Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering: Committing to Society, Committing to God [1st ed.] 9783030506636, 9783030506643

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NEW DIRECTIONS IN ISLAM

Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering Committing to Society, Committing to God

Merve Reyhan Kayikci

New Directions in Islam

Series Editors Joshua M. Roose Institute for Religion, Politics and Society Australian Catholic University Melbourne, VIC, Australia Bryan S. Turner Institute for Religion, Politics and Society Australian Catholic University Melbourne, VIC, Australia Emeritus Professor, Graduate Centre City University of New York New York, NY, USA

The New Directions in Islam series will promote creative ways of conceptualizing the practice of Islam in new, challenging contexts and present innovative and provocative interdisciplinary studies examining intellectual, political, legal, economic, and demographic trajectories within Islam. Although recognised as the world’s fastest growing religion, many Muslims now live in secular societies where Islam is a minority religion and where there is considerable social conflict between Muslim communities and the wider society. Therefore it is vital to engage with the multitude of ways by which Muslims are adapting and evolving as social and cultural minorities. How are they developing their faith in line with local and national customs? How are converts and subsequent generations adapting in these challenging contexts? This series moves beyond dichotomies about radicalism, citizenship, and loyalty evident in the proliferation of descriptive and repetitive studies of Islamophobia and Orientalism, which have become both negative and predictable. Rather, contrary to the perception of Muslims as victims of secular modernity, we are interested in ‘success stories’ of Muslims adapting in and contributing to society at local, national and even transnational levels, such as the case of Muslim middle classes in Canada, the United States, South Africa, and Argentina. This series will go beyond the geographic boundaries of the Middle East to examine Islam from a global perspective in vastly different contexts from Brazil to Vietnam and Austria to Papua New Guinea.

More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14746

Merve Reyhan Kayikci

Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering Committing to Society, Committing to God

Merve Reyhan Kayikci Department of Semitic Studies University of Granada Granada, Spain

New Directions in Islam ISBN 978-3-030-50663-6 ISBN 978-3-030-50664-3 https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3

(eBook)

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 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 image: © Qweek/Getty Stock Images This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Foreword

Much of the social science that addresses Islamic topics has an emphatic political dimension, reflecting the hyperpoliticization of the Greater Middle East. An important compensating trend in the social-cultural anthropology of Islam has been to investigate the ‘everyday.’ Merve R. Kayikci’s book falls in this category, but the background is complicated. She carried out her fieldwork among Turkish women volunteers in Belgium starting in 2014. In late November 2015 and 2016, terror strikes in Paris and Brussels provoked serious ethnic tensions in Belgium and accusations that the country had failed to integrate its immigrant population. Meanwhile, Turkey experienced political turmoil, peaking in an attempted coup in July 2016 followed by a fierce clampdown on free expression that is still in force. Kayikci, who defended her doctoral thesis (on which this book is based) at the University of Leuven in 2018 and now works at the University of Granada, inherits a strong Turkish tradition of free debate and enquiry, including in the social sciences, which was still apparently unextinguished as late as early 2015. The subsequent actions of the Turkish government deeply affected the lives of many of her interlocutors, who

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also had to contend with a new atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust in Belgium. The result is that Kayikci has had to present her findings with the same degree of ethical reserve that would be normal if she had been describing one of the hyperpoliticized crises in the Middle East. Use of pseudonyms for interlocutors is common practice but, in addition, Kayikci gives no systematic account of the structure and policies of the associations in Brussels and Antwerp whose members’ volunteering activities are described in these pages. There are good reasons. The unfolding events in both Europe and Turkey caused them to feel ‘the walls around them narrowing.’ Kayikci, compensating for the lack of factual evidence and contextualization that she is able to present (though informed readers will be able to read between the lines to some extent), gives us insight into the lifeworlds of her interlocutors, through a wealth of vignettes and interviews which would surely have been very difficult for anyone other than a woman of Turkish origin to obtain. The reader is invited to see these women as individuals striving with conflicting priorities, for instance between volunteering and traditional familial care roles. We are not asked to pigeonhole them as representing a particular tendency within Islam. Kayikci has a surefootedness in explaining terms of Islamic doctrine, and a voracious appetite for picking up interpretative cues from all the human sciences. With its rich theoretical texture, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering has many threads that can be pulled out. In what follows, I have chosen a few of them. The anthropological study of charitable action has been dominated by varying interpretations of Marcel Mauss’s brilliant essay The Gift (1925), according to which, however much donors may persuade themselves that their actions are disinterested, they are inevitably parties to a transaction whereby they receive a reciprocal reward—whether social prestige, the blessings and obligation of beneficiaries, or merit in a celestial economy after death. Kayikci is one of a number of anthropologists who, while

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fully appreciative of Mauss, have in different ways tried to elude the grip of Maussian transactionalism.1 Time and labor, rather than material resources, are the gifts of these Turkish Muslim women, a ‘muted’ minority. Following a line of thought explored by Ira Lapidus and Saba Mahmood, Kayikci turns to the Arabic term malaka as “that inner quality developed as a result of outer practice which makes practice a perfect ability of the soul of the actor.” Kayikci’s interlocutors proposed by themselves, without prompting by her, the concept of a ‘second self,’ a second start in life as a different person that committed volunteering can, in their view, provide. The nafs or ego, the desiring or impulsive part of the soul, is seen by them as an obstacle to be overcome in order to establish a pure bond with God. “Please God: make me small in my eyes and great in yours.” Whereas emotional detachment is generally recommended as good practice for volunteers, the absence of love, compassion, and mercy is highly problematized by these Muslim volunteers, and the cultivation of those emotions is considered as part of cultivating the ethical self. Thus, according to them, the individual is not a proper Muslim as long as one is unable to invest in bringing oneself to have an affective connection with the people one volunteers for. Kayikci concludes that time spent on volunteering is experienced as having a divine value when it is approached with the correct niyya (intention)—even mundane acts such as baking a cake for charity. These women followed Islamic injunctions as regards prayer and some degree of gender segregation in their personal lives. A few of them were professionals with higher degrees; most of them worked in manual jobs. The kernel of their associative life is the sohbet —Turkish for conversation—where a number of women meet to discuss a religious book or sermon video. But their response to the challenge of belonging to an ethnic and religious minority has been to reach out to the wider secular society—denying that there is an incompatibility but without giving up

1 Erica

Bornstein’s Disquieting Gifts: Humanitarianism in New Delhi (2012) is cited by Kayikci. See also Amira Mittermaier, Giving to God: Islamic Charity in Revolutionary Times (University of California Press, 2019), on Egypt, see Emanuel Schaeublin, “Islam in Face-to-Face Interaction: Direct Zakat Giving in Nablus (Palestine),” Contemporary Levant, 24:2, 2019, 122–140.

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on what they see as non-negotiable. They often make light of the traditional Islamic emphasis on the merit acquired by making charitable gifts discreetly rather than publicly. Sohbet teachers encourage their students to read Belgian newspapers and watch local news channels rather than tune into Turkish channels via satellite. There is little or no impulse to convert non-Muslims: rather, they set out to lead an exemplary life. None of their associations’ activities aimed at the public at large had any religious content. They included a Mathematics Olympics, a project to bring thousands of schoolchildren to take a mathematics test in a large examination hall; a partnership with UN Women in Brussels promoted as “He4She,” a solidarity campaign to promote gender equality; and a three-day symposium entitled “Diverse talents for the future of Europe.” Comparison with volunteering by Christian and Jewish women would be enlightening. This book should also feed into some current debates about the relationship between self-care and self-sacrifice. James Laidlaw and Jonathan Mair, anthropologists who specialize in dharmic religions, have asked whether altruism and egoism are completely opposed, or can be mutually reinforcing goals.2 There is room for comparison between the Islamic concept of nafs, expounded by Kayikci’s interlocutors as an obstacle to spirituality, and the more radical idea that the self is illusory. More practically, this book should be hailed and used as a resource for countering stereotypes of Muslims and particularly Muslim women— especially welcome at this time of rising nationalism and xenophobia, aggravated by immense economic strains. May 2020

2 Prospectus

Jonathan Benthall University College London London, UK

for workshop, “Benefiting self and others: understanding altruism, egoism and the space in between,” Cathedral Lodge, Canterbury Cathedral, 29 May 2018.

Acknowledgments

While the past year that I have invested in writing this book has been one that I have spent mostly in my study, alone and lost in my data and books, the past four years have by no means been ‘individualistic.’ I have to say how lucky I have been to have an unconditionally supportive environment, both intellectually and emotionally. And although it was me who ‘wrote’ this book, it is the product of years of sharing, discussion, motivation, and selflessness that were so generously provided to me by my supervisors, colleagues, family and friends. It is for this reason that I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who helped me along this trajectory, who believed in me till the very end, and who saw the merit of my work even at times when I could not. Your support is worth, and has meant, more than I can express here. I owe my deepest gratitude to Nadia Fadil for her guidance, supervision, and willingness to take under her wings a project which, at that time, was the first she would supervise. I knocked on her door for the first time as a young Master’s student trying to find her focus, her voice, her style of writing. It is impossible for me to convey the many different ways she has influenced me intellectually, always pushing me to think further,

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to question further, to go deep into the details that are often taken for granted in our field. For these and many more inputs, I will forever be grateful. This book is based on my doctoral project and I would like to show my greatest appreciation to Erkan Toguslu, Steven van Wolputte, Jonathan Benthall, and Chia Longman for guiding me in my research and always providing insightful feedback. I must also thank Amira Mittermaier for her gracious advice and guidance in the last couple of years, during which I had the chance to meet her and correspond about my work. I would like to thank Anya Topoloski for our discussions on relationality and relational ethics. Her intellectual influence on this work is great. I offer my deep gratitude to the IMMRC for funding me throughout my research. I would like to thank my colleagues and friends for their companionship over the years. Their contributions to me as a person and as an academic have been invaluable, more than maybe they even know. Thank you Mieke Groeninck, Johan Leman, Jaafar Alloul, Jeremy Mandin, Naasiha Abrams, Laura Galian, Nadia Hindi and Elena Arigita, Roya Imani, Nathal Dessing, Thijl Sunier, Catherine Trundle, Nil Mutluer, Nella van den Brandt, Tilmann Heil, and my Race and Religion reading group to whom I owe so much of my intellectual development. Very special thanks go to Sertac Sehlikoglu, who has been a friend and mentor throughout the years. Many thanks to Justin, who invested the time and effort to proofread the manuscript. For their constructive comments and feedback, I express my special thanks to Poppy Hull and Geetha Chockalingam and the anonymous reviewers of Palgrave Macmillan. Thanks go to the Palgrave Macmillan team for guiding me through the publication process. It was a great pleasure working with you. I also have to mention my beloved friends, who have stayed my ‘beloved friends’ although I have been nearly absent in their lives over the last couple of years. I owe them much of my sanity, as they have always generously provided me with love and comfort: dearest Fulya and Seda, Buket, Busra, Esma, Fatma, Neslihan, Neslihan, Sema, Tuba, Vladiana, Pinar, Ebru, Melike, Busra, Gizem (those who have still been there regardless of distance), Burcu, Kubra, Elif, Yasemin, Mesude, Serap,

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Gamze, Makbule, Sibel, Ulku, Nur and Sveta. There are so many more names that I could not possibly fit into a few pages. Thank you all… I am indebted to those closest to me for enduring this journey together with me. For that I would like to thank my family, although I can never thank them enough. Thank you, Riza, for standing beside me always and reminding me to “finish the book.” Finally, I would like to thank the amazing women without whom this project could not have even started. Although anonymity requires that I do not reveal their names, they deserve acknowledgment the most. The female volunteers in Brussels and Antwerp were incredibly generous with their time and patience, as I literally followed them around the cities, to their homes and most intimate spheres. How grateful I am to have met them, and have them become part of my life over the years. The past two years have been rough for them, as a new wave of political and social hostility has hit them, coming from their motherland. Witnessing lives change so drastically has had its own impact on me. However, what has amazed and humbled me the most is how my interlocutors continued doing what they do, and in the meantime were still incredibly open to me. It is to those who have been affected by this hostile wave that I dedicate this book.

Contents

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Introduction

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Getting Acquainted with the Volunteers

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Caring Is a Part of Believing and Why the Ethical Is Relational

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Reviving a Forgotten Tradition, Infaq

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5 The Authority in Sisterhood

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6 When Volunteering Touches the Experience of Time

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7 The Adab of Da’wa

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8 Transparency, Visibility and the Mahram

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Conclusion: Further Thoughts on Volunteering

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Epilogue

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Glossary

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1 Introduction

The year in which I started working on this book, 2019, was the tenth anniversary of the Brussels women’s association for which my interlocutors have been volunteering. For the occasion, we got together, the volunteers and I, for an evening organized especially for the anniversary celebration. The women blew out the ten candles on a cake bearing the association’s logo and made promises for ten more prosperous years. So far it has been ten years since my interlocutors, the Belgian Muslim women, started their association in order to make their volunteering official. Our first encounters coincided with their busiest years. We met in highly formal settings, in European and federal parliaments, where we discussed how to shatter the glass ceiling for women. We discussed topics from equal pay to motherhood and were introduced to the experiences of women from all kinds of social and cultural backgrounds. On their tenth anniversary, my interlocutors still hold strongly to these issues and have worked together with a range of international associations such as UN Women and Amnesty in actualizing their aims. Not all their events cater for political institutions and international movements, as they also work very much with local people and local organizations. © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_1

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From the outside, my interlocutors are no different from any other volunteer in Belgium. Their association hosts similar events to other volunteering associations. They organize baked-good sales to raise money for their charitable programs. They take their members and non-member participants on day trips to promote friendship and networking. They organize conferences and panels concerning social and political issues. To raise awareness of the importance of a good education, they organize yearly math and social sciences competitions among young adolescents. They also seek to promote intercultural understanding from a young age with artistic competitions, urging teenagers to draw, sculpt and express their ideas on ‘the art of living together.’ They distribute food to homeless people and try to work with shelters for more effective charity. It is not easy to describe the scope and content of my interlocutors’ volunteering activities. The most important reason behind this is because they do not have a clearly defined program or cause. They work around values such as dialogue, social cohesion and community betterment. These values are articulated in a wide array of different events and activities and most of them are short-term. Throughout this book, I detail the different kinds of activities the volunteers have organized and which I had the chance to attend. There are a handful of women who actually work full-time for the association, taking care of the administrative issues, the bills, and the communication and organization of the events. The rest of the contributors are full volunteers, who drop by occasionally depending on necessity. In this picture, the female volunteering association works very similarly to any other Belgian/European association. There is, however, one thing that sets my interlocutors apart from their counterparts: volunteering for my interlocutors is inextricably linked to their pious trajectory. Volunteering is something for them that is done for rizayi ilahi, or in English God’s consent. Interestingly, they would in no way define their volunteering activities as religious but yet they are religious. This interesting dynamic was what channeled me to further unpack what volunteering meant for my interlocutors. Volunteering Muslims are still quite marginally understudied in anthropology. There are quite a number of studies that are concerned with volunteering in the liberal-secular contexts, dealing

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with the motivational forces that drive people to volunteer and the social/political/economic reasons and outcomes of the practice. Why do people volunteer, and what difference does that make for the society? This comes out as one of the major questions in the existing literature. Indeed, religion has always been part of the reason why people volunteer. The concept of (Western) charity itself is historically linked to Christian benevolence. Nevertheless, in the existing literature there seems to be an implicit insistence that volunteering is a secularized modern institution that is based on the impulse to do good. Even in cases where the church is involved, the form and content of volunteering are secular. This came up when I was introduced to the director of the Catholic volunteering association in Flanders. Although the institution itself is Catholic by name, their starting inspiration was to find a way to keep people occupied with something when they did not work. That ‘something’ did not necessarily have anything to do with the church. While, similarly, my interlocutors pursue a secular form and content of volunteering, there is an undeniable nuance in how the religious is experienced within a secular space. This aspect, I effectively argue, is the point that deserves interrogation, more so because volunteering—a liberal-secular space—is not only a space of religious experience but also of public engagement. Thus, there are two factors in volunteering for the Belgian Muslim women that merge: religion and the public. This brings me to my main point. When I first started following the activities of the volunteers and observing their pious experiences, I also noticed that the ethical turn in the anthropology of Islam was concentrated on the individual experience. There is a profound emphasis in the existing literature on piety as the individual’s endeavor of self-making: ethical self-making. On the one hand I can only agree with this assertion, but on the other hand my interlocutors’ experiences point to an observable social component in ethical self-making. The relationality of ethics and volunteering as an ethical self-making process is effectively absent in existing studies. The case of my interlocutors is significant in that not only does it contribute to the literature on ethics but also on how two different ethical traditions merge and diverge. These two traditions are namely the liberal-secular tradition of ethics and non-liberal Islamic tradition of ethics. The compatibility of

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Islam with European social and political values has been an ongoing and never-ending debate. The debate has increased in intensity over the years especially with the rise of ISIS and European Muslims traveling to Syria. Can Muslims ever be trusted with European values? Or does the loyalty to religion tilt on the heavier side? These debates have reflected on different kinds of Muslim networks, including voluntary networks. When watching the news in Belgium or the Netherlands, it seems like one fragment that appears every day is the one concerning to what extent the state will allow Muslim networks to start institutions in their country. These can be mosques, schools, cultural centers and voluntary (aid) institutions. The flow of money is one of the main points of concern. Who funds these institutions and for what reason? Is it a non-liberal Middle Eastern government or organization that invests in the expansion of such institutions and is the money flow legal? Moreover, the sincerity of these Muslims is put into question. Are these Muslims really seeking social betterment, or are they actually serving a second agenda? Does this agenda include a missionizing project? Is the next new project establishing another Islamic state, or are these European Muslims actually working for their own (Islamic) governments? It is not a secret that Muslims who have volunteered for international aid organizations have been subject to prosecution on charges of terrorism/extremism. In particular, those Muslims who voluntarily departed to Bosnia during the civil war or to Afghanistan have been listed as jihadi. Even when their aim was to deliver aid, they were closely scrutinized by Western governments. Even in cases where religious motivation is not blatantly apparent, Muslim activists are a source of contention in Western eyes. What do they really want when they ask for the liberation of Muslim coverings? Why do they still argue for the niqab, or the burqa? Are they still not liberated enough from the chains of their religion/culture? As Muslims make their religious/cultural demands increasingly public, all these debates become more and more heated. Significantly, even when Muslims participate in public actions for their specific demands, they use modern-liberal tropes of freedom and the freedom to choose.

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This book starts with details of these discussions. It starts with the acceptance that Muslims can participate in volunteering, public participation and social engagements and still retain their religious concerns. This is an issue of negotiating different traditions while aiming to remain sincere to these traditions, whether they are liberal or religious. Without having to exclude one over the other, my interlocutors borrow from multiple moral rubrics. As long as we are concerned with their sincerity in being European, we will miss this nuanced dynamic. As long as we restrict our perspective on piety as an individualistic trajectory, we will miss seeing the social influence on how piety is actually lived. There is one point that I wish to discuss before going further with the book and that is this issue of sincerity. The hype in Western media over Muslims’ true intentions may be seen as speculative, however there is one core issue on which they center their ideas. This is that although some Muslims may seem to be liberal, democratic, secularized, pro-gender equality and so on from the outside, they are still attached to their religious values. The seemingly essential discrepancy between Western values and Islamic ethos makes it impossible for them to co-exist in the same body, thus claiming to embody both raises concerns over sincerity. This book works with this assumption and each chapter engages with how the Muslim subject is in constant conversation with the two traditions. This is where relationality and relational ethics become significant. Piety is not only informed by society as I have mentioned above, but also by the ethical sources that shape society and the state. More explicitly, the subject’s sense of piety is not restricted to Islamic ethics but also by what is considered ethical in the liberal modern sense. Muslims such as my interlocutors who were born, raised, and educated in a liberalsecular country such as Belgium are shaped by these principles as much as any other non-Muslim Belgian (or European). This is not an issue of sincerity but of negotiation for my interlocutors. On the one hand they are pious, while on the other hand they want to socially engage and be accepted for who they are by society. This is not a very straightforward experience and often includes much accommodation, compromise, and adjustment on the side of my interlocutors. I will gradually deliberate what this means in the coming chapters. To put it briefly, there are many cases where public discourses

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shape how my interlocutors understand their position, space, and performativity in the public scene. There is a tendency in the media, in politics, and even in academic studies to emphasize how social and political institutions accommodate Muslim populations, namely, their cultural and religious needs, their differences and conditions. This book attempts to cover how Muslim subjectivity is also subject to outside influence. Even piety, I argue, is influenced in form and content, and can become a very non-formalistic experience. This takes place within the dynamics of social context. This is the initial reason why I was intrigued by volunteering. I wanted to understand what volunteering meant for this community of Muslims. Such a secular practice in form had such a religious significance. It appeared to me that volunteering had become a huge part of my interlocutors’ lives. Not only were they invested in volunteering, prioritizing it more than any other entity in life (work/family included), they were also invested in each other’s general well-being as volunteers. Why is this important? Firstly, the existing literature on volunteering suggests that it is a very liberalized endeavor. People volunteer for many reasons; however they volunteer in their free time. It is seen as doing something useful when you are not doing something else useful, like working. It is usually short-lived, focusing on one project or another and then moving on. It is usually very individualistic, where the main motive is to ‘get the job done’ without developing a sense of attachment to the parties involved in volunteering. Higher numbers of people are volunteering, and there is a circulation of people who volunteer for different causes; one person volunteers, then drops out and is immediately replaced by another person. Interestingly, this was pointed out to me during a conversation with the director of the Flemish Catholic volunteering association. He was surprised when I mentioned to him that most of my interlocutors were under 35 and had never given up volunteering ever since they had started. The case with their association is different, apparently. The founding reason for their association was to get people to do something useful when they were not working, or when they were retired. It was a way to keep people from spending time in bars and cafés and have them do something with their extra time. So up until today their community

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of volunteers still consists of older people who have time on their hands. While in other associations there may also be younger volunteers, it is basically about having that kind of extra time to spare. This is roughly how volunteering works in the current context. Some scholars express their concern over the increasing individualism that is taking over volunteering, stating that this does not do much in terms of social solidarity. Others highlight that it is not only about doing good, but also about personal development and feeling the sense of doing good. My interlocutors gave me a lot to think about in this sense. In many ways, the ways in which they volunteer are disorganized but very strongly attached—to the cause, to the people involved, to people who are on the receiving end of volunteering—making the person the central focus more than the cause or the project. Volunteering is not entirely about getting the job done. As I have just mentioned, their projects have a broad focus and the division of labor is very disorganized. This will be unpacked further in the coming chapters as I discuss their events at length. While the job is also important, the subject and the subject’s experience as a volunteer are prioritized. The act of volunteering itself is what makes the individual more ethical. Hence the volunteer is as much a part of the cause as the cause itself. I found this very interesting and thoughtprovoking. It also appeared to me as a different way of approaching the ethical (relationally instead of individually). In this context, I find it very difficult to fit my interlocutors’ volunteering in any existing category, just as I find it difficult to describe its content and scope. It is not merely charity, as the content of their activities is not restricted to elevating poverty. It is not philanthropy, as they do not commit to any long-term institutional program. Although there are examples of such cases where the volunteers help establish school and so on, these are marginal and do not represent most of their activities. They are also not part of humanitarian aid projects or NGOs like many other Islamic faith organizations. As with the previous example, while they can be seen donating to international NGOs, they do not specifically focus on this as their sole duty. It is difficult to define my interlocutors in one holistic structure, although it is tempting to do so. Their activities are very localized, and can change and turn with local social and political shifts. The nature of

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their events will be described in the coming chapters, however here I want to lay out a picture of what drew me to this group of volunteers. Although they appeared unorganized in their activities, they followed a very well-defined agenda, namely, to bring grassroots solutions to social and economic issues that are based in Belgium. As they work on these issues, they are also working on who they are as Muslims in Belgium. Not only are they working on their ethical self, but they are also working on their public image as Muslims. This is by no means the experience of all Muslims in Belgium or Europe, but it makes us think through well-established notions of what it means to be a good (pious) Muslim, especially in cases where good Muslimness is set across being a good Belgian. It also allows us to think through how piety or goodness is also inspired by propriety and the sense of fitting in. Fitting in definitely may not be the hope or wish of other Muslims, who are more activist in nature with their demands. However, for my interlocutors, working with current public narratives and expectations is the most comfortable way of interacting with their social environment, even if, to an extent, this means dealing with problems reflected on their presence as Muslims, which transpires in most cases. My interlocutors’ idea of working against prejudice, stereotyping and stigma is embedded in the struggle to fit with propriety. This includes a lot of deliberation as to how they as a minority community can work to better their own communities and eliminate issues that cause negative attention. This may be problematic to some, but it is how my interlocutors construct goodness. The good Muslim is not only pious but is also reflective of society. Volunteering allows the space to deliberate and consider these issues and engage with them. Not only does it allow them a space to practice piety, but in form it is a secular understandable avenue for the Western eyes. Volunteering is secular and liberal in form and pious in motivation and inspiration. It is not religious in any formalistic way, but it is inherently ethical. It is done for God’s consent and society’s approval. This book unpacks this phenomenon, as it engages with the ways in which volunteering is informed by the ethical and the ethical is informed by volunteering. The overriding argument is that my interlocutors are

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focused on the idea of fulfilling duty. However, the notion of duty is a complicated interpretation informed by liberal humanist norms of individual agency, responsibility, good citizenship, and orthodox Islamic understanding of gaining God’s consent. The significance of the latter point lies in its ambiguity. Gaining God’s consent brings about an array of interpretations of what it means to be a ‘proper Muslim.’ Attention here should be on the fact that it is not the good Muslim, but the proper Muslim, the one who is able to negotiate and find the balance between their religion and society. The aim of this book is not to step into another discussion of (conflicting) values and problematic encounters between the Muslim and the West. Springing from the individual narratives, life experiences, and stories of my interlocutors, this research begins where these conflicts and controversies end—at least for my interlocutors. It interrogates the endeavor of belonging. Belonging is rarely a smooth process in any context, but what we will uncover throughout this discussion is that belonging re-signifies embodiment, space, time, loyalties, intimacies, and affects. The central theme of this work is to examine the question of the exact manner in which volunteering becomes the raison d’être for Belgian Muslim female volunteers. This question is central to this research, and hence it is of primary importance to introduce how volunteering has been theorized—historically and anthropologically—and how it has even become a signifier of social commitments, inclusion, and active participation. Moreover, as volunteering is often articulated nearly synonymously with giving/sacrificing, this research explores how these conceptualizations converse with other Islamic traditions. Quintessentially, this study is an attempt to understand volunteering as a way of life that shapes, and is shaped by, daily interactions, public institutions and discourses, and religious epistemologies. As I have said before, in the recent literature there is a strong position towards individualization and that Muslim self-governance is grounded in liberal interpretations of agency, which includes liberal affects and practices (see Fadil 2008). This means that while Muslims persist in identifying with their religion, the ways in which they identify with

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their religion are profoundly informed by “de-traditionalization,” or “deculturalization,” of religious knowledge and practice. It is a pursuit of a more “individualized” and “personalized” religious trajectory (Cesari 2004). More explicitly, it is suggested that there is a search among Muslims, to find ‘authentic’ Islam that is detached from culture/tradition and offers a correct way of living Islamically (Fadil 2015; Deeb 2006; Schielke 2007; Salvatore 1997). Amir-Moazami and Salvatore (2003) observe that such individualization and pursuit of authentic knowledge does not mean that religious authority is dismantled. They interpret this as a pluralization of authorities and inclusion of a wider audience (i.e. women), a “search for coherence (within the tradition)” (Asad 1993), and self-reform (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003, 53). My focus in this research is engaged with this discussion but also attempts to bring a nuanced experience of Muslim self-formation. On the one hand, the pursuit of being a ‘proper’ Muslim touches on this process of authentication; on the other hand, the ways in which my interlocutors relate to the hermeneutics of religious texts and embody them is somewhat divorced from the individualization model. Throughout this book, I unpack the implications of being a community—a community of volunteers—and the consensual adoption of practices and commitments that are articulated within the group. Thus, I suggest a strong relational attachment in my interlocutors’ pious trajectory, not only attachments to the liberal-secular (post-Enlightenment) values but also to their (volunteering) community goals and visions, intentionally demarcating their experiences from those of their families, and ethnic and religious communities.

The Many Meanings of Volunteering Before I go into the specifics of my interlocutors’ volunteering, I find it useful to review the different forms of volunteering, since this practice frames my interlocutors’ pursuit of a pious and ethical life. From a general perspective, volunteering is non-obligatory and is carried out for the benefit of others; it is unpaid and takes place in an organized context

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with the aim of carrying out “public good” (Dekker and Halman 2003; see also Dingle 2001; Goovaart et al. 2001; Wilson 2000). Obviously, this definition is extremely general, as in some cases voluntary work is obligatory, such as community service or military work. Moreover, the connotations of voluntary work differ greatly in different contexts. In some countries, such as Germany, voluntary work is a form of civic engagement necessary for a good political community (Dekker and Halman 2003, 2). On the other hand, in the AngloSaxon community, volunteering is considered as unpaid, charity work: a service for the community and divorced from politics (Dekker and Halman 2003, 2). Not unlike the definition, the different motivations that lead to volunteering are also ambiguous and vast. These range from the desire to fix disadvantages or help others; for personal experience (personal development) or socialization (Cnaan and Goldberg-Glen 1991); altruism and personal values (Clary and Snyder 1999; Halman and Moor 1994; Kearney 2001); or being drawn in by others, that is, family/friends/neighborhood/church congregation (Dekker and Halman 2003, 5). While volunteering can be initiated by feelings of altruism and ‘neighborhood values’ to help others in need, it can also be that the volunteer takes up volunteering for personal development, to cope with their personal issues, and even to ‘flatter their ego’ by doing something that is much needed by others (see Pearce 1993). Thus, it is definitely not always the case that volunteering stems from a heightened desire to work for others’ betterment. There are many parallel and conflicting reasons underlying peoples’ involvement in volunteering, and Wilson rightly asserts that “overall, the relation between values and volunteering is weak and inconsistent” (2000, 219). However, some studies indicate that being part of a network which volunteers is one of the major reasons people get drawn into volunteering (see Putnam 2000; Wuthnow 1998; Trundle 2012, 2014). Hence, if the person is part of a church network or social movement, there is a higher chance that they will continuously volunteer. Putnam (2000) observes that the decline of such networks and associations has resulted in the decline of intensive direct contact during volunteering

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and has thus led to the decline of long-term volunteering itself. Indeed, according to Wuthnow, this is not a contradiction, as he concludes that […] being intensely committed to self-realization and material pleasure did not seem to be incompatible with doing volunteer work […] People who were the most individualistic were also the most likely to value doing things to help others. (Wuthnow 1991, 22)

A similar observation is made by Hustinx (2001), who draws our attention to a “post-modernized” and “individualized” flow of “new volunteers.” This type of volunteer is less interested in continuous commitment and more interested in specific goals and projects (Hustinx 2001). These goals and projects are usually determined by causes that seem to “be in trend” during that specific time (Dekker and Halman 2003). This is a point that comes to our attention repeatedly in the literature: volunteering seems to be highly individualized and short-lived. One of the points made in this book is interrogating how group commitment is initiated and maintained—from a very young age—in order for it to be internalized as a lifelong commitment by the individuals. Dekker and Halman suggest that individualization and “decreasing organizational loyalty” do not necessarily connote negativity in terms of commitments to the cause (2003, 8). They do mean that there is a certain flexibility whenever there is a new flow of volunteers replacing those who have completed their task. This makes “individualism a resource,” and thus “voluntary work does not have to react merely by assimilating; it has the autonomy to attract different groups and to attract the same group with different images, ideals and incentives” (Dekker and Halman 2003, 8). It is interesting that in these studies the assumption is that the cause precludes the volunteer, as long as the job gets done, so to speak. In this research, the focus shifts to the volunteer: although the cause is extremely important for the volunteers, the trajectory of working on the cause and the kind of bodily, affective, and moral change such work inflicts on the volunteer are as important, if not more so, than the cause itself. Thus, the focus is multifold: the kind of causes that are subject to volunteering and become the focus of the associations is one of the main interests of this

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book. I am also interested in the ways in which the volunteer comes out of this trajectory. In this scenario, the volunteer is not another individual who is there to get the job done; she is not a number, but as much of a task as the task itself. We need to bear in mind that my interlocutors are Muslims and in the Islamic religion giving does something to the self. Giving to the needy is an eminent part of the Islamic religion. Islamic conceptualizations of giving under the names zakat and sadaqa go back to the core religious texts, the Qur’an and Sunnah. The Qur’an clearly lists those eligible to receive alms: “(1) The poor (al -fuqara’ ); (2) Al -Massakin: usually interpreted as the needy or very poor […]; (3) […] the people appointed to administer the zakat and negotiate with outlying groups; (4) ‘Those whose hearts are made to incline [to the truth]’ […], interpreted as being to help those recently or about to be converted, and/or to mollify powerful non-Muslims whom the State fears, as an act of prudent politics; (5) Most Islamic commentators seem to have thought that ‘captives’ means Muslims captured by enemies who needed to be ransomed […]; (6) Debtors: particularly, […] because those who cannot repay their debts lose rank and become clients of their creditors; (7) Those in the way of God, that is to say in jihad , teaching or fighting or on other duties assigned to them in God’s cause; (8) ‘Sons of the road’ (ibn as-sabi ) that is travelers.” Benthall unpacks these categories; indeed, one of the most interesting assertions in his book is that the category of poorness is quite problematic in Islam (2009, 12). He points out that Islamic scholars have debated on whether there is a group of poor who are considered more ‘deserving’ than others, that is those who are handicapped and thus cannot work (2009, 12). When it comes to the target group of giving, in this book we will see that my interlocutors do not necessarily address the poor. Most of their activities address disadvantage, but more on a social and political than economic level. There are some events directly addressing the needs of students, refugees, and the needy, but these are very limited when looking at the larger picture of their activities. It is apparent that the subject of volunteering transcends poverty, or any kind of aid in the classical manner (as described above); it is a social phenomenon that has been somewhat overlooked in the literature.

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Moreover, there are studies that are reluctant to conceptualize Islamic ways of giving as ‘charity,’ situating the latter concept within the Western (Christian) context (Mitchell 1969). This is mainly because giving is not merely a transaction between the donor and recipient, but really a way of life—a social institution and financial reality (i.e. capitalism or socialism), whose economic and political structures are carefully described in the Qur’an (Kuran 1995). Indeed, the Qur’an carefully explains the amount that must be given, and to whom, and even when it must be given. Additionally, how governments and states must incorporate this system in their plans and budgets is also illustrated (Benthall and Bellion-Jourdan 2003; Carré 1984). There are some modern Muslim-majority countries that have attempted to incorporate these guidelines into their own political systems. In Malaysia and Pakistan, government agencies collect zakat, while individuals can also donate through private institutions. Along with these two countries, Saudi Arabia, Libya, and Sudan have incorporated zakat into their State systems (Hassan 2010, 269). In addition, other countries like Egypt, Jordan, Kuwait, Iran, Bangladesh, Bahrain, and Iraq have “specialized state institutions” for zakat, but participation in these institutions by the public is voluntary (Hassan 2010, 269). While these institutions (as an alternative to modern economic systems) have been the focus in many different studies (Kuran 1995; Salim 2008; Tugal 2013), there is another important phenomenon on the rise, which is non-governmental Islamic aid organizations. Bruno De Cordier describes these organizations as “non-governmental organizations (NGOs) that were founded on the initiative of Muslims, that mobilize most of their support among Muslims, and whose action is, to varying degrees and in various forms, inspired and legitimated by the Islamic religion or at least certain tenets thereof ” (2009, 609). I draw on this definition when I refer to Islamic NGOs. A large proportion of these organizations are based in the West—see for example Islamic Relief Worldwide, Muslim Aid, Muslim Hands, Interpal, and the IHH. There are also some organizations established in the Turkish and Arabic world, such as Deniz Feneri, Qatar Charity, and the International Islamic Charitable Organization. Some of these organizations were especially effective in delivering relief to war-struck Muslim countries, notably

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during the Bosnian War (Cordier 2009) and the Kosovo conflict in the 1990s (Benthall and Bellion-Jourdan 2003). However, these organizations have also been the target of serious skepticism, coming especially from Western governments who have questioned what kind of body they fund through aid (e.g. Hamas or AlQaida) (Petersen 2012). Especially after September 11, 2001, the assets of some of these charities were frozen, while some were closed completely (Ewing 2008). This does not change the fact that most Islamic aid organizations work very similarly to other secular or Christian NGOs. On the one hand, Islamic aid organizations have a Muslim character and base their conduct on the religious texts and traditional practices of their religion; on the other hand, the jargon they use and the logistical strategies they follow (fundraising, campaigning, charity events, focusing on special holidays to advertise giving) is very similar to the practices of other NGOs. Most Islamic NGOs communicate through professional websites, which are user-friendly and easy to donate to. Benthall (2016) explains that most organizations have signed the 1994 Code of Conduct for the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement and Non-Governmental Organizations in Disaster Relief. He adds that “signing such codes and declarations indeed reflects professionalization in the sense that it is a step towards obtaining professional recognition and legitimacy [in the eyes of ] institutional donors and the international aid sector” (De Cordier 2009, 613). This in itself presents a complex situation: while these organizations pertain to Western standards of institutionalization, they constituted themselves in reaction to ‘Western’ hegemony in the field of humanitarian action: for that reason, they claim specificity, a rooting in the Islamic tradition. But simultaneously, their insertion in the field of humanitarian action contributes to a reformulation, even a reinterpretation, of this tradition to be able to compose with the dominant norms. (Bellion-Jourdan 2000, 15)

Multiple registers give form to this phenomenon. There is a strong religious tradition in which giving is eminent, but there is also the undeniable fact of universality. Although these organizations are founded

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on Islamic principles, they offer aid according to “purely humanitarian criteria devoid of any ethnic, linguistic, or religious distinction” (Bellion-Jourdan 2000). The norms that characterize international aid have become the norms that characterize Islamic aid. While this study looks at more local forms of volunteering, it takes off from this analytical assertion. Modern Islamic giving is a complicated structure embedded in universal (liberal) norms of humanitarianism and a strong Islamic consciousness of giving. I trace how these multiple rubrics inform how they articulate (public/private) spaces in terms of belonging, and how it imbricates their understanding of being Muslim and Belgian. I also examine how they make sense of being part of that universalism, both theoretically and practically, and how it shapes their social positions and, in turn, how my interlocutors make sense of their and their ‘society.’

