwana Heri bin Juma alMafaz¯ı in Saadani (Fig. 2.3). He was born of an African mother and his nisbah indicates that his father came from Faza on Pate Island in the Lamu Archipelago.83 While the nisbah itself as well as Bwana Heri’s Omani dress pointed to the contemporary sense of “Arabness” as the hallmark of coastal culture (ustaarabu),84 he self-identified as a Swahili. He 81 Buš¯ıri to Deinhard, 18 March 1889; Buš¯ıri to Baur, 17 May 1889. See Tullemans, 131–133, 181. 82 Paul Reichard, Deutsch-Ostafrika: Das Land und seine Bewohner, seine politische und wirtschaftliche Entwicklung (Leipzig: Otto Spamer, 1892), 205. 83 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 66. 84 Glassman, who highlights his fluid identification as both African and Arab, even

called Bwana Heri the “leading ‘Arabizer’ of his part of the Mrima,” Glassman, 178.

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governed Saadani from the 1870s on and his influence stretched far into the hinterland, making him an important power broker and gatekeeper of the northern caravan trade.85 Bwana Heri was loyal to the sultan of Zanzibar and acted as his representative, but also defended his own interests against the sultan when necessary. When Buš¯ıri turned toward Bagamoyo, he sought an alliance with Bwana Heri, who declined to participate in Buš¯ıri’s war and kept independent. Only when his men were implicated in the killing of a British missionary and he feared a retaliatory expedition, did he form his own rebellion, erecting a number of fortifications in the hinterland of Saadani. Bwana Heri’s revolt outlived that of Buš¯ıri. In early 1890 the Germans finally managed to locate and capture his main fortifications, one of which Wissmann described as the strongest he had encountered.86 With his defence and supplies decimated, Bwana Heri was forced to negotiate and the Germans offered clemency, leading to his surrender on 6 April 1890 in a spectacular procession to the German camp.87 Significantly, the procession was led by an elaborately adorned and dancing “sorcerer” (Zauberer) followed by three Africans playing the ngoma (drum), a clear demarcation of difference from “proper Arabs.”88 While his dress included the customary Omani dagger, he later sent Wissmann his adorned sabre as a sign of his surrender and requested a different sword in return.89 In the hinterland of Pangani, a local ruler by the name of Semboja wielded a similar influence over the caravan trade routes as Bwana Heri. Though Baumann attested him a “light complexion” (lichtfarben) and Behr considered him to be of Arab descent,90 he was a Washambaa chief,

85 Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 359; Bennett, Arab Versus European, 64–66. 86 See Rochus Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes in Ost-Afrika (Frankfurt a.

Oder: Verlag der Königlichen Hofdruckerei Trowitsch & Sohn, 1892), 171. 87 See Schmidt, 179–182. The loyalty Germans hoped for never quite emerged,

however, see Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 258–259. 88 See H. F. von Behr, Kriegsbilde aus dem Araberaufstand in Deutsch-Ostafrika (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1891), 327; Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 180–182. 89 Schmidt, 182, 217. For a photograph of Bwana Heri with his sabre as a symbol of authority, see Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 67. 90 Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 97; Behr, Kriegsbilde, 219. Despite noting his light skin colour, Baumann described him as “base negro” (gemeiner Neger) because of his “betrayal” of the German expedition.

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who had reoriented his politics toward the coast and the caravan trade.91 Semboja had acquired a very good command of Kiswahili, styled himself in Arab dress,92 and accepted the overall authority of the sultan while keeping Omani influence at bay. Unlike Bwana Heri, who was an active proselytiser for Islam,93 Semboja never identified as a Muslim and his alliance with Buš¯ıri remained brittle. He supported him early on with troops and delivered Oscar Baumann and Hans Meyer to him. Yet Buš¯ıri mistrusted Semboja and quizzed the captured explorers about his military strength, and when Buš¯ıri’s power was waning, Semboja no longer extended support.94 He surrendered in February 1890 and also found clemency, subsequently entering German service as a local ruler.95 While the actions of Bwana Heri, Semboja, and to some extent even Buš¯ıri support Glassman’s observation that the rebellion was directed against the sultan of Zanzibar and the Germans alike, a number of Omani Arabs loyal to Zanzibar were involved as well. One of Buš¯ıri’s best known allies, the poet Hemedi bin Abdall¯ah bin Sa¯ıd al-Buhriy, sung the praises of Sultan Hal¯ıfah in his ballad about the conquest war.96 ˘ Hemedi’s ancestors had arrived in Pemba from Oman, most probably in the early nineteenth century. His grandfather then moved to the area of Tanga where he was appointed the Mazrui governor of Mtang’ata and became a renowned poet.97 Having received a traditional Islamic

91 Iliffe, Modern History, 65–66, 78–79; Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 31–32. 92 For a picture of Semboja, see Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 114. 93 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 136, 140. 94 See Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika; see also Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 241–243. 95 Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 175, 183. 96 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, Utenzi wa vita vya wadachi kutamalaki mrima 1307 A: H. = The German Conquest of the Swahili Coast 1891 A.D. with translation and notes by J. W. T. Allen, 2nd ed. (Dar es Salaam: East African Literature Bureau, 1960), esp. verses 76–203. 97 See José Arturo Saavedra Casco, “Swahili Poetry as a Historical Source: Utenzi, War Poems, and the German Conquest of East Africa, 1888–1910” (PhD thesis, SOAS, 2002), 133–134; Ann Biersteker, Kujibizana: Questions of Language and Power in Nineteenthand Twentieth-Century Poetery in Kiswahili (East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University, 1996), 150–153; Ridder Samsom, “The Dissolved Collection of Sheikh Aliy Hemed Abdallah al-Buhriy (1889–1957)”, Islamic Africa 6 (2015): 205–206; Gudrun Miehe et al., eds., Kala Shairi: German East Africa in Swahili Poems (Köln: Rüdiger-KöppeVerlag, 2002), 90. Recently recorded oral traditions from the family locate the move to Tanga in Hemedi’s lifetime, see Joyce Kaguo, “Mchango wa mashaira ya bi Madina Ali

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education, Hemedi followed in the footsteps of his grandfather’s poetry, but also was a well-known healer and diviner (mganga). According to his own account, Buš¯ıri recruited him as a spy, counsellor, and diviner during his attacks on Bagamoyo.98 They parted ways after Wissmann had attacked and destroyed Buš¯ıri’s stockade in May 1889, and Hemedi subsequently witnessed the surrender of Saadani, Pangani and Tanga. His poem concluded after these events of July 1889 with a prayer for the sultan, imploring God to grant him a “speedy victory over his enemies.”99 In Dar es Salaam, the resistance against the Germans at first coalesced around the liwali Abdall¯ah bin Sa¯ıd, who had clashed with the DOAG before.100 The DOAG representative August Leue quickly outflanked him, however, by winning the loyalty of the q¯ adi Muh.ammad bin Sulaym¯an and other Omani notables.101 Yet when the sultan sent his own peacemaking emissary, Nas.r bin Sulaym¯an al-Lamki,102 Leue brusquely rejected him and instead escalated the situation by insulting his opponents in an open town meeting. This drove the resistance party out of town and into open rebellion under the leadership of Shindo, the jumbe of Dar es Salaam. For a while Shindo employed guerilla tactics and avoided open confrontation, but in January 1889 he received a strong reinforcement from Zanzibar under the leadership of a former servant of Sultan Bargash, ˙ Sulaym¯an bin Sayf.103 Jointly they attacked Dar es Salaam and the nearby town of Pugu, home to a DOAG station and the first East

el-Buhriy katika arudhi ya kiswahili” (MA dissertation, University of Dar es Salaam, 2015), 114–118. 98 See Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, Utzenzi, verses 374–558. 99 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, verse 602. The oldest manuscript of the poem is a copy from 1891, which makes no direct reference to later events, Casco, “Swahili Poetry”, 147. 100 See Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 330–331, 360–361. 101 August Leue, “Dar-es-Salaam: Vortrag des Herrn A. Leue”, Deutsche Kolo-

nialzeitung 2, nos. 25–27 (22 June–6 July 1889): 197–198, 206–220, 210–213; August Leue, Dar-es-Salaam: Bilder aus dem Kolonialleben (Berlin: Wilhelm Süsserott, 1903), 5–8. 102 On Nasr bin Sulaym¯ an al-Lamki, see below, p. 56. . 103 German reports claimed he had a fake missive from the sultan to kill all Germans,

“Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Koloniales Jahrbuch 2 (1890): 215.

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African mission station of the Benedictines of St. Ottilien.104 The attacks on Dar es Salaam were repelled, but Pugu was destroyed, with three missionaries killed. Four missionaries were captured and sent to Buš¯ıri as hostages. In May 1889, the newly arrived German forces attacked and destroyed the rebel camps around Dar es Salaam. Shindo and Sulaym¯an bin Sayf escaped and continued to evade capture throughout the war.105 Further south, the main force behind the rebellion apparently were Yao slavers, who according to the Germans received support from Zanzibar and teamed up with Omani slave traders in Kilwa, Lindi, and Mikindani.106 Research on the rebellion in the south has been lacking however, and the few works briefly detailing the events do not mention any of the names provided in the German sources.107 In the West, there was an Omani merchant by the name of Muh.ammad bin Q¯asim, who was based in the caravan hub of Tabora and had been accused of murdering the German merchant Herman Giesecke there in 1886. When hearing about the rebellion on the coast, he marched eastward with a contingent of 600 men in order to support Bwana Heri. Learning en route of Bwana Heri’s surrender he tried to escape to Zanzibar, but was betrayed by the Germans and hanged in June 1890, despite the sultan’s appeal.108 In all of the coastal towns, there were not just instances of resistance against the Germans but also of collaboration. In particular the considerable support by some established Omani families undermined the notion of an “Arab Revolt.” The Sulaym¯an al-Lamki family was the most important German ally. Members of this family had occupied an important role as the sultan’s representatives on the coast ever since Bargash ˙ bin Sa¯ıd had appointed Nas.r bin Sulaym¯an al-Lamki as liwali of Bagamoyo in 104 Bennett, Arab versus European, 163–164; Reichard, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 144–147; Andreas Amhrein, “Das große Sühn- und Brandopfer zu Pugu: Mündliche Berichte”, Missions-Blätter 1 (1889): 435–450, 553–570. 105 Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 65–67. 106 See Michahelles to Bismarck, 23 September 1888 and 3 October 1888, in

Staatsarchiv, 20–23, 26–28; Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 223. 107 See Iliffe, Modern History, 92–93; Bennett, Arab versus European, 150–151; Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot”, 351–352. Unfortunately Becker’s detailed study of Islam in south-eastern Tanganyika commences immediately after the German conquest, Becker, Becoming Muslim. 108 Bennett, Arab versus European, 212–213; Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 184, 217, 219. Nothing is known about Muh.ammad’s family heritage, but the sultan claimed him as one of his subjects to prevent his hanging.

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1874 in order to punish the previous liwali for disloyalty.109 This move had disturbed the local power balance and remained contested, leaving Nas.r’s hold on the town rather tenuous. Bargash ˙ kept him in place for ten years and then replaced him with his brother Am¯ır bin Sulaym¯an alLamki.110 During the German takeover, Am¯ır at first resisted handing over the sultan’s flag, but complied after receiving orders from Zanzibar. He then collaborated with the Germans, and though he fled the town in September due to the battles with Buš¯ıri, the Germans brought him back as liwali of Bagamoyo, once again supported by an order by Sultan Hal¯ıfah.111 In the early rebellion, the sultan also sent Nas.r bin Sulaym¯a˘n on an ultimately unsuccessful peacemaking mission.112 As already mentioned, this failed in Dar es Salaam due to Leue’s behaviour, while Nas.r’s arrival in the southern ports Kilwa, Lindi, and Mikindani were preempted by the rebels, who forbade him to land. The most important German collaborator, however, was Nas.r’s son, Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r al-Lamki, who at the time of the rebellion was a young wealthy plantation owner in Pangani (Fig. 2.4). When the Pangani liwali opposed the Germans and fled to Zanzibar, the sultan installed the young Sulaym¯an in his stead. Though at first without power and essentially hostage to the rebels, he gradually managed to organise a pro-sultan party consisting mostly of other Omani planters.113 While his endeavours to negotiate a settlement with Wissmann failed and Pangani was taken by force, he had only just begun a long career of collaborating with the Germans, which soon became his only political option when his family went on to participate in a failed coup against Sultan Hal¯ıfah in 1889.114 ˘ coastal rebellion These examples of the most prominent agents in the demonstrate why all attempts at identifying the rebellion with a particular 109 Walter Thaddeus Brown, “A Pre-Colonial History of Bagamoyo: Apects of the

Growth of an East African Coastal Town” (PhD thesis, Boston University, 1971), 266– 270. 110 See Fabian, Making Identity, 83–91; also Brown, “Pre-Colonial History”, 270–274. 111 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 203–210; Michahelles to Bismarck, 22 October 1888

in Staatsarchiv, 30–31. 112 Michahelles to Bismarck, 24 September 1888 and 3 October 1888, see Staatsarchiv, 24–25, 26–28. 113 See Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 226–240. 114 See Glassman, 238n37; For a useful overview of Sulaym¯ an’s services, see Pesek,

“Sulayman b. Nasr al-Lamki.” See also below, pp. 65, 235–237, 282.

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Fig. 2.4 Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r al-Lamki, a wealthy planter and one of the most important German collaborators from the start115

ethnic group or class must ultimately fail because they tend to impose too rigid analytical boundaries. The Germans believed that they were confronted by an “Arab Revolt,” coordinated in Zanzibar and led by

115 A. Becker et al., Hermann von Wissmann: Deutschlands größter Afrikaner. Sein Leben und Wirken unter Benutzung seines Nachlasses (Berlin: Alfred Schall, 1907), 378.

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Buš¯ıri. They hence failed to understand the breadth and tactics of the movement confronting them and tried in vain to suppress the revolt with the sultan’s help. At the same time, the idiom of an “Arab Revolt” offered sharp contours for war propaganda and asserted the need to erode the sultan’s authority in East Africa. Buš¯ıri’s pre-execution claim of having only acted under the orders of Sultan Hal¯ıfah was therefore readily ˘ taken up by German officers, even as they acknowledged that they had 116 Clemency then followed this simple African versus no further proof. Arab divide. Buš¯ıri and Muh.ammad bin Q¯asim clearly were “Arabs” deserving of death, whereas the “Africans” Bwana Heri and Semboja were spared and integrated into German post-war rule.117 Historical accounts of the coast rebellion continued to draw such African-Arab boundaries, even as they followed very different aims. Much like the German narrative of the “Arab Revolt,” the post-independence histories from an African nationalist angle continued to focus on Buš¯ıri, but tried to deemphasise his “Arab” side in order to claim him as a hero of “African” resistance. John Kieran’s study introduced him as a member of an “Arab family which was traditionally hostile to the sultan of Zanzibar,” and contended that he was “fighting for liberty and justice for all” in contrast to the “much narrower conception of the struggle” of the “Arab chiefs.”118 Robert Jackson softened Buš¯ıri’s claim to Arab political authority to the point of misquoting his reported selfcharacterisation as one of three most important “Arabs in Eastern Africa” to one among the “three most important men of the coast.”119 In accordance with this assumption of a strong African identity, the failure of the rebellion is attributed to petty differences and tactical mistakes, rather than the difficult politics of constructing a movement that would bridge the long-standing ethnic, economic, and political rivalries of the caravan economy.120 Returning to the notion of an Arab–European conflict in Africa, Bennett also retained the idea of a basic divide between African and Arab

116 See Behr, Kriegsbilde, 333; Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 160f. 117 See Schmidt, 162, 182–184; cf. also Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 8–9. 118 Kieran, “Abushiri”, 167–168. Similarly also Gwassa, “German Intervention”, 105. 119 Jackson, “Resistance”, 59; cf. Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 138. 120 See Kieran, “Abushiri”, 193; Jackson, “Resistance”, 78–79.

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agency, with a clear emphasis on the latter. His thorough reading of colonial archives provides a lot of information about Omani actors, but his blanket use of the term Arab prevented an adequate account of the many different ways in which Omani and Swahili actors reacted to the German takeover, including the fault lines running through Omani Arab politics. Instances of Omani-German collaboration were mostly glossed over. Though Buš¯ıri is characterised as a “typical representative of the influential Afro-Arab coastal community,” Bennett placed his politics firmly on the “Arab” side and attributed his failure to recruit Bwana Heri to an enduring “lack of unity among Arabs and Africans,” culminating in the statement that Buš¯ıri was “seized by Africans and handed to the Germans.”121 Glassman, by contrast, provides a much better account of local politics, as his interest in class helps him avoid a simple Arab-African dichotomy. This is why his meticulous account of the shifting ethnic categories and fluid politics of the resistance remains unsurpassed, but he still tended to underestimate the extent to which a claim to “Arabness” was a political device for mobilising followers and asserting authority. Buš¯ıri’s articulated claims to represent Arabs and the sultan are eclipsed by Glassman, as are Hemedi bin Abdall¯ah’s copious praises of Sultan Hal¯ıfah.122 Other ˘ studied by him Omani rebel leaders, such as Sulaym¯an bin Sayf, were not at all, while he characterised the attack on the Benedictine Mission in Pugu as an opportunistic attempt by Zanzibari slave traders “pretending to be in control of a movement that was in fact directed against them.”123 Surely, class and economic interest determined what side of the rebellion individuals aligned with, but “Arabdom” remained an efficacious ideological instrument by which to assert a common claim. The most recent treatise by Wilkinson briefly mentioned the political utility of claiming an Arab identity during the revolt, but this assertion is not supported in detail as he concurred with Glassman that the rebellion was “essentially a Swahili and not an Omani revolt.”124 Once again, the story is entirely centred around Buš¯ıri, who is characterised 121 Bennett, Arab versus European, 157, 171. 122 The few allusions to Buš¯ıri’s and Hemedi’s understanding of Arab rulership is

presented as a form of misplaced “elitism” rather than a political programme, cf. Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 235, 252. 123 Glassman, 247. 124 Wilkinson, Arabs, 281–282.

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as straddling all the relevant societal groups while belonging to none.125 Highlighting the fragility of Buš¯ıri’s alliances, Wilkinson paid almost no attention to developments outside Buš¯ıri’s path. This not only concerned non-Arab actors, but also characters like Sulaym¯an bin Sayf or Hemedi bin Abdall¯ah. He also failed to expand on Sultan Hal¯ıfah’s politics beyond his initial resistance, despite chastising Glassman˘ for dismissing him.126 In consequence, the alleged Arab dimension of the rebellion is portrayed as a German fiction, centred around Wissmann’s hatred of Arabs.127 The significant divergence of these thorough historical accounts highlights the plurality of actors, interests, and political aims which emerge from the sources. There was no unified “Arab” class to drive the revolt, which is not to say that “Arabness” played no role in the events themselves. Indeed, as has been shown, different actors laid claim to “Arabdom” during the revolt in order to build alliances and assert authority. The ethnic category of the “Arab” thus needs to be returned to its political core: an articulated claim to popular cohesion. According to political theorists like Ernesto Laclau, popular movements do not simply “act out” the interest of a pre-defined group but are themselves constituted by asserting a group identity around a core identifier.128 This identifier does not consist of a strict delimitation or definition, rather, in order to become operative as signifier for an entire group, it must be emptied of all of its specificities to stand for the multiple demands, political alliances, and social strata it unites. It is in this sense that “Arabdom” emerges as an effective and real political force on both sides of the German conquest war.

2.4

Islam and “Arab” Politics

Given this political nature of claims to “Arabness,” it is important to ask what role appeals to a Christian–Muslim antagonism played in defining the rebellion. As shown above, in the German press and politics, the invocation of “Mohammedan fanaticism” was part of tactical repertoire

125 Wilkinson, 282. 126 Wilkinson, 278–279. 127 Wilkinson, 234–236. 128 See Ernesto Laclau, On Populist Reason (London: Verso, 2005).

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to mobilise allies and the wider public. Yet apart from these rather transparent ideological claims, there is a paucity of contemporary sources invoking religion, which has made it difficult to assess how ideas of a common Muslim identity might have shaped the revolt.129 One Kiswahili source that has attracted some discussion in this regard is Hemedi bin Abdall¯ah’s ballad about the rebellion. In the 1990s, Ann Biersteker critiqued John Allen’s widely used translation for rendering synonymous (as “European”) the two terms mzungu/wazungu (European/s or White/s) and nasari (Christian/s). She concluded that Allan had wilfully suppressed “the anti-Christian anger of the poem” out of consideration for Kiswahili-speaking Christians and a desire to give it an “anti-conquerer rather than anti-Christian” bend.130 This was echoed more recently by Clarissa Vierke, who noted that the form of Hemedi’s poem was derived from an Arabic type of historical literature (al-mag¯ ˙ az¯ı) that deals with the Prophet’s struggle against the enemies of Islam. Hemedi, in Vierke’s opinion, had therefore framed the conflict implicitly as a Christian–Muslim confrontation, especially, as Vierke claims, since he “refers to the enemies as ‘Christians’ nasari/nasiriya far more often than wazungu ‘white men’ or wadachi ‘Germans’.”131 While the literary genre of al-mag¯ ˙ az¯ı is well documented, Vierke’s assertion does not hold up, neither on word count nor on semantics. Contrary to her claim about the quantitative distribution of terms, Hemedi refers to the intruders overwhelmingly as “Europeans” (wazungu) rather than as “Christians” (nazari).132 Moreover, Biersteker 129 A rather “innovative” exception to the lack of historical debate on this subject has recently been presented by Claudia Lederer, who argued that the rebellion must be framed as a gˇ ih¯ ad, clandestinely engineered in Zanzibar. However, Lederer’s argument is based on an entirely uncritical reading of the German colonial sources and draws its impetus from the specious claim that all previous studies on this subject were shaped by the ideological imperatives of East German Marxist-Leninist historiography, Claudia Lederer, Bakaschmars Fluch: Untersuchungen zu Ursache und Hintergründen des „Araberaufstandes“ (1888–1890) (Saarbrücken: Südwestdeutscher Verlag für Hochschulschriften, 2012), 5–11, 486–492. 130 Biersteker, Kujibizana, 203–204. For a closer, more literal translation, see Miehe

et al., Kala Shairi, 118–204. 131 Clarissa Vierke, “From Across the Ocean: Considering Travelling Literary Figurations as Part of Swahili Intellectual History”, Journal of African Cultural Studies 28, no. 2 (2016): 233. 132 The ratio is five to one: sixty occurrences of m/wazungu (European/s, white man/ men) versus twelve of nasari/nasiriya/manasari (Christians). The count of other relevant

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is wrong to fault Allen with rendering both terms synonymously because Hemedi himself already did so. There are many examples where the same subjects are addressed as both European and Christian in nearby or adjacent, without a change of meaning. Rather, a closer look shows that the choice of word was dictated by rhyme rather than semantics.133 There are also no wider indications in Hemedi’s poem that would support Vierke’s assertion of an implicit frame of Christian–Muslim conflict. The term gˇ ih¯ ad ( jihadi) is only used once, referring to Europeans preparing for their war.134 While God and important Islamic religious figures are invoked at the start of the poem, in line with the typical structure of this kind of poetry,135 the remainder of the poem references religion mainly as a means of protection and foretelling the future, not as a cause for war or insurgency against Europeans. Even the desecration of the Pangani mosque by a German officer entering with his boots and his dogs (see below) was embedded within a list of “European atrocities” and not highlighted as a special religious offence.136 The poem concludes in a rather resigned tone, noting that it was God’s will or judgement that the Europeans overran Buš¯ıri’s stockade and took back Pangani.137 Hemedi ends with the traditional intercession for the sultan, praying for his protection and an increase to his strength so he can “beat the enemies in the time of one hour.”138 This is the closest Hemedi comes to invoking God against the colonial powers: as an auxiliary device to sustaining the sultan’s sovereignty rather than a force for Christian–Muslim conflict.

terms is: m/wadachi (German/s): six; jahili/majahili/juhaa (infidels): three; mw/waarabu (Arabs): fifteen; isilamu (Islam/Muslims): four. 133 Examples for a nearby alternating use and the role of rhyme are verses 224–227;

271–273; 349–350; 505–506. For the importance of rhyme see e.g. verses 505/506. 134 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, Utzenzi, verse

52. 135 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, verses 1–45; cf. Miehe et al., Kala Shairi, 39–41. 136 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, Utzenzi, verse 242–249. In these verses the term throughout is wazungu, and not nasari. 137 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, 557, 577, 584. The last verse even ends in a thanks to the “Glorious One” that Pangani was lost. 138 Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, verses 602–621.

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The mentioned desecration of the Pangani mosque is itself an interesting case to study how religious sentiments were deployed in the conflict, especially as the event stood at the start of the conflict. Pangani’s liwali Abd-al-Qaw¯ı bin Abdall¯ah had resisted the DOAG’s orders to hand over the emblems of Omani sovereignty, the sultan’s flag and the key to the jail. The DOAG officer Emil von Zelewski attempted to arrest him at the local mosque on 19 August 1888 and burst into the building with a contingent of German soldiers during prayer, bringing a dog with him and failing to take off his shoes.139 Apparently Zelewski had not even realised that it was the day of ¯ıd al-ad.h.¯ a , one of the two most important Muslim holidays, which only exacerbated his desecration of the mosque. Failing to arrest the liwali, who slipped away to Zanzibar, Zelewski attempted to assert his authority via a disruptive show of force, backed up by a German corvette in Pangani’s harbour. He released all of the town’s prisoners, cut down the sultan’s flagstaff, and relocated it to the site of the DOAG. According to Glassman, he also instructed his soldiers to shoot anyone resisting commands, forced random people into manual labour and arrogantly dismissed accusations of rape against twelve Germans.140 Zelewski continued to overreach, even after the corvette had left the harbour. Now he imposed various restrictions on commerce, including a tight control of the arms trade.141 As the situation deteriorated, Zelewski’s military position was increasingly exposed. Soon he was unable to assert his control over the outskirts of town, where a resistance movement began to form. Open revolt erupted after Zelewski confiscated a shipment of gun powder on 3 September. Warriors now entered the town and took possession of the ammunition while arresting the DOAG agents and destroying the Company’s flag. In response to these events, the sultan sent troops under the command of General Lloyd Mathews, a former British naval officer in his employ. After a brief skirmish, the inhabitants of Pangani handed over the hostages

139 See Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 216–218. Zelewski later claimed in an internal investigation that he had entered respectfully and that everyone had taken off their shoes, but admitted that his dog had “slipped in.” See [Illegible] to Dr. Krauel, 24 October 1888, BArch R1001/691, 46–47. Given what is known about Zelewski’s character and his ignorance about Islam, it is rather more likely that the accusations were true. 140 Glassman, 217. 141 For this and the following, see esp. Glassman, 216–220; cf. Michahelles to Bismarck

25 August and 18 September 1888, Staatsarchiv, 8–9, 14–18.

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and sent a delegation with Mathews to deliver a written statement signed by “the people of Pangani.”142 The text rejects the “burden” of the Germans and threatens to fight any attempt to instal them by force, but at the same time is also careful not to challenge the authority of the sultan. Instead, it lists various acts by the Germans against the sultan and blames some of the most rebellious acts on “upcountry” (washenzi) warriors, a derogatory term for non-Muslim Africans from the hinterland.143 Glassman aptly points out some of the contradictions in this statement and may well be right in his assessment that the driving force behind the declaration were the “patricians and Arab aristocrats,” who sought to avoid conflict and would later form a “peace party.” However, his dismissal of them pretending to be in command of a “splintered, diverse, and largely uncontrollable movement,” may be premature. The Pangani statement can also be read as an attempt to hegemonise a fledgling movement against the Germans by giving it a firm Arab identity, loyal to the sultan and opposed to “washenzi” anarchy. Accordingly, all DOAG violations of the public order, including the desecration of the Pangani mosque, are framed as an offence against the sultan. The statement even left out the most important signs of religious desecration: Zelewski’s dog and his failure to take off his shoes. Sultan Hal¯ıfah would frame the incident similarly in a letter to Bismarck in early ˘ October. Though he did mention the dogs, he apportioned merely a half-sentence to the mosque desecration among a list of other DOAG offences: insulting women, demanding payments for graves, seizing all unregistered land, and disregarding his sovereignty and his flag.144 By contrast, it was the Germans who foregrounded the mosque incident by ordering an investigation into Zelewski’s behaviour, fearing rumours of an imminent gˇ ih¯ ad against them.145 There is more evidence that the signatories of the statement understood Islam not as an independent political cause but as something linked 142 See Jonathon Glassman, “Social Rebellion and Swahili Culture: The Response to German Conquest of the Northern Mrima, 1888–1890” (PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin, 1988), 552–553, 644–656. 143 See also Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 221–222. 144 Hal¯ıfah to Bismarck, 3 October 1888, BArch R1001/689, 5–6. ˘ 145 See BArch R1001/692, 103–105; Strandes to Ottens, 30 September 1888, BArch

R1001/692, 51–56, here 53. Internationally news of the incident spread as well, even to the Indian Press, see BArch R1001/689, 11–13, 30–31.

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to the sultan’s authority. When the sultan’s soldiers refused Zelewski’s order to arrest disobedient chiefs (majumbe) and their clients, they reportedly reasoned that “this is not the law of God” (“hiyo si sheria ya Mungu”).146 Challenged about these assertions, they reassured Zelewski that they would defend him against any assaults and explained their position as follows: “Sa¯ıd Hal¯ıfah sent us to come in accordance with the ˘ 147 Thus, the invocation of “sheria” (šar¯ ı a) authority of the law of Islam.” in the letter’s defence of the majumbe was not a reference to “Islamic legal codes” as Glassman has suggested,148 but a contestation of the constitutionality of Zelweski’s orders. The sultan’s political authority was based on divine law, in contrast to Zelewski’s thin contractual authority. After consultations in Zanzibar, Mathews returned on 20 September with 120 soldiers and the newly appointed liwali Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r alLamki. Initially well-received, Mathews soon encountered open hostility and noted attempts to turn the sultan’s soldiers against him. He opted to retreat to Zanzibar with his troops, while Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r was not targeted and allowed to remain. Later reports suggest that there was a religious dimension to the differential treatment of both men. The German consul reported that Mathews thought he had been targeted on account of being a Christian and European, while Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r was accepted “because he was a Mohammedan and one of their own.”149 Similarly, the British Consul General claimed that Mathews had been accused of being “a Christian and now employed as a German spy.”150 By contrast, Mathews’ own report blamed German behaviour for the rebellion and made no reference to Christianity but only recounted sentiments against “all Europeans.”151 When roughly a month later the captive Baumann asked

146 Glassman, “Social Rebellion”, 646. The translation offered by Glassman, “contrary to the law of God” (emph. J.H.) seems to go beyond the Kiswahili text, as one would expect a “dhidi ya” or similar, Glassman,“Social Rebellion,” 652. 147 “Sisi ametuleta Seyidi Khalifa kuja katika hukumu ya sheria ya Islam.” Glassman’s translation again seems to slightly reinterpret the original wording: “We have been sent here by Seyyid Khalifa to make judgement according to the law of Islam,” see Glassman, “Social Rebellion,” 652–653. 148 Glassman, “Social Rebellion,” 540. 149 Michahelles to Bismarck, 24 September 1888, BArch R1001/691, 16–18, here 17. 150 Euan-Smith to the Marquis of Salisbury, 23 September 1888, NAUK FO403/106,

No. 220. 151 Lloyd Mathews to John Kirk, 25 September 1888, NAUK FO403/107, No. 184.

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Bušh¯ıri about the expulsion of Mathews, he contended that this was an act of defying the sultan’s authority.152 Therefore, it is not entirely clear what role religion played in defying Mathews, but if it was invoked, it was likely a tactical choice to isolate the sultan’s liwali from his military, without openly rejecting Zanzibar’s authority in this formative period of the resistance. As Buš¯ıri managed to grow his movement and consolidate his hold, Islam remained a subordinate signifier in his projection of Arab identity. Around Bagamoyo Buš¯ıri’s troops carried a flag which had quotes from the Quran on one side, yet he did not attack the Spiritan mission but placed it under his protection, even going on to negotiate his truce with the Germans through the missionaries.153 This was possibly a tactical choice for gaining leverage and retaining communication channels,154 but it also conformed with notions of Arab patronage, which would include resident foreigners as long as they committed no hostile acts. Similarly Sulaym¯an bin Sayf, after conquering the area around Dar es Salaam, apologised to the captured Benedictine missionaries of Pugu for his deadly attack, arguing that he did not realise they were “Padres,” since they had erected fortifications and had not acted in a neutral manner.155 Islam at no time replaced “Arabness” as collective identifier, not least because the various leaders of the revolt differed in their relation to Islam. Bwana Heri was described as an active proselytiser as he built his various alliances,156 while Semboja, though dressing like an Arab, never converted to Islam. Buš¯ıri was a practising Muslim, but his conduct did not fit even the German perception of religious “fanaticism,” which they attributed rather to Bwana Heri.157 Instead it seems that Buš¯ıri invoked religion as a tactical option rather than letting it define his fight. This is 152 Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 138. 153 Steven Fabian, “Wabagamoyo: Redefining Identity in a Swahili Town, 1860s–

1960s” (PhD thesis, Dalhousie University, 2007), 136, 143. The protection of the mission was primarily a political gesture as looting and various tensions prevailed between the missionaries and Buš¯ıri’s fighters, see Fabian, Making Identity, 200–211. 154 For a detailed exposition of Buš¯ıri’s relation to the Spiritan Fathers, see Kieran, “Abushiri”; Fabian, “Wabagamoyo”, 134–146. 155 Amhrein, “Sühn- und Brandopfer”, 569–570. 156 Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 136, 140. 157 See the contrast between Rochus Schmidt’s description of Buš¯ıri’s execution and the battle for Bwana Heri’s fortress, Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 162, 169.

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not only visible in his differential treatment of Christians, but also in how he consulted oracles and then disobeyed them when they did not suit his purposes.158 There was also a structural reason for Islam being an unsuitable alternative to “Arabness” as a collective identifier: religion offered no surplus to the established notion of ustaarabu. Islam never escaped the social hierarchies of the coast and hence offered no egalitarian or class-integrative alternative. Omanis understood their Ib¯ad.i Islam as their prerogative alone and made no converts. Even within the Sunni Islam of the coastal population, religious hierarchies centred around urban patricians and were yet to be unsettled by the widespread arrival of .s¯ uf¯ı .turuq during German colonial rule.159 “Arabness” thus emerged as the only viable political identity for the anti-German revolt, but inasmuch as this was based on the established hegemonial structures of the caravan economy, it was a fragile identifier and highly dependent on Buš¯ıri’s success. Difficulties in securing “Arab” authority were already evident in Buš¯ıri’s initial failure to recruit Bwana Heri, his mistrust of Semboja, and the numerous defections he was faced with at Bagamoyo. With Buš¯ıri’s gradual demise, no other figurehead emerged to lay claim to the political cohesion of the rebellion, and the Germans picked off one centre of the resistance after another. What remained in their historiography, however, was the idea of an “Arab Revolt,” which essentially was a co-construction between German wartime propaganda about “Arabdom” and the Kiswahili notion of ustaarabu as the primary conduit of political hierarchies and power. As the winners of the conquest war, the Germans would go on to represent “Arabdom” in their political analyses, albeit soon turned on its head: “Arab” customs and institutions would still have along career as “civilising” resources in some German colonial debates.160 Islam was ancillary to the construction of Swahili ustaarabu and German “Arabdom” alike. On the Tanganyikan side, it was firmly embedded within the social and cultural hierarchies of “Arabness” and thus pointed back to the authority of the sultan, or to the responsibilities of the “Arab” patron over his clientele. On the German side, 158 See Hemedi bin Abdallah bin Said bin Abdallah bin Masudi el Buhriy, Utzenzi, verses 374–523; cf. Jackson, “Resistance”, 71, 79. 159 See Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 133–145; Nimtz, Islam and Politics; cf. also Sect. 8.4, p. 294. 160 See esp. Sect. 4.1, p. 118.

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the invocation of “Mohammedan fanaticism” was an equally subordinate element in an overdetermined construct of “Arabdom.” It could bolster a sense of urgency and geopolitical antagonism, but it could also be invoked to urge more careful operations. Therefore, neither side was interested in reframing the German–Arab conflict as a Christian– Muslim one, even as “Mohammedanism” remained one of the constituent elements of “Arabdom.”

CHAPTER 3

Contested Philology: Kiswahili as Religious Language

While the tropes of “Arabdom” remained more or less unchanged after the German conquest war, a different kind of conversation about the religious and national identity of GEA was only just beginning with regard to colonial language policy toward Kiswahili. For several centuries, Kiswahili had evolved along the East African coast from the encounter of Bantu languages and Arabic, and its introduction to the interior via the caravan trade preceded German colonialism by several decades. Given that the establishment of German rule so heavily relied on the usurpation of the political structures of the caravan economy, Kiswahili quickly became the main language for the administration of “natives” everywhere, further accelerating its spread to the interior. Within two decades it had become the lingua franca of the colony and de-facto primary language of the German administration, despite continued utilisation of German and Arabic in official announcements. As such German colonialism embraced Kiswahili much earlier and more fully than its British counterpart in Zanzibar and Kenya, which, alongside English, mainly utilised the more “elite” languages of Arabic and Gujarati.1 While British missionaries had long been producing 1 Caitlyn Bolton, “Making Africa Legible: Kiswahili Arabic and Orthographic Romanization in Colonial Zanzibar”, The American Journal of Islamic Social Sciences 33, no. 3 (2016): 68.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_3

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Kiswahili materials, their government only began to adopt the language for its First World War propaganda efforts. Only after taking on the League of Nations mandate for Tanganyika did Britain develop a coherent policy toward Kiswahili and embarked on standardising the language on the basis of earlier German efforts.2 Despite its historical importance for the colonial and African appropriation of Kiswahili, the German colonial period has been explored to a much lesser extent than the subsequent standardisation and development of the language under British rule and beyond. In current Kiswahili scholarship one often finds general summaries of the German impact, reliant on a fairly narrow set of English sources.3 This even pertains to central topics, such as the Romanisation of Kiswahili script, which is a surprisingly sparsely investigated topic.4 Some work has been done in the context of Mission Studies and Bible translation histories,5 as well as in the context of the emerging print media in GEA,6 but a detailed analysis of the dynamics of the German appropriation and standardisation of

2 See Bolton, 67–69. 3 For typical examples from different periods of Kiswahili scholarship, see Wilfred

Whiteley, Swahili: The Rise of a National Language (London: Methuen, 1969); Farouk Topan, “Swahili as a Religious Language”, Journal of Religion in Africa 22, no. 4 (1992): 331–349; Ali A. Mazri and Alamin M. Mazrui, Swahili State and Society: The Political Economy of an African Language (London: James Currey, 1995), 35–41; Ali A. Mazrui and Pio Zirimu, “The Secularisation of an Afro-Islamic Language: Church, State & Marketplace in the Spread of Kiswahili”, in The Power of Babel: Language & Governance in the African Experience, ed. Ali A. Mazrui and Alamin M. Mazrui (Oxford: James Currey, 1998), 169–191; John M. Mugane, The Story of Swahili (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2015); and Alamin M. Mazrui, Cultural Politics of Translation: East Africa in a Global Context, Routledge Advances in Translation Studies 13 (London: Routledge, 2016). 4 For a recent exception pertaining to Zanzibar, see Bolton, “Making Africa Legible”. 5 Marcia Wright, “Swahili Language Policy 1890–1940”, in Swahili (1965), See e.g.

Wright, German Missions; Emma Hunter, “Language, Empire and the World: Karl Roehl and the History of the Swahili Bible in East Africa”, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 41, no. 4 (2013): 600–616; Pohl, Evangelische Mission; Henrike Firsching, Apples of Gold in Settings of Silver is a Word Spoken at the Right Time: The Translation of Biblical Metaphors in Hausa and Swahili, Beiträge zur Afrikaforschung 78 (Berlin: Lit, 2017); Mojola, God Speaks. 6 Hilde Lemke, Die Suaheli-Zeitungen und -Zeitschriften in Deutsch-Ostafrika (Leipzig: Dissertation, Philosophische Fakultät, Universität Leipzig, 1929); James Francis Scotton, “Growth of the Vernacular Press in Colonial East Africa: Patterns of Government Control” (PhD thesis, University of Wisconsin, 1971); Sturmer, Media History.

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Kiswahili is lacking, even though observers generally recognise that the processes of appropriation and standardisation of Kiswahili under German colonial rule preceded and influenced those of British colonialism and independence. Of course, one must beware of over-emphasising the influence of German colonialism on cultural and linguistic processes that developed with or alongside colonial infrastructures. Thus Charles Pike—in a rare but short exception to the lacuna of scholarship on German Kiswahili policy—was right to argue that one should not simply attribute the rapid spread of Kiswahili to its administrative deployment by the German colonisers.7 Yet his alternative proposal of explaining the spread Kiswahili as driven by anti-colonial resistance equally fails to convince, especially as it is based mainly on coastal sources rather than observations from the hinterland. Instead of looking for one primary cause for the widespread adoption of Kiswahili, it seems best to reconstruct how the propagation of Kiswahili was related to multiple political, cultural, and religious projects. Kiswahili spread alongside trade, German administration and education, migrant labour, conversions to Islam, and Christian missionary efforts. None of these were even developments but marked by various turns and reversals, some of which had lasting effects on later language policy. Religion was an important factor in these debates. Kiswahili was originally identified with the Islamic coast and the caravan trade, but by the end of German colonial rule it was spoken by Christians and Muslims alike and now marked the cultural boundary between the metropolitan mwaswahili and the “upcountry” mshenzi. Mazrui and Zirimu therefore argued that during the German colonial rule Kiswahili essentially moved from an Islamic language to an ecumenical one, and thus secularised.8 Yet this choice of terms occludes the contentiousness of this process and its religious significance in the history of GEA. Instead, it is more adequate to suggest that Kiswahili became one of the ideological battle grounds about colonial religion, juxtaposing Christian missionary efforts, the perceived spread of Islam, and the ostensible religious neutrality of the German administration.

7 Charles Pike, “History and Imagination: Swahili Literature and Resistance to German Language Imperialism in Tanzania, 1885–1910”, The International Journal of African Historical Studies 19, no. 2 (1986): 202. 8 Mazrui and Zirimu, “Secularization”.

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The chapter follows this debate in a more or less chronological fashion, beginning with early missionary scholarship and their efforts to Romanise Kiswahili script. With the start of German rule missionaries increasingly shifted their focus away from the predominantly Muslim coast and toward the “pagan” interior. Kiswahili now became identified in their discourse as “Muslim language” and associated with the accelerating spread of Islam, just as the government was centring its educational and administrative efforts on Romanised Kiswahili. An intense debate on language and religious policy ensued until the mainly Protestant insistence on the vernacular gave way to a pragmatic embrace of Kiswahili. In this belated pivot, however, Kiswahili continued to be signified as an Islamic language, leading to new publication and Bible translation efforts that sought to Christianise and “de-Islamicise” Kiswahili by “returning” it to its putative Bantu roots and purge “Arabic” influences in lexical, semantic, and conceptual respects.

3.1 Missionary Philology, Religion, and Romanisation Decades before the formal establishment of German and British colonies in East Africa, missionaries began to study Kiswahili for Bible translation efforts. This typically included deliberations on the cultural and religious identity of the language in light of its Arabic and Islamic heritage. The first to offer remarks in this regard, was the Church Missionary Society (CMS) missionary Johann Ludwig Krapf, who worked in Mombasa in the 1840s. With the help of a local q¯ ad.¯ı, šayh Al¯ı bin Muaddin alBar¯aw¯ı, Krapf translated the first three chapters˘ of the book of Genesis. Nothing is known about šayh Al¯ı beyond Krapf’s brief mention, which ˘ multi-judge system of Mombasa for the failed to locate him within the self-adjudication of different Swahili “confederations.”9

9 Krapf merely notes that he had received help by “Scheich Ali Ben-Mueddin von

Barawa, who was Kadi (judge) of Mombas” Johann Ludwig Krapf, Reisen in Ostafrika ausgeführt in den Jahren 1837–55 (Kornthal: Selbstverlag des Verfassers, 1858), 210. The judicial system for different confederations had been established after the Busaidi conquest of 1837, cf. Frederick J. Berg, “The Swahili Community of Mombasa, 1500–1900”, The Journal of African History 9, no. 1 (1968): 54.

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Krapf’s memoirs do not suggest that he made much of an effort to understand the complexities of local politics at the time,10 and even though he considered his translation efforts premature, he published them in the Journal of the American Oriental Society as first (and his only) printed Kiswahili Bible text.11 The accompanying introduction to the “Sooahelee” language, penned by the Society’s president William Greenough, diagnoses an influence of “Arab, Banian and Hindustanee races,” but locates the language firmly within “Kaffir stock.”12 Accordingly, the introduction elides Krapf’s reliance on šayh Al¯ı’s scholarship and even fails to mention that Kiswahili was written in ˘Arabic, i.e. Aˇgam¯ı script. Krapf did address the issue of the writing system in his slightly later Outline of the Elements of the Kìsuáheli Language of 1850, where he explained why he chose to adopt Roman rather than Aˇgam¯ı script. Two of his five arguments were mainly linguistic: “Arabic” script was “too unwieldy” for African languages and Roman characters had already been adopted for “Nilotic” languages by South African missionaries.13 The remaining three reasons, however, were aimed at missionary and “civilising” goals: Via the introduction of “Arabic” script “a wide door would be opened to Mohammedan proselytism,” standing in the way of Christianising the “inland tribes.” Furthermore, the introduction of Roman script would enable the “natives” to study European languages to their advancement. Finally, Krapf invoked the crude race theory of his time for why the “Arabic” alphabet would be an “encumbrance” for European efforts in civilising:

10 See, e.g. his letter excerpt from 1844, Krapf, Reisen, 226–228. 11 Johann Ludwig Krapf and W.W. Greenough, “Three Chapters of Genesis Translated

into the Sooahelee Language”, Journal of the American Oriental Society 1, no. 3 (1847): 259–274; cf. Peter J.L. Frankl, “Johann Ludwig Krapf and the Birth of Swahili Studies”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 142, no. 1 (1992): 13. Krapf went on to translate a number of Biblical books, none of which were published, however, see Joan Russell, Communicative Competence in a Minority Group: A Sociolinguistic Study of Swahili-speaking Community in the Old Town, Mombasa (Leiden: Brill, 1981), 43. 12 Krapf and Greenough, “Three Chapters”, 264. 13 Johann Ludwig Krapf, Outline of the Kisuáheli Language with Special Reference to

the Kiníka Dialect (Tübingen: Ludwig Friedrich Fues, 1850), 16. Krapf’s characterisation of Kiswahili and South African languages as “Nilotic” is not consonant with their contemporary classification as Bantu.

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In my humble opinion the Natives of every Continent must be Japheticised, of course on the principle of prudence and to a limited degree; for Japheth is the soul, or intellect of the world. All efforts of arousing the world from its lethargy must proceed from Japheth’s children, until those of Shem and Ham will be able to teach themselves, and a brother shall no more be compelled to teach the other — because they will all together be taught from the spirit from above.14

A few decades after Krapf, the Universities’ Mission to Central Africa (UMCA) missionary and Nyasaland Bishop Edward Steere in Zanzibar took a slightly different approach. Like Krapf he engaged in Bible translation (producing a much more extensive and ultimately more successful Kiswahili text) and advocated Romanisation, but he differed in his assessment of the Arabic influence on Kiswahili. Apparently influenced by contemporary evolutionary theories of religion, he placed Arabic solidly between African and European thought: […] through its Arabic relations, [Kiswahili] has a hold on revealed religion, and even on European thought, while, through its negro structure, it is exactly fitted to serve as an interpreter of that religion and those thoughts to men who have not yet even heard of their existence.15

Accordingly, his reasoning for Romanisation contained no “civilising” or “Japhethising” arguments, but operated on purely linguistic grounds. While acknowledging the heritage of Aˇgam¯ı script in Kiswahili, he argued via a number of examples that it was unsuitable for an unambiguous and intuitive transcription of spoken Kiswahili. By contrast, Steere contended that there “seems to be no difficulty in writing Swahili in Roman characters,” and downplayed the fact that the English sounds attached to Roman letters were not wholly suitable to Kiswahili.16 So while Krapf and Steere agreed on the appropriateness and necessity of the Romanisation of Kiswahili, their arguments differed in their assessment of Arabic 14 Krapf, 17. 15 Edward Steere, A Handbook of the Swahili Language as Spoken at Zanzibar, 3rd rev.

and enl. ed. (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1884), iv. 16 Steere, 6; cf. Bolton, “Making Africa Legible”, 66. As a native German, Krapf was perhaps more aware of this problem and had called for the adoption of Lepsius’ universal diacritical alphabet for Kiswahili, see Johann Ludwig Krapf, A Dictionary of the Suahili Language (London: Trübner and Co., 1882), x.

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thought and Islam. Krapf sought to neutralise Muslim and “Semitic” influences whereas Steere intended to make Kiswahili text more accessible, in order to capitalise on the presumed character of Arabic thought as an intermediary between European and African worldviews. These missionary arguments mattered little in East Africa, especially as the early missionary translations were not particularly successful at first. The apex of Krapf’s Kiswahili work, a draft of the entire New Testament in the Kimvita (Mombasa) dialect, was of low linguistic quality and never published.17 Moreover, his translations had little use as a missionary product, since Krapf’s own memoirs recorded a demand for Arabic Bibles and tracts rather than Kiswahili writings, which is hardly surprising given that Arabic was the language of religious instruction in the region.18 Steere’s more usable rendering of Bible texts into the Ungaja (Zanzibar) dialect led to a New Testament translation printed in 1883 and shipped to Zanzibar in five thousand copies. Yet, given the exclusive use of Aˇgam¯ı script for Kiswahili here, this would have been of little use outside the mission station. Accordingly, the UMCA soon printed Kiswahili editions of the gospels of John and Matthew in Aˇgam¯ı renditions, along with a guidebook in how to read the script, which acknowledged that “the only mode of writing known to the people of the East Coast of Africa has hitherto been the Arabic character.”19 The next generation of missionaries and Kiswahili scholars immersed themselves more widely in Kiswahili literary culture for the sake of producing better adapted translations and missionary materials. The most important English scholar among them was William Ernest Taylor, who served three four-year stints for the CMS in East Africa between 1880 and

17 Firsching, Apples of Gold, 76f. 18 See Krapf, Reisen, 197, 2004; on the actual distribution of Arabic Bible texts, see

John Anthony Chesworth, “The Use of Scripture in Swahili Tracts by Muslims and Christians in East Africa” (PhD thesis, University of Birmingham, 2007), 80. 19 A Practical Guide to the Use of the Arabic Alphabet in Writing Swahili According to

the Usage of the East Coast of Africa (Zanzibar: Universities’ Mission to Central Africa, 1891), i; Cf. Clement M. Doke, “Scripture Translations into Bantu Languages”, African Studies 17 (1958): 92; Viera Pawliková-Vilhanová, “Biblical Translations of Early Missionaries in East and Central Africa: I. Translations into Swahili”, Asian and African Studies 15 (2006): 84f.

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1896.20 Taylor learned Kiswahili from the scholarly elite of Mombasa and subsequently branched out his learning to various dialects, most importantly the nearby Giryama. He began his Kiswahili translation efforts with the Book of Common Prayer, followed by two collections of Bible stories from the New and the Old Testament, the book of Deuteronomy, 2 Chronicles, and the gospels of Luke and John.21 In Giryama, he produced a translation of Luke and the Acts of the Apostles as well as an elementary grammar and a dictionary.22 His Kiswahili book of Bible stories as well as both gospels were also published in Aˇgam¯ı transliteration in addition to the Roman original.23 Moreover, Taylor took a special interest in Kiswahili poetry and aphorisms, publishing a collection of Kiswahili aphorisms in 1891 and a poetically well-adapted rendition of the Psalms in 1904.24 He also produced a missionary tract for Muslims, which was printed in Aˇgam¯ı script.25 After a further stint of missionary and linguistic work in Cairo, Taylor left the CMS in 1904. He remained active, however, in the publication of Kiswahili texts and linguistic resources until his death in 1927.26 Unlike Krapf and Steere, Taylor never explicitly discussed his reasons for Romanising Kiswahili script in most of his publications, though he 20 Peter J.L. Frankl, W.E. Taylor (1856–1927): England’s Greatest Swahili Scholar, Afrikanistische Arbeitspapiere 60 (Mainz: Institut für Ethnologie und Afrikastudien, 1999), accessed 7 June 2017, http://www.ifeas.uni-mainz.de/SwaFo/swafo6/6_13_frankl.pdf. 21 See Douglas Wanjohi Waruta, “Scripture Translations in Kenya” (MA dissertation, University of Nairobi, 1975), 23–24. 22 William Ernest Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary and Collections (London: Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge, 1891); British and Foreign Bible Society, ed., Uworo-Wa-T´o wa Mwéri Luka (London: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1892); British and Foreign Bible Society, ed., St. Luke in Giryama and Swahili, The Latter in the Central Dialect as Spoken at Mombasa (London: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1892); British and Foreign Bible Society, ed., Chuo Cha Mahenda Ga Ahumwi [Giryama Acts of the Apostles] (London: British and Foreign Bible Society, 1893). 23 See Waruta, “Scripture Translations”, 23–24. 24 William Ernest Taylor, African Aphorisms; or, Saws from Swahili-Land (London:

Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge, 1891); Pawliková-Vilhanová, “Biblical Translations”, 85. 25 Frankl, W.E. Taylor, 165; cf. Waruta, “Scripture Translations”, 23f. 26 Taylor collected a significant amount of Kiswahili texts during his time, including

some very valuable manuscripts. The largest part of Taylor’s collection is held by the SOAS Archive & Special Collections, though it still remains uncatalogued.

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was quite concerned with the proper transliteration of Kiswahili and Giryama phonemes and therefore like Krapf pushed for a diacritical rendition of Kiswahili in Latin script.27 Moreover, he did not offer an explicit missionary strategy toward Kiswahili as Krapf and Steere had done, though his writings indicate that his general programme was to recover Bantu origins for better missionary contextualisation of Christian concepts. This can already be seen in his African Aphorisms, which he submitted to his “brother-missionaries”28 with the implicit aim of furnishing cultural knowledge for better missionary sermons.29 The main part of the book consisted of a mixed collection of Kiswahili and Giryama proverbs with occasional comparative notes on Bantu languages, while Arabic or Muslim influences are acknowledged fairly rarely, forming more of a contextual background.30 A more explicit commentary on Kiswahili, which confirms Taylor’s primary interest in “original Bantu” thought, can be found in his introduction to the Giryama Vocabulary and Collections, where he contrasted Giryama culture and language with Kiswahili. The Giryama, Taylor argued were a small and confined race, but “conservative of manners, customs, and the Bantu religion,” having “preserved its purity of language and lineage up the present time.”31 Kiswahili, by contrast, was the language of a “seafaring, barter-loving race of slave-holders,” which through an incessant incorporation of outside influences amounted to a “hybrid progeny.”32 Among these influences, Taylor saw Arabic as the “most disturbing” one, “profoundly affecting the native vocabulary and idiom” through replacing indigenous expressions with “the stereotyped Arabic expressions common to Islam.”33 In Taylor’s estimation, this left behind an ailing if not dying language:

27 See Taylor, African Aphorisms, xii; Frankl, W.E. Taylor, 172. All of Taylor’s Bible translations contained a brief note on transliteration, but no discussion of Romanisation as such. 28 Taylor, African Aphorisms, ix. 29 This aim is explicitly stated in the preface Taylor invited from his superior, the CMS

director in Mombasa, William Salter Price, see Taylor, xii. 30 See esp. Taylor, 25, 110. 31 Taylor, Giryama Vocabulary, xv. 32 Taylor, xv. 33 Taylor, xv.

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[…] some of its joints have become stiff from want of use; parts of its body have mortified and dropped off, their places being taken by artificial limbs; and its life-blood is in danger of being poisoned by the bad air of its surroundings.34

These remarks stand somewhat at odds with the title of “England’s greatest Swahili scholar” conferred on Taylor by P.J.L. Frankl, whose assessment was largely based on Taylor’s third stint in Mombasa from 1892 to 1896 and his subsequent scholarship.35 While Taylor’s stance toward Kiswahili likely changed during this time, his remarks are of larger importance as they are emblematic of missionary misgivings about hybrid languages and the related programme of liberating Kiswahili from Arabic and Muslim influences that would become influential among German Protestants in the later decades. This was not yet the predominant sentiment, however, when the first German scholarship on Kiswahili emerged, pioneered in Berlin by the former Rhenish missionary, colonial advocate and linguist Carl Gotthilf Büttner. Büttner had worked in what would become German South West Africa between 1873 and 1880, where he was a recognised scholar of the Herero language and a strong supporter of German colonialism.36 In 1886 he initially joined the nationalist EMDOA as missionary inspector, but only one year later he became a Faculty member of the newly formed Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen (SOS) in Berlin. Here, Büttner began to offer Kiswahili instruction despite having had no previous exposure to the language.37 He began by translating Steere’s Swahili Exercises, and for some years his Kiswahili instructions were entirely based on this

34 Taylor, xvi. 35 Frankl, W.E. Taylor. 36 On Büttner’s life and role in German nationalism and colonial linguistics, see Sara

Pugach, Africa in Translation: A History of Colonial Linguistics in Germany and Beyond (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2012), 52–68; Katrin Bromber, “German Colonial Administrators, Swahili Lecturers and the Promotion of Swahili at the Seminar for Orientalische Sprachen in Berlin”, Sudanic Africa 15 (2004): 39–54; and Menzel, Büttner. 37 See Sachau’s defence of having hired Büttner as “Lecturer in Colonial Language” (Kolonialsprachlehrer) in Eduard Sachau, Denkschrift über das Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen an der Königlichen Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin von 1887 bis 1912 (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1912), 31.

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rudimentary practice guide.38 With the help of his East African assistants at the SOS, Sulayman bin Said and Amur bin Nasur, Büttner gradually extended his efforts to reading Kiswahili poetry and prose in the Aˇgam¯ı script (Fig. 3.1).39 He now published two anthologies of Kiswahili literature,40 with the stated intention of facilitating instruction in “Arabic” script so that the “mental life of the Suaheli” might be made accessible for “Christianising and civilising” them.41 Like Steere, Büttner placed Kiswahili and its connections with Islam somewhere between “primitive” and European thought, thereby forming a suitable pathway for missionary endeavours. In the preface to one of his anthologies of Kiswahili literature in Aˇgam¯ı script,42 he expressed the hope that learning to read “Arabic Swahili” would help elucidate the “mental life of the Swahili.” Büttner went on to highlight three poems “under the influence of Moslem culture,” which he argued show “without a doubt, that in the Suaheli we have a people whose spirit is in no way captured simply by the rude and sensual, but who undeniably are accessible for the more serious and most serious questions of life.”43 Paired with crude racist remarks about African “carelessness,” “gaiety,” and “repellent greed and egotism,” he contended that the poems revealed where missionaries must “touch the natives” if they “want to gain influence on their religious sense” by being “attuned to the note, that resonates in the innermost heart of the Suaheli.”44 For Büttner, then, it was Muslim and Arabic influences that had revealed the capacity of African minds and culture for “higher thought.” The early missionary linguistics on Kiswahili thus encapsulated a basic dichotomy in how the Arabic influence on the language was evaluated. 38 Carl Gotthilf Büttner, Hülfsbüchlein für den ersten Unterricht in der Suahili-Sprache: Auch für den Selbstunterricht (Leipzig: T.D. Weigel, 1887), iii–iv; cf. Edward Steere, Swahili Exercises (London: George Bell and Sons, 1882). On his teaching approach, See Carl Gotthilf Büttner, Hülfsbüchlein für den ersten Unterricht in der Suahili-Sprache: Auch für den Selbstunterricht, 2nd corr. and enl. ed. (Leipzig: T.D. Weigel, 1891), iii. 39 See Menzel, Büttner, 204; Büttner, Suaeli-Schriftstücke, 1. 40 Büttner; Carl Gotthilf Büttner, Anthologie aus der Suaheli-Literatur (Berlin: Felber,

1894). 41 Büttner, x, xvi. 42 Büttner, x. 43 Büttner, x. 44 Büttner, x.

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Fig. 3.1 Letter in Aˇgam¯ı Kiswahili from Sulayman bin Said to Büttner, 1890, which Büttner included in his textbook for Swahili instruction45

Missionaries, like Krapf and Taylor sought to establish a vernacular cornerstone in Bantu expression and philosophy, and therefore cast the Arabic components of Kiswahili as a deteriorating cultural and religious influence. Others, like Steere and Büttner sorted Kiswahili into an evolutionary ladder of race and culture: With African culture and thought located on the most primitive rung, Arabic and even Islam presented a potentially redemptive intermediary step on the way to the imagined heights of European Christendom. This difference in evaluating the hybrid character of Kiswahili and its religious potential soon fed into an emerging language policy debate between missionaries and the colonial government, fuelled

45 Carl Gotthilf Büttner, Suaheli-Schriftstücke in Arabischer Schrift mit lateinischer Schrift umschrieben, übersetzt und erklärt, Lehrbücher des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen zu Berlin 10 (Stuttgart: W. Spemann, 1892), plate 11.

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by a Protestant insistence on vernacular languages and growing concerns about the spread of Islam.

3.2

Kiswahili as Contested Language

Initially, there was little concern with Kiswahili in setting up the East African colony. Büttner’s classes were not well attended, nor was the SOS yet instrumental for the recruitment or training of colonial officers.46 Most Germans in the colony still relied on translators and ad-hoc learning based on Kiswahili phrase books,47 while written communication was facilitated by scribes and translators who were familiar with the Aˇgam¯ı script. Rather than adopting Kiswahili as colonial language, the long-term intention was to proliferate German in the colony. The first two annual reports about the new government school for “native” children in Tanga48 emphasised that the language of instruction was German, even though a detailed newspaper report about the school suggests that German was only taught as a separate subject.49 Franz Michael Zahn of the North German Missionary Society picked up on the annual reports and attacked the government school’s language policy with the typical Protestant insistence on the vernacular.50 He argued that instruction in German was misguided and urged missionaries to resist the introduction of colonial languages. Only local languages reflected the 46 Cf. Pugach, Africa in Translation, 63f. For the six years of Büttner’s tenure from 1887 to his death in December 1893, the chronicle of the SOS lists nine officers and five administrators who studied “colonial languages,” whereas the lists for latter years grew to be much more extensive, Sachau, Denkschrift über das Seminar, 70–77. The list does not detail how many of these studied Kiswahili. 47 See the instructive example (incl. the comments in the preface) of Walter von

St. Paul-Illaire, Swahili-Sprachführer (Daressalam: W. Richter & Co., 1896). 48 On the school, see Sect. 5.1, pp. 150–160. 49 VerhRTAnl, vol. 136, no. 9/II, 33448: Denkschrift über das ostafrikanische und

das südwestafrikanische Schutzgebiet; VerhRTAnl 9/IV, vol. 141, no. 89: Denkschrift betreffend das ostafrikanische Schutzgebiet, 387; cf. Christian G. Barth, “Ueber die Entwickelung der deutschen Schule in Tanga während des Jahres 1893”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 5, no. 10 (15 April 1894): 209–210. See also a later report by Barth, which makes clear that Kiswahili was the language of instruction from the start, Christian G. Barth, “Die Regierungsschulen in Ostafrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 23, no. 17 (28 April 1906): 164. 50 Michael Zahn, “Die Muttersprache in der Mission”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 22 (1895): 337–360.

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“raw” humanity of a people, and thus were key instrument and target of European “civilising:” Together with the development of culture [Kulturentwicklung ] and the uplifting of religion coincides the improvement of the language, which makes the latter more and more suitable to serve as an organ for the highest spirit impartation [allerhöchste Geistesmitteilung ]. The material is there, it just needs development, renewal, and refining.51

The Deutsche Kolonialzeitung seized on Zahn’s comments with a lead article on “Colonisation and Mother Tongue.”52 The article conceded some of Zahn’s points about the importance of local languages, but argued against his conclusions from a “pragmatic” perspective. Colonisation required that “Suaheli children” were properly trained in German, so that they could function as the “connecting link between Germans and natives.”53 Moreover, in a tongue-in-cheek comment, the article suggested that their “native” approach should have led missionaries to embrace Quran readings at the government school as a vernacular element, rather than reject them.54 Two weeks later the paper printed a letter by the Tanga teacher Christian Barth, who likewise emphasised the practical needs of the colonial administration but also questioned the place of missionaries in the German “civilising” regime. Rather than rejecting as “too worldly” the education of natives for colonial service, missions needed to become a “serving member for the entire German civilising work [Kulturarbeit ].”55 Both articles provoked a response by Zahn, who acknowledged that African “helpers” needed to speak German, but argued that this acquisition of a secondary language needed to come after primary education in the native tongue. To sideline the “mother tongue” in elementary

51 Zahn, 349. 52 “Kolonisation

und Muttersprache”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 35 (31 August 1895): 273–274. 53 Deutsche Kolonialzeitung, “Kolonisation und Muttersprache”, 274. 54 On the missionary derailing of this short-lived experiment, see pp. 156–161. 55 Christian G. Barth, “Korrespondenzen: Unsere Muttersprache in den deutschen

Kolonialschulen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 35 (31 August 1895): 293.

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schooling would create “deformed” or “miseducated” (verbildet ) individuals.56 In a further article of 1895, Zahn also sought to forestall a widespread adoption of Kiswahili among missionaries instead of local languages. Drawing on the English debate about Kiswahili dialects, he noted that this putatively universal trading language was anything but.57 The previous works by Steere, Taylor, and the British explorer and consul John Kirk, may have produced a language that was sufficient for the “merchant, warrior, and administrator,” but insufficiently encompassed the divergence of local dialects. The missionary “wants to speak to the heart” and needed to be understood by “women, elderly, and the simple-minded,” and hence could not preach in a foreign language.58 Perhaps some day in the future, Kiswahili might become the language of East Africa but for now it was the “task of every mission to preach the gospel in the language of her people or tribe.”59 Zahn’s comments were largely theoretical and contradicted actual missionary practice. His own mission society had no presence in GEA, where Catholics, Anglicans, and the EMDOA readily relied on Kiswahili in expanding from their coastal bases.60 Yet from his pronounced scepticism of making missions subservient to German colonialism,61 Zahn identified early on a potential conflict of interests between a missionary emphasis on vernacular languages and the colonial push for a lingua franca. Initially, only the BMW and the Moravians, operating from a very different base in the Southern Highlands, withstood Kiswahili instruction.62 Yet the Protestant resistance against Kiswahili soon intensified

56 Michael Zahn, “Korrespondenzen: Die deutsche Sprache in den deutschen Schutzgebieten”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 44 (2 November 1895): 347–349. 57 See Michael Zahn, “Missionsrundschau: Ost-Afrika”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 22 (1895): 406. On the English discussion of whether to standardise the coastal (Kimvita) or Zanzibari (Kiungaja) in Bible translation, see Firsching, Apples of Gold, 76–79. 58 Zahn, “Missionsrundschau”, 407. 59 Zahn, 407. 60 Wright, German Missions, 111. 61 See Michael Zahn, “Die Verweltlichung, eine neue Missionsgefahr”, Allgemeine

Missionszeitschrift 13 (1886): 193–213; see also Werner Raupp, “Zahn, Franz Michael”, Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon 14 (1998): 313–317. 62 Wright, German Missions, 111–113.

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as the language issue became entangled in an ongoing debate between missionaries and the government about the German Islam policy in GEA. The conflict about the government schools was a key catalyst here.63 Whenever missionaries attacked the government schools as a semi-official endorsement of Islam because of their omission of Christian instruction and primary recruitment among Muslims, their charge was countered by the school’s defenders with an echo of Krapf’s old argument: Because the schools were Romanising Kiswahili, they were actually reducing the influence of Islam. In Tanga, home to the first and most important German government school, district officer Walter von St. Paul-Illaire declared that the teaching of Romanised Kiswahili and German was “estranging the coast from Arab education or better sham education [Scheinbildung ].”64 This was not an entirely new claim,65 but as Aˇgam¯ı script proved resilient, the claim to “de-Arabising” Kiswahili became a liability. In 1898, an otherwise benevolent missionary report about the Tanga school noted that the government was still publicising its Kiswahili announcement in “Arabic” script and called for an end to this practice.66 Two years later, rector Paul Blank admitted that Tanga’s population remained indifferent to the German government school and its idea of Kiswahili literacy, in contrast to the hinterland, where due to the system of rural feeder schools, it was now possible to communicate with local chiefs (majumbe) in Romanised Kiswahili.67 Further south, in Dar es Salaam, the EMDOA missionary Georg Cleve outrightly attacked German language policy when in 1897 he declined the district officer’s request to forward six letters to local majumbe on the grounds that they were written in “Arabic” Kiswahili without 63 See Sect. 5.2, pp. 161–171. 64 St. Paul-Illaire to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, n.d., TNA G9/54, 57–

72, here p. 58. Since the report was in response to a missionary protest note against, it most likely was penned in 1895, see Ausschuss der deutschen Missionen, “Eingabe an das Auswärtige Amt betreffend die offizielle Anstellung von mohammedanischen Religionslehrern an deutschen Regierungsschulen”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 22 (1895): 391–396; cf. p. 5.1. 65 Similar statements were already made in Tanga in 1890, see Oscar Baumann, Usambara und seine Nachbargebiete: Allgemeine Darstellung des Nordöstlichen Deutsch-Ostafrika und seiner Bewohner (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1891), 44. 66 “Die Regierungsschule in Tanga”, Nachichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 12, no. 1 (1898): 6. 67 Paul Blank, Report of 12 September 1900, TNA G9/55.

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accompanying Roman transliteration. Cleve contended that such official communication ran counter to the educational efforts of the missionaries and that it would be an undue imposition to recruit missionary services in the distribution of such letters.68 He followed up with a short essay “On the Recommendation of Latin Script,” in which he noted his regret “from a civilising point of view” (Kulturstandpunkt ) that majumbe had to travel far for help with their correspondence whereas around them were missionaries and other Europeans who could read Kiswahili in Roman script.69 Furthermore, he contended that some majumbe even tended to mislead missionaries unfamiliar with Aˇgam¯ı script about the content of received letters. A regular adoption of Roman script would remove these problems and would make the district office more independent of “scribes of foreign nationality.” The local district officer was unimpressed, however, and simply informed Cleve that he would relay the letters himself.70 The continued use of Aˇgam¯ı script by the administration became controversial even within the administration, but efforts to end its use were unsuccessful. In Saadani, the district office sought to break opposition to the local government school by declaring that it would exclusively utilise Roman script as soon as the first school course was completed, only to have this announcement softened by Dar es Salaam.71 In a sign of further such attempts, governor Liebert reminded his district officers in 1899 that documents submitted in “Arabic” needed to be accepted and processed free of charge.72 His interim successor, Major Ludwig von Estorff, who would go on to play a central operational role in the Herero genocide in German South West Africa, took a more confrontational approach and decreed in 1901 that legal contracts between “coloureds”

68 Georg Cleve to district office Dar es Salaam, 25 May 1897, TNA G9/10. 69 TNA G9/10, 80–81. 70 District officer to Cleve, draft, no date, TNA G9/10. 71 See p. 126. 72 Runderlaß des Kaiserlichen Gouverneurs von Deutsch-Ostafrika, betr. die Sprache von

Eingaben, Alfred Zimmermann, ed., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung. Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen, Sachregister und einem chronologischen Verzeichnis, Theil I bis IV umfassend. Vierter Theil: 1898 bis 1899, DKGG 4 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1900): 79.

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should henceforth only be certified if submitted in German or Romanised Kiswahili.73 It is unlikely that this was enforcible, however. In the same year, the SOS Kiswahili instructor Carl Velten noted that only one district had successfully introduced Latin script so far, whereas everywhere else, including the interior, one would only find documents submitted in Aˇgam¯ı script.74 Still in 1904, when governor von Götzen requested a fully trained lawyer for Dar es Salaam, he noted that the successful candidate should be trained in reading Kiswahili in “Arabic” script before departing to GEA.75 As late as 1912, the SOS, now regularly educating colonial officers, considered an elementary education in Aˇgam¯ı script a necessary qualification and offered a year-long course to this end.76 Alongside these discussions of Kiswahili script, the language was gradually signified as an “Islamic” problem, in particular as it became increasingly clear that Kiswahili rather than German would become the main language of the administration. By 1901, staunch colonial advocates hailed Kiswahili as the most suitable “national language” (Landessprache), whereas the earlier demand of making German the national language had shrivelled to teaching a few phrases in government schools.77 Kiswahili, rather than German, now became the alternative proposition to vernacular languages. When in 1897 the Bremen Mission Conference endorsed the

73 Runderlaß des Gouverneurs von Deutsch-Ostafrika, betreffend die Form der Beurkundung von Rechtsgeschäften Farbiger vom 29. January 1901, Ernst SchmidtDargitz and Otto Köbner, eds., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung. Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen und Sachregister. Sechster Teil: 1901 bis 1902, DKGG 6 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1903), 271. 74 Carl Velten, ed., Schilderungen der Suaheli: von Expeditionen v. Wissmanns, Dr. Bumillers, Graf v. Götzens, und Anderer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1901), i; cf. also August Seidel, Suahili Konversations-Grammatik nebst einer Einführung in die Schrift und den Briefstil der Suahili (Heidelberg: Julius Groos’ Verlag, 1900), 182. 75 Götzen to Auswärtiges Amt, Kolonialabteilung, 19 July 1904, BArch R1001/5436, 57–59. 76 Sachau, Denkschrift über das Seminar, 58f. 77 Professor Dr. Lenz, “Unsere afrikanischen Regierungsschulen und ihre nationale

und kulturelle Bedeutung”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 2, no. 12 (6 June 1901), See “Sollen die Eingeborenen unserer Kolonie Deutsch lernen?” Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 3, no. 37 (21 September 1901): 1–2. See also Carl Meinhof, “Die Bedeutung des Studiums der Eingeborenensprachen für die Kolonialverwaltung”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 356f.

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teaching of German next to vernacular languages and asked for government support, a gubernatorial report from GEA noted that German should be a minimal requirement for any school but argued that it would be much better if Kiswahili was taught instead of vernacular languages.78 This shift from German to Kiswahili as lingua franca of the colony prompted a corresponding reversal among influential missionaries, who now expressed a preference for German. In particular the Protestants of the interior had always seen Kiswahili as a foreign incursion of coastal culture, and now began to marry up the language issue with increasing warnings against a rising “danger” of Islam.79 The first iteration of this argument was published in March 1905 in the monthly missionary column of the Neue Preußische Zeitung (Kreuz-Zeitung ).80 The article contended that Kiswahili was the language of Islam, and that Islam was not just a religion, but a “political programme” and as such the “most dangerous enemy that European colonial empires can have in Africa.” This “left no choice but to choose German” as the language of the colony, and missions would gladly adopt German in their schools if this meant to “disarm” Islam via the containment of Kiswahili. The Foreign Office sent the article to the East African governor for comment, who answered a month later with a mix of pragmatic and “civilising” arguments.81 On the one hand, he argued, it was important to realise that Kiswahili already was the lingua franca of GEA and that the introduction of German may be a laudable goal, but hardly achievable in the medium term. On the other hand, Kiswahili could be redeemed from its close association with Islam, because the Romanisation of Kiswahili had contained the “language and script of Islam.” Furthermore, the “dangerous, exceptional position” of Kiswahili as propaganda language of Islam would be over as soon as the Christian missionaries adopted the language for their Christianising efforts instead of local “dying idioms.”

78 Julius Richter, “Die neunte kontinentale Missionskonferenz in Bremen”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 24 (1897): 420; Bennigsen to Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, 28 August 1897, BArch R1001/7306, 171–173. 79 For these warnings and their eventual success in reshaping Islam policy in GEA, see part IV. 80 “Missionsmonatsschau”, Neue Preußische Zeitung, 21 March 1905, in BArch R1001/ 820, 4. 81 Götzen to Auswärtiges Amt, Kolonialabteilung, 9 May 1905, BArch R1001/820,

5–6.

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At about the same time, the Director of Moravian Missions, Charles Buchner, reiterated the missionary arguments against Islam in front of the Kolonialrat (Colonial Council), and succeeded in getting this advisory body to adopt a resolution recommending to replace Kiswahili with German as the official language of GEA.82 The industrialist RheinischWestfälische Zeitung printed an outspoken critique of this decision, labelling the Kolonialrat a useless institution and adding the racist contention that preventing “natives” from learning German would keep intact their perception of “Whites as a higher being.”83 The Colonial Congress in the autumn of 1905 became another public stage for missionary opposition to Kiswahili when the Berlin pastor and later Professor of Mission Studies, Julius Richter, integrated the language in his overarching narrative about a rising “Islamic danger.”84 Like Buchner in the Kolonialrat,85 Richter argued that the Kiswahili language was inextricably bound up with the cultural expansion of the “Islamicised mixed race” from the coast to the interior, culminating in stereotypes about foreign “Arab” influence and African “mimicry.”86 Yet the reaction to Richter’s presentation also revealed an emerging rift in the missionary assessment of Kiswahili. In particular the representatives of the Spiritan Fathers and of the Leipziger Missionsgesellschaft (LpMS) dissented from Richter and argued that it was futile to seek to reverse the already extensive spread of Kiswahili in GEA.87 Given the coastal base of the Spiritan Fathers, their position was not surprising, but the position of the LpMS, based mainly in the Kilimanjaro and Usambara 82 Wright, German Missions, 113; “Das Deutsche als Eingeborenen-Verkehrssprache in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Rheinisch Westfälische Zeitung, 15 July 1905, cf. in BArch R1001/ 820. 83 Rheinisch Westfälische Zeitung. 84 Julius Richter, “Der Islam eine Gefahr für unsere afrikanischen Kolonien”, in

Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5, 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), esp. 514f., 526. 85 Buchner was present at the Congress as well and made similar remarks as discussant

in a different panel, Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, ed., Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5, 6. und 7. Oktober 1905 (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 359f. 86 Richter, “Der Islam eine Gefahr”, 513–514. 87 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolo-

nialkongresses 1905, 533, 535f.

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mountains, signalled a departure from the earlier Protestant missionary orthodoxy. With a heavy dose of pragmatism, their director Karl von Schwartz pointed out that he still preferred the vernacular, but may have to adopt literary productions in Kiswahili for inter-regional exchange. In the coming years, missionary resistance against Kiswahili eroded noticeably.88 This was partially due to pragmatic arguments winning out, but also because missionary worries about the spread of Islam were alleviated by a reevaluation of Kiswahili as essential and “redeemable” for Christian thought. A key figure in this reappraisal of the language was the theologian and linguist Carl Meinhof. Having studied Protestant theology, he retained a special interest in languages, and after initially focusing on Semitic languages he moved his interest to Bantu languages at the time of the German colonial acquisitions in Africa.89 While serving as pastor in Zizow (Cisowo) in West Pomerania, Meinhof became instrumental in training missionaries for the colonies, including those leading the missionary push for adopting Kiswahili in the BMW, like Carl Nauhaus and Christian Schumann.90 By 1903 Meinhof was hired by the SOS, but maintained his close proximity to Protestant missionary circles, speaking at missionary conferences and publishing articles in Warneck’s Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift . At the Colonial Congress of 1905 Meinhof defended the use of Kiswahili, both in the discussion of Richter’s presentation and with his own paper on the “Importance of the Study of Native Languages for Colonial Administration,” where he was in turn opposed by Buchner and Richter in the discussion.91 Meinhof’s programme rested on comparative linguistics and the postulate of an “Ur-Bantu” underneath various East and South African languages.92 This effectively eroded missionary insistence on local languages because the knowledge of any language of the same family would allow a deep understanding of underlying “thought patterns” in all the related languages. In an article about language and missions, Meinhof contended that learning a language was like installing a “telegraph

88 For a summary, see Owzar, “Swahili oder Deutsch?” 293–295. 89 For Meinhof’s life and works, see Pugach, Africa in Translation, 71–91. 90 See Pugach, 75; Wright, German Missions, 111. 91 Meinhof, “Bedeutung des Studiums”; Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolonialkongresses 1905, 359–363. 92 Pugach, Africa in Translation, 74–80.

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office” for connecting mental representations with linguistic utterances.93 Related languages could easily be “accommodated” in one and the same “telegraph office” because of similar structures and thought patterns, whereas languages from a different group would require an “entirely different activity, namely the installation of a new office.”94 The consequence of this concept was that imposing German as regional language was rendered futile,95 while a regional creole like Kiswahili was implicitly vernacularised because its Bantu roots allowed it to be adopted and adapted by speakers of related African languages. This is why Meinhof promoted a missionary linguistic investment in Kiswahili, which he profiled in contrast to Islam: Islam does not develop language, it destroys language. By preserving and nursing [pflegen] their mother tongue for Africans, we have a tool and medium of Christian thought, to which Islam cannot offer anything similar.96

This “preserving and nursing” programme actually entailed a heavy revisionist agenda. In his book The Christianisation of the Languages of Africa (1905), Meinhof rejected the resignification of “heathen” words for Christian concepts, but equally opposed the use of loanwords for conveying Christian thought.97 The latter was particularly relevant for Kiswahili as Meinhof warned that “Arabic words from the Mohammedan theology” would “naturally not be connected to the desired Christian sense, but to the undesired Mohammedan one.”98 Instead, he proposed to invent new words out of the “spirit of the language,” so that the “contact with the new thought realm [Gedankenkreis ] of Christianity would have a language-developing effect.”99 African languages, Meinhof contended, were of a “fresh, living primordial character” ( frische, 93 Meinhof, “Bedeutung des Studiums”, 214. 94 Meinhof, 214. 95 Stated directly in Carl Meinhof, “Das missionarische Sprachproblem”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 33 (1906): 215. 96 Meinhof, “Das missionarische Sprachproblem,” 261. 97 Carl Meinhof, Die Christianisierung der Sprachen Afrikas

Missionsbuchhandlung, 1905), 46f. 98 Meinhof, 47. 99 Meinhof, 48.

(Basel: Verlag der

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lebendige Ursprünglichkeit ), and hence new words could be generated “with great ease” and without subjecting the language to undue force. It is this programme of “vernacularising” and altering Kiswahili that eventually won the upper hand in German missionary circles. Charles Buchner died in 1907 and Julius Richter was eventually won over by Meinhof’s arguments.100 At the end of 1908 the recently elected BMW Inspector for East Africa, Karl Axenfeld, recapitulated the Kiswahili debate in the Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift and essentially declared it over.101 His assessment was not only based on the pragmatic recognition of Kiswahili as undisputed lingua franca, but more importantly on separating the language issue from missionary worries about Islam. Islam had spread not through Kiswahili nor a Muslim missionary impetus but because it was the religion of the former rulers and had come with literacy.102 In a remarkable pivot from earlier missionary criticism, he now fell in line with the government: German government schools curbed the spread of Islam because the Romanisation of Kiswahili had ended the former Muslim monopoly on literacy.103 With regard to vernacular languages, his departure was less radical: they would retain a certain local importance, also within missionary work, whereas Kiswahili, due to its role as trading and administrative language, would become the language of the “educated upper class” (geistige Oberschicht ).104 When at the third Colonial Congress in 1910, Meinhof again put forward his programme of adopting and “de-Islamicising” Kiswahili, it was approved by all missionaries joining the discussion.105 Kiswahili had now become a potential Christian resource, rather than just a means of spreading Islamic influence.

100 Karl Axenfeld, “Die Sprachenfrage in Ostafrika vom Standpunkt der Mission aus betrachtet”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 35 (1908): 568. 101 Axenfeld. He also sent this article to the government for comment, see Axenfeld to Kolonialamt, 15 February 1909, BArch R1001/820. Both Velten and Meinhof were invited to comment, see ibid., 18–21. 102 Axenfeld, 569. 103 Axenfeld, 570. 104 Axenfeld, 573. 105 Carl Meinhof, “Die praktische Bedeutung der Einheitssprachen für die Kolonien”,

in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1910 zu Berlin am 6, 7. und 8. Oktober 1910, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1910), 732–746.

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3.3

The Christianisation of Kiswahili

The now ensuing missionary embrace had two main prongs: the creation of Kiswahili Christian publics through new periodicals from 1910 and the Christianisation of Kiswahili in education and translation efforts. In 1909, representatives of various Protestant mission societies in GEA met in Halle to discuss the establishment of a common Kiswahili periodical, with the aim of “approaching Heathens and Mohammedans with Christian truths” while also seeking to offer “entertaining and educating news” and contributions of “natives.”106 Up to this point, German missionaries had not yet attempted to publish a Kiswahili outlet, but had twice failed at establishing vernacular language periodicals, one in Kichagga and one in Kishambala.107 By contrast, the Zanzibar-based UMCA had been publishing the Msimulizi (The Reporter) from there since 1888 and begun to offer a magazine for the mainland from 1896, called Habari za Mwezi (News of the Month). The latter had just seen a re-launch in 1908 after a short publication hiatus and would go on to reach the highest circulation of any Kiswahili periodical by the end of German colonial rule.108 However, the more decisive competition on German missionaries’ minds was the Kiongozi (The Leader), published by the German government school in Tanga from 1907 onward. The Kiongozi neglected matters of religion almost entirely,109 leading German Protestants to declare the need to establish a “counterweight” to this “non-religious government gazette.”110

106 See the meeting minutes of 16 February 1909, quoted in full in Lemke, SuaheliZeitungen, 32f. 107 Sturmer, Media History, 38; Bernhard Struck, “Christliche Zeitungen in afrikanischer Sprache”, Mission und Pfarramt 1, no. 1 (1908): 36. 108 Sturmer, Media History, 30–31. 109 There is very little on Christianity, and apart from the occasional mention of a

mosque or ramad.¯ an, there are only two articles which talk about Islam: one on sights in the Middle East and another mentioning the possible involvement of Muslims in the Maji Maji Rebellion in Ssongea. See “Kuzunguka dunia: Mwendeleo 8”, Kiongozi no. 59 (April 1910): 3; Liwali Mzee bin Ramazani, “Habari za fitina ya majimaji katika nchi ya Songea”, Kiongozi no. 20 (January 1907): 1–2. 110 Lemke, Suaheli-Zeitungen, 32. For an excellent introduction to the Kiongozi and its colonial utility, see Krautwald, Fabian, “The Bearers of News: Print and Power in German East Africa”, Journal of African History 62, no. 1 (2021): 5–28.