Outline Chapter 2 of this book introduces the context of my research. The two cities in which I conducted most of my research were Brussels and Antwerp, and it is important to understand the multi-lingual and multiethnic fibers of both cities in order to comprehend my interlocutors’ aim and scope in volunteering. The volunteers are mostly from Turkish descent, which is an interesting point to unpack as establishing associations for different causes is quite popular among Belgian Turks. While there is a substantial body of literature engaging with this phenomenon, most of these studies do not look at the associations from the individual perspective. They do not explore the individual motives, aspirations, and different levels of relationality in their studies. I believe it is important to acknowledge the history of Turkish associations and its impact on belonging, religious/national identity-making and socialization. We can then go into discussing how my interlocutors diverge from traditional Belgian-Turkish associations and have a very unique vision of their own associations and volunteering. This is a necessary discussion, especially when we consider that public discourse towards Muslims and Islam is highly embedded in negative stereotypes. Most of my interlocutors embody Islamic symbols such as the headscarf, and this creates a

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tension in their social engagements, for example in their jobs, their children’s schools, and in their own education. Volunteering also provides a space where they can confront these tensions on their own terms. This chapter briefly touches upon Islam’s problematic visibility in Europe for the aim of better understanding how this problem is articulated among the volunteers. We have already discussed the theory which postulates that European Islam is individualized. Most of the studies produced on European Muslims take this theory into account, and while I also acknowledge it in this book, I want to look as well at how piety is very much relational. Chapter 3 unpacks relationality in the context of care and caregiving. Here, caregiving has a very specific meaning and does not only refer to giving care to the needy. The female Muslim volunteers locate piety in the very act of caring for everyone and everything, and pious self-making is embedded in how much they can fulfill this responsibility. This form of piety takes the theory of individualization one step further. Yes, Muslims are more attentive to how they engage with religious knowledge and ethical self-making, however my interlocutors strongly emphasize that proper piety is very much socially embedded. This chapter unpacks how the practice of caregiving figures into this properness. It is important what this relationality does to the agency of the subject and its entanglement with the divine. Indeed, the core of relationality proposes that individual agency is bound to the agency of God and society. Chapter 4 addresses the economic and spiritual undertones of volunteering. It examines how modern capitalist rational thinking has given shape to traditional Islamic notions of ‘blessed giving.’ Moreover, starting from my interlocutors’ own narratives and religious lessons, it attempts to capture how the essence of giving is quite detached from modern capitalism, influencing the growth of the spiritual self. Since volunteering is the very act of giving (to society), Chapter 4 discusses the ‘spiritual economy’ of giving. There is a very topical debate concerning the relationship between giving and gaining thawab in Islam. Some scholars argue that giving does not require any personal attachment to the receiving end, and the aim is to merely give by only expecting divine reward. My interlocutors argue the very opposite: the donor has to be completely embedded in the life of the receiver and should not

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expect anything—even divine reward—in turn. This is a debate that is highly contextual and depends greatly on how the Muslim subject interprets Islamic giving and practices it. My interlocutors, who have a very relational reading of Islam, extend relationality to the gift transaction. Giving is intertwined with their relation to their own ego and there is an inverse dynamic—or there should be an inverse dynamic—as the subject gives, their ego diminishes. There is little anthropological or sociological research in this area, nor on how such deliberations are reflected on in daily life. The book aims to bring a nuanced perspective into the field by including theological discussions and empirical observations on the spiritual economy of giving and subjectivation. Chapter 5 offers an insight into the process of becoming a volunteer, which is paralleled to becoming a ‘proper Muslim.’ It looks at how belonging to such communities is informed by common epistemologies and practices, which in turn informs notions of the ‘ideal person.’ This ideal person becomes an aspirational character for the volunteers, whose performance of this character effectively determines the extent of their spiritual growth and reliability within the group. This chapter answers how authority develops among the women depending on to what extent they perform the role of the ‘proper Muslim.’ This authority does not come from a complete emancipation from traditional Islamic sources but from performing the role according to contextual subtleties. Time is of extreme importance for my interlocutors. Chapter 6 questions how time is a complicated phenomenon for the female volunteers. Its linear historical experience is a given; however, volunteering embeds time with a certain value. This value is acknowledged by my interlocutors as a blessing, and it manifests in fragmentation, expansion, and contraction of time experience. Thus, the chapter is an attempt to analytically understand how linear, calendric Western time is effectively both acknowledged but also deconstructed by my interlocutors, and how the labor of giving is the moral determinant in this dynamic. Da’wa is a complicated phenomenon that literally translates as “call to the true religion.” One of the issues surrounding this statement is that it frames Islam as a missionizing religion and all kinds of da’wa as a proselytizing endeavor. Chapter 7 explores how this phenomenon realizes in everyday life in a manner that does not reduce da’wa to proselytizing. I

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address how the social audience informs the form and content of da’wa, depending on whether they are Muslim or not Muslim. Effectively, this endeavor is not restricted to inviting non-Muslims to Islam, but also covers (community) self-help, reminding Muslims of their ethical duties and dialogue with non-Muslims. Building on the previous chapter, the final chapter focuses on visibility, and critically engages with the demand for my interlocutors to be more visible in the public sphere. While society asks for them to be more visible in decision-making processes and generally in the events, I argue that this demand is also an urge for more transparency. Visibility is framed as a plea for greater female autonomy in the volunteering scene, whereas transparency implies a proving of sincerity and asks whether the female volunteers are indeed autonomous enough. It asks if their volunteering is sufficiently modern-secular to be counted as sincerely volunteering, or is it just another network of Muslims re-instating gender stereotypes? The chapter goes on to show how visibility and non-visibility are construed by the volunteers through the concept of mahram. I interrogate how space is disclosed or not disclosed to people depending on the fluctuating operation of mahram.

References Amir-Moazami, Schirin, and Armando Salvatore. “Gender, generation, and the reform of tradition: From muslim majority societies to Western Europe.” In Muslim networks and transnational communities in and across Europe, pp. 52– 77. Leiden, 2003. Asad, T. “The construction of religion as an anthropological category.” In Genealogies of religion: Discipline and reasons of power in Christianity and Islam, Vol. 2, pp. 27–54, 1993. Bellion-Jourdan, Jerome. “Islamic relief organisations: Between ‘Islamism’ and ‘humanitarianism.’” ISIM Newsletter, no. 5 (2000): 1. Benthall, Jonathan, and Jérôme Bellion-Jourdan. Charitable crescent: Politics of aid in the Muslim world . I.B. Tauris, 2003. Benthall, Jonathan. “Islamic relief worldwide” (2009): 605–606.

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Benthall, Jonathan. Islamic charities and Islamic humanism in troubled times. Oxford University Press, 2016. Carré, Olivier. Mystique et politique: lecture révolutionnaire du Coran par Sayyid Qut.b, frère musulman radical . Vol. 1. Cerf, 1984. Cesari, Jocelyne. When Islam and democracy meet: Muslims in Europe and in the United States. Springer, 2004. Clary, E. Gil, and Mark Snyder. “The motivations to volunteer: Theoretical and practical considerations.” Current Directions in Psychological Science 8, no. 5 (1999): 156–159. Cnaan, Ram A., and Robin S. Goldberg-Glen. “Measuring motivation to volunteer in human services.” The Journal of Applied Behavioral Science 27, no. 3 (1991): 269–284. De Cordier, Bruno. “Faith-based aid, globalisation and the humanitarian frontline: An analysis of western-based Muslim aid organisations.” Disasters 33, no. 4 (2009): 608–628. Deeb, Lara. “An enchanted modern.” In Gender and public piety in Shi’i Lebanon. Princeton, 2006. Dekker, Paul, and Loek Halman (eds.). The values of volunteering: Cross-cultural perspectives. Springer Science & Business Media, 2003. Dingle, A. (ed.) Measuring volunteering. Washington, DC: Independent Sector, 2001. Ewing, Katherine Pratt (ed.). Being and belonging: Muslims in the United States since 9/11. Russell Sage Foundation, 2008. Fadil, Nadia. Submitting to God, submitting to the self: Secular and religious trajectories of second generation Maghrebi in Belgium. 2008. Fadil, Nadia, and Mayanthi Fernando. “Rediscovering the “everyday” Muslim: Notes on an anthropological divide.” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 5, no. 2 (2015): 59–88. Govaart, Margriet-Marie, Henk J. Van Daal, Angelika Münz, and Jolanda Keesom. Volunteering worldwide. Utrecht: NIZW, 2001. Halman, Loek, and Ruud De Moor. “Religion, churches and moral values.” In The individualizing society; value change in Europe and North America, pp. 37–65, 1994. Hassan, M. Kabir. “An integrated poverty alleviation model combining zakat, awqaf and micro-finance.” In Seventh International Conference— The Tawhidic epistemology: Zakat and waqf economy, pp. 261–281. Bangi, Malaysia, 2010. Hustinx, Lesley. “Individualisation and new styles of youth volunteering: An empirical exploration.” Voluntary Action 3, no. 2 (2001): 57–76.

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Kearney, J. “The values and basic principles of volunteering: Complacency or caution?” Voluntary Action – London Institute for Volunteering Research 3, no. 3 (2001): 63–86. Kuran, Timur. “Islamic economics and the Islamic subeconomy.” The Journal of Economic Perspectives 9, no. 4 (1995): 155–173. Mitchell, Richard Paul. The society of the Muslim Brothers. Oxford University Press, 1969. Pearce, Jone L. Volunteers: The organizational behavior of unpaid workers. Routledge, 1993. Petersen, Marie Juul. “Islamizing aid: Transnational Muslim NGOs after 9.11.” Voluntas: International Journal of Voluntary and Nonprofit Organizations 23, no. 1 (2012): 126–155. Putnam, Robert D. “Bowling alone: America’s declining social capital.” In Culture and politics, pp. 223–234. Palgrave Macmillan US, 2000. Salim, Arskal. The shift in the Zakat practice in Indonesia: From piety to an Islamic socio-political-economic system, 2008. Salvatore, Armando. Islam and the political discourse of modernity. Vol. 4. Ithaca Press (GB), 1997. Schielke, Samuli. “Hegemonic encounters: Criticism of saints-day festivals and the formation of modern Islam in late 19th and early 20th-century Egypt.” Die Welt des Islams 47, no. 3 (2007): 319–355. Trundle, Catherine. “The transformation of compassion and the ethics of interaction within charity practices.” In Differentiating development: Beyond an anthropology of critique, pp. 210–226, 2012. Trundle, Catherine. Americans in Tuscany: Charity, compassion, and belonging. Vol. 36. Berghahn Books, 2014. Tu˘gal, Cihan. “Contesting benevolence: Market orientations among Muslim aid providers in Egypt.” Qualitative Sociology 36, no. 2 (2013): 141–159. Wilson, John. “Volunteering.” Annual Review of Sociology 26, no. 1 (2000): 215–240. Wuthnow, Robert. “The voluntary sector: Legacy of the past, hope for the future?” In Between states and markets: The voluntary sector in comparative perspective, pp. 3–29, 1991. Wuthnow, Robert. After heaven: Spirituality in America since the 1950s. University of California Press, 1998.

2 Getting Acquainted with the Volunteers

The research undertaken for this book is a result of my own doctoral project. The project involved ethnographic research into several volunteering associations in Brussels and Flanders. When I first started working on the project in January 2014, I started going to the events that were organized by the female associations in Brussels. Starting with Brussels was easier, as I was already living close to the city and could attend the events that usually took place late in the evenings and over the weekends. It also made more sense because a lot of the main associations are in Brussels, and being familiar with those made it much easier for me to access the others. I started attending any event I possibly could that was organized by the volunteers, from cooking classes to roundtable debates to panels at the European Union (EU). Soon, nearly everyone was familiar with me and with the idea that I was actually doing research on their volunteering. Retrospectively, the idea of research may not have stirred much excitement, because they really took no interest in my being there, taking notes, asking questions, and obsessively following their every move. My interlocutors were already used to short-term researchers and Master’s students, and even journalists spending time with them. © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_2

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Another researcher did not add much excitement or change their lives, and I enjoyed their ease around me in the first few months. In fact, their ease and comfort allowed me to be more comfortable in being ‘nosy.’ It was only after four to five months with the volunteers that I felt this situation should change. I do not know what I was expecting, but I think it was some sort of bond with the volunteers. I wanted to be taken into consideration when they organized events. I already knew the executives of the associations, the presidents, vice presidents and secretaries, all of whom had my e-mail and phone number. They would drop me a line and inform me of an event when it happened, but this was not enough. I always had the impression that so much was going on behind the scenes, so many mishaps, discussions, arguments, intimacies. I was not part of that intimacy, and while I was familiar, I was still in the position of the audience; I was one of those who were meant to see the product, the event itself, and not behind the scenes. Not only were they not even remotely interested in what I did, but I felt that they saw it as some sort of a temporary ‘school project.’ Being so young, only 23, did not help, as I was at least seven years younger than my youngest interlocutor. But as the years went by, and I got married, and the fieldwork grew more intense, I noticed that my interlocutors took me more seriously, and truth be told, more like an adult. It obviously helped when I got married, as they saw me juggle my responsibilities and basically become ‘one of them.’ The turnover of people within the associations was very high. Some of the executives that I grew very close to and who helped introduce me to most of my interlocutors during the first years left their positions and moved on to different jobs and even countries. As a researcher, it was difficult to keep up with these flows because with every new person I had to re-introduce myself and re-gain their trust. I would get so close to some of my interlocutors that I could ask them favors (with regards to attending events) and even visit them unannounced, and then the next day that could simply change because of turnover. The rest of my interlocutors were very used to this, however, and had a much easier time adjusting. Of course, they did not have the problem of re-instating trust, but even working with different people for short time periods did not seem to bother them.

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My interlocutors found many different foundations in Brussels, and each has a different focus. Some of them concentrate on youth issues, some on education, others on networking businesspeople and professionals, and some are women’s associations. While they all have a different focus, the members and administrators of each association help the others in every way possible when organizing an event. All the associations are interlinked because of their members’ mobility, and all the associations are members of one larger umbrella association. I began this research with the aim of studying ‘women’s associations,’ but early in my fieldwork I understood that it would not be possible. Although there are ‘women’s associations,’ there is literally no event limited to women, and women partner with other associations that are mixed gendered. I realized I had to change my focus. I was not to focus on women’s associations, but on female volunteers. My interest in women came from my own background. I could have easily conducted this research with both men and women, but coming from a Turkish background, I anticipated that it would be difficult for my male interlocutors (who are all pious men) to be as comfortable around me as women are. Doing research entailed my being alone with some of my interlocutors, spending time in their homes, walking in the city with them, sometimes attending late-night meetings, and this would be incredibly difficult and uncomfortable (both for me and them) if my interlocutors were men. I cross-checked this presumption with some of my respondents, who agreed. To cut a long story short, by June 2014, I was now following around my female interlocutors, who volunteered for associations of both genders. After the summer of 2014, I decided to get to know the associations in Flanders. I set out with Elif, my gatekeeper, who was also a president of one association. She came to my apartment one evening and called me from her car. I was a little hesitant about attending the event as it was in Dutch and late in the evening. However, Elif called me downstairs and literally dragged me inside her car, promising she would translate. “We want to look as numerous as possible. Every person counts,” she said, exasperated by my reluctance. So there we were, on our way to Antwerp for an evening event at the local city hall. The female volunteers in Antwerp had organized a panel about discrimination against women

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in the labor force. I sat through that event, even though I did not understand one word of their Dutch (it turned out that Elif was too busy to translate), just to meet Gulsah, the head of the Antwerp women’s association. She proved to be a very important person for my research in Flanders. Not only did she introduce me to most of her entourage, and even arrange and plan our interviews, she also gave me a lot of information about the city and how their events were different in scope and structure from the ones in Brussels. Antwerp is a Flemish city through and through, and the linguistic diversity of Brussels is absent in Antwerp. What this means for the events in that city is that the associations and all their events are organized in Dutch. This unity makes it easier for them to interact with the local ‘white’ Belgians. These are the words of Gulsah, who has been a volunteer in Antwerp for more than a decade. The Europeanness and the diversity in Brussels are reflected in the city’s associations’ events. Events at the EU might be in English; elsewhere they might be in French and Dutch, addressing both linguistic groups and their issues. The Flemishness of Antwerp also draws volunteers from other parts of Flanders. This is why, when I met Gulsah, I decided my research would be narrowed to Brussels and Antwerp. In December 2014, I was acquainted and familiar with the associations in Brussels and Antwerp. The associations themselves were established in 2008, so that the women had an official space to volunteer. They do not really tackle women’s issues, but try to tackle social and economic problems relating to women. What that means is they try to incorporate (especially minority) women in their associations and mobilize them to raise awareness and solutions to problems pertaining to their social setting. They also state that by doing so, they enable women to be more confident, active, expressive, and educated. They make explicitly clear that they are not a gender-segregated association, and want to provide a platform where people can co-exist together, peacefully, regardless of differences. My interlocutors are all pious women, and as I unpack throughout this book, volunteering for them is a route towards perfecting piety. Nevertheless, none of the associations has a religious component in its mission

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statement, and likewise, their events do not incorporate religious components. My interlocutors do not organize an event that references Islam or is held at an Islamic setting, like a mosque. They do not organize any program that involves religious education, like the Diyanet or Milli Gorus. While the secular is a concept open to debate, and one which I unpack in the coming chapters, they frame their events as ‘secular,’ in that they do not reference a specific religion. This is true for their associations. I found out how it changed in their ‘private’ lives.

Sohbet Meetings During the second and third years of my fieldwork, I became part of a larger network of volunteers. Having attended numerous events, I gradually became very familiar with certain gatekeepers, women who were very well known and trusted within the volunteering scene. Like I said before, it was very difficult for me to be taken seriously at first, but once one person took my research seriously, the work picked up speed. For me that person was Elif, my close interlocutor and later friend, who eventually moved back to Turkey for her husband’s job. One evening, after a panel debate, Elif asked me if I wanted to participate in a discussion group later on. It would not take place in the association but in someone’s home, and it would be very informal; they would just come together to talk about God and stuff. I agreed to be part of the discussion group, and later that evening, took a bus to Laeken for my first sohbet. Sohbet means conversation in Turkish. The sohbet meetings are places where a number of women come together to discuss a pre-determined subject from a religious book, sermon video, or other religious text. The sohbet sessions are seen as gatherings during which they obtain knowledge through active discussion and explanation of the texts by a leading figure, one who probably has more experience with the texts that the rest of the women. The leading figure, who is also a woman, may not necessarily have been through any formal religious education, but she would have more experience with the texts and would initiate the discussions. Sometimes, sohbets are active, and everyone participates; other times, they may be passive and the leading figure is the only one to speak.

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These are spaces where knowledge is transmitted, and the women have the chance to actively share their experiences and articulate knowledge through those experiences. This is a space to unwind from the daily hassles and immerse in spirituality. It is also a space where the women can socialize on a busy weekday. Most of the women have known each other for years, and the informal, cozy setting of the homes reflects the intimate atmosphere. The hostess always makes some delicacies, and if the hostess is really good in the kitchen, the evening could be quite extravagant. The intimacy of the home, the food, the tea, and the company of women make the sohbet meetings much more informal than a classic lesson, but they also provide the kind of space where the women can be open about themselves, their lives, and their thoughts. It is the sohbet where I got to know my interlocutors. The sohbet is the backstage that I mentioned before: the place where the real action took place, the deliberation and honesty. The events are always polished, but the sohbet, the place where those events are developed, is raw and most insightful. These meetings are not just random. Every sohbet group has its own internal structure. Every group has its teacher or co-ordinator, someone who organizes the dates and places of the meeting and initiates the discussions. The co-ordinator also decides who will be part of their group. Each group comprises roughly ten women, and if it grows to be more, the group is divided. The women who are in these groups are usually from the same age and occupational group. It is difficult to find a group where there are members of different generations or educational backgrounds. Doctors are usually in the same group with other doctors; housewives with housewives; and blue-collar workers with other blue-collar workers. The main reason for this is working hours. Housewives meet during daytime when their children are at school; women who work meet in the evening after work, and so on. Since these women are volunteers and the main component of volunteering is charity, it is important that the women in the same groups are from similar socioeconomic backgrounds, ensuring they do not feel uncomfortable about money. Collecting money is usually done very openly among my interlocutors; hence, they are careful that people can be comfortable at such events.

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The final important point about the sohbet groups is that these are the spaces where decisions are made. It is usually within these circles that the women decide on their yearly event calendar and distribute the duties among themselves. I have participated in many different groups, with housewives and doctors, from blue-collar workers to university students. I have seen that the event calendars and the major decisions are usually developed by the more highly educated (often professional) women. The others are expected to contribute logistically. The decision-makers also contribute logistically, with their labor, money, and time, but they make the calls. There is the impression that these women (and men) have a better comprehension of their social and political environment, and also of their own human capital of volunteers. Those from the more highly educated layer of volunteers are always at the forefront of events and represent their team.

A Tale of Two Cities: Brussels and Antwerp The two cities that hosted this research are Brussels and Antwerp. Both cities in a way represent the complicated political, social, and linguistic composition of Belgium as a federal country. Belgium is a multi-nation state (Kymlicka 1995), consisting of three cultural communities: the Flemish, the Francophone, and a small Germanophone group (Jacobs 2000, 290). Belgium was a unitary state until 1970, after which constitutional reforms took place (1970, 1980, 1988), eventually leading to a more complicated and ‘diverse’ political system (Jacobs 2000, 290). With the 1993 constitutional reform, Belgium was finally acknowledged as a federal state (Jacobs 2000, 290). Although the country is comprised of three cultural groups, the main political divide is between the Flemish and Francophone administrative regions, with the separate Brussels-Capital region making the third (Murphy 2002, 696). The Flemish region, Flanders, is located in the northern part of the country that officially speaks the Dutch language (Murphy 2002, 696). Wallonia is the French-speaking region, while Brussels is administratively bilingual (Murphy 2002, 696).

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Brussels had—and still has—a majority French-speaking population, reaching about 75–80% of the population (De Vriendt and Van de Craen 1990). Although Dutch is a minority language in the city, it is still officially recognized (Jacobs 2000). It is difficult to think of Brussels as having closer cultural ties to Wallonia, as Brussels is a culturally complex region with a cosmopolitan essence, influenced by aspects of both the French- and Dutch-speaking communities (Murphy 2002). The cultural and linguistic complexity of the city has meant that things have not always proceeded swimmingly. Language has historically been a key point of identity politics in Belgium, emerging initially between the elites of both language groups as nationalism propelled a struggle for power (Blommaert 2011). The Flemish Movement sought bilingual status for the Flemish-speaking provinces, and in the 1930s achieved mono-lingualism in the northern part of the country (Lecours 2001, 62). I never felt these tensions with the volunteers. Especially in Brussels, which is a meeting point for the volunteers living in the nearby Flemish Brabant and French-speaking communities, the volunteering scene is multi-lingual. This reflects the city’s general cosmopolitan fabric, and for the volunteers Turkish is always a common denominator. Oftentimes, the volunteers worked together with the other linguistic communities quite comfortably and were very well aware of what was going on in the associations in other cities. Although the associations followed different agendas, the volunteers met regularly and discussed their plans together over meetings that started with breakfast and usually stretched to lunch. They often spoke in their common language, Turkish, and I was able to participate in Turkish. Indeed, most of the discussions in this book actually took place in Turkish and were later translated into English by me. Brussels also hosts the European quarter and EU institutions, making it an attractive city for civil society, NGOs, foreign MPs, and expats. My interlocutors know that this is an avenue where their volunteering can stretch and attract more attention in the international scene. A lot of the events that take place in Brussels are carried out in English, and are aimed at the EU and the civil society organizations clustered around the EU. It also helps that the EU is highly interested in interfaith–intercultural dialogue, and that the volunteers always keep that as

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a reference point in their activities. My interlocutors are not unique in their interest, as there are many dialogue associations spread around the European quarter. My interlocutors’ dialogue events are often attended by members of other dialogue associations. While in Antwerp, the volunteers still uphold dialogue their proximity to Brussels and the EU makes them turn more to the national context and national issues. Both cities do work together in bigger activities like symposiums at the European Parliament and most of the volunteers from each city are acquainted with each other. Although I refer to Brussels as a ‘city,’ it technically is not. This point is elaborately explained by Jacobs and Swyngedouw (2003), who assert that it is actually a region with its own regional government and legally does not have a city government (Jacobs and Swyngedouw 2003, 129). There are 19 autonomous municipalities connected to Brussels, most of which have a highly diverse ethnic and linguistic composition (Jacobs and Swyngedouw 2003). Following the work of Kymlicka, Jacobs describes Brussels as a “polyethnic society” (Jacobs 2000, 292; see also Kymlicka 1995, 15). This means that not only are there are multiple different ethnic groups present and also “integrated into the local societal structures of the capital,” there are also a number of ethnic minority groups that want to “preserve their own cultural identities” (Kymlicka 1995, 15). Brussels is composed of 45 different nationalities, with an everincreasing pattern of diversification due to incoming inhabitants from other European countries (Deboosere et al. 2009). To stress the issue of diversity, I would like to indicate that in 2001, 46% of those who were born in Brussels were not of Belgian nationality by birth (Deboosere et al. 2009, 2). The numbers increase as we consider children born to parents who were not of Belgian nationality by birth. Of Brussels’ nonEU inhabitants, 50% are of Moroccan origin (Jacobs 2000, 292). The northern parts of the city, where the Saint-Josse-ten-Node and Schaerbeek communes are located, are populated by a large Turkish population that constituted up to 21% of the whole population (Kesteloot and Mistiaen 1997, 325). Not unlike Brussels, Antwerp has its fair share of diversity. Located about an hours’ drive north of Brussels, the city is the capital of the

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Flemish region. Antwerp is home to about 470,000 inhabitants, 50,000 of whom have origins in Morocco (Smets 2012). It is estimated that 42.1% of the city’s population is of foreign descent (Saeys et al. 2014). Some scholars suggest that the diversity is not reflected in the city’s politics. The majority Belgian-Flemish community holds a dominant position when compared with the minority. Educated ‘white’ (Flemish) men are still key position-holders in “political, educational, and sociocultural” areas (Clycq 2015). This, inevitably, has an impact on the city’s policy-making, “its appreciation of differences and similarities between groups and communities” (Clycq 2015). On a more macro-political level, the notorious far-right, anti-immigrant Vlams Belang party gained important support from the city during the 1990s and 2000s (Saeys et al. 2014). The general consensus, however, is that in an increasingly diverse city, political debates such as those that take place in Belgium are highly determined by the policies in Antwerp (Saeys et al. 2014). During my fieldwork days, when I would visit the association in Antwerp, I would take the tram from the city’s majestic central train station. After what I always believed to be a long tram trip, I would get off at Berendrechtstraat. From the many Turkish named shops, bakeries, and the tightly closed beautiful lace curtains, I would know that I was in the ‘Turkish neighborhood.’ This neighborhood is not close to the bustling city center, where I would get off the train from Brussels. It has a kind of suburban feel, with its semi-detached houses. While all my interlocutors in Brussels lived, worked, and volunteered in Brussels, I cannot say the same for Antwerp. Being a big city close to many smaller towns and districts, Antwerp attracted many volunteers from neighboring smaller municipalities, such as Mol and Diest. My younger interlocutors, who studied at the University of Antwerp, particularly seemed to prefer volunteering in the bigger city. Now that we have discussed the general diversity embedded in these two important Belgian cities, the next section gives an overview of the migration history. It elaborates on the European and nonEuropean/Mediterranean–North African labor migration that led to this great diversity. The focus from hereon will be more specifically the ‘Muslim migration’ to Belgium and its social and political implications.

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After Migration Most of the volunteers are children of labor migrants. Although most of them live in Brussels and Antwerp, their families still reside in Charleroi and Hasselt. These cities are famous for their coal mines, which are now closed but were work sites for many labor migrants. I often heard from the more highly educated women that their families were very careful with their education because their fathers had worked in those coal mines and simply did not want their children to re-live what they had endured. “We’re not like those snack-owners in Brussels. Our fathers worked for very little under horrible conditions. That is why they invested so much in our education,” said Esra, who had moved to Brussels from Charleroi. Her father had once worked in one of those infamous coal mines and she had gone on to become a pharmacist. “Those snack-owners in Brussels” are Turks who own small businesses in Brussels. These businesses are usually small fast-food places, where they serves varieties of kababs. There is an understanding among the Turkish Belgians that the snackowners had it easier than other labor migrants, because they earned a lot and were the bosses of their own businesses. So because they had it easier, their children took over their families’ businesses instead of pursuing a better education. Hence, Esra’s comment that their suffering brought an appreciation towards higher-skilled jobs. The arrival of the volunteers’ families in Belgium is part of a larger European migration history. Castles rightly says that “The social history of industrialization is the history of migration: concentration of capital requires movement of labor” (Castles 1986, 761). Such needs have brought about ‘contract labor’ over the centuries. The industrial boom of nineteenth-century Europe, and the large-scale migrations it led to (both internally and from other countries) is probably one of the most important examples of such contract labor. As Western Europe lost major manpower and literally crumbled after the Second World War, it needed help to reconstruct what had been lost during the war. In Belgium, this so-called contract was also designed to be temporary; namely, the workers were ‘guest workers.’ However, in comparison with other European countries which carried out similar programs, the Belgian contract

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was “fairly liberal” as it allowed family members to unite with the workers (Castles 1986). Mostly due to labor migration, Western Europe’s population increased by 10 million between 1950 and 1970 (Castles et al. 1984). Immigration flows to Belgium began in the 1920s, especially from countries located in Central and Southern Europe, such as Poland and Italy (Timmerman et al. 2003). Most of this flow was concentrated in Wallonia, where the heavy industries of steel and mining were developing (Timmerman et al. 2003). In the 1960s, the increasing economic activity in Flanders attracted migration to Flemish cities (Timmermans et al. 2003). Nearly 60% of the Turkish workers that came to Belgium (first-generation immigrants) were generally from central Anatolian towns and villages, hence they were not from the big cities (Wets 2006). Towns that provided the most immigrants were mainly Afyon, Eskisehir, and Kayseri (Wets 2006, 93). Nevertheless, although they are generally referred to as ‘Turks,’ Turkish migration is diverse in ethnic, linguistic, cultural, and religious background, as they include the Kurds, Christian (Assyrian), Sunni, and Alevi populations (Wets 2006, 93). After the labor migration agreement (1964) between the Moroccan, Turkish, and Belgian governments, the new incoming population was distributed to the country’s coal-mining areas until the end of the 1960s (Manço and Kanmaz 2005, 1107). These two populations were concentrated in Flanders and Brussels, rather than Wallonia, and they worked in blue-collar jobs, as they had very little by way of educational background (Lesthaeghe 2000). The need for workers in such areas continued for some time, and even though the guest-worker system had been abolished, workers could come with a tourist visa and become “regularized” after they had found employment and obtained residence permits (Castles 1986). This flexibility was an outcome of great labor needs, and as soon as it reached its optimum point, the government stopped entries from countries that were not part of the European community (Castles 1986, 763). This cessation did not stop further migration; however, the migration changed form, and the influx continued. Workers, who could now stay permanently in the country, re-unified with their families and settled (Wets 2006). Today, the “immigration population” is categorized into four generations (Lesthaeghe 2000).

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The pioneers are the first generation of guest workers who were contracted in the 1950s, 1960s, and early 1970s; the intermediate or 1.5 generation, are family members who joined the first generation in the late 1970s and in the 1980s; the second (or third) generation are their offspring who were born or raised in Belgium (usually including new arrivals at six or younger); and the newcomers are mostly partners of the second generation who continue to enter through cross-border marriages. (Phalet and Swyngedouw 2003, 3)

Notably the demographic differences of the immigrant communities, as in high birth rates, resulted in their having a younger age structure than the native population; a majority of the second-generation Turks and Moroccans are under the age of 30 (Lesthaeghe 2000). Permanent settlement and family expansion brought its own social realities. The workers and their descendants were in the country to stay, and that meant they were now part of a social and political order, which required them to meld into that order. In the 1980s, the Belgian government acknowledged that the immigrants and their families were a permanent reality in Belgium and developed policies to ‘integrate’ this new demographic (Wets 2006, 93). These policies had a wide span, stretching from housing, to education, and voting rights. Not only was it important to transform immigrants into complying citizens, but it also became important to protect them from potential racist threats, which led to the introduction of the anti-racist laws of 1981 (Brems 2006). This legislation is one of Belgium’s obligations under the UN Convention on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination. Brems explains that Article 1 of the Anti-Racism Act of 1981 criminalizes incitement to discrimination, segregation, hatred, or violence against a person or group on account of race, color, descent, origin, or nationality; similarly criminalized is advocacy of any form of discrimination, hatred, violence, or segregation for any of the reasons given above… Article 3 prescribes punishment for whoever belongs to a group or association that clearly and repeatedly practices or advocates discrimination or segregation […], or who lends his assistance to any such group or association. (Brems 2006)

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In her article, Brems, by taking the Vlams Belang as a case, explains in more detail why this legislation is not as efficient as it seems when it comes to penalizing systematic racism. The complicated political structure of Belgium is very much reflected in the way it develops integration policies. Flanders and Wallonia have separate trajectories. Whereas Flanders upholds a more Anglo-Saxon type of multi-culturalism, Wallonia acknowledges a French-style assimilationism (Jacobs et al. 1999). The differences in policy practices between these two entities are notable. The linguistic and political tensions between the Francophones and Dutch-speaking population are reflected in how they handle issues relating to non-Belgians and immigrants. It is an ever-complicated process, one constantly unpacked by scholars (see Favell and Martiniello 1999). One of the greatest problems relating to the integration of foreign-born Belgians or immigrants, especially in the city of Brussels, is explained by Jacobs, as the Flemish fear that the Francophones will have an increased influence in the city, as the majority of immigrants speak French (Jacobs 2000).These differences become especially visible in the Brussels-Capital region, where the Flemish multiculturalist approach aims to attract minorities and incorporate them into their own political system (Jacobs 2000, 293). The Francophone, however, approach these attempts of the Flemish with “suspicion” and believe that it is better for the immigrants that they assimilate to the French culture and political system (also as an attempt to downplay the legitimacy of the Flemish approach to recognizing there are different cultural groups in the city) (Jacobs 2000, 293). Before we go into the unique cases of Belgian policies, it is helpful to note that many European countries have some sort of integration policy towards their immigrant populations. Significantly, there is no specific integration policy that sets a clear direction in this regard at the EU level (Jacobs and Rea 2007, 265). EU states have, over time, adopted similar integration trajectories whereby “integration courses” are offered so that those who are subjected to these courses acquire “common basic principles” (Jacobs and Rea 2007, 266). Although it is difficult to determine what these common principles are exactly, the European Council Press release of November 19, 2004 states that “basic knowledge of the host

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society’s language, history, and institutions is indispensable to integration; enabling immigrants to acquire this basic knowledge is essential to successful integration.” More specifically, the Flemish have been implementing a citizenship trajectory (inburgerinstrajecten) since the 1990s, whereby the “students” are taught the Dutch language, and given preliminary information on general Belgian society (Jacobs and Rea 2007, 267). This is a partially obligatory process for most non-EU immigrants to Flanders (from April 2004), and optional for Brussels residents. On a more personal level, I have experienced, during my visits to city hall, that as a ‘highly educated’ non-EU national, I do not have to participate in these integration courses, as they seem to be more a requirement for less-educated immigrants. On the other hand, city hall did not exactly seem to mind that I, again as a university graduate, did not know Dutch when I applied for citizenship. Jacobs and Rea have added, though, that these courses are not evaluated with a test (although it may happen in the future), and that failure to participate in these courses or to master the Dutch language does not necessarily have negative implications for the citizenship process; this is a by-product of the federal Belgian government (Jacobs and Rea 2007, 268). Jacobs and Rea (2007) argue that there is a paradox with the Flemish government’s immigrant policies and citizenship trajectories, in that the former is more multi-cultural and the latter is more assimilationist. Their final argument in general is that Flanders resists being perceived as an ‘assimilationist’ political entity, rather asserting a more individualist structure where people can ‘prosper’ with their cultural particularities while at the same time respecting the “current values, norms and rules” of the “democratic state and the rule of law” (see Flemish Government 2004, 5). Moreover, while the government asserts respect towards diversity, it also adds that the State–Church separation is unquestionable, along with other liberal values such as equality and the freedom of expression (Flemish Government 2004, 5). These additions are somewhat ambiguous as to how the government responds to issues involving cultural and religious groups that are categorically deemed problematic when it comes to such liberal practices and discourses. In the case of Muslims, who have historically become problematic in these debates

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(Kanmaz and Zemni 2005), individual and cultural uniqueness can become an issue when these characteristics are deemed incompatible with gender equality and freedom of expression. Even when we talk about the children of immigrants, those individuals who were born and raised in Belgium, it seems that their ‘foreignness’ is ingrained in their presence. Both in Flanders and the Netherlands, migrants, their children, and their grandchildren are still referred to as allochtonous (Van Houtte and Stevens 2009). Even if the individual has Belgian (or Dutch) nationality, having at least one grandparent born out of the country’s nationality is enough for them to be an allochtoon, signifying a socially disadvantaged position (Van Houtte and Stevens 2009, 218). Some scholars observe that the word is mainly reserved for Muslim labor migrants and their children and reinforces a sense of otherness, distrust, unwillingness to integrate, and a low socio-economic position and capability to master Dutch (Bousetta and Jacobs 2006; Ceuppens 2006; De Raedt 2004; Kanmaz 2002; Van Lear and Janssens 2011).

Education Education is a crucial element in my interlocutors’ societal presence. Their peers, policy-makers, and the media often perceive being a Turk as synonymous with being a school dropout. Obviously, this has many different reasons on political, economic, and social levels, but for my interlocutors it is an embarrassing void in their identity. It is a challenge, one that they often relate to as caused by no one but themselves. Hence, in their imagination, the solution also lies in their hands, which they take incredibly seriously. After having spent years among the volunteers and participated in most of their events, I feel comfortable enough to say that educational problems are the foundation on which they ground their whole agenda. Tutoring young students (regardless of their ethnicity), establishing tutoring centers, and providing them with bursaries and materials, is an essential part of their job. Moreover, I have found that this is no easy job, as it takes up an incredible amount of time and resources.

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Interestingly, first-generation Turkish immigrants are better educated than émigrés from Morocco (Timmerman et al. 2003, 1068). This, however, does not say much about the educational level among the following generations. It is a reality that students who are ethnic minorities, such as Turks and Moroccans, are more inclined towards vocational training and less towards higher education (Ouali et al. 1994). It is another reality that they are also failing their exams and dropping out of school at a higher percentage than their peers (Phalet and Swyngedouw 2003). My interlocutors suggest that both communities show “ambivalent ideas” when it comes to the role of schooling and education in determining a better future. This situation is also highly related to their consciousness of discrimination in the labor market after formal education. Now that we are aware of the problem, the next question is what is the root cause of the problem. While some scholars believe that the cause of such low levels of achievement are grounded in discrimination (labor, housing, access to higher education), others see the causes directly in the educational system. This second group locate the problem in the system’s resistance to acknowledging diversity and linguistic pluralism. As most Turkish families do not send their children to pre-school, often it happens that the child starts primary education having not been in contact with the local language for most of his/her life. Scholars suggest the importance of recognizing native languages in the child’s education, and urge that we should not mistake their inability to understand certain concepts in one language with a general inability to understand. Considering these issues facing ethnic minority youth, the Flemish government launched some policies to address them. Some of these policies are “the Educational Priority Policy (1991), the Nondiscrimination Policy (1994), and the Equal Opportunities Policy (early 1990s),” all of which focus on students who have a “weak” educational foundation and need special attention (Timmerman et al. 2003, 1071). According to Timmerman et al. Currently, three kinds of initiatives can be distinguished: the allocation of extra teaching periods to schools; the promotion of intercultural education; and the stimulation of Dutch-language acquisition. Schools can

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participate in the above initiatives if they can demonstrate that they reach the intended target groups and fulfill certain criteria. (2003, 1071)

These policies place the primary focus on mastering the Dutch language, while also promoting intercultural education and the integration of parents in the child’s education (Timmerman et al. 2003). Concerning the final point, the Flemish education minister, Hilda Crevits, made a very controversial claim in March 2017, saying that parents of ethnic minority children are not involved enough in their children’s educations. According to Crevits, this is the primary reason why children do not do well in schools. By adding that schools are ready to tackle these problems, and that it is the passiveness of the parents that hinders this process, the minister attracted a lot of critical attention (see deredactie, 06 March 2017 for the details of Crevits’ article). Orhan Agirdag, whose work focuses on education and ethnic minorities, claims that his research indicates that Crevits’ assertions do not necessarily reflect reality. Language acquisition, the socio-economic disadvantages facing the parents, and whether the parents are highly educated are factors affecting children’s education; however, the parents’ ethnicity does not seem to make much of a difference, as these variables are relevant for both Flemish and ethnic children (see Delarue 2017 for more detail on Agirdag’s opinion response to Crevits). Regardless of these policies, it is clear that ethnic segregation is increasing in schools (Mahieu 2002). Van Houtte and Stevens locate this problem in the lack of government policy to insure that children are not huddled in neighborhood schools, which leads to schools in ethnic minority neighborhoods to have a higher concentration of minority children (Van Houtte and Stevens 2009, 218). This leads to a vicious circle, whereby ‘white’ parents whose children attend these schools decide to enroll in other schools in socio-economically wealthier neighborhoods, with a ‘whiter’ demographic; this inevitably causes ethnic segregation to deepen (Desmedt and Nicaise 2006). Van Houtte and Stevens explain that this segregation increased so drastically that ethnic minorities in some schools went up from 30 to 80–100% (Van Houtte and Stevens 2009). This is what is meant by the phrase “concentration schools” (Sierens 2006).

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This is possible in Flanders, because parents can choose their children’s schools regardless of neighborhood (Karsten et al. 2006). The debates as to how much this has an impact on ethnic minority children’s integration and further academic success still continue, both on the part of academics and policy-makers (Driessen 2002).

Ethnic Diversity and Gentrification The diversity that is ever-visible in both cities is a reality that often becomes a theme in the events of my interlocutors. The events usually tend to tease out the many ethnic and linguistic varieties that co-exist in the cities, and as Turkish women, they are but one component of this social mixture. I wanted to include details on the ethnic diversity and conglomerates of different ethnic groups huddled in specific parts of the cities, because I want to draw a picture of the kind of setting that frames the events of my interlocutors’ lives. When we discuss issues like diversity, dialogue, co-existence, and integration, we must study how neighborhood settings mold these discourses with their own realities. Indeed, diversity is part of both Brussels and Antwerp, but it varies widely depending on where you live, walk, shop, and hang out. Most of the associations I studied are located in districts that are densely populated by Turkish and Moroccan minorities. Some of these neighborhoods are Schaerbeek and Laeken, in Brussels; and Hoboken, in Antwerp. Although I can say that most of my interlocutors do not actually live in these neighborhoods, they live very close by and structure their agendas based on what they believe is needed by the people living in these neighborhoods. Migration plays a key role in gentrification. Lyons states that “the shared and defining characteristic of gentrification everywhere is socioeconomic change through migration” (Lyons 1996, 40). Similarly, Van Criekingen adds that “[…] contemporary upward neighbourhood trajectories are driven first by middle- or upper-class newcomers moving into working-class neighbourhoods rather than by upward social mobility of incumbent residents. They also stress that migration flows to or from gentrifying districts are intrinsically socially differentiated. This point is

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central to the definition of gentrification as a process of class transformation through which impoverished neighbourhoods are being recast in the mould of wealthier newcomers.” (Van Criekingen 2009, 826; see also Smith 1996). Van Criekingen suggests that although cities like Brussels (and Antwerp) are small and are “driven by a less intense business service economy” than that which we traditionally find in metropolitan cities, they can still be classified as “gentrified” cities. There is a problem when it comes to affordable housing in Brussels, and social housing only covers a small proportion of the demand, while the middle class is gradually moving away from the city, as they do not see it as a ‘proper’ place to live (Van Criekingen 2009, 826). Loopmans elaborately describes the long gentrification process of Antwerp as the city’s regeneration went from providing appropriate houses for the working and middle classes to a more recent trend of making the city hip, a center for commerce, fashion, and art (Loopmans 2008). Antwerp, having the second biggest port in Europe, is economically defined by its harbor and the industrial development that it has influenced (Van Hamme and Strale 2012). Diamond trading is also an important part of the city’s commerce (Henn and Laureys 2010). Global economic changes and the growth of trade have affected the city, too, whereby the competition (also free trade, as well as limited public intervention), liberalized market, and privatization policies have become more prominent (Van Hamme and Strale 2012). The changes in the city’s economy have led to changes in its urban fabric, wherein the local authorities became interested in “bringing wealthy earners back to the city” (Van Hamme and Strale 2012, 92). The city launched renovation projects aimed to construct housing for wealthy people, in order to increase the tax base (Van Hamme and Strale 2012, 92). The aims of these policies ultimately were “attracting young and wealthy population[s], promoting a social mix, and reducing concentrations of poverty through the destruction of social housing blocks and the reconstruction of housing in other areas” (Ta¸san-Kok 2010). This approach did not do much for social problems concerning the poor, who, faced with inequality, were gradually driven out of the city center (Christiaens et al. 2007; Loopmans 2008).

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We can see a similar flux in Brussels, where the industrial transformations of the 1970s led to a concentration of workers in the city. This led to native ‘white’ Belgians, who were socio-economically better off, leaving the city for the suburbs, leaving the old and rundown city to the Muslim working-class dwellers (Manço and Kanmaz 2005, 1107). Manço and Kanmaz observe that the working-class, majority Muslims still live in these “nineteenth century neighborhoods, Anderlecht, Forest, Saint-Gilles, Molenbeek, Brussels City, Saint-Josse and Schaerbeek” (Manço and Kanmaz 2005, 1107). What I find more interesting in Manço and Kanmaz’s account is their argument that the problems associated with gentrification are culturalized. It can safely be said that these neighborhoods are mostly inhabited by Muslim minorities, people of Turkish, Middle Eastern, or North African heritage. The growing number of these minorities in the city, and their cultural symbols somewhat ‘taking over’ the streets, have caused these spaces to be pushed further into the periphery, as “places of the other” (Manço and Kanmaz 2005; see also Dassetto 1990; Manço and Kanmaz 2002). Walking in these neighborhoods, you can see and feel how they reflect their inhabitants, who have not had it easy over the years. Every time I go to the associations in Schaerbeek, I pass by a Turkish men’s tearoom (kahvehane), an Albanian men’s room where a bunch of men watch a football game, a Bulgarian grocery store, and a Kurdish bakery. French is spoken on the streets, though it is colored with a few Turkish words. It is nearly impossible not to hear a mother talking to her children in FrenchTurkish on the tram line 25, as they are coming home from school. My interlocutors often tell me how their parents and relatives found it so comfortable to live on Chaussee de Haecht, as they could manage their lives without having to know perfect French, or feel guilty about it. The grocery stores in the neighborhoods are not so different from those you find in Turkey—maybe a little more basic. Anything bought from the market in Istanbul can be easily found in Schaerbeek. Chaussee de Haecht is full of Turkish restaurants, most of them halal. They offer all kinds of Turkish delicacies and even offer open buffets of typical Turkish breakfast on weekdays and at weekends. It is not uncommon for my interlocutors to meet up for breakfast before they start an event

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or a meeting. Countless times, I have seen local restaurants send in kebabs and desserts to the association during long meetings. Truth be told, it is rare that I see them eat anywhere other than in those specific neighborhoods. The biggest reason for this is that halal is usually not an option in a non-Muslim neighborhood, and the food is not exactly satisfying. Recognition is also a factor in these exchanges. Being part of the neighborhood even though they do not necessarily live there, personally knowing the business owners, and developing a trust relationship all provide a form of comfort that does not come easily in other neighborhoods. This relationship makes it easier for my interlocutors to incorporate the local working-class families and their children into their events. It is not a secret that families living in these neighborhoods, who do not have an academic background, trust the volunteers to tutor their children, hoping that their kids will then ‘make it out’ of the neighborhood and have a better life. So are my interlocutors not part of Schaerbeek or Saint-Josse then? Well, not exactly. Although I repeat over and again that my respondents come from all kinds of backgrounds—from the lowest to the highest socio-economic groups—most of them are middle-class families who live in ‘whiter’ neighborhoods like Grimbergen, Woluwe, Krainem, Sterrebeek, Ixelles, and Evere. This inevitably frames the way in which they take up social and political issues and the kind of ‘help’ they offer their own ethnic and religious communities in the events they host.

The Labor Market Labor market discrimination seems like an obvious phenomenon when we talk about ethnic and religious minorities. Different forms of discrimination in the workplace are a reality in Belgium (Kogan and Kalter 2006). The OECD report states that labor market outcomes for immigrants in Belgium are poor, especially if the concerned immigrants are from non-EU countries (and are female). Unemployment for immigrants is two and a half times higher in comparison to native-born Belgians, and according to the report “these unfavorable outcomes are not a recent development. Immigrants have been disproportionately

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affected by the longstanding, high structural unemployment in Belgium’s industrial centers, especially in Wallonia, where many earlier immigrant cohorts settled.” The report adds that even during hiring there is a high level of discrimination towards immigrants, even when they are educated in Belgium. To challenge these issues, several policies have been implemented, such as a more proactive and comprehensive diversity policy (in Flanders and Brussels); equal opportunity incentives; and “providing more weight to immigrant children in the distribution of school funding, higher refunds on social security contributions for employers when employing children of immigrants, and the exclusive opening of certain job vacancies to disadvantaged groups in the labour market.” However, according to the report, no one has undertaken a true survey of how effective these measures have been. Discrimination in the labor market is not just limited to immigrants, but more specifically those who are foreign born. The report conveys that children of immigrants in particular present poor results, that this situation is more evident in Belgium than elsewhere, and that this disadvantage stretches to the labor market (Kalter and Kogan 2006). Van Laer and Janssens (2011) debate the subtler ways in which discrimination takes place in the workplace. Some forms of ‘subtle’ discrimination are observed by the authors not as a recognition of the individual, but as a marginalization of their group: their presence is acknowledged but their professional skills and preferences are disregarded (they are not taken seriously professionally); they are ‘tolerated’ by the majority, and they are “forced to expose their differences” (2011, 1212). The authors describe how their interlocutors relate to these points in their professional lives. My interlocutors are no strangers to discrimination. Especially as visibly Muslim women, most of them have an uncomfortable story to tell when it comes to their professional lives. This is the case for both blue-collar workers and more highly educated women. While ‘labor discrimination’ has not been taken up directly in any events that I have been part of, I have often witnessed them discussing how to be more effective and present in the labor market. Moreover, I have observed that several of my respondents started volunteering full-time after experiencing problems in their jobs. Not being free to wear whatever they

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want, to practice their religion, or other types of problems they associate with discrimination have led them to pursue volunteering, a space which, for them, connotes acceptance and homeliness. What is more, some of my respondents (especially those with higher degrees, including some of the PhD level), start full-time volunteering because they are unable to find a permanent job. These women, who are used to having busy social lives, express how they find themselves at a loss once they fail at finding a job. The idea of volunteering not only fills this gap, but it also makes them feel useful, active, and socially present. Nevertheless, this book does not represent research on the dynamics between employment and volunteering, and it is not a point that will be taken up extensively in the coming pages. Its relevance is in understanding how these micro-social issues are recognized by my interlocutors, and how finding a solution to them is incorporated as part of their social duties—and thus their religious duties. Discrimination in general is undeniably part of their daily reality, a discrepancy they must bridge. This problem is not merely because they are an ethnic minority. The fact that they are Muslim women is undoubtedly a major factor in their experiences.

Turkish (Religious) Social Movements The first time I met with my interlocutors, they joked about the number of Turkish associations active in Brussels and other major Belgian cities. “When three Turks come together, they establish an association,” was the most re-told joke. The joke is based on an old Turkish saying that when three Turks come together, they either found a state or destroy (invade) a state. Since, in the modern world, this is quite impossible, the modern Turk turns to forming associations instead of states. Turkish associations are not uncommon in Belgium, as Turks congregate within these spaces. My interlocutors are not the first, nor the last to establish an association for one reason or another. There are historical reasons behind this social phenomenon. As the first generation of immigrants settled and built families in Europe, they started realizing that their children were going to face realities

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that they as parents had not encountered in their home countries. The following generations were not only Muslim, but they were Belgian, Dutch, French, German, and so on, and this called for special attention when developing a way for them to stay in touch with their religious and cultural background (Yukleyen 2009, 35). Whereas the religious organizations of the first generation were very communal and segregated from larger society, the second and following generations established their associations with the consciousness that they were part of the country, and these associations were not only for communal needs but also served as spaces to find recognition from the larger social and political body (Yukleyen 2009, 35). Turks in Europe, and especially in Belgium, tend to have a strong tendency towards establishing associations, and one of the most important reasons for this is because the networks and community ties they develop through these associations help them preserve their cultural and religious identities, and also provide a support system for the challenges they face as minorities. There are numerous associations established in Belgium by the Turkish community, and it is safe to say that most of these associations tend to be local centers of more transnational movements. These movements are mostly organized around religious or national values, and although most of them do uphold nationalist values, some of them are secular. Regardless of whether Islam is recognized in European countries as an official religion, communities can organize around associations based on religious principles and identifications (Soysal 1997). These associations are not present for people’s religious needs, but like other civic organizations, they aim to tackle issues surrounding discrimination, and their members’ adjustment to society (Soysal 1997). The associations in Belgium are not different, as they try to meet the social and economic, as much as religious, needs of their members. There are a few prominent Turkish (Islamic) movements that are also active in the European public sphere: the Diyanet (the Turkish Islamic Foundation of Belgium); Milli Gorus (the Islamic Federation of Belgium); and the Hizmet Movement (the Gulen Movement) (Leman 2010; Yanasmayan 2010). There are also smaller networks linked to faith groups, such as the Belgian Federation of Alevi Associations (Belcika

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Alevi Birlikleri Federasyonu), which represents the Alevi Turks in Belgium (Nielsen 2014). There are also the smaller Sunni Turk networks such as the Suleymanci (founded in 1973 in Germany), the Naksibendi, and the Nurcu Movements (Timmerman 2004). The latter smaller groups are more focused on raising children from a younger age with the ability to read the Qur’an (Schiffauer 2007, 75). The most prominent and studied of these movements are the Diyanet, Milli Gorus, and Hizmet. Among the three, the Diyanet (TIFB) is probably the most popular; being a local organization of the Turkish Directorate for Religious Affairs, it is directly linked to Turkish politics and the homeland (Yanasmayan 2010). It was established in Belgium in 1982, in order to meet the religious needs of the immigrant Turks, and also to help them preserve their linguistic and cultural background (Yanasmayan 2010). In this sense, the TIFB only caters to the needs of Turkish Muslims, and employs imams who have completed their religious training in Turkey (Ögelman 2003). The imams are appointed for four years, after which they are expected to return to Turkey. The Islamic education that runs through the TIFB and its local mosques can be described as a secular ‘Kemalist’ approach, as the Ministry itself is founded on the State–Church separation principle and has a heavy Republican undertone (Yanasmayan 2010, 144). Today, the Diyanet has nearly 62 mosques in Belgium (Manço 2014). Another function of TIFB is to ‘assimilate,’ so to speak, the Turkish Muslims into one ‘proper’ and standard form of Islam. TIFB itself is not necessarily sympathetic to other Turkish Islamic movements, as it adheres to the official State ideology and by nature promotes the interests of the Turkish republic (Yukleyen 2009, 297). The TIFB is very careful about the preservation of language and bringing the Turkish diaspora together based on an ethnic togetherness. Its activities cover nearly all the services given by the Ministry of Religion in Turkey, such as organizing pilgrimage trips to Mecca, operating mosques, employing imams, organizing sacred holidays (such as eid ), offering iftar meals during the month of Ramadan, and providing religious education, especially for children (Avci 2005). The kind of Islam that is articulated within the TIFB mosques and centers is regarded as the most moderate and thus “less problematic” by the Belgian and

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local governments, because it is more focused on “individual moral responsibility” and personal worship, limiting the role of Islam to the private sphere and acknowledging State–Church separation (Exter and Bon 1990). For the Diyanet, Islam is a source of spiritual progression, rather than a body of law or political governance (Exter and Bon 1990). This view is also the mainstream ‘European’ one. This ‘clean face’ of the TIFB does not mean that the association is without its controversies. The associations that are related to the TIFB are often regarded as sources of direct influence of the Turkish government, especially in recent years. This interest is sometimes problematic for the host countries, as the organization’s emphasis on ethnic-cultural integrity can be seen as a serious blow to integration (Yukleyen 2009, 297). It has been the cause of significant distress for European interlocutors that imams, and even the congregation, are directly affected by the discourses of the Turkish government and in cases work on their behalf, regardless of the host country’s own political sensitivities. The then-Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan’s call to the Turkish citizens in Germany to “not integrate” did not help this image at all, and caused a lot of controversy (Gezer and Reimann 2011). The second most influential Turkish Islamic movement is the Milli Gorus (FIB), which differs from the TIFB on one very basic principle: it addresses the whole ummah and not just Turks (Yanasmayan 2010). According to Manço, the movement influences about 15,000 people (Manço 2014). The movement emerged in Turkey in the 1960s, later spilling over to Europe in the 1970s, creating quite a network of mosques (Yukleyen 2010, 446). One of the most important reasons that pushed the movement to Europe was its clashes with the secular Republican elite in Turkey (Schiffauer 2007, 76). The headquarters of the movement are based in Cologne, Germany, and the movement has become more and more focused on being a representative body for Muslims in Europe (Yukleyen 2010, 446). This brings me to the last prominent movement that has proliferated in Europe over the years: The Hizmet —or as it is known in the West, Gulen—Movement. The movement came to Belgium—and Europe—later than the other movements discussed above (Demir 2007). Unlike the other movements, which were imported from Turkey with the

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main flow of immigrations, the Hizmet Movement was not recognized in Europe through mosques or religious centers, but through secular schools, dialogue centers, culture centers, and business associations (Balci 2014). Education has long been the top priority for the sympathizers of the movement. They reflected on the low educational levels of ethnic minority children and aimed to remedy this problem by mobilizing teachers, young students, government funds, and wealthy businesspeople who were willing to donate (Pashayan 2007; Agai 2007; PEW 2010). Another significant point that sets the movement apart is that its educational program is completely detached from Turkey; the movement’s schools completely follow the curriculums of the host countries. This also means that religion is only incorporated in the curriculum if it is present in the national educational program, and there is no special reference to Islam. The spiritual ‘leader’ of the movement is Fethullah Gülen, a self-exiled cleric living in the United States of America. Gülen is a charismatic figure to his followers, and he comes from the tradition of the Islamic reformer Said Nursi, who brought a new interpretation to classical Sufism in Turkey (Mardin 1989). Gülen himself is a classically educated imam and served in many different mosques in Turkey before he ran into trouble with secular authorities because of his sermons. Although Gülen tried to keep a low profile through the 1970s and 1980s, especially due to the political struggles in Turkey, his growing entourage and public image landed him further trouble. While Gülen has no political background and only contacts his sympathizers through weekly videosermons (broadcasted on his website) and his written work, he has often been criticized by Turkey’s seculars as a political figure. It is obviously difficult to claim that a movement with such human capital and potential for mobility can be apolitical, but Gülen and his sympathizers repeatedly stress their distance from macro-politics. Many authorities in certain host countries have also asked these questions: does the Gülen Movement actually have a political agenda, and will their educational facilities hinder integration (van Bruinessen 2014)? Regardless of these inquiries, the movement is one of the most influential and fastest-growing movements among its peers (Sunier 2014, 2194).

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The movement is usually described as ‘civil’ Islam, as opposed to the former two movements, which clearly have political binds. Its sympathizers do not limit their activities to the mosque and try to implement a sense of virtue in responsibility and public service (Sunier 2014, 2195). Özdalga conceptualizes the moral framework of the movement in terms of a Weberian “worldly asceticism.” She argues that the perspective taught by Gülen is based on activism, stirred up, as well as controlled, by pietism. In accordance with Weber’s analysis of inworldly asceticism, the general effect of Gülen’s similar ‘activist-pietism’ has been in the direction of a rationalization of social relationships. The first has to do with the organization of education. The second is related to what Weber, in relation to so-called congregational religion, termed ‘the emancipation from political organization,’ hinting at a development of religious civil society organizations that curb the influence of the state. (Özdalga 2000, 87)

In turn, fulfilling public responsibilities is meant to enhance the individual’s sense of morality. In terms of comparison, it can be said that while the TFIB pursues a more individualistic piety, and is more concerned with retaining home-country identity, the latter two have a more public vision of Islam. The Milli Gorus pursues a more politically oriented Islam, while the Gülen Movement has a more grassrootsoriented idea of publicness.

Turkish Associations and Their Public Presence I have already mentioned that Turkish movements in Belgium localize through mosques and associations. I have also mentioned that these associations mostly focus on aiding the needs of the ethnic community. Most Turkish associations are located in the neighborhoods that are ethnically concentrated, such as Schaerbeek and Saint-Josse. Not all of these associations are localized faith movements; many are small associations established by individuals who come from the same region in Turkey, such as the Emirdag Yardimlasma Dernegi (EYD), which

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aims to bring together Turks originating from the Emirdag province. The Turkish right-wing political party Milliyetci Hareket Partisi (MHP) also has its own associations, as do the Republican Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (CHP) and the ruling Adalet ve Kalkinma Partisi (AKP) Union of European Turkish Democrats (UETD). Observably, these associations are connected to Turkey, one way or another, be it by politics, culture, ethnicity, or ties to a home city or village. Jørgen Nielsen adds that when we discuss associations that have such strong ties with their country of origin, we should be describing them as “transnational” associations (2003, 761). He conveys that understanding the transnational element is important to have a grasp on what kind of social and political dynamics mobilize the individuals who are part of these associations (Østergaard-Nielsen 2003, 762). Are these factors related to country-oforigin politics? Are they rooted in the country of migration? How do these entities relate to one another? These questions are highly relevant if we are to assess the influence of civic organization on ethnic minorities’ political and social mobilization in Belgium. The additive value of these associations to ‘immigrant integration’ has been of interest to previous socio-scientific research (see Fennema and Tillie 2001). The hypothesis of such studies is that civic communities and ethnic networks provide a catalyst for immigrants’ feelings of trust and their political participation in the host country (Fennema and Tillie 2001). This is a significant theory to talk about, as the Turkish community, including my respondents, is highly organized in Brussels, at least when it comes to associations. While their contributions to intra-ethnic solidarity are very visible, can we say the same for their social and political participation? Voluntary organizations need to register themselves in Belgium, which involves sending their mission statement and organizational structure to the Ministry of Justice. The Ministry publishes these facts on their website. According to the published names on the website, Jacobs et al. convey that there are 159 registered associations in the Brussels-Capital region alone (Jacobs et al. 2006). Fennema and Tillie’s hypothesis has been tested in the Belgian context by some scholars (Jacobs et al. 2006). They want to understand whether such strong associational life has a positive influence on the Turk’s “political trust and political involvement” (Jacobs et al. 2006, 145). When we

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consider the number of active politicians who are of ethnic origin, the Turks are relatively underrepresented in comparison to the Moroccan community, although the latter are less organized with their networks (Jacobs and Swyngedouw 2003). The strong community bonds among Turks and their successful integration into the public scene seem to get weaker in regards to inter-ethnic relations and other forms of integration, indicating the inefficiency of these associations at providing a “bridging capital” (Jacobs et al. 2006). Following this point, Jacobs asserted that gender, educational levels, and language skills had a direct positive influence on participation. While some individuals do seem to show more positive tendencies towards political participation and trust, it is not the case for the majority of the community (Jacobs et al. 2006). This has a lot to do with the factors mentioned above, such as language, educational level, and the fact that Belgian-Turkish women are less engaged with politics. While in Fennema and Tillie’s research, which took place in Amsterdam, civic organization reflected positively on political trust and participation (Fennema and Tillie 2001), it seems that in Brussels it is not so straightforward. There is also the issue that since most Turkish movements and associations present in Belgium—and Europe—are off-shoots from Turkey, they seem to be more directly involved in Turkish politics and social movements (Østergaard-Nielsen 2003). Nielsen states that “immigrant politics and homeland/diaspora politics are inseparable categories within Turkish and Kurdish organizations, where the migrant political claims for ethnic or religious distinctiveness send strong homeland political signals to the Turkish political regime who may try to suppress such proliferation within Turkey” (Nielsen 2003, 763). Thus, on the one hand, these associations are very active on European territory; on the other hand, they are also active on numerous issues that they could not engage with in Turkey. My respondents’ associations are not connected to any association in Turkey, neither politically nor on a civil level. Their local associations specifically target local issues and detach from country-of-origin issues. Even the use of language is strictly limited to Dutch and French in the associations and during the events. There are several reasons for this. First, the founders of the associations are second-generation Turks.

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Although this does not necessarily mean that they should detach from their country of origin, the sense of being born and raised in Belgium repositions their ideas of home and belonging. The people who founded these associations were people who had the material means to do so, hence they were somewhat wealthy. These people had investments and businesses in Belgium, and, thus, their social and political concerns were oriented towards Belgium more than Turkey. This being said, their events and agendas nearly always address issues pertaining to diversity, and especially the Turkish (and frequently Moroccan) minorities. Second, these associations do not have a political party or ideology that represent them in Turkey. The diversity among the members makes it very difficult for the associations to turn into a hub of ideology, ethnicity, or kinship. The members come from different ideological backgrounds, different hometowns, and even different ethnic groups (including Kurds). This diversity makes it increasingly difficult to define the associations in the framework of one representative body. My interlocutors are part of a Turkish faith-based initiative, but other than that, there is no common identifier. Third, my interlocutors are volunteers, and while sometimes their charity work includes helping others in far less wealthy countries, their target groups are minorities in Belgium. Their agenda is based on ‘improving’ the situation of minorities in Belgium (not even Europe), specifically their education, social integration, and employment rates. Thus the issues that concern Turkey are out of their scope and irrelevant to their cause. While I develop on the theological and ideological underpinnings of this approach in coming chapters, I note it down here, to paint a clearer picture of the stage. Fourth, as we discussed earlier in this chapter, Belgium is politically complex. The federal structure of the country—the EU and the linguistic divides—ensures there is often a ministry for each region and linguistic group. This results in the inevitable reality that Belgium is a haven for politicians. The high numbers of politicians make them more accessible to the general public in comparison to other countries. My interlocutors, who directly aim for political contributions to their programs, utilize this easy accessibility. These contributions may not exactly be financial, or even open support, but involve the participation of politicians in their

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events, including giving speeches. This is, of course, a dual benefit, in that the volunteers find recognition for their cause and get attention for their events, while the politicians expand their voter base. This recognition and attention at the political level is a motivating force for my respondents, stimulating their belief that their struggles are not in vain. It also incorporates them further into their local setting.

The Presence and Controversies of Islam in Europe The labor migration from Turkey, Morocco, and other Muslim countries, and the eventual settlement of the migrants, has been the biggest factor causing Islam’s presence in Belgium. Permanent settlement meant that certain needs of these minorities had to be addressed. Mosques, burial grounds, and adjusting religious holidays and prayer times are some of the practical needs that were voiced after the first years of migration. A lot of these services addressed the need to transmit the moral norms and values of the parents to the children (Kanmaz 2002). Although Belgium as a country recognizes the separation of the Church and the State, the recognition of a religion can be passed by law. The Catholics and liberals historically had a powerful alliance, and this is reflected in the Belgian Constitution, in which there is not a sharp divide between the Church and State. The government is not allowed to interfere in the Church’s internal affairs, like appointing or nominating priests. The government is also obliged to support religious education and favor the ‘freedom of religion.’ Recognition means that the State provides funding for the religion’s institutions and the salaries of the clergy. A religion must fulfill some conditions to be officially recognized: “they must have been present in Belgium for a certain length of time; they must have societal importance; and may not disrupt public order” (Loobuyck et al. 2013). Islam, being the second-largest religion in Belgium, after Catholicism, was officially recognized by the state in 1974. Several scholars argue that this was indeed just a ‘symbolic’ recognition, as there was no ‘one body’ institution that represented the Muslim population, unlike, for example, the

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Catholic Church; and hence, the government failed to recognize the Muslim presence in public fields (Torfs 2012). The Belgian government attempted to transfer this duty to the Islamic Cultural Center (ICC), but its recognition by the Muslim community became problematic (Rath et al. 1999, 66). In 1989, The Royal Commission for Migrant Policy (Koninklijk Commissariaat voor Migrantenbeleid ) attempted to find a solution for these issues, framing issues concerning Islam through the lens of “integration and minority policy” (Loobuyck et al. 2013). Matters concerning Islam were taken up by the Center for Equal Opportunities and Opposition to Racism, which addressed problems such as the appointment of Muslim teachers (Kanmaz 2002). In 1998, the first elections of the Muslim Executive of Belgium (Executieve van Moslims van Belgie) took place, although not without problems. The problems with having a central Islamic body include ethnic boundaries and linguistic boundaries (especially French–Dutch), both of which hindered the electoral process (Foblets and Overbeeke 2002). The diligent screening of candidates in case they were related to some sort of Islamic extremism, and which led to the rejection of some candidates, also caused problems for the Executive. In 2003, the whole body was disbanded (Foblets and Overbeeke 2002). The first recognition of Muslim communities was in 2007, nearly 30 years after the official recognition of the religion itself. Until then, the Islamic community did not enjoy the rights of officially recognized religions, as the government paid no imams. By 2012, the government recognized 24 Muslim communities; 8 imams were paid in Wallonia, while only 2 were recognized in Flanders (Loobuyck et al. 2013). By the end of 2012, there were 310 mosques active in Belgium, a 150 of which are in Flanders (Loobuyck and Meier 2014). While there has been an increase in the activities of Islamic institutions, most imams still come from home countries, such as Turkey and Morocco (Loobuyck and Meier 2014). The increase in visibility did not come without its problems. The visible symbols and practices that identify Muslims as a separate community also led to them being singled out and stigmatized. They were not workers, laborers, or migrants, but ‘Muslims,’ a discourse often echoed by the right-wing populist political block (Kanmaz 2002). This

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is not unique for Belgium either, as all over Europe Muslims have faced discrimination. The rise of ‘militant Islam’ and the resulting discrimination against the Muslim community have had a negative impact on Islam’s visibility (Kanmaz 2002; Pashayan 2007). These discussions peaked with the 9/11 attacks, but the Madrid bombings, the killing of the controversial filmmaker Theo Van Gogh (Zemni 2006), and the more recent suicide attacks in European capitals (including at the Brussels metro station and airport) have added fuel to the fire. Nevertheless, we do not need to go as far as extremism to understand how Islam has become a problematic thorn in the European context. The special eating requirements (halal) of Muslims; the veil worn by Muslim women; gender segregation in mosques and some other publicprivate settings; and other practices, such as not shaking hands, have triggered arguments on whether Islam, as a religious tradition, could ever be compatible with ‘traditional’ Western European values (Casanova 2004; Göle 2003). Some scholars point out that this negative apprehension towards Islam is not a new development but is actually quite historical. Some trace it to colonialism, wherein Islam was the uncivilized other opposed to the “developed, Western, civilized” ‘white’ Europeans (Abbas 2004; Silverstein 2008; Mas 2006). Other scholars trace it all the way back to the Moorish conquest of Andalusia (Grosfoguel 2012). The face veil is banned in Belgium, as it is in several other countries in Europe. The ban was enacted in 2004, in a more neutral manner, as it did not just target religious coverings but all kinds of masks and veils that block the visibility of the face; it specifically included religious forms of covering in 2011 (Brems 2014). The headscarf is one of these symbols attracting a lot of debate, as it is both a religious symbol and also interpreted as a violation of a woman’s freedom. The debate entered the Belgian scene in 1989, after France prohibited young female students from wearing it in the public sphere (Shadid and Van Koningsveld 2005). After some objections, in December 1989, a judge revoked the decision to ban the headscarf in order to work out a solution, as Belgium is a country that recognizes religious diversity and observance within the limits that actions do not “disrupt public order” (Shadid and Van Koningsveld 2005). The results of these political and social debates are not definitive, but a majority

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of public schools has prohibited the headscarf, and in 2009, the Flemish board of public schools effectively banned teachers from wearing it (Fadil 2011, 87). The general discursive approach to Muslims’ presence in Belgium is often located in their ‘unwillingness’ to integrate and fully commit to the country and its values. Immigrants’ religious attachments were expected to fade over time as they gradually became part of society, but instead these attachments grew stronger, as their faith came to reflect their identity and passed into the lives of the second and third generations. Unfortunately, in a country like Belgium, where linguistic divides are already a source of tension, such discourses only add more tension to the debates. How to handle diversity is an ongoing debate, but as far-right movements gain momentum, the ‘failure’ of handling diversity and multi-culturalism becomes a cudgel used by some to further push the assertion that migrants simply cannot blend in (Boussetta and Jacobs 2006). The authors give an account of how Muslims have opened new political discussions on diversity, while also being used for ill by the far right (Bousetta and Jacobs 2006). They elaborate that the focus on Islam can have a different methodology depending on the actors involved, and it can vary from being a purely assimilationist model to a more multi-cultural frame, where differences are accommodated to a certain level. These discourses are not specific to Belgium, as Europeans have long debated whether Islam can be integrated into the European social and political systems (Shadid and Van Koningsveld 1996). What I find interesting is that the argument seems to center on Islam and not Muslims, insinuating that the tradition itself is incompatible with European Enlightenment values. In this case, the compatibility of Muslims depends on how well they leave behind their religious tradition and adopt the liberal-secular principles of modernity, and thus integrate into a different tradition. The question now is how to make sure that Muslims are a certain kind of Muslim—one who lives in a way that is loyal to Europe and its values (Haddad and Golson 2007). Marcel Maussen also makes the point that Western European countries’ governance of Islam involves institutionalizing and accommodating Islam’s, and Muslims,’ claim for recognition within frameworks of

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existing State–Church regimes and national models of state integration of religion (Bader and Maussen 2011). His study is interesting in that it traces the governance of Islam on European soil back to colonialism, and the West’s experience of governing Muslim societies in their own countries. Borrowing from the work of Edward Said, his approach includes theories of Orientalism, and how the colonial vision of Islam as an “unchanging, transcendent, textual, monolithic, immutable and ultimately ahistorical faith” still influences Europe’s approach to Islam today (Bader and Maussen 2011, II; see also Asad 2003). Schirin AmirMoazami expresses how governments’ attempts to be in ‘dialogue’ with Muslim communities is actually a managing technique, wherein the aim is to ‘institutionalize’ and ‘regulate’ Muslim actors, aiming to ‘ensure’ their integration and ‘liberation’ (especially for women) (Amir-Moazami 2011). Islam’s engagement with the West has had many dynamics and positions, but one of the most interesting concepts to come out of this dynamic is the idea of “European Islam” (Cesari 2014). This term is inextricably connected to the governance of Islam in Europe, as it supposes a form of Islam different from the kind of tradition found in Muslimmajority countries—an amalgamation of the religion with Europe’s social and political context. There are many meanings attached to the concept of European Islam. The first is that Muslim communities’ contact with Europe brings about a transformation in the Islamic lifestyle: detached from traditional authorities found in Muslim-majority societies, it becomes more individualized (Peter 2006; Roy 2006). This idea suggests that Muslim communities enjoy the liberal context of Europe, and that their discourses and practices can transform and develop in conversation with such liberalism (Tibi 2000). The second implication of European Islam is that the religion becomes privatized, due to the secular influence of the West (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003; Hervieu-Léger 2003). These identifications come with the presumption that Muslims are in many ways far too absorbed in their religious precepts and their communities, that they are detached from their social realities and even “defensively Muslim” (Cesari 2014, 11). European or Europeanized Islam, in a sense, is a form of living religion that has managed to become emancipated from these shackles and open

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itself to liberalism’s way of individualized, plural/diverse and fragmented way of being. These different trajectories, at the level of national governance, international developments, and (global) transformations, have influenced scholarly works that take a more micro-level approach. The increasing visibility of Muslims in the social and political scene have steered scholars to look at how these individuals and communities conduct their daily lives in conversation with these multifarious dynamics and their religious sensibilities. Some of these studies look at how religion has influenced the (halal) food sector in European countries (Riaz and Chaudry 2003; Van der Spiegel et al. 2012); burial rituals (Jonker 1996); fashion and consumption (Tarlo 2010; Lewis 2013; Moors 2007); sexual orientation and morality (Rahman 2010; Peumans 2014; Jaspal 2016; Peumans and Stallaert 2016); and organizing ritual space (Göle 2016). Fadil and Fernando point out that framing these studies as the studies of the “everyday” or of “ordinary” ethics presents a methodological problem, as it reinforces the assumptions that there are ordinary Muslims who have creative agency in the face of norms, and Muslims who are “exceptional” in their piety and unable to show their creative agency in their negotiations with norms (2015, 61). They argue that in a sense this focus on the everyday seems to mark a polar difference between normal and understandable Muslims and those who are “extreme” and in a way too different to be real. This is a methodological point that I take into consideration in this book; in a way, it represents the orthodox Islamic influences in conversation with the liberal-secular influences. It is important to understand that both influences always inform one another, and no entity is completely detached from the other. My interest in the everyday lies in the practice of volunteering among pious Turkish women in Belgium. On the one hand, this topic is intermingled with most of the developments and debates we have just discussed, pertaining to migration and being Muslim in liberal-secular Europe. On the other hand, the Turkish minority, especially in Belgium, has a unique form of presence, as a way to tackle these challenges and find some sort of recognition. It is not uncommon for Turkish communities to establish associations and rely on their ethnic and religious community bonds to find strength in their social presence. When I first

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started this ethnography, these associations were my starting point, and as I gradually delved deeper into my interlocutors’ lifeworld, I came to understand that their associations were actually a space of relationality, pious self-making, and public engagement.