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A prospective partnership with the UMCA was rejected, minuting the need to keep the periodical in “German hands.”111 After a year of preparatory work, the first issue of the new magazine, titled Pwani na Bara (Coast and Inland), was published in January 1910 (Fig. 3.2). The paper’s subtitle, Habari kwa watu wote wa Deutsch-Ostafrika (News for the People of German East Africa), was practically identical to that of the Kiongozi, making it clear that the mission intended to position its paper as an alternative Kiswahili news outlet.112 Pwani na Bara continued in monthly four-page issues until the First World War, reaching a print run of about 1,500 copies by 1913, roughly comparable to the Kiongozi.113 During the War, irregular issues of essential news were published until May–June 1916, before the paper ceased publication.

Fig. 3.2 Inaugural issue of Pwani na Bara, January 1910114

111 Lemke, Suaheli-Zeitungen, 33. There is no direct mention of the existing UMCA publications, but both the UMCA and CMS were to be encouraged to distribute the new periodical as well. 112 The first three issues of Pani na Bara came with the slightly different subtitle of Habari za watu wote wa Deutsch-Ostafrika (News by All the People of German East Africa), which was a bit misleading as to the content of the paper. 113 Karl August Hermann Krelle, “Masimulizi”, Pwani na Bara 4, no. 12 (1913): 4. The number given here is an estimate, with the only recorded print run being 1,200 in 1912, See Lemke, Suaheli-Zeitungen, 35. For the Kiongozi there are only estimates, which range from 1,000 to 3,000, see Lemke, 25f. 114 Missionsarchiv der Benediktiner-Abtei St. Ottilien (Archive of the Benedictine Mission, St. Ottilien), photograph JH.

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The Benedictine Mission launched its first Kiswahili periodical, the Rafiki Yangu (My Friend), in the same month as the Protestants. In a letter to his superiors, the Apostolic Vicar Thomas Spreiter named three reasons for his endeavour: the new Protestant periodical, the failure of the Kiongozi to address religion, and the spread of Islam.115 He acknowledged that Kiswahili may not be accessible to everyone in the interior, but argued that most missionary pupils and catechumens already knew enough of the language, so that the periodical would enhance their learning. In an editorial letter seeking German donors for the paper, Spreiter did not even mention the issue of language plurality but simply claimed a need for a periodical in a “Negro language.”116 The paper was published in monthly issues until July 1916, albeit with significant gaps in 1915.117 It had a slightly larger print run than the Pwani na Bara, but it is unclear how many of its copies remained in German due to the donor subscription model Spreiter had adopted for financing the journal.118 From 1911, the magazine also published the annual Rafiki Kalender, combining a liturgical calendar with longer articles of religious content.119 While both periodicals made efforts to reach wider audiences, much of their content was geared toward creating Kiswahili missionary publics. The Pwani na Bara did offer news and articles of general interest, as well as riddles, jokes, and Kiswahili-German word lists, but almost all its lead articles were on religious themes, such as a Bible verse or a Christian holiday. Coverage of local news was mostly mission-related and limited to Protestant areas due to its reliance on local correspondents. A regular column for finding missing “brothers” in the mobile economy of GEA added to the sense of the paper serving a parochial community.120 The editorial pivot of Rafiki Yangu was similar to the Pwani na Bara, but with 115 Spreiter to St. Ottilien, 28 December 1909, StOtt Z. 1. 01. 116 Spreiter, letter accompanying first number of Rafiki Yangu, StOtt Rafiki Yangu. 117 The archive in St. Ottilien only holds August and September issues for 1915, but

it is unclear if these issues were never published or did not make it out of the colony. 118 In 1912, the paper reported a print run of about 2,000 copies, “Matangazo”, Rafiki Yangu 3, no. 5 (1912): 4; contrary to the much larger guesses in Lemke, SuaheliZeitungen, 40; Scotton, “Growth”, 33. 119 The first edition was published as Mweleza mwaka. 120 For the introducing to this column, see Martin Klamroth, “Wako wapi ndugu

zangu?” Pwani na Bara 2, no. 7 (1911): 1.

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an even sharper confessional profile.121 Each lead article was a vita of a saint, and a good portion of each issue was devoted to Catholic missionary news or history, mostly in relation to Tanganyika or wider East Africa. The remainder consisted of miscellaneous world and local news, ethnographic portraits, educational articles, and funny tales. Both printed articles on Islam, but differ quite noticeably in their editorial mission on this issue. For the Pwani na Bara, Protestants had resolved that the “battle against Islam should not be conducted harshly,” presumably in order to reach a wider audience in their competition with the Kiongozi.122 Accordingly, there are only few articles on Islam in the paper, and almost none pertain directly to Muslims in the colony. Most were printed in the context of the Balkan Wars, with an article in each issue from December 1912 to July 1913, titled “The Muslim War” (Vita ya Msilimu). These attained some prominence when they became part of a newspaper feud with the Arabic paper al-Naˇg¯ ah. published in Zanzibar, which also involved the Kiongozi.123 There were two further geopolitical articles in the context of the First World War, seeking to make sense of the German–Ottoman alliance and the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a in a somewhat dizzying fashion.124 Other than these geopolitical articles, there were only two other articles in the Pwani na Bara pertaining to Islam in more than a passing reference: an advertisement of Siegfried Delius’ book about the difficulties of preaching the Gospel among Muslims, and a Christian convert’s report on a dispute with a Muslim about intermarriage.125 The Rafiki Yangu, by contrast, had identified it as one of its editorial missions to “enlighten the Negroes about Islam” and to “educate them about the magic and superstition that is so often closely connected with

121 Its subtitle read “News for the Christians of the Catholic mission and for all people who want them.” 122 “Die Beschluesse der Konferenz”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 1 (November 1911), 3. 123 On this debate, see below, p. 234. 124 “Desturi za Vita”, Pwani na Bara 6, no. 1 (1915): 3–4; “Vita ya dini”, Pwani na

Bara 6, no. 4 (1915): 3–4; for more on the missionary discussion of the gˇ ih¯ad fatw¯a, see pp. 340–1. 125 “Vimechapwa vitabu viwili vipya vya „Barazani”, Pwani na Bara 4, no. 7 (1913): 4; Yeremia Mkopi, “Mpenda jipya huchukia la zamani”, Pwani na Bara 5, no. 6 (1914): 3.

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Islam.”126 Accordingly, the inaugural issue already contained a polemical article at the beginning of ramad.¯ an, which refuted the popular Muslim belief in the immaculate conception of Muh.ammad and contrasted it with the posited truth of Jesus’ virgin birth.127 After this inaugural issue, however, the theme of Islam did not make a frequent appearance in the journal and the aggressive stance faded somewhat.128 Yet in early 1914, the paper suddenly printed a series of apologetic articles, highlighting inter-religious competition, Muslim hostility, and doctrinal arguments.129 Such pieces continued to be published throughout the First World War, despite other missionary outlets softening their stance due to the Ottoman–German alliance, which by contrast was never mentioned in the Rafiki Yangu.130 This noticeable shift toward anti-Islam polemics is probably not attributable to a change in editorship of the Rafiki Yangu.131 Moreover, almost all of the above-mentioned articles about Islam were written by African Christians, usually teachers in missionary employment. As such, the articles may reflect less of an editorial choice but rather an increasing concern with Islam as religious competitor. Articles appear primarily 126 Spreiter, letter accompanying first number of Rafiki Yangu, StOtt Rafiki Yangu. 127 Anton Ruedel, “Yesu Kristu na Mohamadi”, Rafiki Yangu 1, no. 1 (1910): 4. 128 For the more elaborate specimens, see Antonin Hasani, “Ilonga”, Rafiki Yangu 1,

no. 4 (1910): 2; Wilhelm Salim bin Sudi, “Desturi za waislamu”, Rafiki Yangu 2, no. 10 (1911): 2; Ludwig Pariser, “Kupatanisha wakristu na waislamu”, Rafiki Yangu 4, no. 5 (1913): 3. Two of these articles do note inter-religious tensions, but do not attack Islam outright; the other merely informs its readers about Muslim “customs” at ramad.¯ an. 129 Dominikus bin Ybrahim, “Mtu hawezi kushika dini mbili”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 2 (1914): 3–4; Hermam Shamba, “Wivu wa waislamu juu ya wakristu”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 2 (1914): 4; Ludwig Pariser, “Mapendo yaunganisha na dini si nguvu”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 3 (1914): 3–4; Franz, “Salamu aleko, mtakatifu gani?” Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 4 (1914): 2; Yosef Kana, “Kisumbi (Tanganyika)”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 4 (1914): 3–4; Jonas Morgan, “Dini”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 9 (1914): 2. 130 Tomas, “Daressalam”, Rafiki Yangu 5, no. 11 (1914): 2; Pauli Hol, “Lionja (Ilulu)”, Rafiki Yangu 6, no. 8 (1915): 4; Benno Hunzeri, “Wachuuzi hueleka uislamu kwa wagogo”, Rafiki Yangu 7, no. 1 (1916): 3; Kasian Lupia, “Mahenge”, Rafiki Yangu 7, no. 1 (1916): 4; Spirayo, “Mohamadi na mwezi, kilima cha Kafa”, Rafiki Yangu 7, no. 3 (1916): 4; Ambros Ngombale, “Sifa ya Dini”, Rafiki Yangu 7, no. 3 (1916): 3. On other missions during the First World War, see p. 9.5. 131 Editorship circulated between Thomas Spreiter, Anton Ruedel, and Severin Hofbauer, with the latter two editing most issues. When Ruedel died in June 1913, almost all subsequent issues were edited by Hofbauer, but there are no indications in earlier issues that Hofbauer was more concerned with Islam than the other two.

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pre-occupied with demonstrating the superiority of Christian doctrine and resisting any blurring of Christian–Muslim boundaries, which likely occurred in quotidian practice. This is exemplified by an article about a girl being raped while bringing food to her brother in an initiation (circumcision) camp. The camp, the circumcision rites, and even the rape itself are characterised as Muslim custom, and the article concludes with a warning to all Christians that guardian angels will hold them accountable if they let their children partake in such rites, as “isolated” (vereinzelte) Christians were allegedly known to do.132 While these magazines utilised Kiswahili to build pan-regional Christian publics, Protestant missions went further in their strategic embrace of the language. From 1911 they began to centralise their efforts in Kiswahili education and publishing in order to leave a stronger mark on the colony and the language alike. The starting point for these efforts was the German East African Missionary Conference of 1911, which for the first time brought together almost all the major Protestant missionary organisations working in GEA, German and British.133 The idea for such a conference had arisen from ecumenical encounters between the BMW and CMS at the Edinburgh conference of 1910, who agreed to collaborate in various areas in order to counter the “advance of Islam” and kept in contact after the conference.134 In the aftermath of these collaboration talks, BMW inspector Axenfeld proceeded to organise a Protestant missionary conference for German East Africa, which was not without difficulties given doctrinal fractures and previous tensions.135 The conference took place on 13–19 August

132 Kasian Lupia, “Mahenge”. 133 A short introduction to the conference can be found in Wright, German Missions,

126–128. For details, see the conference minutes, Protokoll der I. Deutschostafrikanischen Missionskonferenz zu Daressalam, ABMW 1/6625, 49–74. 134 Axenfeld to Committee, 9 July 1910, ABMW 1/6625, 14; Axenfeld to Committee, 9 July 1910, ABMW 1/6625, 14–17; Beylis to Axenfeld, 22 July 1910, ABMW 1/6625, 19–20; Axenfeld to Beylis, 29 July 1910, ABMW 1/6625, 22; see also Sicard, Lutheran Church, 219; Wright, German Missions, 123. Initial contact between both missions came from discussions about a possible swap of some CMS stations to the BMW, which was never realised because the CMS feared a nationalist backlash. 135 Axenfeld to Director, President, 13 December 1910, ABMW 1/6625. Axenfeld mentioned that the LpMS was the “most difficult element among East African missions” due to their Lutheran orthodoxy. Others needed the reassurance that this conference would only have consultative character.

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1911 in Dar es Salaam. It included all German missions except the Neukirchener Mission, which had just recently arrived in Urundi. From among the British Protestant missions, only the CMS attended, while the UMCA and Africa Inland Mission failed to send a representative.136 The fight against Islam and the embrace of Kiswahili for Christian purposes were at the forefront of the deliberations. On the second conference day, a general discussion of the “religious task” posed by the spread of Islam converged on the issue of a more coordinated missionary education as a counterweight to the government schools, and several missions expressed an interest to establish a joint teacher training institute.137 The third day considered renewed efforts in Kiswahili Bible translation, as well as the creation of a hymnal and Christian tract literature in Kiswahili. This was guided by an assertion by the EMDOA Usambara missionary Franz Gleiß that Kiswahili was becoming the “national language” (Landessprache) of GEA and “developing more and more into a Bantu-Suaheli” that avoided or removed “Arab” words.138 Missionary literature, he asserted, needed to keep up with these developments, and accordingly the conference formed commissions for a revised Bible translation and the creation a new hymnal while Gleiß himself was tasked with producing Kiswahili Christian tracts dealing with “paganism and Mohammedanism.”139 On the fourth consultation day, the LpMS missionary Johannes Raum underscored Gleiß’ statements on the growing importance of Kiswahili, but was more explicit in his strategic embrace of the language. The minutes note:

136 For the full minutes, see Protokoll der I. Deutschostafrikanischen Missionskonferenz zu Daressalam, ABMW 1/6625, 49–74. 137 Ibid. p. 10. For more on the seminary, see p. 123. 138 Gleiß was an expert on Shambala and had previously advocated the use of this

vernacular language for “uplifting” the “Shambala nation,” Franz Gleiss, SchambalaGrammatik mit Übungssätzen nebst einer Sammlung von Redensarten in Gesprächsform von Frau Missionar O. Rösler in Wuga und Wörterbuch schambala-deutsch und deutschschambala, Archiv für das Studium deutscher Kolonialsprachen 13 (Berlin: Druck und Kommissionsverlag von Georg Reimer, 1912), vi–viii. 139 Protokoll der I. Deutschostafrikanischen Missionskonferenz zu Daressalam, ABMW 1/6625, 61.

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Speaker illuminates, as Gleiß the day before, the independent and growing importance of Suaheli even for the tribes in the interior, and the necessity, to employ this language much differently than before for the social and intellectual uplifting of our churches. Islam, which still carries the language, should be feared more as a cultural than a religious power. We therefore must make this language fully accessible as the universal educational medium in Christian form.140

Raum claimed that therefore it was an urgent task for missionaries to create educational and popular literature in Kiswahili, because the material produced by the government schools was “totally silent on the Christian religion.” Once again, a commission was formed to lead this endeavour, which was to begin with the production of a reader, followed by a textbook on local geography and one on elementary science (Realienbuch). The missionaries put all these plans into action, and by the time the First World War brought their activities to a halt, they had already reached a few milestones in their programme of systematically adopting and “Christianising” Kiswahili. By 1913 a Swahili institute had been established near Morogoro, which functioned as a secondary school and a teacher training facility for delegates from Protestant missions.141 Already a year prior, a new Kiswahili tract series, titled Barazani, had been established and with five tracts printed in 2,000 copies each, and a sixth in preparation.142 The most popular of these tracts was an apologetic treatise on the life of Muh.ammed, written by Paul Wohlrab and reprinted in different editions over the years.143 It laboured to characterise Islam 140 Ibid., p. 14. 141 For details, see pp. 170–1. 142 Martin Klamroth, “Stand der gemeinsam angegriffenen Arbeiten”, Korrespon-

denzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 3 (November 1912), 1–2. 143 Paul Wohlrab, Habari za Muhamadi, Barazani 5 (Daressalam: Evangelische Mission, 1912); Paul Wohlrab, Habari za Muhamadi, Barazani 5, 2nd ed. (Daressalam: Evangelische Mission, 1913); Muhamadi au Kristo? Barazani 5 (Lushoto: Usambara Agentur, 1935). There was also a 1948 edition of the 1935 version, see archivist’s list inserted in

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as a new and foreign religion, causing people to “break with their tribes and follow the religion of the Arabs.”144 Hence, the tract claimed, many converted simply out of “shame” to be called a mshenzi (“upcountry barbarian”) and remained ignorant about their new faith. As such, the missionary booklet aimed to introduce Muslim tenets to its readers in accordance with the “ancient books of the Arabs,” but of course did so in order to contest their truth. As such, the tract was clearly aimed at leaving a Christian mark in the public Swahili discourse, against the “Arab” faith of Islam. When the Zanzibari newspaper al-Naˇg¯ ah. attacked the tract in 1913, a translation of this article was published in the Evangelisches Korrespondenzblatt and celebrated as an indication of the success of the Barazani tract series.145 In educational literature, missionaries also completed many of the tasks they had set out. In 1912, the BMW missionary Martin Klamroth noted that he was advising the government on its new school primer and reader, which now were to include rephrased Bible texts, and in 1913 Raum reported that the Protestant mission reader was nearing completion.146 He emphasised that the point of the book was to collect “suitable educational material on a religious foundation, i.e. in a Christian spirit.” Beyond this stated Christianising intention also lay a programme of vernacularising Kiswahili, in difference to the government schools. Raum strongly opposed Kiswahili Germanisms (e.g. shule, kaisa, mashini). He argued that this only meant to replace the earlier “Arabic finery” (arabischer the 1912 edition. A similar apologetic tract about Muh.ammed was published in 1930, see Muhamadi: Maisha yake, mafundisho yake, Barazani 16 (Lushoto: Usambara Agentur, 1930). The other tracts published by 1912 a devotional calendar, as well as tracts about the German emperor and three Protestant missionaries (Livingstone, Bodelschwingh, and Krapf). 144 Wohlrab, Habari za Muhammadi, 2. 145 Martin Klamroth, “Ostafrikanische Volksbücher”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evan-

gelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 5 (August 1913): 2–3. 146 Martin Klamroth, “Neubearbeitung der Kisuaheli-Fibel”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 2 (July 1912): 1–2; Johannes Raum, “Unser Lesebuch”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 4 (May 1913): 1–2.

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Aufputz) with a German version and invoked the racist trope of the “prancing Negro in European dress” as the undesired outcome of such a language policy. Instead, one must find or coin equivalent terms in Kiswahili that are “palatable to the natives.” However, Raum’s ideological approach had its limits in practice. In a thorough editing process, guided by two native speakers, the teacher and evangelist Yakobo Lumwe and the teacher Martin Abdall¯ah, it became clear that a number of phrases were incomprehensible and that some German loan words could no longer be avoided (Fig. 3.3).147 The edited reader was published in 1914.148 An even stronger vernacularising or “Bantuising” impetus drove the two larger projects of a new Bible translation and a Kiswahili hymnal, both of which were not completed until after the First World War. The hymnal project was led by Siegfried Delius, who as an EMDOA missionary in Tanga was primarily concerned with the lack of missionary success among Muslims.149 The first Lutheran hymnal had already been printed in 1894 and was expanded in 1900,150 but Delius envisioned the hymnal project as a substantial revision if not an entirely new effort. In 1912, he published guiding principles, which steered heavily against Swahili contextualisation.151 The hymnal was to consist of translated German hymns and spiritual folk songs only, with “products of native poetry” allowed only in the appendix at best. Given that Delius worked in one of the centres of Kiswahili poetry at his time, his dismissal of “native poetry” is surprising and probably indicates that the mission was still far removed from the educated classes of the town. Delius also pursued a “de-Arabisation” strategy, noting that Arabic loan words were to be avoided in the translations, unless they had been adopted in the vocabulary of the Christian community.

147 Franz Gleiss, “Swaheli-Lesebuch-Konferenz”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 7 (November 1913): 1–2. On Yakobo Lumwe and Martin Abdall¯ah, see Pohl, Evangelische Mission, esp. 82–84, 132n752. 148 Evangelische Missionen in Deutsch-Ostafrika, ed., Masimulizi na mafundisho: Swaheli-Lesebuch (Wuga: Missionsdruck, 1914). 149 See Delius, Gute Saat. 150 See Sicard, Lutheran Church, 182. 151 Siegfried Delius, “Grundsätze fuer die Neubearbeitung des Suaheliliederbuches”,

Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 3 (November 1912): 2–3.

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Fig. 3.3 The EMDOA teacher, evangelist, and translator Yakobo Lumwe, 1911152

Responses to Delius’ proposals came from the interior and were marked by a clear tendency to “Bantuise” Swahili music. Georg Cleve, now no longer a missionary but still participating in the translation of hymns,153 remarked that “Bantu music” required one syllable per note 152 Siegfried Delius, Gute Saat auf hartem Boden: Bilder aus der Missionsarbeit in Tanga (Bethel: Verlag der Evangelischen Missions-Gesellschaft für Deutsch-Ostafrika, 1911), 71. 153 Cleve left the EMDOA in 1902 and joined the BMW in 1903 as a consequence of the Uzaramo work being taken over by the latter. He then moved inland and worked

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and did not allow the slurring of notes. This he contended, necessitated a complete overhaul of translated Christian music, if the above-mentioned rule was “still absolutely valid [in Swahili], as it is in the Hehe, Bena, Kinga and Konde language.”154 Carl Nauhaus had been working in the Southern Highlands, where Kiswahili penetration was low, before transitioning to a more central role in missionary Kiswahili education. Drawing on his experience, he offered the same kind of reasoning but came to the opposite conclusion: since Konde songs contained tonal slurs, this kind of intonation was “not foreign for our Blacks.”155 He also contended that rhyming needed to be avoided as it was “Un-Bantu,” seemingly unaware of how much popular genres of Kiswahili poetry, like utenzi, relied on rhyming. The hymnal project was not even close to finishing by the time of the First World War,156 but it is clear from these debates how each missionary sought to standardise Swahili Christian music from their local vantage point. Delius was concerned with de-Arabisation and injecting a hefty dose of German-Lutheran sobriety into his lower class and rural congregations, whereas the others mistook their local observations of vernacular rhythm and rhyme as general “Bantu” principles to guide Swahili Christian music. Premised on cultural essentialism, the Protestant project of Christianising Kiswahili failed to appreciate its hybrid character as a regional creole. This tendency became even clearer in the largest and most delayed of the Protestant Kiswahili projects: the new Bible translation. At the 1911 conference, Gleiß had demanded that the new Kiswahili Bible needed to mostly in Kidugala. In 1907 he withdrew from missionary activities and bought a plantation in the Usambara mountains. See Torsten Altena, “Ein Häuflein Christen mitten in der Heidenwelt des dunklen Erdteils”: Zum Selbst- und Fremdverständnis protestantischer Missionare im kolonialen Afrika 1884–1918, Internationale Hochschulschriften 395 (München: Waxmann Verlag, 2003), appendix, p. 192. 154 Siegfried Delius, “Sprachton und musikalische Tonfolge bei Übertragung deutscher Lieder in Bantusprachen”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 5 (August 1913): 3–4. 155 Carl Nauhaus, “Das Swaheli Liederbuch”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 8 (December 1913): 4. On Nauhaus’ role in Swahili education at the time of these debates, see p. 167; as well as Altena, Häuflein, appendix, pp. 162–163; Wright, German Missions, 114. 156 The first common Protestant Kiswahili hymnal was not printed until the early 1920s, see Wolfgang Kornder, Die Entwicklung der Kirchenmusik in den ehemals deutschen Missionsgebieten Tanzanias, Erlanger Monographien aus Mission und Ökumene 8 (Erlangen: Verlag der ev.-luth. Mission, 1990), 142.

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advance an already developing “Bantu-Suaheli” by the removal of Arabic loanwords, but it took decades for this demand to come back with force. Originally, the conference commissioned Martin Klamroth with a translation of the New Testament, but his work was soon delayed by furlough and the death of his wife in 1912, which left him to raise his daughter alone while carrying out the work of a superintendent, local pastor, and Bible translator.157 He did manage to complete a Kiswahili version of the book of Matthew by the end of 1912,158 and in 1913 requested relief for a translation sabbatical.159 This was granted but ultimately prevented by the First World War. Klamroth now served in medical capacity, before being interred by the British. He died of cancer in Dar es Salaam in October 1918.160 He left behind a translation of the complete New Testament and the book of Psalms, but both did not surpass a rough manuscript stage even as Klamroth considered them his most important accomplishment.161 Given his circumstances, it may not be surprising that Klamroth devoted little time to the ideological dimensions of a “Bantuized” Kiswahili translation, and arguably he was less interested in such questions of language politics than in theological and exegetical finesse.162 The only hint at a “de-Arabising” programme of Klamroth’s efforts can be found in a comment on the word kusali (to pray), which he argued did not convey a proper sense of praying but rather “meant, in the sense of

157 Klamroth to Komite der Berliner Missionsgesellschaft, 25 April 1912, ABMW 1/ 3432, 145. 158 Klamroth, “Stand”, 2. 159 Klamroth to Komite, 20 February 1913, ABMW 1/3432, 155–156. 160 He had remarried in 1917 and was granted house arrest to be with his wife and

daughter during his last months. Altena mistakenly dates his passing to 1919, but the death certificate states 23 October 1918, ABMW 1/3432, 222; Altena, Häuflein, CD Rom appendix, 152. 161 In his war-related declaration of will from 1916, he made specific provisions with regard to the translation manuscript, which was the only non-family matter he regulated in this document, see ABMW 1/3432, 185. 162 See his longer article on the Kiswahili copula and its effect on translating the’eimi’ phrases in the eucharistic words of institution, Martin Klamroth, “Das Pronomen bei der Copula: Ein Beitrag zur Revision der Suaheli-Bibel und zu allen Bibelübersetzungen ins Bantu”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 8 (December 1913): 1–2.

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those who brought this foreign word here, to carry out certain proscribed religious exercises.”163 In 1924, when the British government was allowing some German missionaries to return to East Africa, the BMW picked up Klamroth’s manuscript again and commissioned its revision, along with an Old Testament translation, to the former Ruanda missionary Karl Roehl.164 Though outside the temporal scope of this study, Roehl’s translation merits a brief look, as it demonstrates the resilience of the German missionary view that Kiswahili needed to be sanitised for Christian purposes by removing its associations with Arabic and Islam. Roehl had served as a missionary in East Africa from 1896 until his internment in the First World War, being stationed first in the Usambara region and later in the Ruanda district.165 As Emma Hunter observed, this meant that his formative experience was quite different from that of Klamroth, who served on the coast.166 Unlike Klamroth, Roehl would have perceived Islam as a new incursion into missionary territory. Moreover, his linguistic work began on the vernacular side, writing a substantial Kishambala grammar with the stated purpose to clarify the “language and character of the Shambala nation.”167 By 1930, however, he counted Kishambala among the languages likely to die out and noted how widespread Kiswahili had become even for preaching of the Gospel.168 Yet this did not mean that Kiswahili was by itself suitable for Christianity. Roehl contended that the “Arabs” had “no interest in the language as such” and “indiscriminately” used 163 Martin Klamroth, “Dolmetscherfragen”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika 7 (November 1913): 4. The term kusali is of course derived from the Arabic verb s¯ ala. Klamroth advocated to use instead kuomba in certain places, but other missionaries argued against a selective translation of the same Greek term into two different Kiswahili words. 164 See Axenfeld to Toni Klamroth, 19 August 1924, and following correspondence, ABMW 1/3432, 338–340. 165 See Hunter, “Language”, 604. 166 Hunter, 604. 167 Karl Roehl, Versuch einer systematischen Grammatik der Schambala-Sprache (Hamburg: Friederichsen & Co., 1911), x; for a brief evaluation of his grammar, see Clement M. Doke, Bantu: Modern Grammatical, Phonetical and Lexicographical Studies Since 1860 (London: Percy Lund, 1945), 49. 168 Karl Roehl, “The Linguistic Situation in East Africa”, Africa 3, no. 2 (1930): 195–196.

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Arabic words where they found Kiswahili lacking, with the consequence that most abstract nouns, including religious ones, were bound up with Arabic.169 The consequence was that all previous Bible translations were of limited use in Roehl’s opinion, because they made use of these Arabic loan words, which were “linked up with Moslem ideas, which are very often strongly divergent from the corresponding Christian ones, and farther inland they are as a rule not understood at all.”170 Roehl’s edition of Klamroth’s Bible translation therefore followed a radical programme of purging as many Arabic terms as possible and replacing them with Bantu expressions or paraphrases. Like Gleiß in 1911, he argued that this was only following the development of the language itself, with “tribes” of the hinterland having “imprinted their stamp” on the language.171 Roehl took this as a movement toward a “pure and noble […] re-bantuized Swahili,” which Christian texts needed to match and advance.172 His “re-Bantuizing” translation was much too radical, however, and found unsuitable. When the seasoned missionary translators and evangelists Yakobo Lumwe and Elisa Tschagusa, who had worked with Roehl for many years,173 read the work, they suggested numerous changes (Fig. 3.4). With pressure from other missionaries, Roehl accepted their alterations but complained that the result was again a “half-Arabic” Kiswahili text.174 Even so, his translation still caused controversy among other German missionaries and received a mixed reception in Tanganyika.175 When Roehl introduced his “re-Bantuizing” translation programme in the journal Africa, he was heavily criticised by the British side. The

169 Roehl, 196. 170 Roehl, 197. 171 Roehl, “Linguistic Situation”, 198. 172 Ibid., 199. 173 Elisa Tschagusa had worked with Roehl as his personal assistant for over fifteen years, including the War. Since he hailed from Usambara, he probably went with Roehl to Ruanda, where he served as school teacher, linguistic assistant, administrative assistant, and craftsman. For Roehl’s portrait of him, including a picture, see Roehl, Ostafrikas Heldenkampf , 73–75, 160. 174 Hunter, “Language”, 605. 175 Cf. Hunter, 605–606, who lists praise and criticisms alike. Topan argued that it

“found favour on the mainland,” but his sources for this were two supportive missionaries, Topan, “Swahili”, 341.

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Fig. 3.4 The translator and evangelist Elisa Tschagusa, 1918176

UMCA Canon Gerald Broomfield, not only pointed out some areas in which the Roehl translation was particularly weak, but made a more fundamental point against Roehl’s “re-Bantuization” project. Broomfield

176 Karl Roehl, Ostafrikas Heldenkampf: Nach eigenen Erlebenissen dargestellt (Berlin: Verlag von Martin Warneck, 1918), 160.

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argued that there was no original Bantu version of Kiswahili, but that words of Arabic origin belonged to the genesis of Kiswahili as much as Latin words to the English language. These words therefore must be part of a gospel translation if the result is to be anything but clumsy or even incomprehensible. The best one could hope to do is to avoid newer words of Arabic origin that had not yet been fully integrated into the language.177 While Broomfield’s argument on the genesis of Kiswahili offered a more plausible linguistic theory than Roehl, his argument misread Roehl’s ideological bent. Roehl was not attempting to recover an original Kiswahili, and indeed did not even offer a theory about the emergence of Kiswahili. Instead, he sought to utilise new language developments arising from the wider Tanganyikan adoption of Kiswahili as a way of “Bantuizing” the missionary use of Kiswahili, now that Kiswahili had taken the place of the vernacular languages. Given that Roehl was a staunch German nationalist,178 Hunter is right to place this German–English dispute into a multi-sited analysis of the emergence of a Tanganyikan public.179 At the same time, it is also important to recognise how much of Roehl’s programme was an echo of the earlier German debate about vernacular languages, Kiswahili, and Islam, which due to its internal politics was rather maladjusted to the linguistic dynamics of Tanganyika. For seasoned GEA missionaries like Roehl, Kiswahili was a foreign influence and bound up with the “danger” of Islam to the missionary project. In his Africa article, Roehl therefore saw no need to provide concrete linguistic examples of unsuitable Kiswahili words, the mere assertion of “Arabic thought” sufficed. For missionaries like him, Kiswahili was only acceptable as a Christian language once its widespread use could no longer be denied, and then this language needed to be extracted from Islam and shaped into the likeness of a vernacular in the German Protestant ideology of language and culture: it needed to be “de-Arabized” and “re-Bantuized.” Given how much of this debate was situated in a specifically German colonial debate about Kiswahili and 177 Gerald W. Broomfield, “The Re-Bantuization of the Swahili Language”, Africa 4,

no. 1 (1931): 82–84. 178 See his account of the First World War, Roehl, Ostafrikas Heldenkampf . 179 Hunter, “Language”, 611; on the English-German debate, see also Aloo Osotsi

Mojola, “The Swahili Bible in East Africa from 1844 to 1996: A Brief Survey with Special Reference to Tanzania”, in The Bible in Africa: Transactions, Trajectories, and Trends, ed. Gerald O. West and Musa W. Dube (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 517.

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Islam, it is hardly surprising that Roehl’s project, seemed rather outlandish to British translators, who instead embarked on their own Swahili Union Version, with the involvement of younger German missionaries.180

3.4 Race and Language: Colonial Religion and the Disavowal of Hybridity As an amalgamate of a Bantu language and a substantial Arabic lexicon, the linguistic and cultural and identity of the Kiswahili language has remained contested until the present, with some scholars emphasising intercultural hybridity as the essential birthmark of the language while others profile the Arabic influence as a secondary and lexically limited development of an established Bantu language.181 This debate continues to have a religious component as well. In a recent article on “Postcolonial Translation Theory and the Swahili Bible,” the theology professor and United Bible Society translation consultant Aloo Osotsi Mojola offered a critical reappraisal of Kiswahili Bible translations, which still echoed German missionary concerns.182 Noting that “translations are always embedded in cultural and political systems, and in history,” Mojola reviewed the history of the Kiswahili Bible from Johann Ludwig Krapf to the present with a particular interest in how and why translators appeared to rely more on terminology derived from Arabic roots than Bantu ones. Mojola hailed the Karl Roehl Bible as the only exception to this, but unfortunately, in Mojola’s estimation, this translation was brushed aside by British missionary and Bible Society politics and ultimately forgotten. His arguments culminate in an indictment of the Biblia Habari Njema, a recent, ecumenical translation into “common Swahili.” Mojola faults this

180 See Mojola, 518. 181 For an example of this contrast, compare Mazrui, Swahili; and Thomas Spear,

“Early Swahili History Reconsidered”, The International Journal of African Historical Studies 33, no. 2 (2000): 257–290. 182 Aloo Osotsi Mojola, “Postcolonial Translation Theory and the Swahili Bible”, in

Postcoloniality, Translation, and the Bible in Africa, ed. Musa W. Dube and R.S. Wafula (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2017), here 50. This chapter is a republication from an earlier version of the chapter in a less accessible United Bible Society Publication, Gosnell Yorke and Peter Renju, eds., Bible Translation & African Languages (Nairobi: Acton Publishers & UBS, 2004).

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translation for not following Roehl’s programme of “de-Arabising standard Swahili” and argues that this “would certainly have advanced the cause of inculturation or indigenization, at least as far as it relates to the current non-ethnic, non-Muslim current Swahili speaker who is now the majority target user.”183 Mojola’s intervention thus rehashes debates and stereotypes of Swahili and “Arab” identity that were already firmly lodged within the German colonial period. On the one hand, Mojola upholds a simple juxtaposition of an “Arab-Islamic” and a “Swahili Bantu” language and culture, an anachronism with considerable colonial history as this and the previous chapter have shown.184 From the first acquisitions of protectorates on the East African coasts, Germans profiled “Arabs” as an outside, foreign power, and attributed them with a detrimental or beneficial influence depending on the political argument made. This German notion of “Arabness” was a clichéd trope, overdetermined by stereotypes about race, religion, and slavery. As such, it was perfectly suited to mobilise the German public for colonial endeavours, but tended to lead to a serious misreading of the situation in East Africa, where “Arabness” signified a set of political networks and a sense of sophistication or culture as indicated by the Kiswahili term for culture, ustaarabu. In the early German debates, Islam was not an essential element of “Arabness” but both were increasingly conflated as missionaries opposed the colonial Kiswahili language policy with religious arguments. Here, too, Mojola echoes the colonial debate in his concerns about purging Kiswahili from “Arab-Islamic” influence so that it might adequately render Christian thought and culture. This was, of course, an essential missionary concern about the language from the beginning and drove some of them to push for the Romanisation of Kiswahili, instead of the long-established Aˇgam¯ı script. With most GEA missionaries soon pursuing their ideal of rendering Christianity in vernacular languages, it was left the government to universalise the originally missionary programme of Romanising Kiswahili as a way of countering its alleged conflation with Islam. When missionaries finally did adopt the language

183 Mojola, “Postcolonial Translation Theory”, 48–49. For an even more recent restatement of this argument, see Mojola, God Speaks. As Mojola also notes, the Roehl Bible later found ardent supporters in Tanzania, being reprinted in 1995 and 1999. 184 Mojola, “Postcolonial Translation Theory”, 51, emph. J.H.

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as well, they only did so for the price of a more radical “Bantuisation” programme, further solidifying the perception that the language was entangled with a foreign “Arabic-Islamic” that needed to be purged. In his Location of Culture, Homi Bhabha observed that hybridity was not “a problem of genealogy or identity between two different cultures,” but “a problematic of colonial representation.”185 Hybridity, in essence is “the effect of uncertainty that afflicts the discourse of power” in the demarcation of colonial difference.186 This is because of the displacement of an authoritative symbol, in Bhabha’s case the English book, into a sign of difference in the hands of “natives,” which leads to the discriminated subjects of colonial discourse becoming the “terrifying, exorbitant object of paranoid classification.”187 The application of symbols of colonial power—such as language or religion—become signs of colonial difference, of “native otherness,” which invites a reckoning with the nature of this difference. This reckoning is foreclosed however by the fact that colonial representation is a kind of fetishism that necessarily operates in stereotypes.188 The colonial recognition of an “other” sublimates an original anxiety over encountered differences in a stereotypical rendering of these differences, which in turn arrests the colonial subject: The stereotype is not a simplification because it is a false representation of a given reality. It is a simplification because it is an arrested, fixated form of representation that, in denying the play of difference […], constitutes a problem for the representation of the subject in significations of psychic and social relations.189

Bhabha’s remarks enable a theoretically saturated reading of the German appropriation of “Arabdom” and Kiswahili, but with an important difference to his South Asian observations. In GEA, hybridity, 185 Homi K. Bhabha, “Signs Taken for Wonders: Questions of Ambivalence and Authority Under a Tree Outside Delhi, May 1817”, in The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 114. 186 Bhabha, 113. 187 Bhabha, 113. 188 Homi K. Bhabha, “The Other Question: Stereotype, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism”, in The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 66–84. 189 Bhabha, 75.

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or the reckoning with the nature of difference, was not only enacted by European colonial representation, but had a longer history in the political, economic, and cultural dynamics of ustaarabu. In fact, the cosmopolitan situation on the coast can be rendered as a proleptic imitation of the colonial instantiation of hybridity that Bhabha describes: the ethnic variety of “Arabdom” in its Omani and Swahili representation had already eroded the cultural symbol of the Middle East. Bantu languages and Arabic had formed the transregional creole of Kiswahili, a language written in a “foreign” alphabet yet with a Bantu name for God. Colonial discourse on ethnic purity and linguistic identity thus was unsettled from the start. “Arabdom” and Kiswahili could only appear as “grotesque” African instantiations of the fetishes of nation, culture, and religion, which engendered even stronger stereotypical representations of both. Moreover, arresting such play of differences in a colonial stereotype requires its multiplication, or in Bhabha’s words: “the stereotype requires, for its successful signification, a continual and repetitive chain of other stereotypes.” Hence, “Arabdom” was defined by “Mohammedan fanaticism,” Semitic race, and the embodiment of the atrocities of slavery. The selective application of each of these tropes as the main rendering of “Arab” difference therefore enabled an adaptation of “Arabdom” to political circumstances and mobilisation requirements. The stereotyping of Kiswahili followed a similar pattern: its Aˇgam¯ı script could be “defective,” Semitic, or “Mohammedan,” and the language itself representative of “Bantu thought,” Islamic religiosity, or an intermediary “evolutionary” stage. The colonial production and activation of these stereotypes was not an even process, however, but became a contested site itself as this and the previous chapter have shown. In the conquest propaganda, the deployment of “Arabdom” was linked to differing colonial strategies and anxieties, which ultimately prevented the narrow rendering of the conquest war as Christian–Muslim conflict. After the establishment of colonial rule on top of ustaarabu, the discussions moved away from the reckoning with the hybrid nature of “Arabdom” to a discussion of the religious and cultural identity of Kiswahili as the language expanded its hold on the colony. Kiswahili, due to its predominance on the coast and along the caravan routes, was a likely candidate for colonial appropriation, and yet its hybrid nature unsettled the colonial gaze. Romanisation was one way

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to restore order, visually moving the language into the same European register applied to other Bantu languages and casting “Arabs” as foreigners by language, race, and religion. For missionaries, this was not enough, however, because in its hybrid idiomatic configuration Kiswahili disavowed the missionary discovery of the vernacular as a “primordial” pure language waiting for the translation of the Gospel. The language was already “occupied” by its incorporation of an Arabic lexeme for terms relevant to Christian cosmology and practice. It was here that a rift appeared between the missionary and administrative “civilising” regimes. While the former emphasised the cultural “originality” of vernacular languages, leaving Kiswahili by the Islamised coast and seeking to “redeem” the languages of the hinterland, the administration sought to align Kiswahili with the uniformity of the colonial apparatus once it was clear that German could not occupy its place. Both ideological regimes were undercut by practice. Despite the government’s contentions and heavy-handed interventions, Romanised Kiswahili remained far from supplanting “Islamic” Aˇgam¯ı, at least for the time being. Missionaries, in turn, were forced to recognise—in the mirror of Islam—the power of Kiswahili in the creation of a national religious public. Yet they only allowed this recognition for the price of foreclosing linguistic hybridity: the language could not stand for Christianity and Islam alike. In the triadic classification of language, race, and religion, this meant to separate Bantu from Arabic socio-linguistic complexes, even if this resulted in an idiosyncratic Christian language. The question of Kiswahili identity still haunts post-colonial Tanzanian scholarship, with Muslim linguists calling for a full embrace of Kiswahili’s Arabic-Bantu heritage as its universalising potential and Christian scholars arguing that its inland spread necessitated a marginalisation of “ArabicIslamic” influences.190 Mojola may well be right in his observation that “the forces set in train by Islamization, Arabization, Westernization, Christianization, Swahilization and now re-Bantuization are neither pure nor simple.”191 Yet a proper reckoning with these forces will

190 Mazrui and Zirimu, “Secularization”, 170; Mazrui, Swahili; Mojola, “Postcolonial Translation Theory”; Mojola, God Speaks. 191 Mojola, “Postcolonial Translation Theory”, 52.

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require a more thorough genealogy of their historical and historiographical entanglement with the colonial tropes of Islam in the “paranoid classification”192 of Arab and Swahili identities.

192 Bhabha, “Signs”, 113.

PART II

Colonial Instrumentality: Islam in the German “Civilising Mission”

[…] of course I am of the opinion that, generally speaking, Christianity would have to be of substantial cultural advantage to the Negro as well […] But the facts show, that it is extraordinarily difficult for the Christian missions to assert itself against the Mohammedans, because their views and their lifestyle are more adjusted to the Negro life. —Georg Ledebour (Social Democrats), German Reichstag, 13 February 1900 Whereas mission stations and schools were established mainly in the “heathen” interior, the construction of the state school system began, as the conquest and administration of the country had begun, in the coastal area dominated by Islam. The Germans had to seek intermediaries from amongst a more or less Islamized coastal population. —Koponen, Development for Exploitation, 1994, 504

CHAPTER 4

Slavery and Religion: From Anti-Islamic Abolitionism to Christian Serfdom

In his voluminous and meticulous study of German colonial policy, Juhani Koponen offered a thorough deconstruction of the German “development for exploitation” through highlighting its haphazard, brutal, and fragile nature and laying the groundwork for understanding its long-term effects on the Tanzanian economy.1 Yet his primary focus on economy and policy eclipses a central aspect of the German colonial notion of development: the ideological dimension of its “civilising mission,” rooted in concepts of cultural evolutionism and tropes about the development character of both Christianity and Islam. It was in these debates, that Christianity and Islam were framed and discussed in terms of their utility for colonial “development”—and as such became units of cultural, social, and economic analysis. This process was driven by a growing rift between missionaries and other parts of the colonial public, which emerged early on and drew on clichéd ideas about Islam, assertions of the cultural superiority of Christianity, and shared racist assumptions about Africans and “Arabs.” By and large, missionaries argued that only Christianity could bring about proper “civilisation” in Africa by gradually installing a European-Christian value system, whereas “Mohammedanism” would in the end destroy all 1 Koponen, Development.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_4

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attempts to bring culture. Their detractors, in turn, argued, that Islam was closer to “Negro life” or that in the least it represented a necessary intermediary step toward European “civilisation.” This and the following chapter study these “civilising” debates with regard to labour and education. The “labour issue” (Arbeiterfrage), as it was called in German colonial discourse, essentially revolved around the problem of generating a wage-dependent workforce from what was largely a subsistence economy with surpluses produced through slave labour. The colonial “civilising” logic transformed this economic problem into a moral one, drawing on racist tropes about “indolent” and “lazy” Africans in need of “labour training.” Almost immediately after conquest, a reappraisal of slavery and Islam set in, with both profiled as necessary transitory regimes in African “evolution” despite missionary protests that they were incompatible with “Christian civilising.” Debates of education revolved around German government schools for non-White children in predominantly Muslim towns. After a shortlived experiment with employing a mwalimu for Quranic literacy lessons, which was brought down by missionary opposition, these schools remained “secular” in that they offered no religious instruction. This was a novelty in the German Empire and a constant bone of contention, with missionaries arguing that these schools of aiding the spread of Islam. Defenders of the government countered that the school’s “secularity” was a necessary intermediate step in readying education on the Islamic coast for Christianity. In the end, these debates about the character of German “civilising” were about the government’s Islam policy. Inasmuch as they rested on recycled tropes about Islam and ideologies of progress, they provided little insight into the socio-economic dynamics of GEA and mainly served to mask the brutality of German rule. Meanwhile the continuation of slavery and traditional education were attributed with religious significance, further hardening inherited stereotypes of Islam.

4.1 The Quick Rise and Fall of the German Anti-Slavery Movement While in foreign politics the abolition of the “Arab” slave trade was a useful tactical device in negotiations with England, its real utility lay on the domestic front. Here it enabled a broad coalition for a German intervention in East Africa, which consisted of colonial advocates, missionaries,

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financiers, military, politicians, and the wider interested public. This coalition was forged right around the time of the “Arab Revolt” with a single purpose: to overcome parliamentary resistance to colonial endeavours and release the funds for war. It then unravelled as quickly as it had begun. Originally, the German government’s position on slavery was decidedly non-interventionist. When in 1885 the consul Gerhard Rohlfs in Zanzibar suggested to use the German corvette Gneisenau for disrupting the slave trade as a way of bolstering German authority in the region, Bismarck famously replied: “[…] the slaves are none of your business. You are to strive for friendship and transit.”2 This statement came only three weeks after the conclusion of the Berlin Conference, whose General Act mandated the signatory powers to suppress the slave trade by all means.3 Still three years later, in August 1888, Bismarck brusquely rejected Cardinal Lavigerie’s campaign to fight slave raids in Africa and refused even a general statement of support for what he called a “French-Catholic” cause.4 Only a month on, however, the coastal revolt changed political calculations. As Bismarck tried out the abolitionist cause in his communication with London, the colonial press followed suit. Already the first comment on the rebellion in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung foregrounded slavery and denied the existence of religious conflict. Arguing that the “Arab world” was afraid of “European civilising powers,” the paper’s editor Gustav Meinecke offered the following analysis: This is only a matter of trading interests, since there is no religious issue that would prompt bitterness between the followers of different religions. These Arab traders, being lukewarm Ibadites and Shafiites, make little propaganda for Islam, and for the time being, one does not have to fear anything in this regard in East Africa. The slave-trading Arabs primarily pillage, murder, and scorch, but they do not proselytise. A population turned Mohammedan would no longer provide slaves.5

2 Schneppen, Sansibar, 84. 3 Klaus J. Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung in Deutschland und Kolonialkrieg in Deutsch-

Ostafrika 1888–1890: Bismarck und Friedrich Fabri”, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 3 (1977): 40. 4 Cf. Bade, 43–44. 5 Gustav Meinecke, “Die Lage in Ostafrika und die Araber”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung

1, no. 40 (6 October 1888): 317–318.

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An important figure in exploiting anti-slavery sentiment for domestic politics was Friedrich Fabri, former inspector of the Rhenish Mission Society and one of the foremost colonial advocates of the 1880s.6 Fabri had been one of the prime architects behind the DKG and was among the earliest supporters of Carl Peters’ endeavours in East Africa. From the summer of 1888 onward, Friedrich Fabri regularly drafted advisory opinions for the German government, having been introduced to Bismarck by Gustav von Goßler, Prussian Minister of Education.7 In early October, Fabri proposed in one of his missives to utilise the anti-slavery movement for mending the wounds of the Kulturkampf and thus drive the Catholic, mostly anti-colonial opposition of the Centre Party into supporting a German intervention in Africa.8 Less than a month later Fabri delivered a first proof of concept when on 27 October he convened a large Anti-Slavery Congress in Cologne, which saw the participation of clergy, politicians, military officers, industrialists, merchants, workers, and tradesmen alike. It was attended by a Catholic bishop and a Protestant superintendent and its unanimous resolution demanding a German intervention against the slave trade was echoed widely by similar conventions in other German towns during the following weeks.9 In December 1888 the Afrika-Verein deutscher Katholiken (Africa Society of German Catholics) was founded, which listed the suppression of the slave trade and slavery as its first goal and was another proof for the usefulness of anti-slavery rhetoric for mobilising the Centre Party. Meanwhile, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung flanked Fabri’s efforts with frequent reports about the new anti-slavery movement.10 The anti-slavery rhetoric now moved to parliamentary politics. Bismarck inserted an anti-slave trade cause into the emperor’s speech for the new legislative session, given by Wilhelm on 22 November.11 The speech praised England for “winning over Africa for Christian civilisation” 6 For a detailed study on Fabri and his role in the German anti-slavery movement, see Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung”; Bade, Fabri. 7 Bade, 510. 8 Fabri, untitled expertise from early October 1888, BArch R1001/6924, 26–34; cf.

Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung”, 44. 9 For an extensive report, see Deutsche Kolonialzeitung, “Antisklaverei-Bewegung”, 350–352. Cf. Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung”, 46–48. 10 A useful list of article references can be found in Bade, 45n48. 11 VerhRT 7/IV, vol. 105, 22 November 1888, 1–2.

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through the suppression of the slave trade and hinted at the upcoming joint endeavour of a naval blockade. Next came the East Africa White Book, a dossier of reports and government correspondence about the coastal rebellion, presented to the Reichstag on 6 December 1888.12 The selection of clippings centred on the anti-slave trade cause. Instead of a chronological order, the documents were sorted into three parts: reports about he situation on the coast (documents 1–20), texts focusing on Lavigerie’s anti-slavery advocacy and the Cologne convention against the slave trade (21–25), and a selection of writings from the German diplomatic initiative with England to bring about the naval blockade (26–44). By omitting England’s initial reticence toward the German anti-slavery argument, the dossier left the impression that the “Arab slave trade” had been at the centre of negotiations all along rather than just a tactical device employed by Bismarck. The hypocrisy of the government’s sudden pivot toward anti-slavery causes was not lost on the wider German press, with several articles pointing out the ideological transparency with which the White Book pressed for military intervention.13 Yet the White Book achieved its primary aim. Behind the scenes, Friedrich Fabri and his son Timotheus managed to solicit the support of the Centre Party by convincing its leadership to spearhead the initiative.14 On 14 December, Centre Party’s Speaker Ludwig von Windthorst introduced a three-point resolution, which echoed the king’s speech in its promise of full parliamentary support to ending the slave trade in order to “win over Africa for Christian civilisation.”15 In his introductory remarks, Windthorst referenced the emperor’s speech and the White Book and openly celebrated the new alliance with Bismarck on the issue of anti-slavery.16 This was all Bismarck needed for his East African military expedition. Once the resolution had passed he invoked it explicitly in requesting two million German Reichsmark for “measures to repress the slave trade and

12 VerhRTAnl 7/IV, vol. 108, no. 41: Aufstand in Ostafrika, 389–417. 13 The government collected eleven newspaper clippings from 9 to 12 December, see

BArch R1001/956, 32–44. 14 For the somewhat intricate politics behind this, See Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung”, 51–54. 15 VerhRTAnl 7/IV, vol. 108, no. 27: Antrag Dr. Windthorst, 182. 16 VerhRT 7/IV, vol. 105, 14 December 1888, 303–305.

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to protect the German interests in East Africa.”17 The bill foresaw the installation of an Imperial Commissioner to lead these efforts, and the chosen candidate, Hermann von Wissmann, introduced his general plan for conquest and occupation in parliament.18 The rapid move to colonial conquest was controversial, and Windthorst himself criticised this expansion of the original remit of his resolution. Yet the government pressed ahead. Bismarck himself rose to defend the draft, and the DKG published a front-page resolution against slave trade in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung on the day of the first reading.19 The bill cleared the Reichstag within days and Wissmann began to prepare his conquest mission. As soon as this legislative victory had been achieved, the architects of the short-lived German anti-slave trade platform began an abrupt pivot away from “Arabs” and abolitionism toward “Negroes” and their alleged need to be “civilised” and “taught to work.” Already in April 1889, Fabri published a closing assessment of the anti-slavery movement in his book Fünf Jahre deutscher Kolonialpolitik: Rück-und Ausblicke (Five Years of German Colonial Policy: Retrospects and Prospects).20 With remarkable transparency, he discussed how Bismarck had employed the anti-slavery movement as a “parliamentary tactic” and seemed eager to move on.21 The anti-slavery movement, Fabri contended, had been ebbing down for three months (i.e. since the adoption of the Windthorst resolution), and argued that this was due to earlier hyperbole and the absence of “actually attainable goals.”22 He now attacked Lavigerie for underestimating the powerful economic forces behind the Arab slave trade and neglecting that slavery was an “African, popular institution,” that “cannot be at all repressed by force, but can only gradually be replaced and overcome by a higher civilisation.”23 17 VerhRT 7/IV, vol. 108, 71: Entwurf eines Gesetzes zur Bekämpfung des Sklavenhandels und Schutz der deutschen Interessen in Ostafrika, 491–493. 18 VerhRT 7/IV, vol. 105, 26 January 1889, 604–606. 19 “Gegen den Sklavenhandel!” Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 4 (26 January 1889):

25–26. The wording of the resolution had been agreed with the government, see Bade, “Antisklavereibewegung”, 51. 20 Friedrich Fabri, Fünf Jahre deutscher Kolonialpolitik: Rück- und Ausblicke (Gotha: Friedrich Andreas Perthes, 1889). 21 Fabri, 53. 22 Fabri, 53–54. 23 Fabri, 50–51.

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Thus within months of the first anti-slave trade congress in Cologne, Fabri attempted to shift the German public to the proto-developmentalist rhetoric that had characterised the second generation of British abolitionists in the nineteenth century.24 Echoing David Livingstone, Fabri now called for investments in infrastructure and commerce, spear-heading the demand for a railway from the coast to the African Great Lakes, a farfetched vision not be realised until 1914. As Fabri thus attempted to transform popular anti-slavery sentiment into a sustained investment in German colonialism, he began to exhibit a remarkable tolerance toward the institution of slavery itself. Though he acknowledged a continued need to suppress slave raiding and large-scale slave trade, he recommend that European powers should not seek to abolish “slavery as a social institution” but only limit its “possible hardships and cruelty.”25 With its main architect moving on, it is of little surprise that the second AntiSlavery Congress in Cologne in 1889 ended with a rather timid resolution expressing trust in the German government’s efforts.26 The Deutsche Kolonialzeitung once again followed suit, beginning an equally radical, albeit more carefully calibrated, pivot on abolition. A subtle first step in this direction was an article of February of 1889 which floated a more benevolent view of “Arabs” and slavery in the guise of a foreign opinion.27 A few weeks later a three-part editorial on abolitionism and freed-slave villages followed, which highlighted the failures of various such measures in other territories and concluded that the most crucial problem was how to “accustom the Negro to work.”28 In May of 1889, August Seidel, Secretary of the DKG, contended that the AntiSlavery Committee of the DKG had never called for the abolition of

24 See e.g. Thomas Fowell Buxton, The African Slave Trade and Its Remedy (London: John Murray, 1840); for analysis, see Jörg Haustein, “Development as a Form of Religious Engineering? Religion and Secularity in Development Discourse”, Religion 51, no. 1 (2021): 19–39. 25 Fabri, Fünf Jahre, 55. 26 “Gegen den Sklavenhandel”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 38 (7 December 1889):

354. 27 “Die Araber in Mittelafrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 7 (16 February 1889): 51–53. 28 “Was soll mit den befreiten Sklaven geschehen?” Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 12, 16 & 19 (23 March–11 May 1889): 122.

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slavery but only of the slave trade.29 He argued that due to the “Negro’s contempt for work” and the low social standing of slaves, full abolition would be against the interest of slaves, slave owners, the “civilised nations,” and Christianity and humanity. The “moral and intellectual training [Erziehung ] of the black race will still take centuries,” he claimed, and must be carried out by Christian missions.30 Seidel also asserted that, with some qualifications, the “position [Stellung ] of a slave is often not much worse than that of our rural servants,”31 which effectively located calls for abolitionism on the progressive side of German politics of class and social change. Similar opinion pieces followed as the German colonial view on slavery and abolition had come full circle (Fig. 4.1).32

4.2 Islam and Christianity in the “Civilising” Regime Alongside this pivot from abolitionism to “civilising for labour” came a reappraisal of “Arab” and Islamic influence. The earliest example of this was an article by Georg Schweinfurth, botanist, Africa explorer, and member of the DKG, who in 1890 mused how the “blind fatalism” of “the Mohammedan” might be beneficial to German rule. Only five years prior, he had praised the DOAG for aiming to end the slave trade by removing “all Arabs from their territories and force foreign Musulmans […] to leave the land,”33 yet now he contended that an “outward reconciliation” with Arabs would be necessary for all “civilising” endeavours. The ideological continuity underneath this change of view was his racist

29 August Seidel, “Über afrikanische Sklaverei”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 20 (18 May 1889): 157–159. 30 Seidel, “Afrikanische Sklaverei”, 158. 31 Seidel, 158–159. 32 Paul Reichard, “Was soll mit den befreiten Sklaven geschehen?” Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 33 (28 September 1889): 281–285; for other reactions, see “Korrespondenzen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 22 (1 June 1889): 174–175; “Korrespondenzen: Die Unterbringung der befreiten Sklaven”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 24 (15 June 1889): 190–191. 33 “Redaktionelle Korrespondenz: Dr. Schweinfurth über die zivilisatorische Aufgabe in Afrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 18 (15 September 1885): 594.

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Fig. 4.1 Revisionist propaganda card: “Hermann von Wissmann freed German East Africa from slavery” (date unknown). Slavery was never abolished during German rule34

dismissal of African civilisation as utterly primitive.35 In 1885 he had advocated to replace slavery with serfdom (Hörigkeit ) rather than abolition, and now he praised the “Arab” combination of “tribute, tax and forced labour” as key to instilling “obedience.” Only one issue later, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung published a lead article about “The Arab Question and Emin Pasha,” which argued that it had been a mistake in the “newer German civilising endeavours” to 34 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, no. 023-0098-68. 35 On this, see also Christoph Marx, “Der Afrikareisende Georg Schweinfurth und der Kannibalismus: Überlegungen zur Bewältigung der Begegnung mit fremden Kulturen”, Wiener Ethnologische Blätter 34 (1989): 69–97.

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disregard the “Arab element” and its interests.36 After conquest it would be important to reassure the “Arab and Arabised coastal population” that they could continue to live under “German dominion in accordance with their ancient law and traditional customs” as long as these did not contradict European views. The remainder of the article went on to discuss the integration Islamic law into German governance before musing about the usefulness of Emin Pasha as a bridge-builder toward Islam. By now Emin Pasha had been “rescued” by Henry Morton Stanley and was soon employed in German service, leading an expedition back to the interior from April 1890. Establishing himself first at Tabora, he hoped to win over the town’s Omani traders and rulers for the establishment of German rule.37 Emin wrote in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung that it would be “a folly to think about driving out the Arabs from Middle Africa” and argued that they could be “befriended by a suitable treatment, a measure of consideration for religious and other preconceptions, advancement of legitimate trade, and a stringent love of justice.”38 This would mean to limit German anti-slavery efforts to eradicating large-scale trade and slave hunting, while retaining slavery itself, which was “too closely tied up with religious and tribal institutions” and necessary for “work and civilisation.” Failing to do so would risk unrest under the “disguise of religious fanaticism as it has happened in the Sudan.”39 The Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , which had less than two years prior cited the Mahdist Rebellion in the Sudan as a reason to go to war with the “Arabs,” threw its weight behind Emin Pasha’s suggestions in a front-page appeal.40 When Wissmann’s administration chastised Emin for defying orders and operating outside his brief, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung argued that the government was putting Emin Pasha’s life in danger by not supporting his strategic embrace of “Arabs.”41 These 36 “Die Araberfrage und Emin Pascha”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 3, no. 6 (15 March 1890): 66–67. 37 Jones, Rescue, 383–384. 38 “Korrespondenzen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 3, no. 25 (29 November 1890): 302. 39 Deutsche Kolonialzeitung, “Korrespondenzen”, 302. 40 Deutsche Kolonialzeitung; “Aufruf zur Unterstützung der Vorschläge Emin Paschas”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 3, no. 26 (13 December 1890): 307–309. 41 “Emin und Wißmann”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung, 3, no. 27 (27 December 1890): 320–322. For context on Emin Pasha’s risky endeavour that cost him his life, see Jones, Rescue, 392–395.

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comments signalled the completion of the paper’s editorial pivot from citing “Arab religion and custom” as reason for conquest in 1888 to advocating “Arab” integration only two years later. Alongside this pivot, slavery had moved from a humanitarian cause for military intervention to a mostly benign institution that could only be abolished through gradual economic and cultural integration. For a short while, the paper continued to print articles, predominantly from missionary quarters, which espoused the earlier anti-“Arab” and abolitionist stance and advocated missionary endeavours as an antidote.42 Yet these were soon relegated to missionary periodicals only, while the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung continued to explore ways to integrate “Arabs” in its “civilising” narrative with an emphasis on the role of Islam and Islamic law.43 Missionaries now came under direct pressure to demonstrate their use for colonial “civilising.” An early and radical example of this was a racist article by the explorer and colonial activist Paul Reichard, who called for the subjugation of liberated slaves to forced labour and criticised missionary work with freedmen as maladjusted and unsuccessful.44 The only positive example Reichard cited was the BMW missionary Alexander Merensky, whose work in South Africa had “succeeded” to “civilise” through the introduction of coercive measures. Merensky was well known in colonial circles, not least because of his submission to the 1885 DOAG essay contest “How best to train the Negro for plantation work,” which had won first prize.45 Here, Merensky had argued for coercion and the outright subjection of Africans to the status of serfdom in order to solve 42 E.g. Alexander Merensky, “Was sagt der Koran über Sklavenjagden und Sklaverei?” Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 2, no. 17 (27 April 1889): 132–133; “Das Vordringen der Sklavenhändler in Zentral-Afrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 4, no. 6 (20 May 1891): 69–72; “Korrespondenzen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 4, no. 6 (20 May 1891): 79– 80; v. C., “Was thun wir Deutsche gegen den Sklavenhandel? Eine Frage an das Gewissen des deutschen Volks”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 4, no. 7 (27 May 1891): 91– 92; “Rede des Herrn Superintendenten Merensky”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 6, no. 7 (24 June 1893): 87–88. 43 See e.g. Deutsche Kolonialzeitung; “Die Sklaverei auf Sansibar und Pemba”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 20 (18 May 1895): 153–154; “Die Aufhebung der Sklaverei in Sansibar”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 10, no. 16 (17 April 1897): 153; “Die Aufhebung der Sklaverei in Sansibar”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 11, no. 31 (4 August 1898): 280–281. 44 Reichard, “Was soll”; cf. also Paul Reichard, “Einiges über afrikanische Sklaverei und Arabertum”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 1, no. 47 (24 November 1888): 377–379. 45 Alexander Merensky, Wie erzieht man am besten den Neger zur Plantagen-Arbeit? (Berlin: Walter & Apolant, 1886); For his ideological and institutional connections with

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the “labour issue” arising from an economy largely based on subsistence farming. Merensky stopped short of making missions subservient to the colonial cause, but claimed that “true civilisation is only possible on the basis of Christianity, and it will only develop where Christian powers are coming to bear on the life of the nation and the individual.”46 By contrast, “if the Negroes adopted Mohammedanism, they will be lost for real development and true civilisation.”47 This assumed role of (Protestant) Christianity in German “civilising” was soon challenged by none other than Commissioner Wissmann himself. In June 1890, the Münchener Allgemeine Zeitung published excerpts from an interview with him, in which he hailed Catholic missions as a “cornerstone of civilisation” because they properly introduced “Christian influence, culture and morality,” whereas Protestant missions hindered his work through political intrigue.48 These remarks were highly provocative, coming from a Prussian Protestant and being amplified in a paper from Catholic Bavaria.49 Predictably German Protestants jumped into the fray. Gustav Warneck, the doyen of Protestant Mission Studies, was the first to respond in the Berlin daily Tägliche Rundschau. Warneck had been highly critical of missionary involvement in colonial causes because he feared it might make Christianity subservient to other political and economic causes.50 His staunch anti-Catholicism had also positioned him against the 1888 anti-slavery movement: With its foremost proponent being Cardinal Lavigerie, Warneck feared a “medieval-style sword

colonial circles, see Ulrich van der Heyden, “Alexander Merensky und die “Zivilisierung” der Afrikaner”, Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 41, no. 6 (1993): 508–512. 46 Merensky, Wie erzieht man, 35; cf. Heyden, “Merensky”, 510–511; Schubert, Der schwarze Fremde, 117–119. 47 Merensky, Wie erzieht man, 37. 48 “Deutsches Reich”, Münchener Allgemeine Zeitung 26 June 1890, 2–3. 49 They were not wholly inconsistent with his earlier comments though, see Wissmann,

Unter deutscher Flagge, 269. 50 See e.g. Gustav Warneck, Welche Pflichten legen uns unsere Kolonien auf? Ein Appell an das christliche deutsche Gewissen (Heilbronn: Henninger, 1885); Gustav Warneck, “Zur Beurtheilung der Zeichen der Zeit”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 13 (1886): 3–9. On his life and theology, see Michael Bergunder, “Warneck, Gustav (1934–1910)”, Theologische Realenzyklopädie (2003): 439–441.

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mission” which would harm the Protestant cause.51 Now seeing a Prussian major praise Catholic missions would only have heightened his suspicions. Beyond defending the Protestant missions against Wissmann’s attacks, his response delivered a broad attack against Catholic missions. It was a mistake to call them a “cornerstone of civilisation,” he argued, because far from ransoming slaves, they “bought children” who then remained in a status of serfdom (Hörigkeit ) in the Catholic freedman villages, whereas the Protestant mission was focused on raising independent Christians “through the power of the convincing word.”52 Merensky offered a similar response in the Neue Preußische Zeitung , even as he had been a vocal supporter of the anti-slavery cause and had used it for anti-Islamic propaganda.53 In a strange forgetfulness of his own writings, he argued that far from providing a “truly Christian mission,” Catholic freedman villages were built on “compulsion and habituation” and resembled a continuation of slavery. Moreover, the “stage of mental development” of African nations was not as low as often contended, which is why the Protestant missionary method, based on “upholding the principle of free will,” was to be preferred.54 Wissmann reacted with a letter to the Prussian conservative paper Die Post. While he extended an olive branch to his missionary critics by noting that his remarks about Protestants were directed at English missions, he doubled down on his assertion about Catholic missions being a higher “civilising factor” (Kulturfaktor).55 Africans or “wild nations in general” were on such a “low level of civilisation” that one could not expect them to understand the “religion of love.” Rather the first step was to “raise the savage to a higher form of being” before attempting to instil some 51 Gustav Warneck, “Ein moderner Kreuzzug”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 15 (1888): 502; see also Gustav Warneck, “Die deutschen Benediktiner gegen den Kreuzzug des französischen Kardinals”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 16 (1889): 471–476; Gustav Warneck, “Missionsrundschau”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 16 (1889): 376–396. 52 Hermann von Wissmann, Antwort auf den offenen Brief des Herrn Dr: Warneck über die Thätigkeit der Missionen beider christlichen Confessionen (Berlin: Verlag von Walther & Apolant, 1890), 32–34 (appendix 1). 53 Alexander Merensky, “Das Urtheil des Reichskommissars Wißmann über römische und evangelische Missionserfolge in Afrika”, Neue Preußische Zeitung, 5 July 1890; on his anti-slavery stance, see Merensky, “Der mohammedanische Gegenstoß”; Merensky, “Was sagt der Koran”. 54 Merensky, “Urtheil”. 55 Wissmann, Antwort, 35–37 (appendix 2).

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understanding of religion, which is why the “labora et ora” approach of Catholic missions and the “outwardness” of its cult were the right approach as opposed to the “ora et labora” culture of the Protestants.56 These comments earned further missionary reproach from Franz Michael Zahn and once again Gustav Warneck, who now published an open letter to Wissmann.57 Warneck argued that “civilising” was not the main task of missions, but of colonists, and furthermore, that the missionary method must rest on the preaching of the gospel as a way to bring about “an inner transformation of the heathen which becomes the moral impulse toward work.”58 Wissmann offered a final rejoinder in a specially published and fairly extensive letter to all three mission theologians, which addressed numerous points of the debate without ceding ground. He concluded by reiterating the racist foundations of his “labora first” position: The “Bantu negro” lacked “seriousness” and his “downright careless superficiality” provided the “greatest hindrance to religion and culture.” This not only pertained to Christianity, but Wissmann contended that “even the introduction of Mohammedanism, so easily comprehended from the standpoint of the savage, has failed due to the superficiality of the Bantu Negro.”59 A few years later, others went further and diagnosed an advantage of Islam over Christianity in colonial “civilising.” In an article in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung titled “Mission or Islam?” editor Gustav Meinecke commented on a rising trend of dismissing the “civilising work” of Christianity in comparison to that of Islam. Employing crude racist language, he noted that he could understand how the “reservedness of the Mohammedans” was preferable to the “clumsy intimacy [Vertraulichkeit ] of the trousered Negro [Hosenneger],” but countered that in the end Islam would make Africans “almost entirely unsuitable to developing

56 Wissmann, 36. The Münchener Allgemeine reprinted Wissmann’s comments, “Telegraphische Nachrichten: Privattelegramme der Allgemeinen Zeitung” (9 July 1890). 57 Gustav Warneck, “Zur Abwehr und Verständigung: Ein Wort der Erwiderung auf die Urteile des Herrn Majors von Wißmann über die evangelischen und katholischen Missionen”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 17 (1890): 346–348; For Zahn’s comment, see Wissmann, Antwort, appendix 3, 46–52. 58 Warneck, “Abwehr und Verständigung”, 348. 59 Wissmann, Antwort, 29–30.

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a higher mental culture.”60 Meinecke’s article singled out the German geographer Siegfried Passarge, who had accused Christian missionaries of “turning the poor Negroes’ heads with their misunderstood doctrines of equality and fraternity in Christ” and advocated brutal discipline as the only means of “raising up” Africans.61 Passarge defended himself in a subsequent issue by shifting the focus away from religion and onto race: In the eyes of my opponent, Religion is the skeleton; to which the national character, and with it the abilities of a nation, adapt. In other words: Christianity creates this kind of people and nations, and Islam creates that kind. My opinion is the exact opposite: the national character is the skeleton, and religion adapts to it.62

Even within the occident, Passarge continued, Christianity was not the same if one compared its “Germanic” version to that of the “Neapolitan.” Islam, in turn, was the “product of the majority of the Oriental nations,” and Africans “were mentally so much closer” to them than to Europeans. Still, even Islam would become little more than “pure Fetish worship” among Africans and would only “outwardly survive” due to this “mental proximity,” whereas Christianity could not. In a short rejoinder, Meinecke agreed with Passarge that Africans would never “reach the level” of Europeans, but contended that Christianity was still the most suitable and least dangerous religion to dominate them. Implicitly countering the impression that he had defended Christian missions, he emphasised: Above all, we as colonial politicians must direct the development of nations that we want to dominate and whose energy we want to harness for the grand goals of Germanness along paths that help reach this goal. It makes no difference to the mere colonial politician, whether this goal is reached via Christianity or via Islam, as long as it is reached at all. For us the

60 Gustav Meinecke, “Mission oder Islam”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 45 (9 November 1895): 355. 61 Meinecke, 356. 62 Siegfried Passarge and Gustav Meinecke, “Mission oder Islam?” Deutsche Kolo-

nialzeitung 8, no. 50 (14 December 1895): 394.

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question therefore is how we can reach the goal of making the Negro subservient to our economic and national-political goals.63

This blunt comparison of Islam versus Christianity for colonial “civilising” highlights how far colonial discussions had shifted from the abolitionist rhetoric of the conquest platform. Though continuing to espouse the same nationalist and racist angle, the debate had shifted from “Arabs” to “Negroes” as the main inhibitors of “culture” and “civilisation.” The earlier geopolitical spectre of the “Arab” slaver as enemy of the Christian humanitarian efforts had given way to the goals of European exploitation and political domination as the discussion moved away from slavery and on to issues of governance and labour recruitment. Religion was now framed as a useful instrument in “civilising” and “labour training,” and slavery was merely indicative of the wrong approach to installing “serfdom,” now leveraged against a Christian rival or Islam.

4.3 Slavery in Missionary Campaigns and Parliamentary Debates The ideological rift between the brute utilitarianism of colonial labour regimes and the lofty “civilising” rhetoric of Christian missions continued to deepen in subsequent years, with the assessment of slavery forming one of the major grounds of divergence. For missionaries, the fight against slavery remained a cornerstone of publicity and fundraising efforts, even as slave markets and slave ransoming came to a halt. The tangible, quantifiable nature of slave ransoming work lent itself to very direct appeals, in particular to children. In 1890 the BMW sent out a special fundraising call for preachers and school teachers, which proposed concrete financial targets. Seeking to tap into abolitionist sentiment, the call suggested to direct the request “especially [to] our dear children,” asking them to “remember the poor black boys and girls, that are robbed from their parents and sold into slavery.”64 Likewise, the Benedictine’s juvenile magazine Das Heidenkind (The Pagan Child) regularly reported on ransomed slaves and appealed to children to donate:

63 Passarge and Meinecke. 64 ABMW 1/11123, emph. orig.

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You, too, dear children, can participate in the great work of liberation. Most of all, pray for your poor little black brothers and sisters and then give, give what you can give and what you are allowed to give.65

In an even more dramatic setting of this appeal, Das Heidenkind enclosed a colour inlay in 1896, which depicted two African children kneeling with folded hands over a banner that read: “Little brother, little sister, please do buy me!” (Fig. 4.2).66 The top-left corner of the poster echoes St. Paul’s dream in Acts 16, in which a Macedonian man prompted him to begin a missionary journey to Greece by begging: “Come over and help us!” The utility of these appeals extended far beyond fundraising as ransomed children were held up to their European counterparts as examples of Christian virtue. There was Cölestin, a devout, rescued boy at a Benedictine Mission station who pledged to become a missionary himself,67 or, in a darker turn of events, the ransomed child Johannes Al¯ı who died while accompanying an EMDOA missionary on furlough and was celebrated as “first fruit” of the mission “collected into the heavenly store houses.”68 Likewise, Das Heidenkind reported on the ransoming of seventy children and detailed for its readers how one child was gravely ill and baptised right away (and “indeed his blameless soul flew to heaven after only a few days”) while the others went on to celebrate their first Christmas with simple gifts in utmost “bliss.”69 These reports and appeals illustrate the double prong of the Christian “civilising mission”: European children were instructed on Christian character formation through the mirror image of their “rescued” African contemporaries. Both major confessions pooled anti-slavery resources in dedicated societies. On the Catholic side the Afrika-Verein deutscher Katholiken was

65 “Über den Loskauf von Sklavenkindern”, Das Heidenkind 3 (1890): 26. For further articles like this, see “Auf der Suche nach Sklavenkindern”, Das Heidenkind 5 (1892): 10, 13, 37, 68; “Aus der Benediktinermission in Dar-es-Salaam”, Das Heidenkind 6 (1892): 241–242; “Siebzig Sklavenkinder losgekauft”, Das Heidenkind 8 (1895): 54–56. 66 Inlay, Das Heidenkind 67 “Über den Loskauf”.

9, no. 2.

68 “Eine Erstlingsfrucht unserer ostafrikanischen Mission in die himmlischen Scheunen gesammelt”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 7, no. 6 (1893): 82–89. 69 “Siebzig Sklavenkinder”, 55.

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Fig. 4.2 “Little brother, little sister, please do buy me!” Poster in the Benedictine juvenile magazine Das Heidenkind advertising the ransoming of children, 189670 70 Inlay, Das Heidenkind 9, no. 2.

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founded in late 1888 as a result of the Cologne anti-slavery congress.71 It listed the “suppression of the slave trade and slavery” and the “civilisation of Negroes through conversion to Christianity” as its two main goals. Its monthly periodical Gott will es! (God wants it!) regularly presented its readers with news from the anti-slavery movement and funding appeals, and Catholic missionary periodicals advertised membership in the society.72 The funds collected by the Afrika-Verein were considerable and distributed among Catholic mission initiatives in German colonies, often in consideration of larger strategic goals.73 The Evangelischer Afrikaverein (Evangelical Africa Society) was founded in 1893 as a somewhat belated Protestant answer to the Catholic Society. Its stated goals were quite similar: “promoting spread of Christian civilisation and culture among the natives, […] advocating their human rights, and participating in eliminating the slave trade and slavery.”74 Like its Catholic counterpart, the Evangelischer Afrikaverein operated in close proximity to Protestant mission societies, but remained rather small in comparison. Initially, it focused on political advocacy in Germany, most importantly the passage of the Anti-Slave Trade Act in parliament in

71 Horst Gründer, Christliche Mission und deutscher Imperialismus: Eine politische Geschichte ihrer Beziehungen während der deutschen Kolonialzeit (1884—1914) unter besonderer Berücksichtigung Afrikas und Chinas (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1982), 58. The chairman of the Afrika-Verein was the Cologne Dome capitular Karl Hespers, who became leading voice in political advocacy against slavery in the coming years, see Bade, Fabri, 533–535; Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 139–144. 72 Humanus, “Menschenhandel und Menschenraub in Afrika”, Missions-Kalender, 1890, 139–154; see also Michael Weidert, “Solche Männer erobern die Welt.’ – Konstruktionen von Geschlecht und Ethnizität in den katholischen Missionen in Deutsch-Ostafrika, 1884–1918” (PhD thesis, Universität Trier, 2007), 77. 73 In 1889 over 340,000 Marks were collected, with larger donations made to two soci-

eties present in East Africa, the Benedictine Mission of St. Ottilien (100,000)—helping to recover their loss of Pugu during the coastal rebellion—and the Spiritan Fathers (30,000). Income declined somewhat in subsequent years, but still amounted to 170,000 Marks in 1891. See Afrika Verein deutscher Katholiken, “Bericht über die zweite Sitzung des Zentral-Vorstandes, gehalten am 19. Dezember im Erzbischöflichen Palais zu Köln”, Gott will es! 2, no. 1 (1890): 3–10; Afrika Verein deutscher Katholiken, “Bericht über die sechste Sitzung des Zentral-Vorstandes, gehalten im Erzbischöflichen Palais zu Köln am 25. Januar 1892”, Gott will es! 4 (1892): 97–119; on strategic spending, see Gründer, Christliche Mission, 198. 74 See Heinrich Schnee, ed., Deutsches Kolonial-Lexikon, 3 vols. (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1920), 593.

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1895.75 Later on it mobilised against the sale of spirits in the colonies and established a centre for ransomed children in Lutindi in the Usambara Mountains, which enabled the EMDOA to off-load its work with ransomed children to the Evangelischer Afrikaverein.76 In addition to the mobilisation of financial resources, ransomed slaves were also instrumental in setting up the first missionary communities in GEA in the form of freedman villages. As Rebekka Habermas has argued, this in effect turned missionaries into “actors and profiteers in the business of human trafficking.”77 The already mentioned article in Das Heidenkind about the ransoming of seventy children illustrates this assertion.78 The Benedictine Apostolic Prefect Maurus Hartmann had gone all the way to Lindi, where he stayed six weeks to find and “redeem” the children. Lindi had been an important hub in the East African caravan trade and had the highest proportion resident slaves among all the coastal towns.79 The depicted scene forms an eerie parallel to earlier slave markets, with “Arabs” aggressively “offering” children to the missionary and haggling with him over quantity and price per head. In one especially vivid exchange, Hartmann had resolved to conclude his business but was followed by a boy pleading incessantly and ultimately successfully: “please buy me, please buy me.”80 The “freedom” of the acquired children was a continuation of ownership as well: When children ran 75 See Das deutsche Reich und die Sklaverei in Afrika! Stenographischer Bericht der am 18. Januar 1895 in der Tonhalle zu Berlin auf Veranlassung des ev. Afrikavereins abgehaltene Versammlung (Leipzig: Verlag der akademischen Buchhandlung [W. Faber], 1895). 76 See Roland Löffler, “Sozialer Protestantismus in Übersee: Ein Plädoyer für die Integration der Äußeren in die Historiographie der Inneren Mission”, in Sozialer Protestantismus im Kaiserreich: Problemkonstellationen – Lösungsperspektiven – Handlungsprofile, ed. Norbert Friedrich and Traugott Jähnichen (Münster: Lit, 2005), 334–335; Sicard, Lutheran Church, 129–130; Edward N. Snyder, “Work not Alms: The Bethel Mission to East Africa and German Protestant debates over Eugenics, 1880–1933” (PhD thesis, University of Minnesota, 2013), 190; see also “Kisserawe – ein Heim für befreite Sklaven”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 8 (1894): 19–24, 36–41, 50–58, 66–72, 82–83, 114–120. 77 Rebekka Habermas, “Wissenstransfer und Mission: Sklavenhändler, Missionare und Religionswissenschaftler”, Geschichte und Gesellschaft 36 (2010): 276. 78 “Siebzig Sklavenkinder”. 79 Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 37, 62–65. 80 “Siebzig Sklavenkinder”, 54. This story was echoed by the above-mentioned 1896

inlay in the same magazine.

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away, Das Heidenkind reports, the “fugitives” were easily identified by the St. Benedict medal around their necks and “captured and returned (Fig. 4.3).”81 The work of the Spiritan Fathers in Bagamoyo also centred on ransoming children and raising them into a Christian community in spatial and cultural distinction to the town.83 As noted with Warneck’s comments above, this employment of freed slaves to build a Christian community was subject to Protestant critique, labelling Catholic

Fig. 4.3 Ransomed children at the mission of the Spiritan Fathers in Bagamoyo (date unknown)82

81 “Siebzig Sklavenkinder”. 82 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am

Main, no. 011-1201-17. 83 For an extensive discussion of this issue, see Kollman, Evangelization, 50, 166–192.

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missions as essentially a continuation of slavery. Yet Protestants equally utilised ransomed slaves for establishing their missions albeit less centred on the idea of freedman villages. The EMDOA readily admitted that their work in Tanga initially did not yield much “fruit” and would have continued to languish if they had not been entrusted by the administration with a “great flock [Schar] of freed slaves, especially women and children.” Likewise, when establishing their work in Kisarawe, Uzaramo, the EMDOA hoped that by bringing their freed-slave population there and helping them to “develop into new people, they might become a desirable example to the surrounding Zaramo.”84 While missionaries thus continued to foreground the fight against the slave trade in their activities, the German administration had all but given up on the high grounds of abolitionism. Almost immediately with the establishment of German rule, the government signalled the continuation of slavery and small-scale slave trade in sharp departure with British policy on Zanzibar.85 When ratifying the anti-slavery measures of the 1890 Brussels Conference Act, the government presented an essentially irrelevant anti-slave trade bill in July 1891.86 The bill outlawed slave raiding and the slave trade, but due to the legal constitution of the German colonies it only applied to Germans.87 Regulations pertaining to the “native” population were under executive prerogative, and neither the bill nor its commentary made any promises to outlaw slavery or even the slave trade for them. Parliamentary debate quickly turned to this problem.88 The head of the Colonial Department of the Foreign Office, Paul Kayser, asserted that much progress had been made in Germany’s anti-slavery measures but admitted that the “usual trading, selling, and giving away of individual slaves, as has been customary among the natives, is still continuing on until further notice.” German officials were to refrain from involvement 84 Sicard, Lutheran Church, 120. 85 For an unofficial proclamation of this policy in Bagamoyo, Fabian, Making Identity,

226–229. While the government denied responsibility of this particular proclamation, it exactly encapsulated what remained German policy: slaves were to remain in their status and could be traded locally, but not shipped across the sea. 86 VerhRTAnl 8/I, vol. 124, no. 501: Entwurf eines Gesetzes betreffend die Bestrafung des Sklavenhandels, 2800–3. 87 On this, see chapter 6, p. 191. 88 VerhRT 8/I, vol. 118, 17 November 1891, 2891–2896.