Conclusion This chapter seeks to understand the contextual dynamics of Brussels and Antwerp, which are both highly cosmopolitan cities home to communities from a multitude of ethnic, linguistic, and religious varieties. Understanding these details gives us an idea of the kind of social realities that inspire the volunteers to develop their projects. However, before going into these social conditions, I give an account of the sohbet meetings, which are the small gatherings where my interlocutors discuss religious texts and their next activities. The social condition informs which texts they choose to engage in, as well as the conversation, and the direction the conversations will take. The first most important point to take into consideration is that both cities, Antwerp, and Brussels, are highly cosmopolitan. They owe their diversity not only to migration from different countries, but also to Belgium’s own linguistic diversity. Also, Brussels is the EU’s capital, making it the center of EU institutions, NGOs, foreign MPs, and expats. The cosmopolitan and international atmosphere of Brussels (and to some extent Antwerp) paves the way for the dialogue activities my interlocutors are so heavily invested in. This is by no means particular for the volunteers, as there are many dialogue associations scattered around the European Commission. The fact that the Commission subsidizes these projects is big factor in why they have gained such popularity. For my interlocutors, reaching out to their local neighborhood dwellers (from many backgrounds) in the context of dialogue is also a central focus point. The volunteers are mostly from Turkish descent, and their presence in Belgium is thanks to labor migration. Indeed, both Brussels and Antwerp owe their diversity to labor migration, with flocks of laborers from Eastern Europe, Italy, Spain, Morocco, and Turkey arriving in this small

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country. What was once a temporary migration of individual (mostly) men turned into a permanent settlement of families. The individuals gradually re-united with their families and settled in Belgium. Their children started school and became an integral part of Belgian society. The permanence of migrants sparked new issues such as their integration, the rights that come with their special (social, cultural, religious) needs and demands, and also discrimination. The main areas in which these issues become the most pertinent are education, the labor market, and Islamic requirements. Belgium is complicated in its legislative structure and integration policies change between different municipalities. What policy-makers regard as integration also differs. This also informs what is considered as discrimination and which demands are regarded as rights. Turkish associations have worked to respond to these issues and help minorities in their pursuit of greater equality and recognition. Both secular and religious movements have been establishing local organizations in Belgium with the aim to provide a social network for the Turkish diaspora and also help them stay connected to their homeland. The second and coming generations also benefit from these associations in terms of learning their mother tongue, receiving religious education, and connecting with the culture of their parents. My interlocutors do not engage with these issues. Their associations work differently than other Turkish associations, in that they prefer to stay very local and concerned with local issues. They do not have connections with Turkey, and are more interested in education in the local languages, local politics, improving minority children’s education levels, empowering women in Belgium, and pursuing better integration into the labor market. However, the visibility of these organizations and Muslims’ demands for greater equality and recognition have also brought about an array of debates. The central concern of these debates is that as long as Muslims want more recognition for their religious and cultural needs, can they really be part of society? How far can freedom for these traditions extend? These questions are discursively connected to the idea of European Islam, and there is a different type of Muslim, a European Muslim who is more rational, individualistic, liberal, and educated in their religion. This turn towards European Islam brings about a supposition that there is a binary grouping among Muslims: on the one hand, the liberal-individualistic

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European Muslim, on the other hand the traditionalist-extreme Muslim. This discursive double binary has also influenced conversations on which Muslim is to be considered a good, integrated Muslim, and which Muslim is yet to integrate. This chapter explores important contextual dynamics and histories, which have inspired the volunteers in their projects. The context also heavily influences their choice in establishing a well-organized association that echoes a ‘Turkish pattern’ in establishing associations. However, the volunteers also choose to disengage from this pattern by remaining ‘Belgian’ in aim and content. In the coming chapters, as we gradually unpack social conditions and religious intentions, and this chapter provides a layout of these conditions.

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3 Caring Is a Part of Believing and Why the Ethical Is Relational

Before I go into discussing how care has a bearing on my interlocutors’ ethical formation, I want to highlight relationality and relational ethics, as these are the grounds on which care flourishes. Only by understanding relationality can we understand the reason for care and what it really means to care about others. Only by unpacking relational ethics can we understand how care is integral to particular pious, social, and political interactions. Relationality and care, which are central elements to volunteering, emerge repeatedly throughout this book and define lived religion for the volunteers. Indeed, they are the markers of their own piety and what they feel sets them apart from other Muslims. The pious female volunteers find it impossible to believe in a religious system where the individual is only responsible for herself. This is a very delicate issue which must not be confused with proselytizing, as we will see throughout the book that this is never the first concern of the volunteers. Relationality means that the volunteers’ piety is embedded in the social, and is determined by their commitment to the betterment of others. Betterment has multifarious meanings: it can be economic betterment, but also educational betterment, cultural betterment, political betterment, and even in the mundane sense of the word ensuring © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_3

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the general well-being of others. On a different note, betterment can also come to mean making sure people are invested in a more moral lifestyle. There is a spiritual side to relationality that eventually translates into care relationships. This spiritual side has to do with how the volunteers conceive of their agency as divided between God and society. As we will discuss lengthily, according to my interlocutors, the pious subjects’ ethical maturity is dependent on their spiritual bond with God and society. Their commitment to society is an arbiter of their commitment to God. This greatly expands the idea of what exactly is piety, as anything to do with social betterment can henceforth be regarded as ethical. As we will see, this gives us a good idea as to how religious life transpires in non-religious settings. In turn, a commitment to God through society creates a culture and understanding of care and caregiving relationships. The divide between ‘I’ and ‘you’ is overcome with the conscious fervor on the part of the volunteer to feel affectionately and to care. But this is not only a feeling; it is a set of practices that necessitate careful deliberation and more importantly action. The volunteer must adopt an attitude of care, and in itself this is essentially a question of self-fashioning.

Self, God, Society “A good Muslim cannot expect to just pray five times a day and expect God’s repentance.” These are the words of my interlocutors, the Belgian Muslim volunteers, the women whom I followed for years in their volunteering activities, and from whom I learned that a good Muslim is a Muslim who reaches out to society. They are women who have conveyed to me time and again that ibada (personal worship) does not mean much if a person desires God’s consent but if that same person does not extend their pious intentions to include the well-being of other people. According to my interlocutors, the female Muslim Belgian volunteers, the two entities—ibada and volunteering—are complimentary, in the sense that a good Muslim is one that is diligent in their ibada, and committed to their responsibilities with regard to society. Hence, this is what they invest in everyday as they volunteer for their associations.

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Volunteering is not a straightforward or unidirectional commitment and involves layers of commitment, both for fashioning internal moral disposition and for the betterment of the outside world. As I have mentioned previously, being an efficient volunteer is not enough to be considered a good Muslim, which is what fundamentally separates the lived experiences of my interlocutors from the rest of the volunteering world. My volunteers’ work relies unremittingly on broadening and deepening their knowledge of Islam, the meaning of the Qur’an, the life of the Prophet Muhammad, and obligations and rites of Islam. They do this through their weekly meetings in their homes, in groups of ten, where they educate themselves on these topics. These small circles of selfteaching are very informal, as there are not really many among them who are educated in the Islamic religion; they are just a group of women from all walks of life following books and audio-lessons. The sohbet gatherings are the ultimate space for self-making in the pious trajectory. It is where the women share and learn from each other with their limited knowledge. What you know is no more important than what you do in this context. These gatherings encourage a certain sense of collectiveness and collective doing. This is true for engaging with volunteering as well as for engaging with ibada. This is essentially the core of relational ethics. The pious trajectory requires an individual devotion to be pious, however the learning curve and practice of knowledge is a collective endeavor. My interlocutors, as they often reiterate, find moral strength in togetherness. The motivation to do ibada, and find inner depth and sincerity while practicing, is fundamentally rooted in the commitment to invest time in coming together each week to learn more. I find this significant, in that it gives us an idea of how religiosity is cultivated outside strictly religious spaces and classical educational institutions. In the works of anthropologists such as Saba Mahmood and Talal Asad, the consensual embodiment of religious practices and rules is self-disciplining technique (Mahmood 2001; Asad 2009). In the Genealogies of Religion, Asad investigates “the multiple ways in which religious discourses regulate, inform, and construct religious selves” (Asad 2009, 125). In his close study of disciplinary practices, he identifies two processes: the formation of the self, and the resistance to other kinds of

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self. He goes back to medieval Christian monastics and closely analyzes their ascetic trajectories, and the “conditions within which obedient wills are created” (Asad 2009, 125). He argues that obedience is not simply established through oppression, but through willing choice; indeed, obedience is desired. In Foucault’s thinking, obedience is the techniques of the self that make possible the telos. The moral self is then dependent on the capacity to feel and to perform in certain ways; it requires the ability to follow a disciplinary trajectory and the ability to organize conduct and emotions through bodily rites (Asad 2009, 134). When Sabah Mahmood made her seminal argument on the ethical as the lifelong commitment to ethical self-fashioning—as both a perfection on inner (emotional) dispositions and (outward) bodily practices—her focus was largely on the Egyptian mosque movement. Mahmood’s interlocutors, the pious women, articulate such forms of piety as “modern objectified religiosity,” which notably signifies that they are consciously deliberated, debated, and reflected upon (Mahmood 2005, 53). This assertion responds to notions of “unreflective” and “pre-modern” versions of Islam, which are believed to be discordant with the modern (secular) society (Mahmood 2005, 55). This is the assumption that Muslims are increasingly engaging with religion on a more conscious level rather than it being something they practice out of social necessity or social norms. I find this suggestion analytically restricting, as it claims that (modern) ethical self-making is concentrated on individual discipline and selfreflection. In the context of Mahmood’s ethnography, we see a concentration on the mosque and the perfection of Islamic formalities (i.e. praying) and knowledge acquisition. What we do not see is how piety intersects with the social and assumes bodily and affective forms in relation to the social. The Belgian Muslim volunteers aim first to think about piety and being a committed Muslim through the context of Belgium, and the reality that Belgium is a country where Muslims are a minority. “It is such that Belgium is not a country where we live with Islam on a daily basis. The atmosphere is not Islamic. If you are not engaged with religion frequently, you simply forget. If you cannot pray at work you may feel guilty about it, but that feeling of guilt diminishes over time and eventually you start not to pray by choice. Piety is a way of life that

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needs continuity and that continuity can only come through community bonds and motivations.” These are the words of Elif, my interlocutor whom I met through a sohbet gathering and who was leading her own group of sohbet-goers at the time. Elif is trying to explain that piety is a fragile trajectory, and that religious obligations are in need of constant reminder. The assumption here is that it is easier when you are living in an environment that is predominantly religious. The mosque, the community, and your neighbor are there to remind you, through their own performativity, of your religious duties and daily commitments. But what happens if you, like my interlocutors, are living in Belgium, a country where religion is private and secularity is the normative public disposition? It is at this point that my interlocutors rely on their community of volunteers to remind them of God, and their pious commitments. “Self-reflection can only take you so far,” my interlocutors told me, so “you need your community.” The weekly meetings, social gatherings, informal connections, and even volunteering itself are a constant reminder that their daily lives are embedded in the desire to be more and more pious. It is quite clear how this is achieved through the sohbet, but how volunteering informs piety deserves more unpacking. This is, of course, the main objective of this book, and it comes down to the main principle that giving to society is essentially giving to God. The self, society, and God are inextricably bound together. This comes down to the idea that “you cannot pray five times a day and expect repentance from God.” Praying, or ibada in general, is what you do for yourself, according to my interlocutors. Those things are obligatory anyway; they are the bare minimum a mumin— believer—must do anyway to save themselves. What you do for God, and the true sacrifice in making the self—taqwa, as Saba Mahmood would say—is what you do for other people: namely, society. The notion that ethics is located in practice and action, the individual endeavor to become ethical (Asad 1993; Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006), takes a relational turn. In his seminal essay, Foucault effectively argues that ethics is a labor of willingness, in that it is a form of power that “permits individuals to effect by their own means or with the help of others, a certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls,

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thoughts, conducts and way of being” so that they transform into a certain subject of a moral discourse (McLaren 2002). This is essentially subjectivation, as the subject is formed according to historically specific “formative practices and moral injunctions” (Mahmood 2005, 28). It asks for the individual to constitute their self, according to its tenets (Rabinow 1994; Foucault 2000). According to Foucault, the individual connects with the moral through its own capacities, such as “will, reason, desire, action” within the everyday context (Foucault 2000). The pious female volunteers embody this assertion in the ways in which they practice piety. In the Belgian context, piety takes on a very secular and modern form through volunteering. In this way, not only are they pursuing their will to become better Muslims, but they are also being better citizens and members of society in the process. This corresponds to what they believe the larger public expects from them. As one interlocutor told me, “The Belgians do not want or need you to be better Muslims at the end of the day. They want you to be integrated. This way (by volunteering), we can be both.” This assertion also shows that the pedagogical characters of ethical selffashioning are marked by how the interlocutors engage with religious tradition according to the present and future expectations, aspirations, and projections. Ever since Talal Asad first discussed religion as a “discursive tradition,” scholars have focused on how religious texts (i.e. the Qur’an), their interpretations (i.e. the Sunnah and Hadith), and authority have engaged with the past and re-articulated their conditions in the future. Religious practices, in this sense, are not universally generalizable transcendent rites. Tradition follows a complex process, one that involves the embodied individual and interpersonal engagement with discourses, as well as macro-level discourses that are historically shaped and determine what it is ‘appropriate’ to do, say, and represent in the present. On that note, tradition is not really a prescribed set of unchangeable symbols and rites that cannot be translated into the modern context. It is a trajectory where the past is discerned to shape the “subjectivity” and “self-understanding” of (tradition’s) adherents and offers an understanding of the present by engaging with sacred texts in light of emotional, mental, and bodily capacities (Mahmood 2005; see also Foucault 1972; MacIntyre 1984, 1988).

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Pious disciplinary practices take form in everyday mundane practices. Disciplinary self-techniques are not restricted to rites and rituals; they are present in the slightest detail of life. It is important to note that even such micro-mundane practices are founded on discernment and reflection on historical discourses and religious tradition. They are a continuum of a religious tradition, but are also in propriety with the contemporary (modern) context. While Asad and Mahmood lay the theoretical (and ethnographical) foundation to these discussions, this book adds to it by unpacking how embodied knowledge, discourses, and practices mark a ‘creative way of life.’ It interrogates how the pious subjects tap into this information on a daily basis, to make ethics become the whole of life, even in contexts of tension, challenge, ambiguity, and conflict. It asks what happens to micro-ethical practices when the subject is conscious not only of piety, but also of society, politics, and global discourses that may be contentious to their religious tradition. We need to take seriously Mahmood’s assertion that religion is all of life for pious Muslims. We also need to keep Asad’s definition of the Muslim concept of din (religion) in mind (Asad 1993). Din is much vaster than religion, in that it cannot be institutionally separated from the rest of life; a person does not simply walk out of the religious sphere and enter a different institutional space that adheres to separate rules and regulations (Asad 1993). Consequently, ethics—even transcendent pious ethics—can be traced in the most insignificant mundane folds of life. While the ethical turn in anthropology—and anthropology’s conversation with the Islamic tradition—takes individualization as an analytical focus, I believe that Islam as an all-encapsulating din supports its relationality rather than strict individuality. Relationality is not only about piety and the ethical being in propriety with the social; it is also connected to how my interlocutors experience the divine agency. For the pious volunteers, giving to society is intersubjectively connected to the divine agency. This stems from the idea that the subject is an agent of God in the world, making the subject an actor in a triangular relationship whereby as s/he gives to society, what is given registers with God. An essential question arising from this is what kind of role God plays as one of the parties in the transaction that occurs with volunteering. It is no secret that my interlocutors gave for God, but even

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this claim is constituted by many nuances that are present in their daily practices, academic literature, and even in the Islamic tradition itself. The volunteers do not go into these details during volunteering events, so the best way to understand how they engage with the divine is usually the sohbet meeting, where they elaborate on these matters quite extensively, usually for hours. I often found in the sohbet meetings that the women used aphorisms that escaped my attention, until I found that they represented a subliminal aim encoded in an easier prose. The following statement took on a deeper meaning as I delved into how God factors into volunteering. “As everyone sees you as a something, if you see yourself as nothing and as everyone sees you as nothing if you see yourself as something, then you are ruined. Please God, make me small in my eyes and great in yours.” One of the women uttered this aphorism, mixed with a prayer, during a late-night sohbet meeting, where we focused on our egos. The topic was centered on how we should relate to our ego, in their words our nafs, in an age when the ego rules over the subject. The subject’s relationship with the nafs is that they should never be sure of it. The individual cannot trust the nafs, as it is not a reliable component of the self. I understand how my interlocutors structure their relationship with their nafs from their daily prayers. “Please God, do not leave me alone with my nafs,” is often repeated openly and in their own private prayers. The nafs was explained to me as a ‘sense of self.’ It is not a negative or positive force, but a realization of the self as an existing being. It is not something material pertaining to the self, but a ‘sense.’ One interlocutor explained this to me as the ‘I’ of the self. It is in a way a form of ‘lordship,’ in the way God can be described as a Lord. It is given to humans to sense God by sensing the concept of lordship through the self. However, it is imperative not to get carried away by this feeling, and always to make the nafs feel subordinate through committed deeds for God. One interlocutor told me, “We are not completely separated from God, but we are not identical either. So we have to remind ourselves that we are not the ultimate Lord.” By asking God to not leave them alone with their own nafs, they factor deity into their daily experience of their own self. God sets a line, preventing them from being too absorbed in their own self. Yet how God

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initiates a significant break between the subject and the nafs can be traced to how they frame volunteering as a practice that does not elevate the self but diminishes it. In this respect, the subject engages with the nafs as part of the self that needs to be suppressed and even eliminated. It is not to feel important; hence the focus of volunteering is not on the nafs, but on pleasing God. The topic of pleasing God as the higher aim comes out very often in my respondents’ daily discussions. While they try to explain, and even evaluate, their volunteering, they primarily refer to “pleasing God” and “receiving God’s consent” as opposed to inflating the nafs. As Jasmine told me one morning over breakfast at her home in Brussels, “Once you feel the spiritual intensity in giving (volunteering), it becomes hard not to (give/volunteer). Of course we are doing this to receive God’s consent, and not for any kind of worldly or spiritual pleasure. This is, in the end, the wish of God we are trying to fulfill.” This is how Jasmine, a woman in her twenties and mother of two, explained what giving meant to her during our breakfast. It was a breakfast with a larger purpose, with a group of other women. The others were all Turkish and Muslim. They had never participated in volunteering, but Jasmine wanted to pique their interest. She organized a small breakfast meeting, to which she kindly invited me, knowing my interest in the subject and my frequent presence at such meetings and sohbet gatherings. Jasmine stressed the importance of the subject’s connection to God above any other material or spiritual impact. The focus was always on God. Even spiritual contentment that may arise out of giving is undesired, since that sensation immediately puts the self in front of the primary aim, which is God’s consent. This conception of volunteering is drastically different from how we think of volunteering in modern-liberal societies, as an individualistic and personal devotion to a cause (Silber 2000). Indeed, it is different from even a collectivist or communitarian understanding of volunteering, where volunteers are believed to practice civic engagement, community involvement, and build social networks (Hollywood 2004, 514). The idea of the free and autonomous self has heavily informed contemporary volunteering, where it has essentially become oriented toward helping others for the sake of self-realization (Hollywood 2004, 514).

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This form of volunteering is not only the subject’s ethical engagement with the society, but as Toshiko Izutsu described it, “the believer’s ethical relationship to God.” He goes on to explain that this is much more important than “social ethics, i.e. the believers’ ethical relationship to other beings” (Izutsu 2002, 17). Likewise, I add that the believers’ ethical relationship to God is intertwined with their relationship to other humans, which is, in turn, much more significant than their own selfindulgence. This is a controversial issue in the literature, where certain studies indicate that the pious subject aims to build a better afterlife by giving (Benthall 2009, 36), which can rightfully be interpreted as a spiritual expectancy. The image of the poor praying for their benefactors, who receive those prayers and are blessed, is upheld in the imagination of the givers (Al-Khayyat 1993, 13–14). This assertion, I believe, can be subject to further contextual inquiry. While I agree that this sentiment is true in its own way, I have to take into consideration my interlocutors’ insistence that they do not carry any kind of spiritual expectation. If they do have any such inclination, indeed it needs to be eroded until it is effaced. Having spiritual expectations, such as prayers from the poor, is not necessarily considered bad or immoral, but it is experienced as an interval in the subject’s true connection with God. I believe that my interlocutors experience what they take to be a ‘true connection’ with God, and it deserves further examination in order to further articulate giving as an important reference point in understanding my interlocutors’ experiences of self/agency, and its position vis-à-vis divine agency. The modern self is generally (although not unilaterally) characterized by “privileging the individual’s agency, inwardness, freedom” (Taylor 1989; Keane 2002). Furthermore, the predominant notion of the subject is that it is “rational and autonomous,” detached, independent, and disenchanted (Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006; Mittermaier 2011; Rosen 1991; Taylor 1992). However, later work has presented a shift in our perspective of the modern self as an autonomous and self-contained agent. Amy Hollywood critically engages with the concept of agency in the context of medieval female clergy (Hollywood 2004). She describes that the precondition for a woman to be accepted as a religious authority was her submission to divine agency (Hollywood 2004, 514). In an interesting analysis, Hollywood asserts that women, being symbolized by

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passivity, are “particularly apt sites of divine agency on earth” (Hollywood 2004, 514). Women are subjects of subordination and passivity trapped within a discourse of femininity that limits them; however, it is through this discourse of passivity that they also find empowerment by submission to God’s agency (Hollywood 2004, 514). Hollywood refers to this as a “dividual” agency, as opposed to individual agency, wherein ultimately her argument is that women clergy, by submitting to God’s agency with their passive feminine nature, claim a certain religious authority (Hollywood 2004). Although her description offers us an alternative thinking from modern forms of agency, it is still quite narrow and does not fully explain my interlocutors’ experiences with the divine. Significantly, Naveeda Khan, who borrows the term “individuation” from the poet and thinker Muhammad Iqbal (Khan 2012, 78), has a more elaborate conception of this relationship. Individuation, in the way in which Iqbal refers to the concept, means the human self-making in relation to another (Khan 2012, 78). This other, Iqbal adds, is not the state, the nation, or modern conceptions of national citizenship; it is God and the virtues in God that are manifest in the world (Khan 2012, 78). According to this description, the individuated self is one that develops in relation to divine virtues (like goodness, grace, and beauty). The human self is secondary to God and always bound to it. This notion of the self as secondary and bound to an external being offers a contrast from the liberal-secular self as autonomous and contained (Deeb 2006, 70). Deeb discusses the assumption that there is a difference between modern and traditional forms of selves. The modern self is deconstructed by her interlocutors in turn to suggest that the modern self does not need to be individualized and self-consumed, but can be a form of self that is committed to society (Deeb 2006). In her work, secular-liberal forms of self stand out as individualized and autonomous as opposed to the pious self, which develops in relation to religious norms of what it means to be a ‘proper Muslim’ (Mittermaier 2014; Bornstein 2012). The conception of the self as autonomous is expressed in how volunteering is performed as a self-reflective process. From this perspective, volunteering is a personal experience that inevitably has an influence on the self. While in the liberal tradition, this is usually one of the main aims of volunteering, for my interlocutors it is God’s agency that matters more than

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the volunteers.’ The conception of the self as autonomous is expressed in how volunteering is performed as a self-reflective process. From this perspective, volunteering is a personal experience that inevitably has an influence on the self. Conceptions of the self inevitably reflect on how volunteering is experienced. In the liberal Western tradition, where volunteering has a more secular and humanitarian form, the donor is mostly elevated with regards to the recipient (Mittermaier 2014; Bornstein 2012). Indeed, Bornstein discusses humanitarianism as a form of giving closely related to the development of capitalism, during which giving has become impersonal and closely connected to the ideas of development, “civility and progress” (Bornstein 2012, 37). The humanitarian aid worker is often someone who comes to the rescue of the needy (Bornstein 2012, 37). However, volunteering is a complex phenomenon, with many different motives, forms, and outcomes. In this light, even the most selfless forms of volunteering can embody a personal aim such as building a ‘new self ’ (Mick and DeMoss 1990). Many church volunteers participate in such activities to enhance their social networks and build better relationships with their church-going peers (Day and Rogaly 2014). These implicit or explicit reasons do not necessarily have to imply that such volunteering is devoid of its moral value or is essentially selfish. Indeed, as Mike Martin suggests, “volunteering is a moral complex, both in theory and practice” (Martin 1994). Many different factors, including those associated with self-improvement, are integrated into the idea and practice of volunteering, and are acknowledged as morally valid. More often than not, volunteering is an individualistic process where individuals engage in more sporadic volunteering activities rather than long-term communitarian projects (Putnam 2000). Correlated with this individualistic process, even the affective dimension of volunteering is more about the donor than the recipient. The donor is more involved with the emotional transformation they are experiencing, rather than how giving has an impact on their emotional relationship with the receiver, and the feeling of compassion is a notable example that Wuthnow points to (Wuthnow 1991). Wilhem Dilthey defines experience as transformative, where there is some sort of impact on the individual (Dilthey discussed in Throop

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2002). William James adds that experience, and especially religious experience, is “individual, inner, and personal” (James 1982). James’s particular interest was not in religion in terms of institutions or rituals, but in “feelings, acts, and experiences of individual men in their solitude, so far as they apprehend themselves to stand in relation to whatever they may consider divine” (James 2003, 42). According to James, religious experience enables us to connect with a world that is not available to our normal cognitive capabilities (James 2003). Hence it is safe to say that volunteering provides an experience for my interlocutors where they can connect to God and God’s virtues on Earth through the practice of giving. Volunteering is an ongoing transformative experience, during which the believer learns to surpass their own self and submit to God. For the pious female volunteers, such relationality is anchored in how they understand and experience responsibility.

Responsibility, Relationality, and the Subject “We are not a cemaat (congregation) of knowledge, but a cemaat of care.” We were sitting in the association, five of us in a circle listening to Fatimanur reading from a book. It was the group’s sohbet evening and I had been participating in their meetings for the past year. It was already quite late in the evening, as the group of women were all working, so they could only meet in the evening after work and after having dinner together. The sentence above was conveyed by Fatimanur herself, with an emphasis on care and the fact that piety has little worth unless it is relationally worked on. Her note that their emphasis should not be knowledge but care should not be misunderstood. Knowledge is not completely discarded by my interlocutors, but keeping knowledge for the self without taking the initiative to share it with others shows great disregard for their responsibility as pious Muslims to care. It is also important to clarify that this responsibility is by no means restricted to the dispersal of knowledge, but can take different forms and content according to what the situation necessitates.

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There is a rooted understanding among my interlocutors that they are responsible for everything and everyone. This may sound a little unreasonable, but it is indeed their response to everything happening around them. Fatimanur continued to impress upon us the issue of responsibility and feeling responsibility in the veins: “Allah knows our abilities and expects us to do our duties according to those abilities. But the question is whether we are pushing ourselves enough to fulfill those duties. We need to feel the heaviness of our responsibilities.” To this, another woman in the circle, Tuba, replied, “I have this (responsibility) in my mind all the time: when I work, when I’m with my friends, family…” her voice trailed off as she looked around the group waiting for affirmation. We will discuss what form responsibilities take in the context of care, however we need to first understand what my interlocutors mean exactly when they refer to this phenomenon. When we talk about responsibility, most of the time we refer to our duties as individuals and our own accountability for our actions. In a similar vein, volunteering is, most of the time, the individual taking on a cause as an individual duty. We have discussed the individualization of contemporary volunteering in the previous section. While in different cultures differences may be apparent, in the Western world, it is still carried out for personal reasons. What I want to discuss here is how a feeling of responsibility is rooted in the pious Muslim volunteers’ volunteering and how these women conceptualize and experience volunteering in this context. Understanding relationality and the ethics of relationality rests heavily on understanding what I call the relationality of responsibility, because in this case, responsibility does not begin and end with the individual, but embeds all their social relationships and informs their spiritual connection with God. This is a part of taqwa but also extends beyond it, because as taqwa is a perfection of bodily and inner dispositions, relational responsibility is fulfilling the true nature of being a human, suppressing the nafs and feeling a connection with God. In order to understand this, we need to go back and understand how the modern subject is fashioned with regard to responsibility. Conceptions of moral or ethical theory are rooted in Enlightenment thinking, placing the individual at the center of society, and developing a thought on ethics that is based on human reason and agency (Venn 2000).

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Enlightenment humanism pursues the notion that the individual has the ability to govern her/himself, independent from a metaphysical order (Schneewind 1998; Lindley 1986). Ideas on autonomy relate closely to questions of moral responsibility (Wolff 1970, 12–19). “Responsibility usually figures in terms of self-responsibility, reiterating accountability, duty and blame” (Diprose 2008, 619; Topolski 2015). This conceptualization of responsibility goes back to twentieth-century philosophy, and emphasizes the centrality of the individual’s free will and determinism in determining their capacity for responsible action. This statement focuses responsibility on the human individual, and supposes that this is a capacity that must be taken seriously. In terms of individual responsibilities, there are several angles to be considered. First is that individuals can be considered accountable/punishable/blamable/appraisable for their past conduct. Second, individuals have potential responsibilities concerning their duties, as family members, professionals, citizens, and so on. Both these strands have not only personal ethical implications but also legal concerns. This typically categorizes the individual as liable for the consequences of their personal judgments. A common thread in these philosophical assumptions seems to be—as I have said before—that responsibility begins and ends with the individual. It is the individual who discerns responsibility, be it by rational deliberation or virtuous characters. My interlocutors are very well aware that the “individual responsibility” in their ontology is not merely retrospective or prospective, in the sense that responsibility is a cause of accountability, or that responsibility is in relation to social-professional duties. It is immediate, conjured the instant the individual is in conscious awareness that there are others, and based on a theological underpinning. Ethical responsibility does not stem from any kind of direct accountability; it is the direct necessity for occupying a place in the world (Cloke 2002). This may come as difficult to discern, but when we look at my interlocutors and how their volunteering covers so many different topics and themes, and the importance they place on the continuity of the individual, we get a better understanding of what this actually means. This where my interlocutors’ volunteering is demarcated from liberal volunteering, in that it never ends. It is a lifelong endeavor of feeling

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responsible, because ultimately fashioning the ethical self is a lifelong endeavor. Responsibility is a non-negotiable aspect of being human and having a consciousness of self-hood (nafs). While we unpack the layers of responsibility with each chapter of the book, we also have to examine the social, political, economic, and personal details of their lives to understand the structures that inform the form that responsibility takes in everyday life. The essence of responsibility we have discussed, but it is imperative to explore the practices that flow out of this essence. In most cases, it entails the subject’s reflection on the past and an aspiration to manage the future by managing their bodily and affective dispositions. Responsibility is located in local configuration of ethnicity, religion, and minority presence. This not only affects the external structures of my interlocutors’ worlds, but also profoundly influences their subjective experiences of embodied ways of being a minority, conceptions of integration, professionalism, socialization, participation, and their own self. As an anthropologist, I find it useful to use ethnography as a tool to develop an understanding of my interlocutors’ volunteering as “a phenomenological inclined account […] which attends at once to the concerns and lifeworlds of [our ethnographic subjects] and to the interrelated social, discursive, and political forces that underpinned those concerns and lifeworlds” (Desjarlais 2005, 369). Focusing on embodiment and experience does not mean that we can completely exclude political, social, and economic factors that shape our interlocutors’ embodiments and experiences. While I have explained the existential power behind responsibility, in no means do I think such daily conflicts can be excluded from our analytical engagement in relational ethics, responsibility, and how they find a body in volunteering. My interlocutors are informed by different traditions: the liberal-secular post-Enlightenment values they have grown up with and their religious epistemologies. If we are to grasp their ethical position, we have to have dialogue between their jargons, lifeworlds, and their embodied realities without drowning them in liberal-secular categories. In doing so, I attempt to articulate how these different traditions influence and inform one another as they shape the affective, bodily, and sensual dispositions

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of my interlocutors, how they become points of negotiation, discomfort, contention, and balance. Relationality is not only about shared epistemologies and embodied propriety, but it is the sense of being perpetually connected to other humans, the living/non-living environment, and ultimately the divine. This connection compels the individual to consider experience from not only their own personal point of view, but also from the point of view of as many persons as possible, and understand the lifeworld through this shared perspective. The book will draw upon the cycles of consciousness with each chapter. This cycle is between the subject, environment, and God, and all these dynamics factor into how the subject embodies the objective world, and how they interpret social-political situations and fashion their bodily practices and inner dispositions accordingly. The multiple agencies in this cycle require creativity in how the individuals relate to their lifeworlds. Hence, each manifold is a trajectory to unpack: the consciousness of God, the consciousness of the public, familial/social intimacies, the consciousness of economic realities, and the consciousness of those who have and those who have not.

Understanding Care Care is a multifaceted and complex phenomenon that ascribes to notions of responsibility, obligation, duty, and accountability, as well as to love, empathy, compassion, and amicable disposition. Relational ethics and responsibility manifest as care in the lifeworld of the volunteers. Without the actual feeling of care, the likelihood of a volunteer submitting to a lifelong endeavor to relationality is especially hard; at least this is how they explain it to me in our discussions. Tuba and Ummu were two of my close interlocutors. They live in Mol, but volunteer in Antwerp. They are mother and daughter. Ummu’s husband died when Tuba was still very young and she raised her daughter by herself. Tuba, who is now 24 and a graduate of the University of Antwerp, volunteers on a daily basis with her mother. I asked Tuba how they were introduced to the associations and started volunteering. She recounted her memories while we had breakfast together in their spacious

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and light-filled kitchen. “Volunteering is the only thing I know… I’ve never been in any other religious group or even among other religious people for that matter… My mother doesn’t come from a religious family and it was her acquaintance with volunteering that actually led her to become a more pious person. She was introduced to the associations when I was really young, after my dad passed away, and she’s been dedicated ever since.” I asked her how her mother became so dedicated, and what motivated her to choose this lifestyle. She went to the stove and poured us some more of the freshly brewing Turkish tea. Coming back to the table she answered, “We had a family friend, a distant relative, who is a successful businessman and he would help us, you know financially and stuff… Apparently he was also a part of the associations and he donated a lot of money and was really active. He saw how lonely my mother was and how she needed company and friends, you know people to support her… So he introduced her. He got in contact with a female volunteer and she got in contact with Mom, and then it started. They were all we had when we were growing up… They were there when we needed them, and we were there when they needed us… Now I cannot imagine being without the people in volunteering. I remember, during more difficult years, we wouldn’t have much to eat in our own house, but my mom would still help others.” Tuba and Ummu’s history with the associations is an example of how the volunteering trajectory is founded on caregiving relationships. What initiated the mother and daughter into volunteering was a man’s act of caring for their well-being. What affected Tuba more than the material help they received from their wealthy relative was the companionship taken on by the volunteers. Likewise, when my interlocutors talked about giving or receiving care, they more often than not referred to such companionship, instead of care as a form of monetary aid, physical help, or nurturing. In the winter of 2014, we were having dinner with some of my interlocutors, during which we had an American friend with us. We were at the house of Fatma, who had prepared for us an amazing spread in her Brussels townhouse. The dinner was organized in honor of our American guest, who was planning on shooting a documentary about my interlocutors and their volunteering. She was delighted to be at the dinner

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together with some of the volunteers, as she really wanted to get to know the female volunteers better. My interlocutors were explaining the virtues of volunteering to her when one of them said, “Yes, but if we don’t care about people, who will care about us?” She was also a tutor, and she elaborated. “If I only care about teaching positive sciences, just the classes of my students, and don’t care about them as people, as children, and devote more time and energy to them so they become better people, then no one will care about my children either.” In a later discussion and to develop on this idea, Fatima, my interlocutor from Antwerp, told me that she volunteered because she believed that if a person cares about others, someone will care about them (especially their children). We were sitting in my living room one day when she dropped by and this topic came up. “When I first had my children, I was a ‘momster.’ I was really careful about their upbringing and my husband was donating a ton of money to the associations, and I was saying, ‘No! No, if we have money then we just open a trust fund for our children; why give it away?’ Charity is important but I thought we didn’t need to give that much. But now I realize people who dwelled so much on what is theirs, and didn’t care about others like me back then, eventually lost that thing they called theirs. Like, they would do so much for their child’s education but the kid would drop out. I know when I am volunteering and I care about others, and other people’s well-being and children, that God will take care of my children.” In relation to Tuba’s story, Fatima’s explanation is quite complicated and needs careful unpacking. Caring for someone is both a compassionate relationship, as we see in Ummu’s history, but also one based on caution, as we gather from Fatima. The caution here is that care stems not only from compassion but also from the awareness that it is something relevant for everyone. There is no restriction as to who needs care and for what reason, as the need for care can come in many forms: poverty, loneliness, or even the simple case where a child may need extra attention. In such cases, everyone is the subject of care. On that evening with the American documentarist, and later in our discussion with Fatima, the volunteers emphasize that in order to be the subject of care, one needs to show care.

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Although this may somehow seem in opposition to the idea that care is given and should be given ‘purely’ out of compassion, it allows us to think through how it is also framed as a sociological necessity.

Compassion and Accountability Although care can come in the form of companionship, it can also literally mean to ‘mind’: minding what the other is doing, if they are doing something beneficial or harmful to themselves. Later on in our breakfast chat with Tuba, I asked how she reflected on caring as an emotional and practical disposition. She explained how she felt it was a kind of responsibility for her. “I can’t just turn my back you know… I mean when I worked at McDonalds all these Turkish young students would come to order, and I’m like, ‘Yes but this is not halal!’ I would actually explain to them that there are halal options like fish or salads, and how eating red meat is not halal… It’s not that I preach in public, but I can’t watch them eat that, I feel so responsible, I can’t, I can’t, I just cannot!” I proceeded to ask her what responsibility meant for her, and she said, “It is a responsibility mixed with compassion (merhamet ). It’s not that I just forbid them from doing something because it is a sin… but I actually and genuinely feel sorry for them when I see them doing so bluntly wrong; it breaks my heart. Also, God will ask; I will have to answer why I did not reach out to them.” In her mind, Tuba trying to keep other young students from eating something that is not halal is not simply an act of preaching or prohibiting, but an act of care. I chose to frame it as an act of care, because it is how she describes it. This feeling, as Tuba explained it, manifests as compassion for the person who is doing something harmful. The volunteer feels a sense of responsibility mixed with compassion. This narrative plays out especially with my interlocutors’ concerns for their own children. I have heard from several of my interlocutors the importance of volunteering as a caregiving environment for their children. We were in the association in the autumn of 2015 with Fulya. I was watching her decorate a freshly baked cake for a garden sale the next day. Having very limited skill in that area, I had agreed to be her

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‘assistant’ in washing and tidying up. In the meantime, I asked her about caregiving. Relying on her own volunteering, Fulya tried to explain to me how it worked for her. “I started to meet the volunteers when I was first starting high school, and you know how those years are… crazy, you know, your blood runs wild… the school environment is really… I don’t know… really bad. Kids are up to everything, and you’re a kid too, there is so much you can do. I came from a religious family, and even then, they were not really effective on my behavior, because two-thirds of your life is in school and with other kids. So when I met the volunteers, they really had a great effect on my moral upbringing. The way they spend time with you, relate to you, your problems, your dilemmas.” Fulya’s voice slowly trailed away as I was thinking about what she told me. “And how do they relate?” I asked. She thought about the question for a while and then slowly replied, “Well I first got introduced through my brother, because he had these guy volunteer friends and that is how he found out that women were also part of it. He introduced me to one of the girls and they invited me to a meeting where we had some tea and a chat. But they were so involved with me, you know, they would always call and check if I needed anything… We would always meet after school, have long discussions; you feel the value… Eventually we would get small tasks, like bringing cake for tea, or making tea… really small responsibilities, but it made you feel included and wanted. Eventually you feel part of the family.” The school environment as a setting where “anything can happen” is central to Fulya’s argument. The teenage liability to err and make mistakes is supported by the fact that most of the children in her school (in Ghent) did not come from strict families, and her closeness with her friends was more impactful on her behavior than her family’s actions. The volunteers gave her that closeness and attention, allowing her ethical behavior to evolve. It is important to note how this care relationship evolves towards responsibility, and giving responsibility to the care receiver. The caregivers feel the responsibility of the other’s ethical well-being. These are not separate from their physical or emotional well-being, and the prosperity of one relies on the others. In all these stories, there runs a thread where the volunteer has the responsibility of making sure the other eats

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what is appropriate (in Tuba’s story), is in an appropriate environment after school or work, that their problems are shared and taken into consideration, or even that their basic social needs as a person are met. ‘Appropriate’ is an important word here, as my interlocutors always seem to refer to what is appropriate. This concept refers to managing the self in ethically difficult situations. Indeed, a situation which seems to be ethically difficult may unpack many different things. For Tuba, this is obviously about choosing the right food in a fast-food store, where the ‘wrong’ food may seem appealing. For Fulya, this is about making the right choices in a school environment where, according to her, teenagers can get out of control. But what matters in these narratives is that the responsibility of the caregiver is to help the receiver make the ‘right’ choices. This responsibility does not merely address the people the volunteer is acquainted with or close to, but even the most distant and unfamiliar person. Neither Tuba nor Fulya were volunteers initially, nor were they close to someone who was; however, by the initiation of the volunteers, they were introduced to the community. Responsibility in this case is a broad phenomenon that registers across multiple moral rubrics and addresses the wider public. One of the moral rubrics is accountability. My interlocutors would often add that these caregiving relationships were crucial to them because, inevitably, “God will ask.” In our long conversation about her first few years in volunteering, Fulya went deeper into how that close relationship with the other volunteers shaped her way of committing to ethical self-techniques. “It’s not just about volunteering. I mean, even with your daily obligatory ibada, it seems that you stagger sometimes… You can’t keep up with the routine, or even if you do, it is not with ikhlas. Then it helps that I know I am with people, and when we talk about these things, I will have to account for what I did or did not do. I know it may be a problem to do ibada because you feel ashamed of your friends, but if that is needed… then so be it. In the end you will have to account to God about it, so being accountable now to people is like a step to prepare you for the ultimate.” Accountability manifests itself in two dimensions in this narrative. On the one hand, there is the ultimate answer the subject must give to God about their life. On the other hand, there is being able to answer to

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the community about how much she has been able to commit to selftechniques, which is a fundamental dynamic of the care relationship. Care is not merely an act of nurturing but also of preparing the care receiver to become an accountable subject. In these relationships, talking and discussing conduct and ethically challenging situations help develop a mechanism of answerability. Hence, while care for my interlocutors has a compassionate dimension, it also signifies an other-worldly responsibility. In this case, care becomes detached from the intimacy that is between the subjects and becomes a question of the afterlife, of dutiful action, and responsibility towards God.

Emotion Work My interlocutors closely associate emotions with the experience of piety. Feeling responsibility, feeling pain when that responsibility is not fulfilled, feeling compassion towards the cared-for person are part of that experience. Indeed, a person incapable of feeling pain, love, or compassion is deemed to have a ‘heart of stone’ and is in a way spiritually handicapped. I have often been told during the sohbet meetings or in other places that if a person cannot cry (man or woman) in a spiritually intense moment, they should force themselves to cry in order to bring down “the walls around their hearts.” When it comes to emotions, there is no gender distinction, each volunteer—man or woman—has to have a soft heart. Personally, I found this very exposing, since I was never comfortable showing unnecessary emotion in public. I remember finding it very uncomfortable seeing women cry and getting choked up during the sohbet meetings. In time, I got used to this as part of their ethical becoming, but personally I never felt open enough about my own feelings to display them. It is very hard to observe someone else’s emotional transformation in the classical sense but it was a matter we discussed at length with my interlocutors: how they felt compelled to cultivate compassion, sympathy, and love for others, and how they saw it as their shortcoming if they could not. “I just try to keep in mind that no one is a bad person,” Fatima told me. “They may have bad behaviors or dispositions.

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But that does not mean that they are a bad person as a whole. And that is so important to keep in mind as you volunteer, because it’s so easy to experience something unwanted and then feel completely negative about people.” Arlie Hochschild’s conceptualization of “emotion work” argues that feelings are to be “managed– monitored, sanctioned and controlled” (2003, 158). She describes this phenomenon as the conscious act of changing emotions in “degree or quality” (Hochschild 1979, 561). When the individual’s emotions do not correspond to a situation, they become “an object of awareness,” indicating that emotions may not indeed be instinctive and natural, “but must be produced by the individual as deliberate, reasoned social strategy” (Hochschild 1979, 563). Accordingly, the ideal volunteer, as described by my interlocutors, is one who has mastered their emotions to dissolve feelings of negativity and to embrace feelings of affection. Emotions are not apprehended as an instinctive drive that guides the person, but as a potential in a person that can be cultivated toward a certain state of being. The individual works on their instinctive drives and pushes them further down, and expresses a more cultivated set of emotions; as Hochschild would remark, the “real self ” is pushed back while there is another mask of emotions concorded with the situation (Hochschild 2003, 34). But while the real self is pushed back, according to Hochschild, it never disappears. The real self is always stored in the individual. In the case of my interlocutors, the complete transformation is desired. Emotions, for my interlocutors, are an internal disposition that must be cultivated and shaped to address others with compassion and love. I have frequently heard the volunteers say that “If we are merciful towards others, then God will be merciful to us.” Rather than suggesting some kind of reciprocal relationship between God and themselves, my interlocutors convey that the pious subject’s ethical transformation depends on perfecting not only their outward practices, but also their inner dispositions. These dispositions are not only ‘other-worldly,’ regarding ikhlas, but also worldly in the sense that the subject must also develop a mode of engagement with other people.

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Compassion, kindness, mercy, and love are not necessarily perceived as naturally present emotions for my interlocutors. However, their cultivation is not merely putting on a ‘mask’ and ‘pretending’ to be; it is a trajectory of becoming, which I argue is located in how they relate to the obligation of care, their responsibility of caring, and how they unpack these in relation to socio-cultural discourses. My interlocutors often stress how much effort they put into shaping their emotional disposition toward others. Feeling compassion, care, and even love is not expected to occur naturally. In many cases, the volunteers feel estranged from the care receivers. The absence of an emotional closeness, however, is problematized by my interlocutors, and ‘emotional work’ becomes a priority. The volunteers report that emotionally detaching creates an internal sense of justice and equality, where the volunteer does not get wrapped up in individual stories and prioritizes care for one person above the other (Trundle 2014). My interlocutors do not conceive of their volunteer work as “getting work done” (Trundle 2014, 211), but as a dual relationship where both the receiver and the giver are mutually transformed. I followed Tuba, my young interlocutor, to a museum on one exceptionally cold morning in January 2015. She had organized the trip with a group of young Turkish girls, all attending the University of Antwerp. We were supposed to see a photo exposition on Istanbul. None of the girls present had anything to do with volunteering, except for Tuba, and when I arrived in front of the Mas Museum, she hugged me and told me how glad she was that I was there. While the visit itself was highly interesting, afterwards there was a disagreement on how we should proceed with the day. As I watched Tuba, who as organizer was also the one in charge, try to make everyone happy and find a middle ground, I also noticed she was getting tenser. In the end, we window shopped a bit and then parted. After the girls left us, Tuba and I walked towards the station, where I was supposed to catch a train to Brussels. However, she asked me if I felt like having a coffee first, and I agreed, so we had an extended discussion at a Starbucks in the Antwerp train station. I asked her why she had looked tense. Tuba told me how strained she would feel

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when she was supposed to spend time with certain other women. “Especially today, I mean, I can’t relate to them but I have to organize them, and make sure they all leave happy… you know, so they come back for the next event. So I don’t like it when disagreements occur… If they are to come back again, I have to make sure they were happy, and I was nice and polite.” The time Tuba spent with these girls was supposed to be time spent at a leisure activity for the sake of introducing them to the associations. But even these leisure activities can cause one to feel strained, uncomfortable, and as Tuba put it, “unable to wait to get out of there.” “But this is about my own spirituality,” she said. “If I work on my own spiritual maturity, I will overcome this trouble.” An absence of affection towards a person, according to Tuba, is her own problem and a deficiency in managing her emotions. I saw in Tuba that although her understanding of a caring relationship depended on her feeling an emotional closeness to the girls, her position as the caregiver created a tension between herself and her duty that also gave way to other emotions such as frustration and the nervousness of “not being able to please everyone.” Focusing too much on others gave her little place to invest in actual loving, whereby she felt the need to get out of the place as soon as possible. “I try not to think about me at that moment, or my personal preferences and just try to empathize and suppress my other thoughts and feelings,” she told me. As the absence of love is a troubling notion for Tuba, and a clear indication of spiritual immaturity, she detached from herself as person. By empathizing with the other person, Tuba detached from her own personal state and merged into her identity as the caregiver. This detachment is not problematized by Tuba; it is desired. Detaching from herself as a desiring, self-centered subject run by her own emotions signifies maturity. Maturity entails establishing self-control, where she can orient her emotions (Mahmood 2005, 129). Such an embodiment and the repeated performance of the caregiver role evokes a habitus (Mahmood 2005, 143) to live piously and establish a permanent pious self. Mahmood takes up the subject of emotions as a form of “motivation” to live piously. Ritual action, according to Mahmood’s

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observations, brings emotions under control, whereby they are cultivated and reflected in bodily performance. Emotions such as fear (of God) motivate the believer to perfect their acts of worship. Mahmood locates this notion in an Aristotelian principle of habitus (Mahmood 2005). While Mahmood focuses on emotions as an inner quality that engages with the “quality” of worship, in my argument emotions also entail a “social” quality where the ability of the volunteer to fashion their emotive relationship with others reflects on how they unpack piety. While emotional maturity is an individual trajectory that relies on the complete investment of the pious subject, at least in Mahmood’s observations, it is interesting to note that for my interlocutors the cultivation of emotions is an individual endeavor that is closely dependent on social influence. In Tuba’s case, as an example, in order to detach from her personal priorities, she needed other people as a social input, to establish her role as the caregiver.

The Sacrifice Emotional maturity as a self-technique depends on how the subject claims the role of the caregiver. For Tuba, and for many of my other interlocutors, this is conceptualized as a sacrifice. Sacrifice can come in many forms and contexts; as Meral put forward, “It can be your life, honor, or nafs that you faithfully sacrifice for God. But no one is asking you to sacrifice your life or honor, but your nafs.” Detachment, in this sense, is a sacrifice from the nafs. Detachment from personal priorities in the embodiment of care is not conceived of as a compromise by my interlocutors, but as a departure from the nafs. This idea links the subject to God, regardless of the fact that the volunteer is in a relationship with the care receiver. Sacrifice becomes a ritual activity that disassociates the subject from their worldly attachments and allows them to become an agent of God, a ‘proper’ Muslim. Upon my visit to Gulfidan, a volunteer of nearly two decades, I had a chance to meet her daughter Vildan, who came to know the associations through her parents. Now a mother of two and in her late twenties, Vildan frequently went to the sohbet meetings at a young age; she was

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tutored by the volunteers in her school years, although she did not complete her university education. In our discussion with her mother, Vildan occasionally intervened, stating her ideas and opinions, leading me to think of her as also an active volunteer. Nearly at the end of our discussion with her mother, I turned to Vildan and said, “You must know this of course since you’re also a volunteer…” and she turned to me with a stern look on her face and said, “Oh no… not anymore. I don’t go anymore. There are things that bother me… people… I don’t feel good there anymore.” Vildan was not able to make a completely clear explanation as to why she had stopped volunteering, although she mumbled a few words about “people” and “attitudes.” Gulfidan turned to me, somewhat apologetically, and sadly said, “Vildan is like that; her personality, it’s not very flexible… She gets disturbed by the way people are sometimes, and when volunteering, you simply can’t. She still has some time to go… to become that kind of sacrificial person.” Gulfidan did not identify Vildan’s alienation as a problem of the associations. On the contrary, she expressed her awareness of how difficult it is to volunteer in such a group, but it is up to Vildan to achieve a level of maturity, allowing her to cope with those problems. Her alienation is the outcome of her not being able to sacrifice. The associations are not problematic; quite the opposite, they are an area where the individual can learn to bring their spontaneities under control, learn to prioritize the other, learn to cultivate their emotions, and feel love as their act of sacrifice, and ultimately overcome their nafs.

Caring Women? Responsibility, accountability, compassion, and affection all come together in the very basic act of care. I have noted previously that my interlocutors usually form long-term caring relationships in their own extended time, and usually not during events but in their private lives. Because these care relationships extend over a long period of time and

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are carried out in an informal structure, the experiences of my interlocutors in these relationships are generally expressed during their meetings, where they actually talk about these. In their weekly meetings, my interlocutors are often confronted with questions of how they relate to other people. During these discussions, the idea of the caring, compassionate, and giving woman is raised frequently. One of the most interesting experiences I had was in a sohbet conducted by a male volunteer. This sohbet was not aimed at a specific group, but to the general audience, and there were quite a few women from different ages, work groups, and social backgrounds. The teacher was a middle-aged male volunteer, widely known by the audience; however, it was the first time I was acquainted with him. He talked about the importance of long-term caring relationships. I was struck by his remark, “You are women; you are created for compassion and giving. It is so much easier for you to reach people and connect with them… us men, even if we try to give care, it looks fake. That is why there is a burden on your shoulders in this responsibility, because you possess the capacity to care.” The male teacher, Mehmet, looks at female care from a different perspective that suggests there is a power relationship in this nature. His argument is not that men are more rational or autonomous, but that they are by nature unable to foster proper feelings of care and unable to ‘connect’ with people. This gives women a sense of duty that we see, in classical theories of gender, often attributed to men. As Mehmet stated to the women, “… there is a burden on your shoulders in this responsibility, because you possess the capacity to care.” Responsibility here refers to the duty of volunteering, and his enunciation indicates how the construction of gender roles is closely related to how responsibility is unpacked. In modern-liberal thought, the responsible, autonomous individual is prioritized over relationality, where the fully developed individual is one that has mastered these self-techniques. Volunteering as a relational endeavor acknowledges that the fully developed individual (the proper believer) is one that has fully embodied the caregiver role. While the idea that women are natural caregivers endows them with a certain authority and power in this structure, it is again a re-affirmation of traditional gender roles, one, I argue, that is culturally informed. The authority

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and power given to women for their natural disposition to care becomes a challenging dynamic in their family relationships, which are often constructed according to traditional female gender roles. Hence, while volunteerism is appreciated as fitra, and a natural given for women, it is hard to ignore the contention it creates for them in other domains of life, even when their families are also volunteers.

Compassionate and Assertive: Aspiring Hatice and Aise For my interlocutors, the role of the caregiver is often very timeconsuming. Caregiving is not a practice confined to itself but requires detailed planning, discussion, and execution. This takes up a good deal of their time, which most of them noted in our discussions. “Our weekends and evenings, if we have a job elsewhere, and our weekdays included, if we are only occupied with volunteering, are dedicated to being with other people, Muslim or non-Muslim,” said Shukran. The women, however, are not disturbed by this business, wherein every minute they invest in practices of care they are fulfilling a duty, the responsibility that Mehmet referred to. Even the most banal acts of caregiving, such as those spent in leisure activities, are not insignificant to my interlocutors in terms of embodying their role as the caregiver. This role, however, is not detached from their imagination of the ‘perfect’ caregiver, the Prophet’s first wife, Hatice, and last wife, Aise (or Aisha). “The role of women in Islam is often understood as the submissive silent wife. The woman whose only duties are taking care of the children and house. But when we look at Hatice or Aise this was absolutely not true. These two women represented the image of the hard-working, assertive businesswoman (Hatice) and the intellectual and informed woman (Aise). We need to bring back these images, because it is our duty.” This was from a meeting we had at Vefa’s house. I was there with three other academics and two women who actively worked in the associations. Vefa wanted to talk about the ‘female issue’ in volunteering (and

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other Muslim communities in general) with friends who had the theoretical training, but also with those who were on the ground and had real experience with the issue on a daily basis. Vefa’s question was that, as volunteers, they had to crack the idea of the caring woman, whose only job was to look after the house and kids. Instead, by drawing on images of historical yet respectable women and highlighting their ‘public’ virtues, she wanted to assert the idea of the caring woman whose caring is equal to that of men—public, dutiful, and the product of judgment. Although Vefa establishes as problematic the idea of the dutiful woman, it has been taken up by my other interlocutors. Hatice, the first wife of the Prophet Mohammad, was known to be a businesswoman, in the modern sense of the word. It is articulated among my interlocutors quite frequently that she had many cattle and was a merchant, and the Prophet met her by actually working for her ‘business.’ Hatice was also the first Muslim woman, however, and my interlocutors refer to her spending her wealth taking care of the poor and setting meals for the poor and those her husband “took care of.” The latter group are not necessarily poor, but the cahil (ignorant, non-believing) of the society, and through these meals, and close care of them, the Prophet introduced the new religion. Hatice is the ultimate caregiver for my interlocutors. She gave to poor and rich alike and created a setting to care for people—and not only their material needs but also their spiritual needs. Hatice is not the caring mother figure for my interlocutors, however. It is strongly emphasized that she was able to do the things she did because she had a successful business and good wealth. She was active in the pre-Islamic and postIslamic ‘public sphere,’ and was assertive with men and women alike. It is often mentioned by my interlocutors that Hatice was the one who proposed to the Prophet Mohammad, when she was his employer, and not vice versa, emphasizing her assertiveness and social power. She was caring, but also a decision-maker, autonomous, and rational. Although Hatice is appreciated as the ultimate female role model, she is anything but traditionally feminine for my interlocutors. Lara Deeb, in her observations of the Shi’a women of Lebanon, contends that the Prophet’s granddaughter Zaynab is likewise taken as an aspirational figure. The women, argues Deeb, aspire to be like Zaynab;

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however, their image of her is never fixed or truly historical (Deeb 2009). Contrarily, it is temporal and in relation to contextual notions of modernity (Deeb 2009, 242–243). I find Deeb’s observations highly valuable in understanding the temporality of history. Ideas of “returning to the past” do not necessarily mean mimicking the past but re-articulating historical moments in relation to the here and now; I want to look at how narratives of Hatice and Aise as the ‘ideal women’ are re-articulated today by my interlocutors as a reference point for how they should be in modern society. Aise, the last wife of the Prophet Mohammad, is expressed differently by my interlocutors. She represents wisdom and knowledge; as an active hoca (teacher), it is said that Aise, who obtained her knowledge from her husband, then taught other women. For my interlocutors, Aise signifies the notion of giving knowledge as a form of caring. While referring to her, some sohbet teachers would say, “If she can do it at such a young age, in such a society, with limited means, why shouldn’t you?” In the case of both Hatice and Aise, neither of them is stripped of their female identity, which comes to be a strongly emphasized part of their experiences. However, femininity as a cultural construct seems to be detached from female identity. The roles of women, such as motherhood, family care, or housekeeping, are delicately left out of the equation. While this reinforces that there is a cultural inclination to understand these roles to be part of the female experience, there is a conscious effort to detach and move away from them by asserting a different set of roles, those of ‘giving,’ ‘knowledge,’ ‘assertiveness,’ ‘occupation,’ and ‘publicness.’ The Prophet, who is also in these narratives of care, is a general point of example for my interlocutors, who carefully relate to his wives, purposefully making these roles gendered. By interpreting Hatice’s and Aise’s presence in public life as ‘givers’ more than anything else, my interlocutors consciously re-write a narrative based on historical ‘facts’ and try to embody that ideal in their trajectory of becoming properly pious. Hatice’s devotion to spending her wealth for others and Aise’s role as a teacher are articulated as discourses of caregiving by my interlocutors, both re-enhancing their work as volunteers but giving them authority and power in their community through relation to historically respectable and important women. This sense

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of power and authority in volunteering is challenged, however, by the women’s encounters with other daily experiences. In the next section, I turn to how care in the family as a culturally gendered phenomenon becomes an imperative and contends with volunteering.

A Woman of Many Dexterities: Care in the Home, Care for the Other Fatimanur had a baby in 2014, when I first met her and started attending her sohbet groups. The baby boy was her second child (her first was already in kindergarten). Fatimanur was the teacher of several sohbets and she also actively took part in charity fundraising. Her family lived in Turkey, so her support system when it came to the children was very limited. Fatimanur’s husband, who also volunteered full-time at one of the associations, was described by her as “always busy, always away.” After she had her baby, Fatimanur was only absent from the sohbets for three weeks. This was not unusual for the female volunteers. I witnessed a few informal conversations about this issue, where the women would say that it is a violation of hak to be absent from volunteering for a long time. The hak belonged to the people they care for. The concept of hak translates roughly as ‘right’—the right a person has over another person, society, and the state in general. Making sure that the person fulfills their duties that constitute the hak of others is part of social justice. We can find in the work of Sufi thinkers like al-Ghazali that social justice is different from legal justice; it is not a structural phenomenon, meaning it is not the outcome of external conditions that are present in the believer’s social context (Chouiref 2012, 127). Instead, social justice is established through the purification of the soul (Chouiref 2012, 128). This trajectory can be unpacked in many different ways. Hence, abandoning this duty would be, for my interlocutors, a violation of social justice, or hak. Interestingly, in the case of mothers giving birth, the notion of hak addresses those in their volunteering lives, while hak as caregiving responsibility towards the children seems absent. I wanted to address this what I perceive to be troubling paradigm, which is yet still a questioning of our understanding of feminine care as something that must prioritize the family. In a visit I made with my own husband to a couple who

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are both volunteers in the associations, I had a chance to talk about this matter with Suheyla, the wife. We went to their house in Antwerp not because of my research, but because my husband was acquainted with the newlywed couple and wanted to visit them for ‘housewarming,’ as it is a highly important Turkish tradition. Suheyla had prepared lunch for us, and as I was helping her in the kitchen she said, “I am sorry, I am not that good with cooking. I really don’t have much experience. After I moved out of my family’s house, I always volunteered, so I never had the time to cook, I just ate whatever I found in the associations, so I never learned.” Me: “And after you got married, did you have the chance to acquire some experience?” Suheyla: “Well neither my husband nor I spend too much time at home. If we aren’t in the associations, then we are with the people we take care of, eat with them, pass time with them… so you know we come home full and tired.”

It is interesting to see that for Suheyla, as it was the case with Fatimanur, care for the other comes before traditional familial care roles. While care is definitely gendered for my interlocutors, these gender roles are unpacked uniquely. When I ask the women how their husbands feel about their business, and one could even say ‘neglect’ of their homes, they usually tell me that their husbands are compliant with these arrangements. However, they also implicitly add that this dynamic is most of the time only the case if the women are volunteering and not on any other mundane mission. It is significant to see that, once again, volunteering as a public sphere becomes integrated into the private, and becomes home. The notion of duty, obligation, and responsibility is informed by the perception that volunteering, and caring while volunteering, is no less than caring for home. Yet it is imperative that we pay attention to how these caring roles unfold and engage with one another in everyday life. It is still mostly the case that my interlocutors are the main domestic caregivers for their families. Although their duties as volunteers are as substantial as those of their male partners and friends, responsibilities related to children, housekeeping, guests, and shopping fall on their shoulders. It is safe

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to say that emulating respectable female figures from history does not disengage them from their culturally informed roles. I noticed this first when I spent a day with Vefa trying to organize a roundtable discussion with other local associations. Our day started early, at seven in morning, trying to get her two daughters to school, then we went shopping to buy some snacks and drinks for the events. We returned to the association, where Vefa had some administrative issues to take care of. We prepared the big hall where the discussions were supposed to take place, and arranged the food, drinks, papers, and pens so they were ready for the evening. At that point it was time to pick up the kids from school and find a place where they could stay for the evening’s event, which was supposed to end around nine. Vefa’s husband was also busy at an association and was apparently unable to take the children, “and he would never take both girls, anyway,” she pointed out to me. I watched as Vefa phoned one friend after another trying to find a babysitter for her two girls. It seemed everyone was either at a sohbet or an event. After quite a number of phone calls, she managed to arrange for a friend of hers to pick up the kids from school and take them back to her place. She then said to me exasperated, “Finally, I found someone. But I feel bad having to ask the same people to take my kids on each time I have an event. But I can’t keep the kids here, they get so exhausted… and I try to compensate by looking after other friends’ children when I have the time.” When I talked to the women individually about what they experienced as their greatest imtihan (trial) in volunteering, they would most often explain that it was balancing domestic life and volunteering. “I can’t believe that they (the administrators of the associations) still haven’t established a proper crèche system,” said Elif. “Several of us have babies, and some of us have really important duties like admin stuff, and we can’t carry out our duties because there is no place we can leave our babies. I mean finding a place in a local crèche is nearly impossible anyway, and on top of that, most of us have to get back to work when the baby is small, and on top of that, we work longer hours than most mothers and our working hours are extremely irregular, so if our male colleagues want us to work efficiently they should help us establish a place where we can

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trust they will look after our kids. But no! It is not their priority, because it is not their responsibility. They don’t have to sit through a meeting thinking, ‘Oh God, school is ending in half an hour, who should I ask to pick up my kid?’ It is our problem, so it is never solved.” Having a proper crèche for babies is not only the concern for mothers who work at the associations but also mothers who do informal volunteering. They also add that if they have to travel to parts of the city for a sohbet, or spend time with people they are taking care of, or even take part in events, having young children with them becomes exhausting— for them and for the children. “It’s not fair for the kids, you know. I mean we’re adults, so we can spend time on our feet doing what we have to do, but children should not have to be put through that. They should have a structured sleeping time, eating time… and my kids, for example, grew up in the back seat of my car,” Fatima explained to me. One point that most of my interlocutors seemed to agree on was that being a domestic caretaker and volunteering full-time was not a problem for them, as they felt committed to both roles. However, they asked for infrastructural improvements in order to balance these roles. This was an issue we took up at the meeting with Vefa and the academics. Vefa felt disturbed that women had to embrace both roles, without much help from their partners, who are also mostly their colleagues. She wanted us academics to identify some of the problems ‘theoretically’ and the onthe-ground actors to elaborate on how they experienced them on the ground, and together prepare a report for the male volunteers/husbands. From our long discussions, what I gathered from the women present was that the utmost thing that disturbed them was the women believing they had to embrace both domestic care and volunteering care at the same time, leaving their husbands out of the equation. “We first need to convince our fellow female volunteers that they don’t have to do this,” said Vefa. “I mean, it goes both ways. Sometimes a mother wants to really experience the first months with their newborn, but then we have this in-group pressure where people say things like, ‘Oh, I left my baby two weeks after birth and started volunteering,’ making you feel bad if you haven’t. It should be left to choice. As women, we should understand the needs of fellow women and be

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more understanding. But we have this incredible expectancy from men, which women re-affirm.” Sema, a young single mother of two, then spoke, seeming very frustrated. “Most of the time during the meetings we have with our male colleagues, they go on and on, they order food, and they never seem to be able to wrap up the meeting. Time flies, of course, and then you have to leave the meeting without closure because you have to pick up your kids from school. They resume the meeting, however, and the next day you find that there are decisions made when you weren’t even present.” Most of my interlocutors would agree with Sema, even if they have not been part of executive meetings. Most women who have their events or sohbet lessons in the evening try to arrange it so that their husbands can take care of the children. To this point, Betul added, “Well with my husband we make a plan that he will take the kids at 8 p.m., which is quite liberal on my part I think. I wait until 8, then its 9 then 10, and then eventually he arrives around 11 p.m., having completely destroyed my plans. And when I ask him about why he was late, the answer is always, ‘Yeah our meeting extended,’ but I mean why can’t these men feel as responsible as we do to finalize their meetings on time?” Betul’s husband volunteers for a transnational association that deals with international businessmen, often keeping him busy working overtime. Tapping into narratives of the ‘ideal’ woman through the characters of Hatice and Aise, who are presented as committed givers, public actors, and indeed public caretakers, making them a typology for “our mabrouk mothers,” provides a blueprint for my interlocutors. They are aspirational characters to whom my interlocutors relate via modern narratives of volunteering. Women as caregivers in the family does not play out heavily as a discourse among my interlocutors; however, in their daily activities it is evident that they struggle with this issue profoundly. The role of dutiful, pious woman merges with culturally constructed roles of domestic caretaker, wife, and mother resulting in a dichotomy where women have the ‘responsibility’ to do the best of both. Vefa and my group of academics observed that this intensely encumbers the women and lessens the men’s accountability. What seemed to make them most uncomfortable was that volunteering is structurally constructed according to the flexibility of men, while as women they

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were expected to invest time in double caregiving, diminishing their chances of flexibility. Noticeably, while duty, obligation, and responsibility unfold similarly for both men and women in cases of public caregiving, women are expected to balance those duties in domestic affairs. While my interlocutors like Elif and Vefa argued that this is almost an invisible problem for men, we can understand from Vefa that women acknowledging these roles without problematizing them is the biggest issue. What is more, Vefa never argued that a woman should have to cut back on her volunteering, but that she should have a support system in terms of domestic caregiving.

Conclusion Relational ethics is an ongoing commitment to caring about and for people. Asad, Mahmood, and the scholarship inspired by their work suggest that the ethical self is informed by constant and deliberative fashioning. However, their work suggests that this process is individualistic, whereby the individual actively pursues a more ethical life through bodily practices and inner disposition. My research shows that there is also a relational aspect to piety. Indeed, the individual is responsible for their pious trajectory, but caring for others is an integral part of that trajectory. Working for the social and moral betterment of others becomes pivotal in relational ethics. Volunteering becomes the space through which this work is exercised. Relational ethics is imperative because it also suggests that the individual needs to be constantly aware of their social setting. Pious practices have to be in propriety with the society’s core values and beliefs. This brings us back to Asad’s argument that Islam is a discursive tradition and that this tradition is re-visited for a better understanding of the present condition. The way in which care practices are carried out by the volunteers is informed by propriety, and the acknowledgment that Belgium is a liberal-secular society. The form and content of care practices are often very secular but pious in intention. What I mean by pious in intention is that as the volunteers give to society, they give to God.

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Their commitment to social betterment defines their bond with God. The more they work for a better society, and invest in their interpersonal relationships, the more they gain God’s consent. The more they work for God, the more they win the constant struggle with their nafs. The volunteer’s agency is dividual: it is connected to the agency of God and society. The nafs (their own self-hood) is subordinate to the needs of others and it must be kept subordinate. The endeavor to keep it as such is the ultimate ethical struggle. As long as the volunteer is in that struggle, they are conscious of God and their agency is relationally connected to that of God. Volunteering is a continuous experience, whereby the individual aims to surpass their own self and submit to God by submitting to the needs of society. This situation defines responsibility, which is quite different from its liberal meaning. Responsibility is more than personal accountability for the volunteers. It is the compelling feeling of being perpetually connected to other humans, the environment and the divine. This connection obligates them to infinitely care. But care cannot come without affect. My interlocutors acknowledge that for care to be carried out flawlessly, the individual needs to feel something towards others. That something makes responsibility relevant in their lives. The absence of feeling is a problem for my interlocutors, because there is always the risk that the individual will succumb to their nafs and forget about caring. Affections also become a disposition to be cultivated for my interlocutors. The inability of a person to feel love, compassion, or pain not only shows a weakness in carrying out their responsibility, but also a weakness in their bonds with God. Being women, they are expected to be more naturally inclined towards compassion and love. However, my interlocutors express how much conscious work and deliberation this process takes. As women, they are expected to care, but this responsibility surpasses their other duties within their families, friendships, and work environment. On the one hand, they are expected to be more compassionate as women, but on the other hand, this compassion pushes them out of their private spheres to become increasingly socially active. This can sometimes create tensions in their private relationships. My interlocutors try to overcome these tensions by modeling their practices after historical pious women such as the Prophet’s wives. The

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way in which they commemorate these women is interesting in that instead of focusing on their virtues as wives or mothers, they focus on their public faces. By modeling their way of life—and attention outside the household—to the public religiosity of historical pious women, my interlocutors ease the tensions of their private lives and find inspiration and motivation to continue.

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Mick, David Glen, and Michelle DeMoss. “Self-gifts: Phenomenological insights from four contexts.” Journal of Consumer Research 17, no. 3 (1990): 322–332. Mittermaier, Amira. Dreams that matter: Egyptian landscapes of the imagination. University of California Press, 2011. Mittermaier, Amira. (2014). “Beyond compassion: Islamic voluntarism in Egypt.” American Ethnologist 41(3): 518–531. Putnam, Robert D. “Bowling alone: America’s declining social capital.” In Culture and politics, pp. 223–234. Palgrave Macmillan US, 2000. Rabinow, Paul. Michel Foucault: Essential works of Foucault 1954–84. 1994. Rosen, Michael. “Must we return to moral realism?” (1991): 183–194. Schneewind, Jerome B. The invention of autonomy: A history of modern moral philosophy. Cambridge University Press, 1998. Silber, Ilana F. “Beyond purity and danger: Gift-giving in the monotheistic religions.” In Gifts and interests, pp. 115–132. Louvain: Peeters, 2000. Taylor, Charles. Sources of the self: The making of the modern identity. Harvard University Press, 1989. Taylor, Charles. The ethics of authenticity. Harvard University Press, 1992. Throop, C. Jason. “Experience, coherence, and culture: The significance of Dilthey’s descriptive psychology for the anthropology of consciousness.” Anthropology of Consciousness 13, no. 1 (2002): 2–26. Topolski, Anya. Arendt, Levinas and a politics of relationality. Rowman & Littlefield International, 2015. Trundle, Catherine. Americans in Tuscany: Charity, compassion, and belonging. Vol. 36. Berghahn Books, 2014. Venn, Couze. Occidentalism: modernity and subjectivity. Sage, 2000. Wolff, Robert Paul. In defense of anarchy. London: Harper, 1970. Wuthnow, Robert. “The voluntary sector: Legacy of the past, hope for the future?” In Between states and markets: The voluntary sector in comparative perspective, 3–29, 1991.

4 Reviving a Forgotten Tradition, Infaq

“If there is one thing that volunteering has taught me, it is infaq,” Nuray told me when I went to visit her at her office in the association. I asked her what she meant by infaq. “It is giving for God, but investing in ourselves. We are immortalizing our amel (good deeds) and the beauty of our souls depend on this investment.” Nuray is one of the many women with whom I spent more than four years following their volunteering activities in Belgium. She is in her mid-thirties, an engineer by training and a mother of one. Nuray’s story started when her father, a Turkish worker, immigrated to Belgium from Turkey and she grew up in Belgium as a Muslim. Nearly all my interlocutors share Nuray’s story. Most of them are young; they are educated and professional women who are also trying very hard to pursue a pious lifestyle in a non-Muslim country. There are older women among them, and even low-educated first-generation Turkish Belgians. Nevertheless, their reflections are similar. Their story does not necessarily consist of tensions and conflict like the ones we are used to when we hear about Muslim women in secular settings. Rather, the stories of my interlocutors are more about

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negotiations, multiple belongings, easing out tensions, and most importantly relationality. Infaq is the consciously chosen phenomenon that paves the way for such a trajectory. On the one hand, infaq is a very specific institution that signifies the will to give in Islam. On the other hand, it is a carefully discerned social catalyzer in the lives of my interlocutors. Infaq is an ethical investment that transcends traditional Islamic ways of giving as the ethics of relationality extend to the gift transaction. Moreover, this Islamic institution comes into conversation with liberal (secular) affects, practices, and norms. This books centers on my interlocutors, the Belgian Muslim female volunteers, and the myriad of ways in which they embody infaq. The volunteers themselves are from different socioeconomic and educational backgrounds but all come together around this phenomenon. My interlocutors are different from one another, indeed, and that reflects the multiplicity in the ways in which Islam is lived in the real world. There is no one type of Muslim or pious way of being, while the aim is nearly always the same: working on the ethical self. As I followed the Muslim volunteers, I came across women from all segments of society, some more devout volunteers than others. However, their stories converge on precisely one point, which is that volunteering is the ultimate path to being a proper Muslim. Infaq is the Islamic tradition that inspires the modern-liberal practice of volunteering. Broadly speaking, infaq is an institution within the Islamic economic system, one that deserves close attention if we are to discuss volunteering at any level. Literally, it means ‘spending’ in Arabic, and refers to ‘giving’ for the betterment of society, including both the donor and recipient (Khaf 2007). In the case of my interlocutors, infaq is at the core of volunteering. They describe volunteering as the most effective and meaningful way of carrying out infaq in modern society. What is more, volunteering is their way of giving to God by giving to society. However, the way in which volunteering is experienced by the Muslim women is a much more complicated commitment than infaq. This brings me back to what Nuray said earlier. On the one hand, it is an ethical commitment that ‘purifies the soul.’ On the other hand, this commitment is described as an investment. It is interesting and notable that Nuray uses

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the word “investment,” insinuating a debate that already exists: whether giving for God is an ‘economic’ transaction or a ‘spiritual’—and hence non-calculable—transaction (Mittermaier 2013). This debate goes back to Mauss’s foundational work on the gift transaction. Is volunteering a form of gift for my interlocutors? In many respects, yes. It is a transaction between the self, the society, and God. Hence, if we are to take the gift as an overarching framework for volunteering, we need to understand what Mauss meant by the gift as an ‘interaction.’ Mauss’s foundational work on the theory of the gift has been a reference for many studies that have come after it, especially his suggestion that there can never be a ‘pure gift’ (Mauss 1990). He introduces the idea that the gift has a social and economic weight, whereby the relationship between the donor and recipient is maintained through the transaction of the gift. Gift giving, in this sense, constitutes a social structure where the relationships are defined through the gifts that are being given and received. Alluding to Mauss’s work, Mary Douglas similarly suggests that there is no such thing as a “free gift”: “gift cycles engage persons in permanent commitments that articulate the dominant institutions” (Mauss 1990). Both Mauss and Douglas assert that gift transactions are, by nature, reciprocal. The reciprocal quality of giving allows the continuance of the social structure as it maintains a relationship between the donor and recipient. Developing on this theoretical foundation, Marilyn Strathern, in her comprehensive work The Gender of the Gift, emphasizes the “essential value” of the gift, which is determined by the human labor put into it and the general social value the gift holds (Strathern 1988, 136). She elaborates that the essential value of the gift is nearly impossible to determine, considering that labor and social value are incalculable. Whereas Mauss argues that a gift is always exchanged for its equivalent, Strathern contradicts this by claiming that since the essential value is incalculable, the gift transaction cannot be carried out on equal terms. Strathern explores the gift transaction not as a mere cycle of objects, but as the profound establishment of a relationship between those who exchange them because of the personal effort of labor put into them (Strathern

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1988, 143). What these studies have in common is that they interrogate giving as a transaction between the self and the individual. Whether material or non-material, the gift has a social significance. The value of these scholarly works cannot be undermined; however, in this chapter I critically engage with literature developing on the gift theory as a reciprocal transaction. The experiences of my interlocutors show that existing studies on the gift pertain to a specific approach to the self, subjecthood and the individual’s relationship with society. More specifically, they take the individuality and autonomy of the self for granted. Even in cases where the individual is in a state of transaction, the individuality of the self is mainly the focal point. Giving is more complicated for the Muslim volunteers, and its complicity is imbricated in how they understand the self as dividually bound to society and God. Thus, volunteering in the larger framework of the gift is not only a transaction between the self and society—as would be suggested by Mauss—but also a transaction between the individual and God. The addition of God to the equation signifies volunteering with a completely different importance than merely a social transaction. Volunteering in this context becomes an ethical transaction, and an irrevocable component in the individuals’ pious trajectory. This chapter unpacks giving in the context of volunteering. It explores what I call the spiritual economy of infaq, or in other words the economy of the ambiguous. The choice of wording is a conscious one, as it refers to a cycle, a transaction, and a continuity. In this sense, it is an ‘economy.’ Nevertheless, there is a higher being—a deity—in this transaction that makes the investment and gain (material and spiritual) uncountable, non-calculable. I find this point important to understand, as it tells us a lot about how volunteering for my Muslim interlocutors is profoundly different from volunteering in the (neo)liberal scene. It is compelling to understand how the dynamics of the self–God–society triad work in order to understand how liberal and non-liberal (Islamic) practices, sensibilities, and affects come into conversation, merge, and diverge. Moreover, the chapter explores how giving in the Islamic tradition takes shape in the liberal context of volunteering.