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in any legal dispute regarding slaves, which in Kayser’s estimation was enough to guarantee that Germany did not officially recognise slavery. Furthermore, he characterised domestic slavery as a “thoroughly beneficial institution, which is not perceived as oppressive and cannot be abolished without a major disruption of economic relations.”89 Opposition to this remarkably complacent stance was muted. The only response came from the Centre Party representative Viktor Rintelen, who offered no opposition in principle but bemoaned the lack of a clear timeline for abolition, since the “situation could not be reconciled with the principles of Christianity and humanity.”90 Yet Kayser had already forestalled this argument by invoking Karl Hespers, the leading Catholic anti-slavery campaigner of the time, who like Fabri contended that it was “madness” and argued that slavery was an “institution wholly conjoined with the character of the Negro” and could not be ended by bayonets but only “Christian morals.”91 As far as the government was concerned, the fight against slavery was now a missionary task. Kayser’s lack of ambition failed to convince in committee, however, and in the end the Reichstag sent the bill back to the government demanding a more comprehensive regulation of slavery in the German colonies.92 The administration delayed and deflected. Its new bill did not reach the Reichstag until 1895 and like its predecessor it did not apply to Africans or any other “coloured” inhabitants of the German protectorates. Once again, the government advised against a comprehensive regulation of slavery and advocated a slow and gradual approach for the “peaceful development of the protectorates.”93 Now firmer opposition arose. Social Democrats demanded full and immediate abolition while the conservative parties tried their best to keep the matter under executive prerogative. The Centre Party once again took an accommodating stance by calling for first legislative steps in preparation of gradual abolition.94 In the end, the government bill

89 VerhRT 8/I, vol. 118, 17 November 1891, 2892. 90 VerhRT 8/I, vol. 118, 17 November 1891, 2896. 91 VerhRT 8/I, vol. 118, 17 November 1891, 2892, 2895. 92 See the summary in, VerhRTAnl 9/III, vol. 141, no. 138: Entwurf eines Gesetzes

betreffend die Bestrafung des Sklavenraubes und Sklavenhandels, 683–684. 93 Ibid., 684. 94 VerhRT 9/III, vol. 140, 20 May 1895, 2349.

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passed, but with a Centre Party resolution attached, which demanded a bill regulating domestic slavery and debt bondage in preparation for their abolition.95 Once again, the government failed to respond to the parliamentary request, insisting that any regulation of domestic slavery would amount to its official recognition, thus contravening Germany’s obligations to international treaties. In fact, such a regulation did emerge only two years later in GEA when governor Eduard von Liebert issued a decree on slavery and manumission in order to address divergencies in how local district officers were handling the return of fugitive slaves.96 Liebert was aware that such a regulation was in contravention of the Brussels Act and therefore redefined slavery as serfdom (Hörigkeit ) in the opening paragraphs of his decree.97 Berlin only approved the guidelines under the condition that they would not be made public. Yet by 1901 newspaper reports emerged about the decree and sparked another debate in the Reichstag. While this debate closely followed the earlier party patterns,98 the government finally did issue an official short decree addressing slavery in GEA, based on Liebert’s already adopted regulations.99 Slaves were given the right to self-emancipate via a previously agreed payment and could also demand their freedom in the case of mistreatment. Furthermore, enslavement through debt bondage or other obligations was no longer recognised. Though the decree was published with the stated intent of “preparing the abolition of slavery in German East Africa,” it remained the only regulation on slavery for all of the

95 VerhRT 9/III, vol. 140, 22 May 1895, 2357–6; VerhRTAnl 9/III, vol. 142, no. 356: Abänderungs-Anträge, 1508. 96 For a detailed discussion of the decree and its political circumstances, see Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 145–151. 97 Deutsch, 146. 98 VerhRT 10/II, vol. 180, 11th March 1901, 1777–1794; VerhRT 10/II, vol. 181,

19th March 1901, 1981–2006; cf. Deutsch, 114–118. 99 See Deutsch, 150–151. For the text of the decree, see Kaiserliches Gouvernement von Deutsch-Ostafrika, ed., Die Landes-Gesetzgebung des Deutsch-Ostafrikanischen Schutzgebiets. Teil I: Systematische Zusammenstellung in Deutsch-Ostafrika geltenden Gesetze, Verordnungen usw. Mit einem Nachtrag, abgeschlossen am 24. Juli 1911, 2. Aufl. (Tanga/ Daressalam, 1911), 331–332.

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German colonial rule, apart from an amendment in 1904 that declared free all children born to slaves after 31 December 1905.100 In these debates, slavery was consistently reframed as a local tradition with benefits, rather than an “Arab” or “Mohammedan” custom as it had been in the conquest years. For missionaries in the colony, this was not quite the same. Ransoming slaves and work with freed children had been receding noticeably,101 but the ideological utility of slavery as a cause against Islam remained and rose back to the fore. An instructive example of this can be found in a Das Heidenkind article of 1899. After hardly any news had come forth about the work with ransomed children since the above-mentioned report of 1895, the magazine now told the story of a “failed slave robbery” at its station in Kurasini near Dar es Salaam.102 An adult male had been caught trying to lure two boys away from the station, and he had been given a beating by older inhabitants of the station. The rather thin facts of the story are wrapped in a narrative about Muslims stealing children to enslave them, and the perpetrator’s denials of such intentions is portrayed as a ruse in the “Mohammedan manner.” The article concludes: As is generally known, the slave trade has been ended and is forbidden in German East Africa like in all protectorates, and where it occurs from time to time, it is punished severely by the government. This ban is a thorn in the side of the Mohammedans, and wherever they find the opportunity, they secretly rob boys and girls in order to enslave them.103

This link between “Mohammedanism” and slavery became a regular part of missionary attacks on the government’s Islam policy. At the First Colonial Congress of 1902 Amandus Acker, a former missionary in Zanzibar and now head of the Spiritan convent and mission school in Knechtstedten, gave a presentation on the abolition of slavery, the 100 See Kaiserliches Gouvernement von Deutsch-Ostafrika, 331–332. 101 By the end of the 1890s, missionaries complaints about a lack of liberated children

led to a gubernatorial decree that neglected children should be picked up by the authorities and transferred to a mission station; Runderlaß of 4 March 1898, TNA G9/1, 135. The home for ransomed children in Lutindi run by the Evangelischer Afrikaverein also lost its relevance and was turned into psychiatric hospital at the governor’s request, See Snyder, “Work not Alms”, 190–192. 102 P. Magnus, “Ein mißglückter Sklavenraub”, Das Heidenkind 12 (1899): 184–185. 103 Magnus, 184.

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only contribution on this topic at the Congress.104 Acker’s presentation and the ensuing discussion made clear, however, that slavery was not his primary concern. Rather, he sought to utilise the issue to spark a discussion about the government’s stance on Islam, a religion he identified as the root cause of slavery: Slavery is so closely conjoined [verwachsen] with Mohammedanism in religious, moral, and economic respects, that one can probably say: Where there are Mohammedans, slavery reigns, and as long as Mohammedans exist, there will also be slaves.105

Acker elaborated on this contention at length and then went on to discuss German policy on Islam. He reassured his listeners that he was not suggesting to “eradicate Mohammedanism in the colonies by force,” but that the government should stop promoting Islam through its policies and employment practices. At the same time Acker realised that there was no political majority for an attack on the government Islam policy and hence built his (ultimately accepted) anti-slavery resolution on the promotion of infrastructure only.106 A similar dynamic unfolded at the Second Colonial Congress in 1905: when missionaries attacked the German Islam policy with arguments about slavery and Christian “civilising,” they lost the wider public and became the object of ridicule.107 The joint conquest platform built on the conflation anti-slavery, Islamophobia and vague “civilising” sentiments had long since ceased to exist. Even a decade later, when missionaries had made considerable headway in promoting their “Islamic danger” argument,108 they failed to reconnect anti-Muslim sentiments with the fight against slavery. This can be seen in the Reichstag debates of 1912–1914 when abolition rose to

104 Amandus Acker, “Über einige Mittel zur Abschaffung der Sklaverei”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1902 zu Berlin am 10. und 11. Oktober 1902 (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1903), 452–459. 105 Acker, 453. 106 See Acker, 459. When the Benedictine monk Enschoff tried to insert an amendment

addressing Islam policy, this was voted down, Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1902 zu Berlin am 10. und 11. Oktober 1902 (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1903), 836–837. 107 See below, p. 178. 108 See part IV.

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the fore one last time. By then a strong anti-colonial opposition had emerged consisting of Centre Party and Social Democrats, who now formed the largest parliamentary party. In the 1912 budget debate, the Centre Party spokesman for colonial affairs, Matthias Erzberger, had tabled a (non-binding) resolution that the government abolish slavery by 1920, which was passed with the support of Social Democrats and even some conservative parliamentarians.109 When following up on the matter in the 1913 budget debate, Erzberger tried to leverage the rising anti-Islam arguments for abolition. He argued that Islam was the main support on which the institution of slavery rested, and contended that the toleration of the institution meant that the government gave a certain advantage to Islam instead of Christian missions.110 Yet this strategy clearly failed. The government’s representative, the colonial secretary Solf, latched onto these comments and noted that owing to international treaties the government could hardly take any measures against Islam. He then merely reiterated the government’s stance that slavery could only be abolished gradually at the administration’s discretion and that Africans were on such a low level of “civilisation” that coercion would remain necessary to make their labour subservient to “white intelligence.”111 More importantly, Erzberger’s comments on Islam split the anticolonial opposition. The spokesperson of the Social Democrats took issue with Erzberger’s comments about Islam and his advocacy of missionary “civilising.” He asserted that the German Empire was to “make neither Christian nor Mohammedan propaganda, but it has only one mission: to lead the natives to a higher level of civilisation.”112 In the next annual budget debate of 1914 Erzberger did not repeat his mistake. He now made no reference to Islam and kept the Social Democrats on board as he continued to push for a full abolition date. The Reichstag held the government to account for four days on this matter and in the end sent

109 VerhRT 13/I, vol. 285, 1 May 1912, 1599. 110 VerhRT 13/I, vol. 288, 6th March 1913, 4309. 111 VerhRT 13/I, vol. 288, 6th March 1913, 4334–4338. 112 VerhRT 13/I, vol. 288, 6th March 1913, 4355.

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a clear signal that it would use its budgetary powers to enforce the 1920 abolition deadline.113

4.4 Bureaucratised Manumission and Coercive Labour Regimes With the First World War and the end of German colonial rule, the Reichstag’s threats turned out to be irrelevant: Germany never came to abolish slavery in its colonies. Slavery in GEA did decline, but as Jan-Georg Deutsch has shown, this was mainly due to the “supply side” drying up as a consequence of the suppression of slave raiding and large-scale slave trade, whereas the “unmaking of slavery was […] largely left to the slaves themselves.”114 Thus, the economic and cultural changes that were sparked by colonial rule were far more relevant to the institution of slavery than any policy debates or arguments about “civilising” regimes. In fact, the latter merely enabled the political system to avoid accountability through the redefinition of slavery as “serfdom” and the invocation of racist tropes in its visions of “labour training.” A proper reckoning with slavery and its economic and social implications remained forestalled. East African slavery was a complex and varied institution, which had already undergone major transformations in the nineteenth century.115 Accordingly, there was a high degree of diversity in the background of the slaves, the nature of their labour, their personal autonomy, their treatment, and their social status and mobility. The majority of slaves had been captured on slave raids, others had been pawned or paid as ransom for a legal offence, while still others had inherited their status by being born to enslaved parents. Slave occupations ranged from the totalising regimes of plantation labour, porterage, and concubinage to positions mirroring European serfdom, such as house servants or skilled merchants, who often managed to retain part of their profits and were able to acquire property. These differences led to considerable social hierarchies between 113 See Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 119–122; Haustein, “Strategic

Tangles”; cf. VerhRT 13/I, vol. 294, 7th–19th March 1914, 7903–7906, 7912–7914. 114 Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 194. 115 For a detailed social history of slavery in nineteenth century Tanganyika, see esp.

Deutsch, 17–96; Glassman, Feasts and Riot, 79–114; Koponen, Development, 334–335. For slavery on Zanzibar, which was the regional driver of the institution until colonial rule, Sheriff, Slaves, see esp.

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slaves, depending on their origin, their occupation, degree of autonomy, and acquired possessions. In addition, there was considerable variance between the coast and various regions of the interior, both in terms of scale as well as the economic and social significance of slavery and the slave trade.116 Manumission was not infrequent, especially on the Muslim coast, where it was seen as a pious act and often coincided with the slave owner’s death. Slaves were also able to buy their own freedom through acquired trade profits, often going on to pursue the cultural ideal of ustaarabu.117 In some instances, this could lead to a remarkable social ascent, as in the case of shehe Ramiya of Bagamoyo. Captured as a child in the eastern Congo in the early 1860s, he was sold to the household of Am¯ır bin Sulaym¯an al-Lamki, who by the time of the German takeover was the liwali of Bagamoyo. Ramiya was given liberty to engage in trade and gained a substantial income from the production and sale of copra in the 1880s, going on to buy his freedom and attaining considerable wealth through the acquisition of several large plantations. This allowed him to pursue religious education and after about ten years of studies he opened up his own school. In the first decade of the twentieth century, he received the iˇg¯ aza of the Q¯ adiri .tar¯ıqah, which enabled him to build up an extensive clientele and supplant the religious establishment. He was soon recognised as one of the leading religious scholars in Bagamoyo and acquired the title of shehe (šayh). In 1916 the British made him the liwali ˘ of his death in 1931, he had established of Bagamoyo and by the time the Q¯adir¯ıya as the main religious, social, and political organisation in Bagamoyo.118 The German bureaucratisation of manumission through the issuing of emancipation certificates (Freibriefe) provided some, yet altogether limited assistance to slaves seeking freedom.119 If an owner refused a request to self-emancipation, slaves could appeal to the district office, but the rules by which to adjudicate such a conflict were not particularly clear, nor were the provisions for the protection of slaves against abuse enforced 116 See Deutsch’s comparison of the coast and Unyamwezi, Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 57–77. 117 Deutsch, 73. 118 On Ramiya’s life and legacy, see Nimtz, Islam and Politics, esp. 119–123. 119 For a detailed study of the over 50,000 certificates issued in the German period,

see Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 181–193.

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with any regularity. Altogether, the German administration offered little active aid in freeing slaves or improving their conditions, which according to Deutsch showed that most “district officers tried to keep slaves in their place.”120 This leniency toward slavery was the consequence of cold economic interests and racist attitudes about African “laziness” that ran through the ideological debates outlined in this chapter. German planters exerted much political pressure with their demands for cheap plantation labour and quite frequently circumvented rules against German slave-holding by renting labourers from a local slave master.121 This practice preceeded the conquest war and was continued on a larger scale afterwards, which in itself explains why the German post-conquest rhetoric almost immediately shifted against full abolition. Even as the practice of hiring slaves subsided somewhat in the late 1890s, the recruitment schemes and policies put in place by the administration all attempted to solve the “labour issue” through varying degrees of coercion.122 Different tax regimes were introduced with the aim of monetising the economy and forcing able-bodied men into some form of regular wage dependence. Individuals who could not pay the tax were forced to pay off their debt by working for the local district office in infrastructure projects or other improvement measures. Some districts introduced a mandatory labour card scheme, requiring male inhabitants to work for European employers for part of their time. European plantation owners ransomed slaves who were subsequently forced to work on plantations to pay off their debt. Later on, plantation owners increasingly relied on recruitment agents, who were notorious for their fraudulent promises and coercive practices. Plantation labour was considered slave labour in the pre-German economy, and the brutality, long hours, poor living conditions, and high mortality figures on German plantations did little to change this

120 Deutsch, 194. In some cases this even meant a tightening of the work regime of

slaves, see Koponen, Development, 332. 121 Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 209–212; Koponen, Development, 333–

334. 122 The most elaborate description of the various regimes to boost wage labour has been provided by Koponen, 331–355. See also Deutsch, Emancipation without Abolition, 218–27; Iliffe, Tanganyika, 64–68, 133–138.

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perception.123 Already in 1891, the first GEA governor, Julius von Soden, remarked that plantation labour was hardly preferable to domestic slavery, due to the heavier work and corporeal punishment regimes.124 A productive wage labour force could not arise under these conditions. Yet owing to the prevalent racist tropes of African “indolence” and “laziness,” German attempts to address this issue almost exclusively leaned on the punitive side. In 1896, governor Wissmann legalised the right of employers to inflict corporeal punishment on labourers, a provision which was not curtailed in any way until the Rechenberg withdrew it in 1909.125 As people fleeing the squalid conditions of plantation labour remained an ongoing issue, the “breaking of contract” Kontraktbruch was made a criminal offence. The standard punishment was chained imprisonment, with the typical neck chains forming a particularly cynical echo of slavery (Fig. 4.4).126 This was the material side of German “civilising” and coercion, and a proper reckoning with this reality was constantly foreclosed by ideological debates relegating slavery and serfdom to “Arabs” and Islam. As late as 1915, an article in the Koloniale Zeitschrift envisioned the post-War future as follows: Christianity and Islam will operate in our colonies in equal measure. Of course, we do not think of a reintroduction of slavery. We could do without the passages about the treatment of slaves in the Koran. But the absence of any compulsion to work would mean to leave idle the enormous economic values which our colonies hold. Thus we hope and wish that in practical economic life there will be a compromise between the Islamitic and Christian world view, which introduces labour compulsion in such a measure

123 Schröder, Prügelstrafe, 113–114. 124 “Bericht des Lieutenants Sigl über den Sklavenhandel”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 2,

no. 23 (1 December 1891): 509–511. For a concrete example of such practices, see Harald Sippel, “Wie erzieht man am besten den Neger zur Plantagen-Arbeit?” Die Ideologie der Arbeitserziehung und ihrer rechtliche Umsetzung in der Kolonie Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Arbeit in Afrika, ed. Kurt Beck and Gerd Spittler, Beiträge zur Afrikaforschung 12 (Hamburg: Lit, 1996), 316–317. 125 See Schröder, Prügelstrafe, 113; Iliffe, Tanganyika, 106–107. Rechenberg’s measures exacerbated his conflict with settlers and planters. 126 Tabora’s penal records show that “breaking of contract” was routinely sentenced with one to two months of chained imprisonment, see TNA G 50/10.

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Fig. 4.4 Chained prisoners (1907). Reneging on harsh and often fraudulent labour contracts was punishable by chained imprisonment, echoing the earlier treatment of slaves127 and form that it guarantees the reproduction and increase of the natives, as well as their economic and cultural uplift […]128

127 Photograph by Colonial Secretary Bernhard Dernburg during his visit to GEA in 1907, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ethnologisches Museum, https://smb.museum-dig ital.de/object/16258. 128 Wilhelm Förster, “Die christliche Mission und der Islam in den deutschen Kolonien”, Koloniale Zeitschrift, 9. Kriegsausgabe (11 August 1915): 2.

CHAPTER 5

Educating for Islam? The German Government Schools and “Christian Civilising”

One of the more remarkable features of GEA was the establishment of a fairly extensive system of government-run schools, at a time when in all other German colonies elementary education was an almost exclusively missionary endeavour. Though still dwarfed by their missionary counterparts, there were 78 government schools by the end of German rule, educating close to 3,500 pupils, far more than in any other German colony.1 The government also ran two secondary schools and one vocational school and recruited its non-German personnel almost exclusively from these schools while missionary school graduates were seen as unsuitable for colonial service. Moreover, there was a pronounced religious divide between both types of schools. Two thirds of government school pupils were Muslim, with the remainder identified mostly as “pagan” and

1 Missionaries looked after about 65,000 pupils in 953 elementary schools by 1914, Martin Schlunk, Die Schulen für Eingeborene in den Deutschen Schutzgebieten am 1. Juni 1911: Auf Grund einer statistischen Erhebung des Hamburgischen Kolonialinstituts (Hamburg: Friederichsen & Co., 1914), 248–249. The next largest number of government schools was in Kamerun, with only 4 out of 499 schools, see L.H. Gann and Peter Duignan, The Rulers of German East Africa 1884–1914 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1977), 212.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_5

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only two percent Christian. Missionary schools, in turn, were teaching mostly “pagans” and Christians, with a negligible fraction of Muslims.2 This demographic split is not surprising because from the start, the government schools were aimed at raising a local workforce in coastal towns, where the economic and political power was centred. In order to boost recruitment in this predominantly Muslim environment, the first schools even experimented with integrating Islamic education in the form of Qur¯an literacy. This was quickly thwarted by missionary opposition, but the schools never added Christian education to their curriculum. For missionaries and their allies the government schools therefore posed a twofold problem: Firstly, the exclusion of Christian religious education was an anomaly of church-state relations and an irritation to the Christian “civilising” narrative. Secondly and more materially, the government’s near exclusive recruitment from these schools meant that the non-German administrative layer, whether on the Islamic coast or in the missionary areas of the interior, was overwhelmingly Muslim. This led to intense debates about Islam and education policy throughout German rule.

5.1

A School for Muslims in Tanga

In August 1890, the EMDOA missionary August Krämer arrived in the northern trading port of Tanga. He had selected Tanga on a reconnaissance mission shortly after the northern epicentre of the coastal revolt had been conquered, believing Tanga to be inhabited by “free Swahilis” in contrast with the “fanatical” Muslims of neighbouring Pangani.3 On the day of his arrival he preached a nationalistic sermon at the topping out ceremony of the DOAG company house, and soon ran into local opposition. His first report recounts how “the Arabs” had warned him they would “not let our religion be taken from us.”4 In response, Krämer lied

2 Toward the end of German colonial rule, only 138 of the almost 30,000 pupils in Protestant elementary schools were Muslims, and the Catholic schools reported only two Muslims among over 31,000 students, see Schlunk, Schulen, 248–249. On a critical review of the government school statistics, see Koponen, Development, 517–519. 3 “Reisebericht des Bruders Krämer”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 3, no. 12 (1889): 190–193. 4 “Von unseren Missionaren”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 4, no. 11 (1890): 165.

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and answered that he was only planning to start a school, adding that now his interlocutors became “more trusting.” Krämer’s work struggled from the start. He failed to recruit local children and was forced to rely instead on the children of the Sudanese askari, commissioned to him by district officer Krenzler. The children did not speak much Kiswahili and Krämer had only picked up a few Arabic phrases. Consequently, attendance was patchy and the school even shut down at times for lack of pupils.5 When Krämer began to offer evening classes for adults, he struggled with similar problems. Yet again he attributed his lack of success to the “persistent resistance by the Arabs.”6 Krämer’s teaching methods would have seemed extremely foreign, nor did he conceal his proselytising agenda. Religious themes featured prominently in his instruction and he frequently initiated debates about Islam and Christianity in town. When the German district office offered to put in place a town-wide school mandate if Krämer dropped Christian instruction to alleviate parents’ concerns, the missionary was exasperated: I replied: A mission school without religion is an absurdity [Unding ]. I will proceed carefully, but I cannot leave out religion. They really want to civilise a nation without religion.7

His EMDOA superiors advised him to compromise on this issue,8 but there are no indications that Krämer made such adjustments and his school continued to struggle with very low attendance. By March 1892 it was more or less defunct.9 Meanwhile, the colonial administration began to form plans for a German school, driven by projected recruitment needs. On his way to East Africa, the newly appointed first governor of GEA, Julius von Soden, wrote to the president of the DKG in March 1891, seeking financial 5 “Von unseren Missionaren”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 4, no. 12 (1890): 187, 189; “Tanga”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 5, no. 2 (1891): 32; “Tanga”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 5, no. 5 (1891): 81. 6 Krämer to directorate, 25 March 1891, AEMDOA M576, 11–13. 7 Krämer to directorate, 26 December 1890, AEMDOA M576, 1–2. 8 Hagenau to Krämer, 7 February 1891, AEMDOA M209, 1–2. 9 Krämer to Hagenau, 8 March 1892, AEMDOA M576, 86–87. This report stands in contrast to Christian Pohl’s assertion of missionary continuity, Pohl, Evangelische Mission, 55–57.

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support for a government school. He explained that he planned to build up a school for the training of “natives,” which he could use in “subaltern” services. With reference to his previous experience as governor of Kamerun, Soden made a novel proposal: I thought to set up the School similarly to Kamerun, especially [making it] non-religious [konfessionslos ], too, leaving it up to the missions to pick their victims among the students if their parents agree.10

Soden’s cynical and dismissive statements toward missionary education are somewhat surprising because in Kamerun, he had in fact set up his schools in close collaboration with the Basel Mission and “Biblical Stories” featured in its curriculum.11 It thus seems likely that there was a different influence on Soden’s thoughts. Travelling with him on the ship to Aden was Lieutenant Eugen Krenzler, who had been stationed in Tanga since the conquest war and was returning to his post after a brief furlough in early 1891.12 Given his futile attempts to help Krämer’s school and the missionary’s refusal to drop religious education, he may well have briefed Soden against a close collaboration with the missions in GEA. Such an influence en route would also explain why Soden sent his letter from a stopover in Aden. At about the same time the prospect of a German government school was also raised in Berlin from a slightly different vantage point when the Orientalist and Yemen explorer Leo Hirsch suggested their utility for the integration of “Arabs” into German rule. Hirsch was a private scholar and

10 Soden to Hermann zu Hohenlohe-Langenburg, 31 March 1891, LaBWNSt La 140 Bü 231. The letter was sent from Aden, a typical stop-over on the journey to East Africa. 11 See Kenneth J. Orosz, Religious Conflict and the Evolution of Language Policy in German and French Cameroon, 1885–1939 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2008), 13–55, esp. 19–21; Arie J. van der Ploeg, “Education in Colonial Africa: The German Experience”, Comparative Education Review 21 (1 1977): 96. On the curriculum, see Theodor Christaller, “Die deutsche Schule in Bonamandone”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 1, no. 5 (1 June 1890): 73–74; Lehrer Flad, “Die zweite deutsche Schule in Kamerun”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 1, no. 5 (1 June 1890): 74–75. 12 Schmidt, Geschichte des Araberaufstandes, 78; “Personal-Nachrichten”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 2, no. 3 (1 February 1891): 67; “Personal-Nachrichten”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 2, no. 5 (1 March 1891): 99; “Personal-Nachrichten”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 2, no. 6 (15 March 1891): 122.

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banker of Jewish origin, who took an active interest in colonial affairs.13 He had studied Arabic and Persian under Friedrich Dieterici and Johann Gottfried Wetzstein, but in 1885 was sentenced to five years in prison for “financial bankruptcy and fraud.”14 Hirsch was able to continue his studies in prison and after his early release in 1888, he travelled to Aden to prepare a journey to the Wadi H . ad.ram¯ut, which he undertook in 1892– 1893 as the first European to reach the area.15 In between his two trips to Yemen, Hirsch made a pitch to the government. He informed the Foreign Office about his translation and pending publication of a legal commentary on Shafi¯ı and H . anaf¯ı inheritance law that he had obtained in Aden, and he advocated further work on Islamic legal texts in order to integrate and “make subservient the existing commercial powers.”16 This, he contended was necessary for German success in East Africa, because among the “native populations, the Arab is the mentally highest developed.” Moreover, their influence on “Mohammedan tribes of the hinterland” made it imperative in Hirsch’s estimation to “win them for German interests, to make them German to some extent.” This is where education entered Hirsch’s proposal: In order to achieve this goal, it seems appropriate to bind [ fesseln] the Arabs by using them to staff the many disposable subaltern positions while also make making obligatory the knowledge of Germany in a gradually rising demand. This would stop the fluctuation of these elements and create a population separate from those of other European possessions, which would at the same time elevated to a higher moral standard through the rising influence of our educational means. Missionaries cannot be utilised for these instructions in German knowledge because of their 13 See

e.g. his commentary on Schweinfurth’s above-mentioned article about “Mohammedan fatalism,” Leo Hirsch, “Arabische Weltanschauung”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 3, no. 5 (1 March 1890): 55. 14 On Hirsch’s life, see Pfullmann, “Leo Hirsch”, 330–332. The details of the case are unclear and the conviction should probably be viewed with some suspicion on account of the structural and overt anti-Semitism in Imperial Germany. The only information about the case comes from a later police report, see below p. 112. 15 See Pfullmann, 331; cf. Leo Hirsch, “A Journey in Hadramaut”, The Geographical Journal 3, no. 3 (1894): 196–205; Leo Hirsch, Reisen in Süd-Arabien, Mahra-Land und Hadram¯ ut (Leiden: Brill, 1897); Leo Hirsch, “Ein Aufenthalt in Makalla (Südarabien)”, Globus: Illustrierte Zeitschrift für Länder- und Völkerkunde 72, no. 3 (1897): 37–40. 16 Hirsch to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 12 March 1891, BArch R1001/ 999, 6–9, here 7. For more on this commentary, see pp. 232–4.

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religious character vis-à-vis a Mohammedan population. The trust of the Arab would immediately be destroyed if he had the suspicion that his religion might be in question as the cost of already or prospectively attained advantages.17

Hirsch offered to lead the establishment of such a school himself. At first, the head of the Colonial Department at the Foreign Office, Paul Kayser, signalled strong interest.18 Yet after a confidential background check revealed Hirsch’s prior conviction,19 Kayser informed Hirsch brusquely that he had no use for him in the colony and on the same day drafted a letter to Soden in which he forwarded Hirsch’s idea without attribution. He instructed the incoming governor to report on the possibility of such a school.20 Soden did not immediately react to this request, but waited to hear the outcome of his funding request to the DKG, which granted a low annual teacher salary for a duration of three years.21 The governor now submitted a much costlier budget to Berlin along with a report highlighting various difficulties of a government school. He suggested to use the DKG funds for a gradual approach: a suitable person could be brought over to “test the feasibility and costliness” in situ before Berlin committed to the idea.22 Kayser agreed to this approach,23 and a year later the Württemberg teacher Christian Barth was sent out to GEA after completing a Kiswahili course at the SOS in Berlin. He was commissioned to Tanga to continue 17 Ibid., p. 8. 18 Kayser to Hirsch, 9 May 1891, BArch R1001/999, 12. 19 Polizeipräsidium Abteilung II to Kayser, 15 May 1891, BArch R1001/999, 13. 20 Draft letters to Hirsch and Soden, 27 May 1891, BArch R1001/989, 5–8. 21 The decision was communicated to Soden in early June and finalised at the management committee meeting of 29 June, see internal notes Kayser, 15 June 1891, BArch R1001/989, 9; Minutes of management committee meeting, 29 June 1891, BArch R1001/968, 17–18. 22 Soden to Caprivi, 19 July 1891, BArch R1001/989, 13. The budget included setup costs, annual stipends for teachers and pupils, and two teacher salaries more than 50 percent higher than what the DKG was willing to pay. The forwarded report came from the district officer of Dar es Salaam who highlighted the “distrust of the Mohammedan population” against another EMDOA school, report Leue, 15 July 1891, BArch R1001/ 989, 16. 23 Kayer to Hohenlohe-Langenburg, 20 August 1891, BArch R1001/989, 17–18.

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Krämer’s efforts there, a somewhat peripheral choice of place, given that the main political centres were Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam.24 Barth immediately set out to establish a “proper” looking school, sourcing fifteen school desks and a lectern from local carpenters, which he set out at the steps of the district office. This failed to attract local children because parents refused to send their children to where the askari conducted their military exercises.25 Barth now moved his desks to a small rented room at the DOAG company house, but this, too, failed to attract pupils in sufficient numbers. This forced Barth to begin his instructions with adult male servants ommitted to him by German officers, while the few children he gradually managed to recruit for a separate class attended only irregularly.26 From Barth’s initial report and later writings, it does not seem like he fully appreciated the foreignness of his efforts in local culture, where children sat at the feet of a mwalimu and acquired literacy through reciting Arabic writings in increasing complexity. Barth’s school desks, lectern, cane, Latin letters, and pictures of tropical animals, along with his neat curricular divisions between reading, writing, arithmetic, and German, must have appeared utterly incompetent and not an option for respectable families (Fig. 5.1).27 Meanwhile, Barth dismissed “Mohammedan schools” as useless and attributed the failing of his school not to the strangeness of his methods but to the resistance of the “competing” walimu against “cultural progress.”28 Tanga’s new district officer, Walter von St. Paul-Illaire, even more straightforwardly blamed religion, arguing that the rejection of Barth’s school was due to a “fear of proselytisation.”29 As the school continued to struggle and a school mandate (Schulzwang ) was deemed unworkable, this presumed “religious resistance” became the target of new solution 24 After Leue’s above-mentioned report it seems that Dar es Salaam was out of consideration. In Bagamoyo, the Spiritan Fathers were about to establish a school and the local district officer had warned against doubling up, 31 October 1892, BArch R1001/999, 39–40. 25 Christian Barth, Rechenschaftsbericht, January 1893, BArch R1001/989, 21–23. 26 In the first months Barth taught 33 adults and 7 children. 27 See Rechenschaftsbericht, BArch R1001/989, 21–23; Barth, “Die ersten Lebensjahre”. 28 Barth, 90. 29 St. Paul-Illaire to Soden, 9 January 1893, BArch R1001/989, 20.

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Fig. 5.1 Barth’s classroom in the Tanga government school. Due to a lack of children he began by teaching the adult servants to German colonial officers30

attempts. In early 1894 the East Africa explorer Oscar Baumann published an article about the Tanga school in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , which in his typical ironic-derogatory style claimed that a “pious Muslim” would never entrust his offspring to a “Kaffir,” even if this meant to leave them to the “human proletariat” of questionable “Mwalims” and their “mechanistic” instruction.31 Baumann proposed that the solution to this problem was “very simple”: all walimu should be subjected to government control, with some employed at the German school. The creation of an “Imperial German Mwalim” (Kais. deutscher Mwalim) would be no different than the integration of a military im¯ am in the Bosnian troops of his native Austria-Hungary. Missionary work, Baumann contended in 30 Chr. G. Barth, “Die ersten Lebensjahre unserer deutschen Schule in Tanga, Ostafrika”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 8, no. 12 (23 March 1895): 91. 31 Oscar Baumann, “Ostafrikanische Schulen”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 7, no. 4 (31 March 1894): 56–57; for his writing style, see esp. cf. Oscar Baumann, Afrikanische Skizzen (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1900).

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anticipation of likely opposition, would not be “in the least affected” and even stood to benefit because an “independent Mwalim hates the Christian” while those on government payroll would hardly dare attack. Baumann’s suggestion hit a nerve in Berlin. The Foreign Office forwarded his article to Dar es Salaam and requested an opinion on hiring a mwalimu.32 The governor, now former Prussian officer Friedrich von Schele, asserted enthusiastically that such a measure would “undoubtedly” improve attendance and added three “Muhammedan Mwalims” to his annual budget request, since he planned to open up two further government schools in Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam.33 For the interim, he made available funds from the existing budget and a little over two months later, the mwalimu Mshirazi bin Dimani was hired for Qur¯an instruction at the Tanga school.34 It seems that this attempt to “integrate” Muslim education was little more than a political stunt. At the same time as the idea was hatched between Berlin and Dar es Salaam, Barth prepared his departure. He wrote to the DKG that he would not extend his contract when it expired in December 1894, citing inadequate resourcing by the district office as main reason for the school’s continued failing.35 In particular, he cited the lack of a suitable school building and denied the financial support for printing a Kiswahili primer he had produced. His letter made no reference to the appointment of a mwalimu nor did he mention this measure in his first article about the school.36 In Berlin, however, pressure mounted as soon as the plans for Qur¯an lessons came to light. When in October 1894 the Kolonialrat (Colonial Council) discussed the East Africa budget for 1895/6, the Catholic missions’ representative Karl Hespers immediately attacked the

32 Foreign Office to Schele, 16 April 1894, BArch R1001/989, 36. 33 Schele to Foreign Office, 9 July 1894, BArch R1001/989, 44. 34 (Deputy governor) Trotha to Colonial Department, 25 September 1894, BArch

R1001/999, 87. The mwalimu was paid 40 rupees per month, which was roughly equivalent to 660 German Marks per year. Barth’s annual salary was 4,500 Marks. Qur¯an instruction was given every day of the week except for Friday, see Stundenplan, BArch R1001/989, 46. 35 Barth to Hohenlohe-Langenburg, 1 August 1894, LaBWNSt La 140 Bü 231. Barth repeated his complaints when asked to return to GEA in 1895, see BArch R8023/968, 270–278. 36 Barth, “Die ersten Lebensjahre”.

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budget line of 750 Marks for three “Mohammedan teachers of religion.”37 He argued that this amounted to an “inequitable favouritism of Mohammedanism,” as Christian missions were given no such assistance. Moreover, it was politically imprudent to support Islam, this “fiercest enemy of Christianity.”38 Kayser, who as Head of the Colonial Department of the Foreign Office also acted as chairman of the Kolonialrat, at first defended the item as necessary for improving attendance, citing Baumann’s article as source. Yet in the end he backed down and agreed to move the budget position into a reserve fund while asking Dar es Salaam to review their position.39 The initial response from GEA was brief. Schele’s deputy answered that the removal of the budget position was regrettable, because the measure had been “extraordinarily successful,” with student numbers in Tanga rising from 48 to 62.40 Furthermore, he argued that it was an error to pay heed to missionary opposition here, since they all reported that “the coastal Negro is lost for the Christian religion” anyway. Yet in Berlin, Christian opposition was still increasing, with Protestant mission societies now sending a joint note of “our most resolute protest” against the government employment of Muslim teachers.41 The note argued that this employment made the government an “official patron of Mohammedanism” and violated the principle of “religious neutrality.” Furthermore, Islam was depicted as a threefold danger: the “hereditary enemy” of Christianity, a “political opposition against any non-Islamitic

37 Kolonialrat, Minutes of 20 October 1894, BArch R1001/989, 104–109. For the

institution and politics of the Kolonialrat, see Hartmut Pogge von Strandmann, Imperialismus vom grünen Tisch: Deutsche Kolonialpolitik zwischen wirtschaftlicher Ausbeutung und „zivilisatorischen“ Bemühungen, Studien zur Kolonialgeschichte 1 (Berlin: Christoph Links Verlag, 2009). 38 Kolonialrath, Minutes of 20 October 1897, BArch R1001/989, 107. 39 Passing on responsibility to GEA worked well for Kayer as he was locked in an

intensifying power struggle with governor Schele, which eventually led to Schele’s dismissal in February 1895, see Strandmann, Imperialismus, 146–147; cf. John C. G. Röhl, Wilhelm II : Der Aufbau der persönlichen Monarchie 1888–1900 (München: C.H. Beck, 2001), 817–818. 40 Trotha to Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, 10 January 1895, TNA G9/54, 12. The letter presented no evidence that this increase was linked to the Qur¯an teacher. 41 Ausschuss der deutschen Missionen, 28 December 1894, see BArch R1001/ 989, 50–54, 111–112. This was published in a subsequent issue of the Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift, see Ausschuss der deutschen Missionen, “Eingabe”.

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government” driven by “religious fanaticism,” and a “corrupting force on the African natives” with the potential to damage all “civilising” efforts. The Colonial Department now shored up defences. Kayser sent urgent information requests to German ambassadors in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and The Hague to inquire how other European powers integrated Islamic education in their respective holdings. He also asked Dar es Salaam for a further opinion and scheduled a meeting of the Kolonialrat to settle the matter.42 Now the district officer of Tanga, Walter von St. Paul-Illaire penned a long and acrimonious response, which was forwarded to Dar es Salaam for approval and relay.43 Due to a vacancy in governorship the report was only edited but never forwarded, but nonetheless it merits a closer look because in its rambling attacks on Christianity and Islam alike, it shows how missionary and administrative “civilising” ideals became locked in a competitive battle over the interpretation of Islam. St. Paul-Illaire asserted that the aim of the government school was to teach German and to familiarise the “native population” with “German mentality and German views.” Since locals were full of “mistrust against all things new” (much like “our farmers” in Germany, he went on to add), a Muslim teacher had been employed. Yet, the particular “hillbilly” (Landvogel ) staffing this post in Tanga was hardly worth the worried response, nor was Islam on the rise. Only the “Arabs” were “true Mohammedans,” and most of them had left the colony. Africans, in turn, were only “externally” Muslim because they saw Islam as a sign of culture that did not “demand anything of their mental capacity,” unlike Christianity. If anything, it was hardly the “employment of unimportant mwalims,” that posed a danger against Christian missions, but the “rivalry of the different Christian confessions, anathematising one another.” When Protestants and Catholics fought each other, “the Mohammedan profits.” In its intensity, St. Paul-Illaire’s writ foreshadowed the coming debates between missionaries and other colonial advocacy groups that would fully erupt ten years later.44 In essence, this was a fight for political control, as missions invoked the “Christian character” of the German Empire and others like St. Paul-Illaire envisioned “German national civilising” as the

42 See BArch R1001/989, 55–100; TNA G9/54, 52–56. 43 St. Paul-Illaire to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, n.d., TNA G9/54,

57–72. The dating is clear from context with internal comments from July 1895. 44 See p. 168.

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bedrock of his colonial efforts. Neither side seemed overly concerned with the details of Muslim education but simply mapped their “civilising” regimes onto this institution. Much of this mattered little in practice. The missionary August Krämer sent his own children to the Tanga government school and did not even mention the mawlimu in his correspondence.45 Even in later years, relations between the mission and the government school remained amicable throughout and the next rector of the Tanga school even served as organist in the Lutheran church.46 In Berlin, however, the government was forced to change course. In March 1895 Kayser informed the Reichstag’s Budget Commissions that he was not going to follow the “governor’s wish” for “Mohammedan religious education,” quietly passing over the role his own office had played in the genesis of the idea.47 The matter was finally put to rest by the Kolonialrat in a meeting on 10 June 1895, which voted against the measure, even as reports from other colonial powers had delivered enough material in its defence.48 The contribution of Hermann von Wissmann was instrumental in this debate. He had just been appointed to return to GEA as replacement for governor Schele and was invited to participate in this session of the Kolonialrat. In line with his previous statements on “Arabs,” Wissmann argued against any support for Islam, because the “native population” would understand this as a “weakness of the government,” inflicting “the most severe damage to the reputation of the Christian religion and the European.”49 Once he had reached the colony, he noted his disagreement on St. Paul-Illaire’s report and filed it away.50

45 He only took out his children in early 1895, because in his assessment the temporary replacement for Barth was a bad teacher, Stationschronik Tanga, AEMDOA M577, 116. 46 See “Jahresbericht über 14, no. 4 (1900): 77; Blank R1001/996, 47–52; Delius AEMDOA M230, 309–312;

das Jahr 1899”, Nachricht aus der Ostafrikanischen Mission to Government Dar es Salaam, 12 September 1900, BArch to EMDOA inspector, 27 September–10 October 1906, Delius, Gute Saat, 36.

47 See excerpt from the Budget Commission minutes of 14 March 1895, contained in marginal note in report “Regierungs und Missionsschulen in Deutsch-Ostafrika,” BArch R1001/989, 164–171, here 167. 48 See Minutes of 19 June 1895, BArch R1001/989, 115–120. 49 Ibid., 119. 50 See draft letter Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam to Foreign Office, July 1895, TNA G9/54, 73–74.

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5.2 “Secular” Schools and Missionary Complaints The missionary victory against the government school was fleeting, however. Qur¯an readings were discontinued, but the government resisted the missionary demand to introduce Christian education in its place. This made East Africa’s “secular” (konfessionslose) schools a unique anomaly in the German school system, where religious education was mandatory and even the co-education of Protestants and Catholics in so-called “Simultanschulen” was frowned upon.51 And this was not the only reason for missionary discontent. Having survived the initial troublesome years, the schools were on an upward trajectory by the turn of the century. This was partially due to a more substantial financial investment from 1895 onward,52 but arguably the most important catalyst was the creation of rural feeder schools (Hinterlandsschulen). This was pioneered by Paul Blank, who in 1895 took over the Tanga school from Christian Barth and gradually expanded it into a full-grown school system by the end of his tenure in 1910. Staffed by African teachers, often graduates from Tanga, the feeder schools offered basic literacy and an attractive route to one of the urban schools and ultimately government employment. Wissmann’s successor as GEA governor, Eduard von Liebert, gave considerable support to this emerging village school system and instructed his officers to found further such “district schools,” predominantly funded by the local population and feeding into the main centres of Tanga, Bagamoyo, and Dar es Salaam (Fig. 5.2).53 The government school system ballooned. Boarding was established in Tanga and Bagamoyo in 1897 in order to accommodate the rural intake,54 and vocational training was added to the Tanga portfolio from 1899, further expanding the school’s enrolment. By the end of Liebert’s

51 With four lessons per week, religious education still took up a sizeable proportion of elementary education at this time, see Rüdiger Baron, Reformpädagogik und evangelische Schule im 20: J ahrhundert (Münster: Waxmann, 2011), 27. 52 VerhRTAnl 9/IV, vol. 152, no. 88: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete im Jahre 1894/95, 891–892. 53 See Ploeg, “Education”, 102–103. 54 See VerhRTAnl 9/V, vol. 163, no. 94: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der

deutschen Schutzgebiete im Jahre 1896/97, 966.

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Fig. 5.2 Government feeder school in Kilimatinde. From rural schools like this high achieving pupils could go on to one of the government schools on the coast and ultimately join colonial employment55

tenure in 1900, the Tanga school had over 400 students, with about 700 pupils attending its rural feeder schools,56 and in 1902 the annual report counted 20 district schools with altogether 1,438 pupils and a further 800 pupils in rural feeder schools for Tanga and Pangani.57 By 1904 Tanga was training carpenters, printers, bookbinders, tailors, blacksmiths, and bricklayers, while its academic division was turned into a secondary school

55 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am

Main, no. 006-1152-18. 56 See VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 190, no. 152: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete für das Jahr 1899/1900, 949–950. 57 VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee, Berichtsjahr 1. April 1901 bis 31. März 1902, 5262–5263.

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a year later.58 From 1907 the school published and printed the colony’s first Kiswahili newspaper, the Kiongozi.59 Toward the end of colonial rule, GEA had 78 elementary schools with reportedly 3,494 pupils, two secondary schools with 618 pupils, and three vocational schools counting 137 trainees.60 Despite this considerable growth, the government schools were vastly outnumbered by mission schools. In 1911 the Catholic missions counted 363 elementary and 11 secondary schools with 31,274 and 724 pupils, respectively. The Protestant provisions were almost equal in size, listing 512 elementary and 18 secondary schools with 29,716 and 472 pupils, respectively.61 Yet this numerical advantage did not translate into political impact for three reasons. Firstly, the government schools were directly conjoined with the administration as they were designed around its employment needs. Unlike missionary schools, they only admitted male pupils, if possible recruited from strategically important families.62 Their two-year elementary curriculum was rudimentary: basic literacy and maths in the first year, followed by practical instructions in administrative processes or teacher training.63 There was a high demand for these graduates, in particular as they presented substantial cost savings in comparison to German administrators or teachers.64 Secondly, this employment route made the schools a fairly attractive proposition to local populations. Missionary schools opened up no such paths, mostly due to their very different educational focus and a different

58 G. Hornsby, “A Brief History of Tanga School up to 1914”, Tanganyika Notes and Records, nos. 58 & 59 (1962): 148. 59 Hornsby, 149. 60 See Schlunk, Schulen, 140. 61 Schlunk, 139–140. 62 Missionary schools included both sexes, albeit with a male–female ration of more than three to one, see Schlunk, 249. 63 Liebert, Bericht über den Standpunkt des Gouvernements zu der im Reichstag verhandelten Frage der hiesigen Gouvernementsschulen, submitted to Foreign Office 23 April 1900 BArch R1001/989, 173–204, here 176. 64 Ibid., 177–178. Liebert made a direct cost comparison: a “white” scribe cost 150 rupees plus living accommodations, whereas an African trainee received only 36 rupees for the same work. This was a considerable cost saving, even as Liebert added the dubious contention that their productivity was only half as high.

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clientele. Missionaries aimed to establish Christian communities around their stations, so that life even for “native” teachers or similarly highly trained graduates rarely extended beyond the circuit of their missionary society. By contrast, government schools offered urban mobility and access to state power within the “subaltern” ranks of the administration. Finally, most of the government schools were based on the coast, whereas mission schools, like the rest of missionary work, coalesced in the interior.65 As a result, the colonial government’s training and employment practices mirrored the century-old gravity of the coast and the resulting migratory and cultural flows. When government school pupils from the interior arrived in the coastal towns, they often adopted Islam, and two years later they brought Islam with them when deployed in various positions in the hinterland. Missionaries and their Christian clients soon found themselves confronted with Muslim administrators everywhere, even where they were the outright majority. For these reasons, missionary complaints about the government schools were a constant staple of colonial debates, pitting Islam against Christianity in the German “civilising” project. A first high profile dispute arose in 1900 in the Reichstag’s Budget Committee, where the request for two additional teachers for GEA sparked a “long and spirited debate about the justification of secular schools in Africa.”66 Ideologically, the debate revolved around contrasting assessments of Islam in Germany’s “civilising,” with one side positing an “insurmountable chasm […] between our culture and that of the Mohammedans” and the other countering that “Mohammedanism simply was the cultural element in East Africa and the suitable intermediary between us and the Negro.” Materially, the Committee proposed several changes in practice: the East African government should work toward employing subaltern administrators from the “native Christian population,” the current government schools should recruit Muslims only, any new government schools should draw on missionaries for Christian education (with Muslims exempted from mandatory attendance), and all government schools should only teach the local language and German.67 65 Roughly 80 percent of government school pupils were trained on the coast, cf. Schlunk, Schulen, 243. 66 VerhRT 10/I, vol. 169, 13 February 1900, 4080. 67 It is unclear if the last provision was an attack on Kiswahili or the teaching of Gujarati

in some schools.

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The parliamentary debate largely followed the trajectory set by the budget commission. Most speakers defended the budget commission’s resolutions. They argued that slavery and polygamy amounted to an irreconcilable “moral difference” between Christianity and Islam, that Islam would always promote the struggle against Christianity, and that an absurd social hierarchy would arise in the colony if a Muslim “element of subaltern administrators” was inserted between the Christian Europeans and Christian Africans.68 Only the Social Democrat August Bebel, who found himself in the rather unusual position of agreeing with the government, contended that a “secular” government school system was necessary. He argued that “Mohammedans and Indians” were the “more intelligent, higher element,” and framed slavery and polygamy as cultural rather than religious institutions. In the end, the Committee resolution was adopted and forwarded to GEA for comment.69 Governor Liebert was aware of the Reichstag debate and had already prepared his reaction. Based on a belligerent draft by his consultant Ludwig Heinke on “church and school matters,”70 Liebert crafted a sixty-page report, which contained detailed information about the schools and sought to refute the parliamentary resolutions point by point.71 While ostensibly welcoming a missionary contribution to the training of administrative recruits, Liebert argued that their educational provisions were wholly inadequate to this end. The missions, he contended, simply showed no interest in serving the government’s needs and prioritised extending their own domains. Furthermore, even if missionary recruits existed, their low social standing as former slaves and their total commitment to their respective missions would make them unsuitable administrators and susceptible to intolerance toward other faiths, especially other Christian confessions.72 Conversely, the contribution of the government schools to the spread of Islam, Liebert argued, had been exaggerated and wrongly 68 Ibid., 4081–4083. 69 Ibid., 4102–4103; Foreign Office to Colonial Government Dar es Salaam, 2 April

1900, TNA G9/55, 69. 70 Heinke, Bericht, n.d., TNA G9/55, 41–67. 71 Liebert, “Bericht über den Standpunkt des Gouvernements zu der im Reichstag

verhandelten Frage der hiesigen Gouvernementsschulen,” submitted to Foreign Office 23 April 1900 BArch R1001/989, 173–204, here 176. 72 Ibid., 183–185, 194, 196, 198–200.

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portrayed from a position of ignorance. Only “Arabs” were “carriers of Mohammedanism,” and they were split between different sects and religiously “lethargic.” The only way to stir them up would be to leave the impression that Christianity was to be forced upon them.73 Once the “natives” had been removed from the influence of “Arabdom” (Araberthum) and won for “Germandom” (Deutschthum), “the next step, toward the Christian religion, will only be a matter of time.”74 Liebert’s programme of “civilising toward” Christianity was framed in starkly racist and evolutionary language: The Negro mimics everything that impresses him. Presently it is still the Arab and everything that has to do with Arabdom, that he endeavours to mimic and emulate. The European, German character is still too foreign, too high for him. The more elevated Negro mimics the Arab in costume, language, character and religion. To be seen as a Mohammedan is a matter of honour for him; he is keen to mimic the outer forms and precepts of Mohammedanism. […] But in the same manner, after having gone through this transitional state, he will develop into a German and finally a Christian, though only over time.75

Liebert was recalled only a few months later, though, and now the administration sought rapprochement with the missions. Ludwig Heinke, the author of the original, more belligerent report on government schools, met with the representative of the Benedictine Mission to discuss some points raised by the parliament’s resolution. The two parties agreed that the Catholic schools would adapt their curricula to that of the government schools, while the government promised to support the Mission with educational material and a hiring preference for Christian administrators, considering to deploy them “as far as possible” in a Christian area of the same confession. Even on the subject of religious education an agreement was reached. The Benedictines acknowledged that Christian education would not be feasible in the coastal schools

73 Ibid., 187–188. 74 Ibid., 188. 75 Ibid., 190–191.

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whereas the government agreed to introduce religious education in Christian areas of the hinterland where comity agreements existed between missions.76 Berlin and other missionary societies agreed to the plan as well,77 but the truce began to unravel within months, first on the Protestant side. In the summer of 1901 the EMDOA in Berlin complained that children in Tanga were forced to attend the government school to the detriment of the mission school. Once again this was a case of central debates being detached from conditions in GEA: The EMDOA’s own representative in Tanga denied that compulsory school attendance had impacted his school.78 Forwarding this reply, the newly installed governor Gustav von Götzen went on the offensive and took the opportunity to highlight occasions of missionary non-compliance.79 One year later, the Catholic side broke the agreement as well. The Benedictine missionary Cassian Spiß, who had just been crowned Apostolic Vicar of South Zanzibar, sent a blistering critique of the government school system to the Colonial Office, which was forwarded to Governor Götzen for reaction. Without mentioning the agreed accommodations, Spiß repeated and amplified earlier missionary attacks on the government schools and Islam, concluding that government schools must be replaced with mission schools as soon as possible.80 Realising that missionary opposition was again on the rise, governor Götzen began to preempt further parliamentary discussions by supplying Berlin with further reports and analyses about the government schools.81 He contended that the government school system was one of the “most successful institutions” in the colony, though the submitted inspection reports from the “hinterland schools” portrayed rather squalid and underresourced establishments struggling with student attendance.82 The more

76 See report from 23 November 1900, BArch R1001/990, 6–18. 77 Stuhlmann to Foreign Office, 30 November 1900, BArch R1001/990, 5. 78 Ostwald to District Office Tanga, 7 October 1901, BArch R1001/990, 53. 79 Jacobi to Foreign Office, 30 May 1901, Foreign Office to Götzen, 8 August 1901, Götzen to Foreign Office 24 October 1901, BArch R1001/990, 41–44, 46–54. 80 Spiß to Foreign Office, 1 December 1902, BArch R1001/990, 98–105. 81 Götzen to Berlin, 16 December 1903, and 11 February 1904, BArch R1001/990,

113, 122. 82 See BArch R1001/990, 133, attachments 1–5.

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useful material came from Tanga. The (deputy) district officer pointed out that the government refrained from establishing schools in the missionary areas of Western Usambara and forwarded an article from the EMDOA magazine which contained faint praise for the Tanga school.83 Rector Paul Blank also submitted an expertise in which he contended that government schools were a “pioneer” (Vorarbeiter) for missionary efforts, because their non-religious but “principally Christian” education had led to the disappearance of “Koran schools.”84 The next parliamentary discussion about the government schools arose in 1906, in conjunction with the government’s supplementary budget to the Maji Maji War. Once again, the Centre Party led the attack, with Erzberger thundering that his part would no longer support a “system of colonial politics” that amounted to the “official and semi-official promotion [Förderung] of Mohammedanism.”85 His push was part of a wider and very contentious debate about the alleged political danger of Islam in GEA which had begun the year before at the Second Colonial Congress and coincided with the colonial crisis of 1906.86 Yet once again, Social Democrats were at odds with the Centre Party’s position on government schools. While their two discussants, August Bebel and Georg Ledebour, amplified many of Erzberger’s other critiques, they held up the schools as the only valuable and defensible aspect of German colonialism, arguing once more the utility of Islam in the cultural evolution of Africans.87 The government strategically positioned its offer between both opposition parties: “German culture” was based on Christendom but one must recognise that “in some cases” the population “was not yet ready” to understand its teachings.88 The rest of the debate followed along these predictable lines. Centre Party representatives echoed Erzberger’s alarmist 83 Häuser to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 25 January 1904, and 27

January 1904, BArch R1001/990, 126–128; for the article see “Die Seligkeit der Armen am Weihnachtsfest”, Nachrichten aus der Ostafrikanischen Mission 17, no. 12 (1903): 181. 84 Blank to District Office Tanga, 13 January 1904, BArch R1001/990, 123–125. 85 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 214, 16 January 1906, 592–593; and similarly at second reading,

VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 13 March 1906, 1975–1976. 86 See the below, p. 178 and p. 262. 87 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 13 March 1906, 1982; VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 15 March

1906, 2045–2046. 88 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 13 March 1906, 1991.

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stance on Islam,89 while Social Democrats took the debate further and called for the full abolishment of religious education in Germany.90 Conservatives and Liberals mostly took the side of the government.91 In the end the government prevailed.92 Even as the matter continued to run through various reports and the colonial press in subsequent years,93 this was the last time the Reichstag fully discussed the “civilising role” government schools.94 Unable to win the ideological fight, some missions began to reconsider their own educational provisions in an effort to address the government recruitment imbalance. This was linked to the debates about Kiswahili because the foremost obstacle to the administration’s recruitment of missionary pupils was that missions in the interior taught in local languages.95 An early attempt in this direction was made in 1905 when the BMW established a new “helper training institute” (Helferseminar) in Kidugala. The former EMDOA Uzaramo missionary Georg Cleve, now with the BMW, proposed that this institute should not only focus on educating missionary helpers, but also provide a second track with German and Kiswahili training leading to secular employment.96 The administration supported the plan,97 but the establishment of the institute was soon disrupted by the Maji Maji War. It finally opened in 1909

89 Spahn, VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 15 March 1906, 2029–2030; Schwarze, VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 16 March 1906, 2057–2058. 90 Ledebour, VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 16 March 1906, 2074. 91 Arendt, VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 15 March 1906, 2026; Schrader, VerhRT 11/II,

vol. 216, 16 March 1906, 2056. 92 See VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 17 March 1906, 2098–2108, VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 4 April 1906, 2600–2606. 93 The related press clippings and reports almost fill an entire file, see BArch R1001/ 991, 58–174. 94 The topic only resurfaced in passing in subsequent years, see VerhRT 12/I, vol. 228, 4 May 1907, esp. 1415–1416; VerhRT 12/I, vol. 231, 19 March 1908, esp. 4098– 4099, 4110; VerhRT 12/I, vol. 235, 26 February–1 March 1909, 7182–7184, 7223, 7428; VerhRT 13/I, vol. 288, 6–7 March 1913, 4309–4310, 4337, 4350, 4354–4355, 4365–4366. 95 See Sect. 3.2, p. 81. 96 Wright, German Missions, 114. 97 Wright, 114.

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with twelve pupils and there are no reports of graduates of the institute going into employment outside of the mission.98 Two years later a new, similar effort emerged from the collaboration between several Protestant missions at the 1911 GEA Missionary Conference in Dar es Salaam.99 Here the idea had been raised of a common training institute which would rely entirely on Kiswahili and espouse a more inter-regional approach. This was an important prospect for the three missions working along the new central train line (BMW, CMS, and Moravians), and a formal agreement between them was drawn up in 1912.100 All operational costs would be shared, but the BMW was to take the initial lead by appointing a principal, securing the necessary property, and covering the set-up costs. Funding was resourced via a special collection of the Silesia branch of the BMW, which Axenfeld suggested should be used in “defence against Islam” by funding the planned institute.101 In his concept note, Axenfeld rehashed the old arguments about government schools spreading Islam but also laid the blame for this at the feet of the missions for having failed to provide properly trained personnel.102 The graduates of the Swahili institute would address this need, but could also be used as “teachers and helpers” at the mission stations along the central train line. Here Islam was “spreading rapidly” into new centres, and Kiswahili-speaking Christians were necessary to shore up missionary provisions to migrant workers. In comparison with these grand strategic aims, the curricular plans of the institute were rather limited. The institute was to complement current “mission helper” training with recruits consisting of 12- to 18-year-olds who had already graduated from a local missionary school.103 The two-year course should consist of a “good, thorough elementary education, largely following 98 Wilhelm Gründler, “Die Seminare der Berliner Mission in Deutschostafrika”,

Allgemeine Missions-Zeitschrift 44, Beiblatt Nr. 2 (1917): 22. 99 On the conference, see pp. 97–99. 100 Sicard, Lutheran Church, 219, See also Axenfeld to Westgate, 8 February 1912,

ABMW 1/6625, 101. 101 Axenfeld and Brandt to Committee, 21 July 1912, ABMW 1/6599. 102 Axenfeld, Gemeinsames Swaheliseminar für die an der Zentralbahn arbeitenden

evangel. Missionen in D.O.A., 9 July 1912, ABMW 1/6599. 103 There was no stated gender preference, but the only female pupils attending the school once established were the wives of one teacher and of one pupil, see Jahresbericht Station Schlesien, November 1913, ABMW 1/6090.

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the government school curricula,” but with more consideration of “the Word of God and life with God.”104 An additional six months of teacher training was to be made available to pupils who had “shown themselves […] worthy for missionary services,” while no mention was made of how graduates would be trained up for government service.105 In 1913, the new institute named “Schlesien” (Silesia) was opened near Morogoro in place of a former missionary rest home. The first cohort of twenty-five students came from the three missions, with the majority sent from the BMW area of Uzaramo where Kiswahili was the predominant language.106 Two years later, in September 1915, seventeen seminarians had graduated. Fourteen of them continued in ancillary missionary service, and three were employed as assistants by German businesses or private individuals, while none joined the German administration.107 A new class convened in the autumn of 1915 was quickly disbanded because of the First World War.108 As the German administration withdrew to Morogoro, “Schlesien” became refuge for BMW missionary families and was soon closed when the British took over the town in 1917. After the War the Institute was not revived and Schlesien re-opened in the 1930s as a rest home for missionaries.109

5.3

Repression and Simple Equivalences

Much of the German administration’s claim about the “civilising” effect of government schools was premised on their allegedly detrimental effects on the so-called “Koran schools.” Locally, these schools were known as vyuo (sg. chuo), derived from a northern Kiswahili term for “book.”110 They not only shared this etymology with their counterparts in the Arab 104 Axenfeld, Gemeinsames Swahiliseminar, 7. 105 Ibid., 11. 106 See Sicard, Lutheran Church, 221. Seven students were sent back almost immediately due to illness, “Jahresbericht Stations Schlesien,” November 1913, ABMW 1/ 6090. 107 Nauhaus to Axenfeld 11 August 1915, ABMW 1/3779. The War might have impacted government hiring practices. 108 See Gründler, “Seminare”, 32. In Nauhaus’ sparse war correspondence this new class is not even mentioned anymore, see ABMW 1/3779. 109 See correspondence ensuing from 27 February 1931 in ABMW 1/6599. 110 Bromber, “Disziplinierung”, 42.

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world (kat¯ at¯ıb, sg. kutt¯ ab) but also their basic curriculum: Arabic literacy as well as moral and religious education on the basis of reading, reciting, and memorising Quranic scriptures and simple texts on religious observance ( ib¯ ada), doctrine ( aq¯ıda), and jurisprudence ( fiqh).111 By the time of the German takeover of the coast, vyuo were established in all major coastal towns, forming the primary education system for Omani, Swahili, and Indian inhabitants alike. German observers tended to sneer at the vyuo as impeding “civilisational progress,” drawing on established colonial tropes about “mechanistic learning” and ignorant, exploitative teachers (walimu).112 Faced with increasing missionary criticism, however, defenders of the government schools now painted the vyuo in religious rather than “civilisational” tones. Their alleged decline was framed as a victory against Islam, an argument culminating in Paul Blank’s assertion that the government schools were “principally Christian” because of their detrimental effect on the presence of vyuo.113 Yet when taking a closer look at the development of the vyuo, none of these assertions bear out. Their presence indeed fluctuated but this was far from a simple correlation with the presence or absence of government schools. Instead, their fate depended on a number of contextual factors, most importantly direct government repression. In the government school centre of Tanga, rector Blank reported in 1904 that none of the earlier “dozens” of “Koran school” had remained.114 Yet his report indicated that this was an effect of direct government pressure rather than the “principally Christian” effect of the government school he had proclaimed. Ludwig Meyer, Tanga district officer from 1901 to 1905 had imposed a school mandate, which required all “native boys” to attend the government school for a minimum of two hours a day. While Blank contended that these pupils lost their desire 111 On the curriculum of these schools, see Loimeier, Social Skills, 163–173. For a contemporary descriptions in GEA, see also Carl Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche der Suaheli, nebst einem Anhang über Rechtsgewohnheiten der Suaheli (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 45–46. 112 See e.g. Baumann, “Ostafrikanische Schulen”; Barth, “Die ersten Lebensjahre”, 91;

for a use of these tropes elsewhere cf. Ernest Renan and Jamal Addin al-Afghani, Der Islam und die Wissenschaft : V ortrag gehalten in der Sorbonne am 29. März 1883 von Ernest Renan, Kritik dieses Vortrags vom Afghanen Scheik Djemmal Eddin und Ernest Renan’s Erwiderung . Autorisirte Übersetzung (Basel: M. Bernheim, 1883). 113 Blank to District Office Tanga, 13 January 1904, TNA G9/56, 68–70. 114 Blank to District Office Tanga, 13 January 1904, TNA G9/56, 68–70.

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to labour at the chuo once they got to know the “natural and rapidly successful teaching method of the government school,” later reports indicate that local boys were held against their will and even put in chained imprisonment when complaining about this treatment.115 Meyer also applied direct pressure on the vyuo. He required every “teacher of Koran” (Koranlehrer) to register his school with the district office, contingent on passing an exam in reading Roman script, which only few of the applicants managed to achieve.116 When these measures were not continued after Meyer’s tenure, the vyuo quickly rebounded. Though the 1907 annual report repeated the general claim about their demise, it only noted that “many” had shut and others were “languishing.”117 By 1913 the German government school inspector Ramlow admitted that the vyuo were on the rise again, even though the administration still claimed in its ideological battles with missionaries that all of them had closed.118 Ramlow attributed the resurgence of vyuo to the district office being more “scrupulous” (peinlich) in its selection of means, and one year later, under apparent influence of the Tanga government school, the registration of walimu was reintroduced, albeit now based on the recommendations of local “ombudsmen” rather than a language test.119 In nearby Saadani and Pangani, the government adopted even more aggressive tactics. The Saadani subsidiary district office took over the “Arab school house” in the late 1890s and refurbished it into a European style classroom with a Swahili graduate from Tanga as teacher.120 The local community resisted these measures, and only three children enrolled in the school. In response, the German administration cracked

115 See Hornsby, “Brief History”, 150. 116 Ramlow, Betrifft Schulrevision, Dar es Salaam, 18 December 1913, TNA G9/60,

149–157. 117 Jahresbericht über die Entwickelung der Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee im Jahre 1905/6 (Berlin: Mittler und Sohn, 1907), 21. 118 Ramlow, Betrifft Schulrevision, Dar es Salaam, 18 December 1913, TNA G9/

60, 149–157; Georg Hermann, “Missionen – Islam – Regierungsschulen”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 14, no. 24 (13 June 1913): 370. 119 Auracher to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 6 January 1914, TNA G 9/16, 2–3. 120 Nebenamt Saadani to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 6 December 1898, TNA G4/40.

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down on Ajam¯ı script, declaring that after the first course had completed in a few months’ time, correspondence with local chiefs (majumbe) would only be provided in Roman script. It also released a new form of promissory notes in Roman script only. Dar es Salaam approved these measures but instructed the office to increase the transition time for the switch to Roman script to one year.121 Despite these drastic measures government school recruitment in Saadani remained very low and fluctuating, and in the end, the school became a small feeder school for Bagamoyo.122 Pangani’s government school was also established in the late 1890, led by African teachers trained in Tanga.123 It was fairly small and attracted mostly students from rural feeder schools. In 1903 efforts were made to increase the school’s appeal by upgrading the building and employing a German teacher, but this too failed to increase the student population.124 One year later the government mandated (“suitably reinforced” by the town caller) that all boys of primary school age must be sent to the government school.125 This immediately created local opposition, led by the town’s liwali Al¯ı bin Nasr, who had clashed with the German authorities before. He was demoted and found guilty of “incitement to insulting public servants” (Anstiftung zur Beamtenbeleidigung ),126 and the local district officer expressed the hope that this harsh treatment would help the

121 Kaiserlicher Gouverneur to Nebenamt Saadani, 21 December 1898, TNA G4/40. 122 The next two annual reports mentioned a student number of 18, VerhRTAnl 10/

II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1901/02, 5325; VerhRTAnl 11/I, vol. 205, no. 54: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1902/03, 152. Attendance peaked at 53 in 1906, but by 1911 had declined again to 36 students, VerhRTAnl 12/I, vol. 239, no. 41: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1905/06, 109; Schlunk, Schulen, 242–243. 123 For the first mention of the school, see VerhRTAnl 10/I, vol. 175, no. 514: Jahresbericht über die Entwickelung Deutsch-Ostafrikas im Jahre 1898/99, 2920. 124 VerhRTAnl 11/I, vol. 209, no. 540: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1903/1904, 3026. 125 VerhRTAnl 11/II, vol. 222, no. 175: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1904/1905, 3026. 126 Jünnemann to Bezirksamt Pangani, 5 November 1904, TNA G9/79, 27. On Al¯ı bin Nasr’s case, see “Ist die Art der Strafgerichtsbarkeit über Araber und Inder die richtige?”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 26 (1 July 1905): 1. His treatment sparked some discussion on the appropriateness of the “native” jurisdiction system, see “Sprechsaal”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 6, no. 22 (26 October 1905): 388–391.

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government school thrive.127 Subsequent reports indicated stable attendance but implied that this was achieved by force.128 Now the local vyuo appeared to be suffering. By 1906, the Swahili chuo was closed and only the ones attached to Ib¯ad.¯ı and Indian mosques survived.129 Yet as in Tanga, this was a fleeting “success.” A report from 1913 noted the presence of a number of walimu and “Koran schools” while adding defensively that their recruitment was “extremely small”130 . In Bagamoyo, by contrast, the government school began to thrive after the district office took a more conciliatory approach. The school had been founded on an endowment by the wealthy Indian merchant Sewa Haji in order to serve the needs of the local Indian population (Fig. 5.3).131 Despite employing an Indian teacher alongside a German one, it struggled.132 Attendance was low and irregular, and the German teacher contended that this was due to Indians accusing him of luring children away from religion.133 Through applying pressure on irregular students and establishing an orphanage with mandatory school attendance, the number of pupils stabilised around 35–40 children enrolled in the late 1890s, a fairly low number for such an important town.134 127 Stuhlmann to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 25 January 1905, TNA G9/79, 25. 128 The annual report for 1906/07 notes that it was “delightful” that “a number of students” enrolled voluntarily, suggesting that coercion was the norm. A similar phrasing was employed a year later as well, see VerhRTAnl 12/I, vol. 245, no. 622: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1906/ 07, 3735; VerhRTAnl 12/I, vol. 252, no. 1106: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1907/08, 6574. 129 Blank to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 24 August 1906, TNA G9/79, 42; VerhRTAnl 12/I, vol. 239, no. 41: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1905/1906, 108. 130 Reuß to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 31 January 1913, TNA G9/ 48, 119–121. 131 Curiously, two versions of the endowment contract are found in the archive with the same date, one mandating the teaching of Qur¯an by a “native teacher” and another replacing this provision by lessons in Gujarati, see TNA G9/65, 1, 191–192. 132 The contract with the first Indian teacher, Fadel Bendani, explicitly forbade him to teach of “Mohammedan” religion, see TNA G9/65, 22. 133 Oswald Rutz to Bezirksamt Bagamoyo, 13 January 1896, TNA G9/65, 6. 134 VerhRTAnl 9/V, vol. 163, no. 94: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen

Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1896/97, 967; VerhRT 10/I, vol. 175, 518: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der

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Fig. 5.3 The Gujarati merchant Sewa Haji, donor of the two government schools in Bagamoyo and Dar es Salaam, 1892135

A significant increase in students came about, however, when following talks with the local population, a half-day regime was introduced for older

Südsee 1898/99, 2920; VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 190, no. 152: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1898/1900, 949–950. 135 Reichard, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 298.

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students so that they could attend a chuo alongside the German school.136 This reportedly led to over 230 additional pupils being enrolled within two months, and a tenfold increase in regular attendance overall.137 On account of this success, the provision of free afternoons for attending a chuo was extended to several of Bagamoyo’s feeder schools, where the offer was taken up by even more students than in Bagamoyo.138 However, the administration’s own statistics do not quite bear out the interpretation that freeing students up for chuo attendance was the main reason for boosting government school attendance. In Bagamoyo itself, only twenty percent of the almost exclusively Muslim pupils were listed as attending a chuo, and in the rural areas this figure was around fifty percent.139 If these statistics are correct, it would suggest that for many pupils and their families, the reduction of hours simply enabled them to work outside school hours or made regular attendance more tolerable in view of the expected returns from this type of education. At the same time, the absence of government pressure on the vyuo and their implicit recognition as a legitimate form of education allowed them to thrive and increase in number during the first decade of the twentieth century.140 In Kilwa, the government took a similarly conciliatory approach, and “granted” the continuation of three vyuo, under the condition that the students of these schools would primarily attend the government school

136 Bezirksamt Bagamoyo to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 4 August 1902,

TNA G9/56, 7; VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1901/02, 5325. 137 The school now reported 375 enrolled students, VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196,

no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1901/02, 5325. 138 But noticeably not in Sadaani, Lorenz to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 26 October 1909, TNA G9/58, 154. 139 VerhRTAnl 12/II, vol. 271, no. 179: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1908/09, 536. See also Bezirksamt Bagamoyo to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 4 August 1902, TNA G9/ 56, 7; Lorenz to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 26 October 1909. For pupils’ religious affiliation, see Schlunk, Schulen, 240–243. 140 Jünnemann, Revisionsbericht über Schulen im Bezirk Bagamoyo, 30.11– 23.12.1911, TNA G9/66, 25. Jünnemann also noted that 61 percent of Indian students attended a chuo in parallel.

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and only visit the chuo on dedicated afternoons.141 The school had begun in 1896/97 as a local initiative by an interpreter and was run by a Swahili teacher until 1902, when a German teacher was employed.142 Enrolment fluctuated significantly, however, and a report from 1912 indicates that the level of suspicion toward the government school remained high, whereas the vyuo continued to play a significant role.143 The government school in Dar es Salaam, though one of the three oldest,144 struggled with regular enrolment and attendance throughout, especially as the fluctuating and plural population of the growing town made it impossible to apply more coercive or targeted measures.145 Though annual reports routinely claimed that the government school in Dar es Salaam had led to a decline of the vyuo in town,146 there is no data in the archives to support this assertion. Instead, it seems likely that the government school had a relatively little impact on Dar es Salaam as a whole, let alone its vyuo. These examples clearly show that the fate of the vyuo was more dependent on the local political environment rather than the mere presence

141 Bezirksamt Kilwa to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 17 October 1902, TNA G9/69, 17. 142 VerhRTAnl 9/V, vol. 163, no. 94: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee 1896/97, 966; VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee 1901/02, 5327. 143 Auracher to Kaiserliches Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 27 September 1912, TNA G9/69, 39. On the fluctuating enrolment see esp. the annual reports from 1904/5– 1907/8. 144 It was also funded through an endowment by Sewa Haji, see Endowment contract, April 1892, TNA G9/65, 172–174. 145 This comes up regularly in the annual reports, see e.g. VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1901/02, 5325–5326; VerhRTAnl 11/I, vol. 205, no. 54: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1902/ 03, 150; VerhRTAnl 11/II, vol. 222, no. 175: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1904/05, 2771. 146 Example VerhRTAnl 10/II, vol. 196, no. 814: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1901/02, 5263; VerhRTAnl 11/I, vol. 205, no. 54: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und in der Südsee 1902/03, 87.

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of government schools.147 The juxtaposition of “secular” with “Islamic” schools was a function of colonial discourse that overestimated the impact of government schools and failed to frame adequately the role and character of traditional education. Despite their accompanying “civilising” rhetoric, the government schools were never more than a quantitatively narrow provision for recruiting administrative personnel. By contrast, the vyuo were the established institution of primary education and an important aspect of communal tradition, in particular along the Islamic coast. This is indicated by the stories Velten collected from his Swahili informants in the 1890s.148 Here chuo education is not only portrayed as a father’s primary obligation toward his children but also commemorated in nostalgic tales about the rambunctious behaviour of school boys and their disciplining.149 Given this role of the vyuo in the commemorated customs (desturi) of the Swahili, it is hardly conceivable that parents, especially the more traditionally minded, would have accepted the government schools as an educational alternative. This is reflected in a later biography of Abdall¯ah bin Hemedi bin Al¯ı Ajam¯ı, who served as liwali of Tanga from 1907 until his retirement in 1911.150 According to Abdall¯ah’s biography penned during the British rule in East Africa,151 he was born in Zanzibar and learned Arabic and Quran at the sultan’s court. Since his mother was a slave from the Kilwa region, Abdall¯ah’s career opportunities in Zanzibar were limited, and he moved to the East African coast to serve as a military commander (akida) 147 For this reason it also does not seem correct to correct to attribute their resurgence in the 1910s to a “more active” Islam as Franz Ansprenger has done, Ansprenger, “Schulpolitik”, 72. 148 Carl Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche der Suaheli (Berlin: Reichsdruckerei, 1898), 56– 58; Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche der Suaheli nebst einem Anhang über Rechtsgewohnheiten der Suaheli (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 44–53. On Velten’s time in GEA and the programme of his collections, see p. 245. 149 See esp. Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903), 45, 49–51. 150 See J.W.T. Allen, ed., ‘Abd All¯ ah ibn Ah.mad ibn Al¯ı al-Ajam¯ı: Habari za

Wakilindi (Dar es Salaam: East African Literature Bureau, 1962), 1–12; cf. “Habari za nchi, Tanga: Heshima ya serkali”, Kiongozi, no. 76 (September 1911): 3. For background analysis, see Bromber and Becher, “Abdallah bin Hemedi”; Gabriel Ogunniyi Ekemode, “German Rule in North-East Tanzania, 1885–1914” (PhD thesis, School of Oriental and African Studies, 1973), 189–141, 305n142. 151 The biography was penned by Khalid bin Kirama and appended as a preface to the 1957 edition of Abdall¯ah bin Hemedi’s Habari za Wakilindi, Bromber and Becher, “Abdallah bin Hemedi”, 55.

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in Usambara and Bondei. Wissmann took him into German employ in 1891 and Abdall¯ah advanced his career through education. His biographer notes that he now learned “European” (kizungu) and brought a UMCA missionary from Magila to Sega to teach his sons. While it is unclear what language exactly this refers to,152 the mention serves to highlight Abdall¯ah’s role in modernising education. The “old people feared” his endeavour (watu wa kale waliogopa) but when the Germans saw Abdall¯ah’s “school” (shule), his biography contends, they discussed establishing a government school (shule ya serkali) in Tanga.153 This shows how still during the British mandate, German government education was remembered as antagonistic to tradition (rather than religion) and linked to the politics of colonial progress. One additional important factor for the resilience of traditional education was the role and social position of the teachers, the walimu (sg. mwalimu). The formal requirements for a mwalimu was knowledge of Islamic sciences ( ilm) and Arabic grammar (nah.w).154 When an itinerant teacher and his educational background were unknown in a particular location, his knowledge was tested in an oral examination by the town’s inhabitants.155 Beyond schooling children, however, walimu could take on different roles in the community. Some were appointed and salaried as im¯ am of the local mosque, where they led prayers, officiated weddings, oversaw conversions, administered blessings, and gave religious instruction. A second type of mwalimu was the privately employed teacher, collecting multiple pupils in the form of a chuo.156 Furthermore,

152 Magila was a UMCA station, so kizungu is probably not a straightforward reference to German, as Bromber and Becher contend, Bromber and Becher, 67n25. It is more likely that his biography mixed different points in his life here. The UMCA missionaries at Magila recommended him to the Germans for service, so he may well have acquired English before entering German service, Ekemode, “German Rule”, 141. Later on, the nearby EMDOA mission station in Tanga would have been a closer and a more plausible missionary contact. 153 Allen, ‘Abd All¯ ah, 11. 154 Carl Velten, Märchen und Erzählungen der Suaheli (Stuttgart: W. Spemann, 1898),

22. 155 Especially in rural areas this system may have been prone to fraud, though the stereotypical German complaints about the “ignorance” of such walimu need to be read with caution. 156 See Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903), 54–56.

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with the establishment of Sufi .turuq, new religious and social constituencies emerged with their own walimu.157 Of these three types of walimu, the second group, the privately employed mwalimu, would have been most vulnerable to German pressure and registration, whereas the others plausibly would have continued teaching in their role as im¯ am or as šayh ˘ of a particular .tar¯ıqah. Moreover, with German educational policies as inconsistent as they were, privately employed mwalimu would have simply evaded local control at times of pressure and continued to operate elsewhere. When the administration ordered local reports on the activities and regulation of walimu in 1912, they were found to be operating in sizeable numbers throughout the colony.158 Given the paucity of Kiswahili or other local sources about German government schools it is impossible to conclude with certainty what role (if any) the absence of Islamic education played in the local perception of these schools. Yet from the presented evidence it seems likely that there was a fundamental mismatch between the German debates about “religious education” and the Swahili, Omani, or Indian understanding. Framing the vyuo as “Islamic schools” to be replaced with a “secular” or Christian alternative might have made sense to German minds, but for locals the vyuo were not “Koran schools” but a traditional primary education system. Islamic teaching and ritual practice, meanwhile, was not a school subject, but something that permeated all forms of communal life. As Loimeier aptly noted with regard to the vyuo schools in Zanzibar, their primary role was “to impart ‘social skills’ and to develop good manners (adab).”159 Even when the choice was made to forgo the traditional education system and pursue “kizungu” (European) training and possibly a colonial career, ritual socialisation could still be obtained via the mosque, festivals, food and dress codes, Sufi gatherings and more—with or without the acquisition of basic Arabic literacy. As such, the chuo was only one part of religious socialisation, and replaceable with other forms

157 See Nimtz, Islam and Politics, 121; cf. Report Lorenz, Bagamoyo, 9 March 1909,

TNA G9/46, 147. 158 See TNA G9/48, 9–167. This was part of the political turn after the so-called “Mecca letter affair”, when some initial reports also focused on the role of a walimu in the movement, see TNA G9/46, 111–163, esp. 161ff. On the Mecca letter and the various theories about its spread, see Sect. 8.2, p. 279. 159 Loimeier, Social Skills, 165.

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of literacy tutoring, even before German rule.160 GEA’s “secular” schools were no competition to Islamic tradition.

5.4 Colonial Instrumentality: Islam, Made in the Image of “Civilising” Thus, the main relevance and impact of the government schools was hardly as their defenders made it out to be. They remained quite distinct from the established Islamic education system along the coast, and where a decline of the vyuo was reported, this was directly related to government suppression. This is not to say that the schools were without impact. They certainly boosted the recruitment of Muslims in German government service and perhaps even facilitated conversions to Islam by bringing pupils from rural feeder schools to the coastal urban centres. The government schools also contributed to Romanised Kiswahili becoming the lingua franca of the colony, not least by providing the government with appropriately trained recruits and printing the first Kiswahili newspaper under German oversight.161 Yet at the same time, it is doubtful that the schools had such a key role in facilitating these developments as missionaries contended, especially beyond the institutions of the colonial apparatus. The cultural dynamic of ustaarabu, which arguably drove identifications with Islam in circumcision, dress, diet, and ritual was already in place before German rule and merely accelerated where the colonial infrastructure and economy offered additional mobility. Similarly, Kiswahili had already spread along the caravan routes and was now extending further inland through administrative practices. By the middle of the first decade of the twentieth century, missionaries regularly agitated against the government’s Islam policy, which led to heated debates about “civilising,” both in Germany and GEA.162 Matters came to a head around the time of the Second Colonial Congress of 1905 160 See the example of Amur bin Nasur, cited by Bromber, “Disziplinierung”, 46. 161 On the spread of Kiswahili and related debates, see chapter 3, p. 69. 162 For an early newspaper discussion in the Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung (DOAZ),

see “Schreckgespenster”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 5, no. 10 (7 March 1903): 1; “Erwiederung auf unseren Leitartikel in Nr: 10 l. J.”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 5, no. 11 (14 March 1903): 1–2; “Verschiedene Stimmen aus unserem Leserkreise”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 5, no. 12 (21 March 1903): 1–2. In the following years the paper regularly attacked missions for failures in “labour training” and “discipline.”, see “Unsere

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as missionaries drove a two-prong attack on German “civilising.” On the one hand, several papers highlighted the importance of missions to education and labour training and contrasted their efforts with the brutality of German settlers or the lack of “German idealism” in the government school’s utilitarian approach.163 One discussant even contended that missions must form a bulwark against a new kind of slavery and oppression that stood in continuity with paganism and Islam: But also the modern heathendom, which we see mushrooming around us, leads to the enslaving [Knechtung ] of a large part of humanity. Or is not the end goal of our Manchesterdom, which is divorced from Christian principles, the enslaved dependence of our working classes? Has not the woman among us been reduced in her human dignity among the secular circles? Decayed to a defiled toy of a lewd, neopagan masculinity?164

On the other hand, missionaries directly attacked the notion of a “civilising” potential of Islam. Julius Richter, alongside his already discussed critical remarks about the spread of Kiswahili,165 contended that the rise of Islam may soon lead to a resurgence of “slave hunting and heathen Schwarzen”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 6, no. 22 (28 May 1904): 1–2; “Eingesandt”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 6, no. 27 (2 July 1904): 1–2; “Regulirung und Verschärfung der Prügelstrafe”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 27 (8 July 1905): 1; “Der Aufstand und der Einfluß der Missionen”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 42 (21 October 1905): 1–2. 163 Charles Buchner, “Die Mithilfe der Mission bei der Erziehung der Eingeborenen

zur Arbeit”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 427–434; Carl Paul, “Bestand und Arbeit der evangelischen Mission in unsern Kolonien”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906); Theodor Oehler, “Die Schultätigkeit der evangelischen Missionen in den deutschen Kolonien”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 478; August Nachtwey, “Die Mission als Förderin der Kultur und Wissenschaft”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 553–563. 164 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolonialkongresses 1905, 561. This was the Steyler missionary H. Fischer who critiqued his Catholic colleague August Nachtwey of German South West Africa for focusing too much on labour training. 165 See p. 88.