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Ambiguous Economies Giving in Islam has historically been categorized in three forms: zakat, sadaqa, and continuous sadaqa. Each of these is a different institution and has different social and religious meanings. While zakat is an institution under State control, sadaqa and continuous sadaqa are more loosely structured ways of giving. Zakat was often collected as a form of tax—once a year—in Muslim-ruled countries. Sadaqa is grounded in the benevolence of the individual and can be given any time for any kind of (philanthropic) purpose. As important as these two entities are, what I would like to draw attention to is the last category: continuous sadaqa. This is when the benevolent deed has continuous benefit. A good example would be donating money to establish a school or hospital. As long as the hospital or school continues to benefit people, the donator will gain divine reward. The continuous sadaqa is a compelling tradition for my interlocutors, not only in the sense that they, as volunteers, should invest in projects that have long-term effects, but also that volunteering—or giving—needs to be long-term and continuous. Some of my respondents were extremely convinced that the continuity of giving was imperative; some were more concerned with this continuity than with the amount that was given. Elif was one of them, and she tried to explain its logic to me, as I, overwhelmed, watched her collect fiveeuro banknotes in an effort to raise money to construct a water well in Africa. I had the chance to exchange some thoughts on this matter in the association where she volunteered. I approached Elif with a question that had been puzzling me for some time: “I am sure there are volunteers here who can just pay the whole cost. Why don’t you do that? Just donate… It’s going to take you a very long time to make the money this way.” Elif replied, as politely and positively as ever, “Well, yes and no… we are of course trying to find money, but we can’t just ask one person to donate, or even allow that if the person wanted. I mean, they can donate that amount of money if they want to, but we will still go on collecting those two euros and five euros. The reason is that, yes, the cause is important, but so is the means. This is a chance to incorporate everybody, as many people as we possibly can. The khayr lies in not being selfish with the deed and allowing others to contribute. And this way

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weariness from volunteering is prevented. If one person donated all the money, then it would be difficult to keep asking them to donate; but if 20 people donated one twentieth of the amount, then those 20 people would be motivated to give the next time. I mean this as just an example. The more people you incorporate, the more sustainable is that pattern of giving.” Elif engages with what she finds to be two important reasons why giving must not be limited to people who have greater financial means. She explains how significant it is to recognize that such a good deed is meant to be inclusive. As much as the act of giving, encouraging others to contribute is a khayr in itself. The idea of not being selfish with a good deed has both social and economic significance. Elif, who herself was an economics major, follows a simple market logic that an individual is more likely to invest small amounts for a longer period of time rather than giving big chunks of money in one go. Thus, not only is the donor attached to the ‘project,’ but the continuity of such projects is ensured with the trust that there are more people involved and willing to give. Detached donors are problematized in some studies that identify them as a recent development that is influenced by modern conceptions of the autonomous self. Contemporary forms of volunteering are described to be “sporadic, temporary, and non-committal” (Hustinx and Lammertyn 2003, 168). Elif clearly locates a common thread between neoliberal calculative reason (Mittermaier 2013) and Islamic conceptions of good deeds. What interests me most in Elif ’s reasoning is that she does not see this calculative reasoning as a rupture from the pure act of giving. Moreover, such a market logic is complementary to the religious impulse that goodness must be shared and experienced by as many people as possible. The value of the deed increases as the investment grows, but this investment must be sustainable and goal-oriented. I observe that in most cases my interlocutors rely on capitalist terms such as investment, commerce, and development to explain often ambiguous, incoherent, and fragmented “spiritual economies” (Rudnyckyj 2010). Rudnyckyj (2010) uses the term spiritual economies to explain how economic rationality has entered domains that it was traditionally not part of, namely religion. His book

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provides us with an insight into how the market system and developmental ideology catered to a certain moral vision, whereby economic development became the duty of individual citizens. Thus, working hard and making profits were reconfigured as religious practices, creating efficient and productive subjects who are ready to compete in the global economy. I borrow his term to explain how my respondents employ this reasoning within the volunteering context, striving to become more and more efficient volunteers, increasing in numbers and effectiveness. Infaq, in this context, is constituted by seemingly competing logics: the reality of the material, in that the gift amounts to what is given, and the more implicit nature of doing khayr, which can amount to whatever is decided by God. “Commercially, there is a bigger profit in a short amount of time,” a respondent conveyed to me. “When you give, just yourself, it is limited. But when you ask from others, it is more blessed, and there is more to what you have collected and you gain thawab (divine rewards), as if you have given yourself.” This is what Nuray told me. When I asked her what kind of difference volunteering initiated in her life, she added, “I knew how to give, but I didn’t know that I could ask (others to give).” Nuray’s experience deserves to be unpacked from several angles. First, there is obviously a calculative aspect to her description of infaq: the more a person gives, the more they are able to gain divine rewards. Second, infaq in her conception is different from the neoliberal market logic, in that it embraces relational involvement over the individual. When you ask from others, it is more blessed, she says, indicating the collective experience is not only desired mathematically but also spiritually. The inclusiveness of infaq reflects but cannot be reduced to market logic. The increasing numbers (of donors and donated to) do not necessarily pertain to an increase in divine rewards, or even to the success of the charity; it indicates an increase in blessings. Blessings can only be determined by God, as they are not calculable by any human logic. Amira Mittermaier gives an elaborate description of how the phenomenon of blessing deconstructs the calculative reasoning that surrounds charity. Blessings provide an overflow of abundance that cannot be limited to the material itself, and that cannot easily be factored into an economic equation (Mittermaier 2013). One apple is not simply

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just one apple in a blessed context; one apple can be enough for a person to be awarded by God, perhaps more than a person who gives 20 apples. In a different case, one apple can bring forth ample khayr. Here, what is important to understand is that there are many ‘non-visible’ and often elusive factors that interplay in the institution of infaq. Mauss coins this as an “economic theology” (Mauss 1967). Third, there is an ambiguity in the whole transaction that is subtly presented by Nuray, in that when the pious subject asks another person to give, they also receive divine rewards for what is given. This compels us to think through how the individual self is re-articulated through a relational narrative, where good deeds depend on others’ good deeds. Giving is no more an individualistic endeavor but inextricably intertwined with the social, connected by the idea of divine rewards. In this structure, the traditional donor–recipient (Mauss) dyad is opened up to include other donors. The self is no longer one donor in this relationship but consists of many donors, spiritually affected (even rewarded) by their conduct. Hence, God becomes the third actor in this circular convention. I describe it as circular and not triangular because, in this relationship, there is a cyclical trajectory where the donor gives, the recipient receives, and that transaction passes through the recipient to God, who then sends his rewards and blessings. Ultimately, the donor and recipient roles that were emphasized in Mauss’s model, and which he argued where essential to sustain social structure, are blurred. The donor(s) not only gives, but receives—not only as a result of giving but also by the act of others giving. Infaq is much more intricate than the transaction of giving between people. It cannot be limited to economic or social rubrics. By adding a divine actor, the transaction is marked by immaterial, imperceptible, and invisible properties. These properties determine the true value of the gift and cannot be computed on a calculator. This ambiguity, in turn, also reflects on the traditional donor and recipient roles. In classical giving relationships, there are usually—but not always—a donor and a recipient. Especially in cases of charity or philanthropy, the recipient is categorized as ‘needy’ and socially below the donor. Relying on the experiences of the volunteers, the presence of God ultimately blurs the notion of who the donor and recipients are. The schema clearly reflects that

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all actors are donors and recipients simultaneously. Studies that examine infaq as a charity institution seem to overlook this aspect, since from an economic perspective, the donors and recipients are quite identifiable. I was drawn to this point by Ayse when she came over to my apartment in Brussels one morning. We were talking over coffee and cookies about how her life as a volunteer was going. I was wondering how Ayse, young and unemployed, could devote so much time to volunteering. “You give whatever you have… money, time, motivation, knowledge, your talent. No one can give you a format. It is a vast array of things, anything that God has given you,” said Ayse. It is telling that my respondents do not limit their gift items only to what is material or calculable. They shine a different light on volunteering, trying to detach it from charity, as an institution aiding the poor. While, indeed, infaq is an investment within a cycle where they are actors, it is much more than a capital investment.

Iktisad and Universal Balance The very reason why infaq is larger than a capital investment is located in understanding of the ways in which economics works. Iktisat, which refers to economy, is one of those structural norms that influences volunteering. The act of giving is contextualized as an innately iktisadi (economic) process by the Muslim Belgian volunteers. Understanding iktisad will allow us to understand how the volunteers are relationally connected to the environment around them and to society. Not unlike modern economy, iktisad refers to the allocation of a limited amount of resources among unlimited needs. Iktisad intervenes in one small aspect of this definition, as it presupposes that needs are also limited, and every living human and non-human creature in the universe owns a share of what is allocated. This ownership is termed rizk in the Islamic tradition. In the most general sense, it means that God ascribes a certain amount of resources to each creature He created. However, the problem is that the allocation of these resources may not be equal and fair, but it is the responsibility of humans to distribute them fairly. The quintessential idea

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behind volunteering is to embrace this responsibility given to the human, by God. “God, who created the entire universe, never overlooks the smallest detail,” said Meral during a sohbet meeting. She said this to mean that God created the universe with esthetic harmony, but I believe it is safe to assume that they ascribe this perspective to the iktisadi balance of the universe. It is the essential responsibility of the human subject to continue that balance. The Sufi thinker Said Nursi wrote a book chapter covering the matter of iktisad. From time to time, my interlocutors took this book out to discuss the meaning and practice of economy. One of my sohbet meetings was with a group of academics and professionals. In this sohbet, the discussions could get somewhat conceptual and philosophical. The sohbet co-ordinator has to carry out the discussion so that it is not only clear, but understandable for the women who usually categorically structure their knowledge according to the secular, Western liberal tradition in which they were educated. Sometimes during these sohbet meetings, it became difficult for the women to grasp Islam as a tradition that critically engages with positivist knowledge. Iktisad as a way of living morally became problematic during one of the meetings. “God orders not to waste. We can eat and drink as much as we please but not waste. Eating too much or consuming too much leads the heart to lose its sensitivity. We don’t understand the universe anymore. We are driven further from spiritual maturity the more we consume. There is not a deficiency of food in the world; what is produced is more than enough to feed the existing population. Everyone has a rizk. It is predetermined, but what disrupts the balance is that the equal distribution of rizk is not maintained,” said Elif during an evening sohbet meeting. “Yes, but I don’t understand. Then why are we confronted with so many cases of poverty in the world? And what exactly does it mean to not waste? Am I allowed to be rich? Or if I don’t eat something I don’t like, is that wasting?” Tuba, my micro-biologist interlocutor, asked skeptically. “There is poverty, simply because the wealth is not distributed evenly. We always say that we need to be grateful for what we have, but what does that mean? It is not simply thinking ‘oh God, thank you for this cup of tea,’” Elif replied, pointing to the cup of tea in front of her. “Being thankful means respecting what you have. And how can we respect? By

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not wasting, of course. Iktisad mean respecting what you have, and it heals the body and soul. It also definitely eliminates the nafs. The more we consume, the more our nafs gets out of control.” “This seems very abstract,” argued Tuba, with even greater skepticism. “How can we, just a small group of people, create an economic balance in the world? It is not like I’m Bill Gates; how can I mobilize wealth?” she said, laughing. Tuba and Elif fell into a discussion, wherein Tuba was trying to understand the ‘practicality’ behind iktisad , and Elif pursued a more scriptural explanation. Tuba needed a knowledge that could address her secular modern imagination. This is a significant case to unpack, because although my pious interlocutors embrace a non-liberal approach to their selves, they are simultaneously informed by the secular modern world around them, and they are (consciously and subconsciously) negotiating with these different modalities. In a sense, Tuba needed a grounded reason to adopt iktisad , a reason that would eventually lead to a result, a change, or difference. While Elif was trying to contextualize her explanation, she was also trying to convey that iktisad is simply a way of being that must be respected, regardless of the micro–macro consequences. Carrying that observation further, Esra, who is a local Brussels pharmacist, said, “Okay, imagine this, you have one bean in your hand and you throw it in the trash. The bean is gone, but you don’t think about it because it is just one small bean. Now think about putting that bean in the soil instead. After some time, the seed will grow and you will have hundreds of beans. Now think about the bean you threw in the trash; you didn’t throw away just one, but you threw away hundreds, maybe thousands. What we waste is not just a symbolic amount. It is also a scientific reality.” For Tuba, iktisad had very material implications; she literally wanted to understand how economic balance can be maintained through individuals when there is a reality of larger inequalities. Elif did not really answer Tuba’s concern by providing a deeper description of iktisad , with Esra trying to help her. For Elif and Esra, the causes of economic inequality are not wholly material and it is not a ‘project’ where they work to overcome this imbalance. What they were trying to explain is that the material world is not isolated; it is unified. The subject has the

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responsibility of recognizing that unity and respecting it, which in turn is a show of respect to the creator and a way of ensuring the continuity of this union. Atif Khalil (2016) elaborates on embodied forms of shukr (gratitude) and what this entails for the pious subject’s relationship with God. He asserts that the fundamental property of shukr is that it is the individual’s manifestation of their recognition that God’s creations are related to each other and deserve to be acknowledged as such (2016, 170). It is the appreciation of this unity (2016, 170). This conception is detached from the idea of economic balance as a ‘developmental’ project. Tuba, in this case, struggled to detach herself from the developmental narrative and could not look at iktisad as a larger unity. After that sohbet, I understood that the economic structure of giving is embedded in a symbolically significant meaning. The product is not merely a product, but it is part of a greater union. This is in contrast to the modern notion of the self, which sketches agency as a self-contained autonomous being, clearly distinct from other creatures and the divine (Keane 2002, 67). Keane has a notable elaboration on how modernity somehow “distinguishes between objects and subjects.” According to Keane, the idea that an object can be an extension of the self was seen as unique to archaic societies, because in modern societies the human is “distinct from, and superior to the material world.” In other societies, usually identified as archaic, the human is accepted as embedded in objects, and there is a spiritual value in that. I believe Keane’s example of the Sumbanese marriage ritual, where the recipient of bride-wealth claims that they cannot push away what is given by a fellow human because it would mean “pushing away God,” is an exceptional example. In contrast to this example, the modern man is abstracted from the spiritual, natural, and the material. Clearly, my interlocutors also experience their selves in connection to their material possessions, God, and the material world around them. This phenomenon indicates that volunteering and giving in modern society are experienced in a much more nuanced way, allowing us to question established notions of the self. Each product is ascribed as a share to a creature, and if it fulfills its duty of reaching that creature, it is used optimally and has a divine value. This is what Elif meant when she mentioned respecting the things

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that are possessed. Respecting a product means respecting its nature as a rizk of a creature in the world. Respecting the rizk is also an expression of gratitude, and indeed the true expression of gratitude (Khalil 2015, 2016). Scholars who work on charity in the Islamic tradition often repeat that Muslims believe the products they are distributing never belonged to them in the first place (Kochuyt 2009, 100; Benthall 1999, 35). They add that the distributed wealth belongs to God originally, and human beings act only as a medium for distribution. The hassanah (good deed) is fulfilling the responsibility given by God in that transaction. I agree with previous research that supports this argument. Moreover, it is apparent in my own research, most explicitly when Pinar stated that we do not own anything and must be ready to give away our possessions when necessary. I also reflected on this phenomenon in my research in order to understand how a worldly product is ascribed a divine meaning. The phenomenological conceptualization of a product as a rizk sheds light on how it is divinely connected. Rizk, as a prescribed product from God to a creature, critically reflects on charity as a transaction that takes place on the will of the donor in the context of what the donor owns. This latter assumption is completely contrary to the idea of iktisad , Elif suggested, and she added, “Indeed, there is nothing wrong with being rich. The wrong is in accumulating wealth and shielding it from others. Once a person contributes to the universal balance of rizk with their wealth, God will surely give them more, because they are fulfilling the duty of intermediary.” Similarly, Timur Kuran puts forward that equality in Islamic economics is significant, in that inequality is not condemned unless it reaches extreme degrees (Kuran 1989, 172). Hence, while being wealthy is not considered wrong, being wealthy to the extent that others are in extreme poverty is considered immoral (Kuran 1989, 172). However, thinking of infaq in the framework of economics institutionalizes the practices in the contemporary scene. In a context where zakat, sadaqa, and other forms of alms-giving have no official regulation, volunteering provides a space to realize that desire. Timur Kuran (1989, 1995) illustrates the alms-giving scene of the modern Muslim world. He carefully elaborates on the history and progress of the zakat and sadaqa institutions. Essentially, his argument is that except in several

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Muslim-majority countries, these practices have no official governmental institution and are carried out through private conglomerates. In cases where countries do have government offices for the collection of zakat and sadaqa, their efficiency in alleviating poverty is yet to be proved. Indeed, I have often thought about the concept of ‘volunteer’ in reference to practices that can only be described by my interlocutors as an ethical obligation. To examine the ways in which the obligation and the voluntary intersect and demarcate, I next turn to the phenomenon of continuous sadaqa.

Volunteering as a Way of Maintaining an Islamic Tradition “Volunteering gives a stability to my life. It provides consistency. Or else, I could never have maintained my (pious) lifestyle. Coming here (to the association) and being with these people provides a structure, you know? Something that reminds you of your duties and responsibilities.” Like many of my respondents, Asli assented it was important to her to volunteer and have a space where she could come together with other people who emphasize the significance of infaq in their lives. It brings a structure to a practice that apparently has very little political or economic provision, and is socially acknowledged but not mainstream. Indeed, during the years when I followed the female Muslim volunteers, I watched how they came together on a nearly daily basis in the associations planning events, developing projects, and meeting with stakeholders. I watched how they came together once an evening every week for religious lessons (sohbet sessions). I saw how compelling it was for them to attend every event that was organized, regardless of other obligations like children, family, or even work. It was apparent that volunteering was the central focus of their lives, around which everything else revolved. During one of these weekly meetings, Halima, who is over 40 years old and a housewife living in Brussels city center, reflected during our discussion on the impediments surrounding giving. Halima has very little educational background and was pulled out of school after her

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primary education (in Turkey) to join her laborer father in Belgium. She proudly told me that she had been committed to the volunteering cause for over 20 years. “Yes, I come from a family that gave their sadaqa and zakat, and we also sacrificed an animal during Eid and distributed its meat to the poor. But these were all very, very limited and didn’t amount to anything. I mean, you gave to your close friends and family, obviously, and the effect is confined to that circle. It doesn’t make much of a difference when you look at it. There was no organized focus towards giving. We just gave sadaqa and zakat because we know from our religious texts that we should, but what they mean today, we had no idea.” Halima identifies how giving was a seasonal act of generosity for her family. She critically reflects on how giving did not enhance the whole of life and was confined to the formality of sadaqa, zakat, and eid al -adha. She identifies three problems with the traditional practice of giving: (1) restricted formalities; (2) inefficiency; (3) the absence of an organized structure. In her view, giving in this way has no long-term benefit and only provides immediate relief for a very limited circle of people; it has no continuous property. Volunteering utilizes giving through an organized system of donors and beneficiaries. This may come as common sense. Is that not the reason for people to volunteer in the first place? So what makes my interlocutors’ volunteering any different from other kinds of volunteering? My interest here, however, is not the effectiveness of volunteering at carrying out relief, nor the developmental paradigm through which it is often analytically studied (see Venkatesan and Yarrow 2012). My attention is on how my interlocutors acknowledge volunteering as a suitable contemporary space to engage with giving as a form of ’ibada. They critically assess the traditional perspectives on ’ibada and create a “contextually appropriate” medium, where they can consciously work upon and cultivate this “moral virtue” (Mahmood 2005). Mahmood (2005, 136–137) adopts Aristotle’s conception of the habitus to explain this trajectory. In the Aristotelian model of ethics, moral virtue is established through the subject’s ethical conduct, namely their habits. Being a moral person is thus a consequence of a constant cultivation of the individual’s inner and bodily dispositions. Additionally, this ’ibada is re-articulated through a framework of ‘projects’ and modern models of ‘effectiveness,’

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‘organization,’ and ‘optimum benefit.’ ’Ibada, in this perspective, is an ethical discipline in the form of a modern-secular experience. Charity institutions are not unusual in the Islamic tradition. Long before volunteering was a concept, Islamic waqf organizations existed for philanthropic reasons, maintaining an ongoing tradition of charity (Atia 2008, 9–10). These waqf organizations still exist in some Muslim countries, including Turkey. They are now translated as vakif , and can be defined as forms of NGOs that deal with responding to the needs of the poor, like food, shelter, baths, clothes, and so on. These institutions are usually supported by the business community (Zeybek-Alkan 2012, 147). The term can be broadly translated as a civil welfare institution (Zeybek-Alkan 2012). The waqf system can be seen as a form of sadaqa gariya (continuous sadaqa), and the organizations ranged from religious proselytizing through handouts, to environmental projects, and basic charity (Atia 2008, 10). The rise of such organizations in modern Muslim societies is largely due to the State’s absence in certain areas, and the infaq becoming a largely private matter. Halima echoed this predicament when she told me that she found ‘giving’ to be highly disorganized and limited. However, observing my respondents, I felt that they were not particularly comfortable defining their work as a type of waqf , and clearly stuck to the term gonullu (volunteer). Gonullu is the Turkish word for volunteering. What it literally means is a work done by someone acting ‘from the heart.’ This word entails both modern conceptions of institutional giving and traditional modes of doing something with ‘pure intentions.’ These dualisms have more to do with how they perceive their position as Muslims in society. It is a statement that they register to multiple moral rubrics, not limited to Islam, which takes public norms into consideration. It clearly indicates that they do not only borrow from the Islamic tradition. “It’s different,” said Ayse. “Obviously, there are other Muslim groups that also do infaq collectively, but it’s different. Here we are more open, and it’s not even only about money. It’s about being benevolent about everything, and towards everyone. It doesn’t consist of just Muslims, and certainly doesn’t only give to Muslims.” Being a volunteer and not part of a waqf actually plays into contextual details, and reinforces how

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my interlocutors conceive of being pious and living in a liberal-secular society. We have already, in the earlier stages of this chapter, discussed infaq as constituting obligatory alms, so why do my interlocutors repeat that this is a gonullu (voluntary) endeavor for them? Moreover, how does this conscious choice of lexicon illustrate a discourse of choice that does not necessarily contradict their obligations to God? Rather, an equilibrium is sought between maintaining a moral institution and not straying from the realities of society. Self-reflection is explicitly echoed in Ayse’s narrative as she draws a difference between the volunteering she carries out and that in other ‘Muslim communities.’ Here we are more open, and it’s not even only about money. It’s about being benevolent about ‘everything,’ and towards ‘everyone.’ This is an indication of how Ayse, like all my other respondents, understands herself in relation to the society. Volunteering is a convenient and understandable channel for infaq, embedded in a liberalsecular discourse of benevolence and inclusiveness; she explicitly refers to religious neutrality and openness. According to Ayse, this is different from other Muslim communities, who are apparently out of context and out of their time, and are thus incapable of ‘fitting in.’ It is important to note, then, that infaq as a phenomenon is timeless, but its scope and form of conduct is significantly contextual; it defines the pious trajectory as manageable or not. The choice for my interlocutors is not the conduct itself; it is the form of the conduct. I interrogated this point further with some of my interlocutors. When I asked Fatima, a young pedagogue, why she chose this kind of volunteering, her reply insinuated the importance of contextual compatibility. “No one makes you stay here, but you feel something that connects you here; you don’t feel ‘weird,’ you feel in sync with the age,” Fatima told me. Reflecting on the earlier discussion, my interlocutors seek a structure for their infaq; the absence of a macro authority allows them to channel this desire towards establishing an entity of their own, which serves as not only an organized domain for action but also a suitable domain through which they can mobilize their religious responsibilities and obligations. It is, indeed, a complicated structure—one that claims modes of piety but also neutrality. Fadil, in conversation with Giddens,

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identifies that “modern life” allows for the individual’s agency to act, but this mode of action is embedded in a web of “uncertainties” and “fragmentation” (Fadil 2005, 52; see also Giddens 1991, 189–196). Similarly, as my interlocutors tap into different moral epistemologies, their experiences are embedded in a negotiation between different and sometimes confronting religious and secular-liberal traditions. Thus while volunteering by definition suggests a form of nonobligatory commitment, the Islamic tradition it borrows from insinuates a binding drive. Volunteering is a modern form of giving that maintains this non-liberal tradition. Infaq, a practice that is inextricably bound to technologies of the self, becomes embedded in a discourse of ‘progress.’ We have seen how volunteering suggests an Islam that is guided by certain liberal categories, and while this may suggest that my interlocutors inhabit a Weberian disenchantment in their religious lifeworlds, the coming sections interrogate how the non-liberal dimension of giving marks my interlocutors’ volunteering as fundamentally different from modern conceptions of giving.

The Relationality of Infaq and the Divine Unity When I say the ‘non-liberal dimension of giving,’ we are pushed to think about God and the religious motivations that drive giving. However, before I begin discussing the ‘divine factor’ in giving, I wish to pause and think through the phenomenon of relationality and how it has become the ethical backdrop for this practice. Indeed, giving is a complex practice that comprises a myriad of concerns and normative registers. As the volunteer gives to society, they give to God. This is the basis of relationality, as we have extensively discussed. The question then is how relationality extends to infaq. What kind of internal and bodily dispositions does relationality create as it makes infaq a practice very different from charity? If we are to explore non-reciprocal giving transactions deeply, we need to understand that the relationality of God, society, and the self makes the core of infaq.

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I have already mentioned that giving is a transaction between the individual, society, and God, and the subject gives to God and she gives to society. But how is this relationship conceptually constructed by the volunteers? How do they come to the conclusion that this is the way to be a good Muslim? What does this tell us in terms of how they perceive the self? The answers to these questions are not detached from the Islamic tradition, as I gradually understood how the self and subjecthood is constructed in relation to the Islamic tradition and specific type of sociology. This strong assertion of relationality insinuates that the volunteers’ idea of agency diverges from the modern conception of ‘autonomous’ and ‘individualistic’ agency. The modern self is generally (although not unilaterally) characterized by “privileging the individual’s agency, inwardness, freedom” (Taylor 1989; Keane 2002). Furthermore, the predominant notion of the subject is that it is “rational and autonomous,” detached, independent, and disenchanted (Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006; Mittermaier 2011; Rosen 1991; Taylor 1992). There have been some scholars who have emphasized that agency is not as monotypic as suggested by modernist thinkers. I here draw on Mahmood’s model of agency (Mahmood 2005). In The Politics of Piety, she argues that there is a tendency to locate agency in resistance, and the desire for freedom through autonomy (Mahmood 2005). She suggests the necessity of looking at agency from a different angle than the liberal-progressive perspective and observing how individuals relate to certain norms and “prescriptive structures” that do not actually conform to the liberalprogressive model (Mahmood 2005, 22). Thus, agency is not only the capacity of the individual to resist norms, but also the multiple ways in which they inhibit them (Mahmood 2005, 25). According to Anthony Giddens, adhering to religion was no longer considered as lacking agency, but as a different mode of relating to the self than that proposed by liberal thought (Giddens 1991, 196). While Mahmood’s work is seminal, it still pertains to a type of agency that is ‘individualistic’ and focused on the self. Relationality implies a more dividual agency (Strathern 1988). Dividual agency sums to a type of self that is socially embedded, committed to performing ‘socially written script,’ and navigated by cultural structures. Does this mean that the individual agency is

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completely freed from social norms and expectations? Ideally, yes. However, if we are to look at it from a more critical angle, the individual agency is also socially bound to some extent. It would be far-fetched to argue that the individual agency is completely autonomous. What I would like to emphasize by using the dividual agency is a form of self that does not claim any kind of autonomy from society (or God), and argues strongly that social connectedness is the desired state of being. Moreover, dividuality is one way to explain how the agency of the self is no more significant than divine agency. The state of dividuality is the foundation of relationality. Relationality in this context is how this study departs from existing studies on giving, because although giving is socially informed, it is not socially framed, in the Maussian sense (Mauss 1990). In the act of giving, the volunteers do not imagine any social reciprocity, as Mauss would argue. Nevertheless, the volunteer gives to God as she gives to society; hence, while the preliminary receiver is society, the ultimate receiver is God. It is safe to say that the path to God passes through society. The ideal of ‘service’ (to society) hints that this relationality is embedded in how my interlocutors define their ethical methodology. While European Muslims have been the subject of studies regarding individual forms of piety (Cesari 2004; Peter 2006), volunteering allows us to critically engage with this assertion and think through how the social has crucial significance for personal piety. “When we have campaigns, like donating for eid , giving money, or when we have special organizations, the aim is not collecting money, or bringing people together… the aim is showing that God’s wealth can reach others, those who need it. We were given these blessings, and we need to be thankful. But every blessing has its own way of being thankful, and if we are blessed with such lives as volunteers, then we need to be thankful by giving to society.” Gulhan, whom I met in Antwerp, had brought together ‘her girls,’ as she called them, at the start of the academic year to talk about what they would do throughout the year. ‘Campaigns,’ as she called them, is a widely used term; anyone in the associations around Belgium would know what it meant. The women organize campaigns to define a cause, set a goal, and try to achieve that

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goal. For instance, while I was still doing fieldwork, some of the volunteers were very active in Africa, and those who were doctors traveled to African countries to operate on people with cataracts, specifically those who could not afford the operation. For this cause, the women went around and collected money, and people could donate as much as they wanted or could. The idea was to involve as many people as possible, and the collection process followed a strict legal process, where the donors were given receipts. These campaigns, as I have noted, are very popular. They are a very explicit and common example of modern-day charity and volunteering. However, we can also understand from Gulhan that they are much more complicated. While of course these campaigns aim to raise money, they do not provide a definitive perspective on the pious subject’s ethical trajectory. According Gulhan’s accounts, giving is an indication of God and his blessings, a way of showing God’s wealth is for everyone. Giving is a way of establishing a pure connection with God; those arguments are highly relevant in this discussion. The effort that the subject invests in abolishing their sense of pleasure and positive experience in the act of giving, thus signifying God’s consent as the preliminary experience, underlies one of the main ideas in Gulhan’s quote. Considering Gulhan’s statement, we need to be careful in examining the dynamics that are interlinked but somehow also detached in the giving transaction. What my interlocutors demonstrate is that their ethical becoming is informed by the social, but also detached from it, in that the social cause is acted upon but is conceived of as the ultimate station. This is what problematizes modern thoughts on gift giving (Mauss, Derrida, and Strathern), because in this literature, the gift is socially framed, and hence reciprocal. Authors like Derrida, who argue that a pure gift is possible, detach the transaction from its social embodiment. In the case of the volunteers, giving is socially embedded; however, it is not personal, hence it is not reciprocal. The idea of the social is in constant engagement with God, and what is given to society is interpreted as given to God. The next section ethnographically explores the different layers of relationality.

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The Gift I often saw my interlocutors with coupons in their hands trying to convince someone to buy a share for eid al -adha. I saw them distributing coupons for different things, like meals for the poor during Ramadan or food packages to distribute to needy families. By selling coupons, my interlocutors try to raise as much money as possible for their designated aim. There are certain times of the year during which it is high season for the ‘coupon selling,’ such as before religious festivals when the tradition of giving is most pronounced among the Muslim community. This is the period when, globally, organizations and institutions are trying to mobilize charity for people in need. Moreover, these are also the busiest times for my interlocutors, who want to contribute to the tradition with their best efforts. The Muslim Belgian women integrate these activities into their identity as volunteers. While volunteering is a life’s commitment for them, it is not limited to only charity. However, charity most clearly expresses the objective of volunteering, which is giving. Charity is indeed one of the registers my interlocutors reflect on. Interestingly, conceptions of charity as grounded in the Western context have been heavily criticized by Muslim intellectuals, such as Sayyid Qutb (Carré 1984, 151; Mitchell 1969, 253). Qutb, whose thoughts on giving were shaped by the prism of the Islamic tradition, disapproved of the idea that giving created an imbalance between the donor and recipient, and asserted that “zakat was the ‘outstanding social pillar of Islam,’ enabling individuals’ efforts to be steered towards a common goal” (Benthall 1999, 36). Qutb was indeed dubious of Mauss’s formulation of the gift provoking some kind of a hierarchy in the relationship. But he does not define Islamic forms of giving as a ‘gift.’ So why is Islamic giving different from a gift transaction? The answer to this question will give us an analytical description of how the self is relationally attached to God. An essential question is what kind of role God plays as one of the parties in the gift transaction. In the first year of my fieldwork, I tried to understand how my interlocutors engaged with the divine as they volunteer. It was no secret that they ‘gave for God,’ but even this claim is

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constituted by many nuances that are present in both the academic literature and daily practices. I often found in the sohbet meetings that my interlocutors used aphorisms that escaped my attention until I found that they represented a subliminal aim encoded in an easier prose. The following statement took on a deeper meaning as I delved into how God factors into volunteering. “As everyone sees you as a something if you see yourself as nothing, and as everyone sees you as nothing if you see yourself as something, then you are ruined. Please God; make me small in my eyes and great in yours.” One of my interlocutors uttered this aphorism, mixed with a prayer, during a late-night sohbet meeting, where we focused on our egos. The topic was centered on how we should relate to our ego, in their words our nafs, in an age when the ego rules over the subject. Aspiring for a pure form of giving is as complicated as it appears to be, and the course to achieving such ahlak embeds multiple norms and negotiations between those norms and the subject. None of my interlocutors would argue that giving is easy, whether it is money, time, or labor that they give. It takes a lot of sacrifice and commitment to volunteer and to think that volunteering should be the central focus of life, which is the case for my interlocutors. They do not hide that volunteering should ideally be a lifelong commitment, because the self is never really perfected. Volunteering is the way to becoming a pious Muslim, and the becoming is a never-ending trajectory. The central argument here proceeds to highlight how the volunteers achieve this process of becoming. I borrow this concept from Naveeda Khan, who elaborates on the many forms of becoming in her studies (Khan 2012). She asserts that the process of becoming is much more significant than actually being. Rather than assuming that giving is unrequited as a natural disposition for the Belgian volunteers, it is important to attend to it as a trajectory, as Mahmood suggests, of becoming. This section engages with the multiple registers that are articulated through bodily practice, speech, and inner spiritual states throughout this trajectory. Establishing a pure connection with God is not an easily accomplished state of being and it is never a linear process. Indeed, the idea that giving must be an unconditional commitment to God’s consent is

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an aspiration that is subject to cultivation and ethical discipline. Deeb and Harb assert that “ethical subjectivity” is not a one-dimensional and linear constitution; it is a complex matrix of various “motivations, aims, and identity” (2013, 17). Moreover, this process entails the cultivation of the self in order to eliminate the nafs and establish a pure bond with God, allowing acts of giving to become selfless; the only will is for God’s consent. Although in some cases the self and the nafs are used interchangeably, in the context that my interlocuters refer to them, they are most certainly not interchangeable. Nafs, in their conception, is a subcategory of the self, an element of the self but not the ultimate state of self. Tritton describes it as a form of “lower nature” in the self that has “baser impulses.” The term is from Naffari, defined as “carnal soul” (Tritton 1971, 493). Accordingly, my interlocutors’ understanding is the nafs is a part of their self that is very morally challenged, and with which they are in a state of constant struggle. Most of my interlocutors acknowledge that giving is an extremely difficult process, let alone giving without even expecting some kind of spiritual reward, such as going to heaven. In the sohbet meetings that I attended, my interlocutors do not openly discuss personal matters concerning their own reflections on volunteering, including their nafs. However, they do have long discussions on how to be selfless and establish that spiritual discipline. During one of the late-night sohbets, which I had been attending on a regular basis for more than two years, this issue came up when Shukran, my close respondent, talked about the struggles the group was experiencing with completely devoting themselves to volunteering. It was a tense night, as the half-dozen women had failed to organize an event that they had agreed the previous week they would. It had so happened that the women were all individually preoccupied and had not had the time to organize the event. This issue was heatedly discussed; were they too occupied with redundant daily issues? Shukran asked how they would be able to discipline themselves to commit more to volunteering. “It will become an ahlak as much as you do it. You have to set a standard for yourself and keep doing it until you become it,” Tulay, one of my other interlocutors, replied.

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Fatimanur, who led the sohbet that night, expressed the difficulty of this process. “It is not easy. Think about your children; even at that young age, it is so difficult to establish a character change for a better ahlak. So doing that with ourselves at this age…” She fell silent, her face solemn as she obviously thought about the great challenge ahead of her if she wanted to be a better, indeed proper, Muslim. The matter was not resolved that night and no one could provide a clear-cut answer to how a believer could successfully cultivate their self and overcome their nafs. Indeed, it is quite uncommon that during a sohbet someone gives a definite prescription of achieving pure and selfless giving. My interlocutors accept that this is a personal trajectory. It is up to each individual to discover their own “spiritual exercises” (Hadot 1995). What is difficult to master for one person’s nafs may not be the same for the other. Pinar, who lives in Antwerp, expressed the nuances she experiences when giving and their effect on her personal transformation. As a woman of wealth, who has been volunteering for more than ten years, she has a lot to offer the volunteering circle in material terms. However, Pinar contextualizes her experiences more diversely. “Giving money is not hard for me. I can make really big donations and that would not necessarily be difficult. What really strains my limits is giving time. I have three boys and they all have their individual needs. I also work at our company, which leaves very little time left in the day to do much else. If we need to cook for an event, for example, I just give money to buy the food from a caterer, which is much easier. But I need to learn that I have to devote more of what is valuable for me, my time, for ahlak. Even my children and my husband are not mine, they all belong to Allah, and that is how we must treat them. We cannot own our families or our money and time, and we must be ready to give them away when it is necessary.” Pinar’s conceptualization of her experience of ahlak grasped my attention. Tulay similarly referred to this phenomenon as a way of selfcultivation. “It will become an ahlak as much as you do it.” Both Tulay and Pinar referred to ahlak as way of becoming; it is the normative framework according to which my interlocutors aspire to model their practices. As a term, ahlak roughly translates as ethics and “embraces all of the details of human character and life” (Toguslu 2007, 446). Ahlak does not only refer to the religious spheres of life, but is a behavioral

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prescription for the believer in all aspects of social life (Toguslu 2007, 446). In this light, my interlocutors referred to ahlak as establishing an ethical way of being, in both character and lifestyle. To them, ahlak is being able to give what is important, without experiencing a personal pleasure from that giving, but only aspiring for the consent of God. Elif once told us in a sohbet that the greatest indicator of ethics is practice. “We come to these lessons each week to learn our religion… We read difficult books that were written in Ottoman Turkish (referring to Said Nursi’s work) and try to make sense of them. We try to find something in them that makes sense and that we can get something out of for our lives today, in Europe. But this does not make us better Muslims. What makes a good, a proper Muslim, is one who practices what they know.” The idea that the practice of knowledge is crucial to becoming an ethical subject leads me to think about Schielke’s description of “moral rubrics” (Schielke 2009, 166). The term pertains to “modalities of moral speech and action,” that emphasize “the performative, situational, and playful … character of norms” (Schielke 2009, 166). “Moral discussion and action” are embedded in values that have primary importance (Deeb and Harb 2013), and by exploring these rubrics more closely we can understand what kind of “moral ideas, discourses, norms, and practices” my interlocutors embody and reflect in their efforts to become proper Muslims. Elif ’s equation of practice and ethics was one of the most repeated narratives among my interlocutors. Indeed, Tulay’s previous assertion that the practice will become an ahlak as much as it is done confirms this point. The repetition of a practice is necessary for its perfection in the Aristotelian tradition (Mahmood 2005, 136); further studies on virtue ethics have stressed this point (Hirschkind 2001; Gade 2004). However, the repetition of practice has another significance, which is that it is a sign of the subject’s commitment to volunteering. The idea that volunteering must be performed with devotion, by investing constant labor and with the understanding that it is a responsibility that always requires more from the giver, is registered as iltizam in Lara Deeb’s notable work, An Enchanted Modern: Gender and Public Piety in Shi’i Lebanon. Iltizam, in the most general sense, translates as commitment. It is a complicated process, which entails the subject’s submission

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to God and also the acceptance that the subject is also “God’s agent on earth” (Deeb 2006, 34). Iltizam is a commitment to God that involves the subject executing their responsibilities in society within the context of submitting to and connecting with God. Actual praying is how my interlocutors perceive iltizam. While Deeb includes the social, political, and religious factors of this process, my interlocutors unpack it as a form of prayer. While praying is accepted as a practice that brings the subject closer to God, it is not enough. “Actual praying is being conscious of God’s consent in every act we do. If we bear that in mind, then whatever we do will lead to goodness,” Elif explained. “We will work for this world, but God must be at the end of the road. The duty of a believer is to find God in every position.” “We will work for this world, but God must be at the end of the road” indicates that iltizam is not detached from this world; similar to Deeb’s analyses, it denotes that the believer is integrated with the world’s conditions and necessities but is also interconnected to the notion that God is felt and experienced in all the believer does. Volunteering may have a philanthropic form, but its innate quality as the believer’s submission to God provides her connection to God.