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wars” until only the “strong fist of the European can rein in the wild instincts of the suppressed Mohammedan.”166 He was joined by the Superior of the White Fathers, Joseph Froberger, who argued that the notion of a “civilising value” of Islam was misguided. Muslims were not just a political danger but also a cultural one. Their monotheism was hollow and infused with “animism,” their sexual regimes spread polygamy and syphilis, their education dulled the mind and hindered the progress of science, and their “Semitic” trading skills were not conducive to economic growth.167 Froberger concluded: Not prejudice nor crusader enthusiasm should drive us to the battle against Islam, but instead the consideration, that the fight between cross and crescent is about ideal goods, about genuine culture, not just about the question, whether Africa should fall to Christianity or Islam but whether it will fall to European civilisation [Gesittung ] or to moral decay [Sittenverwilderung ].168

Both papers on Islam invited critical comments from two Congress participants outside the missionary fold, who argued that Islam was more proximate to the African level of “civilisation” and therefore already a development.169 Their point was roundly rejected by missionary discussants, who contested that Islam was a “fake civilisation” (Scheinkultur) and therefore a hindrance in “uplifting Negroes” to “our culture.”170 In the end, missionaries managed to get two resolutions passed and approved by the Congress. One called upon “colonial circles” to recognise the missions’ “merits in culture and science” and offer them “full

166 Richter, “Der Islam eine Gefahr”, 519. 167 Joseph Froberger, “Welches ist der Kulturwert des Islam für koloniale Entwick-

elung?”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1905 zu Berlin am 5., 6. und 7. Oktober 1905, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1906), 527–531. 168 Froberger, “Kulturwert”, 531. 169 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolo-

nialkongresses 1905, 538. One of the discussants was the already mentioned geography Siegfried Passarge, see p. 128. The other was Friedrich Hupfeld, one of the foremost colonial investors in Togo, See Heinrich Schnee, “Hupfeld, Friedrich”, in Deutsches Kolonial-Lexikon, vol. 2, ed. Heinrich Schnee (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1920), 85. 170 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolonialkongresses 1905, 532–535.

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moral support” in order to achieve a greater “operational unity in civilising.”171 The other was directed against the spread of Islam: The German Colonial Congress of 1905 asks with urgency, that in the African colonies, Islam and especially the spread of Arabic culture and language are not promoted in any way, but that instead a counter-weight to them would be created via a strong German-Christian culture.172

Both resolutions had no practical consequences but provoked the ire of the colonial press. The most scathing criticism came from the Koloniale Zeitschrift , founded in 1900 as a nationalistic and settler-centric alternative to the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung .173 In the past, the paper had clashed with missionaries over their criticism of the brutal exploitation of Africans,174 and now it printed a rejoinder to the anti-Islam resolution adopted by the Colonial Congress. The counter-resolution, titled “Against the New Crusade,” argued that missionaries only went on the attack to cover up their own failures and that the genetic disposition of Africans made them much more susceptible to the “realistic teachings of Islam” than to the “transcendental” mores of Christianity.175 This also included a redefinition of slavery as a “civilising” measure by Muslims, who were rather to be emulated in their “labour training” than opposed. While in the following years, missionaries had some success in popularising their “Islamic danger” argument for reasons to be explored in later chapters,176 they were never quite able to win the “civilising” argument for Christianity. As late as 1913, the settler Gerhard von Byern

171 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, 1139. 172 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, 1139. 173 From 1903 the Koloniale Zeitschrift was the mouth-piece of the newly-founded

German Colonial League (Deutscher Kolonialbund), which was founded as rival society to the DKG and heralded racial supremacy. 174 “Koloniale Umschau: Die Missionskonferenz”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 3, no. 4 (20

April 1902): 71–72; “Mission und wirtschaftliche Kolonialpolitik”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 3, no. 9 (1 May 1902): 157–159; Georg von Elpons, “Der Missionsanwalt”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 3, no. 11 (29 May 1902): 195–196. 175 Der Vorstand des Deutschen Kolonialbundes, “Gegen den neuen Kreuzzug”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 6, no. 25 (12 July 1905): 450–452. 176 See part IV.

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produced a pamphlet about East Africa, which was serialised in the Koloniale Zeitschrift .177 His book was centred around a number of racist premises leading him to argue that Africans were unable to understand Christianity and were better left to the “outward nature” and less strict moral regime of Islam. Missionary work was still desirable in a certain measure because Christianity had also shown to be “capable to raise the Negro to work.”178 Yet colonial “civilising” was entirely independent of religion in this settler argument: Colonial subjects could be Christian, Muslim, or “heathen,” as long as the outcome was a properly “functioning” labourer. These remarks show, how little the debate on religion and “civilising” had moved, since the initial post-conquest pivot from anti-slavery to “labour training.” On the basis of shared tropes about racial hierarchies and the need to “civilise,” two competing narratives about religion were established as soon as the anti- “Arab” conquest platform had been dismantled. The “pragmatic” side argued that religion was subservient to the needs of the “civilising” endeavour. Thus Christian missionaries should be judged by the outcome of their “labour training,” and the “Islamic” institution of slavery could only be abolished gradually for want of a different economy. Likewise “secular” or Islamic government schools were a necessary (and possibly intermediary) step in instilling European “culture.” This was never going to be an acceptable proposition to Christian missionaries and their supporters. While most did not directly contest the predominantly economic goals of “civilising,” they insisted that without Christianity all would be in vain. Adopting “Mohammedanism” for German education and labour discipline was therefore unacceptable and dangerous, and joint missionary opposition to the perceived colonial preference for Islam could to some extent even neutralise inter-confessional hostility.179 The government, in turn, tended to side with the “pragmatic” position as it was rather beholden to settler and planter interests than 177 Gerhard von Byern, Deutsch-Ostafrika und seine weißen und schwarzen Bewohner (Berlin: Wilhelm Süsserott, 1913); cf. Koloniale Zeitschrift 14, nos. 41–44, 47. 178 Byern, 38. 179 Especially at the Colonial Congresses, missionaries tended to pull in a joint direct,

regardless of ongoing battles in the colony. On further examples of this kind of missionary collaboration, see Owzar, “Das Deutsche Reich”.

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to missionaries, and thus regularly pointed to principles of religious impartiality to neutralise missionary opposition. Furthermore, in Berlin missionary opposition could only be leveraged on the Catholic side via the Centre Party, whereas Protestants tended to be represented by parties in the government block. Moreover, the missionary opposition found its limits in topics where the Social Democratic supported the government’s “secular” policies. Islam was thus constructed in contrast to whatever “civilising” failures or achievements were attributed to Christianity. The “Muslim” institution of slavery could be mobilised as coercive counterweight against “too much” Christian “freedom,” or, conversely, invoked as a sign of barbarity that Christian colonialism set out to overcome. Likewise, the education of Muslims in “secular” government schools could be constructed as a necessary answer to missionary failures, or, conversely as a dangerous policy that would in the end eradicate Christian gains. Muslim ideas about slavery and manumission, or about education and civility, had no currency in this debate, even among those who proposed to recruit Islam for “civilising” Africans.

PART III

Coloured Justice: Colonial Jurisdiction and Islamic Law

Arabs and Balouchis, Baniyas, Hindus, and Parsis, Goanese, Swahili slaves, and caravan people from the interior, Greek and Levantine traders, even Chinese feel safe in the vigorously restored trade and commerce under the German flag. […] The extortion of the earlier Walis, Kadis and Jumbes […] have given way to an impartial and incorruptible judicature and police. The slave and the master find justice alike. —“Aus Ost-Afrika”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt, 1891, 242 Despite all arbitrariness and extreme cases that occurred, one should note the effort of the central offices in Berlin and Daressalam to restrict the leeway for arbitrarily harsh judgements more and more. The humanising tendencies of the reform politics were also grounded in the endeavour to give the Africans no reasons for revolt and so rationalise economic gain through a maximally peaceful state of social affairs. —Falk Weckner, Strafrecht und Strafrechtspflege, 2010, 281–282

CHAPTER 6

Islam in the German Legal Order: Constitutional Conflicts and “Native Law”

German colonial law has attracted substantial scholarship interest in recent years, with a number of monographs seeking to describe and analyse the German colonial enterprise through the legal order it implemented. Roughly half of these are theses in jurisprudence, interested primarily in a systematic account of colonial law. Norbert Wagner’s extensive study aimed to clarify the “legitimacy of the establishment and practice of colonial rule,”1 a general aim that is shared by Hans-Jörg Fischer’s book, though the latter extended the focus to the further development of the German legal order under later colonial powers.2 Marc Grohmann and Klaus Richter, in turn, primarily studied the constitutional problems generated by the German acquisition of overseas territories.3 Ralf Schlottau and Falk Weckner, by contrast, offered a systematic catalogue of legal norms governing criminal law in the colonies, the latter with a special focus on GEA.4 Claudia Lederer’s treatise, originally an MA dissertation 1 Wagner, Die deutschen Schutzgebiete, 9. 2 Hans-Jörg Fischer, Die deutschen Kolonien: Die koloniale Rechtsordnung und ihre

Entwicklung nach dem ersten Weltkrieg, Schriften zur Rechtsgeschichte 85 (Berlin: Drucker & Humblot, 2001). 3 Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung; Richter, Deutsches Kolonialrecht. Richter is focused on GEA and more limited in scope as he only focused on the acquisition years. 4 Schlottau, Kolonialrechtspflege; Weckner, Strafrecht, esp. 181, 280.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_6

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in African studies, was a similar attempt at offering a systematic account of legal norms, but with an explicit focus on Muslims in GEA. Most of these studies tend to paint a somewhat misleading picture of legal rationality and procedural coherence beneath German colonial law, which is due to their predominant reliance on the text of statutes and ordinances rather than offering a critical review of their historical genesis and practical application.5 In some cases, this even comes with a latent apologetic thrust juxtaposing the—quite theoretical—legal order emerging from German laws and decrees with the haphazard colonial brutality other academic publications bring to the fore.6 Studies in colonial history are better placed to deconstruct colonial law as an expression of the political process of colonisation. To this effect, Martin Schröder discussed the legal reasoning behind corporeal punishment, its implementation, and its alienating effects in the African colonies.7 Similarly, Dominik Nagl explored how statehood and personal law were used to establish a racist colonial order, with increasingly malignant effects as German colonial rule endured.8 Ulrike Schaper, in turn, was interested in a more bilateral understanding of colonial law. In her study of Kamerun she detailed the German claim to legal dominion while at the same time showing how the instantiation of this claim created a “complex interactional space” which also gave the colonised room for legal and political manoeuvres.9 These historical studies manage to escape the narrow and potentially apologetic legalism of most jurisprudential

5 The only notable exception here is Grohmann, whose work does offer a critical

genealogy of the beginnings of the German colonial legal order, Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung. 6 Claudia Lederer prefaced her book with a long excerpt from Hans-Georg Steltzer’s

Die Deutschen und ihr Kolonialreich (1984), where Steltzer warns against a blanket condemnation of German colonial politics and suggests that some of the most severe accusations of human rights violations were levied by the Allied powers to veil their “annexation” of the German colonies in a “moral cloak,” Lederer, Rechtliche Stellung, 11–12. Lederer as well as Falk Weckner appear particularly interested to relativise the brutalities of corporeal punishment, contending that various regulatory attempts “humanised” the German penal system, Lederer, 45–46, 65; Weckner, Strafrecht, 181, 280. 7 Schröder, Prügelstrafe. 8 Nagl, Grenzfälle. 9 Ulrike Schaper, Koloniale Verhandlungen: Gerichtsbarkeit, Verwaltung und Herrschaft in Kamerun 1884–1916 (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2012), 14–15.

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treatises, but they still tended to frame colonial law as a realm of rational or deliberate intent in the establishment of the colonial order. When studying the governance and practice of Islamic law in GEA, it is difficult to argue for any such coherent rationality or deliberate intentionality, whether with regard to the constitutional framing of the legal order or its implementation in a colony with a large Muslim population. In neighbouring and British East Africa, the colonial administration had begun to regulate Islamic courts and legal norms by the late 1890s, in the typical colonial double play of appropriating and marginalising established legal institutions.10 In GEA, by contrast, no coherent policy toward Islamic law ever emerged. Instead, the German colonial legal order was premised on a fundamental divide between German law and “native law” (Eingeborenenrecht ), with the latter category forming a fairly unregulated sphere of executive jurisdiction and disinterested delegation, to which all “other” or “non-German” subjects were relegated with few exceptions. This fundamental legal divide did not arise out of discussions about how “native” legal systems encountered in the protectorates might best be integrated into the colonial order. Rather it simply emerged from a constitutional debate in Berlin about the emperor’s sovereignty in relation to the colonies. When the German Empire commenced its colonial acquisitions, its young constitutional framework contained no provisions for such an enterprise. An intense legal and legislative debate therefore ensued in the 1880s, which culminated in the Schutzgebietsgesetz (SchGG) (Protectorates’ Act) and continued via its subsequent revisions.11 The SchGG was in essence a political settlement of a conflict between the executive and legislative branch, the systematic justification of which was not worked out until the emergence of scholarship on colonial law around the

10 See Elke Stockreiter, “Islamisches Recht und sozialer Wandel: Die Kadhi-Gerichte von Malindi, Kenya und Zanzibar, Tanzania”, Stichproben 37 (2002): 39–41; Elke E. Stockreiter, Islamic Law, Gender, and Social Change in Post-Abolition Zanzibar (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 27–45; Hassan Mwakimako, “The ulam¯a and the Colonial State in the Protectorate of Kenya: The Appointment of shaykh al-isl¯am shar¯ıf Abd al-Rah.m¯an b. Ah.mad Saggaf (1844–1922) and Chief Kadhi Sh. Muh.ammad b. Umar Bakore (c. 1932)”, in The Global Worlds of the Swahili: Interfaces of Islam, Identity and Space in 19th and 20th-Century East Africa, ed. Roman Loimeier and Rüdiger Seesemann (Münster: Lit, 2006), 289–315. 11 For an excellent detailed account of this process, see Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 16–65.

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turn of the century.12 Moreover, the nature of the political settlement of the SchGG carried with it a longer tradition of asserting the immiscibility between Islamic and European law. When it came to implementing this legal order in the colonies, the cosmopolitan environment of GEA challenged the simplistic category of the “native.” Driven by scandals and policy conflict, the constituency of “native law” was eventually defined by skin tone: all “coloureds” were exempt from German colonial courts and relegated to the whimsical judicial pronouncements of district officers and their delegates. When various non-African groups protested this treatment, exemptions were made for small ethnic communities deemed to be sufficiently similar to Europeans in customs and statutes. Muslims of any extraction were never counted among them and remained firmly relegated to “native law.” In the colonial management of “native law” the engagement with Islamic judicial institutions and precepts remained superficial and disinterested. Where Muslim advisers were present, this was mainly for political co-optation rather than legal consultation. This left a thin archival record of the institutions and precepts of Islamic law which continued to function under German rule in Muslim-majority areas. Yet when German legal scholarship began to map out the domain of “native law,” as the next chapter will show, Muslim jurisdiction and jurisprudence did not fit the primitivist template of this category either. The story of Islamic law under German colonial rule thus was one of double exclusion: Muslim legal practices and scholarship were seen as incompatible with European and “native” law alike.

12 Before the turn of the century, there were only three monographs on colonial law, Karl von Stengel, “Die Regelung der Rechtsverhältnisse der deutschen Schutzgebiete”, (Münchener) Allgemeine Zeitung, 1 May 1886 (Beilage), 5 May 1886 (Beilage), and 10 May 1886; Arnold Pann, Das Recht der deutschen Schutzherrlichkeit: Eine staats- und völkerrechtliche Studie (Wien: Manz’sche k.k. Hof-Verlags und Universitäts-Buchhandlung, 1887); and Georg Meyer, Die staatsrechtliche Stellung der deutschen Schutzgebiete (Leipzig: Duncker & Humblot, 1888). See also Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 89 for the few essays published in this time frame. It was not until the middle of the first decade of the twentieth century that a large number of dissertation on subject began to surface, mostly in connection with one of the emerging academic schools of colonial or constitutional law: Berlin (Philipp Zorn), Erlangen (Karl Rieker), Münster (Hubert Naendrup), Halle (Max Fleischmann), and Breslau (Siegfried Brie). See Grohmann, 259–262 for an introduction to these schools.

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The Schutzgebietsgesetz of 1886

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The question of the applicability of German law to the protectorates emerged almost immediately in East Africa. In 1885 the German consul in Zanzibar inquired whether slaves originating from the newly acquired territories of the DOAG would automatically be free due to their assumed “citizenship of the German Empire” (Reichsangehörigkeit ).13 The Foreign Office denied that this was the case. The slaves were neither free nor had acquired citizenship since the Constitution only applied to legal residents of the German federated states.14 The protectorates were not part of the German Federation but instead fell under the direct “absolute” sovereignty of the emperor while remain “foreign territories” from a constitutional vantage point.15 However, when the Foreign Office began to prepare regulations for a colonial judiciary along these lines, this interpretation was challenged by the Department of Justice. In a specially requested legal opinion, the permanent secretary of the Department of Justice argued that if German courts were invoked for settling a dispute in the protectorates, they might arrive at a different legal opinion than the government, risking a constitutional conflict.16 This convinced Bismarck of the need for some legislative act to affirm the emperor’s sovereignty over the protectorates, and a few weeks later the Justice Department tabled a one-sentence draft, which delegated all matters of jurisdiction to Imperial decree.17 After further discussion, a slightly amended version was presented to the Bundesrat (Federal Council), now including the provision that both legislative chambers be “informed” of any Imperial decrees pertaining to the colonies.18

13 Rohlfs to Bismarck, 27 April 1885, BArch R1001/1002, 3. For further details, see

p. 118. See also Grohmann, 1f.,24. 14 Expertise Kayser, 6 June 1885, BArch R1001/1002, 4–11. 15 Ibid., 9. A second expertise on the “foreign” nature of the protectorates followed

immediately, Krauel, 9 June 1885, BArch R1001/1002, 12–13. 16 See Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 26. 17 See Grohmann, 27. 18 See Grohmann, 28–33. An interesting question raised during this debate was whether

such an explicit legislation affirming the emperor’s jurisdictional powers was in fact an admission that he did not already hold them, especially if the draft were to be rejected in the end.

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This draft in effect required Reichstag and Bundesrat to waive any legislative rights in the protectorates, which was not an acceptable proposition to either chamber. When Bavaria and Saxony protested in the Bundesrat, the draft was now changed to require the approval of the federated states for any Imperial decrees pertaining to the colonies while the Reichstag was to be informed about them only. Yet in the Reichstag it also became clear immediately that a majority of parliamentarians were not going to cede legislative authority either. While those defending the government draft argued in terms of practicality, the opposition parties held that the exclusion of parliament from legislative matters in the colonies was unconstitutional. The most significant resistance was offered by the Centre Party, the largest party in parliament at the time and the main opposition to the government before the rise of the Social Democrats. As the main Catholic constituency in the Reichstag, the Centre Party feared an extension of the Kulturkampf to the newly acquired territories, which further cemented its opposition to the bill and colonialism in general. Already in November 1885 Reichstag members from the Centre Party had clashed with Bismarck over the government’s policy toward Catholic missions, invoking the freedom of religion clause of the Congo Act to prevent any extension of anti-Catholic measures to the protectorates.19 Accordingly, when only two months later the SchGG was discussed in the first reading, both Centre Party discussants, Viktor Rintelen and Ludwig von Windthorst, sought to establish a robust constitutional argument for keeping the Reichstag involved and preventing the emergence of absolute rule in the colonies.20 Conservatives’ insistence on a “pragmatic” approach of unencumbered, direct government was too weak to neutralise such a foundational constitutional objection, especially as both National-Liberals and Social-Liberals also demanded a more

19 See VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 86, no. 27: Interpellation, 93; VerhRT 6/II, vol. 86, 28 November 1885, 101–119. This was highly relevant for German East Africa, as the Spiritan Fathers were the first and most established Catholic mission in East Africa at the time, but in Germany were considered as Jesuit-derived and therefore banned. 20 See VerhRT 6/II, vol. 86, 20 January 1886, 653–669.

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foundational debate.21 The bill was referred to a specially constituted committee.22 During committee deliberations, it became clear that the majority wanted to solve the matter on constitutional rather than “pragmatic” grounds. Analogous to the “Imperial Law Regarding the Unification of Alsace and Lorraine with the German Empire” from 9 June 1871, which had explicitly attributed “government authority” in these territories to the emperor, the committee coined a phrase that would the centre piece (and §1) of the new legislation: “The protective authority in the German protectorates is exercised by the emperor.”23 However, this formula only amplified the main problem of how to ascertain the involvement of the legislative chambers in establishing a legal order in the protectorates that safeguarded the rights of German citizens. The committee discussed a number of alternatives, namely, requiring the government to seek parliamentary approval in certain matters only, enabling the parliament to object within a certain time frame, and limiting the empowerment of the emperor to the initial years of the colonisation process.24 Yet none of these options were deemed acceptable. In the end, the impasse was resolved with a proposal by the National-Liberal parliamentarian Georg Meyer.25 According to his draft, the emperor would only have to seek parliamentary approval for any ordinances on matters that were not already regulated by the Consular Jurisdiction Act of 1879, the law applying to Germans abroad. The invocation of consular law was not a new idea and had in fact been mooted by the government in its internal deliberations but rejected because this law was premised on the grant of extraterritorial jurisdiction in the land of another sovereign. Clearly, this was not consonant with the act of colonisation. Yet in the constitutional dispute arising from the 21 For a concise introduction to the major parties’ views, see Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 37–41. 22 The committee consisted of fourteen parliamentarians and six government representatives. For its precise composition, see VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 985. 23 “Die Schutzgewalt in den deutschen Schutzgebieten übt der Kaiser aus.” VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 986. 24 Ibid., 986–988; cf. Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 49–51. 25 See Grohmann, 53. The full proposal can be found at VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90,

no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 989.

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SchGG the invocation of consular law became a suitable compromise. On the one hand it safeguarded a certain degree of parliamentary authority via its hold over the Consular Jurisdiction Act.26 On the other hand, the government was not required to seek approval for every ordinance, and the principle of the compromise affirmed its constitutional interpretation of protectorates being outside of the German legislative domain. The political expediency of this constitutional compromise almost entirely eclipsed the more salient question of who consular law would apply to and whether it was suitable to “regulate the legal affairs of the natives.”27 Where these issues came up in the committee deliberations, they were not of primary concern,28 and in the end it was decided to leave all such questions to the government’s discretion. The vague explanatory statement read: In the intent of the draft the courts of the protected areas should not administer a personal, but a territorial jurisdiction. Therefore the emperor shall reserve the authority to extend jurisdiction to other persons. These other persons are, on the one hand, members of other civilised countries, on the other hand natives, as long as they are not by contract subjects to the jurisdiction of their chiefs.29

The committee’s fundamental compromise was not challenged in the subsequent parliamentary readings.30 The committee draft passed the 26 This was mentioned explicitly in the committee’s explanatory statement: “In this way, the alteration of these fields of law [civil, criminal, procedural, J.H.] has been removed from Imperial ordinance and reserved for the legislative process of the Empire,” see VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 992. 27 VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 89, no. 81:Die Rechtspflege in den deutschen Schutzgebieten,

441. 28 See VerhRT 6/II, vol. 86, 20 January 1886, 653, 657; VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 993; for previous internal debates on this matter cf. Grohmann, Exotische Verfassung, 24–27. 29 VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 201: Bericht der XIV. Kommission, 992. The contracts invoked here referred to treaties companies had with local rulers, which sometimes regulated jurisdictional privileges. 30 The only major dispute arose on the regulation of missions, but this time the Centre Party failed to secure additional safeguard mechanisms via the involvement of the Bundesrat. See VerhRTAnl 6/II, vol. 90, no. 231: Antrag zur zweiten Berathung des Gesetzesentwurfs, betreffend die Rechtspflege in den deutschen Schutzgebieten., 1097; VerhRT 6/II, vol. 88, 23 March 1886, 1606–1620.

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third reading on 10 March 1886, and after Bundesrat approval was published in the legal gazette of 17 April.31 Like the committee draft, the final SchGG provided no guidance as to who precisely was to fall under consular law and to what extent the emperor might be free to regulate the legal affairs of the “natives.” As a result, the government received precisely the far-reaching authority over the colonial judiciary it had requested, at least as far as non-Germans were concerned. The limitation of parliamentary participation also meant that most colonial affairs were not subject to legislative approval and the Reichstag could only scrutinise and influence colonial policy via its budgetary powers. Parliament, at best, had retained the high ground of abstract constitutional argument and the possibility to safeguard some basic rights for German citizens. Therefore, while later scholars of colonial law regularly claimed that there was a systematic necessity to separate legal systems in order to account for the differences between European and other “civilisations,”32 the historical account shows that dual jurisdiction rather emerged from a political compromise intended to solve the constitutional conflict between parliamentary legislative powers and the emperor’s executive domain. The uncertainties over where precisely to draw the dividing line between both jurisdictions and how to account for “native law” were not fully considered in this debate and were little more than a side effect of the constitutional compromise. With a system of personal jurisdiction applied to territorial holdings, it was left to the emperor to define precisely the constituencies of consular and “native” law. This process would be highly susceptible to colonial ideologies and politics, with assertions about racial, cultural, and religious differences invoked to demarcate the legal divide. There was, however, an additional discriminatory effect toward Islam that was built into the genealogy of the Consular Jurisdiction Act. Consular law had a long history of colonial trade, in particular with the

31 VerhRT 6/II, vol. 88, 10 April 1886, 2027–2030; “Gesetz betreffend die Rechtsverhältnisse in den deutschen Schutzgebieten”, Reichsgesetzblatt, no. 10 (20 April 1886): 75–76. 32 See e.g. Friedrich Doerr, “Deutsches Kolonial-Strafprozeßrecht”, Zeitschrift für Kolonialpolitik, Kolonialrecht und Kolonialwirtschaft 10, no. 8 (1908): 660; Romberg, “Entwurf eines Schutzgebietsgesetzes nebst Begründung”, Zeitschrift für Kolonialpolitik, Kolonialrecht und Kolonialwirtschaft 13, nos. 1–2 (1911): 75; see Otto Köbner, Die Organisation der Rechtspflege in den Kolonien (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1903), 6.

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Ottoman Empire, and later China and Japan.33 Its basis lay in the socalled capitulations, originally unilateral grants to European nations of jurisdictional powers over their citizens even as they were on Ottoman, Chinese, or Japanese soil. When this juridical fiction of “extraterritoriality” was mirrored in domestic legislation, it typically involved the invocation of cultural and religious differences as underlying cause. Though a late arrival to the concert of nation states, Germany had a longer history in this regard. Looking to build an alliance against the Habsburg monarchy, Prussian King Frederick II began secret negotiations with the Porte in 1755, which led to the Friendship and Trade Treaty of 1761.34 The Treaty followed the usual template. It granted free passage to Prussian merchants, set a special trading tariff, and conferred the same rights and privileges to Prussian consuls and their subjects that had been given to other “most favoured nations,” including the right to their own jurisdiction and exercise of religion.35 Later friendship treaties between Prussia and the Ottoman Empire retained the provisions of the 1761 Treaty, and in 1840 they were extended to other German states which would form the nucleus of the North German Confederation and the German Empire.36 These treaties mattered little in legal practice because Berlin did not set consular jurisdiction into law until over a century later, and Prussian citizens thus remained free to invoke Ottoman courts as it suited their purposes. Accordingly, the first Consular Jurisdiction Act of 1865 was very controversial, because it now mandated consular jurisdiction for

33 On this history, see esp. Turan Kayao˘ glu, Legal Imperialism: Sovereignty and Extraterritoriality in Japan, the Ottoman Empire, and China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); and Pär Kristoffer Cassel, Grounds of Judgement: Extraterritoriality and Imperial Power in Nineteenth-Century China and Japan (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). 34 Cf. Heinz Kramer and Maurus Reinkowski, Die Türkei und Europa: Eine wechselhafte Beziehungsgeschichte (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2008), 81f. 35 For the full text of the treaty see Friedrich Wilhelm von Rohrscheidt, Preußen’s Staatsverträge (Berlin: F. Schneider & Comp., 1852), 922–925. For later comments see Karl Lippmann, Die Konsularjurisdiktion im Orient: Ihre historische Entwicklung von den frühesten Zeiten bis zur Gegenwart (Leipzig: Verlag von Veit & Comp., 1898), 82–84, Max Kunke, Die Kapitulationen der Türkei, deren Aufhebung und die neuen deutschtürkischen Rechtsverträge (München: J. Schweitzer Verlag, 1918), 74–77. 36 See the treaty between the Ottoman Empire and the German Customs Union of 1840, Cf. Rohrscheidt, Preußen’s Staatsverträge, 927–930.

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all Prussians in the Ottoman Empire, foreclosing the possibility to use local fora.37 Opponents of the bill doubted its constitutionality, questioned the judicial capabilities and independence of the consuls, and bemoaned the extension of Prussian state power to foreign territories.38 Those defending the bill now began to invoke cultural and religious incompatibilities as the grounds of consular jurisdiction. The government proclaimed it necessary to exempt Prussians “from Turkish law and Turkish institutions of justice, which are interwoven with customs and religions,” and conservative parliamentarians echoed this sentiment by pointing to the “barbaric penalties of those states.”39 The subsequent 1867 Consular Jurisdiction Act of the North German Confederation further solidified this argument of “cultural” and “religious” differences. The bill’s justification explicitly stated that the “conditions in non-Christian countries have led the European powers to assert the exemption of their citizens from local jurisdiction via special treaties,”40 and the parliamentary committee scrutinising the draft concurred that consular jurisdiction was a necessity in lands which “in religion and custom, as well as in legal opinion and requirement are far removed from the occident.”41 Legal scholarship added to the “civilisational” and “religious” arguments for consular jurisdiction. In some cases, this was by vague implication only. The most important legal handbook on consular law, published in multiple revisions by the former Prussian consul Bernhard Woldemar König, merely noted that consuls hat retained their broad jurisdictional

37 Gesetz, betreffend die Gerichtsbarkeit der Konsuln, 29 June 1865. PGBl, 681–692. The bill took one and half days of debate, VerhPrLT , vol. 3, 18 and 19 May 1865, 1559–1602. 38 VerhPrLT , vol. 3, 19 May 1865, 1585–6, 1599 The starkest expression of this sentiment came from the Progress Party parliamentarian Franz Ziegler, who stated: “while eighty years ago we sang: save us from the Turks, now we consider Turkey a sanctuary where a poor political refugee can still direct his steps.” Ibid., 1585–6. 39 VerhPrLT , vol. 3, 18 May 1865, 1565, 1599. 40 See VerhNBAnl I/1867, vol. 4, no. 79: Gesetz betreffend die Neuorganisation der

Bundesconsulate, sowie die Amts-Rechte und Pflichten der Bundesconsuln, 140. 41 VerhNBAnl I/1867, vol. 4, no. 149: Bericht der VIII. Commission über den Gesetzt-Entwurf, betreffend die Neuorganisation der Bundesconsulate, sowie die AmtsRechte und Pflichten der Bundesconsuln, 223–235, here 229.

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privileges in “Turkey and other non-Christian states.”42 Similarly Philipp Zorn, another established scholar in consular and colonial law only noted in a footnote that consular jurisdiction applied to countries that are “in part disorderly and in any case not civilised states.”43 Others, like Friedrich Fromhold Martens, an influential Russian diplomat and scholar of international law, explicitly set up Christian– Muslim difference as justification for consular law.44 Martens, an Estonian Lutheran with German roots, wrote an extensive doctoral dissertation on consular affairs and jurisdiction in the Orient, seeking to establish the “ground of the consular institutions” by focusing on the Middle East.45 Diagnosing a fundamental chasm between Christian nations and the “Muslim world view,” Martens contended that while Christianity had incorporated the “principle of perfection and progressive movement”, in “Mussulman nations, […] man and his world view are entirely absorbed by religious views and the connected ceremonies.”46 This then was his foundational reason for consular jurisdiction: Since, as we have seen, religion and the Quran serve as the only basis of law and legal order in Mohammedan nations, it follows that, as long as there are no substantial changes in Islam itself and the social order governing in the Orient, members of the civilised Christian states cannot be subjected to Muslim law nor surrendered to the capriciousness of the Turkish courts.47 42 See Bernhard Woldemar König, Handbuch des Deutschen Konsularwesens, 3. (Berlin: R. v. Decker’s Verlag, 1885), 2f. 196f. 43 Philipp Zorn, “Das Deutsche Gesandtschafts-, Konsular- und Seerecht: Zweites Kapitel. Das Konsularrecht”, Annalen des Deutschen Reichs für Gesetzgebung, Verwaltung und Statistik (1882): 463, 465n1, 479. 44 On Marten’s life and later appraisal, see Lauri Mälksoo, “Friedrich Fromhold von Martens (Fyodor Fyodorovich Martens) (1845–1909)”, in The Oxford Handbook of the History of International Law, ed. Bardo Fassbender and Anne Peters (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 1147–1151. 45 Friedrich von Martens, Das Consularwesen und die Consularjurisdiction im Orient (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1874), 4. 46 Martens, 38f. 47 Martens, 39. Unfortunately, accounts celebrating Martens as a humanist tend to

ignore his dismissive sentiments on Islam, see e.g. Vladimir Vasil’evich Pustogarov, “Fyodor Fyodorovich Martens (1845–1909)—A Humanist of Modern Times”, International Review of the Red Cross, no. 312 (1996), accessed 2 June 2015, https:// www.icrc.org/eng/resources/documents/article/other/57jn52.htm; Vladimir Vasil’evich

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Much of Martens’ subsequent commentary was centred on this premise of religious difference, and his sentiments were echoed in a number of subsequent German treatises of consular law.48 Martens’ sentiments were certainly more drastic than König’s and Zorn’s subtle distinctions. Yet arguably, he merely coined in the language of legal positivism what the latter had implied: that there was a well-established and indeed “necessary” boundary between Oriental and Occidental legal traditions. Therefore, even as the debates leading up to the German Empire’s Consular Jurisdiction Act of 1879 nor to the SchGG seven years later explicitly invoked religious difference,49 both laws carried with them a sedimented notion of a fundamental immiscibility of Christian and Muslim law. This prefigured discriminatory effects in how the division between consular and “native” law would evolve in GEA.

6.2

Implementing a Racial Divide

The first judicial reflexes in the acquisitions of the DOAG at first pointed in the opposite direction: one judiciary for all. When Carl Peters obtained his Imperial charter for his East African “acquisitions” in 1885, Berlin provisionally assigned full jurisdiction to the DOAG, subject to the supervision of the German consul in Zanzibar.50 Later that year, Peters notified the Foreign Office that he had issued instructions on the “jurisdictional competences” of his officers.51 His order envisioned full jurisdiction over all inhabitants of the colony, administered by a jury composed of all male staff at a given DOAG station and “some black assessors.” Their verdicts should follow the “views and customs of the natives” and be Pustogarov, Our Martens: F.F. Martens, International Lawyer and Architect of Peace (The Hague: Kluwer Law International, 2000). 48 See Lippmann, Konsularjurisdiktion, 28–30; Carl Ernst Brehmer, Die Stellung der deutschen Staatsangehörigen in der Türkei unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des Liegenschaftsrechts (Greifswald: Julius Abel, 1916); Kunke, Kapitulationen, 13–15, 18. 49 On the former, see VerhRTAnl 4/II, vol. 57, no. 275: Mündlicher Bericht der XIV. Kommission betreffend den derselben zur Vorberathung überwiesenen Entwurf eines Gesetzes über die Konsulargerichtsbarkeit, 1623–1631; VerhRT 4/II, vol. 53, 3 April 1879, 842–845; VerhRT 4/II, vol. 54, 26 and 30 June 1879, 1848–1850, 1897. 50 Cf. Memo: “Betrifft die dem Dr. jur. Jühlke übertragene Ausübung der Gerichtsbarkeit in den ostafrikanischen Schutzgebieten,” 27 October 1885. BArch R1001/5482, 16f. 51 Carl Peters to Herbert von Bismarck, 19 December 1885. BArch R1001/4745, 2–4.

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executed with “greatest care and tact,” except for cases of self-defence, where “extreme ruthlessness” was called for. Peters asked for full jurisdiction for the DOAG and promised to follow up with a “short jurisdictional codex.” For Berlin, these suggestions were untimely. Internal deliberations on the constitutional status of the protectorates had already begun, and a hastily devised judicial system imposed by the DOAG could easily bolster the case for parliamentary oversight. Bismarck replied in no uncertain terms all judicial matters were for him to decide and that DOAG officers should refrain from active involvement in “native” jurisdiction unless explicitly invited to do so.52 Given the notorious reputation of the DOAG, Bismarck’s caution was not unfounded. When Peters replied with a copy of his directive to implement Bismarck’s orders, it included a number of questionable provisions, like the application of “martial law” to cases of robbery or murder.53 Bismarck ordered Peters to change this provision, keep the entire directive confidential, and seek his approval before issuing any further legal guidance in the future.54 When the SchGG was passed a few months later, it did little to clarify matters. The enactment of the law for each protectorate was left to the emperor for a time of his choosing, at which point he would also have to power to extend its provisions to non-German constituents, including “natives.”55 The recently restructured DOAG56 lobbied against the application of the SchGG to East Africa and continued to advocate for a comprehensive colonial judiciary that was adapted to local conditions rather than applying German law.57 Yet only a few months later, the DOAG’s maladministration of justice formed the catalyst for the SchGG coming into force in its territory. When in the autumn of 1887 reports emerged about DOAG officers subjecting Africans to excessive brutality,

52 Bismarck to Peters, 22 December 1885, BArch R1001/4745, 4–6. 53 Carl Peters to Herbert von Bismarck, 29 December 1885. BArch R1001/4745, 7–9. 54 Herbert von Bismarck to Carl Peters, 02 January 1886. BArch R1001/4745, 10–11. 55 See Gesetz, betreffend die Rechtsverhältnisse der deutschen Schutzgebiete, 17 April 1886. RGBl, 75–76, §3–4. 56 On the restructuring, see Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot ”, 233–236. 57 Adalbert Delbrück to Otto von Bismarck, 23 March 1887. BArch R1001/4741,

2–7. The archives contain no reply to this suggestion.

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including executions at will,58 the government realised that without the SchGG coming into force, it had no legal or judicial competence to hold the perpetrators to account.59 This was quickly remedied, and GEA became the first African protectorate to be placed under the SchGG.60 Given the cause of its enactment it is hardly surprising that the emperor’s decree contained no provisions extending German jurisdiction beyond citizens of the Empire. In April of 1888, the DOAG secured a treaty with the sultan of Zanzibar, in which he agreed to lease the coast of Tanganyika to the DOAG. This extended the DOAG’s territory considerably, with judicial oversight in the leased lands only granted for areas settled by “original inhabitants” (Ureinwohner) while the sultan retained the right to appoint qud.¯ ah for all his subjects.61 In the German construction of colonial law, the lease produced complicated legal effects. The SchGG could not be applied to a leased territory as it presumed full Imperial control, leaving the DOAG with two judicial systems in its territory. The DOAG used this opportunity to lobby once more for a comprehensive colonial jurisdiction, which would replace consular law with German courts for everyone.62 Yet again, the DOAG tripped itself up. Once it took over the lease, its officers contravened the terms of the lease by establishing courts in all major coastal towns and forbidding the customary consultation of kadhi or liwali in legal matters.63 This helped trigger the coastal rebellion of 1888 and the demise of Company rule. With the German takeover of the protectorate, the SchGG came into force for the entire territory. The corresponding decree stated that “natives” would only come under German jurisdiction “insofar as they were subjected to the jurisdiction of the Imperial Commissioner

58 Gustav Michahelles to Otto von Bismarck, 26 September 1887. BArch R1001/4741, 8–13. 59 BArch R1001/4741, 25–28; 32–35. 60 Verordnung, betreffend die Rechtsverhältnisse in dem Schutzgebiet der Deutsch-

Ostafrikanischen Gesellschaft, 18 November 1887. RGBl, 527. 61 See VerhRTAnl 7/II, vol. 108, no. 42: Aufstand in Ostafrika, 389–417, here 393–

395. 62 Carl Peters and Alexander Lucas to Otto von Bismarck, 12 June 1888. BArch R1001/4744, 2–5, here 3. 63 Bückendorf, “Schwarz-weiß-rot ”, 340.

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in previous practice.”64 Yet there was still no clarification of who was to count as “native” among the inhabitants of GEA and what laws might apply to them. Three interpretations emerged from the start. On 12 January 1891 Chancellor Caprivi issued guidance which subjected all “foreigners” to German consular jurisdiction whereas “natives” were exempt.65 This would have meant to bring Omani Arabs or Indians under German courts as well. When two months later commissioner Wissmann submitted his own proposals, he drew a different demarcation. For him, “natives” included “all members of autochthonous tribes as well as all those who are not subjects to foreign powers, such as Mrima [coastal] people and the resident Arabs here”66 However, it was a third interpretation that ended up defining how the line was drawn between German and “native” jurisdiction. In May of 1891, the recently appointed first governor of GEA, Julius von Soden, drafted an ordinance which spelled out separate judicial procedures for “whites” and “coloureds”, the latter being defined as “natives, Arabs, Indians, Goans, Balochis, Banians, etc” (Fig. 6.1).67 The differentiation was a drastic one. Whereas district officers could only assist appointed judges with regard to “whites”, they were given a “practically unlimited” jurisdiction over “coloureds.” The only limiting provision was the instruction to consult with a “native judge (wali),” to whom they could also delegate certain civil matters, “especially those relating to Mohammedan law.” Soden’s conflation of the offices of judge (kadhi) and political representative (liwali) is noteworthy because it shows that he sought to co-opt the established political power rather than traditional jurisprudence.

64 Verordnung, betreffend die Rechtsverhältnisse in Deutsch-Ostafrika, 1 January 1891.

RGBl, 1–5, here §2. The mention of “previous practice” invoked the rights granted by the sultan to the DOAG, cf. Colonial Department to Hermann von Wissmann, 29 January 1891. BArch R1001/4745, 36–53, here 46–48. 65 Otto Riebow, ed., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung: Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen und Sachregister, DKGG 1 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1893), 368. This wording followed earlier instructions for other German protectorates, cf. Riebow, 570, 449, 186, 287. However, for the first two of these, the term “natives” was already defined to include non-indigenous “coloured tribes,” rendering a less comprehensive meaning to the term “foreigner.” 66 Wissmann to Caprivi, 14 March 1891. BArch R1001/5482, 27–29. 67 For the full ordinance, see TNA G1/84, 21–23.

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Fig. 6.1 “Coloured honourables” in the language of the archive. Delegation to governor’s reception for the Muslim new year in Dar es Salaam (date unknown)68

Soden’s ordinance was provisional at first and was in fact aimed at shoring up the rights of “Whites.” A few weeks before Soden’s arrival, commissioner Wissmann had installed a low-cost judiciary, with district officers acting as judges in the first instance, supervised by a recently appointed assessor as appellate judge.69 Soden was not at all happy with this arrangement and noted that his initial inspection of the coast had already revealed a “reckless judiciary [Husarenjustiz], which may perhaps be appropriate for natives” but not for “Whites.”70 As such, the ordinance of May 1891 was a measure of damage control and a demand for proper judges. A fairly extensive discussion evolved between Soden and

68 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, no. 027–1426-25. 69 Wissmann to Caprivi, 14 March 1891. BArch R 1001/5482, 27–29. 70 Soden to Caprivi, 22 April 1891, BArch R1001/5482, 33–35.

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the Colonial Department, in which Berlin requested detailed plans for the organisation of the judiciary and Soden demurred by insisting that this would first require appropriate personnel.71 As a result, his ordinance of May 1891 was never officially sanctioned in Berlin nor published in the legal gazette. Nonetheless, it gradually became the law of the land. When Soden’s successor, Friedrich von Schele, was asked to draft a procedural and criminal law for “natives,” he replied this had been considered numerous times but had always been placed on hold due to the multiple nationalities standing “between whites and natives.”72 For “practical reasons,” they could not be treated as equal to “whites,”73 but at the same time “unwanted political complications” forbade subjecting “Syrians, Turks, Egyptians, Indians, and Goans” to “native” jurisdiction. In fact, in previous correspondence, Schele had been proposing a simple delegation of powers instead of defined rules, asking for “natives (or better coloureds)” to be subjected “to a special jurisdiction which is regulated by the governor.”74 Once again, a difference between Berlin and Dar es Salaam kept in place Soden’s ad-hoc instructions. Leaving the “native jurisdiction” in legal limbo became increasingly untenable, however, when a series of colonial scandals erupted. From 1894 to 1896 the colonial budget debates in the Reichstag were overshadowed by the Leist-Wehlan affair, named after two colonial officials in Kamerun who had committed a series of heinous acts against Africans, ranging from beatings and torture to rape and massacres on punitive expeditions.75 Social Democrats and Centre Party went on the attack, and parts of the conservative wing of the Reichstag began to share

71 See correspondence in BArch R1001/5482, 33–63. 72 Friedrich von Schele to the Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 27 April 1894.

BArch R1001/5499, 2–3. 73 Typical “practical reasons” invoked in other contexts were slavery and religious and cultural hindrances to administer oaths for Muslims, Parsi, and “pagans,” see Lothar von Trotha to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 15 November 1894. BArch R1001/ 5579, 7–10; and correspondence from 1892 inBArch R1001/5544, 1–13. 74 Schele to Foreign Office, 30 October 1893, BArch R1001/1003, 161–169, here

163. 75 See Schröder, Prügelstrafe, 35–56; Schlottau, Kolonialrechtspflege, 340–352; Frank Bösch, Öffentliche Geheimnisse: Skandale, Politik und Medien in Deutschland und Großbritannien 1880–1914 (München: Oldenbourg Wissenschaftsverlag, 2011), 264–276.

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their concerns.76 When the matter could no longer be contained, the government issued a series of decrees regulating punitive measures in the colonies.77 Only a few months later the issue of colonial brutality erupted once more, now in relation to GEA and its revered “creator” Carl Peters. As commissioner of the Moshi district in 1891, Peters had asserted his rule with savage brutality, including the execution of his male servant Mabruk and one of the station’s “concubines” by the name of Jagodjo. Peters later claimed that he had executed them for espionage, but the details of the case and several witnesses suggested a much more scandalous reading: Peters had punished them for engaging in sexual relations with each other.78 This accusation blew apart the budget debate of 1896 when brought forward in an unusual alliance between German Conservatives and Social Democrats.79 Martin Schall, a Protestant theologian and member of the German Conservative Party, led the way and made a peculiar accusation: Peters had defended the hanging of his concubine by claiming that he “had been married to her in the Muhammadan way and according to Muhammadan law, and therefore possessed unlimited power over her life.”80 August Bebel, leader of the Social Democratic Party, followed up with a carefully crafted exposition of the case, dismantling Peters reputation blow by blow.81 Though Bebel presented no hard evidence but relied

76 See VerhRT 9/II, vol. 134, 19 and 20 February 1894, 1325–1336; also VerhRT 9/III, vol. 139, 18 March 1895, 1553–1575; VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 13 March 1896, 1419–1423. 77 See Alfred Zimmermann, ed., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung. Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen und Sachregister. Zweiter Theil: 1893 bis 1897 , DKGG 2 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1898), 153f., 213f. 78 For a detailed reconstruction of the case, see Perras, Carl Peters, 197–200. For a contemporary report of the details of the case, see the printed proceedings against Peters in cf. Die Urteile der Disziplinargerichte gegen Dr: Karl Peters, Reichskommissar a.D. (München: G. Birk, 1907). 79 Social Democrats had tried to bring up the matter one year prior, but did not dare name the culprit, see VerhRT 9/III, vol. 139, 18 March 1895, 1571–1575. 80 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 13 March 1896, 1423A. 81 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 13 March 1896, 1434D. It is noteworthy, however, that

Bebel replaced “Mohammedan” with “African” law.

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on third-party correspondence,82 his allegations completely derailed the East Africa budget debate. It had to be extended by two further days, and much of this time was dominated by Peters’ case. The director of the Colonial Department, Paul Kayser, immediately distanced himself from Peters, but this move did not sufficiently distract parliament from the evident lack of governmental oversight and proper investigation.83 In the end, the Reichstag attached a resolution to the budget calling for the Chancellor to draft a bill ascertaining criminal sanctions for abuse of power in the protectorates.84 Peters’ alleged invocation of “Muhammadan law” functioned as a catalyst in this debate because it was viewed by some speakers as the most scandalous aspect of the story. Schall himself saw in this an indication of the decline of the “Christian civilising mission”, declaring that it was “a monstrosity if we as a Christian people and German nation were to contribute to aiding the spread of Mohammedanism.”85 The Centre Party parliamentarian Ernst Lieber added that Carl Peters’ alleged justification demoted him “in the eyes of every Christian and civilised European,”86 while the German Conservative representative Adolf von Massow went as far as to state that Peters’ contention of having been married to the girl “according to Musulman rite” was the “greatest accusation” brought against him.87 Even Peters’ defence, read by his 82 The only evidence that has come to light since was a draft letter by UMCA missionaries possibly addressed to Tucker, which, however, explained the incident in entirely different terms, Perras, Carl Peters, 223–225. 83 Peters was not liked in the Colonial Department, so Kayser used the opportunity

to get rid of his influence. Whereas he had refused to comment on the Leist-Wehlan case, he now read from an internal record of questioning, in which Peters had confirmed that he had “used” the woman “once or twice when she first arrived.” This move, in turn, brought Kayser under pressure from Peters’ friends and detractors alike, and in the end ushered in the end of his directorate. See VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 14 March 1896, 1452D; cf. Perras, 205–230. 84 VerhRTAnl 9/IV, vol. 112, no. 157: Der Etat für die Schutzgebiete auf das Etatsjahr 1896/97 betreffend, 1098. This resolution had been proposed by the Budget Commission, where it had been unanimously adopted because of the government failings in the Leist-Wehlan scandal. 85 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 13 Mar 1896, 1424C. This was intertwined with protests against the employment of Qur’an teachers at the first government school in GEA, see p. 156. 86 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 13 Mar 1896, 1444A. 87 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 14 Mar 1896, 1448D–1449A.

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supporter Traugott Hermann von Arnim-Muskau the very next day, echoed a similar set of priorities, noting that the “crudest lie” brought against him was that he had claimed to have been married according to “Mohammedan rite,” which was “absolutely unthinkable for him as a Christian.”88 This aspect of the debate highlights how an imaginary boundary line between “Christian civilisation” and “Islamic barbarity” ran through the German debate of “native law,” with the dubious claim of a Muslim legal norm of “honour killings” not even discussed. Seeking to avoid further political damage, the executive tabled a comprehensive decree on the “Criminal Jurisdiction and Disciplinary Authority Toward Natives” in GEA, Kamerun and Togo.89 As an unprepared impromptu measure, the decree heavily relied on Soden’s instructions of 1891, making a few adjustments such as a ban of corporeal punishment for “Arabs and Indians.”90 The supervising judge for GEA, Gustav Ziegler, who worked in the Colonial Department at the time, later confirmed that the “urgent cause” for the 1896 decree had been the “Peters-Leist-Wehlan affair” and that it only contained the “minimum of legal guarantees for natives” rather than amounting to a “systematic and comprehensive order for the maintenance of native jurisdiction.”91 Internal deliberations rolled on for a while and actually suggested that in the long run, a different arrangement must be found because skin colour was an inadequate line of demarcation in GEA.92 However, when the SchGG was revised four years later, the racialised demarcation of “natives” was reinforced. The Imperial decree enacting the law now offered the following guidance: Members of foreign coloured tribes are considered equal to the natives as defined by § 4 and §7, section 3 of the Schutzgebietsgesetz (SchGG),

88 VerhRT 9/IV, vol. 144, 14 Mar 1896, 1450A. 89 See Zimmermann, Kolonialgesetzgebung 1893 bis 1897 , 215–218. 90 It even retained some East African specificities that would not apply to other African

colonies, like the instruction that a “Wali” should be present in proceedings. 91 Oberrichter Ziegler, “Aufzeichnung meiner Auffassung von den Verfahren in Eingeborenenstrafsachen.” BArch R1001/5499, 67–80, here: 67, 72; see also Gustav Ziegler, “Eingeborenenstrafrecht in den deutschen Kolonien”, Mitteilungen der Internationalen Kriminalistischen Vereinigung 11, no. 2 (1904): 579. 92 “Wer ist in den deutschen Schutzgebieten als „Eingeborener“ zu betrachten?”, August 1896, BArch R1001/5543, 1–9, here 8.

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insofar as no exceptions are made by the governor with the permission of the Imperial Chancellor. The Japanese are not regarded as members of coloured tribes.93

Soden’s ad-hoc classification by skin colour thus became colonial law and remained the basic norm for demarcating a judicial system for “natives” from that for Germans and their “protected associates.” The exclusion of the Japanese signalled that the German understanding of ethnic hierarchies was not purely based on biological race nor on the diagnosis of cultural or religious difference, but on the colonial politics of recognition.94 This enabled different ethnic minorities in GEA to challenge their classification as “natives” in the following years, with Islam increasingly functioning as an index for placing an ethnic community under “native law.”

6.3

Defining Religious Exemptions

Soden’s bifurcation between “whites” and “coloureds” was problematic as it cut right across the established racial hierarchies on the coast. Already in April 1893 Soden received a complaint by all “Arabs and Mrima people” about their treatment by a German officer in Pangani, the epicentre of the 1888 rebellion.95 An Omani visitor had refused to recognise the authority of a Sudanese askari policing the streets, calling him “nothing but a slave of mine.”96 He resisted arrest, was overpowered and brought to jail, where the acting district officer had him lashed twentyfive times for his continued protestations. This was clearly an affront to

93 Alfred Zimmermann, ed., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung: Sammlung der auf die

deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen, Sachregister, einem chronologischen und einem sachlichen Inhaltsverzeichnisse (Theil I bis V umfassend) Bd. 5, DKGG 5 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1901), 158. 94 Beyond the close German-Meiji relations and the Japanese role in the suppression of the so-called Boxer Rebellion, Japan was the first nation to rid itself of the Western construct of extraterritoriality, see Kayao˘glu, Legal Imperialism, 66–103. 95 Letter to governor, 2 April 1893. TNA G1/14, 45–48. 96 Dietert to Imperial Gouvernment, 21 April. TNA G1/14, 150–153. The visitor

was stopped for openly carrying his ornamented dagger, which, controversially, had been forbidden in Pangani, see Rode to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 19 June 1893, TNA G1/14, 156f.

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the entire Omani community. The letter complained that it had not been “custom” for “the sons of Arabs” to be beaten and asserted that since Arabs were on the same cultural level as Germans they should maximally expect incarceration for misdemeanours. Though as mentioned above, the decree of 1896 removed corporeal punishment for “Arabs” and “Indians” three years later, the two-class judiciary system continued to feature in complaints. “Native” jurisdiction was a flawed and unpredictable legal system, as was even recognised by colonial officers.97 Criminal and civil matters were adjudicated by untrained district officers with no separation between their judiciary and executive powers. There was no procedural law or guaranteed right to legal representation. Judicial abuse and draconian punishment were rife, despite various regulations.98 There was no right to a formal appeal, though certain verdicts (death penalty, imprisonment of more than six months, fines of more than 200 rupees in criminal cases; disputed values of more than 1,000 rupees in civil cases) could trigger a judicial review by the governor or supervising judge (Oberrichter).99 Depending on the person in post, these reviews provided some correctives, but in many cases, it merely led to officers deliberately setting their verdicts just below the review threshold.100 Given the discriminatory nature of “native” jurisdiction, the government was regularly under pressure to make exemptions for certain 97 For a contemporary summary of the most important shortcomings, see Ziegler, “Eingeborenenstrafrecht”. 98 On the various attempts to rein in abusive practices, See e.g. Zimmermann, Kolonialgesetzgebung 1901, 15; Otto Köbner and Johannes Gerstmeyer, eds., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung: Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen und Sachregister. Zehnter Band, DKGG 10 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1907), 274f. 99 See Circular from 26 May 1898, Schmidt-Dargitz and Köbner, Deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung 1901 bis 1902, 155; 9 August 1904, Ernst Schmidt-Dargitz and Otto Köbner, eds., Die deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung. Sammlung der auf die deutschen Schutzgebiete bezüglichen Gesetze, Sammlungen, Erlasse und internationalen Vereinbarungen mit Anmerkungen, Sachregister. Achter Band: Jahrgang 1904, DKGG 8 (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1905), 209. 100 See Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Ist die Art der Strafgerichtsbarkeit”. Sentencing records confirm this, for example in Tabora, where a very high number of six months sentence of chained imprisonment were handed down from 1902–1904, see TNA G50/9. For a sentencing overview allowing similar observations for all of GEA, see Schlottau, Kolonialrechtspflege, 430.

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“desirable” people groups. The first such exemption was made in an 1897 gubernatorial decree, stating that Goans and “Syrian translators” came under the jurisdiction of the German district courts, whereas “Turks, Armenians, and such” were considered “native.”101 This stood in contrast to the government’s population statistics, where Syrians, Turks, Armenians, and Portuguese (consisting mostly of Goans) were typically counted as “white” or “European.”102 Their legal exemption is most likely explained by religion. “Christian Goans” were considered as hardly distinguishable from Europeans due to their Portuguese descent and religion,103 and Syrian translators would have been Christian as well.104 Since both groups were very small in comparison to other foreign residents,105 this 1897 gubernatorial decree was not even sent to Berlin for approval. Yet owing to a complaint by an Indian merchant, the British consul in Zanzibar, Arthur Hardinge, became aware of this and protested against the differential treatment of Goans and British Indians in GEA (Fig. 6.2). Hardinge noted that British Indians should not be disadvantaged in comparison to their “fellow countrymen born in a Portuguese” colony, especially since existing treaties with Germany provided that “British Indians would be entitled to claim […] whatever rights are enjoyed 101 See “131. R.E., betreffend die Gerichtsbarkeit über Goanesen vom 1. Mai 1897” in Kaiserliches Gouvernement von Deutsch-Ostafrika, ed., Die Landes-Gesetzgebung des Deutsch-Ostafrikanischen Schutzgebietes: Systematische Zusammenstellung der in DeutschOstafrika geltenden Gesetze, Verordnungen etc. Zum dienstlichen Gebrauch herausgegeben durch das Kaiserliche Gouvernement von Deutsch-Ostafrika (Berlin: Mittler und Sohn, 1902), 212–213. 102 For 1897–1899, see BArch R1001/7428, 18, 21, 24; cf. Rudolf A. Hermann, “Statistik der fremden Bevölkerung in den deutschen Schutzgebieten: 3. Ostafrika”, Beiträge zur Kolonialpolitik und Kolonialwirtschaft 2, no. 9 (1900/1901): 269. This continued until 1913, when Dar es Salaam instructed district officers to include only “unambiguously European Turks” in these figures, see Circular from 10 September 1913, BArch R1003FC/1155, Liasse 70. Goans were also no longer to be counted as Portuguese. 103 Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 22; von Wrochem to Imperial Chancellor, 1 January 1894. BArch R1001/7428, 4. 104 They were listed together with Armenians at the time. In 1920, Schnee’s Koloniallexikon still noted that the small Syrian population in GEA was Christian. 105 The closest available statistics, list 105 Goans in Dar es Salaam for 1894 and 16 “Syrians/Armenians” in the whole colony for 1897, cf. BArch R1001/7428, 6,18. For more detail statistics and information on Goans, see Jürgen Becher, Dar-es-Salaam, Tanga und Tabora: Stadtentwicklung unter deutscher Kolonialherrschaft (1885–1914) (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1997), 141f.

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Fig. 6.2 Indian merchants in GEA. Despite London’s protests, Germans awarded a privileged legal position only to Goans but not to citizens of British India106

by any subject of the most favoured nation.”107 The acting governor of GEA forwarded the matter to Berlin, where it caused some confusion because the Colonial Department had not seen the earlier decree. The Foreign Office stopped short of a change in policy but instructed Dar es Salaam to avoid the impression of an unequal treatment of “coloureds” by making available German courts in exceptional cases.108

106 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, no. 015–1225-01. 107 Arthur Hardinge to Acting Governor von der Decken, 8 November 1898. BArch R1001/5584, 11–14. 108 Foreign Office, Colonial Department to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 6 February 1899. BArch R1001/5584, 16–18.

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In 1903 the resident Parsi community requested to be subjected to German courts rather than “native jurisdiction.”109 They rested their case on perceived cultural and religious hierarchies. Invoking the precedent of “some Christian sects, e.g. the Goans,’’ the submission argued that Parsis were only “sort of” Indians, having fled there from the “Mohammedan” invasion of Persia. Moreover, they differed in “religion, behaviour, and customs” from all other Indian nations, as had been pointed out by the governor’s “famous fellow countrymen like Max Müller, Dr. [Georg] Bühler, and many other scholars of German descent.” According to their verdict, the Parsi were not among the “minimally advanced tribes” since they had a monotheistic religion, whose “moralistic principles are on an equal footing with those of the Christian confession.” After a local inquiry into Parsi legal affairs, which highlighted their adherence to monogamy,110 governor Götzen forwarded the application to Berlin with his approval, noting that they were a “very valuable element of the local population.” He also sought the Chancellor’s permission to retain the legal status awarded to the Goans, since the enactment of the 1900 revision of the SchGG required the Chancellor’s permission on all exceptions.111 His brief justification was that Goans were “Catholic Christians who are likewise monogamous.” Berlin approved, and the gubernatorial decree exempting Goans and Parsi from “native jurisdiction” was issued on 3 October 1904.112 Notably, Götzen had omitted Syrians from his request and commented that they should remain under the German courts until a different decision had been taken.113 This Syrian exemption was challenged by the Dar es Salaam district court in 1909 when it rejected a civil lawsuit by the translator Ibrahim Domet on the grounds that the subjugation of Syrians under German jurisdiction had not been sanctioned by the Chancellor. Domet appealed to the Ottoman ambassador in Berlin, referring to his fifteen years of service to the German government in GEA and the merits he earned. He 109 Bmonji Nusserwanji and N. Hormusji to Gustav von Götzen, 12 September 1903. BArch 5584, 21–24. 110 Walther Rößler to Imperial Government in Dar es Salaam, 20 May 1904. BArch R1001/5584, 25–26. 111 Gustav von Götzen to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 8 June 1904. BArch R1001/5584, 18–20. 112 See Schmidt-Dargitz and Köbner, Deutsche Kolonialgesetzgebung 1904, 234. 113 See Schmidt-Dargitz and Köbner, 234.

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added that he and his fellow countrymen should be treated like Europeans and not “like a black Negro.”114 Domet was a Christian, and though he had requested to exempt all Syrians from “native” jurisdiction, the resulting decree only included “non-Muhammadan Syrians.”115 This formulation had originated with the deputy governor of the colony, Wilhelm Methner, who noted that the Muslim exclusion was necessary for “evident reasons” while it was desirable to include Syrians of “Mosaic faith.”116 For the duration of German rule, Goans, Parsi, and “nonMohammadan” Syrians remained the only “coloured” groups to be brought under the German courts. Their exemption points to the limits of the German racist construction of a jurisdictional divide along skin colour. When considering the desirability to treat certain “coloured” inhabitants more like Europeans than “natives,” religion emerged as a defining distinction. Compatibility with Christian “civilisation” was the route to exemption, whereas Muslims or “pagan” were to be treated as “native.” Apart from general tropes about “primitive judicial customs,” polygamy and slavery were regularly invoked as reasons for the “impossibility” to bring “natives” and other “coloureds” under German jurisdiction.117 Yet even where these practices were not present, German authorities refused to exempt Muslims from “native” jurisdiction. This became apparent when at the turn of the century, Governor Liebert pursued a plan to attract Khoja farmers to the colony.118 He saw in them

114 BArch R1001/5584, 39. For the full documentation of this case, see ibid., 33–52; cf. also Nagl, Grenzfälle, 68–69. 115 Kaiserliches Gouvernement von Deutsch-Ostafrika, Landes-Gesetzgebung 1911, 194. 116 Methner to Colonial Office Berlin, 3 November 1900. BArch R1001/5584, 33–34. 117 See e.g. Lothar von Trotha to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 15 November

1894. BArch R1001/5579, 7–10; Minutes of the 2nd meeting of the Commission on Native Law, 1 February 1908, BArch R1001/499 s, 125–130, here 126. 118 This plan originated during a 1896 visit to India by the supervising judge Viktor Eschke, where he met the Aga Khan. This meeting was facilitated by the Aga Khan’s East African representative, Sewa Haji, a wealthy merchant and major benefactor on the East African coast. Eschke invited the Aga Khan to GEA, who during his visit approached governor Liebert in secret consultations with an offer to settle Punjabi rice formers inGEA. See Eschke to Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, 13 October 1896. BArch R1001/27, 16–34; Eduard von Liebert to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 4 October 1899. BArch R1001/27, 71–75. On Sewa Haji, see A. T. Matson, “Sewa Haji: A Note”,

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not only a desirable labour force but also a politically useful counterweight to “fanatical” Islam: As far as I am oriented, the Shiite Islam of this sect seems to me to be touched by Brahman ideas of religion and Buddhist ideas of morals, and in its whole tribal character [Stammes-Eigenart ] to be far from the fanaticism of Sunnism, whose eruption under the influence of the Senussi will probably sooner or later shake up Africa to a large part. The Khoja are likely to form a strong counterweight to the Arabs, who arguably are amenable to this fanaticism, or in the least to the superficially Muhammadan Suaheli, who are under their direct influence.119

Liebert emphasised that the Khoja were monogamous and would be of help in curbing “serfdom” (slavery), whereas “Arabs” would never be reconciled with German colonialism because their wealth was in slaves. Yet none of this made a difference to the legal status the administration was prepared to grant Khoja settlers. When the head of their community, the Aga Khan, requested that “Mohomedan Civil Law” be made “a portion of the German Law of the colony for Mohomedans” as was the case in French Algeria and British India,120 he earned the curt reply that Muslim legal customs were “already taken into account” by colonial officers when “administering justice,” with no further prospects offered on legal rights or status.121 Under Liebert’s successor Götzen the administration sought to branch out its resettlement efforts beyond the Khoja and to Indian labour more generally, but once again the question of legal status stood in the way.122

Tanzania Notes and Records, no. 65 (1966): 91–94; Felix Ndunguru, Lucas Kadelya and Johannes Henschel, 1851–1897: Sewa Haji in Bagamoyo: Once Important—Now Forgotten? (Bagamoyo: Department for Antiquities/Catholic Museeum, n.d.). 119 Eduard von Liebert to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 4 August 1900. BArch R1001/5579, 97–100, here 99. Cf. also Nagl, Grenzfälle, 91–95. 120 Aga Khan to GEA governor, 7 December 1900. BArch R1001/27, 130–132, here

131. 121 BArch R1001/27, 135. The document is undated and simply titled “translation,” but its contents clearly identifies it as the government’s response to the Aga Khan. 122 See esp. Götzen to Colonial Department, 26 March 1901; and 3 May 1901, BArch R1001/27, 173–8, 191–8. The change in approach was partially fuelled by the labour needs for railway construction.

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Britain pointed out that GEA law and judicial practices did not sufficiently protect “coloured” workers and withheld its consent to let “Indian coolies” emigrate to German territories.123 Throughout these negotiations, both Liebert and Götzen had called for some form of naturalisation for Indian immigrants, and the Colonial Department now moved on this proposal to comply with British demands.124 A special “German East African Citizenship” (Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Landesangehörigkeit ) was created in 1903, amounting to the “constitutional curiosity” of certifying a person’s belonging to a German territory while withholding German citizenship.125 This, the government hoped, would allow inhabitants of GEA to leave their current citizenship and become a subject of the protectorate but not of the Empire.126 The new status created all sorts of subsequent legal queries,127 but curiously did not solve the issue of judicial status, instead leaving it up to the governor to decide for each individual case if they were to be subjected to German law or “native” jurisdiction. It is hardly surprising, then, that it failed to promote large-scale immigration to GEA and only a few local residents sought to become “Landesangehörige.”128 The only extant register for the new status is from Tabora and reveals a rather modest demand for such a major economic hub with an established “Arab” elite and a growing Indian population.129 Between 1907 and 1914, the “German East African citizenship” was awarded to only sixteen 123 Copy of letter enclosed in Metternich to Bülow, 27 May 1902, BArch R1001/28,

37–38. 124 Liebert to Colonial Department, 4 August 1900; Götzen to Colonial Department, 6 May 1901, BArch R1001/5579, 97–99, 103–4. 125 Wagner, Die deutschen Schutzgebiete, 256. 126 This is how the decree was justified when the draft was presented to the emperor

for signature, Bernhard von Bülow to Wilhelm II, 23 October 1903. BArch R1001/ 5579, 114–5. 127 See Nagl, Grenzfälle, 100–102; correspondence in BArch R1001/5579, 119–35. 128 On the failures of the resettlement of farmers, see Detlef Bald, “Die Reform-

politik von Governeur Rechenberg: Koloniale Handelsexpansion und indische Minderheit in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Africana Collecta, vol: 2, ed. Dieter Oberndörfer (Freiburg i. Breisgau: Bertelsmann Universitätsverlag, 1971), 246–7. 129 “Matrikel des Kaiserlichen Bezirksamts zu Tabora für die Verleihung der DeutschOstafrikanischen Landesangehörigkeit”, TNA G5/50 Between 1910 and 1913, the Indian population in Tabora grew from 51 to 496, Becher, Dar-es-Salaam, 131. The annual report for 1912/1913 counted 165 “Arabs, Belujis, Turks, Hadramis, Washiri, and related

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persons in the entire district.130 All of them were listed as Muslim residents of Tabora town and, with the exception of one Persian family, were to be treated as “natives” in legal matters.131 The new status thus did not provide a regular opportunity for Muslims to escape the confines of “native law.” It only signalled the possibility to make concessions toward Muslims where politically expedient, as did the very few trials with Muslim plaintiffs and defendants that in exception to the norm did attain a hearing in the colonial courts.132 For almost all subjects of the colony, this possibility remained a theoretical one only, however. The bifurcation of the judicial system along racial and “civilisational” lines remained rather rigid, with Muslims firmly relegated to the “native” side of this divide.

6.4 Islam in the Colonial Practice of “Native Law” The fairly unregulated, reactive and at times arbitrary administration of “native law” not only resulted in a widely varied practice but also a meagre archival record about how German colonial practice engaged Islamic legal precepts and institutions. In general, three layers of a “native” judiciary can be distinguished. Firstly there was the direct jurisdiction of German government officials, most commonly executed in special assemblies, the so-called mashauri (sg. shauri), often in the presence of “native” advisers. Secondly, some jurisdiction was delegated to “coloured” officials, who were tasked with overseeing “native” affairs in a city or a region and had

tribes”, Reichs-Kolonialamt, ed., Die deutschen Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee 1912/1913: Amtliche Jahresberichte (Berlin: Mittler und Sohn, 1914), 38. 130 Three British-Indians (including one father and son), one Persian family of six, six further persons from two families of Omani-Arab descent, and one Afghan. 131 The reasons for this exemption are unclear. The applicant served as lineman on the Central Line, so he was hardly of high educational or economic standing. The religion of the family was listed as “moh.” (“Musl.”) without further qualifications. 132 For this, see the cases of Muhammad bin Khalfan (Rumaliza) versus Tippu Tip and Sewa Haji; and the case of the ousted sultan of Zanzibar H¯alid bin Bargaš ˙ against ˘ German entrepreneur the former Wali of Dar es Salaam, Suleiman bin Nasr, and the Max Schöller. The latter was a convoluted trial about land and is documented extensively in TNA G 21/29 and TNA G46/13. The others are only mentioned sporadically and without much detail, cf. TNA G9/46, 30; Colonial Department to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 7 February 1898, BArch R1001/5584, 14–17, here 17.

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Fig. 6.3 Open air shauri with presiding German officer (1902). As public displays of authority, the mashauri were an important part of German governance133

a small contingent of armed police at their disposal. Finally, there was local adjudication outside of colonial influence that mostly centred on civil affairs and lay in the hands of communal authorities, such as a kadhi or mwalimu in Muslim areas. The mashauri were fairly large and semi-regular public events, offering displays of colonial discipline and authority (Fig. 6.3).134 People would approach the shauri with their own grievances, or an accused might be summoned with an official citation slip served by an askari, who could also forcibly apprehend a cited person. The assembly was typically held near the district office in the open air or in a specially constructed shauri hut.135 At the centre of the proceedings sat a German official, typically 133 Bildarchiv der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft, Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt am Main, no. 027–1425-29 134 See Jan-Georg Deutsch, “Celebrating Power in Everyday Life: The Administration of Law and the Public Sphere in Colonial Tanzania, 1890–1914”, Journal of African Cultural Studies 15, no. 1 (2002): 93–103; Pesek, Koloniale Herrschaft, 277–283. 135 For visual examples, see Deutsch, “Celebrating Power”, 97–98.

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the district officer, flanked by local notables and askari. Presiding officers would consult the latter at will, but unfortunately, the few surviving shauri records do not reveal the extent of their influence on deliberations and verdicts. Cases were tried in rapid succession, with the accuser, accused, and witnesses giving statements as the “patience” of the presiding officer allowed.136 Officers would hear criminal and, to a limited extent, civil cases, and then pronounce their verdicts on the spot. As mentioned above, only the more severe rulings were subject to review.137 All other penalties were meted out on the spot, including corporeal punishment such as flogging, which provided yet another opportunity to assert colonial dominance.138 Finally, district officers would also use the mashauri to announce new laws or regulations, which were either handed down from Dar es Salaam or imposed by local authorities themselves. For example, in 1914 the district officer of Bagamoyo dissolved a Christian–Muslim marriage in a public shauri and forbade any such marriages for the future.139 Little material has survived for assessing shauri practices in greater detail. In accordance with Soden’s instructions from 1891, all decisions were recorded in a “shauri book” (Schauribuch), but only one such book is still extant, recording cases and sentences in Karema in the Ujiji district for a period of about seven months in 1913–14.140 According to the book, a shauri was held on twenty-one days between December 1913 and July 1914, clustered in sessions of only a few days apart whenever the district officer or another presiding official was present. Between one and eighteen cases were heard each time, which was probably on the

136 Aside from an at times high case load, Karstedt’s dismissive description of the “tediousness” of “Negro” pleas in court indicate that officers’ patience was rather limited, F. Oskar Karstedt, Beiträge zur Praxis der Eingeborenenrechtsprechung in Deutsch-Ostafrika (Daressalam: Deutsche Ostafrikanische Zeitung, 1912), 43. 137 See p. 218. 138 See Deutsch, “Celebrating Power”, 100. 139 Michels to Vogt, 12 March 1914, TNA G32/7. This was mentioned in response to

a missionary complaint about Muslims alienating Christian girls from their faith through marriage. Apparently Michels’ predecessors had pronounced a similar rule, which he now claimed to be reaffirming in his shauri. 140 See “Kitabu yaschauri yawatu wote wa Deutsch-Ostafrika. Schauribuch Karema, Bezirksamt Ujiji 1913–1914.”TNA G52/1. Apart from this, some shauri minutes are also contained in Schnee’s personal papers, see GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Schnee/Nr. 63.

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lower end of a typical case load.141 The basic content of each “trial” was recorded by different scribes in short and formulaic summaries, consisting of a few sentences about accuser and accused, the main arguments exchanged, and the verdict. The record contains mostly petty cases of breaking of contract, theft, assault, and sexual infidelity. There is no indication of “native” advisers being consulted or local norms being considered in the verdict. Beyond this thin official record, occasional reviews of “native jurisdiction” point to persistent problems. When asked to assess the “native” justice system in 1903, the GEA supervising judge Ziegler opined that the absence of a legally binding revision process amounted to the “acceptance of a multiheaded and therefore coloured and contradictory pasha judiciary in optimal form.”142 Yet Ziegler’s own solution was less radical than these comments suggested. He was firmly against codifying “native law” and did not seek major procedural changes but merely pushed for a more regular review of cases to “soften” the system in the interest of a better acceptance of German adjudication.143 A more radical opinion piece was published in 1906 by the German merchant and Muslim convert Kurt Toeppen, who lamented the inconsistent quality of verdicts as well as the routine rejection of professional representation.144 Toeppen’s article

141 In 1893, the district office of Pangani reported to have adjudicated between thirty

and forty cases in each shauri, Dietert to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 21 April 1893, TNA G1/14, 130–153. 142 “Aufzeichnung meiner Auffassung von dem Verfahren in rechtssachen,” 28 May 1903, BArch R1001/5499, 67–80, here 79.

Eingeborenen-

143 See also Ziegler, “Eingeborenenstrafrecht”. Even so Ziegler ran into conflict with local authorities when the district officer of Dar es Salaam, von Winterfeld, protested against him reviewing a decision that was below the threshold of six months imprisonment, see BArch R1001/5499, 15–53. 144 Kurt Toeppen, “Brief aus Deutsch-Ostafrika: Von unserem dorthin entsandten Spezial-Korrespondenten”, Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger 24, no. 488 (25 September 1906). The article was also printed in August Scherl’s other main daily Der Tag. For both copies, see BArch R1001/5499, 104–106.

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prompted strong reactions in agreement and opposition,145 and it ultimately moved the newly appointed governor Rechenberg to issue a decree reining in the issuing of new rules by local district officers and instructing them to articulate the reasons for their verdicts in Kiswahili.146 Beyond this episode, there is little further debate of the mashauri in the files, and later sources indicate that arrogant demeanour and ad-hoc adjudications continued unabated.147 The institution of the shauri also played a role in the second prong of “native jurisdiction,” the delegation of judicial authority. The mashauri were themselves a colonial appropriation of already existing conflict settlement procedures, and hence direct government involvement could vary. In some contexts, there were so-called “smaller” shauri led either by missionaries148 or local rulers, the latter in particular in Burundi and Ruanda where German colonial officers formed more of a revision instance during their own “court days.”149 Even in central places like Dar es Salaam “smaller” mashauri were delegated to local notables as is evident in the obituary of šar¯ıf Umar bin S¯alim, who was remembered not only for his presence in nearly every “native” shauri but also for having “eased the judicial load” of the district office by adjudicating matters between “coloureds”.150

145 The Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung printed a dismissive response on 13 October 1906, but the engine manufacturer Rudolf Hagen wrote to the Foreign Office expressing his indignation about the state of affairs as told by Toeppen. For both, see BArch R1001/ 5499, 110–111. On account of his conversion to Islam, Toeppen was characterised by his detractors as a “friend to Indians” and “traitor” to the German race, see “Eine kurze Charakteristik der Männer unter deren Mitwirkung die Ergebnisse der Ostafrikareise des Staatssekretärs ihre Gestalt erhalten haben”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 26 (11 April 1908): 3. Beiblatt. 146 Decree from 5 November 1906, BArch R1001/5499, 113–114. Rechenberg’s direct rebuttal of Toeppen was more dismissive, see Rechenberg to Foreign Office, 13 November 1906, BArch R1001/5499, 115–116. 147 Karstedt, Beiträge. 148 See e.g. Antonius Rudel, “„Schauri “: Notizen aus dem Missionsleben”, Missions-

Blätter 2, no. 1–2 (1898): 12–18, 38–42; Johann Friedrich Arnold Winkelmann, “Maneromango”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 8, no. 1 (1894): 2–13. 149 “Jahresbericht Urundi 1912” in BArch R1003FC/1140, Liasse 12; Draft annual report Ruanda for 1914, BArch R1003FC/1156, Liasse 70. 150 “Omar bin Salim”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 13, no. 86 (28 October 1911):

3.

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Delegation of “native jurisdiction” also involved the co-optation of established legal structures. On the coast, this amounted to the continuation and expansion of the judicial institutions inherited from the Omani rulers, consisting of maliwali (sg. liwali) in the coastal towns and maakida (sg. akida) in the hinterland, both salaried positions with adjudication, reporting, and representative duties.151 The maakida oversaw a number of local chiefs (majumbe, sg. jumbe) in their area, who were officially recognised but unpaid local rulers. As German colonial rule expanded, the akida system was extended to some inland districts, whereas in other areas the district offices recognised regional overlords, typically called “sultans.”152 Since these were all political appointments, the delegation of “native jurisdiction” in Muslim-majority areas did not necessarily go to those best educated in fiqh. Especially at the beginning of colonial rule, these appointments were rather about co-opting the various religio-political communities the Germans were able to identify. In Kilwa, for example, district officer Ernst Albrecht von Eberstein appointed the “Arab” akida Nas.r bin Al¯ı as “native judge for all cases where Mohammedan law would apply,” and the “kadi” Abdall¯ah bin Ah.mad as his deputy. This was probably an attempt to represent the Ib¯ad.i and Š¯afi¯ı populations, respectively.153 In Tanga, Walter von St. Paul-Illaire delegated decisions in civil matters of “lesser importance” to the liwali Muh.ammad bin Sulaym¯an.154 Since the liwali was an Ib¯ad.i, St. Paul-Illaire named as his judicial deputy Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul, a local scholar well-trained in Š¯afi¯ı fiqh.155 In addition, St. Paul-Illaire listed further assessors for all 151 See Iliffe, Modern History, 209; Ekemode, “German Rule”, 138–139; Robert V. Makaramba, “The Secular State and the State of Islamic Law in Tanzania”, in Muslim Family Law in Sub-Saharan Africa: Colonial Legacies and Post-Colonial Challenges, ed. Shamil Jeppie, Ebrahim Moosa and Richard Roberts (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010), 275. 152 See Iliffe, Modern History, 209–10; Karstedt, Beiträge, 37–39. 153 Eberstein to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 24 May 1891, TNA G1/84, 41–

43. Eberstein also appointed three further maakida and three Indians as court assessors (Beisitzer) for advice on other religious communities. 154 St. Paul-Illaire to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 24 April 1893, TNA G1/

84. 155 On Umar, see Jörg Haustein, “Historicising Colonial Islam: Religion and Law in German East Africa”, in Conceptualising Islam, ed. Paula Schrode, Ricarda Stegmann and Frank Peter (London: Routledge, 2024).

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other social communities he identified: “Maskat Arabs” (Omani), “Shihiri Arabs” (Had.ram¯ı), “Banyans” (Hindu traders), Waswahili, and four ethnic groups of the surrounding areas (Waseguja, Wadigo, Wabonde, and Washambaa). The secondary role of Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul points to the primarily political rather than jurisprudential nature of these appointments. Umar, though fairly young, was already the foremost religious authority in Tanga (Fig. 6.4).156 He was born in the mid to late 1850s in Tanga157 and studied here as well as in Mombasa and Lamu. In Mombasa, he sat at the feet of šayh Al¯ı bin Abdall¯ah Mazrui, who had studied under various ˘ Š¯afi¯ı scholars in Mecca and was recognised as “one of the most accomplished Sunni ulama on the coast” in the late nineteenth century.158 Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul’s religious erudition and prominence was also attested in the diary of the EMDOA missionary August Krämer, who met with him on numerous occasions for religious conversations, before giving up on his illusory hopes of converting Umar.159 Moreover, Umar kept good relations with the German administration. He assisted with Kiswahili correspondence and would finally go on to be appointed as kadhi, an office he retained until 1910.160 He died a wealthy man in 1916. His most famous student was the son of Hemedi bin Said bin Abdall¯ah, Al¯ı bin Hemedi al-Buhriy, who also served as kadhi from the 1920s and became one of the most respected Islamic scholars of the Tanganyikan coast161

156 St. Paul-Illaire seems to recognise this in his letter as well and suggests that Umar should be given the office of kadhi in the near future. 157 See Chande, “Islam”, 127. Chande’s source gives 1854 as a birth date, which may be a bit on the early side. Baumann called him an “friendly, alert young man” when he met him in 1890, Baumann, In Deutsch-Ostafrika, 98. The EMDOA missionary August Krämer estimated in 1894 that Umar was in his twenties, but this does not quite chime with his already advanced educational biography at this point nor with the wealth and influence he had already acquired, Stationschronik Tanga, 1894, AEMDOA M577, 12–13. 158 Pouwels, Horn and Crescent, 117. 159 See Haustein, “Historicising”; on Krämer, see above, p. 149. 160 See Chande, “Islam”, 127. On his employment as clerk to the district office, see

St. Paul-Illaire to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 24 April 1893, TNA G1/84. It is not quite clear when he was appointed as kadhi. 161 See Chande, 127.

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Fig. 6.4 “Shauri in Tanga” with district officer Krenzler (1891), probably depicting his team of “native” judges and assessors. According to descriptions of his age and stature, Umar bin S.t.amb¯ ul might be fourth from the left162

Yet despite Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul’s legal erudition and his appointment as kadhi, he never became the foremost authority in delegated “native jurisdiction.” Instead, this recognition remained bound up with the political office of the liwali, held from 1905 to 1912 by Abdall¯ah bin Hemedi.163 Abdall¯ah was not versed in fiqh, but he had previously served the German administration as akida in Sega, where he had also been given the “magisterial jurisdiction over cases from the petty courts of the village headmen” in his area.164 Therefore, he continued in this role after becoming liwali of Tanga and appears to have executed his office to the satisfaction of

162 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ethnologisches Museum, https://smb.museum-dig ital.de/object/18151. On Umar’s physical attributes, see Krämer, Omar ben Stambul, AEMDOA M577, 12–13. 163 On Abdall¯ ah bin Hemedi, see p. 176. 164 Ekemode, “German Rule”, 141.

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the German administration, as evident by his inclusion in a list of “good walis” in “native jurisdiction.”165 Scholars like Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul would have played a more important role in the third layer of “native law,” which consisted of the “private” consultation of religious authorities for adjudication, conflict resolution, and the officiation of social contracts such as marriage or divorce. This was not an area the colonial government normally sought to administrate, with one major exception: the regulation of the so-called “teachers” (walimu; sg. mwalimu). As mentioned above,166 the functions of walimu well exceeded education and literacy. Walimu were religious experts—both in matters of Islam as well as “traditional” medicine and divination—, and they functioned as officiants in rites of passage (birth, circumcision, wedding) and as adjudicator in civil conflict (e.g. divorce or inheritance matters).167 Fairly well-educated and economically dependent on local funds, they took the place of “community caretakers who controlled and institutionalized Islam at the local level,”168 especially in towns where better-trained ulam¯ a  were lacking. Their broad function and widespread presence placed them in something of a structural competition with colonial state authority. At times of colonial panic about an encroaching “Islamic danger,” attempts were made to monitor, regulate, and curb the proliferation of the walimu.169 At other times a dismissive attitude would prevail, casting them as poorly educated fonts of ignorance and highlighting examples of extractive or fraudulent walimu. A typical example of such views can be found in a 1912 manual on “native jurisdiction,” penned by Oskar Karstedt toward the end of German colonial rule.170 This book was the most comprehensive overview of this topic produced by a German colonial officer.171 Karstedt

165 Karstedt, Beiträge, 41. Karstedt also made clear that continuity in “native jurisdiction” was valued above all given the frequent changes in district officer posts. 166 See pp. 180–1. 167 For details and an example, see below, p. 256. For more on their educational role,

see p. 180. 168 Pouwels, Horn and Crescent, 95, see 88–96 for more details. See also Becker, Becoming Muslim, 81 on the role of walimu in the rural spread of Islam. 169 See below p. 300–301, 334–9. 170 Karstedt, Beiträge, 6, 8, 11. 171 Karstedt.