Conclusion This chapter traces how relationality touches my interlocutors’ connection with all material beings beyond interpersonal relationships. It does this in the context of infaq, which translates as giving/spending. The chapter seeks to understand infaq in the paradigm of gift transaction. My interlocutors experience volunteering as the most effective way of carrying out infaq in modern society. At the same time, it is much more complicated that merely ‘giving.’ Previous anthropological work has studied the phenomenon of the gift and giving transactions. They have concluded that every gift transaction has a social dynamic, whereby the subject is informed by social expectation and the responsibility to continue the gift transaction. There is no ‘free gift’ in these anthropological studies.

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My suggestion is that studies on the gift can take us only so far in understanding infaq and further volunteering. These studies suggest that every gift transaction is reciprocal by nature. The experiences of my interlocutors point towards a different understanding of transaction, one that signifies a special relationship with society, the environment, materiality, and God. Giving has always been a strong pillar of the Islamic tradition, usually taking shape in form of zakat and sadaqa. Such traditions have been significant in purifying the self and wealth. For the volunteers, the continuity of infaq is imperative because it means that self (and wealth) will also continue to purify. Continuity is more important than the amount of what is given and this is based on a very basic economic logic: the individual is more likely to give on a continuous basis if it is smaller sums. But this economic logic is intertwined with a more spiritual aspect, which is the purification aspect. As the individual gives with ikhlas (sincerity and commitment), their act of khayr (good deeds) increases. However, it is impossible to calculate khayr. This is between the individual and God and can only be determined by their inner dispositions and sincerity of their actions. Ultimately, the gift transaction is economic, in the sense that there is a continuing pattern of giving, but also surpasses economy, for it is touched by the notion of khayr. Does this not give the self a sense of worth, as do most gift transactions? My interlocutors would argue that it does not. There is a universal balance, an economy among all things in the universe, that is referred to as iktisad . This is the Arabic for economics but it also differs from economics in subtle ways. Iktisad suggests that human needs are limited and that every creature in the world owns a share in what is allocated. This entitlement to their share is termed rizk in the Islamic tradition. God ascribes a certain amount of resources to each creation. The allocation of these resources may not always be equal and fair, but it is the responsibility of humans to distribute them fairly. Volunteering is in fact the endeavor to make sure these resources are distributed more equally. This is not to say that volunteering is only an act of charity, but it concerns being mindful of this duty. The pious subject has the responsibility of acknowledging that each creation is in a divine unity bound

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by the circle of rizk. They are a wheel in this circle that needs to ensure this unity is not violated. As the volunteer works for the continuity of divine unity, they also need to keep their sense of ego in balance. Giving and doing something for others can impress the individual with a sense of worth, a superiority. This is completely because of the nafs, argue my interlocutors. The individual should not be fooled that such a way of giving can achieve God’s consent. The bond with God cannot strengthen with a heightened ego in the way. The struggle with the nafs is the ultimate ethical challenge for my interlocutors. The difficulty is what makes this a lifelong trajectory, as ethical discipline can only be perfected with continuous commitment.

References Atia, Mona Ali. Building a house in heaven: Islamic charity in neoliberal Egypt. University of Washington, 2008. Benthall, Jonathan. “Financial worship: The Quranic injunction to almsgiving.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (1999): 27–42. Carré, Olivier. Mystique et politique: lecture révolutionnaire du Coran par Sayyid Qut.b, frère musulman radical . Vol. 1. Cerf, 1984. Cesari, Jocelyne. When Islam and democracy meet: Muslims in Europe and in the United States. Springer, 2004. Deeb, Lara. “An enchanted modern.” In Gender and public piety in Shi’i Lebanon, 2006. Deeb, Lara, and Mona Harb. Leisurely Islam: Negotiating geography and morality in Shi’ite south Beirut. Princeton University Press, 2013. Fadil, Nadia. “Individualizing faith, individualizing identity: Islam and young Muslim women in Belgium” (2005). Gade, Anna M. Perfection makes practice: Learning, emotion, and the recited Qur’an in Indonesia. University of Hawaii Press, 2004. Giddens, Anthony. Modernity and self-identity: Self and society in the late modern age. Stanford University Press, 1991. Hadot, Pierre. “Philosophy as a way of life: Spiritual exercises from Socrates to Foucault” (1995). Hirschkind, Charles. “Civic virtue and religious reason: An Islamic counterpublic.” Cultural Anthropology 16, no. 1 (2001): 3–34.

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Hirschkind, Charles. The ethical soundscape: Cassette sermons and Islamic counterpublics. Columbia University Press, 2006. Hustinx, Lesley, and Frans Lammertyn. “Collective and reflexive styles of volunteering: A sociological modernization perspective.” Voluntas: International Journal of Voluntary and Nonprofit Organizations 14, no. 2 (2003): 167–187. Keane, Webb. “Sincerity, modernity, and the Protestants.” Cultural Anthropology 17, no. 1 (2002): 65–92. Khaf, M. (2007). Infaq fi Sabil Allah. Notes on Islamic Finance. Khalil, Atif. “On cultivating gratitude (Shukr) in Sufi virtue ethics.” Journal of Sufi Studies 4, no. 1–2 (2015): 1–26. Khalil, Atif. “The embodiment of gratitude (Shukr) in Sufi ethics.” Studia Islamica 111, no. 2 (2016): 159–178. Khan, Naveeda. Muslim becoming: Aspiration and skepticism in Pakistan. Duke University Press, 2012. Kochuyt, Thierry. “God, gifts and poor people: On charity in Islam.” Social Compass 56, no. 1 (2009): 98–116. Kuran, Timur. “On the notion of economic justice in contemporary Islamic thought.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 21, no. 2 (1989): 171– 191. Kuran, Timur. “Islamic economics and the Islamic subeconomy.” The Journal of Economic Perspectives 9, no. 4 (1995): 155–173. Mahmood, Saba. “Politics of piety.” In The Islamic revival and the feminist subject, 2005. Mauss, Marcel. The gift, trans. I. Cunnison. London: Cohen & West, 1967 (original publication in French, 1925). Mauss, Marcel. The gift: The form and reason for exchange in archaic societies, trans. W.D. Halls. New York and London: W. W. Norton, 1990 (original work published, 1950). Mitchell, Richard P. The society of Muslim brothers. London: Cambridge University Press, 1969. Mittermaier, Amira. Dreams that matter: Egyptian landscapes of the imagination. University of California Press, 2011. Mittermaier, Amira. “Trading with God: Islam, calculation, excess.” In A companion to the anthropology of religion, pp. 274–293, 2013. Peter, Frank. “Individualization and religious authority in Western European Islam.” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations 17, no. 1 (2006): 105–118. Rosen, Michael. “Must we return to moral realism?” (1991): 183–194.

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Rudnyckyj, Daromir. Spiritual economies: Islam, globalization, and the afterlife of development. Cornell University Press, 2010. Schielke, Samuli. “Ambivalent commitments: Troubles of morality, religiosity and aspiration among young Egyptians.” Journal of Religion in Africa 39, no. 2 (2009): 158–185. Strathern, Marilyn. The gender of the gift: Problems with women and problems with society in Melanesia. Vol. 6. University of California Press, 1988. Taylor, Charles. Sources of the self: The making of the modern identity. Harvard University Press, 1989. Taylor, Charles. The ethics of authenticity. Harvard University Press, 1992. Toguslu, Erkan. “Gülen’s theory of adab and ethical values of Gülen movement.” In Conference Proceedings Muslim World in Transition: Contributions of the Gülen Movement, London, pp. 445–458. Leeds: Leeds Metropolitan University Press, October 2007. Tritton, A.S. “Man, nafs, r¯uh., ’aql.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 34, no. 3 (1971): 491–495. Venkatesan, Soumhya, and Thomas Yarrow (eds.). Differentiating development: Beyond an anthropology of critique. Berghahn Books, 2012. Zeybek-Alkan, Hilal. “Ethics of care, politics of solidarity: Islamic charitable organizations in Turkey.” In Ethnographies of Islam: Ritual performances and everyday practices. Dupret, Baudouin, Thomas Pierret, Paulo G. Pinto, and Krrathryn Spellman-Poots, eds. Edinburgh University Press, 2012.

5 The Authority in Sisterhood

Undoubtedly, people are connected, in one way or another. Moreover, these connections can sometimes be more paramount than others, in terms of affective, material, and social values (Carsten 2000). Not all profound relationships are genealogical, however, but some can be as influentially significant. This chapter is interested in how the volunteers are connected to one another with bonds of solidarity rooted in familiarity, trust, a common aim, but also a common rite of passage into volunteering that estotation a person’s authority within the volunteering scene and their personal spiritual maturity, among other things. What struck me as astoundingly obvious nearly the moment I started my fieldwork was how the volunteers were all so very well acquainted. This acquaintance was so intense that there seemed to be a tangible trust between the individuals, a sense of incredible familiarity even between those who were only briefly acquainted or newly introduced. It seemed as if being a volunteer in those associations were enough for the credibility of the individuals, who had an image of the other volunteers, as well as a character they ascribed to them and expected of them. It also seemed that this persona was expected of all volunteers, that being a volunteer © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_5

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made them someone particular, and that person was highly familiar and trustworthy. The obvious question is how is this relatedness relevant? Surely, there are social roles that each and every one of us is expected to fulfill, such as being a family member, a student, an employee, and so on. But what I argue is that this image of the volunteer is fitted on the subject, creating an external influence on their desire to work on their pious self. Additionally, I discuss how the practical endeavors of this desire create positions of authority among some of the volunteers. Muslims settling in Europe has brought out the question of how traditional forms of authority have fragmented (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003). There are several approaches to this thesis, the first being that the democratic and liberal public spheres of European societies provided the appropriate space for change in Muslim thought and practice (Tibi 2000). The second approach asserts that Islam’s encounter with Western secularized societies initiates a pluralization of “Muslim forms of organization and social life and identifies privatized components of Islam” (Roy 1998; Tietze 2001). These approaches have been subject to criticism in that they base their approach to Islam in the West on a European normative (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003), and that the individualization of religion is a model used mostly with regards to Protestant or Catholic traditions (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003; Bellah 1991). While many studies look at authority in terms of leadership, some studies also look at the intricate relationship between knowledge articulation/dissemination and how it creates points of authority, and the ensuing democratization of authority (in terms of gender and generation) (see Hirschkind 2001; Jouili and Amir-Moazami 2006). Rather than focusing on authority as a form of leadership, or divergence from traditional institutions such as mosques, my question pertains to how alternative religious spaces have their own specific dynamics and trajectories of informing religiosity. We see how the traditional internal logics of authority have changed, and how from the embodiment of knowledge emerges a second self , one that is predictably of a volunteer enabling the subject with the authority to organize the structure of giving. In this picture, the weight of relatedness, as I will lengthily discuss, has a personal implication wherein the subject’s pious

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becoming is multifariously attached to how much they fulfill their role of volunteer, and establish that bond of trustworthiness with their fellow volunteers. Kinship studies have played an important part in anthropological studies, and the focus has shifted and broadened to include other forms of relatedness that are social as much as biological (Carsten 2000). The small details of everyday connectivity have come under focus, looking at how daily displays of affection, sharing, communication, and so on indicate the “symbolic and social significance of the house” (see Carsten and Hugh-Johns 1995). These studies shape our vision not only of how the personal is fashioned in the public, but also of identity as performative and socially constructed (see Butler 1990). This discussion is highly relevant to analysis of relatedness because it, in many ways, provides a framework for comprehending how a certain type of self is fashioned according to group norms and the group’s expectations of a certain role. Here we see many levels of concern that inform the pious actor. On the one hand, there is the orthodox sensitivity of shaping and cultivating the self, according to an individual pious trajectory, which also includes their ibada. On the other hand, there is the imperative to accord to a specific group behavioral norms and patterns, which also establishes the image of the actor’s pious maturity. Piety and volunteering become intermingled in the group’s internal nascence and articulation of what it means to be a proper Muslim, and a common identity marker and relatedness emerges out of this dynamic. The individual is introduced to the volunteering scene and gradually embraces not only the practice, but also the epistemological sources. Sharing practice and epistemology creates a sense of belonging that is performatively informed but is also a performance of a character. This character is what is articulated by the volunteers as the ideal way of being a volunteer and hence pious. The transformation of character is desired by the volunteers, a transformation that not only brings them closer to God but also is in conversation with how the volunteers define themselves as a community of believers. Self-fashioning is not only a way of growing closer to God, but also to the group. These two tracks are not detached from each other and are in constant conversation. This chapter is a venture to understand how growing into a character that is

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mostly articulated by the community of volunteers is closely associated with growing into piety. The main question is how performativity influences authority, in the sense that it is located on the individual’s body and their ability to be observably pious. I suggest that the visible performance of a character creates bonds of trust, respect, and reliability, which then says something about the individual’s authority within the group to articulate knowledge, co-ordinate events, and ultimately become an established volunteer. This is not completely divorced from what others perceive as that individual’s connection to God.

Gender, Authority, and Female Spaces In December 2019, I met Sema in shabby café in Brussels. I met her because I was struggling with authority, gender, and how to think about these issues, and to write about them without reproducing the daunting stereotypes already projected on Muslim women and their socalled lack of agency. Who better than Sema to talk about these things without idealizing the volunteers and without falling into liberal-secular presumptions? I had already ‘closed the field’ so to speak, as I had finished my Ph.D. a year ago, but while working on the book I had to re-visit the field in an attempt to understand matters that I felt I had not done justice to before. Sema arrived a little late. We had missed each other since we last met. “Remember when we last talked about volunteering and feminism?” I asked her and she smiled, remembering our previous discussion when I was helping her develop her ideas for her Master’s thesis. Well, now I needed her help and my first question to her was, “What does volunteering give these women—you know, as women?” It was a very badly formulated question but I knew Sema understood me. We talked for hours about how the volunteering scene works like a family for the women, the dynamics of their relationship being quite similar to family dynamics. We talked about the good and the bad, and sisterhood in general. However, what I want to begin with here is something Sema said in the middle of our discussion: “Our sohbet is not a re-reading of Islamic tradition. We do not try to bring a feminist re-interpretation to

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knowledge. We accept previous knowledge as right and valid. You will never hear one of our sohbet teachers say, ‘Well Bukhari said this, but he was wrong and we have to re-think that.’ They will say, ‘Bukhari said this. He was right but we have to re-think that according to this day and age.’ There is a general acceptance of classical knowledge, but we have to reflect on that according to the modern age. But that does not really offer a feminist reading of anything.” Since the course of our discussion centered around womanhood and the much-debated issue of emancipation, the topic inevitably came around to feminism and feminist Islam. Most of what we talked about came from a very academic point of view. In a sense, my questions were a continuation of questions asked to me after my Ph.D. on how these women are empowered, if in actual fact they are. This lead me to search for clues of empowerment. Sema herself is also very aware of such social expectations, so I knew she would immediately understand where my questions came from. This quote from Sema is important for me because it comes right back to the question of authority and knowledge and the ways in which knowledge is produced, disseminated, and gendered in the volunteering/sohbet scene. Therefore, before we discuss how the women enter the volunteering scene and strive to change their character to become better versions of themselves, I think it would be useful to describe how the volunteers define and experience authority. The central focus of this chapter is that there is an authoritative relationship among the volunteers, which is strengthened through knowledge production and dissemination, and which eventually allows the women to be immersed in a certain lifestyle to the extent that they are now different from how they were when they started out. This authority should not be regarded as a complete departure from religious tradition, where the women are looking for a feminist reading of Islam and autonomy from male leadership. There is indeed an authoritative female figure in each group, which we will discuss extensively, but these women are not necessarily leaders, since they are in constant consultation with their male peers and they follow traditional sources of knowledge. First, we need to understand how authority works within the Islamic tradition and its connection to knowledge

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production and dissemination. This will allow us to have a more sophisticated perspective on how the sohbet teachers establish and maintain their authority within their groups and the general volunteering scene. Authority in Islam dictates who has the right to interpret religious sources and apply them to the lives of other believers. Religious authority gives the right not only to discuss matters relating to religion, but relating to everything over which religion has some say, such as marriage, divorce, death, upbringing of children, and so on. In the words of Hilary Kalmbach, “In many contexts worldwide, the influence of Muslim religious leaders and their teachings spreads beyond the religious arena and impacts upon social, political, and economic activities […]” (2012, 2). The traditional authority of knowledge production in Islam belongs to the ’alim (the ulama in plural), which comes from the root ’ilm, meaning to know, learn, and to teach (Kalmbach 2012). As Islamic scholarship developed, the ulama developed their own ways and institutions for knowledge production, transmission, assessment, analysis, and application of their scholarship (Kalmbach 2012). It is important to understand that Islamic scholarship and the work of the ulama is not static and is always in the process of development and change. The authority of the ulama accordingly is also subject to change, depending on their networks, their outreach, and the general idea that their scholarship answers to the needs and expectations of the people who engage with it. Authority has been the subject of many studies: its fluctuation among Muslim populations in the West (Cesari 1994, 1998); the decline of traditional Islamic institutions and authority figures (Geaves 1996; Jonker 2003); the influence of migration on the emergence of “critical Islam” (Mandaville 2001; 2003); and the re-articulation of a more authentic Islam (Deeb 2006; Soares and Osella 2009), as opposed to the cultural Islam of the parents (Fadil 2017). While questions of the emergence of individualized Islam and fluctuating authority prevail, Schirin Amir-Moazami and Armando Salvatore (2003) trace these developments back to the reformist discourse of the nineteenth century. According to their observations, what is experienced is not an individualization, but “the transformation of tradition through internal interventions” (AmirMoazami and Salvatore 2003, 53). The authors borrow the concept

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of tradition from MacIntyre (1981) and Asad (1993), defined as the “search for coherence.” From this perspective, tradition is by no means a synonym of reason or the binary of “conflict or crises” (MacIntyre 1981; Asad 1993). It is a continuum that continues “a not-yet completed narrative” and confronts “the future whose determinate and determinable character, so far as it possesses any, derives from the past” (MacIntyre 1981, 223). Taking off from this point, Amir-Moazami and Salvatore assert that traditions as a search for coherence are “a force that produces an impetus to self-reform. […] if fragmentation occurs […] it is also because traditions, i.e. their discourses and their institutions, as well as the practices they authorize, have been exposed to permanent internal interventions, and this for quite a while, not only in the modern (or supposedly post-modern) eras, but since their inceptions. However, these interventions must be authorized in some way, and the procedures of authorization are subject to ever deeper changes, variously related to social structural fields and dimensions” (2003, 55). There is a general acknowledgment among scholars that there has been a shift in Islamic leadership and authority due to political and social changes among other reasons. The abolishment of the caliphate with the end of the Ottoman Empire, and with that the decrees in traditional Islamic institutions, along with migration of Muslim populations have led to a de-centralization of knowledge production. All these developments, along with the development of media technologies, have not only made it possible for non-ulama to take part in the production and dissemination of knowledge but also for ordinary people to consume that knowledge and take part in the discussions. This socalled “democratization” of religious authority has also turned out to be more inclusive of Muslim women. These are important developments all implicating one another, changing historical power relations as “interpretative authority no longer rests in the hands of religious scholars alone. More people are now familiar with and have knowledge of Islamic arguments and practices. Interpretative authority has shifted to among other, national legislatures and specialized committees” (Dessing 2012, 227). The volume of scholarship being produced and published also gave way to an individual search for authentic knowledge, and best-fitting knowledge for the individuals’ needs.

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Scholars have traced how this individualistic pursuit of knowledge has led to an objectification (Eickelman and Piscatori) or authentication (Deeb) of knowledge. These processes point to a trajectory of conscious self-reflection and a critical perspective on tradition and Islamic knowledge. While critical reflection is not a new phenomenon in the Islamic tradition, it is interesting to observe how social and political developments, the increase of knowledge sources, and their dissemination have allowed for the lay Muslims to practice this in larger numbers. Women have historically been at the periphery of this system, as they have not had a presence in mosques and madrasahs (Islamic schools), or assumed positions of producing knowledge and claiming authority. The world of ijtihad (religious interpretation) and fiqh (law-making) has been an exclusively male endeavor. However, for the last five decades Muslim women have increasingly taken up space within mosques and Islamic institutions, and have being engaging in the services offered by the spaces, and moreover services that have been tailored exclusively for women (Amir-Moazami and Joullie 2006). Female scholars have also started to argue the necessity of female input to ijtihad , fiqh, and other traditional Islamic sciences (Dessing 2012). One of the biggest reasons for this is that men simply cannot be authorities for all aspects of women’s lives, since most Islamic practices are gendered (Bleisch Bouzar). My interlocutors do not seek to produce knowledge of their own. Their sohbet groups are not designed to question the gendered nature of Islamic knowledge that has been rigorously questioned and criticized by other female Islamic scholars and female Islamic discussion groups (Amina Wadud; Asma Barlas; Leyla Ahmad). In all of the sohbet sessions that I attended, the women followed already existing scholarship produced in the format of text and video-sermons. These religious sources are all produced by men who were educated by classical Islamic institutions or have theology degrees from modern universities. The pious women accept these texts as having authority of knowledge. The sohbet is designed to critically engage with these texts and find a way to make sense of them in modern life. They are really sessions of deliberation and contemplation in trying to make knowledge work in real life. Of course, issues of womanhood, motherhood, and piety come up during these discussions, but the aim is not to question the validity

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of knowledge in the face of these issues, but how to question the context and the capabilities of the self to make what is known lived. In light of our discussions, the main question that came up—often posed by me— is: what about gender? Do you find that these sources answer your needs as women? There are two sides to the answers I received to these questions. The first is that yes, these sources are enough from them to consume and live fulfilling lives as pious women. My interlocutors are not in that place where they feel they need to question gendered knowledge, gendered volunteering, or the gender roles that embed their lives. This does not mean that they are not aware that they live in a gendered world, but the sohbet teachings are more of a space for discussion on how they can reflect on religious teachings through the prism of their own life instead of looking for ways to reinterpret already existing teachings. Their aim is not to deconstruct already existing interpretations of Islam but to find ways in which they can live by religion as Muslim women in the modern world. This is not unusual for Muslim women and their circles of knowledge (Dessing 2012). The women seek spiritual renewal in these gatherings, where they talk of the lives of the prophets, their virtues, and general ethical conduct. Having these weekly meetings boosts their spiritual mood, gives them inspiration to be mindful of piety for the coming days until the next sohbet, and seek guidance with general issues they face at home, at work, or in their social life. It is true that there is always one leading figure among the women who is often more eloquent in speaking, and more knowledgeable on the texts they consume. She is the one who conducts the sohbet and tries to explain the different teachings that are covered in the sources. These leading figures are authorities in the sense that the other women accept them as the person who conducts the sohbet and organizes most of the volunteering. However, they are mostly not educated in Islamic theology, which means that they do not have authority in the classical sense of being able to do ijtihad independently from the male scholars they follow. My interlocutors do not see this as a ‘gendered’ problematic, because the male sohbet groups within the volunteering scene work in the same way. Their group leaders are eloquent speakers who take on the duty of

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reading and explaining the texts, but they do not have the authority to do ijtihad . Some sohbet teachers, with whom I spend the most time, come from completely different backgrounds. Elif has a degree in economics, while Sumeyye has a degree in management, and Fatima is a teacher of French by training. Neither the women nor the men have the authority to produce knowledge, but only to disseminate it. Both the female and male groups still strictly follow classical Islamic scholars from Turkey and around the world, such as Said Nursi, Al-Bukhari, and Al-Ghazali. They also read the texts of current (Turkish) theologians, who produce work on ethics, biographies of prophets, and catechisms. This being said, we should also understand that the male fraction of the volunteers still takes up a larger proportion of the decision-making positions. Although women have authority, they do not have autonomy, and they still have to run all their decisions past their male peers. They refer to this as isti¸sare among themselves, which literally translates as consultation. But isti¸sare is different from merely consulting, as it is also a process of getting the “okay” from the male sohbet teachers to carry out an activity, organize an event, or even pick a sohbet theme. This is the core of the groups, as no one can do anything to do with volunteering or the sohbet without doing isti¸sare first. It is the first—and one of the most essential—steps in volunteering and being part of their volunteering group: consulting with others and the sohbet teachers before making a decision. My interlocutors express that there a few reasons for this. First, it is less probable you will make a big mistake in judgment if you consult with your peers before you take a step. This is especially important in their case, since most of their events are public and they need to be constantly aware of public expectations and propriety. Second, being a volunteer is committing to a common cause and purpose, and since they consume the same Islamic sources of knowledge and discuss them in groups, they mostly have the same idea of piety and of being a good Muslim. There is something about being a volunteer that creates a common identity and culture (way of life), which we will elaborate on in the coming section. In-group consultation allows for this common identity to be re-inforced with every event and activity. It is important then that individuals act in accordance with the permission and blessing from their peers instead of going about volunteering without consensus.

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Third, isti¸sare allows for authority to be strengthened. There is a general acceptance that if the sohbet teacher (man or woman) does not accept an idea or feels that it should be revised, it is not the right decision. Interestingly, if the female and male teacher differ on opinions, the issue is discussed among the men. This signifies that there is still a gendered power-balance among the volunteers, and that although the women have authority, they are not leaders and do not have full autonomy. While the isti¸sare is mainly carried out for volunteering purposes, it is not uncommon for individual volunteers to seek guidance and opinion from the sohbet teachers for their personal issues. In this case, I have not seen the female sohbet teachers consult their male peers for assistance with issues they find difficult; the women try to handle these among themselves. If a sohbet teacher cannot find an answer for a personal problem, she consults other female sohbet teachers. I was denied access to a sohbet group for exactly this reason. It was the group made up of female teachers, and although I asked them a couple of times if I could attend their sohbet, I was denied. “It is because we do a lot of isti¸sare with this group,” their teacher told me, “and a lot of personal issues also relating to teaching are discussed. The women just do not feel comfortable in having a yabanci (stranger/outsider) among them.” I could not do anything but accept. The isti¸sare is very private— I could say the most private of all affairs having to do with volunteering. No one can share isti¸sare matters outside their group without the group’s consent. If there is an isti¸sare going on among groups or among the men and women, these are also private matters and cannot be shared among others who are not directly implicated in these matters. Since it is such a private consultation, I will not share the content of the isti¸sare that I was granted access to, but I can say that the topics ranged from marriage, child-upbringing, education, issues pertaining to the headscarf (wearing/taking off ), and general matters about the kind of volunteering that should be carried out in the future. Coming back to the initial quote from Sema, the kind of knowledge that is articulated within the sohbet groups and the decisions made in the isti¸sare are intertwined in a contemporary reading of classical knowledge without completely disregarding the validity of the knowledge. Although the women have their own spheres of exchange, this is

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not a journey of producing knowledge from a female perspective. There are, however, interesting developments with regards to a contemporary reading of classical knowledge and what that implies in a gendered experience of piety. The example came again from our discussion with Sema: “There has been some change since you left (the field). Now, for example, I hear these really conservative brothers talk about how dressing notconservatively is not about piety but about culture. I find that really interesting. In a sense, for these men who always talked about the headscarf as obligatory—and even if you didn’t use the headscarf you needed to dress modestly—are now talking about non-modest fashion as an issue of culture and not religion.” This is an example of the kind of change we were talking about in the sohbet. Even when I was doing fieldwork some years ago, the headscarf was not seen as the ultimate sign of piety, but dressing modestly was very important for the volunteers. I did not know one sohbet teacher who did not use the headscarf, although like I said, it was not obligatory. Now to know that there is big shift in discourse is very significant. Although I should note that the way they frame it is also interesting; none of the volunteers talks about the headscarf as insignificant, but they talk about immodest dressing as something cultural and not to do with piety. They still refrain from trying to reinterpret the religious value of the headscarf. This may seem very slight but it deserves attention because it emphasizes Sema’s point that religious knowledge is still very much gendered. She also had an interesting theory about this rethinking of Muslim women’s dress: “You know, I first felt, ‘Wow, these people are really changing; this is so good.’ It felt so inclusive, and then I realized yes but these people’s daughters are either unveiling or not veiling at all. Of course, they need some sort of self-protection mechanism. They thought that with all the religious knowledge they’re giving to their children that this would not be an issue, but the youth is not like that. They are not so willing to take on the veil or even dress modestly. So yes, there is a change but this is more to do with personal reasons than actual change in the kind of knowledge we consume.” I would not argue against it here that personal experience does indeed inform the way in which we construct our knowledge. Indeed, the personal is very much implicated in how we understand the world

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around us and our phenomenological experiences. It may be Sema’s hope that things are changing, that the way they understand piety will change with the changes in their lives. It may be her hope that such a tangential change may turn out to be more substantial. This brings me to my next point, which is what kind of autonomy does this relationship that is embedded in authority and transpires in a sort of familial relationship through sisterhood offer? If we are to explore this sisterhood through the questions of liberal-secular feminism, what kind of empowerment can we talk about, if we are to talk about it at all?

Entering the Volunteering Scene For all of my respondents, entering the volunteering scene follows a very similar trajectory that involves the gradual growth into a set of prescriptions and practices. They all have similar stories of how they were introduced to volunteering, to the sohbet meetings, and gradually became a volunteer. Becoming a volunteer is complicated in the sense that not everyone in the volunteering scene identifies as a proper volunteer, unless they feel completely integrated into the epistemological and practical underpinnings of volunteering. Although I only met a handful of women who did not consider themselves proper volunteers but attended the events because they just wanted to socialize, or were not part of volunteering but sympathized with the cause, I noticed that they acknowledged that this was a community in itself. This is an explorative section and my interest is in unfolding how an individual enters the volunteering scene and how this process pertains to the performance of physical conduct and verbal expressions. Several scholars from different interdisciplinary approaches have engaged with performativity as a concept. According to Erving Goffman (1959), the social context within which beliefs are performed, and the kind of beliefs that are expressed, shapes the individuals’ identities in turn. He adds that performances are “socialized and idealized” in regards to social expectations and societal values (Goffman 1959, 36–51). Austin studies the performative to explain how language sometimes has the effect of “doing something” rather than just “conveying something” (Austin

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1962). Butler takes it a step further and describes a function and purpose to performativity, wherein embodied performance ascertains an identity “through repetition, regulation and normative adherence” (Butler 1990). This description pertains to how gender is constructed through repetitive embodied performances with regards to discourses of femininity or masculinity (Butler 1990). Adding to these descriptions, performativity is not only an expression of piety but also shapes pious dispositions to “produce socially specific identities” (Day 2010, 17–18). I lean on the work of Abby Day, as she suggests “the social context in which beliefs are performed will influence what beliefs are expressed and identities are shaped” (Day 2010, 18). Day uses this framework to suggest that […] non-religious people sometimes claim a religious affiliation to demonstrate their ‘believing in belonging’ to certain self-perceived family or ‘ethnic’ social groups. That demonstration of belonging can […] be read as a performance that occurs in other specific social situations, arises from social relationships and results in socially mediated behaviors. (2010, 19)

Quintessentially, she explains that even in cases where there is an absence of belief, certain performances (i.e. attending Christmas dinner, a funeral/wedding in a church) can create a feeling of belonging towards a specific belief system. Day elaborates on how belief is a collective, political experience that is designed according to claims of “desired identity” (Day 2010). In this sense, belief is fashioned according to identity and social context, in a way of creating an ‘I’ in conversation with ‘you’ in a given context (Day 2010). She reflects on how such performative belief enables people to adjust to “social contexts, expectations and aspirations” (Day 2010, 26). Day’s work is a discussion on how non-religious individuals cultivate a sense of belonging to a religion (in her case Christianity) without actually believing in the theological underpinnings of that religion. It is society’s practices of celebration and commemoration that can integrate a non-believing individual within a faith community. In the case of the volunteers, they identify themselves as part of the Islamic epistemological tradition and praxis. Believing and belonging cannot be

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separated for them, as an emotional and practical commitment to a religious tradition requires a strong iman (faith). Performativity, in this case, is also an ethical endeavor, where the aim is complete self-transformation (see Mahmood 2005). However, similar to Day’s analysis the volunteers’ physical and linguistic performances demonstrate how they engage with piety in relation to their community. It informs a type of piety that is strongly imbricated in feelings of belonging to a pious community (of volunteers). This belonging creates a character that my respondents aspire to be. This character is constituted by the expectations and aspirations that Day argues are articulated by the social (in this case it is articulated by the volunteering community). Following the trajectory of how my respondents grow into the character of volunteer allows us to unfold how that sense of belonging evolves together with a corporeal devotion. I will describe how this process of entering the volunteering scene evolves in order to illustrate the trajectory explained above. Most of my respondents tell me how they were attracted to volunteering when they first got to know the other participants in the events. It is an initiation where they first get an idea of the content and style of the events and the people involved. It is after this initiation that, if the individuals would like to participate in volunteering, another senior volunteer includes them in other events, which are usually more leisurely. These may consist of day trips, or coffee/tea nights, or culture nights, where the aim is usually to have fun and get to know each other. As the individual gradually gets to know the setting and actors, and they receive minor responsibilities in the events, they usually get to know the religious epistemology behind the motivation of volunteering. It is no secret that most volunteers are Muslim, pious, and practicing, as the senior volunteers do not hide this fact. This fact is also very explicit in their choice of vocabulary, in that they refer to God’s consent and giving for God’s approval throughout the organization process. This may change according to the setting, as in spheres that are more open to the public they may tune down the religious speech, for example, when they organize something in the EP or in partnership with other non-Muslim associations. Nevertheless, the notion that religion is a driving force for the women is very much prevalent.

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My respondents tell me how they then are invited to sohbet meetings and become part of the pious circle. It is after this second initiation that the individual gradually develops into an identity. While volunteering itself as a practice is important for the cultivation of piety, knowledge is even more important. Hence, a person cannot be fully integrated into the volunteering scene without consistently following a specific sohbet group. I have been told repeatedly that without such sohbet attendance there is really not much that separates their volunteering from other types of neoliberal-secular volunteering. It is the sohbet that nourishes their soul, I have been told; it spiritually renews them. The knowledge articulated in these circles is a prescription of how they should relate to volunteering as subjects of God. The many different notions that altogether constitute pious volunteering, and that make up the different sections of this book, are discussed in these meetings. We can say that it is the heart of volunteering, but it is also a space where the volunteer can reflect on their conduct, measure their actions against the knowledge and discussions that are central to the meetings, and also with the narratives of the fellow sisters. This is a form of selfreflection, wherein they can assess how well they have been able to live up to being a volunteer. Sharing such personal experiences in conversation with a common religious discourse sets the stakes for the actors, in that it creates a common standard of who a volunteer is and how they should fashion their daily conduct, interactions, emotions, and even ibada. It is because of this that another volunteer is quite identifiable to the others, even though they may not know them personally. As Fatima once told me, “It is like a common culture, like being related.” She was trying to explain what she felt when she met another volunteer from the same community, when she was on a trip from Belgium to Mexico. Even the kilometers separating them could not erode that feeling of commonality. As the individual has a well-defined idea of how a fellow volunteer would embody their knowledge and critical engagement articulated in the sohbet, their perception of the others is a reflection of this expectation; being able to identify the common strains of behavior gives them an idea of how far the other has matured into volunteering. As in the case of Fatima, she was immediately able to connect with the Mexican volunteer, based on common performances. This example is also relevant to how

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they locate their selves in the picture. I have observed during my time attending the sohbet meetings that the majority of women have an idea of where they stand in the volunteering scene, based on how well they have been able to discipline their corporeality. Interestingly, this awareness is shared, in that the others also have a vision of the individuals’ capacities. This has a great effect on how much responsibility is given to them, or how much responsibility they may want to take. My respondents all told me stories of how they were first given minor responsibilities that grew over time, and this indicated how well they have grown into character, whereas if there is a discrepancy experienced with a volunteer, their responsibilities are reduced until they feel comfortable with the aspired character and responsibilities. Fatima once again represents an interesting case. She first attended the sohbet meetings just because she was the teacher’s chauffeur. “Yeah, my husband was into all of this before I was, and I was really skeptical. So one day this (sohbet ) teacher calls, asking me if I could give her a lift to a sohbet. Somehow I couldn’t say no, and I took her. I attended the sohbet and got so much out of it. Then she asked me if I could drive her to different sohbet gatherings. I said yes, and that was my duty in a way, to be her chauffeur. I attended all the sohbet lessons she did and was really immersed in all the things I learned. Then gradually after some years, I was a sohbet teacher myself.” This is a clear example of how knowledge and practice inextricably supported Fatima in her trajectory of embodying a character and becoming part of a specific scene. Others may have a completely different experience. Fidan, who is about the same age as Fatima and was introduced to volunteering via her parents, explained to me how as a teenager the sohbet lessons really spoke to her, but as she grew up and became more involved in the scene she could not handle the responsibilities, adding that, “It was not for me.” More closely, she did not feel compatible with the many different actors in the scene, and having to consistently commit to a prescribed way of being that was imbricated with the scene and actors. Ultimately she left volunteering, only attending a sohbet once in a while. However, she did add that she found the whole experience to be an indicator of her failure to perform.