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entered colonial service in GEA in 1906 at the age of twenty-two, immediately after completing his studies and doctorate in the natural sciences, geography, and political economy.172 Following his initial training in Dar es Salaam, he was hired as temporary district office secretary in Tabora, Ujiji and finally Dar es Salaam, where he became the official district secretary in 1911.173 Karstedt left colonial service in 1913 due to an illness and continued to advocate for German colonies during and after the First World War.174 His Beiträge zur Eingeborenenrechtsprechung in Deutsch-Ostafrika (Contributions to Native Jurisdiction in German East Africa) was marked by racist tropes about “the Negro,” who in “inner” quality stood “hardly closer to us than our domestic animals.”175 In this stereotypical imagination, African Islam took on an intermediary role: according to Karstedt it helped Africans alleviate the “instinctively” perceived “deep chasm” that separated them from Europeans, but remained little more than a cultural “veneer,” a religion by “kanzu” (tunic).176 This simultaneous recognition and dismissal of East African Islam led to tensions in his narrative. On the one hand, Karstedt saw Islamic law as the only universal legal system that could be applied to Muslims everywhere in the colony, in contrast to “many dozens of tribal laws.”177 Therefore, whenever Karstedt offered 172 For his biography, see Eckhard Hansen and Florian Tennstedt, eds., “Karstedt, Franz Oskar”, in Biographisches Lexikon zur Geschichte der Deutschen Sozialpolitik 1871 bis 1945. Bd. 2: Sozialpolitiker in der Weimarer Republik und im Nationalsozialismus, 1919 bis 1945 (Kassel: Kassel University Press, 2018), 92–93. 173 Eckhart G. Franz and Peter Geissler, Deutsch-Ostafrika-Archiv: Inventar der

Abteilung “German Records” im Nationalarchiv der Vereinigten Republik Tansania, Dar-es-Salaam. Band I: Einleitung, Zentralverwaltung (Marburg: Archivschule Marburg, 1973), 87. Hansen and Tennstedt mention that he was also made “native judge” (Eingeborenenrichter) here, but this is not an official title in the government archives. It is likely that this only meant that the Dar es Salaam district officer had delegated “native” jurisdiction to the district office secretary. 174 See e.g. Oskar Karstedt, Koloniale Friedensziele, Kriegs- und Friedensziele: Deutsche Flugschriften 3 (Weimar: Alexander Duncker Verlag, 1917); Oskar Karstedt, Was war uns deutscher Kolonialbesitz? Was muß er uns werden? (Berlin: Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft, 1918); Oskar Karstedt, Hermann v. Wißmann: Der Mann des zwölffachen Verstandes, 2. (Berlin: Otto Stollberg, 1938). 175 Karstedt, Beiträge, 24. 176 Karstedt, 15–16. The kanzu ist the white robe traditionally worn by Muslims of

the coast and the interior. 177 Karstedt, 67.

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specific legal guidance, he tended to fall back on whatever he understood to be the relevant Islamic principles. On the other hand, because he believed Islam to be but a “thin veneer” over African “tradition,” he saw no problem in remaining completely ignorant of Islamic legal institutions and reasoning. The nearest he came to recognising the diversity of fiqh was a general characterisation of Š¯afi¯ı Muslims as representing a “liberal type of Islam” in contrast to the “orthodox type of the Islamitic church in North Africa, the Malekites, Senussi, etc.”178 Accordingly, his statements about Islamic “legal customs” were a wild collage of tropes about Sudanese, Arabs, Indians, and “Negro” Muslims, revealing how little knowledge was expected of a colonial officer, even when charged with presiding over “native” mashauri. As such, Karstedt’s manual showcased the inevitable result of the colonial legal order the Germans had installed. Due to the constitutional compromise of the SchGG, Muslim legal norms were excluded from German jurisprudential reckoning by default and the debate would instead concentrate on constitutional issues or deliberations as to why a sharp divide between German and “native” law was necessary. Moreover, given the broad remit and mostly unchecked power over “natives” in the German colonial jurisdiction, there was a little incentive in GEA to engage systematically with the legal systems under German domination, Islamic or otherwise. Far from being “in close contact with the indigenous population and therefore well acquainted with their customs and legal norms” as later apologetic scholarship claimed,179 German colonial officers recycled tropes about Islam and Africans and left a rather thin record about the judicial norms and processes in the broad system of (in)justice they called “native law.”

178 Karstedt, 9–10. 179 Lederer, Rechtliche Stellung, 22.

CHAPTER 7

Studying Islamic Law: Elisions of German Scholarship

Where an interest in local GEA customs and legal norms emerged, it came from academic scholarship driving a debate in Germany about the nature and administration of “native law.” This resulted in a number of surveys and scholarly treatises, which had little effect on practice in the colony. Over time, however, they helped fortify a nativistic concept of local law, which cemented the exclusion of Islamic jurisprudence and jurisdiction as a “foreign influence.” This scholarship emerged in two main clusters, which to a large part remained disconnected from one another. The first cluster formed in Orientalism and the nascent Islamic Studies and was mostly concerned with the nature and relevance of Islamic jurisprudence to Muslim legal practices in GEA. The second cluster revolved around the study of “native” customs and law and was based in international law as well as philology.

7.1 German Orientalism and Islamic Jurisprudence In contrast with the practical relegation of Muslim traditions and institutions to “native law”, scholars and administrators in Berlin at first seemed keen to codify Islamic law for colonial use. Yet as Orientalist scholarship struggled with the plurality of fiqh in GEA this never left the realm of

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_7

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theory, and soon gave way to an unhelpful contrast between “native” customs and Islamic orthodoxy as the paradigm of Islamwissenschaft emerged. East African legal scholarship was surveyed, but ignored and marginalised throughout. The first German attempt to document Islamic law for colonial purposes was made by Leo Hirsch, who in 1890, with financial support from the Colonial Department, published a translated treatise on Š¯afi¯ı and H . anaf¯ı inheritance law by the Yemeni šayh Abd al-Q¯adir bin ˘ about Abd alMuh.ammad al-Naqšband¯ı al-Makkaw¯ı.1 Little is known Q¯adir biography beyond what his laq¯ ab (belonging to the Naqšband¯ı order) and nisbah (descending from a Meccan father) convey. At Aden, he seemed to have monopolised Arabic education for civil and military officers together with his brother and son, and the range of appraisals by dignitaries in the preface of his book attest to his good connections with the local establishment.2 Hirsch had met Abd al-Q¯adir during his first trip to Aden in 1888 and characterised him as an “intelligent Arab,” who beyond his interest in religion studied chemistry with the help of English textbooks.3 Abd al-Q¯adir gave him a copy of his book and granted him the rights to produce a German translation. The two continued to correspond after Hirsch’s departure, and Abd al-Q¯adir aided Hirsch in the preparation for his later journeys.4 The first Arabic edition of Abd al-Q¯adir’s treatise had been printed in Bombay just two years prior.5 This place of publication and the combination of Š¯afi¯ı and H . anaf¯ı law positioned Abd al-Q¯adir’s book in the cosmopolitan environment of the Indian Ocean trade. It is profiled as an accessible manual for Islamic inheritance law, and in its casuistic structure provides general answers to specific cases without going into

1 Leo Hirsch, Der überfließende Strom in der Wissenschaft des Erbrechts der Hanefiten und Schafeiten: Arabischer Text von Schech Abd ul Kadir Muhammed, übersetzt und erläutert von Leo Hirsch (Leipzig: F. A. Brockhaus, 1891). 2 Shaikh Abdul Kadir bin Muhamed al-Mekkawi, A Treatise on The Muhammedan Law Entitled, “The Overflowing River of the Science of Inheritance and Patrimony,” Together With an Exposition of “The Rights of Women and the Laws of Matrimony” (Aden: Arabic Book Depot, n.d.), viii; Hirsch, Überfließende Strom, 4–11. 3 Hirsch, “Arabische Weltanschauung”. See also Hirsch, Reisen, vii, 195, 220. 4 For more on Hirsch’s Yemen expedition, see p. 152–3. Hirsch, “Arabische Weltan-

schauung”, See also; Hirsch, Reisen, vii, 195, 220; Hirsch, “Journey”. 5 Hirsch, Überfließende Strom, vii.

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the various interpretative traditions. In 1899 Abd al-Q¯adir published a slightly revised English translation of his work, together with an exposition on the rights of women and marriage law.6 This translation was intended for colonial use, with Abd al-Q¯adir emphasising its usefulness for language training and facilitating Anglo-Islamic case law in Aden as well as the wider British Empire.7 Hirsch’s earlier German translation pursued no less overt colonial intentions. He noted that the acquisition of GEA had made it necessary to win over the trust of the “Arabs and other numerous confessors of Islam,”8 which required to become well versed in Islamic religion and its legal customs. Given the “average ignorance, incompetence, and capriciousness” of Islamic judges, Hirsch proclaimed it necessary to create a European court of appeals. This in turn required some sort of basic law, compiled with the help of “native authorities” and purged of all purely religious instructions or precepts conflicting with Germany’s status as a ad.¯ı would have to take a test in this “ruling nation.”9 Eventually, every q¯ law before being confirmed as judge. Abd al-Q¯adir’s treatise, in Hirsch’s opinion, suited such an enterprise due to its clarity, and he hoped that its “fresh, naïve, and by our standards not particularly academic manner” would appeal to “wide circles and make them acquainted with the Arabic manner of thinking.”10 Hirsch’s initiative found support. His book received favourable reviews in the press and earned an honourable mention by Eduard Sachau, professor of Near-Eastern literature in Berlin and director of the SOS.11 6 Shaikh Abdul Kadir bin Muhamed al-Mekkawi, Treatise. The book was endorsed by the same four people as the earlier edition Hirsch used. 7 Shaikh Abdul Kadir bin Muhamed al-Mekkawi, viii–xiv. On the latter point, see Scott Reese, Imperial Muslims: Islam, Community and Authority in the Indian Ocean, 1839– 1937 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2018), 90–98. 8 Hirsch, Überfließende Strom, v–vi. 9 See Hirsch, vi. 10 Hirsch, viii. 11 “Literarisches”, Nordeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, Morgenausgabe 29 April 1891, 6;

“Litterarische Besprechungen: Der überfließende Strom in der Wissenschaft des Erbrechts der Hanefiten und Schafeiten. Arabischer Text mit nebengedruckter deutscher Übersetzung.—übersetzt und erläutert von Leo Hirsch”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 2, no. 5 (1 March 1891): 109; Eduard Sachau, “Muhammedanisches Erbrecht nach der Lehre der Ibaditischen Araber von Zanzibar und Ostafrika”, Sitzungsberichte der könglich preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin 1894, no. 8 (1894): 163. There

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More importantly, the Colonial Department acquired 250 copies for distribution in the colonies.12 Yet in contrast to this recognition in Berlin, the book’s impact on colonial practice was limited. In GEA the regulation of inheritance among “coloureds” was aimed at levying tax, and all practical matters of regulating an estate were left to specially appointed commissions of “native” representatives.13 Heirs did have the option of approaching district officers on inheritance matters, but this came with a higher levy and was likely unattractive.14 Moreover, follow-up decrees and later commentaries indicate that the implementation of these inheritance regulations remained patchy at best.15 Therefore, even though two sources from GEA mention Hirsch’s book, it likely was of rather limited use.16 Nonetheless, Berlin pursued further ventures in documenting and possibly codifying Islamic law. In December 1892, the head of the Colonial Department, Paul Kayser, asked Sachau to produce a “textbook or manual [Leitfaden]” of the “legal affairs of the Arabs, especially property law and real estate” and promised financial support.17 Sachau immediately took up the offer and promised to write a “practical handbook” of Islamic law, which would accommodate the “needs of the judiciary in East Africa,” as well as shorter treatises about specific subjects along the way.18 At the same time, Sachau admitted that he did not even know which madhab was predominant in GEA and enclosed a short survey for distri¯ in the colony consisting of three basic questions in German and bution are only a few other uses of Hirsch’s work apart from these reviews, see Joseph Schacht, ed., G. Bergsträssers Grundzüge des islamischen Rechts (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1935), 22; Moritz Steinschneider, “Arabische Mathematiker und Astronomen (Forts.)”, Orientalistische Litteratur-Zeitung 7, no. 6 (1904): 205–6, 212. 12 Hirsch to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 12 March 1891, BArch R1001/ 999, 6–9. 13 “Verordnung betreffend die Erhebung einer Erbschaftssteuer und die Regelung von Nachlässen Farbiger” issued by Circular of 4 November 1893, BArch R1001/5000, 18– 20. 14 In this case, inheritance tax would be applied before any debt had been deducted from the estate. 15 Cf. BArch R1001/5000, 14–16, 24; Karstedt, Beiträge, 87. 16 St. Paul-Illaire to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 17 January 1894, BArch

R1001/5000, 29–49; Karstedt, 87–96. 17 Kayser to Sachau, 30 December 1892, BArch F 1001/5557, 3–4. 18 Eduard Sachau to Foreign Office, 21 January 1893. BArch R1001/5557, 6–7.

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Arabic: firstly, whether the Ib¯ad.¯ı or Š¯afi¯ı madhab applied on the coast; secondly, whether the main Muslim towns and¯ territories all followed the same legal system or not; and thirdly, what legal books or commentaries were being used. Sachau’s request was immediately forwarded to GEA, where it ran into political complications. The first response in November 1893 did not come from the coast, but from the German consul in Zanzibar, Oswin Anton. He wrote that governor Soden had asked him to assist because only one response had been obtained in GEA, written by Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r, then liwali of Dar es Salaam.19 Anton contended that this was due to an absence of legally trained “Arabs” on the coast, and noted that even in Zanzibar it was hard to obtain an answer because of political reservations. Moreover, the only response Anton had received from the “old and worthy” q¯ ad.¯ı šayh Yah.y¯a bin Half¯an conflicted with Sulaym¯an’s ˘ ˘ original response is no longer extant,21 it account.20 Since Sulaym¯an’s is unclear whether Consul Anton had overemphasised this difference to insert his own expertise into the process. The administration on the coast appeared to think so. Vice-governor Wrochem fumed that the consul had not been asked to respond directly, and contented that there was no lack of jurisprudence on the coast. Further responses to the survey had already been obtained and would soon be sent.22 Yet it took more than a year before any such a submission emerged, leading the Colonial Department to turn to Zanzibar once more when Hirsch launched a similar inquiry about legal “sects” in early 1895.23 Noting that there was nobody trained in “Arabic law” on the 19 Anton to Leo von Caprivi, 30 November 1893. BArch R1001/5557, 12–18. 20 The q¯ ad¯ı’s answer was published by Sachau, see Eduard Sachau, “Das Gutachten

. eines Muhammedanischen Juristen ueber die Muhammedanischen Rechtsverhältnisse in Ostafrika”, Mittheilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen an der Friedrich Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin. Dritte Abtheilung: Afrikanische Studien 1 (1898): 1–8. Contrary to Anton’s somewhat dismissive characterisation, Sachau portrayed Yah.y¯a bin Half¯an as the most respected q¯ad.¯ı at the sultan’s court and identified him as contributor ˘ two legal works. to 21 Sulaym¯ an’s first answer was returned to GEA and not included in the later submission to Berlin, see p. 171. 22 Johannes von Wrochem to Leo von Caprivi, 13 March 1894. BArch R1001/5557, 33–34. 23 Hirsch to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 30 January 1895, BArch R1001/ 5557, 42.

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coast, Berlin requested that the consulate’s translator, Walter Rößler, write a report.24 Rößler had studied Arabic at the SOS, and was already in the process of facilitating the shipment of several Ibad.¯ı books to Sachau via the Colonial Department,25 but his brief report added no new insights about the question of judicial prevalence.26 Sachau made relatively little use of the material he received from Zanzibar. In 1894, he gave a paper on Ibad.¯ı inheritance law, which complemented Hirsch’s treatise on Š¯afi¯ı estate regulation and was also forwarded to the coast.27 This paper was based on a compendium by Abd al-H . asan Al¯ı bin Muh.ammad bin Al¯ı al-Basiwi al-Um¯ani, which had been printed in Zanzibar in 1886 and was already found among Sachau’s books before he had received any shipments from East Africa.28 In framing his paper, he incorporated some insights from Consul Anton’s summary of šayh Yah.y¯a’s statement but did not make use of the Arabic ˘ take another four years before he published a facsimile response. It would and translation of this text, along with two articles about Ibad.¯ı history and religion, which drew on one of the books he had received from Rößler.29 This was all Sachau would publish on Ibad.¯ı fiqh, a topic rather ancillary to his much more significant oeuvre on the Middle East.30

24 Foreign Office, Colonial Department to Imperial Consultate Zanzibar, 15 February

1895, BArch R1001/5557, 43. 25 There were four deliveries between 1895 and 1898, shipping twenty-two works in total, see the related correspondence in BArch R1001/5557, 35–39, 60–96. 26 “Muhammedanische Rechtssysteme im ostafrikanischen Schutzgebiet,” 27 March 1895, BArch R1001/5557, 46–50. 27 Sachau, “Muhammedanisches Erbrecht”, 163; cf. BArch R1001/5557, 23–32. 28 Sachau, 163. 29 See Sachau, “Gutachten”; Eduard Sachau, “Über eine arabische Chronik aus Zanzibar”, Mittheilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen an der Königlichen FriedrichWilhelm-Universität zu Berlin. Zweite Abteilung: Westasiatische Studien 1 (1898): 1–19; Eduard Sachau, “Über die religiösen Anschauungen der Ibaditischen Muhammedaner in Oman und Ostafrika”, in Mitteilungen des Seminars fuer Orientalische Sprachen an der Friedrich Wilhelms-Universitaet zu Berlin: Zweite Abtheilung (1899), 47–82. 30 For a list of Sachau’s writings, see Gotthold Weil, “Die Schriften Eduard Sachaus”, in Festschrift Eduard Sachau zum siebzigsten Geburtstage gewidmet von Freunden und Schülern, ed. Gotthold Weil (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1915), 1–14.

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In March 1895, Dar es Salaam finally submitted six sets of Arabic replies to Sachau’s survey.31 These had been obtained from the “Arabs” Muh.ammad bin Az¯ız and Umar bin Šayh al-Kilifi in Pangani, the ˘ in Tanga, the q¯ “scholar of law” (al-faq¯ıh) Umar bin S.t.ambul ad.¯ı Ab¯u Bakr bin T.aha al-Ahtani in Bagamoyo, the q¯ ad.¯ı Abdall¯ah bin Ah.mad in Kilwa, and Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r in Dar es Salaam. The latter was penned in reaction to šayh Yah.y¯a’s treatise, mainly downplaying the observed differences. Among˘ the others, the most extensive response came from Umar bin S.t.ambul, arguably the best-educated scholar in fiqh among all the respondents. His answer to the third question entailed a list of over fifty writings, grouped by commentary tradition (Fig. 7.1). In addition to these six Arabic responses, the submission also included a short treatise on Islamic law by Tanga district officer St. Paul-Illaire, consisting mainly of a list of legal books and commentaries in the Š¯afi¯ı, 32 H . anaf¯ı, and Ibad.¯ı traditions. The extensive list of Š¯afi¯ı writings was  more or less identical to Umar bin S.t.ambul’s tabulation, apart from minor spelling errors and sorting discrepancies.33 St. Paul-Illaire, who less than a year earlier was still confusing Š¯ı¯ı Islam and the Š¯afi¯ı madhab ¯ the in his correspondence,34 gave no indication of his sources but made rather spurious claim that his district office was familiar with Islamic law due to its availability in print:

31 Manteuffel to Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, 20 March 1895, BArch R1001/5557, 52–53. 32 These notes on “Mohammedan law” were an excerpt of a larger expertise on “native law,” written on 17 January 1894, probably in response to a different survey. See below, p. 180. 33 c Umar’s written response is dated to 20 January 1894, three days later than St. Paul’s. But it is very likely that c Umar’ would have dictated his list to the district officer and been instructed to write it down as well. 34 St. Paul-Illaire to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 24 April 1893, TNA G1/

84.

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Fig. 7.1 Excerpt from Umar bin S.t.ambul’s list of fiqh texts, with his signature at the bottom35 35 BArch R1001/5557, 58, 7.

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The whole complicated civil and criminal law has been laid down in a large row of more or less elaborate legal books and commentaries about the same; all of them have been published, the most important ones are present here. On this basis, all Mohammedan civil matters are adjudicated at the district office. To provide an account of this jurisdiction, even in extracts, would lead too far and seems superfluous since it is accessible to everyone in print. I will limit myself to providing a list below of the most common legal books for the decisive sects. In criminal cases, by contrast, the principles of German criminal law are applied, because in many cases the punishments to be applied according to Arab law do not align with the more civilised or rather more humane views of a European nation.36

Upon receipt of these answers, Sachau noted that they “confirmed in a delightful manner” what he already knew from other sources and that the legal commentaries used in East Africa were “quite the same” to those elsewhere in the Islamic world.37 Yet once again, there is little indication that Sachau actually used the survey responses in his subsequent writings. When penning his extensive manual of Š¯afi¯ı law, he made a convenient choice instead and based his book on a widely available Egyptian gloss by Ibr¯ah¯ım bin Muh.ammad al-B¯agˇ j¯ur¯ı, the Grand Sayh of al-Azhar Univer˘ (h.¯ ašiya) was sity from 1847 to 1860.38 This gloss or supercommentary ˙ a summary of Ibn Q¯asim al-Gazz¯ ı’s commentary (šarh.) to the foundational Š¯afi¯ı compendium g¯ ˙ ayat al-ihtis.¯ ar by the eleventh-century jurist ˘ 39 Ab¯ı Šuˇga¯ Ah.mad bin al-H . usayn bin Ah.mad al-Is.fah¯an¯ı al-Abb¯ad¯ı. The 36 Ibid, p. 29–30; cf. Walter von St. Paul-Illaire, “Über die Rechtsgewohnheiten der im Bezirk Tanga ansässigen Farbigen”, Mittheilungen aus den deutschen Schutzgebieten 8, no. 3 (1895): 192. 37 Sachau to Kayser, 22 June 1895, BArch R1001/5557, 68–69. 38 Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht. On al-B¯ agˇ j¯ur¯ı’s life, see Kenneth M. Cuno and

Aaron Spevack, “al-B¯aj¯ur¯ı, Ibr¯ah¯ım b: Muh.ammad”, in Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. Kate Fleet et al., 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), accessed 25 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org.ezp.lib. cam.ac.uk/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_22822; Aaron Spevack, The Archetypal Sunn¯ı Scholar: Law, Theology, and Mysticism in the Synthesis of al-B¯ aj¯ ur¯ı (New York: SUNY Press, 2014), 7–18. 39 On Ab¯ı Šuˇ g¯ac , see Felicitas Opwis, “Ab¯u Shuj¯ac ”, in Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. Kate Fleet et al., 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2019), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org.ezp. lib.cam.ac.uk/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_24748. The g¯ ˙ ayat al-ihtis.¯ ar may also be referred to as al-taqr¯ıb, see e.g. Becker, “Materialien”, 21. Contrary˘ to Loimeier, this work was not a muhtas.ar (abridgement) of al-Nawaw¯ı’s foundational text (see below), as ˘ Ab¯u Šuˇg¯a lived two centuries before al-Nawaw¯ı, Loimeier, Social Skills, 153.

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concise character of the g¯ ˙ ayat al-ihtis.¯ ar made it a suitable textbook intro˘ duction to Š¯afi¯ı fiqh, and al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı’s gloss was essentially the last revision of his own lecture scripts this text, drawing in part on another commentary on Ab¯ı Šuˇga¯, the al-iqn¯ a  f¯ı h.all al-f¯ az.i Ab¯ı Šuˇg¯ a  by Šams al-D¯ın bin Muh.ammad al-Hat.ib al-Širb¯ın¯ı. Al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı’s gloss ˘was popular in Egypt, not least because it had just been printed in 1889.40 Sachau may have encountered it through his Egyptian assistant, Muh.ammad Nas.¯ar, who taught contemporary Arabic at the SOS from 1892 to 1897 while also studying engineering and Egyptology in Berlin.41 Sachau argued that he selected the book because it had the “highest authority” in Egypt and East Africa and its “didactic character” made it more suitable for introductory purposes than established commentaries like the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin, which were “entirely a mosaic of short legal rulings.”42 These assertions do not bear out for the survey responses Sachau had received, however. Among the GEA submissions, al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı’s gloss is only included in the most comprehensive list by Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul in Tanga.43 By contrast, the one text and commentary tradition that was mentioned by all submissions was precisely what Sachau had deemed unsuitable: the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin by the thirteenth century Damascene scholar Muh.y¯ı al-D¯ın Ab¯u Zakariyy¯a Yah.y¯a al-Nawaw¯ı.44 This work is a critical summary of the kit¯ ab al-muh.arrar by Abd al-Kar¯ım al-R¯afi¯ı 40 Ahmed El Shamsy, “The H¯ . ashiya in Islamic Law: A Sketch of the Sh¯afi¯ı Literature”, Oriens 41, nos. 3–4 (2013): 289. 41 Sachau, “Gutachten”, xxviii; Pugach, Africa in Translation, 148. Nas¯ . ar would have had some training in fiqh but the extent of his previous education is not documented in his personal file, see GStAPK, Rep. 208A, 42. He was only twenty-three years old when recruited from the D¯ar al-Ul¯um in Cairo and introduced as the youngest pupil there but “best-acquainted with Arabic literature”, see Moritz to Sachau 28 June 1891, GStAPK, Rep. 208A, 39, 32–33. His predecessor was recruited from the same school at the age of twenty-five, and had studied “Muhammedan theology and jurisprudence” for eight years at the al-Azhar before joining the D¯ar al-Ul¯um, see “Vita des Herrn Taufik, Lektor des Aegyptisch-Arabischen am Seminar für Orientalischen Sprachen”, GStAPK, Rep. 208A, 39, 37. Many thanks to Sarah Pugach for sharing this information with me. 42 Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht, xxv. 43 “Gutachten des Omar bin Stambul, Tanga”, BArch R 1001/5557, 7–8. 44 On al-Nawaw¯ı, See W. Heffening, “al-Nawaw¯ı”, in The Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. P.

Bearman et al., 2nd (n.d.), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/15733912_islam_SIM_5858.

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(1160–1226), and together both books form the end of the so-called “golden chain” of the Š¯afi¯ı fiqh commentary tradition.45 Al-Nawaw¯ı’s final position in this formative chain, together with his stated intent to correct some of al-R¯afi¯ı’s misconceptions by going back to al-Š¯afi¯ı agˇ al-t.¯ alibin a position of final authority. Subsedirectly,46 gave the minh¯ quent works are typically understood as a tertiary layer of scholarship, merely interpreting al-Nawaw¯ı’s rulings rather than creating new ones.47 Within this tertiary layer of interpreting the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin, two sixteenth-century commentaries are usually given preference: the tuh.fat al-muh.taˇg li-šarh. al-minh¯ agˇ by ibn H ayah al. aˇgar al-Haytam¯ı and the nih¯ 48 muh.taˇg il¯ a šarh. al-minh¯ agˇ by Šams al-D¯ın al-Raml¯ı. Both texts were listed in four of the six survey responses from GEA and had also been mentioned to Sachau by šayh Yah.y¯a bin Khalf¯an’s in his response from ˘ Zanzibar.49 Sachau thus not only failed to recognise this centrality of the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin and its two primary commentaries, he also misrepresented the layered and hierarchical nature of commentary scholarship, whereby fiqh

45 For al-al-R¯ afi¯ı, see A. Arioli, “al-R¯afi¯ı”, in The Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. P. Bearman et al., 2nd (Leiden: Brill, 2012), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/ 1573-3912_islam_SIM_6186. On the historical reasons behind this elevated position, see El Shamsy, “The H . ¯ashiya”, 293. Even contemporary Muslim scholars still invoke this ˇ ˙ “golden chain” of Š¯afi¯ı fiqh, composed of al-Š¯afi¯ı – al-Muzani – al-Guwayn¯ ı – al-Gazz¯ ali – al-R¯afi¯ı – al-Nawawi, Arsalan Haque, A Student’s Guide to the School of Imam al-Shafi’i: Part 7: Development Of Shafii School (contd.) (n.d.), see, accessed 26 March 2020, https:/ /www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIjWDlJEfh0. 46 See E. C. Howard, Minhaj Et Talibin: A Manual of Muhammadan Law According to the School of Shafii by Mahiudin Abu Zakaria Yahya Ibn Sharif En Nawawi, Translated into English from the French Edition of L. W. C. van den Berg (London: W. Thuacker & Co., 1914), xi–xii. 47 See El Shamsy, “The H¯ . ashiya”, 291–294. 48 See C. van Arendonk and J. Schacht, “Ibn Hadjar al-Haytam¯ı”, in The Encyclopedia .

of Islam, ed. P. Bearman et al., 2nd (Leiden: Brill, 2012), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_3179; A. Zysow, “al-Raml¯ı”, in The Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. P. Bearman et al., 2nd (Leiden: Brill, 2012), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_6216; see also Loimeier, Social Skills, 179. 49 See Sachau, “Gutachten”, 7. The two responses missing the tuhfah and nih¯ ayah were . two somewhat vague overviews over types of legal books, written by q¯ ad.¯ı Ab¯u Bakr bin T.aha al-Ahtani in Bagamoyo and by Muh.ammad bin Az¯ız in Pangani. A second response from Pangani by Umar bin Šayh included both commentaries. ˘

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learning proceeds from simple compendia and supercommentaries or glosses to increasingly difficult and formative commentaries and finally to the authoritative texts themselves. Instead, Sachau formed neat groups of texts, which introduced misleading distinctions between “traditions.” For example, he counted among his Ab¯ı Šuˇga¯ “group” al-Hat.ib’s al-iqn¯ a , from which al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı’s gloss was derived. However, even˘ though the aliqn¯ a  is indeed a compendium of Ab¯ı Šuˇga¯’s text, al-Hat.ib’s primary ˘ his commenwork was on al-Nawaw¯ı’s minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin and this guided tary on Ab¯ı Šuˇga¯.50 Among Sachau’s group of texts of “unknown” extraction, he listed the fath. al-mu ¯ın bi-šarh. qurrat al- ayn bi-muhimm¯ at al-d¯ın by Zayn al-D¯ın Ah.mad bin Muh.ammad al-Ghaz¯al¯ı al-Mal¯ıb¯ar¯ı and its derived commentaries.51 Al-Mal¯ıb¯ar¯ı hailed from an established family of scholars in Kerala and had studied in Mecca under ibn H . aˇgar alHaytam¯ı.52 His work, therefore, was not an independent text, but an exposition to al-Haytam¯ı’s tuh.fah al-muh.taˇg .53 This text, therefore, was part of the proliferation of the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin commentary tradition

50 In his introduction to the al-iqn¯ a , al-Hat.ib stated that his elucidation of Ab¯u Šuˇg¯a’s ˘ text drew on his earlier commentaries on Ab¯u Ish.¯aq al-Š¯ır¯az¯ı’s kit¯ ab al-tanb¯ıh fi al-fiqh, al-Nawaw¯ı’s minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin, and Zayn al-D¯ın ibn al-Ward¯ı’s al-Bahˇga, see Šams al-D¯ın bin Muh.ammad al-Hat.ib al-Širb¯ın¯ı, Al-iqn¯ a  f¯ı h.all alf¯ az.i Ab¯ı Šuˇg¯ a  (Beirut: Dar al-Kotob ˘ Among these, al-Nawaw¯ı would have been his primary reference, al-Ilmiyah, 2004), 60. given that his commentary on the minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin was the most substantial of his works. Many thanks to Ahmed El Shamsy for pointing this out to me. 51 Sachau misunderstood the latter part of the title as a second work by al-Mal¯ıb¯ ar¯ı, see Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht, xxiv; cf. C. Snouck Hurgronje, “Review of Muhammedanisches Recht nach schafiitischer Lehre von Eduard Sachau”, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft 52, no. 1 (1898): 144. 52 See Ayal Amer, “al-Mal¯ıb¯ ar¯ı, Zayn al-D¯ın”, in Encyclopedia of Islam, ed. Kate Fleet et al., 3 (Leiden: Brill, 2019), accessed 24 March 2020, http://dx.doi.org.ezp.lib.cam.ac. uk/10.1163/1573-3912_ei3_COM_3609. 53 Strictly speaking, the fath al-mu ¯ ın was a commentary on al-Mal¯ıb¯ar¯ı’s own earlier . text, the qurrat al- ayn bi-muhimm¯ at al-d¯ın, a brief compendium of Š¯afi¯ı fiqh he wrote right after his return from Mecca, cf. Amer; Mahmood Kooria, “Languages of Law: Islamic Legal Cosmopolis and its Arabic and Malay Microcosmoi”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 29 (4 2019): 712–4. Because of his proximity to al-Haytam¯ı, the text is still used by Š¯afi¯ı as an introduction the the tuh.fah al-muh.taˇg , see Saladin Islamic Seminary, Shafi’i Fiqh: Intro to Fath al-Mu’in (2018), accessed 3 April 2020, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=jPfZXYjCoYg.

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in Asia and the Indian Ocean world, and accordingly was present in half of survey responses from GEA.54 Sachau’s inadequate representation of Š¯afi¯ı scholarship was met with a scathing verdict by Snouck Hurgronje, who accused him of misinterpreting al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı because he did not understand the nature of iˇgm¯ a (scholarly consensus) and fiqh education.55 Nonetheless, Hurgronje did agree with Sachau’s selection of al-B¯agˇ u ¯ r¯ı as the base text for similar pedagogic arguments: the gloss provided a concise and useful introduction for colonial purposes unlike the more erudite commentaries.56 And such colonial purposes clearly stood in the foreground of Sachau’s introduction to his book: Islam is an intransigent religion of war and the Christian can only ever be helot or hostis for the Muslim. Whoever wants to understand its nature, must not only travel in thought to a different world, but also to a different time, like the thirteenth century in European history. […] The course of history, which breaks and makes law, has brought it about that Christianity and Islam must exist side by side, and the aspiration of the European governments can only be to create a peaceful relationship with their Muslim subjects as well as between them and their Christian fellow citizens, in order to enable and guarantee a lasting peaceful development of civil commerce [bürgerlicher Verkehr]. And such a goal can only be attained on the basis of a compromise between the Christian state conscience and the law of Islam.57

The contrast between Sachau’s ill-informed, utilitarian scholarship on the Islamic commentary tradition and the fiqh erudition attested in the GEA survey responses is striking. Sachau, like other colonial Orientalists, pursued a casuistic codification of “Islamic law” on the basis of a beginner’s compendium which had no weight for proper scholar in Š¯afi¯ı fiqh. In the East African survey responses, by contrast, an elaborate chain of commentary erudition prevailed whereas h.aw¯ aš¯ı or supercommentaries

54 Tanga, Pangani, and Bagamoyo. 55 Hurgronje, “Muhammedanisches Recht”, 139–146. 56 Hurgronje, 146; Sachau, Muhammedanisches Recht, xxv. 57 Sachau, viii–ix, emph. orig.

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come up only twice in the most extensive lists.58 This absence of h.aw¯ aš¯ı also reflects how unpopular they had become by the end of the nineteenth century due to their preoccupation with linguistic matters and narrow scholasticism.59 Sachau’s treatise failed to inform colonial praxis, though this was not because of its academic flaws but because the early interest in codifying Islamic law had faded. His book earned a kind review of the German colonial gazette,60 but there is no indication that the government took notice of it, much less distributed in the colony like Hirsch’s earlier work. It featured on the syllabus of the SOS, but Islamic law was marginal in the curriculum here, and even Oskar Karstedt, a graduate of the SOS did not mention Sachau’s work in his manual on “native jurisdiction” in GEA.61 Yet in Germany, the codification debate rolled on. When Carl Heinrich Becker reviewed Karstedt’s manual, he attacked Sachau’s work as furthering a wrong-headed approach in administering Islamic law: […] but in one respect, I must raise a voice of warning, and that is with regard to the application of Islamic law. We are in danger here to Islamicise GEA in the same way that Orthodox Russia Islamicised the pagan steppes of Kyrgyzstan. It is unfathomably difficult for our jurists to comprehend that such a convenient handbook like Sachau’s Mohammedan Law with its pretty paragraphs, juridical expressions and competent commentary is something completely different than an annotated civil code. […] One

58 In addition to the already mentioned inclusion of al-B¯ agˇ u ¯ r¯ı by Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul, only Umar bin Šayh al-Kilifi in Pangani listed a h.ašiya on Ab¯u Bakr bin Muh.ammad Šat.¯a ˘ al-Dimy¯at.¯ı’s commentary on the fath. al-mu ¯ın. By contrast, Loimeier’s later tabulations from Zanzibar include more h.aw¯ aš¯ı, but these were drawn from fiqh education rather than established jurisprudential libraries. 59 On the character of haw¯ . aš¯ı scholarship, as well as its criticism and decline since the nineteenth century, see El Shamsy, “The H . ¯ashiya”. 60 “Litterarische Besprechungen: Muhammedanisches Recht nach Schafeitischer Lehre von Eduard Sachau”, Deutsches Kolonialblatt 9, no. 2 (15 January 1898). The academic engagement with Sachau’s book remained limited to Hurgronje’s scathing review and a later, equally critical discussion by the jurist Josef Kohler, see Hurgronje, “Muhammedanisches Recht”; Josef Kohler, “Zum Islamrecht”, Zeitschrift fuer vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 17 (1905): 194–216. 61 Karstedt, Beiträge. On the SOS syllabus, see Sachau, Denkschrift über das Seminar, 56–62, 85. The Seminar taught mainly languages, geography, and subjects of concern to colonial trade. In 1911/12 the only offering on Islam was one survey course, taught by Martin Hartmann.

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should not allow any administrator to use Sachau’s handbook or similar works – K. [Karstedt], p. 89 – in practice, without being familiar with the essence of the shar¯ıa. For the actually prevailing customary law has absorbed shar¯ıa only in the smallest amount.62

Given that Karstedt did not even cite Sachau, but Hirsch, Becker’s comment is emblematic for how programmatic and virtual the scholarly debate of Islamic law in East Africa had become by the end of German rule. Like Sachau, Becker had never been to GEA himself but was certain that the colonial administration of Islamic law should be guided by his own emphasis on lived Islam and contextual difference, for which he is sometimes celebrated as the founder of German Islamic Studies.63 In his well-known “Materialien zur Kenntnis des Islams in Deutsch-Ostafrika” of 1911, Becker had been keen to correct the “implausible” record of jurisprudence in East Africa with the curious collection of sources at his disposal. Along with Sachau’s works, he only had access to the published version of St. Paul-Illaire’s treatise,64 which without any knowledge about Umar bin S.t.amb¯ul and Sachau’s survey seemed entirely implausible to him: Becker called it a mere “literary enumeration” provided by a “native informant” (eingeborener Gewährsmann), that “does not say anything about the local use in Tanga.”65 Becker own assessment instead was based on a set of 110 books and twenty handwritten manuscripts from Dar es Salaam that had been confiscated in the context of an unspecified “criminal case” and sent to him to scrutinise for seditious content.66 Little information has survived about the collection as Becker’s request for the verdicts in the related court cases

62 See Carl Heinrich Becker, “Karstedt’s islampolitische Aufsätze”, Der Islam 5, no. 2 (1914): 245. 63 E.g. Alexander Haridi, Das Paradigma der “islamischen Zivilisation”—oder die Begründung der deutschen Islamwissenschaft durch Carl Heinrich Becker (1876–1933), Mitteilungen zur Sozial- und Kulturgeschichte der Islamischen Welt 19 (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2005), 14. For more on Becker and his political strategy for Islamic studies, see p. 223. 64 Becker, “Materialien”; St. Paul-Illaire, “Rechtsgewohnheiten”. 65 Becker, “Materialien”, 20. 66 For context of the confiscation, cf. Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 8 December

1910, BArch R1001/6113, 3.

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was left unanswered.67 He estimated that it comprised the private collections of at least six individuals, though only two small sets of three books each were packed separately and mentioned their owners: the mwalimu Juma bin Musa and the mzee (elder) Khesi bin Ibrahim.68 Becker classified and assessed the writings as instructed and concluded that he could not find any inflammatory content.69 What Becker saw in these “libraries” instead, in particular in their selection of fiqh literature, seemed to confirm his focus on regional particularity. Emphasising H . ad.ram¯ı and South Asian influences, he concluded that instead of the proliferation of classical works, he was looking at “almost an Indian Ocean literary circuit.”70 This was based on three observations. Firstly, Becker found that the most frequent fiqh book in the confiscated libraries was a small tract, the muqadimmat al-h.ad.ramiyyah fi fiqh al-s¯ ada al-š¯ afi iyyah by Abdall¯ah bin Abd al-Rah.m¯an B¯a Fad.l alH . ad.ram¯ı, which he took as a clear sign of a prevalent influence from 71 the H . ad.ram¯ut. Secondly, he noted that the libraries did not include the “canonical” minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin commentaries of the tuh.fah and the nih¯ ayah, but instead contained the fath. al-mu ¯ın of Zayn al-D¯ın alMal¯ıb¯ar¯ı, which drew on the tuh.fah but demarcated a South Asian influence. Finally, since Becker found a number of commentaries on B¯a Fad.l’s tract by ibn H . aˇgar al-Haytam¯ı, the author of the tuh.fah, he

67 For the request, see “Gutachten über mehrere in Daressalam konfiszierte arabische Bibliotheken”, BArch R1001/6113, 4–13. In his correspondence with the Colonial Office, Rechenberg asserted ominously that the previous proprietors had relinquished their ownership of the books in writing, Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 8 December 1910, BArch R100/6113, 3. This suggests a direct expropriation rather than a judicial process. 68 Neither of these individuals was named in the extensive correspondence around the “Mecca letters.” 69 Becker, “Gutachten über mehrere in Daressalam konfiszierte arabische Bibliotheken”,

BArch R1001/6113, 4. 70 “Überblickt man diese Titel, so möchte man fast von einem Schriftenkreis des Indischen Ozeans sprechen.” Becker, “Materialien”, 22. 71 On Abdall¯ ah B¯a Fad.l al-H . ad.ram¯ı, see M. A. Gh¯ul, “Fad.l, B¯a”, in Encylopedia of Islam, ed. P. Bearman et al., 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), accessed 6 April 2020, http://dx. doi.org.ezp.lib.cam.ac.uk/10.1163/1573-3912_islam_SIM_2224.

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concluded that like in the H . ad.ram¯ut, in GEA there was a clear preference for the tuh.fah and its author.72 Yet there are two main issues with Becker’s postulate of an “Indian Ocean” circuit on the basis of the books in front of him. Firstly, despite the variations recorded by Becker, the collection overall adhered close to Š¯afi¯ı mainstream. As Becker himself conceded, al-Nawaw¯ı’s minh¯ agˇ al-t.¯ alibin was present, even if only twice (and once in a gloss).73 In addition, B¯a Fad.l’s muqadimmat al-h.ad.ramiyyah drew mainly on al-Nawaw¯ı (and was integrated into this stream via ibn H . aˇgar al-Haytam¯ı’s commentary), as did another book found in the collections, the umdah al-s¯ alik wa- udah al-n¯ asik by Ah.mad bin Naq¯ıb al-Mis.r¯ı.74 So while Becker’s attention to the regional provenance of various writings may have had its merits in correcting an over-reliance on putative centres of Islamic learning, his juxtaposition of “Indian Ocean” deviation with Egyptian “orthodox” Š¯afi¯ı jurisprudence was misguided. It is noteworthat that in his initial appraisal of the sources Becker was much more careful than in his later publication, postulating a “literary circuit of the Indian Ocean that has its roots in the great centres of Mecca and Cairo.”75 Secondly, and more importantly, the confiscated collections themselves give reason to assume that Becker was not looking at the libraries of typical East African qud.¯ ah. Of the 110 books overall, only nineteen were about fiqh, whereas the majority of texts related to other religious doctrines and practices.76 Moreover, B¯a Fad.l’s muqadimmat

72 See Becker, “Materialien”, 22; on this preference, cf. Hurgronje, “Muhammedanisches Recht”, 142–3. 73 There is a discrepancy here between Becker’s list of the books in BArch R1001/

6113, 8–13 and his later recounting in the “Materialien.” The count here is based on the original list. 74 The umdah has recently been translated into English, Nuh Ha Mim Keller, ed., Reliance of the Traveller: The Classic Manual of Islamic Sacred Law ‘Umdat al-Salik by Ahmad ibn Naqib al-Misri (Belsville, MD: Amana Publications, 1994). Ah.mad bin Naq¯ıb died in 1367 and lived in Egypt, as indicated by his nisbah. 75 Becker, “Gutachten” BArch R1001/6113, 5, emph. JH. 76 See Becker, “Gutachten über mehrere in Daressalam konfiszierte arabische Biblio-

theken,” BArch R1001/6113, 4–13. Becker sorted them into rather unorthodox categories: religious studies (Religionswissenschaft ), sub-categorised in general religious literature (25 titles), praises of the Prophet (9 titles), and mystical literature (9 titles); followed by religious magic (Religiöses Zauberwesen, 25 titles).

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al-h.ad.ramiyyah, on which Becker put so much weight, is an elementary introduction. It is suitable for early beginners in fiqh education as well as for ordinary Muslims of the Š¯afi¯ı madhab seeking to understand ¯ as Becker was unable to their religious duties in greater detail.77 Even find any information on B¯a Fad.l, he did observe that his muqadimmat al-h.ad.ramiyyah did not encompass all topics of fiqh, but only ablutions, prayers, zak¯ ah, and h.aˇggˇ .78 This should have given him pause, alongside the fact that all matters typically referred to clerical adjudication (such as inheritance or divorce) were missing in the book. Instead, Becker was all too keen to assume that the confiscated collections of “books actually used by the natives” offered more accurate insight into East African than what was reported before—even as he knew nothing about their previous owners.79 Accordingly, Becker considered one of the small named collections as “especially typical,” even though it consisted only of the Quran, a collection of mawlid poetry, and B¯a Fad.l’s muqadimmat al-h.ad.ramiyyah.80 This is hardly a “typical library” for any Muslim scholar, much less for one trained in fiqh. Thus, just beneath the surface of Becker’s contextualising attempt to elucidate the “average mental nourishment of our better East African Mwalimus ,”81 there lurked a similar dismissal of local fiqh scholarship as in Sachau’s failure to study the results of his GEA surveys. German Islamic Studies, whether of Sachau’s philological ilk or Becker’s protoethnographic leanings, remained firmly lodged in Berlin and Hamburg, and in their provincial imagination did not even entertain the possibility of cosmopolitan scholarly erudition in the East African “periphery.”

77 For two contemporary introductions to fiqh, which place the book at the very beginning, see Abu Ihsan al-Asiri, “How to Study the Shafi’i Madhab”, Islamic Studies: For the Academic Study of Islam, 15 July 2012, accessed 8 April 2020, https://islamclass.wordpr ess.com/2012/07/15/how-to-study-the-shafii-madhab/; Muhammad Nabeel Musharraf, A Roadmap for Studying Fiqh: An Introduction to the Key Texts of the Four Madhabs (Extracted from the Writings of Sheikh Abu Aaliyah Surkheel, Sheikh Abu Ihsan Al-Asiri and other Distinguished Scholars) (Maddington: Australian Islamic Library, 2017), 41. 78 Becker, “Materialien”, 20–21. 79 Becker, 20. 80 Becker, 19n1. 81 Becker, 19, emph. orig.

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“Native Law” and Islamic “Influence”

This failure of Islam experts to account for fiqh scholarship in GEA was mirrored in comparative surveys of “native law” produced by scholars of international law. Pursuing a nativising ideal of “primitive law,” these project had no conceptual space for the rich commentary tradition of fiqh nor for the synthesis between Islamic institutions and local beliefs and rites as espoused by many walimu. The consequence was a systematic elision of Islamic thought and practices from the body of “native law.” One of the most prominent scholars conducting such surveys was Josef Kohler, professor of law and the philosophy of law at the University of Berlin. When appointed to his chair in 1888, Kohler had already published a number of works in comparative law, including a simplistic survey of Islamic law.82 He was no enthusiast for colonialism, nor did he show any interest in the constitutional debates around the SchGG.83 Yet he did see colonialism as an opportunity to pursue his project of a universal history of law as a “science of a human cultural heritage […] of the highest degree.”84 As part of this project, Kohler contacted the Colonial Department in October 1891 and asked for reports about the legal

82 Josef Kohler, Rechtsvergleichende Studien über islamitisches Recht, das Recht der Berbern, das chinesische Recht und das Recht auf Ceylon (Berlin: Carl Heymanns Verlag, 1889), 1–161, for more on this text, see p. 189. On Kohler’s life and works, see esp. Bernhard Großfeld and Margita Wilde, “Josef Kohler und das Recht der deutschen Schutzgebiete”, Rabels Zeitschrift für ausländisches und internationales Privatrecht 58, no. 1 (1994): 59–75; Bernhard Grossfeld and Ingo Theusinger, “Josef Kohler: Brückenbauer zwischen Jurisprudenz und Rechtsethnologie”, Rabels Zeitschrift für ausländisches und internationales Privatrecht 64, no. 4 (2000): 696–714; Bernhard Großfeld, “Joseph Kohler (1849–1919)”, in Festschrift 200 Jahre Juristische Fakultät der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin: Geschichte, Gegenwart und Zukunft, ed. Stephan Grundmann et al. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010), 375–403; Rolf Kreimer, “Josef Kohler”, in Rechtsvergleicher—Verkannt, vergessen, verdrängt —, ed. Bernhard Großfeld, Münsteraner Studien zur Rechtsvergleichung 62 (Münster: Lit, 2000), 145–152. 83 On Kohler and colonialism, see Großfeld and Wilde, “Kohler”, 67–69; cf. Josef Kohler, “Rechtsgeschichte und Culturgeschichte”, Zeitschrift für das Privat- und öffentliche Recht der Gegenwart 12 (1885): 592–593. 84 Kohler, “Rechtsgeschichte”, 2.

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affairs of “primitive societies” (Naturvölker).85 He received the disappointing answer that no such reports had been compiled so far and that he should consult colonial periodicals instead.86 Yet the Colonial Department seemed eager to close the gap that Kohler’s inquiry had unveiled and instructed all colonies to produce systematic surveys about the “principles held by the natives in matters of public and private law.”87 While some administrations were quick to respond, it would take almost four years for the first reports to emerge from GEA.88 Governor Soden merely demurred and returned to his earlier grievance about the judicial incompetence of his officers and Berlin’s failure to send legally trained personnel.89 In 1893 his successor, Friedrich von Schele, finally instructed district officers to collect material,90 but due to a lack of urgency these were not ready to submit until April 1895 when Schele had already left office.91 This first “native law” survey from GEA was already marked by the elision of Islamic jurisprudence. Apart from a report from Tanga, the cover letter stated, it had been impossible to obtain reports from the coast. Yet even this fairly extensive survey by Walter von St. PaulIllaire offered nothing new on Islam.92 It consisted of his already discussed introduction to “Mohammedan law,” which had first been submitted to Berlin in response to Sachau’s survey,93 and a much longer treatise about the Wadigo, a large ethnic group inhabiting the coastal

85 Kohler to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 10 October 1891. 86 Foreign Office, Colonial Department to Kohler, 21 October 1893. 87 “Circular Erlass,” 31 October 1891, BArch R 1001/5000, 5–6. See also Schaper,

Koloniale Verhandlungen, 246–247; Boin, Erforschung, 52–53. 88 Kamerun submitted reports from mid 1893, see Schaper, Koloniale Verhandlungen,

249. 89 Soden to Colonial Office, 27 December 1891, BArch R1001/5000, 7. See also p. 150. 90 See decree of 30 September 1893, referenced in follow-up instruction of 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 73. 91 Colonial Government Dar es Salaam (unsigned) to Colonial Department, 30 April 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 26–27. Schele had instead busied himself with regulating inheritance law. 92 For the published version, see St. Paul-Illaire, “Rechtsgewohnheiten”. 93 Manteuffel to Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, 20 March 1895, BArch

R1001/5557, 52–53.

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hinterlands between Mombasa and Tanga. The latter was an extensive and detailed study of inheritance law and family law with only one comparative reference to Islam.94 Despite the mention of conversions to Islam, there is no discussion of how Muslim and Wadigo legal precepts might influence one another. The remaining reports in the GEA submission were from regions with much less exposure to Islam and made no reference to Muslim norms or customs.95 Another nudge from Dar es Salaam led to the submission of six further reports in the course of two years.96 Three of these came from coastal towns with Muslim majorities but did not engage with Islamic jurisdiction to any significant extent. Instead, they forwarded a notion of “native law” that stood in contrast to Muslim jurisprudence. Ernst Albrecht von Eberstein in Kilwa sought to establish what “traditional” legal customs had been, even as he acknowledged that “Arabs” had changed these and his subjects appealed to Muslim courts in Kilwa and Zanzibar.97 Karl Ewerbeck in Lindi set out by noting that among the “coastal people” (Mrimaleute) “Arabs and Indians” had too much of an influence and therefore resorted to describing the customs of the hinterland.98 Maximilian von Rode in Mikindani did not even mention Islam at all in his 94 Relating to morning gifts among the Wadigo, see St. Paul-Illaire, “Rechtsgewohnheiten”, 204. 95 Kurt Johannes, “Rechtsverhältnisse der Wadschagga,” BArch R1001/5000, 59–70; Ludwig Storch, “Bericht über die Rechtsgewohnheiten der Eingeborenen im Bezirke der Station Mpapua,” BArch R1001/5000., 51–52; Gideon von Grawert, “Bericht über die Rechtsgewohnheiten der Wasagarra,” BArch R1001/5000, 53–54; Karl Koetzle, “Bericht über die Rechtsgewohnheiten der Eingeborenen im Bereich der Station Masinde-Kisuani,” BArch R1001/5000, 55–57. 96 See related correspondence in BArch R1001/5000, 73–76, 82–90, 124–127; BArch R1001/5001, 3–20. Three of these reports were published as well, see Ludwig Storch, “Sitten, Gebräuche und Rechtspflege bei den Bewohnern Usambaras und Pares”, Mittheilungen von Forschungsreisenden und Gelehrten aus den deutschen Schutzgebieten 8 (1895): 310–331; Bernhard von Kalben, “Ueber Rechtsverhältnisse der Eingeborenen in der Umgebung von Bukoba”, Mittheilungen von Forschungsreisenden und Gelehrten aus den deutschen Schutzgebieten 9 (1896): 38–40; Ernst Albrecht von Eberstein, “Rechtsanschauungen der Eingeborenen von Kilwa”, Mittheilungen von Forschungsreisenden und Gelehrten aus den deutschen Schutzgebieten 9 (1896): 170–183. 97 Eberstein. 98 Ewerbeck to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 15 June 1895, BArch R 1001/

5000, 87–90. Even here he did mention “Arab” and “Indian” rules in relation to inheritance and lending practices, and when reciting the divorce formula, he failed to recognise its congruence with Islamic practices, ibid., p. 87.

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three-page report, but went on to describe practices among the Makonde and Maraba whom he considered to be on the “lowest cultural level of all inhabitants of the hinterland.”99 Von Rode’s report was so poor that the cover letter by interim governor Lothar von Trotha commented that it was an example of how little one could expect from surveys conducted by legally untrained officers.100 Berlin agreed but drew a different conclusion than the one intended by Trotha: instead of giving up on such surveys, the respondents needed professional guidance. The Colonial Department now asked Kohler to draft a survey instrument that would help standardise the reports and avoid inconsistencies.101 Kohler produced a first draft by January 1896, which was printed for distribution a few months later.102 The survey consisted of one hundred questions grouped by the major subjects in law. The questions were largely ethnographic, inquiring about subjects like taboos, “remainders of totemism”, marital obligations, “blood revenge,” or the rights of “chiefs.” This was guided by Kohler’s evolutionary orientation toward uncovering the origins of law and thus they excluded Islamic law as well as the cosmopolitan settings of the coast by default. The preface of the questionnaire stated explicitly that it was necessary to limit the survey to “primitive societies” because “otherwise the observer could easily be crushed by the amount of questions and would lose his focus on the essentials.”103 While Kohler prepared his questionnaire, two other survey initiatives came to the attention of the Colonial Department. In August 1895 the newly founded Gesellschaft für vergleichende Rechts- und Staatswissenschaft (Society for Comparative Legal and Political Studies) sent a questionnaire to the Colonial Department asking for its distribution in the

99 Maximilian von Rode to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 1 June 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 75–76. 100 Trotha to Foreign Office, 26 June 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 74. 101 Foreign Office to Josef Kohler, 1 July 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 71–72. 102 Kohler to Foreign Office, 22 January 1896, BArch R1001/5000, 130. For the published version see Josef Kohler, “Fragebogen zur Erforschung der Rechtsverhältnisse der sogenannten Naturvölker, namentlich in den deutschen Kolonialländern”, Zeitschrift für Vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 12 (1897): 427–440. 103 Josef Kohler, Fragebogen zur Erforschung der Rechtsverhältnisse der sogenannten Naturvölker, namentlich in den deutschen Kolonialländern (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1896), 3.

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colonies.104 This questionnaire was based on the work of Karl Friedrichs, a lawyer in training who had failed to secure government support for an earlier survey initiative in 1892.105 With its 357 questions, the survey pursued an even more detailed ethnographic approach than Kohler’s but was premised on a similar notion of “primitive” African societies. Its author stated unequivocally that it was unsuitable for the study of Islamic law.106 The Colonial Department once again declined to help, suggesting instead that the correspondent contact Kohler instead.107 The Gesellschaft chose to ignore this advice and publish its questionnaire for direct responses, but received a negligible return.108 A third questionnaire was drafted by the Internationale Vereinigung für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaften und Volkswirtschaftslehre (International Association for Comparative Jurisprudence and Political Economy) and submitted to the Colonial Department around the time Kohler finished his own survey instrument.109 The Internationale Vereinigung had split from the aforementioned Gesellschaft für vergleichende Rechtsund Staatswissenschaft and was a much more successful venture with members from multiple countries. It was led by Felix Meyer, a politically well-connected judge and later adjunct professor of “native law” at the Kolonialinstitut (Colonial Institute) in Hamburg.110 Its questionnaire, 104 Stephan Kekulue von Stradonitz to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 14 August 1895, BArch R1001/5000, 79–80. On the short-lived Gesellschaft (1894–1897), Boin, Erforschung, 61–64; Andrew Lyall, “Early German Legal Anthropology: Albert Hermann Post and His Questionnaire”, Journal of African Law 52, no. 1 (2008): 120. 105 Boin, Erforschung, 57–61; cf. related correspondence in BArch R1001/4989, 7–13. 106 “Referat des Herrn Dr. Friedrichs-Kiel über den in Heft I der Mitteilungen S.

29–49 abgedruckten Fragebogenentwurf”, Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für vergleichende Rechts- und Staatswissenschaft 1, no. 2 (1895): 82. 107 Colonial Department to Kekule von Stradonitz, 26 August 1895, BArch R1001/ 5000, 91. 108 Only one reply from German South West Africa has been documented, see Boin, Erforschung, 63–64. 109 See “Fragebogen der Internationalen Vereinigung für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaften u. Volkswirtschaftslehre zu Berlin über die Rechtsgewohnheiten der afrikanischen Naturvölker,” BArch R1001/5000, 147–151. It is not quite clear when the questionnaire was submitted, but the first archived correspondence arose when it was forwarded to Kohler for comment, Foreign Office, Colonial Department to Kohler, 7 March 1896, BArch R 1001/5000, 151. 110 See Boin, Erforschung, 91–95. Meyer had already called for a documentation of native law at the Deutsche Juristentag of 1891, Georg Meyer, “Gutachten über die Frage:

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produced by an international team of scholars in two bilingual versions (German–French and German–English),111 was the most ambitious of all, presenting several hundred questions in an intricate system of categories and sub-categories. When asked to comment on the survey by the Colonial Department, Kohler replied that he found the broad ethnographic approach unhelpful, but also hurried along the corrections to his own questionnaire in order to avoid losing to the competition.112 The Colonial Department declined Meyer’s request and forwarded Kohler’s questionnaire to the colonies, with GEA receiving the largest contingent of over eighty copies.113 Meyer was not so easily discouraged, however, and in the end convinced the Colonial Department to distribute this survey to all German colonies as well.114 The response rate from GEA was extremely low for both surveys, with each receiving only two returns within four years.115 The answers were fairly extensive and thorough due to the nature of the survey instrument, but the collected information in part conflicted with earlier findings, thus demonstrating the volatility of data collections obtained via district officers.

Wie ist die Rechtspflege in den Schutzgebieten zu ordnen: (a) für die Europäer, (b) für die Eingeborenen?”, in Verhandlungen des 21. Deutschen Juristentages. Band 2 (Berlin: J. Guttentag, 1891), 3–9. 111 Alongside seven German members, the draft committee included scholars from Liverpool, Brussels, and Utrecht, see “Fragebogen,” BArch R1001/5000, 147. 112 Kohler to Foreign Office, Colonial Department, 9 March 1896, BArch R1001/ 5000, 152. 113 Foreign Office, Colonial Department to Meyer, 13 March 1896, BArch R1001/ 5000, 153. Kamerun and German South West Africa only received twenty-five copies each, see Foreign Office, Colonial Department to all governors, 6 June 1896, BArch R1001/5000, 166. 114 Foreign Office, Colonial Department to all governors, 19 November 1896, BArch R1001/4989, 29–32. Apparently Meyer had persuaded the responsible official to join his Internationale Vereinigung, Boin, Erforschung, 69–70. Once again, GEA received the greatest number of questionnaires with forty copies, whereas the other African colonies were sent a dozen or less. 115 For an overview over all responses, see Boin, 159–162. The GEA responses are

found in BArch R1001/4990, 7–25, 66–78, 26–48; Meyer’s survey responses were also published in S. R. Steinmetz, Rechtsverhältnisse von eingeborenen Völkern in Afrika und Ozeanien: Beantwortungen des Fragebogens der Internationalen Vereinigung für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft und Volkswirtschaftslehre zu Berlin (Berlin: Julius Springer, 1903).

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Despite this meagre return, Kohler penned a long article on “Bantu law,” drawing on his survey results and previously published reports.116 Meyer published an even broader comparative report on “native law” with “special consideration of the German African protectorates,” which ended with a plea for further research and education: just as a doctor had to be educated about tropical diseases before going out to Africa, colonial officers should be required to take courses in “native law.”117 Thus the government would need to promote “with a strong hand” the collection of further material, so that its codification could be attempted in the interest of providing “natives” with the kind of “legal certainty” needed for their “development” and their “assimilation to the mother country.”118 Predictably, neither of these treatises of “African” or “Bantu” law made any reference to Islam, nor did the survey responses they were based on. Islamic jurisdiction simply did not fit the primitivist notion of “native law” espoused by the questionnaires. This primitivising gaze in studying local “customs” to the exclusion of Islam was not limited to societies that had seen little Muslim influence but was gradually extended to Swahili culture as well. This can be seen in the work of Carl Velten, a trained philologist who worked as a translator in GEA from 1893 to 1896.119 After returning to Germany, Velten taught Kiswahili and other African languages at the SOS, producing Kiswahili dictionaries, a Kiswahili grammar, and various teaching resources and anthologies, based on the resources collected during his time in GEA.120 Velten’s earliest publication was a collection of “customs and conventions of the Suaheli,” published in 1898 in the SOS bulletin and as a separate

116 Josef Kohler, “Rechte der deutschen Schutzgebiete: IV. Das Banturecht in Ostafrika”, Zeitschrift für vergrleichende Rechtswissenschaft 15 (1902): 1–83. Kohler’s text privileged the Wachagga due to the material available to him. 117 Felix Meyer, “Bedeutung des Rechtes der Eingeborenen mit besonderer Berücksichtigung von Völkern der deutsch-afrikanischen Schutzgebiete”, in Jahrbuch der internationalen Vereinigung für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft und Volkswirtschaftslehre (Berlin: Julius Springer, 1904), esp. 523–526; see also Meyer’s similar talk at the first German Colonial Congress in 1902, Verhandlungen des Kolonialkongresses 1902, 377–389. 118 Meyer, “Bedeutung des Rechtes”, 524–5. 119 Heinrich Schnee, “Velten, Carl”, in Deutsches Kolonial-Lexikon, vol. 3 (Leipzig:

Quelle & Meyer, 1920), 602. 120 Bromber, “German Colonial Administrators”, 49–53; Wimmelbücker, Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, 35–37.

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offprint.121 The text, which covers the rules of conduct, the life cycle, slavery, and the power of local chiefs only occasionally mentioned legal institutions like the judge (“h.akim”) and the law (“sheria”), but provided no details on legal reasoning or process. Instead, it placed an emphasis on customs and traditional rules, against a rather vague background of Islamic law. Velten’s text is important, however, as it gives insight into the quotidian understandings of rules and obligations outside fiqh discourse. Unlike the other ethnographic accounts, which relied on oral informants, Velten resorted to commissioned writings because he was convinced that “in oral questioning and consultations, the Negro does not mind occasional inaccuracies and falsehoods, whereas in his own recording of facts he is more thorough and truthful.”122 He then went on to edit these accounts into one narrative, yet without properly delineating each contribution. For this particular publication, he named three contributors in his preface, with the primary source being the mwalimu Mbaraka bin Shomari. Mbaraka taught in Dar es Salaam and hailed from Konduchi, a village just north of the town. It seems that he and his family made use of the opportunities German rule afforded. His brother worked for the government as an akida in Konduchi,123 and Mbaraka had assisted the Germans in the court-martial conviction of Hassan bin Omari, who had led the Kilwa revolt during the coastal rebellion of 1888. He also composed a number of poems about the German rulers, which have often been framed as eulogies but also contain critical tones.124 On account of his involvement in this trial, Mbaraka has been called a “teacher and jurist,”125 but this is misleading. His training as a mwalimu would have included some education in fiqh, but the text he produced for Velten clearly differentiated between a teacher (“mwallim”) and a judge (“h.akim”). While no further information is given on judges, the text does 121 Carl Velten, “Sitten und Gebräuche der Suaheli”, Mittheilungen des Seminars für Orientalische Sprachen an der Friedrich Wilhelms-Universität zu Berlin. Dritte Abtheilung: Afrikanische Studien 1 (1898): 9–85; Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche. 122 Velten, 9. 123 Velten, 9. 124 For two contrasting appraisals, see Casco, “Swahili Poetry”, 169; Miehe et al., Kala Shairi, 92. 125 Kelly Askew, “Tanzanian Newspaper Poetry: Political Commentary in Verse”, Journal of Eastern African Studies 8, no. 3 (2014): 521.

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detail the qualifications of a typical mwalimu, listing grammar (“nah.au” < nah.w) and science (“elim” < ilm) as prerequisites.126 The latter denotes the whole corpus of Islamic education and certainly included an introduction to fiqh.127 This is evident in a further text that Mbaraka bin Shomari penned for Velten in 1895, which was more narrowly focused on legal practices and reasoning.128 While this treatise made no reference to Š¯afi¯ı texts, commentaries, or supercommentaries, it signals some familiarity with the main regulations covered in these texts, listing, for example, the provisions about inheritance law in great detail.129 It is indicative of Velten’s preference for “customs” over legal erudition that he did not publish this manuscript until 1903, when he merely included it as an appendix to the new edition of his earlier text, now published as Desturi za Wasuaheli (Customs of the Waswahili).130 The main text of the book was revised and expanded significantly with the help of Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, who produced a new manuscript in Ajam¯ı script, which Velten transcribed and translated for his publication.131 The new narrative was decidedly more ethnographic, now arranging the majority of topics within the life cycle, with added reflections on political systems and religious beliefs and practices. References to Islamic legal statutes and processes were removed almost entirely,132 and instead, there is a special interest in specifically Swahili beliefs and practices like amulets, songs, dances, spirit beliefs, exorcism, ordeals, and creation myths. Occasionally these are profiled in contrast to “Arab”

126 See Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche, 22. 127 For the full curriculum and its various qualification levels in Zanzibar at roughly

the same time, see Loimeier, Social Skills, 173–200. 128 Carl Velten, Desturi za Wasuaheli na khabari za desturi za sheri’a za Wasuaheli (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 295–364; cf. Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903), 355–423. 129 Velten, 415–423. 130 Velten, Desturi; cf. Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903). 131 On the intense period of collaboration before Velten broke with Mtoro on account

of his “inappropriate” marriage to a German woman, see Wimmelbücker, Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, 36. 132 For the only mentions of “sheria” and “hakimu”, see Velten, Desturi, 72, 118 and . notes.

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thoughts and conventions,133 which matched Velten’s overall programme of differentiating clearly between Swahili and Arab customs: In selecting my informants […] I have always been deliberate to approach pure Swahili people only. One is quite easily tempted […] to abide by the more intelligent, more accessible, less suspicious and more communicative Arab in order to be enlightened about the customs of the Swahili, but this is wrong. This way, one would get more of a glimpse into the customs of Arabs closely connected to the East African coastal population rather than into those of the Swahili. Though the latter have adopted much from the former over the years, our focus is on their most proprietary [ureigensten] customs.134

Pursuant to this programme, Mtoro and Velten’s text offers a valuable and important early account of the richness of coastal culture and religion in GEA, but the neat separation between “Arabs” and “proprietary” East African customs was artificial. The same can be said of the appended treatise about “legal customs” by Mbaraka. Written from his perspective as a mwalimu, it provides a useful contrast to the erudition of fiqh scholarship and offers unique insights into local aetiologies and customs, but a belaboured contrast between “our” and “Arab” customs runs through portions of the text.135 For example, the introduction to criminal law notes: These words contained herein have been written according to the books of the šaria, but the respected elders of old did not observe them, [though] perhaps they have been practised in our land since two hundred years ago or more.136

Moreover, in Velten’s hands, this distinction between “our” custom and “Arab” influence became one between Swahili and “Muhammedan,” locating Swahili customs firmly within African culture. In the preface of the Kiswahili edition he introduced Mbaraka’s appendix as follows:

133 See Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903), 143, 180–181. 134 Velten, Desturi, v. 135 See e.g. Velten, Sitten und Gebräuche (1903), 360, 363, 366. 136 Velten, Desturi, 302.

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They provide an accurate picture of the juridical knowledge of an educated Swahili and show us, insofar as this is possible from the vantage point of a native and a lay person, in detail the amalgamation [Vereinigung ] of the Muhammedan law with the customary law of the Swahili, as it was practised in the land of the Swahili under the former rulers.137

This reliance on a lay person and the juxtaposition of “Muhammedan” with “Swahili” law effectively excluded Islamic jurisprudence from the nativising gaze of colonial scholarship. While conceding that the amalgamate of “Muhammedan” and “Swahili” law had a long history, the latter is identified as “customary” and Islamic law as secondary. This very project of juxtaposing “customary” components with Islamic law entailed an emphasis on difference rather than on amalgamates and interconnected practices. Unsurprisingly, Velten’s focus on customary law was praised by Carl Heinrich Becker, because it suited his programme of an Islamic Studies premised on the local difference. Despite the occasional critical remark, Becker held Velten up as a positive example against Karstedt’s book on “native” jurisdiction.138 He concluded: For the [colonial] practice I should like to wish: One must not rely on the textbooks about Islamic law. One should arrange for a meticulous collection about what truly is native custom [Volkssitte], one should separate between Desturi [custom] and shar¯ıa […], create collections […], and make provisions for academic officers, trained Arabists and ethnographers who will assist the judges and administrators going out.139

It is perhaps indicative of the compartmentalisation of German scholarship, that Becker made no reference to a new contemporary, large-scale systematic project to catalogue indigenous customs in the colonies, initiated and financed by the German government. This was run by a Committee for the Study of Native Law (Kommission zur Erforschung des Eingeborenenrechts), created in 1907 by Bernhard Dernburg.140 Earlier that year, the Reichstag had passed a resolution calling for the

137 Velten, vi. 138 Becker, “Karstedt’s Aufsätze”, 246; see also Becker’s notes on Velten’s book in

GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Becker, 6584. 139 Becker, 247. 140 For details on Dernburg and his reform politics, see p. 208.

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collection of material on “native law,” instigated in part by Felix Meyer when another of his survey attempts had been rejected by the government.141 Despite this political success, Meyer was side-lined in the process. His overhauled survey, now consisting of no less than 2,405 main questions and roughly 16,000 sub-questions, was too unwieldy, and Dernburg, who had studied under Josef Kohler, asked him to head the committee instead. Meyer was only appointed as deputy secretary.142 Under the influence of Dernburg, the Committee agreed to set aside Meyer’s goal of an ultimate codification of “native law” and to concentrate instead on the systematic collection of material.143 A slightly revised version of Kohler’s questionnaire was drawn up in a sub-committee144 and sent out in the autumn of 1908. Governor Rechenberg in GEA received one hundred and twenty copies, which he distributed to all district offices, military stations, and the various missionary societies.145 By 1913, GEA had submitted twenty-eight reports to Berlin.146 Seventeen responses had been prepared by missionaries and ten by German government officials.147 Only one was penned by an African, the liwali of Tanga, Abdall¯ah bin Hemedi, whose report did not follow the questionnaire, but compiled various customs and beliefs among the Washambaa

141 See Boin, Erforschung, 88–97. For the revised survey, see Sebald R. Steinmetz and Richard Thurnwald, Ethnographische Fragesammlung zur Erforschung des sozialen Lebens der Völker ausserhalb des modernen europäisch-amerikanischen Kulturkreises, herausgegeben von der Internationalen Vereinigung für Vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft und Volkswirtschaftslehre in Berlin (Berlin: Decker, 1906). The debates leading up to this resolution are interesting inasmuch as they also address the question of codification, see VerhRT 12/I, vol. 228, 3 May 1907, 1356–1389. 142 Dernburg to Kohler, 4 June 1907, BArch R1001/4992, 29. Minutes of the 1st meeting of the Committee for the Collection of Native Law in the German colonies, 9 July 1907, BArch R1001/4992, 52. 143 On this debate, see Boin, Erforschung, 110–116. 144 See Boin, 110, 163–184; BArch R1001/4996, 7. This was not a substantial revision

as claimed by Harald Sippel, “Der Deutsche Reichstag und das “Eingeborenenrecht”: Die Erforschung der Rechtsverhältnisse der autochthonen Völker in den deutschen Kolonien”, Rabels Zeitschrift für ausländisches und internationales Privatrecht 61, no. 4 (1997): 725. 145 Colonial Office to Rechenberg, 10 October 1908, BArch R1001/4996, 9; Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 30 January 1909, BArch R 1001/4996, 20–22. 146 See printed copies in BArch R1001/4998–4999. 147 See list in Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 31 August 1911, BArch R1001/4996,

100.

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and Wazegua.148 With two exceptions, the remaining responses followed the survey structure but ranged in extent from ten to sixty print pages.149 None of the submitted reports discussed Islamic law in a significant measure, despite the fact that by now Islam in GEA was attracting much political attention.150 Arguably, this omission was due to the questionnaire itself, still marked by Kohler’s intent of systematising “primitive” law. Where questions on religion came up, they were interested primarily in “ancestor cults.” When Governor Rechenberg attended the second meeting of the Committee while on furlough, he noted that the survey seemed to exclude “Mohammedan law” by design. Yet this prompted no further discussion, even though at the top of the meeting Dernburg had given a report about his recent visit to GEA and spoke at some length about the legal system of “Arabs and Indians” and its religious basis.151 Islamic legal practices and precepts only appear as disruptions to the traditional order in the survey responses: “Mohammedans” or “Arabs” had brought circumcision, divorce, abortion, and birth control, and influenced traditional religions.152 Such assertions can even be found in reports from places with a majority Muslim population and a long history of Islamic presence. For example, the submission from Bagamoyo paid no attention to the complex and multiple legal customs in the town, but 148 On Abdall¯ ah bin Hemedi, see p. 130. In the printed version of the report, his name is given slightly defectively as “Abdallah bin Ahmedi,” who later scholars struggled to identify, see Bernhard Ankermann, “Band I: Ostafrika”, in Das Eingeborenenrecht: Sitten und Gewohnheitsrechte der Eingeborenen der ehemaligen deutschen Kolonien in Afrika und in der Südsee, ed. Erich Schultz-Ewerth and Leonhard Adam (Stuttgart: Strecker und Schröder, 1929), 2. Rechenberg’s cover letter when submitting this report makes clear that it was authored by the liwali of Tanga, here given as Wali Abdall¯ah Sega, see Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 31 August 1911, BArch R1001/4996, 100. The name Sega is in reference to his earlier position as akida of Sega, Bromber and Becher, “Abdallah bin Hemedi”, 66. See also Arnaud de Sousa, “Abdallah bin Hemedi et le Eingeborenenrecht: “Habari ya house-breaking”” (MA dissertation, Ecole normale supérieure de Lyon, 2016), accessed 20 May 2020, https://www.researchgate.net/publication/319551006. 149 The two exceptions were reports on blood vengeance in Ujiji and Bukoba, see BArch R1001/4999, 26, 41. 150 See Part IV. 151 Minutes of the 2nd meeting of the Committee for the Collection of Native Law in

the German colonies, 1 February 1908, BArch R1001/4992, 125–131. 152 See the reports on the Wabena (answer no. 33), Wadoe and Wakwere (no. 34), Wahehe (no. 5), Wapimbwe (no. 34), Wassangu (p. 2), Wanyamwesi (p. 2), and Wasaramo, see BArch R1001/4999, 18, 21, 22, 24, 25, 33, 37.

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focused on the Wadoe and Wakwere, identified as two “tribes” occupying the town’s hinterland. Islam, therefore, is only mentioned in connection with a rise of circumcisions. As such, the report merely reflects local notions of hinterland “barbarians” that were operative in a region marked by people movement and ethno-religious mobility.153 Another example of the systemic elision of Islamic influences from “native law” is the response from Dar es Salaam, penned by the BMW missionaries Martin Klamroth and Hermann Krelle.154 Their report focuses on the “native customs” of the Wasaramo, even though it admits that they had never been “uniformly organised” in the form of a “tribe” and noted that “today it is very difficult to differentiate what is truly indigenous and what is of foreign origin.”155 Nonetheless, precisely such a neat differentiation is attempted when delineating Muslim influence: The Wasaramo’s idea of a creator God had allegedly “evaporated” into an “impersonal fatum” under the influence of Islam, debt bondage existed “most certainly” before the “time of the Arabs”, circumcision was originally absent but had “since long ago” become a custom due to the influence of Islam, land had only been sold from the “time of the Arabs (since about 1870),” and “pederasty” as well as the “meddling with animals” was brought by the “Arabs.”156 This differentiation between “native” practices and Islamic influence was consonant with the contemporary missionary embrace of Kiswahili, which sought to separate “Bantu” practices from Islamic or “Arab” modification.157 The publication and analysis of the “native law” survey were severely delayed by the First World War, the following economic crisis and hyperinflation, as well as by divisions within the Committee and the deaths of Josef Kohler (1919) and Felix Meyer (1925).158 When finally, in 1929, the East Africa volume of the Committee’s work was published, it was profiled as an anthology for legal anthropology and as “testimony to

153 See Jerman, Between Five Lines, 120–151. 154 See BArch R1001/4999, 37. 155 Ibid., p. 41. 156 Ibid., p. 5, 14, 19, 22, 31. 157 See p. 74ff. 158 For details, see Boin, Erforschung, 129–138.

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German civilizing work [Kulturarbeit ].”159 Indeed, inasmuch as “civilising” required the construction of a “primitive native,” the German surveys of “native law” were instrumental to this colonial effort and resulted in the systematic erasure of Muslim jurisprudence. The ethnographic turn in law, philology, and Islamic studies entailed an artificial separation of fiqh and Muslim institutions from the “truly native” and as such was unable to account how both were entwined in a much more fluid and hybrid landscape of legal customs.

7.3 Coloured Justice: The Irreality of Colonial Law At the very beginning of the German push for colonies, while the Reichstag was still discussing the constitutional character of the colonies and the contours of the SchGG, Josef Kohler was drawn into a debate with the Orientalist Snouck Hurgronje about the character of Islamic law. This feud began with Hurgronje’s review of two short publications by Kohler about Islamic law, which explored their continuities with Roman law and contemporary legal discussions in the West.160 Hurgronje criticised Kohler for his lack of Arabic and manifold mistakes in navigating the sources and schools of fiqh, and then went on to attack his comparative project altogether. Jurisprudence should first and foremost be a practical study of contemporary issues, leaving comparative law to the ethnographers, especially with regard to “primitive societies,” where a “world religion” proclaimed an “infallible law.”161 This, Hurgronje argued, was undoubtedly the case with Islamic law, which he contended was a misnomer anyway, because the Muslim “ethical doctrine” (plichtenleer) was a “perfect but unrealised ideal” that differed substantially from the established notion of law.162

159 Ankermann, “Ostafrika”, ix. 160 Josef Kohler, Die Commenda im islamitischen Rechte: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des

Handelsrechts (Würzburg: Stahelsche Universitäts-Buchhandlung, 1885). 161 C. Snouck Hurgronje, “Critische Overzichten: Mohammedaanisch Recht en Rechtswetenschap”, De Indische Gids 8, no. 1 (1886): 101–102. 162 Hurgronje, 101.

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In his response, Kohler conceded shortcomings in his knowledge of Islam, but doubled down in substance: It needed the jurist to “translate” the content of Islamic jurisprudence into a more general language in order to discover underlying universal principles through comparison. Furthermore, the reliance on divine authority in Islamic law may be far more “perfect,” but ultimately all law depended on some positive presupposition.163 Equally, though Islamic ethics might be premised on an ideal, this did not mean that the entire enterprise was purely theoretical. Instead, all legal frameworks encapsulated a tension between legal ideals and practice, and were it not for practical needs, jurisprudential theory (Islamic or otherwise) would never develop.164 This was a direct attack on one of Hurgronje’s most central hypotheses—the allegedly idealistic character and inefficaciousness of fiqh—and no agreement on this point was reached in the ensuing debate, which also drew the other famous Orientalist of the time, Ignaz Goldziher.165 Within the study of Islamic law, Hurgronje’s notion of the “irreality” of šari a would go on to enjoy a long career, from Max Weber’s subsumption of fiqh under “sacred law,” unable to rationalise and adapt and therefore irrelevant to practice,166 to Joseph Schacht’s more recent contention that “Islamic law represents an extreme case of a ‘jurist’s law’,” which was neither formed by practice nor juridical technique but under the impetus of “religious and ethical ideas.”167 Kohler’s legal positivism, on the other hand, accepted no such absolute judgements about 163 Josef Kohler, “Zum Studium des islamitischen Rechts”, Rechtsgeleerd Magazijn 5 (1886): 344–347. 164 Kohler, 347–349. 165 C. Snouck Hurgronje, “De Fiqh en de vergelijkende Rechtswetenschap”, Rechts-

geleerd Magazijn 5 (1886): 551–567; Josef Kohler, “Jurisprudenz und Philologie”, Rechtsgeleerd Magazijn 6 (1887): 265–276; Ignaz Goldzieher, “Muhammedanisches Recht in Theorie und Praxis”, Zeitschrift fuer vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 8 (1889): 406–423; Josef Kohler, “Ueber das vorislamitische Recht der Araber”, Zeitschrift fuer vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 8 (1889): 238–261. 166 Max Weber, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der verstehenden Soziologie, 5th rev. ed. (Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1972), 348. 167 Joseph Schacht, An Introduction to Islamic Law (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982),

209. For Schacht, this was foundational for the history Islamic law, which was “dominated by the contrast between theory and practice,” Schacht, 199. For a more differentiated discussion of commonalities and differences between Hurgronje, Goldziher, Weber, and Schacht, see Baber Johansen, Contingency in a Sacred Law: Legal and Ethical Norms in the Muslim Fiqh (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 43–72.

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the reality or efficacy of Islamic law. Instead, he contended that it was a matter of empirical research of whether laws were efficacious and how they were applied or circumvented in judgements—and none of this meant that the law (das Recht ) of any given community was theoretical or unreal.168 Rather, it was in the nature of law that out of the “depth of legal principles” new materials and new forms would emerge in the form of customary or scholarly law. In short, for Kohler law referred to whatever was either imposed or recognised as binding norm, regardless of its malleability or fragmented hold on practice.169 The irony of this theoretical debate about Islamic law is that Kohler’s observations about Islamic law could easily be applied to German colonial law as well. This, too, was an ad-hoc and malleable creation, formed out of constitutional conflict, ideosyncrasies in international law, and counter-reactions to colonial brutality. It was patchy in prescription and application, containing norms and institutions that were impractical and inapplicable but were taken nonetheless to be expressions of the law, of the binding norm of the colonial order. The scholarly discussions that sometimes accompanied but mostly followed the political establishment of colonial norms were efforts to endow this order with some kind of generative rationality and systematic efficacy, as was required by the notion of “civilised” law. This is also why the recent attempts at a systematic reconstruction of colonial law easily strike the observer as strangely belated investments in the colonial order and its heritage, rather than a contribution to their critical deconstruction.170 One approach to decolonising this legal heritage would be to ask instead, how and why colonial law precluded or distorted scholarly investment in Muslim legal practice and jurisprudence. As this and the previous chapter have shown, Islamic legal reasoning was excluded from German juridical rationality almost by default, due to a long-standing perception about the unsuitability of “Mohammedan” norms to modern law, which was already enshrined in the jurisdictional fiction of extraterritoriality. Early scholarly attempts at codifying Islamic law were rendered moot by the establishment of a racialised system of “native jurisdiction,” which

168 Josef Kohler, “Die Wirklichkeit und Unwirklichkeit des islamitischen Rechtes”, Zeitschrift fuer vergleichende Rechtswissenschaft 8 (1889): 425–6. 169 Kohler, 427. 170 See the introductory comments to the previous chapter.

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left at the mercy of district officers all “non-white” inhabitants of the colony, with exceptions granted only to “non-Mohammedans” of “more advanced” civilisations. Where a systematic cataloguing of the “native law” took place, Islamic precepts and institutions were excluded by the primitivist concept of “native customs,” not least because people like Kohler could never quite bring themselves to extend their legal positivism to hybrid, cosmopolitan settings and thus were left with a racially and ethnically bounded impetus of comparing “original” communities, even when those were difficult to find. Therefore, German colonial perceptions of Islamic law were driven by the historical sediment of presumed incommensurability of Christian and Islamic statutes, a selective and synthetic approach to the rich and diverse fiqh tradition, and a narrow legal positivism bound up with the primitivising ethnocentrism of the nation state.

PART IV

Political Islam: The Making of “Islamic Danger”

Since the spread of Islam entails a serious danger to the development of our colonies, the Colonial Congress recommends the diligent observation and rigorous study of this movement. […] It also sees in the Islamic danger an urgent appeal to German Christendom to take into missionary care without delay those areas of our colonies that are not yet seized by Islam. —Resolution by the German Colonial Congress, 1910 Muslims perceived both missionaries and the colonial state as fellow collaborators and therefore enemies to Islam. Islamic radicalism has therefore a long history in the struggle against colonial rule and Christianity. Christianity meanwhile became a reactionary force siding with the colonial state. —Mohamed Said, “Islam and Politics in Tanzania,” 1993

CHAPTER 8

Phantoms of Muslim Sedition: From Maji Maji to the “Mecca Letters”

In the current Tanzanian debate about the place of Islam in the constitutional settlement, there is a sense among some Muslims that their political position has been systematically eroded since independence. One prominent proponent of this view is Mohamed Said, a political science graduate of the University of Dar es Salaam, whose historical work is driven by an impetus to reveal and reverse a Christian push to neutralise Muslim influence in the ruling party.1 Said’s revisionist historiography is rooted in claims about Islamic resistance to colonialism rule from the 1 For the detailed development of his argument, mainly based on private family sources, see Said, Life and Times. A constructively critical review of this overall tendentious book was provided by Jonathon Glassman, “Muslim Nationalists in Tanganyika”, Journal of African History 42, no. 1 (2001): 164–166. See also Mohamed Said, Sheikh Hassan bin Ameir (1880–1979): The Moving Spirit of Muslim Emancipation in Tanganyika. Paper presented to the Seminar “The Role of Educated Youth to Muslim Society,” 27 February–4 March 2004, Zanzibar University (1950–1968) (2004), accessed 15 June 2020, https://www.academia.edu/5287844/SHEIKH_HASSAN_BIN_AMEIR_THE_ MOVING_SPIRIT; Mohamed Said, Muslim Bible Scholars of Tanzania: The Legacy of Sheikh Ahmed Deedat (1918–2005). Paper presented to the International Symposium on Islamic Civilisation in Southern Africa, 1–3 September 2006, University of Johannesburg (2006), accessed 15 June 2020, https://www.academia.edu/5288619/INTERNATI ONAL_SYMPOSIUM_ON_ISLAMIC_CIVILISATION_IN_SOUTHERN_AFRICA_ Muslim_Bible_Scholars_of_Tanzania_The_Legacy_of_Sheikh_Ahmed_Deedat_1918_2005_; Mohamed Said, Christian Hegemony and the Rise of Muslim Militancy in

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_8

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German period onward, making Muslims early proponents of Tanzania’s independence. Accordingly, Said claimed that in the Maji Maji War, the most significant African revolt to German rule, Tanzanian Christians fought on the side of the German colonisers while “Muslims were hanged particularly for killing missionaries and for waging a war against German rule.”2 Such claims of a significant Muslim resistance to German rule are difficult to sustain historically, yet they do have precedent in the German colonial sources. In 1908 a missive spread in the colony that purported to originate from the guardian of the Prophet’s tomb in Medina. This mislabelled “Mecca letter” admonished Muslims for their lack of religious commitment and sparked a short-lived religious revival, raising German fears of a rebellion under the banner of Islam. The initial investigation into the “Mecca letter” was driven by a zealous colonial officer in Lindi, who set out to prove—ultimately unsuccessfully—that there was a connection between this missive and the Maji Maji Rebellion three years before. Drawing on these conjectures, governor Albrecht Rechenberg issued an official memo, which contended that there was a seditious intention at work in the “Mecca letters” which was probably behind the Maji Maji rebellion as well, even though, he conceded, this “has not yet been proven clearly.”3 Sixty years later, the influential GEA historian John Iliffe cited Rechenberg’s memo for his claim that “some” walimu “had probably been involved in Maji Maji,” though he hastened to add that during the spread of the “Mecca letters” their “dissent seems to have been expressed largely in religious terms.”4 August Nimtz then drew on Iliffe just over a decade later for stating that “the fact that Muslim teachers played a role

Tanzania Mainland, presentation at the Baraza workshop, 7 July 2011 at the ZMO Berlin (Berlin: Zentrum Moderner Orient, 2011). 2 Said, Islam and Politics. According to Said, this paper was first published in Al-Haq International (Karachi) in 1993, see Said, Life and Times, 344. The original source could not be obtained. 3 Rechenberg, Runderlass an alle Dienststellen, 15 February 1909, TNA G9/46, 164– 180, here 178. For more context, see below p. 300–303. 4 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 194, emph. J.H.

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in spreading the [Maji Maji] ideology is, no doubt, important.”5 Said, in turn, referenced Nimtz to substantiate his general assertion about Muslim resistance in the Maji Maji war. This hardening of colonial conjecture into the “fact” of political Islam is an instructive example of how a rather thin source base and superficial analyses have afflicted the historiography on Muslim politics in GEA. And the roots of this lie in the German period itself, because the “Mecca letter affair” of 1908 became a turning point in the general perception of Islam. While just three years earlier, missionary warnings of an “Islamic danger” had attracted widespread condemnation,6 a suspicion against Islam now began to take hold for reasons explored in this and the next chapter. The analysis will begin by showing why in the immediate context of the Maji Maji War these anti-Islamic suspicions could not yet gain currency before turning to the “Mecca letter” itself and the wider political reasons for why it became a turning point in German Islam perception and policy.

8.1

Islam in the Maji Maji War

In July of 1905 a local insurrection began in the Matumbi Hills to the north-east of Kilwa that within weeks had spread across the entire south east of GEA, from Uzaramo and Uluguru in the north to the Southern Highlands bordering Lake Nyasa. Isolated pockets of warfare also emerged outside of this region as far away as Mwanza and Mbulu in the North of the colony.7 The colonial government was caught offguard by the scale of this rebellion. It took several weeks for German troops to gain the initiative, and they did not win the upper hand

5 Nimtz, Islam and Politics, 13, emph. J.H. Nimtz went on to argue that while the Maji Maji ideology was “more animist” than Islamic, the involvement of Muslims helped them supplant traditional religion when the Maji Maji failed. 6 On these warnings and their earlier dismissal, see esp. Sect. 5.4, p. 182. 7 For various chronologies of the war, including maps, see Detlef Bald, “Afrikanis-

cher Kampf gegen koloniale Herrschaft: Der Maji-Maji-Aufstand in Ostafrika”, Militärgeschichtliche Mitteilungen 19, no. 1 (1976): 23–50; Iliffe, Modern History, 168– 202; Beez, Geschosse; Felicitas Becker, “Von der Feldschlacht zum Guerilla-Krieg: Der Verlauf des Krieges und seine Schauplätze”, in Der Maji-Maji-Krieg in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1905–1907 , ed. Felicitas Becker and Jigal Beez (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2005), 74–86; James Giblin and Jamie Monson, “Introduction”, in Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, ed. James Giblin and Jamie Monson, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 1–30.

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until reinforcements had arrived from overseas. By now the insurgents were following guerilla tactics, which the German forces answered with “savage repression”8 by employing indiscriminate firepower, destroying crops and settlements, and preventing reconstruction until an area was fully subdued. In some theatres of war, the fighting lasted until 1907, with the last insurgents evading capture until mid-1908. The German scorched earth approach left in its wake a severe famine across the region and exacerbated the civilian toll, leading to widespread depopulation.9 The sudden emergence of a large armed revolt in what the Germans considered to be a “peaceful” colony made the Maji Maji War a central arena for historical analyses. It is undoubtedly the most thoroughly researched event of GEA history, from Gilberg Gwassa and John Iliffe’s oral history project in the 1960s to the most recent revision of Maji Maji historiography by James Giblin and Jamie Monson.10 However, as Giblin and Monson rightly argue, the scale of historical research and its importance for Tanzanian independence narratives have led to a deceptive coherence about the events. After all, this rebellion not only spread over a territory “larger than the United Kingdom and […] engulfed societies which spoke more than twenty-five languages,” it also stood in continuity with other resistance movements before and after.11 A more fine-grained analysis of this diversified movement is necessary, not least because monolithic explanations of cause and effect stand in a long line of continuity with colonial narratives about the war, going all the way back to governor Götzen’s first account, written to defend his record.12 One of the elements, which lent the Maji Maji movement this deceptive coherence and indeed its very name, were rumours of a water (Kiswahili: maji) of sacred origin, which when taken as medicine would liquefy German bullets. Subsequent accounts have tended to attribute 8 Giblin and Monson, 8. 9 On the brutality of German warfare and their hired mercenaries (askari), see Michelle

Moyd, “‘All People Were Barbarians to the Askari…’: Askari Identity and Honor in the Maji Maji War, 1905–1907”, in Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, ed. James Giblin and Jamie Monson, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 149–179; Moyd, Violent Intermediaries, 115–147, esp. 139–143. 10 Gwassa and Iliffe, Records; Giblin and Monson, Maji Maji. 11 Giblin and Monson, “Introduction”, 8. 12 Elijah Greenstein, “Making History: Historical Narratives of the Maji Maji”, Penn History Review 17, no. 2 (2010): 62.

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this medicine with an essential instrumentality in uniting diverse ethnic communities to rise against German rule.13 This is typically connected with invocations of the religious character of the maji and its meaning for socio-cultural change in the region. Early analyses tended to emphasise the “indigenous” character of these beliefs, connecting their ultimate failure with the decline of African religions in favour of Islam and Christianity.14 Later scholarship, by contrast, sought to establish the influence of Christian and Muslim millennial ideas on the rebellion, forming an amalgamate with indigenous religious ideas in the course of a longer process of religious change.15 Giblin and Monson have cautioned against depicting the maji as the essential glue of the anti-German alliance in the war. They suggest abandoning “the view of maji as a consciously deployed means or instrument” of direct warfare and instead understanding it as an element of wartime communication by Africans and Germans alike.16 On the African side, this means focusing on how fraternal or even enforced dawa (medicine) ingestion was an integral part of building insurgent alliances, regardless of the particular medicine or its rumoured efficacy.17 On the German side,

13 See e.g. Gilbert C. K. Gwassa, “Kinjikitile and the Ideology of Maji Maji”, in The Historical Study of African Religion, ed. Terence O. Ranger and Isaria N. Kimambo (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1976), 203–204; Jigal Beez, “Mit Wasser gegen Gewehre: Die Maji-Maji-Botschaft des Propheten Kinjikitile”, in Der Maji-MajiKrieg in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1905–1907 , ed. Felicitas Becker and Jigal Beez (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2005), 66–70. 14 Gwassa, “German Intervention”, 117; Gwassa, “Kinjikitile”; Iliffe, Modern History, 200–201. 15 Thaddeus Sunseri, “Majimaji and the Millennium: Abrahamic Sources and the Creation of a Tanzanian Resistance Tradition”, History in Africa 26 (1999): 365–378; Felicitas Becker, “Sudden Disaster and Slow Change: Maji Maji and the Long-Term History of Southeast Tanzania”, in Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, ed. James Giblin and Jamie Monson, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 295–321; see also Becker, Becoming Muslim, 56–64. 16 Giblin and Monson, “Introduction”, 19. 17 On this point, see esp. the report by the Benedictine convert Joseph Sihaba contained

in Cyrillus Wehrmeister, Vor dem Sturm: Eine Reise durch Deutsch-Ostafrika vor und bei dem Aufstande 1905 (Geltendorf: Missionsverlag St. Ottilien, 1906), 184–9; as well as the poem by Abdul Karim bin Jamaldini (collected in 1912) in Miehe et al., Kala Shairi, 324–61.

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this entails studying how references to the maji served to frame its “irrationality” in order to distract from failed government policy and brutal military tactics. The argument of “irrationality” was indeed key to colonial mitigation strategies from the start. The first report in the DOAZ about “robbers” in the “Matumbi mountains” already echoed a government briefing that portrayed how a remote and unruly people rose up against “Indians and Arabs” under the influence of a “sorcerer.”18 Though missionaries collected a variety of religious narratives prompting the revolt,19 the promise of the maji quickly turned into the stock narrative about the cause of the “fanaticism” of the rebels.20 The cosmology behind this “indigenous belief” was supplied by the BMW missionary Martin Klamroth,21 and Governor Götzen drew all this together in his first report to parliament, penned in December 1905.22 He noted that “sorcery” had been the “most effective means” of the revolt, premised on a revived belief in a “long forgotten snake god” who had now ordered the expelling of all foreigners. These ideas, according to Götzen, were pedalled by “sorcerers” who normally offered harvest and fertility charms but now profited from selling water for military protection.23

18 “Aus der Kolonie: Räuberische Ueberfälle der Eingeborenen im Süden”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 31 (5 August 1905), 2; cf. Jamie Monson, “War of Words: The Narrative Efficacy of Medicine in the Maji Maji War”, in Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, ed. James Giblin and Jamie Monson, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 49–51. 19 See Wehrmeister, Sturm, 136; St. Benediktus-Missionsgenossenschaft in St. Ottilien, ed., “Die Heimsuchung unserer Mission im Jahre 1905”, in Missions-Kalender für das Jahr der 1907 (Geltendorf: St. Benediktus-Missionsgenossenschaft, 1907), 77; Karl Axenfeld, “Deutsch-Ostafrika: (b) Die Synode Usaramo”, in 82: Jahresbericht der Gesellschaft zur Beförderung der evangelischen Missionen unter den Heiden zu Berlin, ed. Berliner Missionsgessellschaft (Berlin: Verlag der Berliner Missionsgesellschaft, 1906), 114–115. 20 Already the second DOAZ article about the rebellion mentioned the maji belief, albeit still embedded in a variety of rumours, “Ueber die Unruhen im Süden”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 32 (12 August 1905): 1–2. 21 See Sunseri, “Majimaji”, 372–4. 22 VerhRTAnl 11/II, vol. 222, no. 194: Denkschrift über die Ursachen des Aufstandes

in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1905, 3080–3085. 23 Ibid., 3082.

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Götzen’s strategy to “absolve himself by labelling the movement irrational and citing disgruntled sorcerers as its primary impetus”24 failed, however. In the first Reichstag reading of the supplementary budget requested for the Maji Maji War, the Centre Party politician Matthias Erzberger flatly rejected the suggestion that “sorcerers” had caused the rebellion and pointed instead to the introduction of forced labour on communal cotton plantations in the region (Fig. 8.1).25 The government block was not convinced by Götzen either. Hermann Paasche of the National-Liberal Party, which normally voted with the

Fig. 8.1 A cotton caravan utilising child labour (1908). Forced labour in communal cotton plantations was a primary cause of the rebellion prompting the Maji Maji War26

24 Greenstein, “Making History”, 62. 25 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 214, 16 January 1906, 586–609, here 590. This is now widely

recognised as prime cause for the rebellion, see Iliffe, Modern History, 168–169; Giblin and Monson, Maji Maji, 1; cf. Lorne Larson, “The Ngindo: Exploring the Centre of the Maji Maji Rebellion”, in Maji Maji: Lifting the Fog of War, ed. James Giblin and Jamie Monson, African Social Studies Series 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 99–102. 26 Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, Ethnologisches Museum, https://smb.museumdigital. de/object/21685.

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government, followed Erzberger’s analysis and identified forced labour, uncontrolled corruption, extortion by subaltern officers, and a flawed tax system as causes for the rebellion.27 The “sorcery” and “dawa” were just an act of reassurance when going to war, just as “on our sides troops are sprinkled with holy water before a fight.”28 The second reading followed a similar trajectory and turned into a thorough four-day reckoning with German colonialism, driven mainly by the Centre and the Social Democrats who secured significant government concessions along the way.29 An additional complicating factor in this narrative of “indigenous sorcery” was the involvement of Christian and Muslim fighters. Already Götzen’s report noted that in one area a majority of converts at the Benedictine Mission had joined the rebels.30 In Usaramo, Protestant missionaries contended that most local Muslims had fought with the rebels, though noting at the same time that Islam in that region cannot be imagined as “superficial enough.”31 Likewise, an article in the Kiongozi contended that the maji had been carried there by a Muslim convert from Lindi while it also praised an “Arab” who fought on the side of the Germans.32 The DOAZ reporting was all over the place. It first

27 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 214, 16 January 1906, 566–598. 28 Ibid., 599. 29 VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 13 March 1906, 1973–1991; VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 15 March 1906, 2019–2052; VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 16 March 1906, 2053–2084; VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 17 March 1906, 2085–2119. 30 VerhRTAnl 11/II, vol. 222, no. 194: Denkschrift über die Ursachen des Aufstandes in Deutsch-Ostafrika 1905, 3084. This was contested by the missionaries, though their own sources admitted that in some regions a substantial portion of the general population had taken the maji, see Wehrmeister, Sturm, 186; “Stellungnahme der Benediktinermission zur Denkschrift über die Ursachen des Aufstandes in Deutschostafrika u. Anderes,” StOtt Z. 1. 01, 21–28. 31 Karl Axenfeld, “Deutsch-Ostafrika: (a) Der Aufstand und seine Ursachen”, in 82: Jahresbericht der Gesellschaft zur Beförderung der evangelischen Missionen unter den Heiden zu Berlin, ed. Berliner Missionsgessellschaft (Berlin: Verlag der Berliner Missionsgesellschaft, 1906), 103. 32 Liwali Mzee bin Ramazani, “Habari”; for context and discussion of this text, see Ludger Wimmelbücker, “Der Bericht des Mzee bin Ramadhani über den Maji-Maji-Krieg im Bezirk Songea: Swahili-Text und zeitgenössische Übersetzung mit einem einführenden Kommentar”, Swahili Forum 12 (2005): 173–203.

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focused on “sorcery” and reassured its readers that in this rebellion “Germans and Arabs fought side by side,”33 then it blamed missionary failures some weeks later,34 and a few issues on it finally printed the sensationalist headline: “The maji maji doctrine is of Arab origin!”.35 These mixed reports about “sorcerers,” Christians, and Muslims made it difficult to connect the Maji Maji War with the ongoing German debate about Christian and Muslim “civilising,” even though the heated discussions of the pro-missionary declaration at the 1905 Second Colonial Congress ran parallel with the War.36 Götzen showed no interest in scoring any points in the long-running government school debate, but rather tried to preempt any discussion linking religion to the War. He argued that even with its “pagan” roots, the rebellion was not a religious movement because it was driven by pure “fanaticism” rather than the “motive to defend an old belief against a new one.”37 Matthias Erzberger, by contrast, could not resist using the supplementary budget debate to bring up his party’s old grievances about the “Islam-friendly” GEA policy, launching a big debate about government schools, which failed for reasons explored earlier.38 However, even he refrained from connecting his criticism of German Islam policy to the Maji Maji War directly. Similarly, his fellow Centre Party member Wilhelm Schwarze also did not directly link the maji with Islam, but exploited the rising sense of uncertainty by rehashing general warnings about how a “Mahdi” might rise among the “Arabs” at any time and that being favourable to “Mohammedans” was to “nourish a viper at our bosom.”39 33 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Unruhen im Süden”, 2. 34 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Aufstand und Einfluß der Missionen”. 35 “Aus der Kolonie: Die maji-maji-Lehre arabischen Ursprungs!”

Deutsch-

Ostafrikanische Zeitung 8, no. 2 (13 January 1906): 2–3. 36 See pp. 185–7. This debate also reached the colony in the middle of the Maji Maji War, see “Vermischtes: Noch etwas vom Kolonialkongreß”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 7, no. 46 (18 November 1905): 1. Beiblatt. At the congress itself, the Maji Maji news were not yet prominent and only mentioned in passing, see Paul, “Bestand”, 466; Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, Verhandlungen des Kolonialkongresses 1905, 549. 37 Ibid., 3082. For a similar framing of the Maji Maji along racial lines rather than religion, see also his memoirs, Gustav Adolf von Götzen, Deutsch-Ostafrika im Aufstand 1905/06 (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1909), 47, cf. 242–3. 38 See chapter 5. 39 Wilhelm Schwarze in VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 16 March 1906, 2057.

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Yet missionaries needed to tread carefully as they risked being framed as incendiary themselves. National-Liberals, for example, argued that the closure of government schools would only provoke a Muslim revolt, and reports about Ethiopianism in Southern Africa became a political liability for missionary work at about the same time.40 The Maji Maji War, therefore, did not lend itself to changing fundamentally the colonial debate about Islam and Christianity in GEA. If anything, the opposite was the case: in the colonial perception Africans had proven their “superstitious nature” which would remain decisive despite conversions to Christianity or Islam. Racist rather than religious analyses thus predominated.41 Nonetheless, the Maji Maji War produced a number of effects which would help prepare the German political pivot toward “Islamic danger” narrative. Firstly, it ushered in a colonial crisis and readjustment of policies in Berlin and GEA. The most important of these were the formation of a Colonial Office under the former banker Bernhard Dernburg and the installation of Albrecht Rechenberg as new governor in Dar es Salaam, both of whom sought to move GEA away from the extractive model of a plantation economy and toward stimulation of local markets and production. This would ultimately pit settlers and planters against the colonial government and increase their interest to instrumentalise any hint of unrest against Rechenberg and his policies. Secondly, the Maji Maji War had raised the ominous spectre of further rebellions because it had caught Germans by surprise and led to conclusions of unavoidable racial conflict. In subsequent years this prompted alarmist reactions whenever signs of political instigation were perceived. Finally, though religion was not seen as the primary cause of the rebellion, there arose a sense from the assumed instrumentality of the maji that religious beliefs could be used to instigate. All three consequences played into the “Mecca letter affair” of 1908, from which a new perception of “Islamic danger” would emerge.

40 Johannes Semler in VerhRT 11/II, vol. 216, 15 March 1906, 2038. On Ethiopianism in the German debate, see Haustein, “Provincializing”, 83; cf. e.g. “Die schwarze Gefahr”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 7, no. 5 (1 March 1906): 75; “Also endlich”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 7, no. 5 (1 March 1906): 78–79; “Ueber Christentum und Mohamedanismus in Afrika”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 9, no. 73 (4 December 1907): Beiblatt. 41 See also Götzen’s memoir rooting the rebellion in the “racial antagonism between the European and the Negro,” Götzen, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 236.

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The “Mecca Letter” of 1908

On 26th July the Lindi district officer Walter Wendt sent a telegram to Dar es Salaam warning of the arrival “missives of pan-Islamitic tendency” (schriftliche Befehle grossislamitische Tendenz) all over the coast, which contained “strong aggressive plans against Europeans and missions.”42 Wendt reported that the population was “highly fanaticised” through speeches in the mosques. Even women were urged to pray and there were plans to build a special mosque for them. The askari saw a great danger and asked for countermeasures, while the movement had spread to the interior. In the end, Wendt asked for permission to “annex the post of Kadomari” (kadhi Omari), who was the leading im¯ am at Lindi and suspected by Wendt to be the main distributor of the letter. It is clear that Wendt feared another revolt might be afoot, especially as all his informants drew parallels with the build-up of the Maji Maji War.43 Having just arrived in the district earlier that year and at the apex of a fairly steep colonial career, Wendt had enough reason to be cautious. He had joined the colonial administration as an accountant in 1898, serving first as secretary to the Rufiyi district officer and from 1901 as customs clerk of the district office Bagamoyo.44 When in February of 1908 he was made provisional district officer of Lindi, this was a significant promotion to a difficult post. Though the Lindi district was south of the epicentres of the Maji Maji rebellion, it had been affected severely by the War, its brutal suppression, and its aftermath. Tax income had dropped by about twenty per cent, and still in 1907, the district reported around 1500 deaths of starvation per month.45 Wendt’s predecessor had also been a provisional appointment and was discharged dishonourably after merely a year in office.46 So Wendt could hardly afford to overlook any risks, but

42 District officer Lindi to Dar es Salaam, 26 July 1908, TNA G9/46, 1. 43 None of these informants were African, but a Mganda soldier, an Indian merchant,

and a German planter, Wendt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 1 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 13–16. 44 Franz and Geissler, Deutsch-Ostafrika-Archiv, 103, 120–1. 45 Bald, “Afrikanischer Kampf”, 29, 44. 46 He relocated to Strassburg and was sued by the colonial government for a “waste of ammunition,” see Franz and Geissler, Deutsch-Ostafrika-Archiv, 103, 180; Gerhard Maier, African Dinosaurs Unearthed: The Tendaguru Expeditions (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2003), 20.

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had much to gain if he appeared energetic and engaged in securing the district.47 Governor Rechenberg’s initial response to Wendt’s message sought to ease the temper of an inexperienced officer.48 The “Medina letter,” as he accurately called it, was known in Dar es Salaam and only contained a harmless if urgent call to repentance.49 If anything, kadhi Omari might have used this letter to restrain “immoral women,” which, as he cynically suggested, might be the real cause behind the askari’s concerns. He gave no permission for countermeasures but told Wendt that he would send Major Kurt Schleinitz, commander of the Protectorate Force, to investigate. Wendt did not wait for Schleinitz but continued his investigation. He now demanded a copy of the letter from the local liwali, had it translated, and then assembled the local elders together with kadhi Omari (Fig. 8.2). Omari assured him that he considered the letter to be fraudulent and doctrinally aberrant, but to Wendt’s dismay the meeting provided no further clues as to who might have masterminded the “treasonous dissemination.”50 He did learn, however, the letter had reached Lindi through family members of the former slave and ivory trader Muh.ammad bin Half¯an, better known as Rumaliza. Rumaliza had held considerable stakes˘ in the pre-colonial caravan economy around Lake Tanganyika and had resisted the installation of German and Belgian rule for as long as he could.51 He escaped the German conquest unscathed and retreated to Zanzibar, from where he continued to trade. Though he subsequently managed to secure his economic interests in GEA by settling 47 He seems to have been successful with this strategy, as he was confirmed as permanent district officer in 1910 and stayed in this post until he died during the First World War in 1916. 48 Governor to District Officer Lindi, 27 July 1908 (telegram), TNA G9/46, 2. 49 Later reporting actually indicates that Rechenberg obtained a copy from the local

Wali only in reaction to Wendt’s telegram, see Report Rechenberg from 12 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 27. See also “Ein mohamedanisches Rundschreiben”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 59 (5 August 1908): 2. Unfortunately, the Dar es Salaam version is no longer extant in the archive, see Haustein, “Religion, Politics”, 100. 50 Wendt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 1 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 13–16. 51 Alfred J. Swann, Fighting the Slave Hunters in Central Africa: A Record of Twenty-Six

Years of Travel & Adventure Round the Great Lakes and of the Overthrow of Tip-PuTib, Rumaliza and other Great Slave Traders (London: Seeley and Co., 1910); Martin, “Muslim Politics”.

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scores with a former business partner in a German court, the Germans suspected him of harbouring a continued resentment against their rule.52 Wendt was told that Omari had received the letter from Rumaliza’s brother Nas.r bin Half¯an, whose wife, in turn, had obtained it directly ˘ Hil¯ali. Both Nasr and his wife denied this connecfrom Rumaliza’s son . tion, but their assertion that they had received the missive from an unknown sender and had already destroyed both envelope and letter was hardly plausible. Wendt now felt sure that he was looking at a larger conspiracy. He arrested Nas.r bin Half¯an on “danger of collusion” and hoped that in the end the Rumaliza˘ clan might be exposed as origin not only of this letter but of the Maji Maji War as well. This idea was mostly driven by conspiracy theories around Wendt. At the Lindi district office,

Fig. 8.2 Excerpt of the “Mecca letter” confiscated by Wendt in Lindi53

52 Martin, “Muslim Politics”; c.f. Rechenberg, Report from 12 August 1908, TNA G 9/46, 26–33. 53 TNAG9/46, author’s own photograph.

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there had been unsubstantiated rumours of a letter sent during the Maji Maji War, encouraging Muslims to join and enclosing a bottle “from the prophet Mohammed” that contained “the means to defeat the Europeans.”54 In addition, in an earlier post Wendt had heard the (rather unlikely) allegation that Nas.r knew about preparations for the Maji Maji War.55 When Schleinitz arrived, he brought Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r, who in a public meeting calmed the situation.56 Schleinitz proceeded to Kilwa, where he arrested a man by the name of Abdall¯ah bin Umar¯ı bin Ham¯ıs, ˘ 57 who, according to Wendt, had spread the letter here and in Mikindani. A local investigation unearthed two further copies which had reached Kilwa by rather different routes, however.58 Already two months earlier, one had reached the hands of Ah.mad bin Mwalim, a former akida who had been convicted by the Germans for corruption and embezzlement. He stated that the letter was handed to him by another son of Rumaliza, Hemedi, which confirmed German suspicions about the involvement of the Rumaliza family. The other copy of the letter had been brought over more recently by a mwalimu from Zanzibar, Ham¯ıs bin Muh.ammad, ˘ Though he had no who was still in Kilwa and was promptly arrested. clear connection to the Rumaliza clan, he was pressed into “long crossexamination” into the (probably false) admission that he had received his copy from a Rumaliza family member as well.59 Wendt’s narrative about a seditious plot was beginning to congeal. The first article about the letters published in the DOAZ on 5 August 1908 already claimed that Hemedi bin Rumaliza was the author of the

54 Both Wendt and Karl Ewerbeck, who served as district officer in Lindi during the War, referred to such a letter. Both appear to have been based on hearsay, however, as neither of them had direct access to the letter, see Walter Wendt, “Teil II des Reiseberichts vom 12.1.09. Betrifft Mekkabrief und Maji-maji-Aufstand,” 12 January 1909, TNA G9/ 46, 161–2; Götzen, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 161. 55 Wendt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 1 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 13–16. 56 By 3 August Wendt telegraphed that “movement resulting from the alleged Mecca

letter was contained” TNA G9/46, 6–8. 57 Schleinitz to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam (telegram), 3 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 9. 58 Schön to Governor Dar es Salaam, 5 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 34–27. 59 Schön to Governor Dar es Salaam, 5 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 34–27. On the

implausibility of this admission, see Haustein, “Religion, Politics”, 112, 117.

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missive.60 Rechenberg wrote a lengthy despatch to Berlin, which he also circulated to all district offices as well as to the German consulates in Mombasa and Zanzibar, asking for reports on similar movements. Solely on the basis of Wendt’s full report and Schleinitz’ account, Rechenberg now implicated the Rumaliza family and offered a political interpretation of the events.61 Though noting that he was not yet sure whether the movement originated “from these circles or reaches higher up,” Rechenberg had no doubt that the missive was intended to spark another political revolt in the wake of the Maji Maji War. Since the “faithfulness” of the askari had prevented the Maji Maji from succeeding, this letter was aimed at breaking their loyalty while stirring up another revolt. The “most surprising” aspect of the whole affair, Rechenberg continued, was that this strategy did not fall on “totally fallow ground.” This showed that the “uproar which presently goes through the Islamic world, can also fall on fertile ground if circumstances are right.”62 Rechenberg’s initial report therefore not only claimed to establish the culprits behind the “Mecca letter,” but also provided a political interpretation which highlighted the potency of Islam for unrest. However, neither was confirmed by subsequent reports and investigations. The German vice-consul of Mombasa replied that the letter had been spread there by an Indian, but was seen as a fraud and has had no noticeable impact.63 In Zanzibar members of the Rumaliza family had even visited the German consul themselves, including the accused Hil¯ali bin Rumaliza, in order to intervene on behalf of their two incarcerated relatives, Nas.r bin Half¯an and Hemedi bin Rumaliza.64 Furthermore, a relative of the likewise˘incarcerated Abdall¯ah bin Umar¯ı bin Ham¯ıs facilitated the consul with a copy ˘ of the letter that pointed to the H . iˇga¯z as an origin. Reports from various district offices in GEA also arrived during the following months.65 Four 60 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Mohamedanisches Rundschreiben”. 61 Albrecht von Rechenberg, Betr. Bewegung in Lindi, 12 August 1908, BArch R1001/

701, 64–72; cf. TNA G9/46, 17–33. 62 Albrecht von Rechenberg, Betr. Bewegung in Lindi, 12 August 1908, TNA G9/46,

31. 63 Rhode to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 27 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 59. 64 Schmidt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 6 September 1908, TNA G9/46,

60–61. Hemedi had been arrested en route to GEA. 65 Reports were received from Bagamoyo, Mahenge, Tabora, Morogoro, Mpapua, Iringa, Tanga, and Kondoa-Irangi, cf. TNA G9/46, 48–122.

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of them submitted one or more copies of the letter, none of which were linked to the Rumaliza clan. Their reports also indicated that no political movements had arisen from the letter, even if there was a pious revival in some places. Regardless of these findings, Wendt kept the Rumaliza relatives in the Lindi prison for more than two years, and only released them after pressure from Dar es Salaam had mounted.66 As late as 1910, he was still trying to prove Nas.r bin Half¯an’s involvement in the Maji Maji rebellion, citing promising new leads˘ whenever he was pressed to close his investigation. In the end, none of this materialised. Hemedi bin Rumaliza was set free, even as Wendt claimed to have “very incriminating, but not quite enough material” against him.67 Nas.r bin Half¯an was sentenced to five ˘ years in prison and 5,000 Rupees, but no reason was given for the meted sentences, nor is there any indication of a judicial review.68 Considering the alarm the “Mecca letter” caused in the German colonial apparatus, its content is remarkably innocuous. The short text narrated a vision by the guardian of the Prophet’s tomb in Medina, a rather generically named šayh Ah.mad. Muh.ammad had appeared to him ˘ relaying a warning to the (not so) faithful, in a dream and tasked him with whom he accuses of a litany of aberrations from neglecting prayer and alms to drinking alcohol and engaging in gossip. While the Prophet is depicted as still interceding on behalf of Muslims, he also proclaimed that the day of reckoning was at hand and that now was the last chance to repent. The letter closed with various assertions of authenticity and urgent instructions to copy and spread its message.69 None of the missive’s admonitions and accusations were particularly novel nor incendiary. Yet for colonial observers, its end-time warnings and (fairly standard) instruction to separate from non-believers were reasons 66 A first inquiry about due process from December 1908 remained unanswered, draft of correspondence to Lindi and Kilwa, 10 December 1908, TNA G9/46, 96. Dar es Salaam did not bring up the matter again until May of 1910 and Wendt only moved to sentencing after direct instructions in October 1910, see correspondence in TNA G9/47, 1–23. 67 Wendt to Dar es Salaam (telegram), 19 October 1910, TNA G9/47, 17–19. 68 Most of the files from the district office in Lindi are no longer extant. The rela-

tively high sentence would have enabled Nas.r bin Half¯an to launch an appeal to the “Oberrichter,” but there are no records of this either.˘ 69 See Haustein, “Religion, Politics” for a historical critical edition, translation and discussion of the letter.

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to suspect that the letter was seeking to instigate Muslims against German colonial rule. While later scholarship has offered different explanations as to the cause and motivation behind the letter, a political interpretation of the letter has remained predominant, including a quest to understand the motivations of whatever party was seen to orchestrate its spread.70 What has been forgotten in all of these interpretations focused on GEA is an important detail that Carl Heinrich Becker mentioned with his first transcription and translation of the letter: Snouck Hurgronje had already noted the appearance of a similar missive elsewhere and much earlier.71 More recently, historians have documented the existence of other such letters in North Africa, and Iraq or India from the 1860s onward, as well as among Indian soldiers in the French theatres of World War I.72 Circulations of the missive have even survived into the electronic age, as is evidenced by a forum discussion of an e-mail forward with very similar content.73 Though there are textual differences between all these versions of the message, their structure and main message are remarkably similar. Even the name of the fictional šayh Ah.mad is the same in most versions.74 ˘ it implausible, that the genesis and This broad proliferation makes spread of the “Mecca letter” of 1908 had a political dimension specific to GEA. Of course, one might still assume that the letter was utilised and spread in GEA by a particular source or group with a defined political objective. Yet such an assumption has been ruled out a new historical– critical edition of the letter based on the fourteen specimens still extant in the Tanzania National Archive, which had not been analysed before.75 70 For a summary of these explanations, see Haustein, 97–98. 71 Becker, “Materialien”, 45.; cf. C. Snouck Hurgronje, “De Laatste Vermaning van

Mohammed aan zijne Gemeente uitgevaardigd in het Jaar 1880 n.C: ld en Toegelicht (1884)”, in Verspreide Geschriften. Deel 1: Geschriften betreffende den Islam en zijne Geschiedenis (Bonn: Kurt Schroeder, 1923), 127–144, (orig. 1884). 72 Jonathan G. Katz, “Shaykh Ahmad’s Dream: A 19th-Century Eschatological Vision”, . Studia Islamica, no. 79 (1994): 157–180; Gajendra Singh, “Throwing Snowballs in France: Muslim Sipahis of the Indian Army and Sheikh Ahmad’s Dream, 1915–1918”, Modern Asian Studies 48, no. 4 (2014): 1024–1067. 73 Forwarding LIES: “Dream of Shaykh Ahmad In Madinah” (2005), accessed 1 July 2018, https://www.islamicboard.com/general/7247-forwarding-lies-quot-dream-shaykhahmad-madinah-quot.html. 74 For further comparisons between the East African circulation and other versions, see Haustein, “Religion, Politics”. 75 See Haustein.

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These handwritten copies were confiscated between August to October 1908 in at least seven different sites, and they often contain additional information about the copyist. The attested text variants are highly interdependent but also contain significant deviations, which allow some important observations about the letter’s spread. Firstly, it is clear that the letter was spread by multiple, unconnected groups or agents. There is a substantial textual bifurcation between the two main versions of the letter, which arose from a scribal error before the letter reached the shores of GEA. Both versions were then spread in the colony without an attempt to reconcile the variants, and in a number of towns both versions can be found in independent circulation. This points to a decentralised proliferation between Zanzibar and the coast and between different Tanganyikan towns. Secondly, previous explanations offered can only be upheld for some of the letters, not the entire spread. A particular copyist’s note identifies only four of the fourteen versions as being linked to the Rumaliza clan. Similarly, the impact of the Q¯adir¯ıya, held by some to be decisive for the letter’s proliferation and the subsequent revival,76 can be limited to two copies due to a textual idiosyncrasy in the two letters signed by Q¯adir¯ı šuy¯ uh. Thirdly, ˘ excerpt the German collection of specimens likely represents but a small of a much wider circulation, because some inter-textual variations are best explained by missing links.77 Therefore, the most plausible explanation of the “Mecca letter” and the pattern of its spread is that of a chain letter, circulated by multiple parties in a non-centralised fashion. This does not preclude various political intentions or anti-colonial hopes being attached to the letter’s proliferation, but it does make it less plausible to interpret the letter as an expression of a single political dynamic. This is also supported by the absence of any related insurgency and the fact that the revival effect was rather short-lived. The textual and historical evidence, therefore, suggests that a change in perspective is necessary. If the “Mecca letter” was not a

76 Martin, “Muslim Politics”, 153–176; Martin, Muslim Brotherhoods, 153–176; Pesek, “Kreuz oder Halbmond”, 102–109; Pesek, “Sulayman b. Nasr al-Lamki”, 9–15; Michael Pesek, “Islam und Politik in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Alles unter Kontrolle: Disziplinierungsprozesse im kolonialen Tansania (1850–1960), ed. Albert Wirz, Andreas Eckert and Katrin Bromber (Köln: Rüdiger Köppe Verlag, 2003), 121–3. 77 For detailed textual evidence for all these observations, see Haustein, “Religion, Politics”.

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coordinated affair but a globally circulating missive spread in GEA with various intentions, then the primary investigation into its political thrust should no longer centre on the letter itself or the motivation for its spread. Rather, the question becomes how a fairly innocuous letter with no insurgent effect turned into a full “affair” in German colonial politics and became a turning point in the German perception of Islam.

8.3

The Liabilities of “Islamic Danger”

A primary reason for the “Mecca letters” becoming a protracted affair was that they turned into a political liability for Rechenberg that could be leveraged against his colonial reforms by parts of the colonial public. Since the Maji Maji War, colonial policy had been a flash point of political controversy. In 1906, Chancellor Bülow appointed Bernhard Dernburg as director of the Colonial Department in the Foreign Office in a move to shore up the pro-colonial majority in the Reichstag against an increasingly powerful opposition in the wake of the Herero and Nama Wars in German South West Africa and the Maji Maji War in GEA.78 Dernburg’s outsider profile as an investment banker and his progressive, ecocentric approach to colonial politics became instrumental in diminishing the ideological opposition to colonialism and ultimately getting large infrastructure projects and budgets passed. Together, Bülow and Dernburg escalated the conflict in the Budget Commission, leading to the dissolution of the Reichstag and the reduction of the Social Democratic opposition in the elections of January 1907. In May 1907 Bülow split colonial affairs from the Foreign Office and created the Colonial Office under the leadership of (now Secretary) Dernburg, a move the Reichstag had rejected a year before.79 Dernburg’s progressive rhetoric of a more humane colonial policy along with his emphasis on financial sustainability and boosting local economies may have helped shore up the centre, but it left an open flank

78 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 43–48. On Dernburg more generally, see Werner Schiefel, Bernhard Dernburg, 1865–1937: Kolonialpolitiker und Bankier im wilhelminischen Deutschland, Beiträge zur Kolonial- und Überseegeschichte 11 (Freiburg im Breisgau: Atlantis, 1974); Davis, Colonialism, 196–245. 79 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 43; Michael Hollmann, “Einleitung”, in Reichskolonialamt: Bestand R 1001. Teilband 1, ed. Bundesarchiv, Findbücher zu den Beständen des Bundesarchivs 98 (Koblenz: Bundesarchiv, 2003), xi–lx.

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on the right. German colonial policy soon came under sustained attack by settlers and planters pairing up with nationalist ideologues.80 This was especially the case when after his 1907 visit to GEA Dernburg aligned with Rechenberg’s politics of reconstruction, which focused on infrastructure and developing a local African economy. German settlers now found themselves on the defensive in Dar es Salaam and Berlin alike and began to mobilise in their political organisations and press outlets.81 Signs of unrest could fuel their cause. Dernburg understood this danger, but Rechenberg was slow to recognise the looming battle over public opinion. Earlier in 1908, he had already been tardy in informing Berlin about a substantial military intervention against nomadic people around Kilimatinde, which involved almost 200 soldiers and ended in the execution of two “seditionists.”82 Berlin was not amused to learn about these events from the press, and Dernburg chastised Rechenberg for tarnishing the reputation of the Colonial Office while newspaper articles began to accuse the government of hiding uncomfortable truths.83 Similarly, Rechenberg’s twelve-page report on the “Mecca letters” arrived slowly and with no previous telegraphic alert,84 so that once again the Colonial Office lost the race against the press. While Dernburg’s officials still prepared a selective briefing about new “discontent” which was to avoid any reference to “Islamic agency,”85 the Deutsche Post published an article about the “Mecca letters” which drew on earlier reports in the DOAZ and framed

80 As Dernburg was of Jewish descent, there was an anti-semitic element to this critique as well Davis, Colonialism, 196–245; Hartmut Bartmuß, Bernhard Dernburg: Kolonialpolitiker der Kaiserzeit, Jüdische Miniaturen 148 (Berlin: Centrum Judaicum, 2014). 81 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 77–92. 82 The alleged insurgency attempt was never proven no do the reports and memoirs

about the expedition mention actual skirmishes. Schleinitz to Colonial Office, 24 July 1908, BArch R1001/701, 51; Ernst Nigmann, Geschichte der Kaiserlichen Schutztruppe für Deutsch-Ostafrika (Berlin: Mittler & Sohn, 1911), 128–9. 83 Dernburg to Rechenberg, 22 August 1908, BArch R1001/701, 56; “Zum Verhalten der Kolonialverwaltung”, Tägliche Rundschau, 25 August 1908, in BArch R1001/701, 62. 84 Rechenberg, “Regarding Movement in Lindi”, 12 August 1908, BArch R1001/701, 63–71. 85 Internal note calling off the plan from 8 September 1908, BArch R1001/701, 79.

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them as Rumaliza’s attempt to raise an insurgence via a “missive to the Mohammedan population.”86 Four days later, the nationalistic Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz published an openly alarmist article about “Mohammedan rummaging” in the colony, warning against the rising “danger” from a “culturally hostile and fanatical Islam.”87 Accusing the government of having ignored this “danger” for too long, the article inserted a core settler and planter demand into its warning against Islam: Hopefully they will now begin to resist vigorously the spread of Islam, also limiting Arab and Indian immigration as much as possible. There is a substantial movement in Islam at present which merits the greatest attention!88

The paper was a marginal publication,89 but mainstream dailies soon followed. Karl Perrot, a long-standing planter, entrepreneur and advocate for settler and planter interests in GEA,90 managed to plant an article in the Tägliche Rundschau which like the Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz linked the “Mecca letter” to “Arabs” and Indian immigration.91 86 “Unruhen in Lindi”, Deutsche Post, 7 September 1908 in BArch R1001/701, 77;

cf. Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Mohamedanisches Rundschreiben”. 87 “Mohammedanische Wühlereien in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz, 11 September 1908, in BArch R1001/701, 78. 88 Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz, “Mohammedanische Wühlereien.” In the following weeks, two further articles in the paper attacked Rechenberg’s “negro-friendly” as weak and encouraging seditious activities, “Mohammedanische Umtriebe im Süden von Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz, 14 September 1908; “IslamitischArabische Unruhen im Süden von Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz, 6 October 1908, in TNA G9/47, 53–55. 89 Not to be confused with a precursor to the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung under the same name. Edited by Rudolf Friedemann, it appears to have been a trial run (“printed as manuscript”) from 1907 to 1908. 90 On Karl Perrot, his son Bernhard, and the Perrot family’s connections with the colonial opposition of the Centre Party, see Francesca Schinzinger, “Die Familie Perrot: „Wirtschaftsbürger “ in den deutschen Kolonien”, in Wirtschaftsbürgertum in den deutschen Staaten im 19: und beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert, ed. Karl Möckl (München: Boldt im Oldenbourg Verlag, 1996), 397–417. 91 Karl Perrot, “Ein arabisch-islamitischer Aufstandsversuch in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Tägliche Rundschau, 27 September 1908, in TNA G9/47, 54. It is worth noting that Bernhard Perrot, who died in 1907, had linked Indians and Arabs with “Islamic danger” before the “Mecca letter” in a publication that was originally serialized in the DOAZ in

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Proclaiming that the “inferior Arab and Indian elements” must be prevented from entering the colony in order to curb the “dangers” of “the culturally hostile Islam,” Perrot launched a thinly veiled attack against Dernburg and Rechenberg: “Those who articulate support for Indians and Arabs should be aware that they are virtually committing treason in doing so.” Three weeks later, the paper accused the government of downplaying the situation and claimed that the worst had only been prevented by the “spirited and vigilant measures of our officers in Lindi.”92 A similar article followed in the Neue Preußische Zeitung , authored by former GEA soldier, who also blamed Indians for a rising Islamic danger and warned the government of ignoring the warnings of “old Africans” like him at their peril.93 Given that Indians were not implicated by the investigations in GEA, their repeated mention is indicative of the political thrust of these articles. Rechenberg’s economic vision relied on stimulating small-scale trade, often facilitated by Indian merchants, instead of the previous over-reliance on cash crop production and export.94 This was directly opposed to settler and planter interests and came under strong attacks during the budget debate of 1908, which also featured multiple calls for limiting Indian trade.95 In the preceding Budget Commission, where both Dernburg and Rechenberg were present, Dernburg began to make some concessions toward regulating Indian migration in response to Centre Party’s invocation of the “danger” of Islam, whereas Rechenberg defended the character of GEA’s Islam as the “mildest” form of Islam there was.96 Raising the spectre of an Islamic rebellion, therefore, became doubly advantageous for those allied with settler interests: they

1905 (no. 39–40), Bernhard Perrot, Die Zukunft Deutsch-Ostafrikas: Soll Deutschland eine deutsche Kolonie werden oder eine hamburgisch-indische Domäne bleiben? (Berlin: Hermann Walther, 1908), 32–35, 40–41. 92 “Hamedy Bin Rumaliza: (Näheres zu den islamitisch-arabischen Unruhen in Deutsch-Ostafrika)”, Tägliche Rundschau, 15 October 1908, in BArch R1001/701, 120. 93 August Fonck, “Der Lindi-Aufstand”, Neue Preußische Zeitung, 14 October 1908, in TNA G9/47, 56. 94 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 93–99. 95 See VerhRT 12/I, vol. 231, 17–20 March 1908, 4039, 4044f., 4050, 4056, 4068,

4070, 4083, 4087, 4143. 96 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 95; Excerpt of minutes of the 60th meeting of the budget commission, BArch R1001/701, 104–106.

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could hope to move GEA’s policies away from the economic integration of the Arab and Indian population, and they could use this issue to drive a wedge between Dernburg and Rechenberg. The Colonial Office was aware of this political threat and was keen to close the open flank Rechenberg’s Islam politics had left. In his first response to Rechenberg’s report about the “Mecca letter,” Dernburg demanded an explanation as to why Rechenberg had not immediately telegraphed about the matter. He also sent the minutes of the abovementioned Budget Commission meeting and suggested that Rechenberg might want to amend his benign statement about Islam.97 The governor pushed back on both fronts.98 The situation in GEA had been under control from the start, eliminating the need to telegraph Berlin. Moreover, the “Mecca letter” was a “politically harmless encyclical” even if used by “malevolent characters,” and hence there was no reason for corrections in the Budget Committee minutes apart from a few typographic errors. A few days later, he sent another letter, complaining about one of the articles in the Tägliche Rundschau. Noting that it contained “freely devised” pieces of information, he suggested that the Colonial Office demand a correction. By now, he seemed more aware of the political tilt the debate was taking and ended with the following words: “It is a hideous drama how papers that affirm their patriotic standpoint do not shy away from constantly creating a disturbance in Germany with fabricated news, only because this disturbance serves their specific wishes and intention.”99 Berlin had little interest in expending political capital defending Rechenberg’s Islam policies. The Colonial Office only handed a “short, correcting note” to the correspondent of Tägliche Rundschau for “use at their discretion.”100 In GEA, Rechenberg was losing the publicity battle as well. Since the press in the colony was unregulated, Rechenberg had founded the Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau as a government-friendly outlet to counter the settler and planters attacks on his administration.101

97 Dernburg to Rechenberg, 7 October 1908, TNA G9/46, 102. 98 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 11 November 1908, BArch R1001/701, 102–106. 99 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 18 November 1908, BArch R1001/701, 119. 100 BArch R1001/701, 119. 101 Due to the legal construct of the SchGG, German press laws did not automatically

apply. A regulatory ordinance did not get put in place until 1912, see Sturmer, Media History, 42.

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This government paper was not widely accepted, however, and the move had only deepened the rift between the administration and the DOAZ , which eventually escalated into a salacious feud between Rechenberg and the DOAZ editor Willy von Roy.102 With politically sensitive issues like the “Mecca letter affair,” this newspaper feud produced detrimental effects for the government because the DOAZ now had no restraint in exploiting government divisions. The paper might have lost privileged access to the governor but apparently retained a wide network of local sources, which kept it remarkably well-informed about the Lindi developments from the start. The first report on the “Mecca letter,” published only ten days after Wendt’s initial telegram, already accused Hemedi bin Rumaliza of being the main culprit—at a time when even the governor would not yet have received the first report implicating Hemedi.103 Further detailed articles about the situation in Lindi and Kilwa followed, and news about religious movements in Bagamoyo and Morogoro also came independently of government reports.104 Rechenberg’s Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau, by contrast, only printed a tight-lipped article on the events in Lindi, claiming that the “Mecca letter” was a “natural” attempt to rouse the dissatisfied Muslim population of the Makonde Plateau but that any movement had been “nipped in the bud.”105 When Rechenberg visited the region in September, his paper cast this as routine inspection and once again only mentioned the “Mecca letters” as a minor nuisance.106

102 See Iliffe, Tanganyika, 121–122; Sturmer, Media History, 34. For a detailled analysis of the Rechenberg scandal and its sexual dimension, see Heike I. Schmidt, “Colonial Intimacy: The Rechenberg Scandal and Homosexuality in German East Africa”, Journal of the History of Sexuality 17, no. 1 (2008): 25–59. 103 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Mohamedanisches Rundschreiben”; Schön to Governor Dar es Salaam, 5 August 1908, TNA G9/46, 34–27. 104 “Der Putsch im Süden”. Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 65 (26 August 1908): 1; “Aus unserer Kolonie: Lindi. Kilwa”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 65 (26 August 1908): 2; “Aus dem Bezirk Kilwa”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 66 (29 August 1908): 1–2; “Aus unserer Kolonie: Bagamojo”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 72 (19 September 1908): 3. 105 “Die Bewegung im Süden der Kolonie”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau 1, no. 2 (29 August 1908): 1. 106 “Der Gouverneur im Süden”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau 1, no. 3 (5 September 1908): 5.

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The mollifying tone of these articles and lack of any further comments in the government paper gave the DOAZ plenty of room to define the “affair.” In reports from Lindi the government was accused of covering up the extent of the letter’s spread,107 which soon turned into a general warning against the administration’s complacency toward the “Islamic danger.”108 The Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau, by contrast, printed a long, informational piece on the doctrines and multiple sects of Islam, which did not reference the Mecca letters at all. Instead, the article concluded that the situation in GEA was more benign than in any other colony, due to the emperor’s excellent relations with Istanbul.109 Such an article would only have heightened suspicions of a government cover-up among its critics, and the DOAZ continued to print front-page articles warnings against complacency toward the putative rise of Islam.110 The administration in Dar es Salaam seems to have paid little attention to this, framing it as just another part of the anti-Rechenberg agenda of the settler press.111 In the absence of any Muslim “stirrings,” the “Mecca letter affair” quickly faded, but a heightened suspicion of Islam remained. Newspaper articles pivoted toward more generalised warnings against the “dangers of Islam” and called for better support of Christian missions.112 A similar picture emerged in the Reichstag. The colonial budget debate of February 1909 contained some strong attacks on Rechenberg’s policy (whom

107 See “Aus unserer Kolonie: Sind die Unruhen im Süden beigelegt?”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 89 (18 November 1908): 2. 108 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung; cf. “Der Islam, ein politischer Faktor in DeutschOstafrika”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 90 (21 November 1908): 2–3; “Aus unserer Kolonie: Eine meuternde Kompagnie?”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 10, no. 95 (9 December 1908): 2. 109 “Der Islam und Deutsch-Ostafrika: Seine Sekten, seine Ausbreitung”, DeutschOstafrikanische Rundschau 2, no. 14 (20 February 1909). 110 Lenz, “Das heutige Bagamojo”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 36 (8 May 1909): 1; “Zur Islamgefahr”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 51 (30 June 1909): 1–2. 111 See “Stimmen aus der heimatlichen Presse”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau 2, no. 17 (3 March 1909): 1. 112 See clipped articles from the Neue Preußische Zeitung, from 1 January 1909 and Deutsche Tageszeitung, 23 April 1909, BArch R1001/701, 144, 174. Other such articles in German dailies are occasionally mentioned, e.g. “Die islamitische Gefahr in DeutschOstafrika”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 11 (9 February 1910): 2.

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Dernburg now defended vigorously), but no reference to the “Mecca letter.”113 The only parliamentary discussion of the “Mecca letter” came in the budget debate of 1910 because it had been mentioned in the annual report of 1908/09 as a minor “commotion” that was immediately suppressed with the help of the “better Mohammedan elements.”114 Erzberger did not challenge the government’s perception of the “Mecca letter” but on the basis of missionary sources built a general case about a rising “Islamic danger” and demanded that the government “erect a dam against the flood of Islam in East Africa.”115 Dernburg countered that missionaries were exaggerating the danger but conceded nonetheless that the growing strength of Islam was a “very serious and matter in need of careful treatment.”116 This, he added, was not simply due to its spread but linked to wider political developments in the “Mohammedan world,” in particular among “fanaticised people” in Turkey, India, and Egypt. These extremely vague remarks betray a limited understanding of the various reformist ideas spreading among Muslims at this time, and consequently Dernburg vacillated between the claim that “Islamicism” posed no significant threat to German rule and stating that he was “devoting conceivably greatest attention” to the movement sparked by the “Mecca letter.”

8.4

Sufi Piety and Government Interventions

This attention to “movements” was a further reason why the short-lived “Mecca letter” revival caused a permanent shift in the German perception of Islam. Rechenberg’s instruction to his district offices to keep an eye on “similar movements” generated a flurry of reports about “incidents” that hitherto would have escaped colonial reckoning. It thereby produced a feedback loop of heightened suspicion toward Islamic piety and spiritual practices. An important effect of these incoming reports was the creation of a new file in Dar es Salaam, titled “General religious movements” (Allgemeine religiöse Bewegungen). In the few remaining

113 VerhRT 12/I, vol. 235, 26 February–2 March 1909, 7169–7264. 114 VerhRTAnl 12/I, vol. 271, no. 179: Denkschrift über die Entwickelung der

Schutzgebiete in Afrika und der Südsee im Jahre 1908/09, 398. 115 VerhRT 12/II, vol. 259, 31 January 1910, 927. 116 VerhRT 12/II, vol. 259, 31 January 1910, 946.

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years of German rule, this file grew to three large volumes, with almost all the collected material pertaining to Islam.117 Before, observations of Islam were infrequent and scattered throughout various files, but now Muslim “religious movements” were centrally monitored. The file betrays a considerable nervousness toward popular religiosity and its potency for “unrest,” driving Dar es Salaam into an increasingly reactive position. Initially the administration sought to calm zealous officers and restrict their harsh measures, but as time wore on it was local observations that determined government policy, in particular when Sufism and local anti-Sufi politics came into play. The first reported “incidents” that were not directly connected with “Mecca letters” already reveal a dynamic of local escalation. Predictably, it was Wendt in Lindi who submitted the first such report. In September 1908 he informed Dar es Salaam that he had arrested and retained Bakari bin Yusuf, an askari from Zanzibar who had visited Lindi to order the affairs of his recently deceased father. He had brought with him an image claiming to depict the Prophet’s shoe, which was hung in the local mosque. Wendt had it removed and took it upon himself to investigate, and from what he forwarded to Dar es Salaam, there was nothing more to the case other than his own suspicion that somehow this too was connected to the “Mecca letters.”118 Rechenberg replied that he saw no justification for arresting the man and taking down the image, adding that while the “movement in Lindi” required full attention, one must avoid creating the impression that the administration was deviating from its policy of “absolute tolerance in religious matters.”119 Bakari bin Yusuf was given a small compensation for incurred damages and returned to Zanzibar by a German steamer, where he was referred to the German consulate to help explain his delay to his superiors. Another case of colonial panic in West Usambara took a more tragic turn when in September of 1908 the district officer of Wilhelmstal reacted to reports by the former missionary Georg Cleve, now a planter in the Usambara mountains. Cleve had alerted him to a person administering “magical” potions in the area of Bumbuli, which he alleged had come

117 TNA G9/46–48. 118 District Office Lindi to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 5 September 1908,

TNA G9/46, 65. For context, seeTNA G9/46, 89–95. 119 Rechenberg to District Office Lindi, 17 September 1908 (draft), TNA G9/46, 66.

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alongside an intensified letter exchange between locals and Tanga.120 The district officer immediately sent armed police forces to the area, where they conducted sharpshooting exercises in every major town and confiscated a number of Kiswahili letters (in “Arabic script” as the report noted), all of which proved “harmless” after translation by Cleve.121 The “sorcerer” had already fled the area, but the police askari dragged with them the old Mkilindi chief Kipanga, who died en route under suspicious circumstances.122 Later investigations identified the offending “sorcerer” as an individual well-known by the name Majio, who sold protective medicines and ordeals.123 Though his trade had no political dimension, he was incarcerated for “fraud” for five months.124 Upon his release, he managed to obtain a permit from the district office in Wilhelmstal which legitimated his business and even set a price for his potions, though this caused further consternation once it became public.125 In the context of “Mecca letter” suspicions, Majio initially was sorted into fears of a Muslim rebellion. The manager of a large coffee plantation, who had also been alerted by Cleve, wrote to his directors in Berlin and contended that a “Mohammedan sorcerer from the coast” had come to collaborate with the “old sultan dynasty” to stir up the Wakilindi.126 This report seemed urgent enough for the directors to present it to the Colonial

120 Report Reinhard Köstlin to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 2 November 1908, TNA G9/46, 111–112. 121 Cleve to District Office Wilhelmstal, 27 October 1908, TNA G54/1, 51–52. 122 The report states that he suddenly died after the escape attempt. No exterior

wounds were found on his body, which led the corpsman in Wilhelmstal to conclude that he had taken poison. But the careless manner of the report and investigation leaves open other conclusions, including a cover-up. 123 His real name was Selimani, see Nötzel, District Officer Tanga to Colonial Government Dar es Salaam, 26 November 1908, TNA G9/46, 126–27. 124 Köstlin to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 22 February 1909, TNA G9/56,

193. 125 There is a large separate file of about 100 folios on “Sorcerer Majio”, TNA G1/ 54. For the permission slip and the controversy it caused, see TNA G1/54, 78–96; cf. Manuela Bauche, Medizin und Herrschaft: Malariabekämpfung in Kamerun, Ostafrika und Ostfriesland (1890–1919) (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 2017), 182–4. 126 Rohde to Dr Neubaur, 23 October 1908, TNA G9/46, 135–136.

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Office in Berlin, who in turn invited Rechenberg to comment.127 Rechenberg, who by now was better oriented about the matter and the use of similar potions and ordeals elsewhere, commented in his reply that the raised awareness toward “movements among the coloured population” had occasionally led to helpful observations but often tended to attribute a false importance to “completely normal and totally innocent matters.”128 Where a more sustained movement was suspected, however, Dar es Salaam tended to follow the alarmist voices. With the response about Majio, Rechenberg also forwarded to Berlin a report by the Tabora district officer Karl Herrmann, who spoke of a “seemingly planned and centrally led” effort to spread Islam across the colony.129 Herrmann, who had served the colony in mostly military capacities since the 1890s, contended that this was orchestrated via a systematic network of trading stations, occupied by the “lowest rabble.” They turned former “Mohammedans by name only” into committed followers of the Prophet who would sacrifice their “last penny for mosques and mwalims.” Even women joined in, Herrmann exclaimed, and “against Muhammadan custom” gathered for prayer with their children, chanted the šah¯ ada while working, and proselytised other women. Herrmann did not quite understand the origins or character of this movement, but from the context it is clear that this concerned a Sufi ˇ revival around šayh Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı. Z¯ahur was born to ˘ 130 His father hailed from a Swahili woman in Bagamoyo around 1870. Barawa, home of šayh Uways al-Bar¯aw¯ı, who was instrumental to the ˘ on the East African coast.131 Z¯ahur’s uncle was spread of the Q¯adir¯ıya ˇ the mwalimu Ab¯u Bakr bin T.aha al-Gabr¯ ı al-Bar¯aw¯ı, a Q¯adir¯ı šayh in ˘ Bagamoyo who had authorised one of the copies of the “Mecca letter” there. Z¯ahur joined the Q¯adir¯ıya by becoming a hal¯ıfa of Uways, along ˘ˇ with his brother šayh S¯ufi bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı, who spread the ˘ 127 Dernburg to Rechenberg, 18 November 1908, TNA G9/46, 130. 128 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 16 December 1908, BArch R1001/701, 134–36. 129 Karl Herrmann, Bericht betr. Zunahme des Islam im Innern, 5 December 1908,

TNA G9/46, 137–42, cf. BArch R1001/701, 137–39. 130 See Z¯ ahur interrogation minutes, Dar es Salaam, 7 December 1908, TNA G9/46,

144. 131 On Uways, see Martin, “Muslim Politics”, 471–3.

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Q¯adir¯ıya in Ujiji.132 He settled in Tabora in 1894, building up a sizeable following.133 Around the time of the “Mecca letter affair” the Ib¯ad.¯ı establishment began to brief Herrmann against Z¯ahur in what looks like a coordinated campaign.134 Representatives at first came individually and then as a delegation, claiming that Z¯ahur and his followers had been distributing end-time letters during the Maji Maji War and had begun to do so again recently with increasing frequency.135 In the end, they demanded Z¯ahur’s expulsion on account of his miracle claims, in particular with regard to rainmaking. Though there was no direct evidence of seditious behaviour nor even a copy of the “Mecca letter,” Herrmann complied with this request. When Z¯ahur’s followers offered to pay 5,000 rupees for reverting the expulsion order and even the askari collected money on Z¯ahur’s behalf, Herrmann felt justified in his suspicion of political agitation. He telegraphed to Dar es Salaam that Z¯ahur had been a “badly reputed agitator” during the Maji Maji War and “seems to have been involved in the Mecca letter affair.”136 On his way to Dar es Salaam, Z¯ahur stopped in Kilimatinde where he also gathered followers and was once again accused of agitating against the Germans.137 When reaching Dar es Salaam, he was interrogated and denied the accusations brought against him. Nonetheless, he was put before the choice of either leaving GEA or having his abode confined to the island of Mafia.138 He chose exile, and the government took the

132 See Martin, 479n39; Nimtz, Islam and Politics, 58. It is unclear when the brothers received their iˇg¯ azah. Since Z¯ahur claimed in interrogations that he never left GEA, this might have happened during one of Uways’ visits in the area, see interrogation minutes ˇ Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı, 7 December 1908, TNA G9/46, 144–45. Such conferrals of the iˇg¯ azah by visitors were known in the East African Q¯adir¯ıya, Nimtz, 118. 133 Nimtz, 58. 134 On this, see also Pesek, “Kreuz oder Halbmond”, 108. 135 Karl Herrmann, Bericht betr. Zunahme des Islam im Innern, 5 December 1908,

BArch R1001/701, 138. 136 Herrmann to Imperial Gouvernement Dar es Salaam, 23 September 1908 (telegram), TNA G9/46, 76–77. 137 Von Einsiedel to Imperial Government, 30 October 1908, TNA G9/46, 118–19; von Einsiedel to Imperial Government, 17 November 1908 (telegram), TNA G9/46, 117. 138 Interrogation minutes, Dar es Salaam, 7 December 1908, TNA G9/46, 144.

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quite unusual step of distributing Z¯ahur’s photograph for display at all district offices, together with an announcement of his exile in German, Kiswahili, and Arabic (Fig. 8.3).139 In his report Rechenberg claimed that this was akin to a “severe public humiliation” and would illustrate the limits of the government’s tolerance when “religion is used as a cover for political machinations.”140 Yet the absence of any evidence and the comparatively mild form of punishment showed that Dar es Salaam had no clear case to make.141 Even the DOAZ fumed that due to the “craftiness and cunning of the devious Arab,” it was impossible to prove Z¯ahur’s “criminal act,” but praised the expulsion as a sign of the government finally standing up to the “daily growing Islamic danger.”142 Z¯ahur’s expulsion did little to curb the growth of the Q¯adir¯ıya,143 but it inaugurated a policy of suspicion toward Sufism, which was proliferating in GEA at the time. Once again, Wendt delivered the arguments. In January of 1909, he submitted a rambling report “Concerning the Mecca letter and Maji Maji Rebellion,” which still sought to prove the elusive link between the two events.144 He proposed that underneath these sedition attempts was a “neo-Islamic movement” that had already flared up at the time of the German conquest and had been rising again since the beginning of the new century. It originated in Barawa, was

139 TNA G9/56, 146–57. 140 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 16 December 1908, BArch R1001/701, 134–6,

here 134. 141 Just five months later, the district office in Dar es Salaam sentenced an Arab immi-

grant to lifelong chain imprisonment for agitating among askari against working for Europeans, see verdict of 14 May 1909, TNA G9/46, 206–8. He was subsequently deported to German South West Africa to serve his sentence in a labour camp. He was killed by a guard there in 1913, see TNA G9/48, 40–41. 142 “Aus unserer Kolonie: Ein Lichtblick in der Eingeborenen-Politik des Gouvernements”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 9 (3 February 1909): 2. 143 Z¯ ahur managed to install a successor in Tabora, who formally established the .tar¯ıqah there. In 1922 he returned to the coast and unsuccessfully challenged the authority of šayh Ramiya in Bagamoyo. He then retreated to Pemba, where he died in 1944. See ˘ Nimtz, Islam and Politics, 58, 137. 144 Karl Wendt, Teil II des Reiseberichtes vom 12.1.09. Betrifft Mekkabrief und Majimaji-Aufstand, 12 January 1909, TNA G9/46, 161–63.

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ˇ Fig. 8.3 Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı as depicted on his public expulsion order of 1908. Eviction rather than direct punishment was highly unusual for German rule145

145 TNAG9/46, author’s own photograph.

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spread by a “Sheikh Isa” from Zanzibar (¯Isa bin Ah.mad al-Njaziji alBar¯awi), and was recognisable by its practice of “Likili” (dikr).146 This movement was spread by poorly educated walimu and it ¯ had only been unsuccessful because of a fundamental split in the Islamic community between “true Muslims, who follow the letter of the Koran” and “boys, drunkards, the ignorent or Washenzi,” with both sides merely differing on the best strategy of how to beat the Europeans. Rechenberg ignored most of Wendt’s Maji Maji conjectures but latched onto two of his fundamental propositions: the role of dikr ¯ In in spreading unrest and the bifurcation of the Islamic community. February 1909 he issued a confidential decree to all administrative offices, which for the first time regulated Islamic piety in the colony.147 The decree began with a longer piece of analysis emphasising the docility of most “Muhammadan natives” in contrast to a North African “fanaticalpanislamic movement” that tried to make inroads to East Africa via Barawa. Rechenberg’s proof for this hypothesis were the “expelled Barawa ˇ Arab” Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı and šayh ¯Isa bin Ah.mad, both of whom, he claimed, had reintroduced dikr to˘ East Africa. The repeti¯ unknown or largely forgotten tive formulas and movements of this locally practice could cause a “state of excitement” that would move the “masses toward reckless acts.” Given the “strong influence of tact and rhythm on the psyche of the Bantu Negro, especially on very hysterical women,” Rechenberg speculated, “it is impossible to exclude that the reintroduction of Zikri is one of the cunning tools of the agitators.” He went on to echo Wendt’s ideas about the involvement of the walimu and likewise diagnosed an aim to “unite the populous tribes of the interior under Islamic leadership in a fight against European culture.” As a consequence of his analysis, Rechenberg began to devise a divideand-rule policy toward Islam, which was to “drive a wedge between the truly faithful and the apparently faithful [scheingläubige] agitators.” In order to prevent the “better circles of Islam” from tolerating the movement, he instructed his subordinates to “treat their religious feelings 146 On ¯Isa bin Ahmad al-Njaziji al-Bar¯ awi, see Martin, “Muslim Politics”, 477, 485. . Wendt’s idiosyncratic spelling of “Likili” is corrected to “Zikri” by a second hand. It was likely a corruption of “dhikili”, an alternative pronunciation of the Kiswahili term dhikiri, see Iliffe, Tanganyika, 196. 147 Albrecht Rechenberg, Runderlass an alle Dienststellen, 15 February 1909, TNA G9/46, 164–180; cf. BArch R1001/701, 150–54.

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with utmost care and also lift their class consciousness.” This included acquiring basic knowledge about Islam and drawing on carefully selected Muslim advisers. In the end, he gave three concrete orders: Firstly, dikr ¯ was protected in homes and mosques, but banned from public places. Secondly, all walimu now required a permit from the local administration. This included anyone who performed liturgical practices, taught Islamic religion or Arab literacy, or created and distributed amulets for healing. And finally, corporeal punishment was now excluded for “honourable Waswahili” as well,148 while chained imprisonment would only be allowable for crimes attesting a “base and dishonourable disposition.” If Rechenberg’s decree was intended to calm the waters and rein in the administration’s zealots, it had the opposite effect of encouraging government involvement in religious matters. In October of the same year, Wendt moved against a mwalimu from Zanzibar by the name of Hemedi bin Makame, whom he also accused of manipulating the local coconut trade.149 Apparently, Hemedi had invited Lindi’s elites to a privately hosted ceremony consisting of a simultaneous reading of a mawlid, a curse (halbadiri), and an unclear third ritual text.150 The liwali of Lindi complained to Wendt about these “agitating innovations,” and Wendt took this as cause to sentence Hemedi to three months chained imprisonment for “religious sedition” (religiöse Umtriebe). After his release, Hemedi organised another celebration which once again drew the ire of the liwali for an unspecified “religious innovation” and resulted in a public brawl. Wendt increased his punishment for Hemedi and decreed six months of chained imprisonment and expulsion for “repeated religious sedition” (religiöse Umtriebe im Rückfalle). Wendt now appealed to Dar es Salaam to go all the way and ban dikr altogether. ¯ time, but was asked to opine on Rechenberg was on furlough at the the matter when Dar es Salaam reported to Berlin.151 In his absence, the GEA administration also sought to find out how dikr was regulated by the ¯

148 It had already been outlawed for Indians and Arabs. 149 Wendt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 16 February 1910, BArch R1001/

702, 32–38, here 33–34. Hemedi had acquired a coconut plantation in Lindi which apparently gave him a monopoly. 150 “Twaibu liasimai” in Wendt’s idiosyncratic orthography. 151 Imperial Government Dar es Salaam to Colonial Office, 19 February 1910, BArch

R1001/702, 31.

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French and the British in the Comoros and on Zanzibar.152 Rechenberg was clear in his response that Wendt had failed to establish his case and tended to overreach out of ignorance.153 He noted that “zikri dancing” was found in many countries without causing disturbances and outlawing it would be a mistake. In evident forgetfulness of his own decree, Rechenberg even noted that one should merely consider requiring a government permit for its public exercise. What emerges in a comparison between Wendt’s letter and Rechenberg’s response is a conflict within the colonial administration about the character of Islam and the consequences of its spread in the colony. Wendt argued that before German rule traditional sultanates had formed a “bulwark” against Islam, but in their absence, Islam was proliferating easily and in the form of a new movement, which could easily turn into a political platform: The aggressive Islam exploits every issue it finds among a population more or less dissatisfied with administrative measures and as such finds the possibility for uniting for battle the erstwhile mutually hostile ethnic tribes under its command against the highest and most proximate force, the Christian government.154

Rechenberg, in turn, saw the spread of Islam mainly as a result of Christian missionary failures, who did not equip and send African evangelists and thus left the country to Muslim walimu without competition. The result would undoubtedly be a predominantly Muslim colony, but Germans should be able to govern a Muslim protectorate when the British, French, Dutch, or Russians managed colonies with a much more “fanatical Mohammedan population.”155 On the flip side, Christianity offered no guarantee of a peaceful population as the rebellion in German South West Africa had shown. Therefore, the key to avoiding religious 152 Draft letters to German consulates in Tamatave, Madagascar and Zanzibar, 15 February 1910, TNA G9/46, 313. The replies produced no relevant regulations, see TNA G9/46, 328; TNA G9/47, 12–13, 38. The administration now also sent a request to the German consulate in Mozambique about ¯Isa bin Ah.mad, picking up a claim from Wendt that he had moved there. 153 Rechenberg, untitled memorandum, 24 March 1910, BArch R1001/702, 39–411. 154 Wendt to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 16 February 1910, BArch R1001/

702, 32–38, here 36. 155 Rechenberg, untitled memorandum, 24 March 1910, BArch R1001/703, 41.

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mobilisation against the government was a well-informed surveillance of religious communities paired with decisive interventions when religious movements directed themselves against the government. Most importantly, in matters of faith, one must be wary not to create martyrs through all too eager reactions. Wendt’s and Rechenberg’s positions, in essence, mirrored and rehashed the previous debate on “Islamic danger” in the colonial press and the Colonial Congresses, but now the conflict ran through the administration itself, which no longer presented a united front toward missionary warnings against Islam. Furthermore, the administration’s alarmism in response to the “Mecca letter” enabled a new politics by local Muslims: Anti-Sufi forces could now enlist the government’s help as long as their religious rivals could be presented as “religiously seditious.” Both factors prevented a post-“Mecca letter” return of the former master narrative of an essentially “docile” East African Islam, and the administration was forced to articulate and implement a policy toward Islam based on a differentiation between “good” and “dangerous” Muslims.

CHAPTER 9

Mainstreaming “Islamic Danger”: Scholars, Missionaries, and Colonial Surveillance

The “Mecca letter” pivot in the assessment of Islam was sustained until the end of German rule and the spectre of “Islamic danger” continued to haunt colonial politics in GEA. One might be tempted to attribute this change to broader geopolitical developments around the decline of the Ottoman Empire. Ever since Emperor Wilhelm’s journey to the Holy Land, Germany had sought to profile itself as an ally of the sultan in Istanbul and “friend” of all “300 million Mohammedans that are dispersed all over all the earth and honour him as their caliph.”1 Toward the end of German colonial rule, however, this strategy was challenged by two major conflicts involving the Ottoman Empire. The first one was the Italian invasion of Libya in 1911 and the defeat of the Ottomans in the subsequent Turco-Italian War. As an ally of both powers, Germany had engaged in pre-war diplomacy between Rome and Istanbul, but remained neutral during the war. The second major conflict was the Balkan Wars of 1 See Maibritt Gustrau, Orientalen oder Christen? Orientalisches Christentum in Reiseberichten deutscher Theologen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2016), 62–92, quote 90; cf. Jan Stefan Richter, Die Orientreise Kaiser Wilhelms II. 1898: Eine Studie zur deutschen Außenpolitik an der Wende zum 20. Jahrhundert, Studien zur Geschichtsforschung der Neuzeit 9 (Hamburg: Verlag Dr. Kovaˇc, 1997), 86–92; Thomas Hartmut Benner, Die Strahlen der Krone: Die Religiöse Dimension des Kaisertums unter Wilhelm II vor dem Hintergrund der Orientreise 1898 (Marburg: Tectum, 2001), 313–326.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_9

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1912 and 1913, which inflicted heavy territorial losses on the Ottoman Empire in the Balkans and the Aegean Sea. Once again, Germany decided to stay neutral, frustrating the Austria-Hungarian aspirations to weaken the Serbs and retain the status quo on the Balkans. Both events did prompt musings about a possible “Pan-Islamic” backlash against Germany, or at least a weakening of the perception of the Empire’s “friendship” to all Muslims. Yet these were no decisive factors in the development of German Islam policy. The continued political wariness was instead driven by an unspoken alliance between missionary alarmism and the emergent Islamic Studies. Rebekka Habermas was right to point to the considerable overlap between both against studies emphasising their difference,2 and the dynamics and micropolitics driving perceptions of Islam in GEA provide important material to substantiate her claim. Scholars of Islam were keen to inject their expertise into the public debate, and even where they did not agree with the alarmism of missionary advocacy and press reports, they sought to reap the benefits of the rising uncertainty about Islam for positioning their subject. This scholarly interest and missionary mobilisation converged in GEA in the production of multiple surveys and policy recommendations, which despite considerable resistance from within the administration led to a continued suspicion against Muslims and repeated discussions of special measures against the spread of Islam.

9.1 German Scholars and the Geopolitics of Islam When Rechenberg submitted his first report on the “Mecca letters” in August 1908, he made a rather surprising suggestion: The favourable position of the government would be strengthened considerably if we succeeded in bringing about an official declaration of the supreme religious authority that German East Africa is dar al Islam, that is a country, in which the faithful are not obliged to holy war. A fetwa to that effect has been issued by the chiefs of the four Sunnite sects in Mecca for British India in 1871, for example (W.W. Hunter, The Indian Musalmans, London 1872 Trübner and Cloy), and, since the local Mohammedans are

2 Rebekka Habermas, “Debates on Islam in Imperial Germany”, in Islam and the European Empires, ed. David Motadel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 231–253.

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mostly Shafeites, who recognise the Caliph in Constantinople, it could perhaps be obtained through the embassy there influencing the sultan.3

If this idea did indeed arise from The Indian Musalmans, it was a serious misreading of Hunter’s text. Hunter did not present a single authoritative declaration on this matter, but discussed a variety of legal opinions ( fat¯ awin) issued in Mecca and India and in the end advised against exploiting such declarations for British rule in South Asia.4 Rechenberg’s conflation of the Š¯afi¯ı madhab with the recognition of the ¯ Sunni caliphate in Istanbul is also noteworthy as a misguided attempt to identify a geopolitical centre of Islam that could act as a counterweight to local “stirrings.” The Colonial Office was sceptical toward Rechenberg’s plan,5 but nonetheless asked the German ambassador in Istanbul to explore the matter. The answer was ambivalent.6 On the one hand, the ambassador channelled the scepticism of an “exceptionally qualified” informant, who had pointed out that such a fatw¯ a would not solve issues of perception and would be worded in a highly ambivalent manner anyway.7 On the am had other hand, the ambassador reported that the Ottoman Šayh al-Isl¯ ˘ expressed considerable interest in a “strictly confidential” meeting with a staff member from the embassy. After consulting with his advisers, the Šayh al-Isl¯ am (presumably Mehmet Cemâlüddin Efendi) had concluded that˘ a country under Christian rule could be considered as dar al-isl¯ am as long as the exercise of Islam was not inhibited and the hut.bah included ˘ the German a recognition of the Ottoman caliph. He thus encouraged

3 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 12 August 1908, BArch R 1001/701, 64–71, here

68f. 4 William Wilson Hunter, The Indian Musalmans: Are They Bound in Conscience to Rebel Against the Queen? (London: Trübner & Co., 1871), 119–130, 213–214. 5 An internal memo notes that this plan would subject German East Africa to external and tendentially “fanatical” influences and that Istanbul would likely demand the protection of Islam, which would be problematic due to its “propaganda and fanaticism”. See BArch R1001/701, 75. 6 Marschall von Bieberstein to Chancellor Bülow, 10 December 1908, BArch R1001/ 701, 124–129. 7 The ambivalence of such fat¯ awin and the diverse popular interpretations they could trigger was also one of Hunter’s primary objections.

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embassy to make the respective request with the Porte, and signalled his support.8 The Colonial Office forwarded the ambassador’s reply to Rechenberg for comment, but the governor held off on a reply and sought additional advice.9 He wrote to the Kolonialinstitut (Colonial Institute) in Hamburg, requesting their assistance in acquiring books about Islam for use in the GEA district offices.10 In doing so, Rechenberg not only enclosed a list of already available books and budget instructions but also his two decrees on the “Mecca letter” for context. The Kolonialinstitut had only just been founded in April 1908, and one of its core obligations was the establishment of a Zentralstelle (Central Office) to coordinate the exchange between colonial science and colonial practice.11 This was led by Franz Stuhlmann, who had worked in GEA in various capacities since 1888 and now was the recipient of Rechenberg’s request. Stuhlmann assigned the task to the recently appointed Carl Heinrich Becker, whose chair in Islamic Studies was only the third to be established at the Kolonialinstitut (following chairs geography and law) and had explicitly been justified in reference to the spread of Islam in GEA.12 Thanks to Becker’s influential supporters, the post had been tailored for him,13 and he leapt at the chance to establish an “Orientalist position, based upon the unit of culture rather than that of language,” setting

8 The Šayh al-Isl¯ am also asked for the text of the Mecca declaration for British-India and ˘ claimed to know nothing about it, much to the surprise of the ambassador. Given that the opinions on India were issued in Mecca and Northern India, this is understandable, and the surprise of the ambassador only serves to illustrate the misguided German expectation of a homogenous or centralised polity within Sunni Islam. 9 Dernburg to Rechenberg, 22 January 1909, BArch R1001/701, 132–133; Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 14 July 1909, TNA G9/46, 235–236. 10 Rechenberg to Stuhlmann, 15 February 1908, TNA G9/46, 172–175. 11 Jens Ruppenthal, “Das Hamburgische Kolonialinstitut als verdeckter Erinnerung-

sort”, in Kolonialismus hierzulande: Eine Spurensuche in Deutschland, ed. Ulrich van der Heyden and Joachim Zeller (Erfurt: Sutton Verlag, 2007), 161–165; cf. Werner von Melle, Dreißig Jahre Hamburger Wissenschaft 1891–1921: Band 1 (Hamburg: Kommissionsverlag von Broschek & Co., 1923), 471. 12 See Melle, 478–479; see also Haridi, Paradigma, 79–81. For a short intellectual biography of Becker, see Suzanne Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 361– 367. 13 See Melle, Dreißig Jahre, 480–481.

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out the “scientific description of Islam in German East Africa” as his first goal.14 Given Becker’s ambitions and the profile of his chair, he seized upon the “Mecca letter” right away. In addition to making the requested book recommendations he wrote a second letter offering a detailed analysis of the letter and concomitant political issues.15 Though Becker noted the parallels with the much earlier Indonesian letter that Hurgronje had written about,16 he was in no doubt about the political intention of the specimens found in East Africa, speculating that the original had been drafted in Mecca and forwarded to the Somali coast and its “fanatic” population, from where it spread secondarily to East Africa. The seditious nature of the letter lay in its end-time appeal, for “every eschatological sermon that predicts the end of the world, is always and everywhere, […] directly or indirectly aimed against European rule.”17 At the same time, Becker’s lack of contextual knowledge prevented him from giving concrete advice. He asked what Sufi .turuq most Muslims belonged to while at the same time contending that “dervish orders” in general harboured no “anti-European tendency” and would be “completely innocuous” among a “harmless and non-fanatical population like in German East Africa.”18 Becker also inquired about the frequency of the h.aˇggˇ and what in what forms allegiance to the sultan of Constantinople was professed. In this context, he advised against obtaining a fatw¯ a declaring GEA d¯ ar al-isl¯ am because this act of deference would amount to a recognition of the illegitimacy of European rule over Muslim subjects. Finally, he offered some general advice on Muslim advisers (no Indian Š¯ıites, but Ib¯ad.¯ıs are suitable) and legal sources (never the Qur¯an directly, but only customary commentaries). Becker’s general assessments did not convince policy makers in Dar es Salaam. Some annotations to the letter register agreement, but quite a few others contradict Becker or point out that his observations were already well known in GEA. One

14 Becker to Rathgen, June 1908, as quoted by Melle, 481. 15 Becker to Stuhlmann, 24 March 1909, TNA G9/46, 225–228. Stuhlmann forwarded

Becker’s letters to Dar es Salaam on 30 March 1909 and to Berlin on 6 April, for the latter see BArch R1001/701, 158–165. 16 See above, pp. 284–285. 17 Becker to Stuhlmann, 24 March 1909, p. 2. 18 Ibid., p. 5.

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set of annotations counters him on the negligible prospect of a d¯ ar alisl¯ am fatw¯ a , which indicates that the idea still had strong defenders in Rechenberg’s administration. In Germany, Becker was more successful in inserting his expertise into the public debate. Less than two months after sending his response to the administration he published a lengthy article in the Koloniale Rundschau, a newly established mouthpiece for the more liberal wing of colonial politics.19 The article was titled “Is Islam a Danger for our Colonies?” and basically argued that despite internal Muslim plurality, there was political potency in the unifying ideals of Islam, as utopian as they may be. This necessitated properly informed colonial policies that play upon the ethnic, dogmatic, and cultural differences in the Muslim world in order to prevent pan-Islamic movements from gaining a foothold. Becker also launched a thinly veiled attack on the idea of a dar al-isl¯ am fatw¯ a , by insisting that it was misguided to treat the Ottoman caliphate as a mere religious authority like the papacy. Instead, the caliphate was a claim to political sovereignty that attracted the “hopes of Muslims groaning under the dominion of the infidels” and that was now being mobilised by Abdul Hamid II to secure his rule against foreign threats and the Young Ottoman demand of a constitutional revolution.20 For this reason, it was “nonsense” that some European colonies allowed the tribute to the Ottoman caliph in the Friday services. This only served to “remind the faithful every Friday ex cathedra that the European Rule was illegitimate.”21 Becker sent a specimen copy to Dar es Salaam, which bears some annotations and underlinings,22 but more importantly, his article was immediately serialised in the DOAZ .23 Given that Becker’s analysis had 19 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ist der Islam eine Gefahr für unsere Kolonien?”, Koloniale Rundschau 1, no. 5 (1909): 266–293. On the Koloniale Rundschau, see Gann and Duignan, Rulers, 34–35; Peter Kallaway, “Diedrich Westermann and the Ambiguities of Colonial Science in the Inter-War Era”, The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 45, no. 6 (2017): 874. 20 Becker, “Gefahr für unsere Kolonien”, 275. 21 Becker, 275. 22 See TNA G9/46, 270. 23 See Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ist der Islam eine Gefahr für unsere Kolonien”,

Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, nos. 49–52 (23 June–3 July 1909); Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ist die islamische Religion eine Gefahr für die Christianisierung Afrikas”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, nos. 53–54 (7–10 July 1909).

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thus appeared in liberal and conservative outlets alike, Rechenberg would have been foolish to pursue the dar al-isl¯ am fatw¯ a any further. Just four days after the last segment of Becker’s analysis was printed in the DOAZ , he finally replied to Berlin on the matter and advised to let it rest.24 One of his main arguments against the proposal of the Šayh al-Isl¯ am was ˘ the demand to mention of the sultan in the hut.bah. Quoting Becker’s ˘ article on this matter, he deemed that even a general prayer for political authorities would be inappropriate for GEA, because its implementation required the recognition or appointment of a local religious representative, which is something colonial authorities were not even doing for the “representatives of the Christian confessions.” In the interim, Berlin had sought additional scholarly advice. Noting that Rechenberg was holding back an answer to the dar al-isl¯ am question, Dernburg enlisted the advice of Max von Oppenheim by forwarding him Becker’s analysis and Rechenberg’s reports.25 Oppenheim was an obvious choice for a second expert opinion. Having been rejected from the German diplomatic service on account of his Jewish heritage, Oppenheim had journeyed through North Africa and the Middle East, and had visited India and GEA. He settled in Cairo in 1896 where he was kept on an annually renewed assignment as attaché of the German embassy until 1909, when he returned to Germany to prepare his excavation of Tell Halaf in Syria.26 During his time in Cairo, Oppenheim had immersed himself in Egyptian society, politics, and journalism, befriending not only Ottoman authorities, but also Egyptian nationalists, anti-colonial publicists, and Muslim reformers.27 Without a diplomatic post at the consulate and answerable directly to the Foreign Office he continued to travel 24 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 14 July 1909, TNA G9/46, 235–236, cf. BArch

R1001/701, 205–206. 25 Instructions, 20 April 1909, BArch R1001/701, 166–169. 26 Gossman, Passion of Oppenheim, 123; cf. Oberhaus, “Zum wilden Aufstande”, 55–

72; Wilhelm Treue, “Max Freiherr von Oppenheim—Der Archäologe und die Politik”, Historische Zeitschrift 209, no. 1 (1969): 45–48. Though Dernburg wrote to him in Cairo, Oppenheim briefed the Foreign Office in person in June 1909 and followed up with a written report, see note from 1 July 1909, BArch R1001/701, 186; Oppenheim to Bülow, 12 July 1909, BArch R1001/701, 189–193. 27 Marc Hanisch, “Max Freiherr von Oppenheim und die Revolutionierung der islamischen Welt als anti-imperiale Befreiung von oben”, in Erster Weltkrieg und Dschihad, ed. Wilfried Loth and Marc Hanisch (München: Oldenbourg Verlag, 2014), 25; Gossman, Passion of Oppenheim, 38–39.

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widely, mostly in the Middle East but also the USA.28 He wrote close to five hundred reports to the Foreign Office containing analyses and information that could not be obtained in diplomatic circles, though his overall influence on German policy was probably much smaller than is often presumed.29 One regular interest of his reports was “Pan-Islamism,” the growing sense of a potentially anti-colonial political unity of Muslims. Oppenheim may well have picked such sentiments from his Ottoman contacts, Muslim reformers, and Egyptian nationalists, but at the same time, “Pan-Islamism” was a co-production with European discourse, where the term featured as a colonial and global spectre of anti-Imperial resistance.30 Accordingly, Oppenheim also believed that Pan-Islamic tendencies possessed a utility for colonial intrigue and suspected that other powers were already wielding this weapon against the German Empire. In his analysis of the “Mecca letter,” he went to great lengths to make plausible a French origin behind the missive and its spread. Latching onto a suspicion by Rechenberg that the letter had not been drafted by a native speaker of Arabic, he conjectured that it might as well have been written by a Frenchman, who drew on the considerable French insights about Sufism and sought to contain Germany in the aftermath of the First Moroccan Crisis.31 Furthermore, Oppenheim argued, the notion of a general Islamic danger arose mainly from French and English fears, who had realised how exposed they were in the case of a European war “as long as Mecca was in Turkish possession and the caliphate was held by the militarily strong Turkish sultanate.”32

28 Oberhaus, “Zum wilden Aufstande”, 69. 29 Some earlier works tended to attribute the German embrace of the Porte to Oppen-

heim’s influence, see e.g. Landau, Politics, 96–99; Donald M. McCale, “‘The Kaiser’s Spy’: Max von Oppenheim and the Anglo-German Rivalry Before and During the First World War”, European History Quarterly 27, no. 2 (1997): 199–219; but also Gossman, Passion of Oppenheim, 40–43; and to some extent Treue, “Max von Oppenheim”, 52–53. This view has recently been countered, see Oberhaus, “Zum wilden Aufstande”, 65–70; Hanisch, “Max Freiherr von Oppenheim”. 30 Hanisch, 26–31; Gossman, Passion of Oppenheim, 49; Oberhaus, “Zum wilden Aufstande”, 111–112. 31 Oppenheim to Bülow, 12 July 1909, BArch R1001/701, 189–193, here 190. 32 Hanisch, 192.

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Accordingly, Oppenheim recommended to maintain good relations with Muslims in GEA, combined with “far-sighted and smart surveillance” of potential instigators.33 If the name of the sultan was mentioned in the hut.bah, this should not be changed. He agreed with Becker, that ˘ the dar al-isl¯ pursuing am fatw¯ a would not be opportune but gave a different reason: it would be largely ineffective but instigate France and England to further agitations against Germany. For the same reason, it was better to downplay the importance of incidents like the “Mecca letter” and ensure they are not mentioned in the press. This point was linked to a direct criticism of Becker in the letter accompanying his expertise. Here, Oppenheim characterised Becker’s publications as a “well-intentioned” attempt by a “relatively young man” who needed to be told to keep official business strictly confidential.34 Moreover, he was exasperated that Becker had attacked the caliphate of the Ottoman sultan and had even recommended to follow France in altering the mentioning of the sovereign in the hut.bah. This was playing into the hands of the ˘ Entente: Times, Temps, and Matin would rejoice if they should hear about this [published analysis by Becker], and the independent observation of the European press by the Turks should not be forgotten as well.35

With both scholars advising against the dar al-isl¯ am fatw¯ a , Dernburg asked the Foreign Office not to pursue the matter further and informed Rechenberg of his decision before receiving his letter advising the same.36 He also instructed Heinrich Schnee, then councillor at the Colonial Office, to speak with Becker during his next visit in Hamburg and instruct him to not publish on such matters without ministerial consent.

33 Hanisch. 34 Foreign Office, excerpt of a private letter by Oppenheim, 12 July 1909, BArch

R1001/701, 199–200. 35 Hanisch, 200. 36 Letter drafts, 31 July 1909 BArch R1001/701, 201–203.

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9.2 Becker’s Islamwissenschaft and the Colonial Congress of 1910 While Becker and Oppenheim more or less agreed in their analysis of the “Mecca letter,” they came to very different conclusions with regard to the resulting political strategy. Oppenheim saw political capital in Pan-Islamism, which could be utilised in competition with other colonial powers. This, in essence, already foreshadowed his often-discussed strategy paper from October 1914, which in the context of the First World War recommended a full embrace of the Ottoman alliance and the use of Islamic propaganda for bringing about revolutions “in the territories of our enemies.”37 Becker, on the other hand, had argued as early as 1904 that Pan-Islamism was a religious utopia, the political side of which would always be “purely opportunistic” and volatile due to political differences within Islam.38 Hence, colonial and geopolitical approaches toward Islam could not afford to take a monolithic approach but needed to be well-informed and localised. The “Mecca letter” gave Becker a chance to work out this paradigm in an applied analysis and to insert his scholarship right into the longstanding ideological rift between missionaries and their opponents about the place of Islam in German “civilising.” Becker’s carefully calibrated position, which held that Islam was not a political danger per se but offered ideological elements for political mobilisation that needed to be kept in check, could be embraced by both sides of this debate. At the same time, his proposition of a locally rooted and well-informed administration of Islam established the expediency of scholarship like his own for colonial policy. Becker’s framing of “Islamic danger” did not mean to succumb to the missionary spectres of a general Christian–Muslim antagonism. Nonetheless, when discussing the political potency of Muslim end-time ideals, Becker’s analysis offered phrases and analyses that would have chimed with those advocating a much more “careful” and restrictive regulation of Islam:

37 For the published text of the strategy paper, see Epkenhans, “Geld”. For more on the Ottoman alliance, see Sect. 9.5, p. 339. 38 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Panislamismus”, in Islamstudien: Vom Werden und Wesen der Islamischen Welt, vol. 2, by Carl Heinrich Becker (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1932), 242.

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Whoever wants to be a true Muslim has to risk life and property for the cause of Islam when the last hour nears; in holy war he must establish the dominion of Islam over the whole world. It is clear that these lines of thought will disturb even peaceful believers and will agitate fanatical ones into a bloody rebellion.39

Becker therefore recommended a divide et impera strategy for the governance of Islam, because while the “unity of the religious ideals of Islam” was its strength, its weakness was “the multitude of the races of its adherents.”40 This could be exploited in colonial politics: Just as one must know the Islamic ideals to be prepared for all eventualities, so the knowledge of the local circumstances is important for practical Islam politics. One should profit from the peacefulness of certain peoples, and treat with care the sensibilities of the fanatical ones. One should maintain the opposites, the jealousies, and first of all bring the most influential teachers and rulers into voluntary dependence. It would be best to salary these people, then one could be safe from rebellions.41

This strategy positioned scholarship and the education of colonial administrators as foundational for a successful policy toward Islam, with the Kolonialinstitut in Hamburg serving as a model for research and teaching Islam. Becker concluded: Only competently informed policies toward Islam [sachkundige Islampolitik] averts the dangers of Islam for state and civilisation; its dangers for [Christian] missions cannot be averted by any policy; this lies in the nature of things.42

These comments on missions, by contrast, would have enhanced Becker’s appeal among those opposed to Christian “civilising” and attempts to fight “Islamic danger” through Christianisation. Moreover, Becker agreed with all those who saw Islam as the more suitable religion for the African colony. He contended that the Christian message of the cross was “too difficult for primitive man” in contrast to the straightforward 39 Becker, “Gefahr für unsere Kolonien”, 277. 40 Becker, 278. 41 Becker, 284. 42 Becker, 293.

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monotheism, ethics, and social hierarchies of Islam.43 Unlike Christian missions, Islam left local culture largely intact, while still managing to integrate converts in a way that was impossible for missionaries because “Christian fraternity clashes with the place of the master and the antagonism of races.”44 Becker also dismissed the idea that Christianity was a necessary tool for cultural “elevation” because “people and races” were the deciding factor for progress, not religion. Perhaps missionaries were right in their assumption that a “truly interior reception of the European spirit is possible for the Negro only via religion,”45 but Islam was just as suitable for this task as Christianity. And if “Africa by all appearances was lost to Islam anyhow,” then the “Europeanisation of Islam” was the only way to Africa’s development in “long centuries” to come.46 These and similar statements by Becker have occasionally been cited to diagnose a general contrast between Becker and Christian missions,47 but this overlooks the degree to which Becker’s interests still dovetailed with that of missionaries when it came to warnings against Islam.48 Becker’s paper at the Third Colonial Congress in 1910 is a prime example for studying this alignment.49 Here, he spoke in the panel “Religious and cultural affairs of the colonies” as the only non-missionary presenter, and his paper was flanked by a Protestant and a Catholic contribution on the dangers of the spread of Islam in Africa.50 43 Becker, 288. 44 Becker, 290. 45 Becker, 291–292. 46 Becker, 292. 47 See Holger Weiss, “German Images of Islam in West Africa”, Sudanic Africa 11 (2000): esp. 70. 48 See also Rebekka Habermas’ criticism of Weiss, pointing to a number of shared assumptions between Orientalists and missionaries about Islam, see Habermas, “Debates”, 236–238. 49 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Staat und Mission in der Islampolitik”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1910 zu Berlin am 6., 7. und 8. Oktober 1910, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1910), 638–651. 50 Karl Axenfeld, “Die Ausbreitung des Islam und ihre Bedeutung für die deutschen Kolonien”, in Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1910 zu Berlin am 6., 7. und 8. Oktober 1910, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1910), 629–638; Hubert Hansen, “Welche Aufgaben stellt die Ausbreitung des Islam den Missionen und Ansiedlern in den deutschen Kolonien?”, in Verhandlungen

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In his speech, Becker did indeed offer strong criticisms to presumptions of a necessary alliance between colonialism and Christianity as espoused by missionaries. The idea that a “blessed colonisation was only possible in alliance with Christianity” was wrong, because as necessary as colonialism may be, the “seizure of foreign lands and their exploitation has nothing to do with Christianity.”51 Islam was not “as bad as the missionary literature made it appear” and had shown its potential for developing and “Europeanising” the nations of the Orient and (“to a much lower degree”) of Africa.52 If Islam was indeed a danger, it was one for the Christianisation of Africa because evangelisation among Muslims was the most “thorny branch of all missions.”53 Furthermore, the colonial empires of England, France, and Holland had shown that a political compromise with Islam could form the basis of a successful European rule, and this was the example Germany must follow, even if it placed the government in opposition to the missionary enterprise.54 At the same time, however, Becker also delivered many points that would have pleased the assembled missionaries. Firstly, none of his comments were principally against converting Muslims nor did he chastise the missionary bias against Islam. He merely wished to distinguish between religiously neutral colonial politics and the “living Christian” who “cannot be neutral, because he only knows one salvation and this salvation is more important to him than education or economic progress.”55 Secondly, Becker acknowledged that Islam was not without political dangers, which would necessitate its “strict observation.”56 If it was not for the practical realities of the East African colony, Becker even conceded, it would be “more comfortable” for the German government to operate in an alliance with Christianity rather than Islam.57

des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1910 zu Berlin am 6., 7. und 8. Oktober 1910, ed. Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1910), 652–662. 51 Becker, “Staat und Mission”, 642. 52 Becker, 644–645. 53 Becker, 641, 644. 54 Becker, 644. 55 Becker, 644. 56 Becker, 645, 649. 57 Becker, 645–646.

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Thirdly, echoing a frequent complaint by missionaries, Becker also noted that the government must avoid the impression that Islam was preferred over Christianity and must prevent Europeans from ridiculing Christian institutions or its representatives in front of “natives” because this “subverts authority.”58 Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Becker argued that the German government needed to employ missions in its divide et impera religious policy: I deem it a virtual necessity to prevent the total Islamisation of a colony, because despite the above-mentioned theory of a Europeanisation of Islam, one must, until this has been achieved, prevent the emergence of large, closed Islamic complexes. Since one cannot expect Islam to diminish in the already Islamised areas, it is in the interest of the state to promote the conservation of Islam-free areas. But this is only possible through the establishment of Christian Negro churches, that are able to resist the storm surge of Islam. And for this, the state needs the missions, and it should use them.59

With this, Becker envisioned the division of the colony into Muslim and missionary areas with some protections. Mission stations should still be allowed in Islamic areas, but should be forbidden from proselytising. In the Christian areas, by contrast, the establishment of mosques and the settlements of walimu should be prevented altogether. Muslim teachers, soldiers, and administrators would “naturally” not be used here, and “all trade by Mohammedans would have to be eliminated.”60 These were fairly radical proposals for the protection of missions, but Becker’s collaboration missionaries went even further. He was cosponsor of a resolution about the “danger of Islam” that was proposed by all three panellists of his session. It read:

58 Becker, “Staat und Mission,” 643. 59 Becker, 650–651. 60 Becker, 651.

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Since the spread of Islam entails a serious danger to the development of our colonies, the Colonial Congress recommends the diligent observation and rigorous study of this movement. The Congress deems it necessary, as much as the principle of religious neutrality allows, that all those participating in the valorisation of the colonies carefully avoid everything that may contribute to promoting the spread of Islam and to the disadvantaging of Christianity, and it recommends the energetic support, including that of the colonial government, of missionary civilising efforts [Kulturarbeiten], especially in the area of education and health care. It also sees in the Islamic danger an urgent appeal to German Christendom to take into missionary care without delay those areas of our colonies that are not yet seized by Islam.61

In the subsequent discussion, Becker’s dismissal of a general danger of Islam and his proposal to use Islam for “civilising” was of course attacked by some missionaries, mostly on the Catholic side.62 He easily sidestepped these critiques as differences “in details of Islam policy and of course in the apriori premises,” while proposing unity in the “assessment of the next tasks.”63 Conversely, his proposals to carefully observe and study Islam and to promote the cause of missions found much support, as did his insistence on a strict differentiation between the interests and goals of missions and those of the colonial state. In the end, the proposed resolution was adopted unanimously by the section and the plenary of the Colonial Congress.64 It is important to note that Becker’s well-calibrated stance toward Christian missions was not an effect of presenting to missionaries but echoed similar views he had expressed in front of the French Colonial Union earlier that year.65 In a publication in the liberal Protestant

61 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, ed., Verhandlungen des Deutschen Kolonialkongresses 1910 zu Berlin am 6., 7. und 8. Oktober 1910 (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1910), 662. 62 For the full discussion, see Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, 662–673. 63 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, 671. 64 Redaktionsausschuss des deutschen Kolonialkongresses, 1189. The resolution was not

discussed further in the plenary. 65 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Der Islam und die Kolonisierung Afrikas”. In Islamstudien: Vom Werden und Wesen der Islamischen Welt, vol. 2, by Carl Heinrich Becker, 187–210. Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1932.

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weekly Die christliche Welt from June 1910, he had gone even further and recommended the promotion of missions out of “national interest,” calling for an internationally and inter-confessionally coordinated effort to Christianise the “Islam free” areas.66 Becker reasoned: But is the conversion of the Blacks really necessary? Under the given circumstances, should we not rather let them become or remain Mohammedans? Some practitioners think in this way. Wrongly so. An at least partial Christianisation of the natives is indeed even less in the interest of Christianity than it is in the interest of the state. The Christendom of the Blacks will remain inferior for a long time to come, but it will prevent them from adopting Islam. A uniform Islamisation of our colonies, however, is without a doubt a danger to German rule.67

Becker was not shy to promote his alignment with missionaries in policy and practice despite ideological differences. Reporting on the debate on Islam at the 1910 Colonial Congress in his newly established journal Der Islam, Becker noted his status as an outsider and the criticism he received but also emphasised the widespread agreement in practical matters and in the adopted resolution. He concluded that the missions should be glad that his own analysis, which was “completely free or presuppositions,” came to a similar conclusion as the “demands for Christian propaganda arising from religious premises.”68 Becker, therefore, proffered Islamic Studies as a neutral arbiter in the heated German debates between missionaries and the state about the role of Islam in the colonies. This proposition rested on three main pillars. Firstly, he routinely rejected any generalisation about the nature and character of Islam (while in a genial slight of hand, offering such generalisations himself). This not only allowed him to roundly critique many Orientalist, missionary, and political treatises of Islam,69 but also 66 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Der Islam und die christliche Mission”, Die christliche Welt 24, no. 25 (23 June 1910): 589–593. 67 Becker, 593. 68 Carl Heinrich Becker, “Die Islamfrage auf dem Kolonialkongreß 1910”, Der Islam

1, nos. 3–4 (1910): 391. 69 See e.g. Becker, “Materialien”; Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ein Missionar über den Islam in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Islamstudien: Vom Werden und Wesen der Islamischen Welt, vol. 2, by Carl Heinrich Becker (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1932), 116–121; Carl Heinrich Becker, “Ein Kolonialbeamter über den Islam in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, in Islamstudien:

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acknowledge colonial anxieties about the seditious potency of Islam. If Muslim politics was complex but full of ideals, then the danger of an Islamic insurgency was neither fully present (as the missionaries would have it) nor fully absent (as some settlers proclaimed). Clearly, it needed scholarly expertise to navigate these treacherous waters. Secondly, for Becker religions were expressions of culture and civilisation rather than the other way around. This way, he not only styled himself as a colonial pragmatist but also was closely aligned with the prevalent racist attitudes toward Africans and their “civilising prospects.” Much like the explorers of the 1890s, such as Schweinfurth or Passarge, Becker saw Islam as a potential ally in developing Africa, perhaps more suitable for Africans than Christianity, and certainly better than their “paganism.”70 Yet, this did not abolish the notion of an inherent connection between European progress and Christianity, and Becker emphasised the need to instil respect for Christianity in the colonies as a way of upholding European rule. Finally, and most importantly, Becker’s strategic recommendation of a divide et impera policy toward Islam converged with all sides of the debate. If colonial policy was to take seriously the differences within Islam then one must, at one and the same time, use some Muslims for the development of the colony and monitor others for sedition. One should not suppress Islam, but prevent its universal spread through “Christian islands.” Important for colonial policy and missionary successes alike was the proper and sufficiently detailed knowledge about the complexities of Islam, leading Becker to establish and defend his position as the German

Vom Werden und Wesen der Islamischen Welt, vol. 2, by Carl Heinrich Becker (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1932), 122–126. On Becker’s relationship to Orientalists before him, see Haridi, Paradigma, 79–86; Mark Batunsky, “Carl Heinrich Becker: From Old to Modern Islamology. Commemorating the 70th Anniversary of ‘Der Islam als Problem’”, International Journal of Middle East Studies 13, no. 3 (1981): 287–310. Becker’s polemical characterisation of German Orientalism is clear in his obituary for Martin Hartmann, whom he considered to be an exception. Carl Heinrich Becker, “Martin Hartmann”, Der Islam 10, nos. 3–4 (1920): 230–231. 70 For examples of these early notions, see “Ein Schreiben von Prof. Dr. Schweinfurth”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 3, no. 3 (1 February 1890): 30–31; Passarge and Meinecke, “Mission oder Islam?” Passarge was a colleague of Becker at the Colonial Institute and having never been to Sub-Saharan Africa himself, Becker possibly deferred to Passarge for his assessments.

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expert on colonial policy toward Islam over and against missionaries and colonial officers alike.71

9.3

Colonial Press and Missionary Activism

When the resolutions of the 1910 Colonial Congress were submitted to the Colonial Office, the recommendation on the “Islam question” was rejected off-hand. The internal comment read: The resolution generally conforms to the principles by which the colonial administration treats the matter. The governor of German East Africa (where the question is of the greatest importance) has already last year taken measures against the propagation of Islam through coloured officers. […] The “diligent observation” and the “rigorous study” of the movement has been made the duty of the officers through multiple decrees. The last sentence contains an appeal to Christianity, not the Colonial Office. There is nothing to be done at present. File away.72

This dismissal stands in continuation to how the colonial apparatus had reacted to similar criticisms of its Islam policy in the past. In contrast to the 1905 Colonial Congress, however, much of the press had now switched sides and was much more tolerant of missionary warnings against the “danger” of Islam. Even the Koloniale Zeitschrift , which had launched scathing attacks on the very similar Congress resolution of 1905,73 now reported in neutral tones and left the only comment to a missionary letter praising the resolution on Islam.74 This was part of a larger pivot of the Koloniale Zeitschrift , which within these few years changed from being the foremost critic of missionaries to offering a regular column

71 See his strident comments toward the missionary Klamroth or the colonial officer Oskar Karstedt, Becker, “Ein Missionar”; Becker, “Ein Kolonialbeamter”. 72 Holleben to Lindequist, 4 November 1910, BArch R1001/6885, 14. 73 See above, p. 185. 74 “Der dritte Deutsche Kolonialkongreß”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 37 (28 October 1910): 689–691; Winkler, “Deutscher Kolonialkongreß 1910 (Fortsetzung)”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 39 (11 November 1910): 728–730; “Vom Missionsfelde (Zuschrift der Berliner Mission)”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 45 (23 December 1910): 890.

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on missions.75 This gave room to alarmist articles about Islam from missionary backgrounds,76 while even the more mission-critical voices in the paper agreed that Muslims could easily become a “danger” to German rule.77 A similar shift can be observed in the DOAZ , which up until the end of 1907 still opined that Islam was the “more suitable religion” for Africans while Christianity would breed anti-colonial sentiments like “Ethiopianism.”78 Yet as the paper turned against Rechenberg in the “Mecca letter affair,” it began to sound warnings against the “dangers” of Islam.79 Though concerns about the “Mecca letter” soon faded, articles discussing the insurgent potency of Islam persisted, with some containing outright alerts to beware of Muslim rebellions and calling for a harsh treatment of suspected instigators.80 Others were more measured and warned against blanket assertions of an Islamic “danger” but fuelled the debate nonetheless.81 Becker’s writings were serialised, published in excerpts, or reported 75 Attacks on missions did not abate entirely but the paper now printed views from both sides, see e.g. Paul Samassa, “Deutsche Missionsgesellschaften in fremden Kolonien”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 12 (5 May 1910): 242–243; vs. Karl Axenfeld, “Noch einmal: ‘Deutsche Missionsgesellschaften in fremden Kolonien’”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 17 (10 June 1901): 338–340. 76 Johannes Raum, “Von den Missionsfeldern: Die mohammedanische Gefahr in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 31 (16 September 1910): 572–574; “Zeitungsschau”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, 17 (10 June 1910): 348–349. 77 “Umschau: Aus fremden Kolonien. Ein deutscher Vortrag über den Islam und die Kolonisation Afrikas in Paris”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 11, no. 4 (15 February 1910): 85; Wilhelm Föllmer, “Die christliche Mission und die deutsche Kolonialpolitik”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 14, no. 25 (20 June 1913): 385–386. 78 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Ueber Christentum”. 79 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Aus unserer Kolonie”; Deutsch-Ostafrikanische

Zeitung, “Islam, ein politischer Faktor”. 80 E.g. Lenz, “Das heutige Bagamoyo”; Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Aus unserer Kolonie”; Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Islamgefahr”; “Generalissimus von Rechenberg”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 7/8 (29 January 1910): 1–2; DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung, “Islamitische Gefahr”; “Der Siegeszug des Islam in Afrika”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 32 (23 April 1910): 1. Beiblatt. 81 E.g Raschid Montran-Bai, “Die Araber”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 76

(25 September 1909): 2–3; “Mohammedanisches Seminar”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 96 (4 December 1909): 1. Beiblatt; “Handwerk und Industrie in neuer Beeinflussung durch Fremde in Deutsch-Ostafrika II”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 93 (23 November 1910): 1. Beiblatt; Hans Zache, “Der Kaiser und der Islam”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 99 (13 December 1911): 2.

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on, and his expertise was cited widely.82 Therefore, even as the paper’s attacks on missions continued on various fronts,83 their alarmist assessment of Islam was no longer dismissed outright but drawn into a broader conversation about its “dangers.” This editorial shift in the colonial press gave missionary interventions more leverage in the Islam debate. An example of this was a newspaper feud with the Arabic periodical al-Naˇg¯ ah., which was published by the 84 “Reform Party” (al-H . izb al-Is.l¯ah.) in Zanzibar from 1911. In June 1912, the BMW Inspector for East Africa, Karl Axenfeld, had become aware of the paper and noted that in its “moderate imitation of Young Egyptian and Young Turk endeavours,” it advocated Western education but also a stricter piety, Muslim isolationism, and a boycott of Christian trade.85 Later that year, one of the BMW’s clients, the freed slave and future church leader Martin Ganisya, launched a broad attack on al-Naˇg¯ ah. in the Mission’s periodical Pwani na Bara.86 In his article, 82 Becker, “Gefahr für unsere Kolonien”; Becker, “Gefahr für die Christianisierung”;

Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung, “Siegeszug”; “Islam und Kolonialpolitik”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 74 (17 September 1910): 1. Beiblatt; “Ueber Staat und Mission in der Kolonialpolitik”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 91/92 (19 November 1910): 1. Beiblatt; “Der Neger – Ein eigener Zweig der Menschheit”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 96 (3 December 1910): 2. Beiblatt “Der Islam in Ostafrika”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 13, no. 22 (18 March 1911): 2. 83 E.g. “Schlechter Lebenswandel der Weißen?”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 11, no. 20 (13 March 1909): 2; “Nationale Kulturpolitik und Mission”, DeutschOstafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 6 (22 January 1910): 1–2; “Ansiedler und Mission”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 12, no. 86 (29 October 1910): 1–2; “Unsere Missionen in den ‘Erinnerungen eines ostafrikanischen Pflanzers’”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 13, no. 32 (22 April 1911): 1. 84 Bang, Sufis and Scholars, 136. One of the founders of the party and editor of the journal was the former liwali of Bagamoyo, Nas.r bin Sulaym¯an al-Lamk¯ı. According to Amal Ghazal, Nas.r al-Lamk¯ı met with some of Muh.ammad Abduh.’s pupils during a visit to Egypt in 1900 or 1901 and remained in contact with one of them, moulding his paper after Abduh.’s al-Man¯ ar; Amal Nadim Ghazal, “The Other’Andalus’: The Omani Elite in Zanzibar and the Making of an Identity, 1880s–1930s”, The MIT Electronic Journal of Middle East Studies 5, no. 2 (2005): 49. 85 Axenfeld, report for Usaramo, 19 June 1912, ABMW bmw 1/6599. The paper was brought to his attention by what he called “loyal elements” in the Muslim population. 86 Martin Ganisya, “Vita ya Muslimu”, Pwani na Bara 3, no. 12 (1912): 4. On Martin Ganisya, see Martin Klamroth, Ein Christ: Wie ein ostafrikanischer Junge zum Sklaven wurde, und wie er die rechte Freiheit gewann (Berlin: Buchhandlung der Berliner Missionsgesellschaft, 1910); Iliffe, Modern History, 233–235, 257–258; Fiedler, Christianity, 96–97, 111. Ganisya was a regular contributor to Pwani na Bara.

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titled “The War of the Muslim,” Ganisya accused al-Naˇg¯ ah. of inflating the strength of the Ottomans in the Turco-Italian War and argued that the sultan was of no interests to Africans anyway. One should not forget how the “Arabs” had introduced slavery while Europeans had brought peace and civilisation. Ganisya concluded by pitting an African perspective against “foreign” sentiments: We do not wish to argue with another reporter. But we Blacks do not want such things to spread in the country. So, we do not believe such things. They are not beneficial, but only soil the country.87

Ganisya’s attack would probably have gone unnoticed, had it not been for the increased leverage of missionaries in Islam discourse. The Tanga government school’s periodical Kiongozi reprinted Ganisya’s article with its original title and no further commentary.88 The Kiongozi appealed to a Muslim audience and had hitherto remained neutral in religious ah., and the paper affairs.89 This reprint caught the attention of al-Naˇg¯ reacted with a scathing editorial which portrayed Ganisya as an ignorant mouthpiece of missionary.90 Christian missionaries only aimed to set the German government and Muslims against one another, the paper claimed, while arguing that the Turco-Italian War mattered in East Africa because “all Mohammedans in the whole world hold on to the throne of the Islamic Califate.” Both Pwani na Bara and Kiongozi printed replies attacking the very idea of a global Muslim alliance under the Ottoman sultan.91 The Kiongozi went even further and wrongly alleged that al-Naˇg¯ ah. had characterised the Balkan War as a Christian–Muslim war, which 87 Ganisya, “Vita ya Muslimu”. 88 “Habari za nchi: Daressalam. Vita ya Msilimu”, Kiongozi 9, no. 92 (January 1913):

3. 89 This was even the case with the Turco-Italian War, where the paper offered only general updates, usually under the headline “The Italians and the Turks” (Waitaliano na maturki), and never under the rubric of “Muslims” that Ganisya had introduced. 90 Unfortunately, the article only survived in its German translation, “Pwani na Bara, Al Najah und Kiongozi”, Korrespondenzblatt für die evangelischen Missionen in Deutschostafrika, 4 (May 1913): 2–3. To date, only one extant issue of al-Naˇg¯ ah. is known, Ghazal, “‘Andalus’”, 49n49. 91 Anton Misokia, “Msimulizi wa Ungaja”, Pwani na Bara 4, no. 2 (1913): 3; “Kuirudi „Alnajah“”, Kiongozi 9, no. 2 (1913): 5.

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was an “absolute lie” that would “cause agitation in our land.”92 In a final rejoinder to the Kiongozi, al-Naˇg¯ ah. claimed that the unity among Muslims was brought about by the fact that “the Catholics, Protestants, and Orthodox had agreed to purge Islam from existence.”93 Moreover, the article alleged, the Kiongozi was trying to provoke the government to interfere and suggested that the editors of al-Naˇg¯ ah. might write to the German governor to forbid such provocations. As inconsequential as this small newspaper feud may have been—and it is the only such engagement in the archive—it shows the renewed ability of missionaries to insert Muslim-Christian antagonism into public discourse. The conference of German missionaries in GEA lost no time to publish translations of these articles in the next issue of their newsletter.94 Al-Naˇg¯ ah., likewise, appears to have continued its feud against missionaries, with another article coming to the attention of the government in 1914.95 Another example of the rising prominence of missionary agitations against Islam can be seen in the rather steep path that a private citizen’s direct petition to the emperor took in 1912. Written by a clerk from Halle with the name of Erwin Zeischold, the rambling petition laid out a whole litany of accusations against Islam in GEA over seven double-sided pages: Arab and Indian propaganda, Mahdism, a “root affinity” between “the pagan and Islamic spirit belief,” the seditious influence of Islam on peaceful Africans in the Maji Maji War, the “Mecca letter,” and the “danger” of relying on a predominantly Muslim army.96 Zeischold, went on to list the usual missionary demands to the colonial government: support mission schools instead of government schools, restrict the movement of Muslim preachers and teachers, and make a concerted effort to replace “fanatical Muslims” in the administration with Christians. While this unprecedented intervention by an ordinary citizen on German Islam policy may have indicated a new assertiveness among

92 “Na kama Alnajah inasema, vita hivi vya maturki ni vita vya waislam na wakristo, ni uwongo kabisa maneno haya. Maneno kama haya huleta fitina nchi yetu.” “Kuirudi”. 93 See “Pwani na Bara”, 4. 94 “Pwani na Bara”. 95 See the handwritten translation of an article titled “The campaign against Islam”, TNA G9/48, 178–179. 96 Eingabe, Halle a.d. Saale, 12 October 1912, TNA G9/48, 33–39.

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missionary circles, the surprising aspect of the petition was that the Colonial Office did not simply ignore it or sent a dismissive reply. Instead, even though an inquiry about Zeischold with local authorities in Halle revealed that he had no direct connection or experience in GEA and was simply an interested supporter of missions, he received an official reply by the Colonial Secretary Wilhelm Solf himself, noting that his report had been sent to Dar es Salaam for consideration.97 Though the forward to GEA was marked as “for information only,” it is surprising that the Colonial Office even went this far. Predictably, the administration in Dar es Salaam fumed in the margins of Zeischold’s letter and left a snide remark on the process overall, but stopped short of sending a protest note.98 A final example of missionary success in mainstreaming the “Islamic danger” narrative can be seen in a resolution by the DKG from May 1913. Until this point, the DKG had remained neutral on religious matters, and its conduit, the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung did not join the clamour about Islam even when other outlets had changed their editorial stance in the wake of the “Mecca letters.” In May 1913, the Count of Muskau, Traugott Hermann von Arnim, proposed a motion to his fellow board members that would have committed the DKG to support the new Protestant training seminary “Schlesien” in Morogoro with a one-time endowment of 10,000 Marks.99 The written justification for this proposal cited the role of the government schools in spreading Islam via the “unintended” conversion of their pupils to Islam and their subsequent posting to various parts of the country. Moreover, Arnim-Muskau alleged that the “Islamic leaning” of the Maji Maji rebellion had been proven beyond a doubt and that there had been numerous attempts by “Mohammedan agitators” to incite unrest among the askari. Citing the 1910 Colonial Congress’ resolution to support missionary endeavours, he argued that the planned Swahili institute deserved financial support by

97 Police report on Zeischold, 11 January 1913, TNA G9/48, 32; Solf to Zeischold, 4 February 1913, TNA G9/48, 31. 98 There are multiple exclamations of “nonsense!” or similar notes in the margins. Solf’s letter received a hand-written comment, stating: “What the man writes, is – insofar it is correct – antiquated and has been chewed up a thousand times; he evidently copied it from missionary periodicals, because he was never here himself. It is totally incomprehensible how such platitudes can be made subject of a personal petition to H.M.” 99 Antrag des Vorstandsmitgliedes Grafen von Arnim-Muskau, Bericht über die Sitzung des Ausschusses am 23.5.1913, BArch R8023/484a, 16–18. On the seminar, see p. 123.

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the DKG, because it was in the direct interest of the colonial government to recruit Christians in the administration and military. None of these arguments were new, but it is noteworthy that ArnimMuskau was not among the usual mission supporters. As a staunch nationalist and long-serving Free Conservative member of the Reichstag from 1887 to 1906,100 he participated regularly in colonial debates but never commented on Christian “civilising,” government schools, or the “threat” of Islam.101 He also did not emerge as a strong supporter of missions in his proposal to the DKG, but immediately withdrew his request when reminded that support for this Protestant endeavour would violate the DKG’s confessional impartiality. He now submitted a general resolution on Islam in GEA instead, which read: The board [of the DKG] sees the advancing Islamisation in East Africa as a serious political and cultural threat, that must be confronted. The Colonial Office should take measures in this regard under requisition of the necessary means.102

The resolution was accepted with the addition of recommending a fact-finding mission about the actual growth of Islam in GEA.103 When submitted to the Colonial Office, the resolution received a terse reply. Secretary Solf stated that the Reichstag had already debated such matters

100 Arnim-Muskau was an early member of the Pan-German League (Alldeutscher Verband), a far-right, nationalist pressure group seeking to protect German interests abroad against a “too compromising” German government, see Stefan Malinowski, Vom König zum Führer: Sozialer Niedergang und politische Radikalisierung im deutschen Adel zwischen Kaiserreich und NS-Staat (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2003), 183–185; see also Hartmut Berghoff, “Adel und Industriekapitalismus im Deutschen Kaiserreich: Abstoßungskräfte und Annäherungstendenzen zweier Lebenswelten”, in Adel und Bürgertum in Deutschland. I: Entwicklungslinien und Wendepunkte im 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Heinz Reif (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2008), 257–259. He was also one of Peters’ staunchest defenders, see p. 152. 101 See e.g. VerhRT VII/1, vol. 5, 1 December 1891, 3179–3181; VerhRT VIII/2, vol. 2, 2 March 1893, 1380–1382; VerhRT IX/2, vol. 2, 19 February 1894, 1326–1328; VerhRT XI/2, vol. 1, 2 December 1905, 101–102. 102 Bericht über die Sitzung des Ausschusses am 23 May 1913, BArch R8023/484a,

17. 103 Bericht über die Sitzung des Vorstands der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft im großen Saale des Konzerthauses zu Breslau am Dienstag, den 3. Juni 1913, pp. 47–50, BArch R1001/484a.

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and that he had granted funding to the German Society of Islamic Studies for a proper study of Islam in the colonies.104 He closed with an outright rejection of the DKG resolution: In view of the international agreements about the freedom of religion [Freiheit der Kulte], I would not be able to approve measures of aggressive nature toward Islam on behalf of the administration in German East Africa. The requisition of Imperial resources for such purposes is therefore out of the question.105

9.4

Surveying Islam in East Africa

This answer by Solf, promoting the study of Islam and rejecting further interventions as a violation of the principle of religious neutrality, embodied the standard government response to post-“Mecca letter” concerns about Islam. Yet it was precisely the study of Islam that gradually pushed the administration in GEA toward more interventionist policies as scholarly and missionary interests converged in demanding a systematic survey of Muslim proliferation in the colony. The push for such a survey resulted indirectly from an initiative by Carl Heinrich Becker. In the summer of 1909, Becker had launched two inquiries with other European powers about their statutes for Muslims. A letter to the Austro-Hungarian consul in Hamburg yielded no return,106 but the request relayed by Hamburg’s Senate to France was successful. Within a few weeks, the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs returned two documents about Algeria and Tunisia, accompanied by letter asking the German government to return the favour and send policy documents on its governance of Islam.107

104 Solf to DKG, 6 August 1913, BArch R8023/484a. 105 Solf to DKG, 6 August 1913, BArch R8023/484a. 106 Becker to Stuhlmann, 9 August 1908, GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Becker/4412. Inter-

estingly, the Austro-Hungarian Embassy had sent a similar request to the German government on 15 July 1909, see BArch R1001/6885, 3. This only earned the short reply that there existed no such statutes in the German protectorates as there had been no cause to regulate or limit Muslim practice, Colonial Office to Foreign Secretary, 4 July 1909, BArch R1001/6885, 5. 107 Senatskommission für die Reichs- und auswärtigen Angelegenheiten to Hugo von Radolin, 17 September 1909, BArch R1001/5556, 4; Pichon to Radolin, 12 November

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Nothing of the sort existed in the Colonial Office. As the Foreign Office intended to send a reply, Colonial Secretary Lindequist instructed the governors of GEA, Kamerun and Togo to report swiftly on the local governance of Muslims.108 Kamerun and Togo sent fairly detailed replies within a few months,109 but GEA demurred. Rechenberg was on furlough and his deputy replied that the administration lacked the resources to gather the necessary material.110 When Rechenberg returned, he was more dismissive still.111 He simply responded that his administration had no regulations governing Muslims because this would contravene the freedom of religion clause of article four of the Congo Act.112 Moreover, he argued, what the French government had sent was essentially irrelevant because it showed that the governments of Algeria and Tunis also did not regulate Islam beyond standard rules for “natives” while all politically sensitive and potentially useful material had been withheld, such as the handling of the Šayh al-Isl¯ am in Algiers, the official ˘ recognition of an “agent du culte muselman”, the surveillance of various Sufi orders and marabouts, and the conflicts with the San¯ us¯ıya. Rechenberg’s strident remarks culminated in a blistering attack on the rising political interest in Islam:

1909, BArch R1001/5556, 5–30. The return was received by the Foreign Office, see Foreign Office to Colonial Office, 4 December 1909, BArch R1001/5556, 3. The Algeria document was particularly detailed and covered the policies of native representation, administration, justice, and education. The Tunisia report, by contrast, was a rather short note only. For further details, see Jörg Haustein, “Islampolitik in DeutschOstafrika als koloniales Selbstgespräch”, in Transimpérialités contemporaines: Revalités, contacts, émulation / Moderne Transimperialitäten: Rivalitäten, Kontakte, Wetteifer, ed. Laurent Dedryvère et al., Zivilisationen & Geschichte 67 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2021), 229–247. 108 Lindequist to Governors in Dar es Salaam, Buea, and Lome, 12 February 1910, BArch R1001/5556, 59. 109 Steinhausen to Colonial Office, 16 June 1910, BArch R1001/5556, 68–77; Kersting to Colonial Office, 19 June 1910, BArch R 1001/5556, 64–67; Webering to Colonial Office, 22 August 1908, BArch R1001/5556, 80–83. 110 Spalding to Lindequist, 12 April 1910, BArch R1001/5556, 60. 111 While on furlough Rechenberg also received a different survey request by Carl

Heinrich Becker, which he appears to have ignored, 7 Becker to Rechenberg, 17 April 1910, GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Becker/3362. 112 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 2 January 1911, BArch R1001/5556, 86–91.

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The undeniable growth of Islam has led to frequent talk about an Islamitic danger, and this expression is almost becoming a catchword. In my opinion this is entirely wrong. There is no Islamitic danger, one can only speak of the danger of an Islamitic movement. […] I am of the general opinion that the worries which seem to be entertained in Germany are exaggerated, even though cautiousness and surveillance are necessary. In any case, it would be an error to contend that Islam presents a special danger, which is greater than that arising from the spread of any other religion.113

This quote is key to Rechenberg’s Islam policy. Instead of facilitating general debates or surveys, he sought to gather specific information about political movements and install an effective system of surveillance and cooptation. The most efficient way to do so, would be official appointments of an im¯ am in each mosque, he contended, but since missions were not regulated by the government, this would make Islam seem like the official religion of GEA. Therefore, the best the government could do, Rechenberg concluded, was to employ more people who can fluently read and write Arabic, echoing his administration’s earlier request for a translator. Upon receiving Rechenberg’s reply, Berlin gave up on gathering useful information from GEA. More than one and a half years after receiving the material from France, the German Colonial Office sent their return report, which in light of Rechenberg’s obstinacy mainly relied on Becker’s remote scholarship for reporting on GEA.114 A few months later, Rechenberg received another survey request, sent by Martin Hartmann, Arabic lecturer at the SOS in Berlin.115 Hartmann had drafted a ten-point questionnaire for a comprehensive district-bydistrict survey, offering to send 300 copies for GEA and 150 each for Togo and Kamerun. Predictably, Rechenberg rejected the idea of a fullscale survey and filled out the questionnaire himself.116 His answers barely span two typewritten pages and are of a generality that would have

113 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 2 January 1911, BArch R 1001/5556, 86–91, here 89–90. 114 Colonial Office to Foreign Office, 5 July 1911, BArch R1001/5556, 93–100. 115 Hartmann to Lindequist, 20 May 1911, BArch R1001/6885, 12. 116 Böhm to Rechenberg, 15 June 1911, TNA G9/47, 42; Rechenberg, Frageblatt, no date, TNA G9/47, 46–47.

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made them unsuitable for Hartmann’s purposes.117 In his reply to Berlin, Rechenberg argued that the political disadvantages of conducting such a survey would outweigh its scholarly benefits because his district officers could hardly give more specific replies while their probings “would certainly be misunderstood by the local population and alarm them.”118 Once again, Rechenberg was the outlier among the German governors, because Hartmann did receive useful responses from Kamerun and Togo, which formed the basis of subsequent publications and collaborations with the Colonial Office.119 Rechenberg left the colony in October 1911 and was officially recalled while on furlough in 1912.120 In a marked sign of departure from his predecessor, the new governor Heinrich Schnee initiated a large survey about the spread of Islam within weeks of arriving in GEA in July 1912.121 It is not immediately clear what motivated Schnee to do this. His overall attitude toward religion in the colonies was no less liberal than Rechenberg’s, and in his previous writings about GEA he had taken no special interest in Islam.122 In the Reichstag debates of 1912, Islam also had featured hardly at all.123 Schnee did, however, support the scholarly study of Islam. As editor of the Deutsches Koloniallexikon, a work he continued during his governorship, he had been in contact with Becker, soliciting articles from him and promising to support his envisioned, but never realised visit to GEA.124 117 For example, question 5—“Does Islam tend to spread? To what extent and by what means?”—received the terse reply: “Islam is spreading. Special means are hardly used for this.” 118 Rechenberg to Colonial Office, 31 August 1911, TNA G9/47, 48. 119 See “Mitteilungen: Fragebogen über den Islam in Afrika”, Welt des Islams 1, no.

1 (1913): 42–43. Hartmann’s only submission from GEA came from the White Fathers. In 1912, the Colonial Office donated 1,500 Mark in support of Hartmann’s nascent Association for the Study of Islam, see “Mitteilungen”, xviii. 120 See Iliffe, Tanganyika, 141. 121 Schnee to all administrative offices, 17 August 1912, BArch R1003FC/1147. (The

original date is absent in the extant copies of the instruction but quoted in various replies.) 122 Heinrich Schnee, Unsere Kolonien (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1908), 44–78. 123 The main point of contention was the tabled resolution to abolish slavery by January

1920, see p. 142. 124 See correspondence between Becker and Schnee from March to May 1912, GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Becker/3971. Pesek wrongly claims that Becker went to GEA when in fact this was prevented by his appointment to a Chair in Bonn in 1913, Becker

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Developments within the colony might offer an additional explanation for Schnee’s instant survey. When Rechenberg departed, the colony was administered by interim governor Wilhelm Methner, a close ally of Rechenberg. Methner had served in GEA in varying capacity since 1902, and though he kept friendly relations with Christian missions, he was a staunch advocate of religious neutrality in colonial government.125 In a 1912 speech for the twenty-fifth anniversary of Protestant missions in Dar es Salaam, he heralded a strong bond between missions and colonialism but also emphasised that the state was a “born pagan” (geborener Heide) and must strive to facilitate religious freedom in such a way that even the “most fanatical Mohammedan” had no reason to complain.126 Nonetheless, in the precarious position of interim governor, Methner could not afford to look complacent and filtered out less of the day-to-day “noise” in his reports to Berlin, such reports about the Muslim perception of the Turco-Italian War or concerns about a rise in Islamic miracle stories.127 Schnee saw all these reports while still in Berlin in his previous position as director of the political and administrative division in the Colonial Office. This probably gave him good cause to follow up on the study of Islam after reaching the colony.128 Moreover, upon his arrival he found an alarming report on the spread of Islam by Karl Herrmann, former district officer of Tabora and now senior civil servant for “native issues”

to Dieterich, 28 July 1913, GStAPK, VI. HA, Nl Becker/237; cf. Pesek, Ende eines Kolonialreiches, 293. 125 On Methner, John W. East, Wilhelm Methner: Under Three Governors. The Memoirs of a German Colonial Official in Tanzania, 1902–1917 (2018), ii–iv, accessed 20 September 2019, https://www.academia.edu/36939603/Under_Three_Governors_ Unter_drei_Gouverneuren_The_Memoirs_of_a_German_Colonial_Official_in_Tanzania_ 1902-1917_by_Wilhelm_Methner_translated_into_English_with_an_introduction. 126 See Axenfeld, Brandt to committee, 21 July 1912, ABMW bmw 1/6599; Axenfeld, report from the 25 year jubilee, ABMW bmw 1/6316. This speech received strong attacks in Germany, see “Umschau: Aus den deutschen Kolonien. Deutsch-Ostafrika. Missionsjubiläum in Daressalam und der Islam”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 13, no. 29 (19 July 1912): 461–462; Wilhelm Methner, Unter drei Gouverneuren: 16 Jahre Dienst in den deutschen Tropen (Breslau: W.C. Korn, 1938), 284–287; cf. East, Methner, 190–192. 127 See e.g. Methner to Colonial Office, 3 December 1911, BArch R1001/702, 163; Methner to Colonial Office, 18 February 1912, BArch R1001/702, 191; Methner to Colonial Office, 7 May 1912, BArch R1001/702, 204–206; Methner to Colonial Office, 11 June 1912, BArch R1001/702, 226–229. 128 Schnee to Foreign Secretary, 5 January 1912, BArch R1001/702, 164; Schnee to Foreign Secretary, BArch R1001/702, 192.

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with the central government.129 During the “Mecca letter affair” and its aftermath, Herrmann had been one of the more incendiary voices, but his 1912 report would have had the approval of the more cautious Methner, who later called him “an outstanding expert on Islam.”130 Herrmann’s report spans eleven typewritten pages and reads like a damning verdict on GEA’s Islam policy. Framed as a study of “Islamitic propaganda” in East Africa, the report asserts that Islam was on the rise everywhere, with the battle for West Africa already lost and East Africa forming the last key site for the African expansion of Islam. Here, Herrmann contended, the religion was carried into the interior here by small traders, askari and government employees, as well as walimu. Their combined “propaganda” was bottom-up rather than top-down, and entirely reliant on social pressure and prestige. This is why Islam, in Herrmann’s assessment, might lead to a “fanaticising of the masses”: African converts believed that they acquired a better social status than their pagan or Christian counterparts, and in converting imbibed an “antiEuropean tendency.” Herrmann concluded that this rising tide could only be stemmed through the Christianisation of “pagan” areas before they too fall to Islam. While government institutions could not conduct “direct propaganda” for Christianity, they should make clear that they preferred conversions to Christianity over Islam and keep the appearance of a friendly relationship with missionaries. Itinerant walimu must be controlled or deported, and there should be a preferential option for Christians in government positions. Herrmann also offered more petty “solutions,” such as punishing those mocking Christian institutions or practices, refraining from official representation at Muslim festivals, giving only Christian employees a day off on Christian holidays, and rejecting the adopted Muslim names of new converts. Herrmann signed his report three days before the arrival of Schnee in what might have been an effort to influence his policy toward Islam from the start.131 Within weeks Schnee circulated this manifesto as the basis

129 Karl Herrmann, untitled manuscript, 19 July 1912, TNA G9/48, 9–20. For Herrmann’s position in the colony, see Franz and Geissler, Deutsch-Ostafrika-Archiv, 72. 130 Methner, Unter drei Gouverneuren, 300; cf. East, Methner, 197. On Herrmann during the “Mecca letter affair,” see p. 215. 131 Schnee arrived on 22 July 1912, see “Lokales: Empfang und Begrüßung unseres neuen Gouverneurs”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 14, no. 59 (24 July 1912): 3.

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of his own survey, requesting detailed returns about the local “advancements of the Islamitic propaganda,” statistics on local walimu and the religious affiliation of all non-Europeans in government employment, as well as further comments on Herrmann’s policy proposals.132 A year later, Schnee had received twenty-three replies, covering all relevant posts with the notable exceptions of three majority-Muslim towns: Tanga, Lindi, and Ujiji.133 Reports varied in length between short one-page summaries (Moshi and Saadani) and more elaborate submissions of up to eleven pages total (Bismarckburg, Dodoma, Kilwa, Tabora, and Wilhelmstal), with some containing detailed appendices on local mosques, registered walimu, and Sufi orders.134 The survey findings offered no surprises. The coastal areas remained predominantly Muslim, with no advances in “propaganda” to report. The interior had seen no significant movement toward Islam, either on account of a strong Christian missionary presence or the resilience of local traditions. Where Islam was seen to be on the rise, such as in Bismarckburg, Bukoba, or Muansa, it was largely limited to trading routes with little rural reach, akin to the more established sites of the old caravan trade, such as Tabora and Usumbura. The number of officially licenced walimu varied but was low overall, ranging between two in the district of Neulangenburg and forty-three in Bagamoyo, though arguably these statistics rather reflect the uneven registration practice than a reliable count.135 Almost all districts recorded an overwhelming majority of

132 Schnee to all local adminstrative offices, 17 August 1912, BArch R1003FC/1147. 133 See TNA G9/48, 71–169. 134 Hugo von Nordeck (Ssongea) to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 31 January 1913, TNA G9/48, 119–121; Bernhard Auracher (Kilwa) to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 7 January 1913, TNA G9/48, 85–95; Hans von Einsiedel (Mahenge) to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 13 December 1912, TNA G9/48, 154–165. 135 Despite Rechenberg’s edict of February 1909 to keep a record of local walimu (see p. 301), seven districts provided no numbers at all. Dar es Salaam recorded twelve in the city but estimated 150–200 in the district, which would indicate that registration was only enforced reluctantly. Muansa indicated that they only knew the names of the “new” walimu while Bismarckburg counted 273 unregistered “peddlers” (Hausierer), implying that one needed to cast a much wider net and include circumcisers and proselytising traders in registration efforts.

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Muslims among their civil and military employees, alongside a sizeable minority of “pagans” and a small fraction of Christians.136 None of the reports voiced any alarm, and most district officers explicitly signalled that they were not concerned about the spread of Islam. Yet there are noticeable differences between the reports which reflect the broad spectrum of the political divide about Islam policy in GEA. On the one side, there was the report from Bismarckburg, which entirely agreed with Herrmann and demanded even further-reaching measures such as the abolishment of Muslim private law.137 On the other side stood the reply from Kigali, which argued that Herrmann’s assessment of an unexpected revival in Islam was based on false assumptions and that his warning against “fanaticising” tendencies amounted to seeing “phantoms in pure daylight.”138 If anything, Herrmann’s recommendations themselves amounted to a danger to German rule because they sought to employ the government in the “harrassment” (Schikanierung ) of Muslims. Similarly, the district officer of Dodoma argued that all the warnings against “Panislamism” had been rendered mute by the failure of the Islamic world to rise to the defence of the Ottoman Empire in the Turco-Italian War, and even the much-feared San¯us¯ıya was just a reaction to Ottoman rule. Instead of amplifying religious differences, he argued, the government needed to guard against the political utilisation of racial antagonism.139 In between these opposite poles there were reports that aligned in part with Herrmann’s suggestions but without echoing his alarmist tone 136 The numbers are recorded in a very uneven fashion, which does not allow totals for all districts. Among the fifteen districts which do provide clear numbers, government employees consisted of 71.8% Muslims, 23.8% “pagans”, and 4.3% Christians. For just the military and police askari, the proportion was 73.2% Muslim, 19.7% “pagan”, and 6.9% Christian (with only eleven reports recording specific numbers). 137 Heinrich Melle to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 9 January 1913, TNA G9/ 48, 71–77. With signatures under reports often illegible, author’s names are derived from the list of respective district officers in see Franz and Geissler, Deutsch-Ostafrika-Archiv, 68–136. 138 Max Wintgens to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 7 June 1913, TNA G9/48, 149–154. 139 Wilhelm Sperling to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 10 August 1913, TNA G9/48, 105–112. The district officer of Morogoro also contended that the influence of the San¯ us¯ıya had been overestimated, Otto Mahnke to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 29 December 1912, TNA G9/48, 101–103. Both reacted to an employment of the San¯ us¯ıya in Herrmann’s report as a driver of Islamic expansion into West Africa.

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(Arusha, Bagamoyo, Dar es Salaam, Ssongea, Usumbura, and Wilhelmstal) while the majority saw little need for action and only accepted the proposed measures with significant qualifications (Bukoba, Iringa, Kilwa, Kondoa-Irangi, Mahenge, Morogoro, Mohoro, Muansa, Pangani, Tabora) or rejected them altogether (Moshi, Neulangenburg). There is no clear relation between the tendency of these assessments and the actual presence of Islam in the respective districts, which highlights the role of political opinion and preferences in this discussion. Of Herrmann’s proposed mitigation measures, the registration and surveillance of walimu fared best, not least because this policy was already in place since Rechenberg’s decree of 1909, even if difficult to enforce.140 The proposal to expand government and mission schools was also acceptable to many, though some opposed government support for the latter on account of their narrow religious profile. The suggestion to boost Christian employment in government posts earned the frequent reply that there were no suitable candidates and that one must select candidates that were accepted by the local community. The more restrictive measures Herrmann suggested were controversial, in particular his suggestions of not celebrating Islamic holidays or refusing to recognise Muslim names adopted at conversion. The former was widely rejected because it would be a confrontational sign of disrespect and the latter because it was impractical and would inevitably prompt demands for an equal rejection of Christian baptismal names. While a number of reports took the opportunity to urge caution and called for a respectful demeanour to prevent measures from backfiring, others went further and made more controversial and ill-conceived suggestions. Among these were to prevent the building of mosques, to print the Qur¯an in Roman script in order to make Arabic literacy (and walimu education) redundant, and to introduce pig breeding among “pagan” tribes to preempt their conversion to Islam.141

140 A number of reports noted that enforcement would have to rely on local askari reporting on fellow Muslims. 141 See reports from Dar es Salaam, Dodoma, and Arusha, TNA G9/48, 82–84, 105– 112, 166–169. Hans Eggebrecht’s suggestion in Dar es Salaam to print the Qur¯an in Roman script only makes sense if one is to assume that he did not know it was read in Arabic rather than Kiswahili. The suggestion for pig breeding among “pagans” came from Dodoma and had apparently been used in the district’s military post Singida.

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Schnee synthesised the results of the survey in his annual report for 1912/1913, noting that the spread of Islam was stagnating overall, with few exceptions.142 There was neither an “especially intensive propaganda” nor insurgent influences. In the Dar es Salaam district, Schnee contended, the census had even produced a “much more favourable result than expected” with only thirteen percent of the general population being Muslim—a claim which almost certainly derived from a statistical error.143 Overall, it seems that Schnee was ready to move on from the question of Islam. When only weeks later Berlin reminded him to report on the “question of keeping away Mohammedan influences from areas that have not been hitherto influenced by Islam,”144 he went on the offensive. Since the press and the Reichstag “repeatedly raise the same complaints about Islam and demand measures by the government,” he would only summarise the most salient points of previous reports.145 Firstly, the best measure against Islam was the spread of government schools, which enjoyed popular trust, unlike mission schools. Secondly, the missionary accusation of a government preference for employing Muslims was wrong because the missions themselves failed to provide suitable candidates. And finally, the government already intervened wherever legally possible against the spread of Islam. The wishes of “some missionary circles” to employ “unlawful means of coercion” against Muslims would, by contrast, violate the guaranteed principle of religious equality and were likely to disturb the “peace of the land.” This curt reply returned Schnee to Rechenberg’s earlier trajectory in the “Islamic danger” debate, but it is indicative of the new political dynamics that he did not let the matter rest here. Only two weeks later, he required a further report from all district office on measures to counter “the Islamitic propaganda of government employees and

142 Schnee’s narrative was not included in the published version, only the main survey results, see Reichs-Kolonialamt, Die deutschen Schutzgebiete 1912/1913, Statistischer Teil, 68. However, the internal print version of his narrative can be found in BArch R1001/ 703, 297. 143 Schnee correctly cited the total figure of “Mohammedans” reported to him, but this appears to have been a male headcount which Schnee compared to the overall population. 144 Colonial Office to Schnee, 8 September 1913, BArch R1001/703, 163. 145 Schnee to Colonial Secretary, 29 October 1913, BArch R1001/703, 294–296.

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especially government school teachers.”146 This included whether it was possible to “completely forbid” government school teachers from conducting “Islamic propaganda” and to bar all “coloured employees of the government” from religious offices like circumciser or im¯ am. Finally, Schnee also asked for comments on the rather outlandish submission to his previous survey, which suggested to introduce pig breeding in “pagan” areas to forestall conversions to Islam.147 Nothing ever came of this last survey. In his memoirs Schnee claimed that he had only issued it to give the government some cover against further Reichstag attacks on Islam policy.148 Yet, this justification was likely motivated by later developments when Schnee’s decree came to be used in unforeseen ways.

9.5 Political Islam: The Swan Song of Wartime Propaganda The onset of the First World War changed calculations yet again. With the Ottoman alliance and the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a of the Šayh al-Isl¯am, the ˘ hotly debated “danger of Islam” suddenly became a potential asset and weapon to be yielded in the German war effort. The various colonial echo chambers reverberated for some time from this last change of tune. The colonial press sounded a jubilant note. The DOAZ , before ceasing publication at the end of 1914, reassured its readers that Muslims were firmly on the side of Germans and praying for “victory of our weapons against England,” for whom the situation was now “extremely bleak.”149 Oskar Karstedt wrote in the Deutsche Kolonialzeitung that the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a would be of “tremendous advantage” in GEA, where the “Arabs”

146 Runderlass an alle Bezirksämter, Militärstationen, sowie die Residentur Urundi, 13 October 1913, TNA G43/3. 147 The only extant response to Schnee picked up on this idea and promised to trial the introduction of pork in the region, see District Office Morogoro to Imperial Government Dar es Salaam, 12 November 1913, TNA G43/3. 148 See Heinrich Schnee, Deutsch-Ostafrika im Weltkriege: Wie wir lebten und kämpften (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1919), 136. 149 “Aus unserer Kolonie: Im Schutzgebiet alles ruhig!”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 16, no. 68 (22 August 1914): 3; “Lokales”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 16, no. 90 (7 November 1914) 3; “Der Islam gegen England”, Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung 16, no. 94 (21 November 1914): 2.

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still remembered how the British had treated them.150 The Koloniale Zeitschrift printed similarly optimistic articles.151 The paper now even reverted to its previous editorial stance of contrasting the colonial utility of Islam with the limits of Christian missions. In a particularly remarkable article the paper surmised that after the war Islam would be considered a “brother, albeit a step brother” of Christianity, because with its “holy war” ideology, the religion was able to generate an impact that “the Christian mission cannot have, and possibly should not have on account of its nature.”152 Missionaries, accordingly, found themselves in a somewhat precarious position. Their strong display of patriotism prevented any criticism of German policy, and yet the Ottoman alliance was the exact opposite of their constant warnings against Islam. Julius Richter, who at the 1905 Colonial Congress had led the attack on Germany’s Islam policy, now conceded as coeditor of the Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift that it was time to recognise the strong alignment of interests between Germany and the Ottoman Empire even though being “brothers-in-arms” with “Turks, Persians, Afghans and possibly other Islamic nations, was an uncomfortable thought.”153 Richter ended his comments by wondering what this might mean for mission among Muslims while the magazine of the EMDOA even proclaimed that herein lay the silver lining of the new alliance: “friendship between Germany and the peoples of Islam will be a door that opens the way to the hearts for the gospel.”154 Martin Klamroth at the Protestant Kiswahili magazine Pwani na Bara offered

150 Oskar Karstedt, “Die islamitische Bewegung in unseren Kolonien”, Deutsche Kolonialzeitung 32, no. 4 (20 April 1915): 51–52. Karstedt was less optimistic about its impact in West Africa, where Togo was already lost and Kamerun’s outlook was bleak. 151 “Die Wirkung des Weltkrieges in Palästina”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 16, 5. Kriegsausgabe (7 May 1915): 4–5; Gerhard von Byern, “Der jetzige Kolonialkrieg, ein Lehrmeister für uns”, Koloniale Zeitschrift 16, 7. Kriegsausgabe (15 July 1915): 2–3; Koloniale Zeitschrift, “Umschau”. 152 Förster, “Christliche Mission und der Islam”. As quoted earlier, this article also called for a new form of “labour compulsion” resulting from a compromise between the Christian notion of freedom and the “Islamitic” idea of slavery in Islamic ideas about slavery, see p. 148. 153 Julius Richter, “Der Krieg und die Mission”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 41 (1914): 502. 154 Walther Trittelvitz, “Die Kämpfe auf unserem Missionsfeld in Deutsch-Ostafrika”, Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission 29, no. 1 (1915): 29–32.

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a particularly dizzying analysis when explaining the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a to his protégés in an article titled “The War of Religion.”155 He argued, that as far as the Germans were concerned, the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a did not amount to promoting a religious war, because for Christians warfare was always worldly and never religious since Jesus had taught that all who pick up the sword would die by the sword. Muslims, by contrast, had shown the futility of religious wars by losing most of their domains to European rule. The German offer to affiliate their gˇ ih¯ ad with the side of “freedom” rather than that of “murderers” would not cure this fundamental ailment, but would surely teach the enemies of Germany a lesson, who had sown the wind but would reap a hurricane. Klamroth’s painful contortions perhaps explain why most missionary outlets and authors opted not to comment on the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a at all or only offered indirect reflections, such as demarcating a (rather precarious) theological distinction between gˇ ih¯ ad and the German nationalist idea of a “holy war” or discussing Luther’s positions on Islam.156 Scholars of Islam, by contrast, fully embraced the political recalibration and all it meant for their expertise. Most prominent among them stood the two experts who had advised on the “Mecca letter” and colonial Islam policy: Max von Oppenheim and Carl Heinrich Becker. Oppenheim finally entered full government service and was enabled to turn his geopolitical musings about “Pan-Islam” into policy by establishing the Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient as more of a propaganda agency than an “Intelligence Bureau.”157 Becker, meanwhile, launched a public feud with Snouck Hurgronje defending the “conscious German Islam policy” against Hurgronje’s accusation of scholarly and political recklessness.158 Becker may have been dismissive of the Ottoman sultan’s suzerainty and 155 “Vita ya dini”, Pwani na Bara. This came at the heels of an article from January, which explained that this was not a religious war on account of the various formations between Protestants and Catholics it had created, “Desturi za vita”, Pwani na Bara. 156 Johannes Lepsius, “Unsere Waffenbrüderschaft mit der Türkei”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 42 (1915): 81–92, 144–157; Harmann Barge, “Luthers Stellung zum Islam und seine Übersetzung der Confutatio des Ricoldus”, Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift 43 (1916): 79–82, 108–121. 157 Krug, “Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient ”, 63–64. On the difficulties of translating Nachrichtenstelle and determining its overall character, see Krug, 74–80. 158 C. Snouck Hurgronje, “Heilige oorlog made in Germany”, De Gids 79 (1915): 115–147; Carl Heinrich Becker, “Deutschland und der Heilige Krieg”. Internationale Zeitschrift für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Technik 9, no. 7 (1915): 631–662; C. Snouck

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Pan-Islamic sentiment in the past, but with the start of the war he developed a new stance on these topics that stood in continuity with his overall utilitarian approach to both Islam and Islamic Studies. If Pan-Islamism was a utopian ideal or universal “feeling” with political potency, then this was not only something to guard against but also a possible ally where interests aligned.159 Concomitantly, the study of Islam only had a future if it served national interests: If Germany will win the war, Orientalism will thrive here; but it will be a national science. And if we lose, it will be altogether superfluous.160

Yet, as with many German colonial conversations on Islam, a closer look reveals that the ideological musings and political debates were rather disconnected from the more prosaic flows of colonial practice. When Schnee did indeed announce the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a in February 1915,161 this was not part of some carefully orchestrated German master plan as the GEA historian Michael Pesek has claimed.162 Instead, there was no

Hurgronje, “Deutschland und der Heilige Krieg: I. Erwiderung”, Internationale Monatsschrift für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Technik 9, no. 10 (1915): 1025–1034; Carl Heinrich Becker, “Deutschland und der Heilige Krieg: II. Schlußwort”, Internationale Monatsschrift für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Technik 9, no. 10 (1915): 1033–1042; Carl Heinrich Becker, “Islampolitiek”, De Gids 79 (1915): 311–317. The feud has been discussed in considerable detail, e.g. Peter Heine, “C. Snouck Hurgronje versus C.H. Becker: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der angewandten Orientalistik”, Die Welt des Islams 23/24 (1984): 378– 387; Schwanitz, “Djihad”; Dietrich Jung, “The ‘Ottoman-German Jihad’: Lessons for the Contemporary ‘Area Studies’ Controversy”, British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 41, no. 3 (2014): 247–265; Christiaan Engberts, “Orientalists at War: Personae and Partiality at the Outbreak of the First World War”, in Scholarly Personae in the History of Orientalism, 1870–1930, ed. Christiaan Engberts and Herman Paul (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 172–192. 159 Carl Heinrich Becker, Deutschland und der Islam, Politische Flugschriften 3 (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1914), 16–18. 160 Becker to Hurgronje, 17 September 1914, as quoted by Engberts, “Orientalists at War”, 187. 161 Schnee, Bekanntmachung. 162 Pesek, “Kaiser und Allah”; Pesek, Ende eines Kolonialreiches, 282–295.

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concerted effort to forward gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a to GEA, neither from Oppenheim’s Nachrichtenstelle or the Colonial Office in Berlin nor from Bonn, where Becker now had a “proper” chair in Oriental Philology.163 The only forward of the fatw¯ a to GEA that is documented in the archives came from the Kolonialinstitut in Hamburg, and even then it did not originate with the most obvious candidate: Becker’s successor Rudolf Tschudi. As a scholar of Ottoman Studies with close contacts to the Turkish consulate in Hamburg, Tschudi was the first to publish a transcript and translation of the fatw¯ a after seeing it in the Turkish newspaper Tanin.164 Yet unlike Becker, he was no enthusiast for the proclamation of gˇ ih¯ ad. While not ideologically opposed to mobilising “Pan-Islamic” sentiment to German advantage, he did not deem it easy to achieve, in particular with a militarily weak Turkey.165 Moreover, he thought that Muslims in GEA were not “culturally advanced” and could be excluded from geopolitical considerations, which might explain why he did not promote its colonial utility.166 Instead, it was his colleague Franz Stuhlmann who sought to place the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a into the hands of the GEA governor. In late January 1915 Stuhlmann informed the Colonial Office that he had forwarded twenty sets of Arabic prints about the fatw¯ a that the institute had received from Constantinople.167 He enclosed one set for Berlin consisting of the 16 November 1914 issue of the political journal al- Adl (edited by Mehmet Safa Bey in Istanbul), which contained the Arabic text of the 163 The same was true of Kamerun, with the version circulated there differing widely from the GEA text and what was available in Berlin, see Uwe Schulte-Varendorff, Krieg in Kamerun: Die Deutsche Kolonie im Ersten Weltkrieg, Schlaglichter der Kolonialgeschichte 13 (Berlin: Ch. Links Verlag, 2011), 69–70. 164 Rudolf Tschudi, “Die Fetwa des Schejch-ül-Islâm über die Erklärung des heiligen

Krieges, nach dem T.anîn, Nummer 2119 vom 15: November 1914”, Der Islam 5 (1914): 391–393. Tschudi probably obtained the paper via his teaching assistant and former Turkish consul general in Hamburg, Mustafa Refik, see Yavuz Köse, “Katalog”, in Osmanen in Hamburg – eine Beziehungsgeschichte zur Zeit des Ersten Weltkrieges, ed. Yavuz Köse (Hamburg: Hamburg University Press, 2016), 298. 165 Rudolf Tschudi, Der Islam und der Krieg: Vortrag vom 6. November 1914, Deutsche

Vorträge Hamburgischer Professoren 7 (Hamburg: Friederichsen & Co., 1914), 14–17; for a similar appraisal of Tschudi’s position, see also Remzi Avci, “Pan-Islamism and the Jihad Discourse of the German Orientalists in the First World War”, Jurnal AlTammaddun 14, no. 2 (2019): 25–35. 166 Tschudi, Islam und Krieg, 6. 167 Stuhlmann to Busse, Colonial Office, 23 January 1915, BArch R1001/865, 51.

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fatw¯ a alongside various articles about it, and an inlay or separate pamphlet of unknown origin and date, titled “What are the English doing with the Muslims?” In reply, the Colonial Office forwarded translations of articles from al-Naˇg¯ ah. that Schnee had sent before the war but made no reference to any attempt by Berlin to transmit the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a to GEA. Owing to the British blockade of all regular communications, Stuhlmann’s missive had to go via a Genuese shipping company to Port Amélia (Pemba) in the neutral Portuguese East Africa (Mozambique). From there it was still well over 1,200 kilometres to Morogoro, where Schnee had moved his administration. It is therefore quite unlikely, that Schnee’s publication of the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a , signed on 25 February 1915, was in any way prompted by Stuhlmann’s shipment just over a month earlier168 (Fig. 9.1). This is also clear from the Arabic text of Schnee’s announcement, which was very different from the original al- Adl rendering that Hamburg had forwarded. What rather lay at the basis of Schnee’s proclamation was a simplified German text of the fatw¯ a that had been published by wartime newspapers as early 27 November 1914 and probably made its way into the colony much earlier than Stuhlmann’s shipment.169 Schnee then had this translated into Kiswahili and Arabic. The Arabic is directly dependent on the Kiswahili version and employs a number of idiosyncratic phrases to the point of obscuring the original meaning in places.170 It was produced by Al¯ı bin Diwani, who John Iliffe later characterised as the

168 A previous shipment from Stuhlmann along the same route had taken nearly two months just to get to Mozambique, Anonymous to Stuhlmann, 29 December 1914, BArch R1001/865, 271. 169 “Die grüne Fahne des Propheten: Fetwa – Kaiser und Sultan – Erfolge der Türken zu Wasser und zu Land”, Kriegs-Echo: Wochen-Chronik, no. 16 (1914): 6–7. This is also the version that was been used by more popular books about the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a, Richard von Kralik, Die Geschichte des Weltkrieges: Das Jahr 1914 (Wien: Holzhausen, 1915), 266; e.g. Moll, Der Heilige Krieg (Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1917), 25–26. The two academic translations by Tschudi and Hartmann had no wider currency here, Tschudi, “Fetwa”; Martin Hartmann, “Kriegsurkunden”, Die Welt des Islams 3, no. 2 (1915): 2–6. 170 This is particularly the case in the last of the five verdicts of the fatw¯ a, which pronounces God’s wrath on all who live in the territories of Turkey’s enemies and help their war efforts.

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Fig. 9.1 Al¯ı bin Diwani, liwali of Tanga and author of the Arabic translation of the simplified German gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a 171 171 Photograph appended to Schnee, Bekanntmachung.

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“‘pro-British wali of Tanga,” and possibly reflects his lack of enthusiasm for the German announcement.172 The erratic path of the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a was complemented by the lack of importance attributed to it by Schnee himself. His situation report only a few days after his proclamation (16 March) did not mention the publication of the fatw¯ a , even as it asked for “complete war news about Turkey and Egypt.”173 The results appear to have been negligible as well. In his debriefing notes from 1919 as well as his published memoir, Schnee argued that the war had shown that “Islam in East Africa played no important political role.”174 Apart from some initial excitement, there had been no lasting effect of the Ottoman–German alliance. Likewise, a specially assembled corps of about one hundred “Arabs” was a good propaganda signal at the onset of war, but had to be dissolved due to its military weakness.175 It seems, the Germans were fooled by the ghosts of “Pan-Islam” that their insular debates of Muslim “danger” had conjured up. What they encountered in the colony was a much more hybrid, complex, and fleeting presence than the political subject of “Mohammedanism” they imagined to be confronting. There was, however, one last boomerang of the German politicisation of Islam when Schnee’s survey of 1913 fell into the hands of the British. The administration in Dar es Salaam was probably conscious of its incriminating potential and appears to have purged the record at the onset of war.176 Yet not all district offices did the same. When the British army captured Moshi in March 1916, they found Schnee’s instruction in the files and promptly used it for propaganda.177 A first mention in The Times came directly from the War Office less than one month after the capture of Moshi. It consisted of an almost accurate translation of Schnee’s decree, which was introduced as “conclusive evidence of widespread efforts on the part of the German Government to 172 Iliffe, Tanganyika, 267. Al¯ı bin Diwani had succeeded Abdall¯ ah bin Hemedi as liwali of Tanga in 1911, see “Habari”. 173 Schnee to Colonial Office, 16 March 1915, BArch R1001/86, 35–37. 174 Debriefing Report Schnee, submitted to Colonial Office 7 May 1919, in BArch

R1001/875, 127, p. 39 of the report; cf. Schnee, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 139–140. 175 Debriefing Report Schnee, 37–38; Schnee, 129–130. 176 Neither the decree nor the responses Schnee had received by 1914 were retained

in the relevant files. Cf. also Schnee, 136. 177 See Schnee, 137.

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suppress the Mahomedan religion throughout their African colonies.”178 One mistranslation made Schnee’s plans seem extremely radical because he is quoted as asking whether it was possible to prohibit Islam altogether, rather than forbidding government employees from assuming religious offices. A second article in The Times two days later cited more of the recovered material in Moshi as “proof of the hypocrisy of the Germans in pretending to be the friends and protestors of the Musulman faith.”179 It contended that Schnee had sought to suppress Islam throughout GEA with three official recommendations: to forbid government officials from following Islam, to prepare a register of mosques, and to instal a licencing and examination process for circumcisers. Schnee’s decree continued to be used in leaflet and press propaganda,180 the extent of which he only found out after the First World War. In the German post-War politics, marked by the “stab-in-the-back myth” (Dolchstoßlegende), Schnee was forced to mount a comprehensive defence. This was especially important because his old nemesis, general Lettow von Vorbeck, who had commanded the German East Africa campaign and had outrun the British until the end of the War, was now a hero in this myth of the undefeated German army that had succumbed only to internal intrigue. Schnee therefore blamed Christian missions for his controversial decree, contending that all his investigations had been prompted by the political pressures arising from missionary complaints whereas he himself had long concluded that the “measures, as they had been desired by some of the Christian missionaries, were either infeasible or inexpedient.”181 This final episodes aptly encapsulates the German “Islamic danger” debate. From the emergence of the “Mecca letters” to the gˇ ih¯ ad fatw¯ a, the government was constantly driven into battles over perceptions rather than coherent policy and found itself wrong-footed at almost every turn. The spectre of “Islamic danger” thus turned out to be a potent political 178 “Anti-Moslem Germany: Measures to Stop the Spread of Islam”, The Times, 8 April 1916, 8. Britain apparently also gave a copy of these decrees to the son of the Šar¯ıf of Mecca in an effort to shore up his support, McKale, War, 176. 179 “The German Defeat in East Africa: German Anti-Moslem Policy”, The Times, 10 April 1916, 7. 180 Schnee, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 138–139; cf. “Germany as Oppressor of Islam: Testimony from East Africa”, The Times, 13 March 1917, 3. 181 Schnee, Deutsch-Ostafrika, 136.

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liability, which could easily be exploited to attack German governance of Islam and promote special interests, whether in missionary work or Islamic Studies. Whenever the administration gave in to demands for the regulation and observation of Islam, it had already lost, because each concession would only reaffirm the “danger” and prompt new demands, while the various measures to “license” walimu, regulate dikr, or study the spread of Islam only solidified the contours of the¯ spectre. The resulting construct of political Islam was built on crude utilitarianism and an ignorance of Muslim politics, and hence it proved little more than a propaganda gimmick in the First World War. Yet, this is too simple an analysis still. The colonial government was a plural and diversified entity as were Muslims, missionaries, the settler press, scholarship, or international diplomacy. Accordingly, the utilitarianism of “Islamic danger” was at work within each of these groups as well. Wendt in Lindi and Herrmann in Tabora could drive fairly liberal governors to rather extreme policies by conjuring up conspiracies, arresting culprits, and selectively leaking information to the press. Even where governors disagreed with the information received, they often were obliged to follow leads, respond decisively to allegations of sedition, and publish regulations. Muslim leaders, in turn, could exploit the colonial anxieties about Islam to prove their loyalties and settle scores with Sufi reformers, or, conversely, use the polarised environment to rally anticolonial causes. Missionaries could temporarily unite around a common enemy of “Islamic danger” to hide their bitter inter-confessional feuds in public forums.182 For the settler press, the invocation of Muslim sedition was useful to attack unwelcome policies. And within the nascent Islamic Studies, the “Mecca letter affair” established the role of the expert in dividing and conquering “Pan-Islam.” The spectre of “Islamic danger” thus offered much gain for those who would invoke it, and the ghosts this left in the archive still beset scholarly analyses whenever Muslim politics or colonial Islam are constructed in a monolithic frame. Yet, the archive does not have to be employed this way. Instead of elucidating the genesis or character of “political Islam,” the German debate only reveals a genealogy of a discursive formation with this name, made up of interconnected and competing ideas, interests, reactions, and miscalculations. Tracing this debate in all its intricacies

182 Owzar, “Das Deutsche Reich”, 364.

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should go a long way toward dispelling the colonial phantom of “Islamic danger” and instead reconstruct the history of all that haunts political debates about Islam.

PART V

Conclusion

CHAPTER 10

Studying Colonial Islam: An Epistemological Coda

The underlying problem […] is that we constantly oscillate between the use of basic terms […] as generic concepts and their historicization. Categories such as religion, secularity, transcendence, or immanence are recognised as products of history, but at the same time they are utilised as analytical concepts, employed outside of the historical process that has brought them into being. The normative content of these terms thus is inevitably generalised and fully developed into a theory of religion, secularity, transcendence, or immanence. This abstraction results in normative demands becoming analytical patterns. —Reinhard Schulze, “Die dritte Unterscheidung”1

Studies of colonialism and Islam are in danger of engaging in a postcolonial double play. On the one hand, the colonial archive transports an ideological transparency that readily prompts historians to deconstruct the articulated concepts of Islam as an expression of the colonial order of knowledge and its strategies of domination. Invocations of Islam are therefore historicised in the colonial encounter, often with an interest of tracing out implications for the (mis)understanding of Islam today. 1 Reinhard Schulze, “Die dritte Unterscheidung: Islam, Religion und Säkularität,” in Religionen - Wahrheitsansprüche - Konflikte: Theologische Perspektiven, ed. Walter Dietrich and Wolfgang Lienemann (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2010), 189–190.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7_10

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On the other hand, the primary interest for such a study is typically one of contrasting colonial ideology with lived reality, and it is here that implicitly normative concepts of Islam creep back in. How did colonial knowledge systems correspond with the “self-understanding” of contemporary Muslims? How did administrators, settlers, or missionaries misinterpret “local Islam,” and how did their misunderstandings, categorisations, and political regiments influence and change an already constituted religious community? Studies of colonial Islam thus easily succumb to the same epistemological oscillation detected by Schulze in the epigraph above: the knowledge category of Islam is historicised and yet still employed as an analytical term. A recent example of this problem is Sebastian Gottschalk’s altogether insightful study of German and British colonial approaches to Islam in West Africa.2 In his introduction, Gottschalk notes that the colonial differentiation between Muslims and non-Muslims was perturbed by an “overlapping and entanglement between the categories of ‘race’ and religion,” which made it difficult to sort the population according to a “European matrix.”3 Nonetheless, Gottschalk then contrasts this hybrid and fragile order of knowledge about race and religion with “Islamic actors” in West Africa and their capacity to subvert colonial power.4 Yet, how can “Islamic actors” or “Muslims living there”5 emerge from the same archive that is so undecided whether it is primarily looking at African through the lens of race or religion? This problem is all the more virulent as Gottschalk acknowledges that his study is based almost entirely on European texts, which suggests that the identification of subjects as “Islamic actors” was imposed by colonial reckoning or Gottschalk’s tertiary analysis while it remains unclear what primary currency the selfidentification as “Muslim” had among those designated with this label.6 Thus, the colonial archive is used to deconstruct and reify “Islam in Kamerun,” all within the same historical analysis.

2 Sebastian Gottschalk, Kolonialismus und Islam: Deutsche und britische Herrschaft in Westafrika (Frankfurt am Main: Campus Verlag, 2017). 3 Gottschalk, Kolonialismus und Islam, 15. 4 Gottschalk, 17. 5 Gottschalk, 16. 6 See Gottschalk, 36.

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This study has attempted to avoid such a reification of Islam in East Africa by spotlighting the multiple and often contradictory conceptual surfaces on which “Islam” appears in the archive. This is not to argue that East Africans did not identify as Muslims or advanced their own concepts of Islam but to take seriously that the archival record is not informed by nor indeed capable of representing local identities and concepts. The task for a post-colonial historiography of Islam in GEA therefore cannot be to write a history of “lived Islam” under colonial rule. Rather, historians must reconstruct how certain representations of Islam arose and gained long-lasting plausibility while simultaneously deconstructing their analytical utility in careful measurements of what may lay underneath the colonial gaze. In short, the task is a post-colonial reckoning with the European study of Islam in Africa. It therefore seems appropriate to close this book with some epistemological reflections on the history of colonialism and Islam. The first task will be to map out how an object of “colonial Islam” can plausibly arise out of the diversity of articulations mapped out in this study. Secondly, we will investigate how analytical space can be cleared for notions of Islam that are not represented in the narrow colonial record. And finally, the book will close by reckoning with the ostensible “observer status” of the academic study of Islam.

10.1 Pluralising Concepts: A Genealogy of Entangled Pretensions The very nature of investigating a relationship between “Islam” and “colonialism” seems to juxtapose two monolithic entities, which upon closer inspection encapsulate a variety of practices, knowledge systems, and contentions. Colonialism itself was a contested arena in which multiple actors and institutions competed over interpretative authority and concrete policy in rapidly developing situations. As this book has shown, the resulting plurality in the German colonial perception of Islam was fundamental to the vicissitudes of German Islam policy and therefore needs to be regarded in greater detail than what is typically found in the pioneering but still fairly general research on this subject.7

7 See esp. Weiss, “German Images”; Habermas, “Debates”.

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Islam, on the other hand, is generally understood as an inherently plural configuration, in particular with regard to Africa, where Muslim cultural variety and dogmatic complexity is often cast in dichotomies of orthodoxy versus contextuality or margins versus centre.8 Yet, as Shahab Ahmed has recently argued in his radical emphasis of Muslim heterodoxy, the “conceptualisation of ‘Islam’ as theoretical object and analytical category” has yet to “come to terms with—indeed, be coherent with—the capaciousness, complexity, and, often, outright contradiction that obtains within the historical phenomenon” we call Islam.9 If, as Ahmed has shown, wine drinking has a Muslim tradition as well as the juridical proscription of alcohol, or if emanationist flirtations with pantheism are just as much a part of the Islamic theological heritage as strident monotheism, then a conceptualisation of Islam is needed that does not rely on dated dichotomies of centre and margin, or religion and culture.10 Thus the task rather becomes a description of the historical grounds of diversity rather than to detect some fundamental religious conflict or cultural process. As this study has shown, attempts to impose any such coherency on Islam in GEA has routinely led to misinterpretations of the cultural, political, and social plurality at work. Emphasising diversity and lack of coherency does not mean, however, that quotidian concepts of Islam are not real, operative, and productive. They generate and draw upon a rich collection of commonsensical and often incommensurate notions of Islam, that academic debates and classifications subsequently attempt to force into a coherent account. It is this primacy of quotidian notions that Michael Bergunder has sought to develop with his programme of a global history of religion.11 Bergunder juxtaposes two epistemologies of religion: Religion 1 is characterised as “explicit definitions of religion in the field of religious studies and related

8 For an excellent introduction into Islamic plurality in Africa that largely avoids this pitfall, see Roman Loimeier, Muslim Societies in Africa: A Historical Anthropology (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013). 9 Shahab Ahmed, What Is Islam? The Importance of Being Islamic (Princeton, NJ:

Princeton University Press, 2016), 6, emphases original. 10 Ahmed, 26–31, 57–73; of course this demand has a prominent predecessor in Talal Asad, The Idea of an Anthropology of Islam, Occasional Papers Series (Georgetown, D.C.: Center for Contemporary Arab Studies, Georgetown University, 1986). 11 Michael Bergunder, “What Is Religion? The Unexplained Subject Matter of Religious Studies”, Method & Theory in the Study of Religion 26, no. 3 (2014): 246–286.

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academic disciplines” while Religion 2 is defined as “unexplained religion” and demarcates the “contemporary, everyday understanding of religion.”12 The academic study of religions, Bergunder argues, has erroneously made Religion 1 the mainstay of debate, owing to its countless attempts at defining “religion” or arguing the futility of such endeavours. A broad consensus has emerged in these discussions that the root of this definition problem is the colonial imposition of a European concept of religion on the entire world. This assumption of a “Western invention” of global religion is, however, problematic because it centres in (predominantly) European knowledge production. This leads to rather thin histories of “religion” based mainly on scholarly texts or political programmes, and—in the strange double-bind that inhabits much of postcolonial scholarship—still firmly anchors the analysis in European agency. Local articulations, at best, become legible, and indeed often visible, only in their reaction to European impositions. Against such narrow histories, Bergunder shows that Religion 1 only gains its plausibility in reference to quotidian understanding, and hence it is Religion 2 which needs to form the subject matter for a global history of religion.13 Thus, the task of the historian is to show how different “everyday, unexplained” concepts (Religion 2) of religion gained global currency, and in the end became a plausibility test for scholarly definitions (Religion 1). Such “unexplained, everyday” notions of Islam have been central to this present study of GEA. Where concepts of Islam were found, they were often implied in different systems of recognition: from the stereotype of “Arabs” to the legal construct of extraterritoriality, and from evolutionary theories of “civilising” to concerns about political movements. Explicit attempts to determine the character of Islam were secondary to the machinations of everyday discourse and institutions, and they only gained currency inasmuch as they were plausible within a “practical” arena. As such, the politics of the “Mecca letter affair” were essential for the abstract missionary warnings about Islam to take hold. Similarly,

12 Bergunder, 525. 13 Bergunder, “What is Religion?,” 525. Even demands to abolish the concept of reli-

gion, made by scholars such as Timothy Fitzgerald, stand and fall with their quotidian plausibility if one is not to assume a complete autonomy (and irrelevance) of the academic study of religion toward regular language, Bergunder, 253–255.

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scholarly treaties on fiqh only mattered for as long as the German implementation of “native” jurisdiction had not yet rendered obsolete the task of codifying Muslim jurisprudence. Centring the study of Islam and colonialism on such “unexplained, everyday” concepts and practices, of course, does not seek to determine a social essence of colonial Islam but demarcates a line of historical inquiry in post-colonial research. Two of Bergunder’s theoretical foundations are particularly important here. Firstly, in following Foucault’s concept of the genealogy, historical research is interested in unmasking the very idea of a “Western concept of religion” as “a chimera of the origin.”14 It is not the task of a historian to find a “root concept” of religion, quotidian or otherwise, by which later developments can be explained. Rather, the genealogical inquiry seeks to expel such notions of origin by tracing, on the one hand, the “disparity” of influences that made up the historical descent of particular configuration, and, on the other hand, the “play of domination” in its emergence that gave rise to a predominant form. As such, the genealogy shows how from a range of possibilities emerged the “history of an error we call truth.”15 This is why it was essential for this study to draw in such breadth on colonial debates and representations of Islam. Long before expert writings on Islam emerged, and largely unencumbered by them, quotidian ideas about “Mohammedanism” determined German policy through a generalised discourse. These were interwoven with European institutions of law, education, Christian missions, and scholarship, and often not expressly articulated as a concept of Islam. Yet out of these vague and embedded notions of “Mohammedanism” emerged dominant concepts of Islam in a competitive struggle over the colonial project. Likewise, the German instrumentalisation of Islam in the First World War did not “originate” with Emperor Wilhelm’s Orient politics. This was only one of the many genealogical filaments out of which a (temporarily) predominant notion of “Pan-Islam” emerged in a power struggle between politicians,

14 Bergunder, 276; cf. Michel Foucault, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History”, in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice, ed. Donald F. Bouchard (Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 1977), 139–164. 15 Foucault, 144; for a further elaboration of this concept in the study of religions, see also Jörg Haustein, Writing Religious History: The Historiography of Ethiopian Pentecostalism, Studien zur außereuropäischen Christentumsgeschichte (Asien, Afrika, Lateinamerika); 17 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 254–257.

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missionaries, settlers, and scholars over managing the political “dangers” of Islam. Secondly, by drawing on Conrad and Randeria’s concept of “entangled histories” Bergunder deconstructs the very notion of an “autonomous West:” just as the category of the West itself can only arise in an entanglement with an “other,” the sedimentation of Western knowledge relied on its reproduction in the colonies. This required continuous hegemonic investments, even in the unequal terrain of colonialism.16 German Islam concepts did not emerge in a hermetic echo chamber of colonial politics, but were subject to unexpected challenges arising in the colonies. Insurgent “Arabs,” Khojas asking to be exempt from “native law,” or proliferating “Mecca letters” all prompted adjustments in colonial reckoning as well as their hegemonic enforcement. Similarly, the hesitancy against the government schools was interpreted as “Muslim” resistance to European education, leading to the establishment of “secular” schools long before their time.17 When this failed to yield the desired results, the religious rendering of education was enforced: the vyuo were consistently addressed and suppressed as “Koran schools.” The findings of this book thus amount to a critical genealogy of colonialism and Islam that seeks to escape the deceptive coherence of these identifiers. Studying Islam in GEA is not merely to analyse how in the past a lived religion encountered colonising entrepreneurs but to track a competitive and constantly evolving system of inscribing religious difference in quotidian affairs. The study of colonialism and Islam thus amounts to providing a thick account of the diverse and often incommensurable assumptions, praxes, and politics that lie beneath all articulated concept of Islam, whether in the colonial era or in the present.

16 Bergunder, “What is Religion?”, 278. 17 In fact, so-called “non-confessional” (bekenntnisfreie) schools are still a constitutional

oddity in Germany that does not actually exist in practice, see Partei der Humanisten, Sammlung der Antworten der Kultusministerien der Bundesländer auf die Anfrage vom shorttitle=Sammlung, 12.09.2018 zu “bekenntnisfreien öffentlichen Schulen” und “Religionsunterricht als ordentliches Lehrfach” (2018), accessed 1 May 2022, https://wiki.diehum anisten.de/wiki/images/d/de/PdH_Antworten_Reli_2018.pdf.

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10.2 Provincialising Europe: The Force of the Unrepresented Given the predominance of the colonial archive, such a genealogical analysis of conceptual entanglement still risks to foreground Europe even if its subject-like properties of coherent intent and free agency are withdrawn. In this way, European concepts continue to dominate the taxonomy of Islam. One particular concern here is the relationship of religion and (ostensibly secular) politics that is often implied in the study of colonialism and Islam. For example, David Motadel bemoaned in his introduction to Islam and the European Empires that research on religion and empire remained “overwhelmingly dominated by studies on Christian missions” and positioned his book as the “first comparative account of the history of Islam in the European empires.”18 Yet precisely this parallelism between “Christian missions and empire” and “Islam and empire” is problematic because the colonial boundary lines between religion and politics were demarcated and negotiated primarily in relation to Christian missions.19 To extend this Christian/European problem of religion and politics to the relationship between Islam and colonial empires risks applying the same kind of epistemic force that was inherent in the colonial appropriation of Islam itself: various aspects of Muslim politics, law, and education are forced into the dichotomy of religious practice versus secular politics.20 Thus, rather than to posit an Islamic response to German empire politics, this book has shown all along the importance of querying how certain reactions and institutions came to be identified and explained as “Muslim”: How and when was political resistance understood as “Mohammedan” rather than “Arab”? How did the institutions of law and education, and indeed even Kiswahili, become identifiable as “Islamic” in the politics of administration? Through what political and material praxes

18 David Motadel, “Introduction”, in Islam and the European Empires, ed. David Motadel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 1, 4, see also David Motadel, “Islam and the European Empires”, The Historical Journal 55, no. 3 (2012): 831–856. 19 See Richard Hölzl and Karolin Wetjen, “Negotiating the Fundamentals? German Missions and the Experience of the Contact Zone, 1850–1918”, in Negotiating the Secular and the Religious in the German Empire: Transnational Approaches, ed. Rebekka Habermas (New York: Berghahn Books, 2019), 196–234. 20 Ahmed, What is Islam?, 191.

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did Islam emerge as competitor to the Christian “civilising mission”? How did the “Mecca letters” become legible as expressions of “Pan-Islam”? These questions are all the more virulent as the religious identification of a particular political community or movement was regularly punctuated and displaced by racial and ethnic considerations.21 Taking stock of the differences between Christian and Muslim delimitation of the religious and the secular has of course been a regular demand in the study of Islam, most prominently in Talal Asad’s Formations of the Secular.22 Yet when Asad considered how šar¯ıa jurisdiction in Egypt was made to conform with the secular self-governing subject,23 he had extensive historical writings by Muslim reformers to draw on whereas Arabic sources on the same topic in this study were limited to a few lists of legal commentaries. How is one to avoid the predominance of European registers in the analysis of Islam when non-European voices are largely absent from the record? The two standard approaches to recovering the un- or underrepresented offer no satisfying solution here. The first would be to privilege non-European sources. Here, we are immediately confronted with their paucity and constant decontextualisation in the GEA record. Though Arabic documents like the “Mecca letter” or Um¯ar bin S.t.amb¯ul’s lists were analysed by this study in greater detail than before, it also became clear that this tiny fraction of the local record survived only because its preservation suited a particular purpose external to their creation: The “Mecca letters” were collected to document “insurgent Islam” but hardly written with such intent, while the drawn up lists of legal commentaries do not primarily reflect the traditioning of fiqh erudition but were penned in response to the colonial reflex of codifying “native law.” Other sources were more elusive still. Swahili poetry, a fairly well-preserved primary record, addressed Islam only in passing, and the attempt to insert a religionist perspective into such works was shown to be an anachronistic fallacy. One could of course leave the written record and turn to oral history, but here the methodological issues compound. Even if contemporary stories convey memory accurately over such a long 21 On this point, see also Becker, “Islam and Imperialism”; Haustein, “Religion, Rasse und Recht”. 22 Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003). 23 Asad, 205–256.

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historic gap, their telling and retelling tend to preserve what was remembered because it remained relevant to later developments and master narratives. A second standard approach to recovering a “native” voice in the colonial archive is to write detailed social histories in order to fathom the intentions and interests of the “actors” involved. In the case of GEA this approach has been particularly dominant in the study of the two main military conflicts, the “Arab Revolt” and the Maji Maji War. Yet in both cases, events were driven by fragile alliances and information politics, which makes it difficult to “lift the fog of war” and reconstruct coherent social movements.24 Moreover, claims to identifying prominent Muslim “actors” or “interest groups” were typically rendered moot by a close reading of the sources. One can, of course, seek to reconstruct motivations and intentions from socio-economic parameters, as Glassman has done for his study of the “Arab Revolt” or Pesek for his assertions about the spread of the “Mecca letter.”25 Yet such external analyses easily fall prey to Gayatri Spivak’s accusation of scholarly “ventriloquism”: historians hide their historiographical assumptions in the arrogated voice of those who do not actually speak in the archive.26 Spivak’s answer to the silence of the “subaltern” in the colonial archive takes an indirect approach. Invoking Derrida’s demotion of “the Subject of thinking” in favour of “the blank part of the text,” she calls for a more serious rendering of that inaccessible “Other of history” that nonetheless runs through the record: That inaccessible blankness circumscribed by an interpretable text is what a postcolonial critic of imperialism would like to see developed within the European enclosure as the place of the production of theory. The postcolonial critics and intellectuals can attempt to displace their own production only by presupposing that text-inscribed blankness. To render thought or the thinking subject transparent or invisible seems, by contrast, to hide the relentless recognition of the Other by assimilation. It is in the interest 24 Giblin and Monson, Maji Maji. 25 Glassman, Feasts and Riot; Pesek, “Islam und Politik”. 26 Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?”, in Marxism and the Inter-

pretation of Culture, ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg (London: Macmillan, 1988), 271–313; Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, A Critique of Postcolonial Reason: Toward a History of the Vanishing Present (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), 198–311.

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of such cautions that Derrida does not invoke “letting the other(s) speak for himself” but rather invokes an “appeal” to or “call” to the “quiteother” (tout-autre as opposed to a self-consolidating other), of “rendering delirious that interior voice that is the voice of the other in us.”27

Thus, instead of denying the subaltern a voice, as Spivak has often been accused of,28 she is interested in rendering their repressed silence as a trace of otherness that exceeds the signification of the archive. To render this otherness transparent, either as answer to colonial impositions or as some other “apparent” socio-political dynamic, is an act of assimilation that merely repeats the epistemic violence of the colonial archive, even if in the service of a different ideology. Rather, the task of “rendering delirious that interior voice that is the voice of the other in us” means to take seriously the interpretive enigma confronting post-colonial historians when faced with the silence of the archive and to develop this into a realm of possibilities—possibilities of action, interpretation, and identity that are not confined by the colonial text through which they run. The historian Dipesh Chakrabarty has developed this programme into his tangible approach of Provincialising Europe.29 Chakrabarty, though, departs from a rather different place than Spivak focusing not on subaltern silence but on the deafening noise of European historicism. An adequate critique of European historicism, Chakrabarty tells us, cannot consist of offering a nativistic counter-story of “postcolonial revenge.” The problem is rather that Europe is both “indispensable and inadequate” for understanding political modernity in non-Western nations.30 This task leads Chakrabarty to a model of historical analysis that juxtaposes two histories: a History 1 that articulates and inhabits the teleological perspective of European historicism, and a History 2 that consists of elements which are subjugated to this History 1 in its historical instantiation but continuously interrupt and punctuate its logic through their potency to exceed this forced embodiment. Chakrabarty develops 27 Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?”, 294, emph. orig. 28 Gayatri Spivak, “Subaltern Talk: Interview with the Editors”, in The Spivak Reader:

Selected Works of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, ed. Donna Landry and Gerald MacLean (New York: Routledge, 1996), 287–308. 29 Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). 30 Chakrabarty, 16.

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this approach in dialogue with Marxist historicism in a re-reading of Das Kapital. The accumulation of capital, according to Marx, is based on the availability of “abstract labour,” even more so, “abstract labour” is the logical presupposition of capital. A history of capital arises then, which posits its own antecedents in the past, for abstract labour is “both a precondition of capitalist production and ‘its invariable result’.”31 This is the dynamic of History 1. It incorporates a dominant historical logic, or a way of reading the archive, in which contingent historical constellations are inscribed into the past as necessary conditions for later developments. In the case of GEA, colonial actors had to posit a “primitive culture” for the teleological project of “civilising” to take hold. And if Islamic Studies was to gain political currency, an insurgent potential had to be “found” among Muslims as motivating cause. This process of inscribing prerequisites into the past entails subjugating heterogeneous historical elements into a teleological path. These are what Chakrabarty calls “encountered antecedents.” They form a History 2 that is not forward-looking to the teleology of the History 1 but nonetheless necessary for its instantiation. For capital, these antecedents are money and commodity, both modes of accumulation and exchange that the History 1 of capitalism must constantly subjugate to its own logic because they carry with them other potentials than forming capital. (Money can be squandered, commodities hoarded.) These “encountered antecedents” therefore constantly “interrupt and punctuate the run of capital’s own logic.”32 Chakrabarty’s model provides a helpful vantage point by which to consider the practice of Islam in GEA outside of the colonial gaze and beyond the colonial archive. On the one hand, it becomes clear why it was imperative to reconstruct the dominant logics governing German Islam perceptions in all their ugly dimensions. Tropes about “Arabs,” the racist insistence on “civilising,” or competitive interpretations of the political “liabilities” of Islam are not mere perspectival errors to be neutralised in the historical search for “lived Islam.” Instead, they are what forms the very archive of East African Islam at our disposal, which in its selective memory and interpretative history still guides a historians’ gaze and haunts scholarly debates. Thus making visible this History 1 in all its

31 Chakrabarty, 63. 32 Chakrabarty, 64.

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contingency and provinciality is essential because understanding colonial Islam is not a question of measuring the difference between the archive and “actual Islam,” but of reconstructing the surfaces that formed the colonial (and post-colonial) object of Islam. The task then is to expose colonial “Islam” as a forceful programme of instantiating a global history of Islam, which is nonetheless a provincial one because it is rooted in the contingent logics and feedback loops of the German colonial circuit. On the other hand, a History 2 of encountered antecedents that disrupt the German instantiation of “colonial Islam” emerged all along in our reading of sources. In this disruptive heterogeneity of History 2 the shadow of the unrepresented dwelled, the “blankness” of Spivak’s subaltern text, or Derrida’s “voice of the other in us.” It was not possible (nor indeed necessary) to render this History 2 fully transparent in order to determine its agency. Copying a “Mecca letter” may or may not have been intended as an act of political resistance, yet it certainly disrupted and changed colonial reckoning with Islam in GEA. Equally, it was clear that the colonial order of “native law” was exceeded and punctuated by the presence of Islamic traditions and their cosmopolitan connections, even if the precise role of particular fiqh traditions in local jurisdiction may be impossible to reconstruct. Likewise, the complex heritage of Kiswahili kept resisting the weight of a Christianised “Bantu” vernacular, and people addressed as Muslims ended up hedging their bets and “failed” to rise up to the Ottoman gˇ ih¯ ad. What emerges, then, in these disruptions of “colonial Islam” in GEA is an undetermined but close rendering of what other studies might call “indigenous Islam”: a form of local agency that may have been legible within the colonial registers of Muslim identity but was never fully apprehended by them.

10.3 Rhizomatic Topography: The Sprawling Study of Islam We must conclude on a cautious note, however. The juxtaposition of History 1 and History 2 is helpful for provincialising the colonial gaze and developing a better sense of the richer phenomena that it attached itself to. Yet as this study has shown, colonialism was a highly disruptive and productive imposition, enforcing its interpretative paradigms and reproducing its spectral visions of Islam in later history and historiography.

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Similarly, Bergunder’s insistence on the dependence of scholarly definitions upon the “unexplained, everyday” concepts of religion is important to anchor academic debate in a much broader field of historical research, but one must not lose sight of the normative hold academic theories have developed on “unexplained” religion once they were popularised. After all, through the right political contacts and well-placed interventions, Becker’s insistence on the political potency of the ummah ideal came to define Islam policy in GEA, even though he had never been in the colony himself. Both Bergunder’s and Chakrabarty’s dichotomous juxtapositions thus are helpful heuristic devices but should not be misread as ontological differentiations between a discourse of the ideal and a discourse of the real, between academy and practice. Positioning Kiswahili firmly in the Bantu language column or defining the contours of “native law” were not somehow secondary, abstract ideological articulations but institutional operations in the same entangled field of practices around “colonial Islam” as the teaching of Roman script or the whimsical pronouncements of a district officer in the shauri. This point about the entanglement of theory and practice is important for the academic study of Islam. The relative brevity of German colonialism has made it seem less imperative to consider its impact upon the much longer history of German Orientalism and Islamic Studies, and yet, as this book has shown, the very idea of Islamic Studies—as a discipline differentiated from a philological approach by its interest in contextual practice—emerged right within the context of Germany’s colonial endeavours and resonated because of its political utility. This point is recognised by a number of works in German colonial history and politics,33 but not so much, it seems, in Islamic Studies and Religious Studies in Germany. For example, Susanne Marchand’s history of German Orientalism contains broad comments about its relationship to colonial politics, but these appear to be designed to deemphasise the importance of the colonial context, perhaps motivated by the desire to profile German

33 See e.g. Wimmelbücker, Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari; Schaper, Koloniale Verhandlungen; Gottschalk, Kolonialismus und Islam; Levent Tezcan, Das muslimische Subjekt : Verfangen im Dialog der Deutschen Islamkonferenz (Konstanz: Konstanz University Press, 2012), 20–33.

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Orientalists as visionary, albeit imperfect forerunners of modern multiculturalism.34 She did, however, discuss Carl Heinrich Becker’s immersion into German colonial politics to some extent, which is more than the latest monograph on Becker achieved, where the discussion of colonialism is limited to a meagre seven pages of context.35 More limited still is Lorenz Trein’s otherwise meticulous analysis of the “discursive formation of the singular collective noun of Islam” around the turn of the twentieth century, which consists entirely of semantic analyses of (mostly) German texts without explicit, let alone analytical, references to German colonialism.36 Critiquing this forgetfulness of German colonialism in Islamic Studies is not to posit that, conversely, it was the predominant influence on the subject. The point is rather to root Islamic studies, and indeed the epistemological object of Islam, in the fullness of its historical connections with colonial practice. Proclaimed insights about Islam in this study were deeply enmeshed with epistemic regimes of nationhood, “civilising,” or law. They were entangled with warfare, parliamentary manoeuvres, newspaper feuds, and academic politics. Moreover, Islam, as a putative topic often formed more of a sub-text of colonial policy which only became manifest in occasional debates. Colonial Islam, therefore, was no abstract object of study, but a particular form of reckoning with difference that was inextricably connected with various colonial practices, including Islamwissenschaft . These observations about the inseparability of the “object” of Islam from the multiple practices by which it is demarcated chime with Deleuze and Guattari’s epistemological figure of the rhizome.37 Deleuze and Guattari are insist on a flat ontology that eschews a “transcendent principle and instead seeks purely immanent principles.”38 They position their model against Chomsky’s tree, against the generative method of filiation in a philosophy that is anchored in the unit, the ultimate metaphysical 34 Marchand, German Orientalism, 333–386, 495–498. 35 Haridi, Paradigma, 79–86. 36 Lorenz Trein, Begriffener Islam: Zur diskursiven Formation eines Kollektivsingulars und zum Islamdiskurs einer europäischen Wissenschafts- und Religionsgeschichte, Diskurs Religion 8 (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 2015). 37 Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, 3–25. 38 Brent Adkins, Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand Plateaus: A Critical Introduction

and Guide (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2015), 3.

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identity. Instead, Deleuze and Guattari affirm radical continuity. In a rhizome everything is embedded and relational, each filament is defined by the connexion and heterogeneity emerging from its differential relation to other filaments: identity becomes nothing more than a topographical effect. In such an ontology of multiplicity there arises “neither subject nor object, only determinations, magnitudes, and dimensions.”39 And inasmuch as there is no identity of the rhizome it is never ruptured in a significant way, but absorbs disruptions by growing around them. Where there is no identity but only the multiplicity of an assemblage, one does not find changing objects but permutations of relations. Rhizomes do not change in state but only in extension: they sprawl. This study of colonialism and Islam has clear affinities with such an ontology.40 The “object” of German East African Islam only arose in embedded articulations about Islam, connected with a host of other articulations (about race, language, law, etc.) and their concomitant micropolitics. This is why it was important to go far beyond a narrow remit of finding “Muslims” in the archive and study instead such disparate topics as the Romanisation of Kiswahili or the legal history of extraterritoriality. It is at once a truism and an enormous research challenge to conceptualise Islam as a purely historical configuration, that is, as an identity that dwells not above but only within particular historical articulations and practices. Naturally, such analyses result in multiplicity: invocations of Islam in GEA were not coherent, but political and embedded, and the practices they addressed always exceeded and subverted the concepts applied, even the label of “Islam” itself. Moreover, this multiplicity morphed over time through a number of asignifying ruptures. Missionary warnings of Islamic “danger,” settler politics, the San¯us¯ıya, Max von Oppenheim, feuds with al-Naˇga¯h., Becker’s opportunism, Schnee’s surveillance, and the Ottoman gˇ ih¯ad fatw¯a do not carry forces within them that somehow add up to the “consequence” of “Holy War, Made in Germany,” but they represent a gradual sprawl of “colonial Islam” from dismissive assertions of “fatalism” to a place where it made sense for a German governor to sign a gˇ ih¯ ad proclamation. A rhizomatic perspective refutes historicism and determined trajectories: “new” developments are not analytical 39 Deleuze and Guattari, Thousand Plateaus, 8. 40 For a more concrete elaboration of this affinity, see Jörg Haustein, “Global Religious

History as a Rhizome: Colonial Panics and Political Islam in German East Africa”, Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 33, no. 3 (2021): 321–344.

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explananda of how “Islam” or “Islam politics” changed but simply discursive permutations to map, including the embedded diagnosis of “newness.” It is important to note that Deleuze and Guattari’s ontology is not so much a metaphysical claim about the world as it is an epistemological reorientation. The rhizome does not “exist” but it arises through cartography, that is, an activity of mapping, “oriented toward experimentation in contact with the real.”41 Thus, the study of colonial Islam as envisioned in this book does not claim to uncover the hidden structure of the archive but simply committed to plotting plausible, extensive, and enticing paths through its documents. Neither does it aim to determine the history of colonialism and Islam, but it seeks to orient the current reader about a host of historical connections, contexts, and permutations, many of which have been forgotten, suppressed, or ignored. And instead of finding the repressed or subverted “native” voice of Islam in colonial history, it seeks to enable a speaking about repression and subversion in the colonial and post-colonial identity politics that still run through the historiography of East African Islam. Studying Islam thus becomes an exercise in epistemological expansiveness rather than the delimitation of a religious or social object. Yet this is not a call to an aloof arbitrariness in the study of Islam. Once the map is drawn, Deleuze and Guattari tell us, “the tracing should always be put back on the map.”42 For tracing is not the inverse operation of map-making, rather tracing a map is always oriented from an entry point toward an exit point. The map of colonial Islam drawn in this book is an invitation to explore, amend, and possibly redraw from entry points and toward exit points that matter to the current location of its readers. There are still significant discoveries to be made in the archives beyond the beaten paths in German East African history. There are contemporary discussions about Islam in Tanzania that would benefit from increased historical depth. There is an incipient reckoning with colonialism in Germany that no longer languishes in the shadows, but hardly meets the spotlight of school textbooks. And there are spooky echoes of colonial racism, prejudice, and Islamophobia that reverberate in our contemporary world. This, then, is the ultimate goal of studying colonialism and Islam: not to determine the past, but to enable a fuller present.

41 Deleuze and Guattari, Thousand Plateaus, 12. 42 Deleuze and Guattari, 13.

Appendices

A. Consulted Archives Bundesarchiv Berlin-Lichterfelde (BArch) Tanzanian National Archive (TNA) Geheimes Staatsarchiv, Preußischer Kulturbesitz (GStAPK) Landesarchiv Baden-Württemberg, Abt. Hohenlohe-Zentralarchiv Neuenstein (LaBWNSt) National Archives, Kew, UK (NAUK) Kirchliches Archivzentrum Berlin, records of the BMW (ABMW) Archiv der VEM, Wuppertal, records of the EMDOA (AEMDOA) Benediktinerkongregation von St. Ottilien (StOtt)

B. Parliamentary Papers and Legal Gazettes Verhandlungen des Preußischen Landtages (Proceedings of the Landtag of Prussia) (VerhPrLT) (1865) Verhandlungen des Norddeutschen Bundes (Proceedings of the North German Confederation) (VerhNB) (1867) Verhandlungen des Norddeutschen Bundes, Anlagen (Appendices to the Proceedings of the North German Confederation) (VerhNBAnl) (1867) Verhandlungen des Reichstages (Proceedings of the Reichstag) (VerhRT) (1874– 1914) Verhandlungen des Reichstages, Anlagen (Appendices to the Proceedings of the Reichstag) (VerhRTAnl) (1874–1914)

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7

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APPENDICES

Gesetz-Sammlung für die Königlichen Preußischen Staaten (Prussian Legal Gazette) (PGBl) (1865) Reichsgesetzblatt (Imperial Legal Gazette) (RGBl) (1879–1891)

C. Surveyed Periodicals The list below pertains to periodicals (and years) that were surveyed systematically. Articles from other periodicals were also used when encountered in the archive. All cited articles are listed in the bibliography. Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift (1886–1916) Beiträge zur Kolonialpolitik und Kolonialwirtschaft (1899–1903) Das Heidenkind: Ein Vergißmeinnicht für die katholische Jugend zum Besten armer Heidenkinder (1888–1918, varying subtitles) Deutsches Kolonialblatt (1890–1907) Deutsches Kolonialblatt, Beilage (1904–1909) Deutsche Kolonialzeitung (1884–1918) Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Zeitung (1899–1914) Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau (1908–1912) Kiongozi: Habari kwa watu wote wa Deutsch-Ostafrika (1906–1913) Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz (1908) Koloniale Zeitschrift (1900–1916) Missions-Blätter: Illustrierte Zeitschrift für das katholische Volk (1889–1919) Mittheilungen von Forschungsreisenden und Gelehrten aus den deutschen Schutzgebieten (1888–1906) Nachrichten aus der ostafrikanischen Mission (1887–1918) Pwani na Bara: Habari kwa watu wote wa Deutsch-Ostafrika (1910–1916) Rafiki-Kalender kwa watu weusi katika Deutsch-Ostafrika (1911–1916, varying titles) Rafiki Yangu: Habari kwa wakristu wa misioni wakatoliki na kwa watu wote waliozitaka (1910–1916) St. Ottiliens Missions-Kalender (1888–1919) Zeitschrift für Kolonialpolitik, Kolonialrecht und Kolonialwirtschaft (1904–1912) Zeitschrift für Kolonialrecht (1913–1914)

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Index

A Abd al-H . asan Al¯ı bin Muh.ammad, 236 Abdall¯ah bin Ah.mad, 225, 237 Abdall¯ah bin Hemedi, 179, 227 Abdall¯ah bin Sa¯ıd, 54 Abdall¯ah bin Umar¯ı, 282, 283 Abd al-Q¯adir bin Muh.ammad, 232 Abd-al-Qaw¯ı bin Abdall¯ah, 63 Abdul Hamid II, 310 Ab¯ı Šuˇg¯a, 239, 240, 242 abolitionism, 40, 122–124, 138 abortion, 261 Ab¯ u Bakr bin T.aha, 237, 297 Acker, Amandus, 141, 142 Aden, 152, 153, 232, 233 Aegean Sea, 306 Afghans, 340 Africa Inland Mission, 98 Afrika-Verein deutscher Katholiken, 120, 133 Aga Khan, 218 Aˇgam¯ı, 14, 21 Ah.mad bin Mwalim, 282

Ah.mad bin Naq¯ıb al-Mis.r¯ı, 247 Ah.mad (šayh), 284, 285 ˘ Ahmed, Shahab, 356 akida, maakida, 225, 227, 256, 282 al- Adl , 343, 344 Algeria, 218, 329, 330 al-H . ¯arti (clan), 48 ¯ al-Hat.ib al-Širb¯ın¯ı, 240 Al¯ı˘ bin Abdall¯ah Mazrui, 226 Al¯ı bin Diwani, 344, 345 Al¯ı bin Hemedi al-Buhriy, 226 Al¯ı bin Muaddin al-Bar¯aw¯ı, 72 Al¯ı bin Nasr, 174 al-iqn¯a, 240, 242 Allen, John, 61, 62 Allgemeine Missionszeitschrift , 89, 91, 340 al-mag¯ ˙ az¯ı, 61 al-Naˇg¯ ah., 324–326, 344 al-Naˇg¯ah., 95, 100, 368 al-Nawaw¯ı, 240–242, 247 al-R¯afi¯ı, 240, 241 al-Raml¯ı, 241 Alsace, 197

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 J. Haustein, Islam in German East Africa, 1885–1918, Cambridge Imperial and Post-Colonial Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-27423-7

417

418

INDEX

al-Š¯afi¯ı, 241 Ajam¯ı, 73–78, 80–82, 174, 257 Am¯ır bin Sulaym¯an al-Lamki, 56 Amur bin Nasur, 79 anti-Semitism, 21, 36, 153, 184, 311 Anton, Oswin, 235, 236 Arab, Arabs and civilising, 43, 67, 277 and Islam, 159 and native law, 22, 193, 194, 199, 211, 212, 220, 223, 228, 230, 231, 249, 262 and politics, 59, 60 and slavery, 217, 325 anti-Arab sentiment, 21, 36 as enemy, 41, 61, 348, 359 as foreign, 88, 111, 262, 290 integration of, 19 mobilisation of, 339, 346 presenting as, 36, 48 stereotype of, 3, 111, 229, 262, 357, 364 Arabdom, 4, 18, 20, 21, 27–31, 38, 41, 43, 45, 47, 59, 60, 67, 68, 111, 166 Arabic, 6, 49, 61, 151, 155, 172, 179, 181, 232, 233, 235–237, 240, 263, 312, 324, 331, 337, 343–345, 361 and revealed religion, 74, 79, 88, 90, 106, 113 as administrative language, 1, 91, 185, 301, 303, 331, 344 Bibles, 75 grammar, 180, 255 influence on Kiswahili, 70, 72, 74, 76–81, 101–109, 112, 113 literacy, 155, 161, 172, 181, 337 Romanisation of, 337 Arabness, 20, 28, 30, 31, 48, 49, 51, 59, 60, 66, 67, 110

Arab Revolt, 28, 30, 31, 41, 42, 48, 51, 55, 57, 58, 67, 362. See also rebellion of 1888 archive, 15, 353–355, 360, 362, 363, 369 Arendt, Otto, 35 Armenians, 214 Arnim-Muskau, Traugott Hermann von, 211, 327, 328 Arusha, 337 Asad, Talal, 361 Asia, 36, 243. See also South Asia askari, 4, 155, 212, 221, 222, 279, 280, 283, 295, 296, 298, 327, 334 Austria-Hungary, 306, 329 Axenfeld, Karl, 91, 97, 170, 324 B B¯a Fad.l, 246–251 Bagamoyo, 42, 48, 50, 52, 54–56, 67, 137, 145, 155, 157, 161, 174–177, 222, 237, 261, 279, 292, 297, 335, 337 Bakari bin Yusuf, 295 Balkans, 306 Balkan Wars, 95, 305, 325 Bantu, 21, 72, 77, 80, 89, 90, 98–103, 130, 255, 262, 301, 365, 366 baptismal names, 337 Barawa, 4, 297, 299, 301 Barazani, 99, 100 Bargash ˙ (Sultan), 49, 54 Barth, Christian, 82, 154–157, 161 Basel Mission, 152 Baumann, Oscar, 49, 50, 52, 53, 65, 156–158 Bavaria, 128, 196 Bebel, August, 165, 168, 209 Becker, Carl Heinrich, 14, 244–247, 259, 285, 308–311, 313–321,

INDEX

323, 329, 331, 332, 341, 343, 365–369 Becker, Felicitas, 11 Belgium, 1, 280 Benedictine Mission, 15, 59, 66, 94, 133, 166, 276 Bennett, Norman, 29, 30, 58, 59 Bergunder, Michael, 356–359, 366 Berlin, 3, 15, 16, 19, 43, 46, 78, 88, 128, 140, 152, 160, 167, 187, 193, 200, 203, 204, 208, 214–216, 248, 249, 260, 278, 283, 288, 291, 296, 297, 302, 311, 331–333, 343, 344 Berlin Conference, 119 Berlin, 154–158, 231–236 Bhabha, Homi, 111, 112 Bible Society, 109 Bible translation, 70–74, 98, 101–108. See also Kiswahili, Bible Biersteker, Ann, 61 birth control, 261 Bismarckburg, 335, 336 Bismarck, Otto von, 16, 43–45, 47, 64, 119–122, 195, 196, 204 Blank, Paul, 84, 161, 168, 172 BMW, 15, 41, 83, 89, 91, 97, 100, 105, 127, 132, 169–171, 262, 274, 324 Bohra, 4 Bombay, 232 Bondei, 180 Bonn, 343 Bremen Mission, 86 Britain, 14, 31, 43, 44, 123, 138, 145, 219, 303, 306, 307, 340, 344, 346, 347 British East Africa, 12, 19, 171, 179, 193, 303 Broomfield, Gerald, 107, 108 Brugsch, Heinrich Karl, 36, 37 Brussels Conference Act, 138, 140

419

Buchner, Charles, 88–90 Buddhism, 218 Budget Commission, 287, 290, 291 budget debate, 143, 165, 168, 208–210 Bühler, Georg, 216 Bukoba, 335, 337 Bülow, Bernhard von, 287 Bumbuli, 295 Bundesrat, 195, 196, 199 Burundi, 224 Buš¯ıri bin S¯alim, 47–56, 58, 59, 62, 66, 67 Büttner, Carl Gotthilf, 78–81 Bwana Heri, 51–53, 55, 58, 59, 66, 67 Byern, Gerhard von, 185 C Cairo, 2, 76, 311 caliph, caliphate, 33, 305–307, 310, 312, 313 caliphi, caliphate, 307 capitulations, 200 Caprivi, Leo von, 206 caravan trade, 3, 18, 19, 27, 28, 30, 32, 40, 45, 48, 49, 52, 55, 58, 67, 69–71, 112, 136, 182, 275, 280, 335 Catholic-Protestant rivalry, 120, 128–130, 135, 138, 159, 187, 328 Catholics and anti-slavery, 43, 120, 128, 139 and civilising, 118, 124, 127, 128, 130, 132, 142–144, 147 and colonial opposition, 120, 159, 224 and Islam, 316, 319, 326 and Kiswahili, 83 Catholic periodicals, 127, 135. See also missionaries

420

INDEX

Centre Party, 120, 121, 139, 143, 168, 187, 196, 208, 210, 275, 277, 290 chained imprisonment, 147, 148, 173, 302 Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 363–366 Chande, Abdin, 12 charter, 31, 203 chiefs. See jumbe, majumbe China, 200 Chomsky, Noam, 367 Christian-Muslim antagonism, 31, 60, 243, 314, 326 chuo, vyuo, 171–182, 359 circumcision, 97, 182, 261, 339, 347 citizenship, 195, 219 civil code, 244 civilising and Arabs, 41, 67, 117, 122, 123, 126, 127, 132, 136, 147, 325 and Christianity, 19, 21, 40, 45, 61, 65, 67, 74, 79, 113, 117, 118, 124, 128, 130–132, 139, 147, 151, 158, 159, 164–166, 185–187, 277, 315 and coercion, 127, 143, 146, 147 and education, 22, 118, 145, 150, 169, 172, 179, 328 and Islam, 19, 21, 33, 46, 117, 118, 126, 127, 130–132, 141–143, 147, 158, 159, 165, 169, 182–187, 212, 277, 314, 316, 319, 323, 343, 357, 367 and labour, 118, 127, 132, 144, 146 and language, 73, 77, 78, 81 and law, 192–195, 197–201, 203, 205, 208, 212, 222, 239, 255, 263, 265 and nationalism, 159 and race, 36, 73, 321, 364

and religion, 119, 130–132, 150, 151, 175, 186, 196, 200, 214, 216, 217, 229, 316, 321 and slavery, 123, 132, 142 civilising mission, 36, 117, 133, 210, 361 civil law, 216 Cleve, Georg, 84, 85, 102, 169, 295 CMS, 72, 75, 76, 97, 170 Cölestin, 133 Cologne, 120, 121, 123, 135 Colonial Congress, 277, 304 of 1902, 141 of 1905, 88, 89, 142, 182, 185, 271, 277, 322, 340 of 1910, 91, 314, 316, 320, 322, 327 colonial crisis, 19, 168, 278 Colonial Department, 138, 154, 158, 159, 208, 210, 211, 215, 219, 232, 234–236, 249, 250, 252–254, 287 colonialism and Islam, 353, 355, 359, 360, 368, 369 colonial law, 10, 22, 191–193, 199, 202, 205, 212 Colonial Office, 15, 19, 278, 287, 288, 291, 297, 307, 308, 313, 322, 327, 328, 330–333, 343, 344 colonial reform, 19, 287 coloureds, 139, 194, 206, 208, 212, 215, 217, 219, 220, 223, 224, 234 comity agreements, 167 Comoros, 303 Congo, 38, 40 Congo Act, 196, 330 conquest, 18, 21, 28, 30, 47, 48, 50, 53, 60, 67, 118, 122, 126, 127, 132, 141, 142, 146, 152, 186, 280, 299

INDEX

Conrad, Sebastian, 359 Conservatives, 129, 139, 143, 169, 196, 209, 210 Constantinople, 1, 343 constitution, 18, 22, 193, 195–199, 204, 219, 230, 265, 269 consul, 65, 83, 119, 195, 200, 201, 203, 214, 235, 283, 329 Consular Jurisdiction Act, 197–201, 203 consular law, 197–199, 201–203, 205 conversion, 4, 38, 71, 135, 180, 182, 224, 251, 278, 320, 327, 334, 337, 339 corporeal punishment, 147, 192, 211, 213, 222, 302 creole, 90, 103, 112 criminal law, 191, 208, 239

D dar al-isl¯ am, 307, 310, 311, 313 Dar es Salaam, 15–20, 42, 54–56, 66, 84–86, 98, 104, 141, 155, 157–159, 161, 170, 174, 176, 178, 207, 208, 215, 216, 222, 224, 229, 235, 237, 245, 251, 256, 262, 269, 278–280, 284, 288, 293–295, 297, 298, 302, 309, 310, 327, 333, 337, 338, 346 Das Heidenkind, 132–134, 136, 137, 141 dawa, 273, 276 debt bondage, 140, 262 Deleuze, Gilles, 367–369 Delius, Siegfried, 95, 101–103 Der Islam, 320 Dernburg, Bernhard, 19, 259–261, 278, 287, 288, 290, 291, 294, 311, 313 Derrida, Jacques, 362, 363, 365

421

Deutsche Kolonialzeitung , 32, 35, 36, 39–41, 82, 119, 120, 122, 123, 125–127, 130, 156, 185, 327, 339 Deutsche Post , 288 Deutscher Kolonialverein, 32, 35 Deutsches Koloniallexikon, 332 Deutsches Wochenblatt , 39 Deutsch, Jan-Georg, 9, 144, 146 Deutsch-Ostafrikanische Rundschau, 291–293 development, 7, 82, 117, 123, 128, 131, 139, 184, 243, 255, 305, 306, 316, 319, 321, 333, 339 Die christliche Welt , 320 Die Post , 129 Dieterici, Friedrich, 153 dikr, 301, 302, 348 ¯discipline, 131, 186, 221 divide et impera, 315, 318, 321 divorce, 228, 261 DKG, 35, 36, 120, 122–124, 151, 157, 327–329 DOAG, 16, 28, 35, 39, 41–44, 46–48, 54, 63, 64, 124, 127, 150, 155, 195, 203–205 DOAZ , 274, 276, 282, 288, 292, 293, 299, 310, 311, 323, 339 Dodoma, 335, 336 Domet, Ibrahim, 216 Dutch, 1 E Eberstein, Ernst Albrecht von, 225, 251 Edinburgh conference, 97 education, 360 and Kiswahili, 71, 82, 84, 86, 92, 97, 98, 103, 170 colonial, 255, 315, 359 Islamic, 22, 53, 142, 150, 152, 153, 157, 159, 160, 179–184,

422

INDEX

228, 237, 243, 248, 255–258, 359 missionary, 4, 78, 79, 83, 84, 88–92, 149, 150, 152, 158–161, 163, 165, 167, 168, 170, 317, 319 religious, 118, 119, 126, 145, 150–152, 160, 161, 166, 167, 169, 172, 181, 360 traditional, 22, 53, 82, 118, 178–182, 228, 303. See also government schools Egypt, 4, 36, 40, 47, 208, 240, 294, 311, 312, 324, 346 El Dschihad, 2 Elisa Tschagusa, 106, 107 EMDOA, 15, 78, 83, 84, 98, 101, 102, 133, 136, 138, 150, 151, 167, 340 Emin Pasha, 38, 39, 41, 47, 126 emperor, 2, 31, 120, 121, 193, 195, 197–199, 204, 205, 293, 326, 358 England, 1, 16, 33, 35, 43–45, 78, 118, 120, 121, 254, 313, 317, 339 English, 12, 43–45, 69, 70, 74, 75, 83, 108, 111, 129, 232, 312, 344 epistemology, 5, 354–356, 367, 369 Equatoria, 38 Erzberger, Matthias, 143, 168, 275–277, 294 Estonia, 202 Estorff, Ludwig von, 85 Ethiopianism, 278, 323 Europeanisation (of Islam), 316, 318 Evangelischer Afrikaverein, 135, 136 Evangelisches Korrespondenzblatt , 100 evolution, 74, 118, 168, 252 Ewerbeck, Karl, 251

executive, 18, 138, 139, 193, 199, 211, 213 extraterritoriality, 200, 265, 357, 368

F Fabri, Friedrich, 120, 121 Fabri, Timotheus, 121 family law, 251, 256 fanaticism and Arabs, 3, 41, 44, 218 and Islam, 20, 33, 37, 46, 60, 66, 67, 112, 126, 151, 158, 218, 279, 289, 294, 303, 309, 315, 326, 333, 334, 336 and Maji Maji War, 274 fatalism, 3, 20, 124, 368 fath. al-mu ¯ın, 242, 246 fatw¯ a , 1–3, 23, 95, 307, 309–311, 313, 339, 341–347, 368 Faza, 51 fetishism, 38, 111, 131 fiqh, 172, 225, 227, 230, 231, 236–238, 248, 258, 263, 358, 361, 365. See also Islamic law, jurisprudence First World War, 2, 3, 20, 23, 70, 93–96, 314, 339, 347, 348, 358 Fischer, Hans-Jörg, 191 flag, 42, 46, 50, 56, 63, 64, 66 Foreign Office, 19, 43–45, 87, 138, 153, 154, 157, 158, 195, 203, 215, 287, 311–313, 330 Foucault, Michel, 358 France, 1, 254, 303, 313, 317, 329, 331 Frederick II (of Prussia), 200 Free Conservative Party, 35, 328 French Colonial Union, 319 Friedrichs, Karl, 253 Froberger, Joseph, 184

INDEX

G Ganisya, Martin, 324, 325 g¯ ˙ ayat al-ihtis.¯ ar, 239, 240 ˘ genealogy, 355, 358, 359 German Conservative Party, 209 German (language), 1, 14, 81–92, 94, 101, 299 German Society of Islamic Studies, 329 German South West Africa, 19, 78, 85, 287, 303 Gesellschaft für deutsche Kolonisation, 16, 31 Gesellschaft für vergleichende Rechtsund Staatswissenschaft, 252, 253 Giblin, James, 272, 273 Giesecke, Herman, 55 gˇ ih¯ ad, 2–3, 23, 62, 64, 95339, 341–347, 365, 368 Giryama, 76, 77 Glassman, Jonathon, 29, 30, 53, 59, 60, 63–65, 362 Gleiß, Franz, 98, 99, 103, 106 Goßler, Gustav von, 120 Goans, 22, 206, 208, 214–217 Goldziher, Ignaz, 264 Gordon, Charles, 33, 38 Gottschalk, Sebastian, 354 Gott will es!, 135 Götzen, Gustav Adolf von, 18, 86, 167, 216, 218, 219, 272, 274–277 government employment, 3, 18, 137, 142, 158, 161–169, 334–336, 338, 347 government schools and Christianity, 90, 159 and graduate employment, 163, 164, 170

423

and Islam, 14, 77, 150, 157–161, 164, 165, 167, 182, 327, 338, 359 and languages, 77, 164 and missionaries, 78, 150, 155–166, 182, 183, 326 beginnings of, 152, 156 curriculum, 163 debate about, 118, 164, 168, 277 enforcement of, 157, 166, 173–178 expansion of, 161, 163, 337 feeder schools, 161–164, 174, 177 funding of, 154, 170 in Bagamoyo, 161, 174 in Dar es Salaam, 178, 179 in Kilwa, 177 in Pangani, 162, 174 in Saadani, 174 in Tanga, 81, 82, 152, 156, 160, 172, 325 recruitment to, 150, 151, 173–178 secularity of, 21, 118, 164, 186, 187 statistics, 177 Great Lakes, 123 Greenough, William, 73 Grohmann, Marc, 191 Guattari, Félix, 367–369 Gujarati, 69 Gwassa, Gilberg, 272

H Habari za Mwezi, 92 Habermas, Rebekka, 136, 306 H . ad.ram¯ut, 4, 153, 226, 246, 247 h.aˇggˇ , 37, 309 Hal¯ıfah (Sultan), 29, 53, 56, 58–60, ˘ 64 Halle, 92, 326, 327 Hamburg, 248, 253, 308, 313, 315, 329, 343, 344

424

INDEX

Ham¯ıs bin Muh.ammad, 282 ˘ Hamites, 36 H . anaf¯ı (madhab), 153, 232, 237 ¯ Harar, 45 Hardinge, Arthur, 214 Hartmann, Martin, 331, 332 Hartmann, Maurus, 136 h.¯ašiya, h.aw¯aš¯ı. See Islamic law, supercommentaries Hassan bin Omari, 256 Heinke, Ludwig, 165, 166 Heligoland-Zanzibar Treaty, 47 Hemedi bin Abdall¯ah, 59–61 Hemedi bin Makame, 302 Hemedi bin Rumaliza, 282–284, 292 Hemedi bin Said bin Abdall¯ah, 226 Herero, 19, 78, 287 Herrmann, Karl, 297, 298, 333–337, 348 Hespers, Karl, 139, 157 H . iˇg¯az, 283 Hil¯ali bin Rumaliza, 283 Hirsch, Leo, 15, 152, 153, 232–237, 244 historicism, 353, 354, 363, 364, 368 holidays, 63, 94, 334, 337 holy war. See gˇ ih¯ad Hunter, Emma, 105 Hunter, William W., 306, 307 Hurgronje, Snouck, 1, 243, 263, 264, 285, 309, 341 hut.bah, 307, 311, 313 ˘hybridity, 109–114 hymnal, 98

I Ibad.¯ı, 4, 33, 67, 119, 225, 235–237 ibn H . aˇgar al-Haytam¯ı, 241, 242, 246, 247 Ibr¯ah¯ım al-B¯agˇ j¯ ur¯ı, 239–243 ¯ıd al-ad.h.¯a, 63

iˇg¯aza, 145 iˇgm¯ a , 243 Iliffe, John, 6, 270, 272, 344 ilm, 180, 257 im¯ am, 156, 339 immiscibility (law), 194, 203 India, 214, 215, 218, 219, 285, 294, 306, 307, 311 Indian Ocean, 12, 232, 243, 246, 247 Indians, 20, 22, 165, 172, 175, 181, 206, 208, 211, 213, 216, 230, 251, 261, 274, 290, 306, 307, 326 Indonesia, 309 inheritance law, 153, 228, 231–236, 251, 257 intermarriage, 95 Internationale Vereinigung für vergleichende Rechtswissenschaften und Volkswirtschaftslehre, 253 international law, 202, 231, 249, 265 Iraq, 285 Iringa, 337 ¯Isa bin Ah.mad, 301 Islam and Africans, 117, 118, 130, 159, 187, 230, 260, 276, 320, 326 and Arabdom, 27–31, 38, 41, 43, 45, 47, 59, 60, 67, 68 and politics, 2, 3, 22, 84, 271, 291, 298, 299, 303, 321, 334, 359 and resistance, 66, 269, 270, 290, 310, 312, 323, 327, 334 and revealed religion, 74, 79, 130 and social class, 67, 334 as docile, 20, 22, 23, 290, 293, 301, 304 as fanatical, 3, 20, 37, 44, 46, 60, 66, 68, 112, 150, 158, 218, 289, 303

INDEX

containment of, 168, 306, 314, 318, 320–322, 338, 347 conversion to, 37, 38, 66, 71, 180, 182, 224, 251, 278, 316, 317, 327, 334, 337, 339 German policy toward, 3, 84, 142, 182, 277, 291, 295, 301, 304, 315, 322, 334, 336, 339, 347 in Africa, 6, 12, 33, 37 regulation of, 23, 301, 329, 330, 348 spread of, 20, 71, 72, 79–82, 89, 118, 185, 289, 303, 316, 319, 321, 328, 332–336, 338, 348 study of, 319, 329, 332, 333, 342, 353 Islamic danger, 4, 20, 22, 88, 142, 185, 228, 271, 278, 287, 290, 293, 294, 299, 304, 305, 312, 314, 315, 319, 327, 338, 347–349, 353, 359, 368 Islamic law, 65 and customs, 194, 201, 218, 230, 233, 251, 255–258, 261 and political authority, 65 character of, 263 codification of, 22, 231–235, 243, 260 commentaries, 234, 235, 237–243, 259, 309 elision of, 22, 336 integration of, 126, 193, 243 judiciary, 195, 199, 203, 204, 207, 213, 220, 234, 237, 256 jurisdiction, 42, 231, 361 jurisprudence, 18, 194, 206, 266 supercommentaries, 242–246, 257 textbooks, 232, 234, 240, 259. See also fiqh Islamic Studies, 14, 231, 245, 259, 263, 306, 308, 320, 329, 342, 348, 364, 367

425

Istanbul, 293, 305, 307, 343 Italy, 305 J Jackson, Robert, 58 Jagodjo, 209 Japan, 200 Japheth, 36, 38, 74 Jewish, 38, 153 Johannes Al¯ı, 133 judicial appeal, 213 judicial oversight, 18, 204, 205, 210, 284 judiciary, 195, 199, 203, 204, 207, 213, 220, 223, 234 native advisers in, 220, 223 Juma bin Musa, 246 jumbe, majumbe, 30, 48, 54, 65, 84, 225 jurisdiction bifurcation of, 212, 220, 358 consular, 200–202, 206. See also consular law delegation of, 18, 64, 193, 208, 224, 225, 365 of DOAG, 64, 195, 203–205. See also Consular Jurisdiction Act Justice Department, 195 K kadhi, makadhi, 205, 206, 221, 226, 227, 279, 280. See also q¯ad.¯ı, qud.¯ah Kamerun, 152, 192, 208, 211, 330–332 Karema, 222 Karstedt, Oskar, 228–230, 244, 259, 339 Kayser, Paul, 138, 139, 154, 159–163, 210, 234 Kenya, 69

426

INDEX

Kerala, 242 Khartoum, 33 Khesi bin Ibrahim, 246 Khojas, 4, 217, 218, 359 Kichagga, 92 Kidugala seminar, 169 Kieran, John, 58 Kigali, 336 Kilimanjaro, 88 Kilimatinde, 162, 288, 298 Kilwa, 42, 55, 56, 179, 225, 237, 251, 256, 271, 282, 292, 335, 337 Kimvita, 75 Kiongozi, 93–95, 163, 276, 325, 326 Kipanga (chief), 296 Kirk, John, 83 Kisarawe, 138 Kishambala, 92 Kiswahili, 74. See also Arabic, influence on Kiswahili and Arabic, 73–75, 79, 84, 100–111 and cultural identity, 12, 27, 72, 109, 112, 113 and hybridity, 21, 78, 83, 94, 99, 101, 103–105, 365, 366 and Islam, 21, 61, 71, 75, 77, 79, 80, 84, 87, 88, 90, 91, 95, 96, 98, 99, 105, 108, 109, 113, 360 and missionaries, 21, 69, 72, 75–89, 99, 105, 150, 153, 159, 164, 260 as administrative language, 19, 71, 72, 91, 113, 224, 226, 296, 344 Bible, 72–76, 98, 103, 106, 109 Christianisation of, 90–97, 105, 108 instruction, 75, 78–83, 151, 155, 258

poetry, 76, 79, 101, 103 Romanisation of, 14, 21, 70, 72, 74–78, 87, 91, 110–111, 171, 182, 368 scholarship of, 70–78 sources, 6, 61, 70, 181, 247 spread of, 71, 88, 94, 182, 183 standardisation of, 70, 71. See also periodicals, Kiswahili kit¯ ab al-muh.arrar, 240 Klamroth, Martin, 100, 103–106, 262, 274, 340 Knechtstedten, 141 Kohler, Josef, 249–255, 259–266 Koloniale Rundschau, 310 Koloniale Zeitschrift , 147, 185, 186, 322, 340 Kolonialinstitut, 253, 308, 315, 343 Kolonialpolitische Korrespondenz, 289 Kolonialrat, 88, 157–161 Kondoa-Irangi, 337 Konduchi, 256 König, Bernhard Woldemar, 201, 203 Koponen, Juhani, 7, 117 Krämer, August, 150–152, 155, 160, 226 Krapf, Johann Ludwig, 72–74, 76, 77, 80, 84 Krelle, Hermann, 262 Krenzler, Eugen, 152 Kreuz-Zeitung , 87 Kulturkampf, 120, 196 Kurasini, 141 Kyrgyzstan, 244

L labour abstract labour, 364 breaking of contract, 147 forced labour, 34, 125, 127, 275, 276

INDEX

labour issue, 4, 19, 21, 42, 118, 128, 146 migrant labour, 71, 218 plantation labour, 144, 146, 147 recruitment, 19, 132 training, 21, 118, 132, 144, 183, 185, 186. See also civilising, and labour; slavery, slave labour Laclau, Ernesto, 60 Lake Nyasa, 271 Lamu, 51, 226 language policy, 71, 80 Latin, 108 Lavigerie, Charles, 40, 119, 121, 122, 128 League of Nations, 70 lease (of East African coast), 30, 34, 35, 42, 43, 205 Ledebour, Georg, 168 Lederer, Claudis, 191 legal positivism, 203 legislative, 193, 195–199 Leist-Wehlan affair, 208, 211 Leue, August, 54, 56 Liberals, 169, 196, 275, 278 Libya, 305 Lieber, Ernst, 210 Liebert, Eduard von, 18, 85, 140, 161, 165, 166, 217–219 Lindequist, Friedrich von, 330 Lindi, 42, 55, 56, 136, 251, 270, 276, 279–281, 284, 290, 292, 293, 295, 302, 335, 348 lingua franca, 83, 87, 91 Livingstone, David, 123 Livingstonia, 41 liwali, maliwali, 54–56, 63, 65, 66, 145, 174, 179, 205, 206, 225, 227, 235, 280, 302, 345 Loimeier, Roman, 181 London, 43–46 Lorraine, 197

427

LpMS, 88, 98 Lutindi, 136

M Mabruk, 209 madhab, mad¯ahib, 4, 231–235, 248 ¯ ¯ Mafia, 298 magic, 95, 295 Magila, 180 mahd¯ı, 33, 46, 126, 277 Mahdism, 33, 41, 46, 326 Mahenge, 337 M¯ajid (Sultan), 49 Maji Maji War and colonial policy, 287 and Islam, 271, 276–278, 327 and Mecca letter, 270, 281, 284, 298 and religion, 272–274, 276–278 brutality of, 19, 272, 274, 279 budget debate, 168, 275, 277 scholarship on, 9, 270, 272, 362 Majio, 296, 297 Makonde, 252, 292 Malawi, 41 M¯alik¯ı (madhab), 4, 230 ¯ Maraba, 252 marabouts, 330 Marchand, Susanne, 366 marriage law, 233 Martens, Friedrich Fromhold, 202, 203 Martin Abdall¯ah, 101 Martin, B.G., 11 Marx, Karl, 364 Massow, Adolf von, 210 Mathews, Lloyd, 63–66 Matumbi Hills, 271, 274 mawlid, 248, 302 Mazrui, Ali, 53, 71 Mbaraka bin Shomari, 256–258

428

INDEX

Mbogoni, Lawrence, 12 Mbulu, 271 Mecca, 226, 242, 247, 306, 307 Mecca letter affair, 22, 271, 278, 287, 292, 293, 298, 323, 334, 357 and immigration debate, 289 and rebellion, 20, 270, 284, 299, 361 consequences of, 278, 326, 327, 329, 334, 347 content of, 284 historical-critical edition of, 14, 285, 286, 361 investigation into, 270, 279, 283, 288, 306, 361 political debate on, 294 proliferation of, 280, 282, 285, 286, 297, 359, 362, 365 scholarship on, 270, 309, 312–314, 341 Medina, 270 Mehmet Cemâlüddin Efendi, 307 Mehmet Safa Bey, 343 Meinecke, Gustav, 37, 119, 130, 131 Meinhof, Carl, 89–91 Meinicke, Gustav, 36 mercenaries, 40, 42, 47. See also askari merchants, 34, 36, 40, 55, 120, 144, 200, 214, 215, 223, 290 Merensky, Alexander, 127–129 Methner, Wilhelm, 217, 333, 334 Meyer, Felix, 253–255, 260, 262 Meyer, Georg, 197 Meyer, Hans, 49, 53 Meyer, Ludwig, 172, 173 Middle East, 311, 312 Mikindani, 42, 55, 56, 251, 282 millennialism, 273 mimicry, 88 minh¯agˇ al-t.¯alibin, 240–243, 246, 247 miracles, 298, 333

missionaries and civilising, 73, 117, 130, 132, 133, 142–144, 147, 159, 183–185, 316, 319 and colonialism, 48, 123, 168, 187, 317, 320, 322, 333, 340, 359, 360 and government, 80, 84, 120, 121, 138–140, 142, 143, 158, 164–166, 171, 173, 182, 186, 317, 319, 326, 328, 331, 333, 334 and Islam, 72, 78, 82, 88–92, 96, 99, 100, 129, 143, 151, 159, 170, 183–184, 270, 271, 279, 293, 294, 303, 314–318, 325–327, 335, 340, 343, 347, 348, 368 and Maji Maji War, 274, 276, 277 and native law, 224, 226, 260, 262, 263 and rebellion, 28–31, 39, 43, 47, 48, 51–56, 58–61, 65, 67 and vernacular languages, 21, 81, 83–86, 91–93, 110–111, 113 indigenous employees of, 98, 99, 164, 169, 170 missionary conferences, 89, 97–98, 170 mission schools, 4, 151, 163, 164, 167–168, 326, 338 mission societies, 40, 135, 158, 260 scholarship on, 10 under British rule, 70. See also education, missionary; government schools, and missionaries; Kiswahili, and missionaries Mission Studies, 70, 88, 128 Mkilindi, 296 modernisation, 7 Mohammedanism. See Islam

INDEX

Mohoro, 337 Mojola, Aloo Osotsi, 109, 110, 113 Mombasa, 46, 72, 75, 226, 251, 283 monotheism, 184, 216, 316, 356 Monson, Jamie, 272, 273 Moravian Missions, 83, 88, 170 Moroccan Crisis, 312 Morogoro, 99, 171, 292, 327, 337, 344 Moshi, 209, 335, 337, 346, 347 mosque, 46, 62–64, 180, 181, 279, 295, 297, 302, 318, 331, 335, 337, 347 Motadel, David, 360 mshenzi, washenzi, 64, 71, 100 Mshirazi bin Dimani, 157 Msimulizi, 92 Mtang’ata, 53 Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, 257 Muansa, 335, 337 Muh.ammad bin Az¯ız, 237 Muh.ammad bin Half¯an. See Rumaliza ˘ Muh.ammad bin Q¯asim, 55, 58 Muh.ammad bin Sulaym¯an, 54, 225 Muh.ammad Nas.¯ar, 240 Muh.ammad (prophet), 96, 282 Müller, Max, 216 Münchener Allgemeine Zeitung , 128 muqadimmat al-h.ad.ramiyyah, 246–248 mwalimu, walimu, 118, 155, 157, 180, 181, 221, 228, 246, 248, 256–258, 270, 282, 297, 301–303, 318, 334, 335, 337, 348 Mwanza, 271 mwashenzi, washenzi, 301 mwaswahili, waswahili, 71 mzungu, wazungu, 61

429

N Nachrichtenstelle für den Orient, 2, 341, 343 Nagl, Dominik, 192 Nama, 19 Naqšband¯ı, 232 nasari, 61 Nas.r bin Al¯ı, 225 Nas.r bin Half¯an, 281, 283, 284 ˘ Nas.r bin Sulaym¯ an al-Lamki, 54, 55 nationalism, 28, 35, 58, 78, 108, 132, 150, 185, 288, 289, 311, 312, 328, 341 native law and Islam, 4, 18, 194, 202, 231, 251–254, 262, 264, 365 and religion, 261 codification of, 223, 255, 260 demarcation of, 18, 206, 211, 212 exemptions from, 194, 201, 213, 214, 216, 217, 359 judiciary, 195, 223 jurisdiction, 204, 206, 208, 211, 213, 216, 217, 219, 223–225, 227, 228 primitivist approach to, 194, 250, 251, 253, 255, 260, 266 scholarship of, 259 surveys of, 249–254, 263 Nauhaus, Carl, 89, 103 naval blockade, 44, 46 nazari, 61 Nazi Germany, 2 Netherlands, 303, 317 Neue Preußische Zeitung , 87, 129, 290 Neukirchener Mission, 98 Neulangenburg, 335, 337 newspaper feud, 292, 324, 326, 367 nih¯ ayah al-muh.taˇg , 241, 246 Nimtz, August, 11, 270 nisbah, 48, 49, 51

430

INDEX

North Africa, 39, 230, 285, 301, 311 North German Confederation, 200, 201 North German Missionary Society, 81 Nyasa, 40, 45 O observation. See surveillance Omani, 4, 27–30, 32, 39, 48, 49, 51–56, 59, 63, 67, 112, 126, 172, 181, 206, 212, 213, 225 Omari (kadhi), 279–281 Oppenheim, Max von, 1, 3, 311–314, 341, 343, 368 Orientalism, 231, 308, 320, 342, 366 Orientalists, 1, 14, 22, 152, 243, 264, 308, 320, 367 Orthodox, 326 Ottoman alliance with Germany, 2, 20, 95, 314, 317, 325, 339, 340, 346 caliphate, 307, 310, 313 Empire, 200, 201, 305, 306, 336, 340 Studies, 343 Young Ottomans, 310. See also sultan, Ottoman; Šayh al-Isl¯am ˘ P Paasche, Hermann, 275 pagan, paganism, 33, 72, 132, 149, 183, 217, 244, 277, 321, 326, 333, 334, 336, 337, 339 Palestinian, 2 pan-African, 29 Pangani, 16, 42, 48–50, 52, 54, 56, 62–64, 150, 162, 173, 174, 212, 237, 337 Pan-Islamism, 23, 279, 312, 314, 342, 358, 361 Parsis, 22, 216

Passarge, Siegfried, 131, 321 patricians, 29, 30, 64, 67 patronage, 28, 29, 42, 49, 66, 158 Pemba, 53, 344 periodicals Arabic, 92, 324 colonial, 14, 15 Kiswahili, 14, 15, 92, 94, 163, 182, 325 missionary, 14, 15, 92–94, 127, 135, 324 Perrot, Karl, 289, 290 Persia, Persian, 153, 216, 220, 340 Pesek, Michael, 8, 342, 362 Peters, Carl, 16, 31, 32, 34–36, 38, 120, 203, 204, 209, 210 philology, 72, 231, 248, 255, 263, 343, 366 pig breeding, 337, 339 Pike, Charles, 71 plantation economy, 19, 278 plantations, 34, 49, 144–147, 275, 296 planters, 20, 34, 49, 56, 146, 186, 278, 288–291, 295 polygamy, 33, 34, 165, 184, 217 Port Amélia, 344 Porte, 2, 200, 308 Portuguese, 33, 214 Portuguese East Africa, 344 positive law, 264 procedural law, 213 progress, 118, 138, 155, 172, 180, 184, 316, 317, 321 propaganda, 16, 119, 125, 129, 143, 314, 320, 326, 334, 335, 338, 341, 346, 348 proselytism, 53, 66, 73, 151, 155, 297, 318 Protestants and anti-slavery, 41, 120, 139 and civilising, 128–130, 333

INDEX

and and and and

colonial opposition, 187, 209 government schools, 152, 154 Islam, 87, 170, 316, 326 language, 72, 77–79, 81–83, 90, 92, 95, 99 Kiswahili institute, 98, 99, 168–171, 340 missionary conferences, 89, 97, 170 Protestant periodicals, 94, 319, 340. See also missionaries provincializing, 363, 365 Prussia, 200, 201 Pugu, 54, 59, 66 Pwani na Bara, 93–96, 324, 325, 340

Q q¯ad.¯ı, qud.¯ah, 54, 72, 205, 233, 237. See also kadhi, makadhi Q¯adir¯ıya, 4, 8, 145, 286, 297–299 quotidian concepts, 356, 358, 359 Quran, 66, 82, 118, 150, 157, 161, 172, 179, 202, 248, 309, 337

R race, 18, 31, 34, 36, 37, 39–41, 43, 44, 47, 73, 80, 88–90, 212. See also civilising, and race racism, 10, 117, 118, 124, 127, 130, 132, 144, 146, 147, 166, 186, 192, 217, 229, 278, 321, 364, 369 Rafiki Kalender, 94 Rafiki Yangu, 96 rainmaking, 298 ramad.¯ an, 96 Ramiya, 145 Randeria, Shalini, 359 rape, 63, 97, 208 Raum, Johannes, 98–100

431

rebellion of 1888, 28, 121, 205, 212. See also Arab Revolt Rechenberg, Albrecht von, 7, 19, 147, 224, 260, 261, 270, 278, 280, 283, 287, 288, 290–295, 297, 299, 301–304, 306–308, 310–313, 323, 330–333, 337, 338 Reichard, Paul, 127 Reichstag, 15, 16, 18, 19, 46, 47, 121, 122, 139, 140, 142–144, 196, 199, 208, 210, 259, 263, 275, 287, 293, 328, 332, 338, 339 religion and Arabdom, 27–31, 38, 41, 43, 45, 47, 59, 60, 67, 68, 111, 112 and conflict, 28, 29, 31, 33, 39, 41, 58, 61–63, 68, 119, 145, 254, 299, 339, 356 and jurisdiction, 193–195, 197–203, 205, 216, 217, 220, 230 and poetry, 79 and politics, 82, 360 and social change, 7, 166, 273 evolutionary theories of, 74, 80 freedom of, 196, 329, 330, 333 global history of, 356, 357 in periodicals, 92–95 religious movements, 277, 292, 294, 295, 304 religious neutrality, 158, 186, 319, 329, 333 Swahili, 257 unexplained, 357, 366. See also civilising, and Christianity, and Islam, and religion; Maji Maji War, and religion; native law, and religion; paganism

432

INDEX

resistance, 8, 9, 20, 21, 28–31, 33, 42, 47, 48, 54, 55, 58–60, 63, 66, 67, 71, 151, 269–272, 306, 359, 360, 365 revolution, 2, 310, 314 Rheinisch-Westfälische Zeitung , 88 Rhenish Mission Society, 120 rhizome, 367–369 Richter, Julius, 88–90, 183, 340 Richter, Klaus, 191 Rintelen, Viktor, 139, 196 Rößler, Walter, 236 Rode, Maximilian von, 251, 252 Roehl, Karl, 105–108 Rohlfs, Gerhard, 119 Roman, 173 Rome, 305 Roy, Willy von, 292 Ruanda, 105, 224 Rufiyi, 279 Rumaliza, 280–284, 286, 289 Russia, 1, 244

S Saadani, 16, 51, 52, 54, 85, 173, 335 Sachau, Eduard, 14, 233–246, 248, 250 Š¯afi¯ı (madhab), 4, 14, 119, 225, 243, 247, ¯248, 257, 307 šah¯ ada, 297 Said, Mohamed, 12, 269–271 Salisbury, Marquis of, 43, 44, 46 San¯ us¯ıya, 330, 336, 368 šarh.. See Islamic law, commentaries šar¯ıa. See fiqh; Islamic law Saxony, 196 Šayh al-Isl¯ am, 1, 307, 311, 330, 339 ˘ scandal, 194, 208, 292 Schacht, Joseph, 264 Schall, Martin, 209, 210 Schaper, Ulrike, 192

Schele, Friedrich von, 18, 157, 158, 160, 208, 250 SchGG, 193, 194, 196, 198, 199, 203–205, 211, 216, 230, 249, 263 Schleinitz, Kurt von, 280, 282, 283 Schlesien. See Protestants, Kiswahili institute Schlottau, Ralf, 191 Schnee, Heinrich, 1, 3, 20, 313, 332–335, 338, 339, 342, 344, 346, 347, 368 Schröder, Martin, 192 Schulze, Reinhard, 354 Schumann, Christian, 89 Schwartz, Karl von, 89 Schwarze, Wilhelm, 277 Schweinfurth, Georg, 39, 124, 321 Scramble for Africa, 32 secular, secularity, 21, 71, 118, 161, 164, 165, 177–182, 186, 187, 353, 359–361 Sega, 180 Seidel, August, 123 Semboja, 50, 52, 53, 58, 66, 67 Semites, Semitic, 36, 75, 89, 112, 184 Serbia, 1 serfdom, 125, 127, 129, 132, 140, 144, 147, 218 settlers, 20, 183, 278, 288–291, 293 Sewa Haji, 175, 176 Shafi¯ı (madhab), 153 ¯ Shambala, 105 shauri, mashauri, 220–222, 224, 227, 230 Shindo, 54, 55 shoe (of the Prophet), 295 Š¯ıa, 4, 218, 237, 309 Š¯ır¯az¯ı, 4 slavery abolition of, 19, 118, 123

INDEX

and Arabdom, 4, 20, 27–31, 38, 41, 43, 45, 47, 59, 60, 67, 68 and Islam, 3, 118, 132, 142, 143, 164, 183, 218 and missionaries, 117, 118, 127, 131, 136, 138, 141, 142, 183 and social status, 144, 165 anti-slavery, 21, 40, 43, 44, 46, 120–123, 126, 128, 129, 133, 138, 139, 142 anti-slave trade bill, 138 continuation of, 19, 118, 129, 138, 225 domestic, 139, 140, 147 freed slaves, 127, 137, 138 manumission, 140, 145, 187 ransoming, 129, 132, 141 regulation of, 139, 140 revaluation of, 165, 187 scholarship on, 9 self-emancipation, 145 slave labour, 118, 146 slave trade, 18, 21, 31, 33, 34, 39, 41, 45, 55, 59, 112, 118–122, 124, 135, 138, 144, 145. See also serfdom Social Democrats, 139, 143, 165, 168, 169, 187, 196, 208, 209, 276, 287 Soden, Julius von, 18, 147, 151–154, 206–208, 211, 212, 222, 235, 250 Solf, Wilhelm, 143, 327–329 Somalia, 4, 36, 309 sorcerers, 274, 275, 277, 296 SOS, 78, 79, 81, 86, 89, 154, 233, 236, 240, 244, 255, 331 South Africa, 73, 127 South Asia, 4, 246, 307. See also India Southern Highlands, 83, 103, 271 South Zanzibar, diocese of, 167 sovereignty, 193, 195

433

Spiß, Cassian, 167 Spiritan Fathers, 50, 88, 137 Spivak, Gayatri, 362–365 Spreiter, Thomas, 94 Ssongea, 337 stab-in-the-back myth, 347 Stanley, Henry Morton, 38, 39, 45, 126 Steere, Edward, 74–78 Stoler, Ann, 6 St. Ottilien. See Benedictine Mission St. Paul-Illaire, Walter von, 84, 155, 159, 160, 225, 237, 245, 250 Stuhlmann, Franz, 308, 343, 344 subaltern, 362, 363, 365 Sudan, Sudanese, 4, 33, 39, 41, 45–47, 126, 151, 212, 230 ˇ S¯ ufi bin Muh.ammad al-Gabr¯ ı, 297 Sufism, 4, 23, 67, 181, 295, 297, 299, 309, 312, 330, 335, 348. See also t.ar¯ıqah; Q¯adir¯ıya Sulaym¯an bin Nas.r al-Lamki, 56, 57, 65, 235–237, 286 Sulayman bin Said, 79, 80 Sulaym¯an bin Sayf, 54, 55, 59, 60, 66 sultan, 225, 296, 303 of Zanzibar, 16, 27, 28, 30–33, 35, 43, 45, 46, 49, 52, 53, 55–59, 63, 65, 66, 179, 205 Ottoman, 1, 33, 305, 307, 311, 312, 325, 341 Sunni, 4, 33, 67, 218, 226, 307 surveillance, 23, 304, 313, 330, 331, 337 surveys, 23, 231, 232, 234, 235, 237, 239–241, 243, 245, 248–253, 306, 329, 331–333, 335, 338, 339, 346 Swahili, 1, 3, 4, 30, 33, 39, 51, 59, 67, 72, 74, 78, 80, 99–103, 170, 226, 255, 258

434

INDEX

Syria, Syrians, 22, 208, 214, 216, 217, 311 T Tabora, 55, 126, 219, 220, 229, 297, 298, 333, 335, 337, 348 Tägliche Rundschau, 32, 128, 289, 291 Tanga, 12, 42, 53, 54, 84–86, 92, 101, 138, 150, 152, 154–164, 167, 168, 172–175, 179, 180, 225–227, 237, 240, 245, 250, 251, 260, 296, 325, 335, 345, 346 Tanganyika, 34, 48, 67, 70, 95, 106, 108, 205, 226, 280, 286 Tanin, 343 Tanzania, 6, 11, 12, 18, 113, 117, 269, 270, 272, 285, 369 t.ar¯ıqah, t.uruq, 11, 145, 309 taxation, 35, 42, 234, 276, 279 Taylor, William Ernest, 74–78 The Times , 346, 347 Tippu Tip, 45 TNA, 15 Toeppen, Kurt, 223 Togo, 211, 330–332 tracts, 75, 98–100, 246 trade, 4, 18, 27, 28, 31–35, 39–41, 45, 46, 52, 63, 71, 119–124, 126, 135, 136, 138, 144, 145, 199, 232, 280, 290, 296, 302, 318, 324, 334, 335. See also caravan trade; merchants translation, 21, 61, 70, 73, 75, 76, 92, 100, 101, 104–106, 109, 113, 153, 232, 233, 236, 285, 296, 326, 343–346 Trein, Lorenz, 367 Triple Entente, 1, 2, 23, 313 Trotha, Lothar von, 252 Tschudi, Rudolf, 343

tuh.fah al-muh.taˇg, 242, 246 Tunisia, 329 Turco-Italian War, 305, 325, 333, 336 Turkey, Turkish, 38, 201, 202, 208, 214, 294, 312, 313, 324, 340, 343, 346. See also Ottoman

U Uganda, 45 Ujiji, 5, 222, 229, 298, 335 ulama, 226 Uluguru, 271 Umar bin S¯alim, 224 Umar bin Šayh al-Kilifi, 237 ˘ ul, 225–228, 240, Umar bin S.t.amb¯ 245, 361 UMCA, 74, 75, 92, 93, 98, 107, 180 umdah al-s¯alik wa-udah al-n¯asik, 247 Urundi, 98 Usambara, 88, 98, 136, 180, 295 Usaramo, 276 ustaarabu, 3, 19, 28, 51, 67, 110, 112, 145, 182 Usumbura, 335, 337 utenzi, 103 Uways al-Bar¯aw¯ı, 297 Uzaramo, 169, 171, 271

V Velten, Carl, 86, 255–258 vernacular. See missionaries, and vernacular languages Vierke, Clarissa, 61, 62 Vohsen, Ernst, 42 Vorbeck, Lettow von, 347

W Wabonde, 226 Wadigo, 226, 250, 251

INDEX

Wadoe, 262 Wagner, Norbert, 191 Wahehe, 18, 261 Wakilindi, 296 Wakonde, 103 Wakwere, 262 Warneck, Gustav, 89, 128, 130, 137 Wasaramo, 262 Waseguja, 226 Washambaa, 52, 226, 260 Waswahili. See Swahili Wazegua, 261 Weber, Max, 264 Weckner, Falk, 191 Wendt, Walter, 279–284, 292, 295, 299, 301–304, 348 West Africa, 334, 354 West Pomerania, 89 Wetzstein, Johann Gottfried, 153 White Book, 121 White Fathers, 40, 184 whites, 206–208, 212 Wilhelm I (Emperor), 2, 3, 120, 305, 358 Wilhelmstal, 295, 296, 335, 337 Wilkinson, John, 30, 59, 60 Windthorst, Ludwig von, 121, 122, 196 Wissmann, Hermann von, 17, 39–41, 47, 48, 52, 54, 56, 60, 122, 125, 126, 128–130, 147, 160, 180, 206, 207

435

Wohlrab, Paul, 99 women, 83, 138, 183, 233, 279, 280, 297, 301 Wrochem, Johannes von, 235

Y Yah.y¯a bin Half¯an, 235, 236 ˘ Yah.y¯a bin Khalf¯ an, 241 Yakobo Lumwe, 101, 102, 106 Yao, 55 Yemen, 15, 152, 153, 232 Young Turks, 324

Z Zahn, Franz Michael, 82–85, 130 Z¯ahur bin Muh.ammad, 297, 300, 301 Zanzibar, 9, 16, 19, 27, 28, 30–33, 35, 43, 45, 46, 49, 52–59, 63, 65, 66, 69, 74, 75, 92, 95, 100, 119, 138, 141, 179, 181, 195, 203, 205, 214, 235, 236, 241, 251, 280, 282, 283, 286, 295, 301–303, 324 Zayn al-D¯ın al-Mal¯ıb¯ar¯ı, 246 Zeischold, Erwin, 326, 327 Zelewski, Emil, 63–65 Ziegler, Gustav, 211, 223 Zirimu, Pio, 71 Zizow, 89 Zorn, Philipp, 202, 203