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In contrast, my respondents were thoroughly convinced that the younger a person was introduced to such pious circles, the easier it would be for them to organize their praxis and their life according to this normative character. Moreover, they expressed a genuine contention that volunteering and the sohbet circles provided the most compatible form of piety for Muslim youth; they believed its performance did not limit their unique personalities and other physical ways of self-expression. Returning to Fatma, she recalled a memory of her first impression of young volunteers: “We were sitting in a hotel lobby… it was a holiday. A group of young kids entered the hotel. They were like hippies, long hair, unruly beards, earrings… I didn’t think of them positively; you know… but then I found out that those boys were looking for a masjid to pray in. I was shocked… in my circle the youth don’t pray, it is even seen as weird, like in an ‘are you a hoca now?’ kind of way.” This was Fatma describing herself, before she was introduced to her pious circle of volunteers. She described to me how piety meant something impractical, something that only old people did, before she was introduced to the concept of giving. “What I found with volunteering was that religion is applicable to life, it is practical… like those kids, you can be youthful and a proper Muslim.” The boys she saw in the hotel lobby somehow deconstructed the formal image of the pious Muslim that constituted her image of piety. The old Muslim, who was already detached from daily life, could perform piety; in her opinion, the hippy with a beard and long hair did not match that image. She continued with her story: “What I like about volunteering circles—and you know volunteering is not just giving, there is also an intense religious education—is that they really pay attention to the youth (and women). I grew up within a family that is affiliated with the Diyanet, and even with them, I couldn’t find that sensitivity to the youth. I mean, you know how it is in Turkish culture. The young are seen as cahil (ignorant), they don’t know anything, they cannot be consulted, their opinions don’t matter, and no one really listens to them. Even their ibada does not matter. But what I saw with the volunteers is that they take pains in integrating the youth to their events, activities, and lessons. I find that so attractive, even for my kids now. I can tell them yes you can graduate and obtain your diplomas, but what matters the most for me is that you become decent

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people, you use those diplomas and knowledge for God, to help people. And they have an example in front of them… all those older volunteers.” Fatma’s position here is that volunteering acculturates people, especially the youth, towards a certain way of life that embraces both the necessities of everyday life and religious practicality. In a sense, a subject need not be detached from life to become pious. Thus, the youth can easily be part of that scene, because they can create a meaningful way of life within the moral and social structures that already inform their subjectivity. Moreover, not being introduced to the volunteering scene at an earlier point in their life is regretfully recounted by some of my interlocutors. One of these women was Nuray, who only encountered the volunteering organizations later in her life, in her early thirties. Although she was still quite young, Nuray expressed how she wished she could have met the volunteers when she was still a Bachelor’s student at the ULB’s engineering faculty: “I was an observant girl, even when I was younger. I would pray, fast, donate to charity… The only difference then was that I wasn’t with a headscarf, but still… I mean there was something missing in the other (social) dimensions of my piety. I knew things but I didn’t know how to convey what I knew… I knew how to give but I didn’t know we could ask (others) to give. There were so many volunteers at that time. I know some of the associations existed back then, but no one introduced me to them… I wonder why they didn’t. I mean, didn’t anyone think of inviting me? I was also a student back then… I wonder why.” Similar to Fatma, Nuray complains of how the social aspect of her piety was missing, as it was just a personal trajectory for her. She identifies not being part of the volunteering scene as a direct cause for her late commencement of a life of ‘proper’ Islam, and maybe even a failure on the part of the volunteers to introduce her. As a student, and what is more as a pious student, she saw herself as naturally suitable for an introduction to that scene, and it still confuses her as to why it never happened. Esra told me several times, “I’m sure your other respondents have much more important things to say than me.” What she meant was that

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since she was introduced to volunteering late in her life (in her late twenties/early thirties, which is considerably older than most volunteers, who are introduced in their teenage years), she simply had not internalized her role of volunteer. She often expressed her surprise that I even interviewed her, as there were much more “typical sisters” that I could talk to. Indeed, with her platinum blonde hair, tiny skirts, and leather trousers, Esra is one of my most “out-of-character” respondents, who nevertheless genuinely labors in the associations. Succinctly, being a pious volunteer is constructed through multifarious praxis. The individual performs a role according to expectations and norms, aspiring to become. My interlocutors conceptualize this as the second self, a version of the self that ameliorates any other version and is disciplined to labor for God. In the next section, I turn to the second self.

Working on the Second Self “Had I not volunteered, I would be a completely different person,” is something I heard many times from my interlocutors. In our last discussion with Asli, she added, “The Asli you see now was created by those people.” Asli is a volunteer living in Antwerp, whom I had the chance to meet in the summer of 2016. She was in a somewhat troubled period then because no one in her family (including her husband) was supporting her volunteering, and she had just started using the headscarf, of which nearly all her colleagues and her boss were critical, but during our conversion Asli explained to me how determined she was to stay the way she was, regardless of her family and work environment. She preferred her new life because it had been the outcome of a journey. It was not a decision she made overnight, but a long investment in what she believed was important; it was also the investment she received from her fellow volunteers. She strongly believed that she, as a person, was a product of the people around her. That product was the result of a lot of spiritual self-reflection and behavioral output on her part. She believed her transformation would have been impossible without the volunteers: “Being in such an environment affects you. It

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gives you support; you start understanding things you never did before. If I were not in this sphere, I would not have been able to do any of this myself, or been so spiritually affected. My husband doesn’t get it. It is not easy; no one around me has a life like this.” Interestingly, when I was with speaking with Asli, there was another volunteer present, Gulcan, who was also head of the association and had been volunteering for a much longer period. As Asli narrated her story, Gulcan added, “You know, when I first met Asli, she did not know anyone with faith or awareness. She really transformed during this period. She has become someone else. I am so proud of her.” Asli, who was not part of a religious family and had no religious friends, was introduced to the volunteering scene, after which she changed “completely,” as she describes it. The lack of awareness that Phil Cohen articulates is a point that both Asli and Gulcan identified as a problem in her former self. She would not have realized this with only the help of her family and previous friends. The presence of a sphere where there were people whose lives were shaped by both religious and social awareness informed Asli’s own spiritual transformation. “Becoming someone else,” as Gulcan described, can only be done with support and an environment of people who consume the same reservoir of epistemological sources. Thus starts the journey of creating the second self. Their epistemological position influences how they conceptualize proper Islam, but this notion is mediated through seeing its performance by fellow volunteers. Sight is a privileged sense in the Aristotelian and Platonic traditions, where it is preferred over the other senses and described as “the eye of the soul” and the “light of reason” (Wolfe 2009, 3). I do not argue that, for my interlocutors, self-cultivation depends on an empiric epistemology, shaped by a visual experience. Scholars of the phenomenological tradition have already argued against such Cartesian dualisms, in which the individual is associated with the mind and the “material world” (Csordas 1990, 7). In this tradition, reasoning is not founded upon how the mind infers the external world (Hirschkind 2001, 629). Especially in the work of Merleau-Ponty, such empirical dualisms are criticized, as he purports that perception begins with the body simply being in the world. Indeed, perception “ends in objects,” hence with the senses. Phenomenology

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aims to understand how perception is influenced by simply being in the world and “constitutes and is constituted by culture” (Merleau-Ponty 1962). By acknowledging that there is a “preobjective,” a being in the world before perception, we are allowed to understand how the subject’s presence transcends but is also “grounded in de facto situations” (Csordas 1990, 10). I agree with this argument, but I am also interested in how the second self shapes, and is shaped by, the awareness that the individual is informed by both transcendent knowledge and “de facto situations.” My interlocutors suggest that to be able to initiate a second self this awareness needs to be internalized by the subject. It is this awareness that sets Asli apart from her family and friends, and positions her closer to Gulcan. There is a discussion between Mahmood (2005) and Bourdieu (1990) that I find useful to explain here. The notion that a person comes to learn certain physical or emotional dispositions by modeling after others is coined “practical mimesis” by Bourdieu. He explains this as the process through which habitus is acquired, and it goes far beyond imitation (Bourdieu 1990). According to Bourdieu, this is not a conscious effort the individual shows to imitate a model; it is rather unconscious, and as he explains, “What is ‘learned by the body’ is not something that one has, like knowledge that can be brandished, but something that one is” (Bourdieu 1990, 73). Mahmood criticizes this position in that he glosses over the “pedagogical process” through which the habitus is learned, and which situates the actor in the middle of a deterministic explanation (Mahmood 2005). Instead, she turns to the concept of malaka, relying on Lapidus’s explanation of the word in his engagement with several Muslim scholars (Mahmood 2005; see Lapidus 1984). Malaka is described by Lapidus as “that inner quality developed as a result of outer practice which makes practice a perfect ability of the soul of the actor” (1984, 54). According to Lapidus, malaka is the acquisition, from the belief of the heart and the resulting actions, of a quality that has complete control over the heart so that it commands the action of the limbs and makes every activity take place in submissiveness to it to the point that all actions, eventually, become subservient to this affirmation of faith. This is the highest degree of faith. It is perfect faith

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(1984, 54). The body in this conceptualization is a ‘tool’ in cultivating a certain type of self and attaining capacities. (Asad 1993)

This is where Mahmood has an elaborate conversation with other anthropologists like Turner (1969), Bloch (1975), and Tambiah (1985) on ritual as an entity that is separate from spontaneous and ‘natural’ or genuine ways of being (Mahmood 2001). She critically engages with this line of thinking that suggests ritual as a space where spontaneity comes to be controlled (2001). Mahmood makes the observation that “[…] the set of ethical capacities entailed in the task of realizing piety in the entirety of one’s life […] was not a space conceptually detached from the daily tasks of routine living” (2001, 828). This observation situates ritual as a category of complete conventionality and the rest of life as an entity of spontaneity, instead looking at how spontaneity and conventionality come to be articulated through bodily and emotional capacities in different contexts. This point is important to comprehend when we talk about malaka not only as a categorical disposition but as an ethical becoming that is inextricably tied to different contexts of daily life. It is at this point that I enter the discussion, and suggest that what my respondents refer to as the second self is this pedagogical process, where they attain certain malaka by cultivating sets of physical, mental, and emotional capacities. I add that these capacities not only indicate that pious practices are not detached from routine living, but that they also act on those mundane categories of everyday life, incorporating them into the piety project. What I observe here is that the awareness I mentioned above is transformative for the individual, in that they not only work on their self to acquire malaka, but actively embody different mundane capabilities to enhance their malaka. I did not invent the concept of the second self. It was first expressed by my respondent, Meral, during an event. Preparing for the event required Meral to spend a great deal of time away from her household duties. Apparently, her husband was filling in for her, and she expressed that within the Turkish community, this is impossible to understand. They were actually keeping it secret from her mother-in-law. “Well, you know,” added Meral. “Proper Islam gives you a second character.” With

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this, she did not mean that Islam endowed people with different characters, but that actually it gave way to a self-transformation that created a second self, a second start at life as a different person. My interlocutors refer to how being with people knowledgeable about Islam, and who were effective at living Islam “according to the age,” also influenced their own family dynamics and how they related to their family, friends, and acquaintances. Having followed women, I found that most of my respondents see the most effective changes in how their families unpacked women’s familial roles. Tuba describes how her husband changed his perspective of her as a woman after he was introduced to the volunteering scene: “My husband accepts the Muslim woman is free, but of course with their own moral limitations. He would allow anything I wanted to do, as long as it is volunteering. I think this makes our marriage stronger.” Like Tuba, a lot of my interlocutors express how “damaged families are healed” with people’s introduction to the volunteering scene. I never personally spoke to a woman who expressed a drastic deterioration in their family dynamics after volunteering. For that matter, most of the women I did follow had actually met their partners through the volunteering scene. However, there was the strong internal belief that people who volunteer (especially men) somehow have a more equal outlook on marriage, and are more caring and understanding towards their family members. As Tuba expressed to me so vehemently, their family dynamics changed because each of them changed as a person. What my interlocutors are saying is not that they reinterpret gender roles according to a different reading of the Islamic tradition, but they have cultivated a proper approach to those gender roles (albeit with the help of fellow sisters/brothers), and embody those roles more effectively. The family seems to be where this change is pre-emptively experienced. Moreover, the second self is perfected not only in their familial relationships. It seems that it literally includes transforming personal abilities and skills. They often told me that a pious person needs to have skills to use for labor—for God, of course. It was during an event that I had the chance to discern this phenomenon more carefully. In May 2014, I attended a kermes organization in one of the associations, which gave me a perspective on how volunteering is not only about cultivating a better

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ethical self, but also cultivating the stronger characteristics of the self to utilize them for ethical purposes. It can be argued that this is exactly what cultivating the ethical self is, however, I would like to explore how these techniques involve the women’s continuous search for different skills— often menial and sometimes professional—to optimally utilize in creative ways to contribute to the different needs of volunteering. I will explore this issue by unpacking the case of kermes. A kermes, in its simplest definition, refers to a charity sale. It is an activity that can last a day or longer, where volunteers sell items like food, clothes, accessories, books, and so on. The food is usually prepared by the volunteers themselves, and most of the time so are the accessories. The books, which are usually religious in content, are donated by a local bookstore, and the clothes are generally donations, too. Since the association has a large hall with a fully equipped kitchen, the volunteers can set up tables and units where they can display and sell their items. The room still has enough space for chairs and tables for the people who would like to sit and enjoy the food. Usually the children have a separate space with a nanny, who plays with them and ensures that the mothers have some space and time for socializing and volunteering. The kermes has a long tradition in the associations, as it is the simplest and most effective way of raising immediate money that is often used to finance other events or for more practical reasons like paying the rent of the buildings. But it is also an event where the volunteers can equally contribute and collectively participate, both for a practical aim and also as a group that has a common aim. It is usually during festive days that the associations try to organize these kermes events, so as to achieve maximum participation, both on the volunteer’s part and on the part of the target audience. My interlocutors would enjoy telling me how they organized a kermes on the “Brussels car-free day,” and even the mayor attended the event while he was walking with his family. Apparently, that day they managed to make a record amount of money. The level of organizational labor that went into organizing the event initially surprised me. In Elif ’s sohbet, when she first mentioned that they would be organizing a kermes, I thought it would just be another event where the volunteers would come in the morning, bringing some items, and take it from there. I was very mistaken apparently, as it took three

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to four weeks for the women to diligently create a list of things to be done, assign tasks individually, make sure that the proper materials were procured, and to display the items. Not one detail was left to chance, as I observed in each of my different sohbet groups. The tasks were assigned so that each volunteer had a duty to carry out in an area where they felt comfortable and were able to realize their goals. Tuba came up with the idea to order cheap, plain small notebooks from the internet from somewhere in China. She would design them and sell them as recipe notebooks. In one of the meetings, she elaborated on her idea, aiming to convince the others of its brilliance. Tuba pulled out a small red notebook, a bit of lace, and a wooden spoon. “Okay, so these are our materials… very basic, you can see, nothing expensive… I will buy these separately and make a design so we can create our own recipe books… Buy it for your daughter and keep a dying tradition alive! How is that for a marketing slogan?” she added, laughing. “And are you sure you can make this happen for a reasonable price? Because you know the aim is to have made surplus money after the kermes…” Elif asked. “Yes, so I order the notebooks from the internet, and they are really cheap. I will search for the design materials and will try to find the cheapest but prettiest items—in Brussels, inshallah. But I also need help from a couple of you, so you know we can get them ready on time.” They decided that the plan was feasible and, with help, Tuba could design these recipe notebooks. It was then that Elif said her mother, who is an amateur seamstress, would make small kitchen towels designed as kitchen aprons. They thought it would be a “lovely, cute” item that would attract attention and most definitely sell. In the next few weeks, the volunteers were all set to carry out their plans, and I followed them around looking for lace, beads, colorful pens, and other design objects. But it was a day before the kermes, when I was in the association waiting for Tuba, that I gradually observed how the volunteers actually imbued these apparently amateur endeavors with discipline, investment, labor, and skills. Tuba, who was also supposed to make five different cakes, had arrived a day earlier at the association to make the cakes and store them in the kitchen freezer, where they would be ready for the next day. I had agreed

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to ‘help’ Tuba with my limited knowledge of designing cakes; I would carry essentials to and fro. I noticed how all the cakes she made had a different flavor and design, and how easy she made it all look. I knew that Tuba, who is a doctor in cancer research by training, was known to be famous for her baked goods and her ability to design and organize events. I was also familiar with the fact that the other women rely on her to make the event look ‘classy’ and, hence, to make the items more ‘sellable.’ I asked her how it happened that she acquired these skills; maybe it was a natural gift? “I did not have the slightest interest in cooking and baking before volunteering. I was a PhD student working on cancer research; I never even had time to invest in such stuff, but then, you know, you become part of something and then the situation necessitates you doing some things, because if you don’t do it, then who will? So after I attended the sohbets and took an active part in the events, I learned how to bake colorful cakes and co-ordinate organizations… if there was a special event, I learned how to prepare the cocktail food and to decorate the rooms. You learn, you learn to develop yourself when you are in a situation where you actually have to.” I went further and asked her how this became a part of her life, and what motivated her to want to learn these new skills and contribute to the needs of the events. I wanted to know if there was more to it than money. “This is for a greater good,” she said. “I mean, we do this for God’s consent. It is not a personal hobby… We do it so God knows how much we tried… He knows the effort… It is invested…” Tuba’s emphasis that volunteering is “not just a hobby” is noteworthy. Volunteering is embraced by my interlocutors as an integral part of their lives. Emphasizing volunteering as not merely a hobby, but an investment, indicates it is not experienced as a “sporadic, temporary, and non-committal” practice (Hustinx and Lammertyn 2003, 168). It is a lifelong investment carried out for God’s consent, and the volunteer pursues new forms of labor in order to learn, develop, and carry out skills. Charles Hirschkind argues that religious traditions are grounded in “embodied capacities,” which he unpacks as “gestures, feeling, and

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speech” instead of complete disposition to doctrine. Likewise, my interlocutors identify their former position regarding a pious life as problematic. The voluntary scene initiates a state of awareness where they come in contact with embodied forms of the religious experience. This introduces a new kind of possibility, whereby they can take a position and actively engage in this new culture. The voluntary scene as a display of embodied morality brings the subject to a consciousness of their transcendent existence and the external realities, also allowing them to act upon them. It is the practice of acting upon that make my interlocutors believe their experience of piety to be distinct from that of the rest of the Muslim community. Nevertheless, these transformations do not always come easily; a second self is not always established. Nuray was telling me how happy she was that her husband had become part of the volunteering scene. They were experiencing some difficulties in their marriage. Although both of them were practicing Muslims at the time, she explained that her husband “still didn’t know how to behave like a mu’min should to other people.” This included herself. His transformation had not been magical, although he had been attending a sohbet for years, but she was still thankful. Being in a structure, as loose as it may be in a volunteering circle, where people are reminded of certain doctrines through other people’s embodiment of them, provided a glimpse into a world where it is possible. The consciousness of sharing a scene with people who embodied the morality she believed in created an undeniable feeling of trust, which is what I will turn to next.

Trust and Authority Volunteering is a way of life where the individual is expected to go through physical and emotional transformations in every part of their lifeworld to become ethically grounded, and ultimately different from how they started. The embodiment of a character, the second self as referred to by my interlocutors, ignites a sense of trust towards the actors who visibly perform that character. This trust is important in that it weaves bonds of respect, accountability, and authority. Trust, as described

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by Annette Baier (1986), consists of different varieties. Where there is no trust, there cannot be safety, and what is seen as dear can be harmed (Baier 1986, 231). Trust has been an important concept over time when studying social relationships. Jack Barbalet describes the difficulty of exactly defining the concept: Trust is variously defined in terms of the benefits it provides (cooperation, political cohesion, reliability, social order, etc.), or the dispositions of those who give trust (affective, calculative, moral, pragmatic, etc.), or the character of the relationship between the trusting and the putatively trustworthy (contractual, dependent, exploitative, reciprocal, etc.). Indeed, the importance of trust to social relationships and exchanges, and therefore its wide application and appeal, means that experience of it will be varied and that not only in common usage but in a large and growing specialist literature there will be multiple understandings of the term. (2006, 5)

In the case of the volunteers, trust manifests in multifarious experiences. The performance of religious praxis previously described is a manifestation of being a trustworthy person for the volunteers. This idea goes hand in hand with a general acknowledgment that volunteers, and people who work for their society, are generally more trustworthy (see Putnam 1993, 1995). While this may seem a very normative assertion, for the volunteers it is only natural that their volunteering asserted their goodness and dedication to do good. This disposition to do good, and the different ways in which they embodied the praxis that constitute this concept, not only reveals something about each individual volunteer, but also about how they regard their fellow volunteers as trustworthy. While it may seem common sense that they would feel trust towards other volunteers, as they define themselves in those terms, it is interesting to observe how this trust insinuates an idea of authority. Trustworthiness endows the individual with not only authority but also accountability, and authority is located not only in knowing but also in doing. Doing, in turn, informs the sense of trust in that they are observably performing according to the second character, discussed in the previous section. My interest is not in how trust is reflected through liberal and secular conceptions of civic engagement, community involvement, or social networks (Uslaner 2001, 1; see Putnam 1993;

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Brehm and Rahn 1997). Neither does it lie in the different forms of trust relationships that are established among my interlocutors. I acknowledge that the level of trust they feel towards their fellow volunteers fluctuates according to personal closeness, among other factors. But what I am interested in is how trust and authority inform one another in their relation to the performance of religious knowledge. This interest also pertains to how traditional forms of authority are fluctuating (Peter 2006), the declining role of mosques and classical Islamic institutions giving way to alternative ‘Islamic’ spaces (Cesari 1998; Jonker 2003; van Bruinessen 2003). We saw that rather than a formal institutional trajectory, my interlocutors illustrate ‘Islamic spaces’ as spaces where piety is performed, clearly converging knowing with doing. “Knowing is doing,” my respondents would often repeat. Even if a person’s knowledge may not be extensive, their duty is to incorporate that knowledge in their corporeal entity. Knowledge that is not practiced and cannot be observed is not considered learned, and what is more, it is not considered to be relevant in shaping the pious self. It is seen that if knowledge is in the mind and not inscribed on the body, it has little influence over strengthening the iman, and taqwa, or subduing the nafs. Moreover, the other volunteers had greater respect for actions as opposed to simple knowledge; doing gave a speaker authority. What I have observed is that after entering the volunteering scene, the ultimate level of a person’s accomplishment in the scene becomes explicit when they are asked to become sohbet teachers. The asking is done by other sohbet teachers, who have already attained a level of reliability due to their years of commitment to volunteering and sohbet teaching. This request is an indication that the individual has attained a certain level of knowledge; they are trusted to convey this knowledge and are truly devoted to the cause. It also means that they can be trusted to dedicate the necessary time and energy to their duties as sohbet teacher and volunteer. This point is important, as they need to be reliable and accessible. My respondents often expressed their amazement and admiration at how their teachers could wave off all worldly things when they were needed in the volunteering scene. Doing in this context is not only doing the ritual requirements of Islam, but, as we discussed in the previous section, incorporating the

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skills and labor required for being a volunteer. The ikhlas and ihsan that are required for the physical practice of rituals are strongly imbricated in seemingly mundane practices that are associated with volunteering and are strongly acknowledged to complement one another in shaping the pious self. The sohbet teacher, then, is respected as she who has indicated the ability, maturity, and responsibility to embody this notion. It is in this ability to do that my interlocutors locate authority within their scene. Michael Lambek (1993) elaborates on knowledge and practice. He asserts that knowledge is “an intrinsic part of the self ” that must be embodied (Lambek 1993, 5). Knowledge is not objective, it is personal and inextricable to the actions of the individual (1993, 5–6). Indeed, Lambek echoes the consideration that Islam is more of an orthopraxy than an orthodoxy, connoting that Muslims are often evaluated more on “how they act than what they know” (1990, 26). However, he also adds that the more a person knows, the more they are faced with the responsibility to act in line with their knowledge (Lambek 1990, 26). Consequently, knowledge is a major responsibility for the holder, which can only be evaluated by observing their conduct. Lambek illustrates this as a “paradox,” one where the more knowledge a person has, the more responsibility is projected onto them (1990, 26). Lambek makes this argument to challenge the idea that knowledge bestows the authority figure with unquestionable power. The idea that they are educated to read the texts and they are the bridge between the uneducated people and the religious sources seems to imply a certain amount of respectability and thus power. However, according to Lambek power is never unquestioned by the people, as the authority needs to explicitly embody their knowledge (1990). Likewise, the sohbet teachers and more senior volunteers are held in esteem for their knowledge, but this esteem is highly dependent on how the responsibility that comes with this knowledge is manifest in their conduct. This has several apparent reasons. First, as I discussed in the previous sections, volunteering is a praxis with multifarious implications that pertain to self -transformation. Authority necessitates that those individuals perform in a manner that shows the others this is not a pure aspirational endeavor and that it is possible to become. It is possible to embody the knowledge that is articulated in the

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sohbet meetings. Second, the sohbet teachers (and senior volunteers) are seen as guides. As unrealistic as it may seem, guides are expected to manifest perfection as much as they possibly can. I think the words of my respondent Fatima summarize this feeling quite well: “The sisters were like angels to me when I was first introduced.” Angels are sinless and pure, quite the opposite of what can be considered human. However, Fatima expresses how she idealized the volunteers and the impression she got from them that they could not possibly do anything wrong, at least intentionally. Needless to say, as she also gradually became a sohbet teacher, she realized that this was quite impossible, but her first impression always remained that these people represented goodness. Finally, my observations led me to the idea that it is this reliability, and the respect they have for each other, that keep these women together. The authority that comes from doing and embodying the ideal second character acts as a social glue. It provides the trust and accountability that keep the women invested in each specific group. Lambek (1990, 28) discerns that in the Mayotte community, authority is not located in the institutions (see also Gellner 1981), but “their position is grounded in the community” (Lambek 1990, 28). Similarly, the volunteers adhere to their own internal dynamics where the power of dealing with texts, conveying them to others, advising them, and co-ordinating their (volunteering) activities and evaluating their trajectory is trusted to those who have managed to engage with their knowledge on a corporeal level. Moreover, it is not necessarily the case that every sohbet teacher can speak to their group and satisfy them, although they are acknowledged by their fellows as accomplished sisters. I have also been part of some groups that fell apart after a few months, and the women decided not to follow them or show up (although they continued to volunteer). When I met them in other settings, I privately and individually asked them why this was and their answer was simply that they did not feel contented by the teacher’s level of knowledge or her ability to affect them towards the desire to change. We are confronted with a different perspective on fluctuating authority, where traditional institutions and actors are not replaced with reflexive individualization (Peter 2006), but a community dynamic that gives way to its own internal authority. Indeed, the individual is still

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an active agent of this process, actively deciding and choosing volunteering as the proper way of being Muslim. However, the reflexive process, whereby they rely on their community to engage with their pious trajectory, signifies a divergence from what is understood to be individualization and the disintegration of authority.

Conclusion This chapter is an explorative elaboration on how doing and knowing co-constitute one another in the pious trajectory. It unpacks how doing signifies more than just performing piety. It entails performing piety according to unwritten expectations and deliberations that are cultivated within the group. This phenomenon enhances not only the individual’s own ikhlas and iman, but also a common culture within the volunteering scene. The common culture is acknowledged through its bodily manifestations by the volunteers and is regarded as a second character, a character that does not come naturally but one that must be grown into by the women. Although this character is the embodiment of unwritten expectations and sartorial markers, it still creates a tangible understanding of how a proper Muslim should think, act, and talk. There are several phases the individual goes through before she truly establishes this character. First, they must commit to an epistemological reservoir and follow, with their fellow volunteering friends, a structured course of lessons. Second, they have to commit to embodying the knowledge they obtain from these lessons. This familiarity leads to a profound sense of trust among the volunteers, a sense of familiarity that is grounded in a common cause and commitment. More significantly, this trust is present not only among volunteers who are acquainted, but also among those who have very little personal contact. It seems that all the different dynamics I mentioned above imply a sort of trustworthiness, which is mostly taken for granted but is also rooted in how authority is located in seeing commitment in others. I observe that authority is not located in the classical Islamic

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institutions like imams and mosques (although respect for these institutions is still intact), but in the actual practice of doing or not doing what is learned. This kind of authority is different from the authority of the classical institutions; it is a type of authority that keeps the group together, organized, and efficient in their activities. It is also a type of authority that ensures the continuity of the group structure, the ability to effectively instigate change in others. Performing piety requires the volunteers to invest in what they can do and also what they cannot do. Being a sister requires them to pick up duties others cannot and to obtain skills to fulfill these duties. The group’s continuity depends on this joint commitment, and the more the women invest in new skills, the more their commitment to God (their ikhlas) is observable. This phenomenon is intrinsic to my interlocutors; it is what makes them a solid community; it is the making of a sister.

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Kalmbach, Hilary. “Introduction: Islamic authority and the study of female religious leaders.” In Women, leadership, and mosques, pp. 1–27. Brill, 2012. Lambek, Michael. “Certain knowledge, contestable authority: Power and practice on the Islamic periphery.” American Ethnologist 17, no. 1 (1990): 23–40. Lambek, Michael. Knowledge and practice in Mayotte: Local discourses of Islam, sorcery and spirit possession. University of Toronto Press, 1993. Lapidus, Ira M. Muslim cities in the later Middle Ages. Cambridge University Press Archive, 1984. MacIntyre, Alasdair. “The nature of the virtues.” Hastings Center Report 11, no. 2 (1981): 27–34. Mahmood, Saba. “Rehearsed spontaneity and the conventionality of ritual: Disciplines of S¸ alat.” American Ethnologist 28, no. 4 (2001): 827–853. Mahmood, Saba. “Politics of piety.” In The Islamic revival and the feminist subject, 2005. Mandaville, Peter. “Reimagining Islam in diaspora: The politics of mediated community.” Gazette (Leiden, Netherlands) 63, no. 2–3 (2001): 169–186. Mandaville, Peter G. Transnational Muslim politics: Reimagining the umma. Routledge, 2003. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of perception. Vol. 5. London and New York. Routledge, 1962, 15180. Peter, Frank. “Individualization and religious authority in Western European Islam.” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations 17, no. 1 (2006): 105–118. Putnam, Robert D. “The prosperous community.” The American Prospect 4, no. 13 (1993): 35–42. Putnam, Robert D. “Tuning in, tuning out: The strange disappearance of social capital in America.” PS: Political Science & Politics 28, no. 4 (1995): 664– 684. Roy, Olivier. “Naissance d’un islam européen.” Esprit (1940–) (1998): 10–35. Soares, Benjamin, and Filippo Osella. “Islam, politics, anthropology.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 15, no. s1 (2009). Tambiah, Stanley Jeyaraja. Culture, thought, and social action. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985. Tibi, Bassam. “Secularization and de-secularization in modern Islam.” Journal for the Study of Beliefs and Worldviews 1, no. 1 (2000): 95–117. Tietze, Nikola. “Managing borders: Muslim religiosity among young men in France and Germany.” In Muslim Traditions and modern techniques of power. Yearbook of the sociology of Islam, Vol. 3, pp. 293–306, 2001.

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Turner, Victor. “The ritual process.” In Structure and anti-structure. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1969. Uslaner, Eric M. “Volunteering and social capital: How trust and religion shape civic participation in the United States.” In Social capital and participation in everyday life, pp. 104–117, 2001. Van Bruinessen, M. “Sufism and the modern in Islam.” ISIM Newsletter 13 (2003): 1. Wolfe, Charles T. “Early modern epistemologies of the senses: From the nobility of sight to the materialism of touch.” University of Sydney (2009).

6 When Volunteering Touches the Experience of Time

“Creation is like writing. The ink and paper are zaman (time). Paper is the present, ink is the future. Time is the place where the pen of the almighty touches paper. Every moment is an act of writing. It flows like a river and time is loop, it flows from the future to the past and there again it touches the future.” We were sitting in one of the rooms of the association and no one was speaking. A few students were taking notes vigorously. I was one of them. My wrist was aching because I did not want to miss a word spoken by the teacher who was giving us a very in-depth reading of a somewhat Sufi book. For the first time in my fieldwork, we were a mix-gendered group and our teacher, Yunus, was male. Although he was supposed to follow a book, it seemed like he had already memorized it and in a very low voice and an almost trance-like state he was reciting it to us. I had never been to such a Sufi-like sohbet before, and although my interlocutors are not Sufi, there was definitely a Sufi tinge to our discussion. The teacher’s engagement with mystic teachings was a step forward in my understanding of the volunteers’ epistemological roots of their daily experiences. The issue of time in volunteering was already preoccupying me, as it was frequently referred to by my interlocutors, © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_6

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often in the context of mysticism but also in the context of professionalism and efficiency. But the subjective experience of time is usually hard to observe with the ‘anthropological eye’ and most of my conceptions of how they experience time relied on their personal anecdotes. It felt like I was on the brink of understanding their ontology of time through that one sohbet, because although my interlocutors are very much living and thinking within the modern paradigm, this is very much entangled in their personal spiritual tensions. The idea that time is a loop, coming from the future to the present and past was quite new for me and very difficult to understand. There is of course so much more to interpret in what the sohbet teacher said, in that creation is God’s act of writing—and where this leaves the individual will—that I do not have the knowledge to do myself. However, as I have said, the phenomenon of time resurfaced throughout the years together and prompted me to further explore what that meant for ethical subjectivation. I learned gradually that time was not merely an experience, spiritual or otherwise, but that it did something to the subject to the extent that they observed altered moments, and that this said something about their sense of God (latifeyi rabbaniye). Time is of essential importance for the volunteers, be it the many forms of the passing of time or the giving of time. While it may be complicated to construe the exact implications of the giving of time, it is of significance to the volunteers. Giving time is above any other form of material giving and makes it even more complicated to appreciate their volunteering as just another form of charity. Indeed, the time devoted to charity is invaluable for any volunteer, in that they allocate a part of their day for somebody else. However, as it has been argued repeatedly throughout this book, this becomes much more complicated when one of the receiving parties is God. Thus, the giving of time is convoluted by notions of spending time, wherein every fragment of time that is experienced is experienced as a gift to God, whether it is spent with that consciousness or not. More explicitly, time is not experienced as an arbitrary phenomenon, but as a canvas that needs to be worked upon diligently to honor the ultimate possessor of the canvas, who is God. Thus, it is not independent from the divine and certainly not a matter that can be left to the individual. Hence, understanding the experience of time in the case of the volunteers is a delicate endeavor

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that unearths how they structure their everyday temporal realities and the spaces that are vested in these temporalities. It is this realization that brought me to focus on time as a much more prominent theme than merely another possession that can be passed on to others.

Sacred Time Yunus describes time as God’s writing and the structure of time as a loop. This way of thinking about time is quite different from how we think time progresses in the modern paradigm, which is mainly linear. While different societies may have different frames of reference when it comes to time and its flow, for my interlocutors the sacredness of time is not de facto the way time works; instead, it transpires depending on how the subject acts in those moments. Nancy Munn (1992), in her seminal article, gives us an overview of how the phenomenon of time is studied within the anthropological literature. She regards time as an “infinite complexity” that has unfortunately received “insufficient theoretical attention” (Munn 1992, 93). Her argument is that temporality as a constructed socio-cultural process has not been theoretically examined in depth (Munn 1992, 93). My interlocutors construct time value in relation to both an orthodox Islamic tradition and universal and Western-calendric-established divisions. Tracing the studies on time in anthropology, we are confronted with debates of “temporal diversity and heterogeneity” (time as a flux ) as opposed to a more homogenous modern conception of time as linear and made up of units, such as minutes and hours. According to Durkheim, these categorical divisions are meant to make the perception of time more meaningful for social life. This notion is addressed as “social time” and is largely connected to activities that guide social life. Durkheim also touches upon “personal time” that is experienced by the “subjective consciousness.” It is different from social time in that in social time, cognitive perception is commonly shared by all. Personal time is, at its name suggests, the personal experience of time passing. For Durkheim, social time is of primary importance in human temporality. Time reflects

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the ‘rhythm’ of social life and categories, such as days and seasons, and engages with these rhythms. The functionalist approach of Malinowski also leans on the social dynamic of time. He suggests that time measures motion and “coordinates activities.” Evans-Pritchard’s (1951) “oecological time” identifies it as conveying “social activities” and the relation between those activities, insinuating that time is a process, instead of “static units or concepts functioning to reckon time.” Nature as the source for temporality has been debated by Rappaport, and he suggests that it is difficult to see nature as the founding source for time (1992, 10). He contends that while time is related to “natural processes” such as seasons, day and night, and other cycles, it is not actually constructed by these processes. Obviously, time cycles rely on nature; however, they are constructed by “materials” that are most often cultural (Rappaport 1992, 10). When Nancy Munn traces these developments, she frames them as the study of “time reckoning.” She explains this to be “the use of selected cultural categories, or contingent events [‘time indications’]” to “tell time”—to ask “when” something happened, will or should happen—and to “measure” duration; to ask “how long” something takes, or to “time” it (Munn 1992, 101). Time reckoning has a “reference point” or “axis of orientation,” as Munn calls it, where there is a “comportment towards time” (Munn 1992, 103). Edmund Leach suggests that for all humans it seems to be that there is a sense of “pace” in conceiving that some events have passed and some events are coming, while there is a distinguishable sense of some events being further in the past that others, and so on (Leach 1961). The construction of time is necessary, thus, in order to make sense of temporal experience (Rappaport 1992). Time is not detached from space, and the conceptualization of the spatiotemporal as acted upon by the subject has been a point of scrutiny. According to these studies, “people ongoingly produce both themselves as spatiotemporal beings and the space-time of the wider world” (Munn 1992, 106). Munn emphasizes that in most of these studies the actual role of the human agent is constructing time and space (see Giddens 1985). The main criticism towards Giddens is that his approach to time and space excludes the actor as making a meaningful relation between these entities through praxis. There is a concern that his views on the

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spatiotemporal lack “a vision of practices as ‘symbolic (meaning-forming) process whereby distanced events or relations become meaning horizons of an actor’s present’” (Munn 1992, 106). Other studies fail to capture the complexity that underlies our experience with time and its reflection on the future. Bourdieu (1964) draws a line that separates the conception of time in “traditional” and “modern” societies. He has a more agent-focused approach in his theory of time and space that is incorporated in practice. However, the line he draws eliminates any kind of complexity that needs to be discussed on this issue. He purports that the non-capitalist economies of traditional societies make it difficult to “foresee” any near future, whereas in capitalist societies the future is “calculable.” These societies are more future-oriented, making their present in conversation with the past and oriented with the future. The main issue that Munn identifies as a problem is that previous studies, including Marx, Weber, and Bourdieu, have a rather “totalizing” perception of time, fixing it to linearity, circularity, and “rules.” Thus, while this argument is still relevant, other anthropologists suggest that there is no “universal temporal sense guiding all humans through the durations of their lives at apparently similar rates” (Rappaport 1992, 10). My question is what happens when this rigid structure becomes questionable by the actor? I have briefly discussed some of the important literature on time, and how time has a social purpose, a functional dimension, or is closely imbricated in the patterns of how daily practices are constructed, and so on. I want to diverge from such macro studies of time and look deeper into how time is fragmented for the pious individual, in that it is a linear, calculable, tangible phenomenon, but at the same time, it is ambiguous and made to be what it is by how it is acted upon by the individual. Yes, time is as linear as it is in any modernsecular conception for my interlocutors, no doubt. But it is also in flux, not cyclical, but somewhat fluid, as it can be interrupted, expedited, or decelerated by the choice of how the individual imbues that piece of time with value. This value is inextricably linked to how they utilize time according to what it means to be a pious Muslim. The notion of piety and hence value as a tangible property is also embedded in more liberal conceptions of how time is meant to be efficiently constructed, not to be wasted, and made meaningful. However, in this case, these discourses

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reflect on practices that are based on orthodox desires to relate to time as a medium of connecting to God. In order to unpack this complex experience, I rely on the work of Roy Rappaport (1992, 1999) and how he studies time through the prism of ritual. Rituals, as explained by Rappaport, are an “order”; they are “formal” and “structural” performances, “[…] sequences of formal acts and utterances not encoded by the performers” (Rappaport 1992, 5). His conception of ritual is that they establish orders (moral, economical, natural etc.), and “coherent domains […] governed by common principles and rules” (Rappaport 1992, 7). I would like to pause and think through this explanation of ritual before I discuss how time plays into it. While here ritual presents a structured action that is very much distinguished from what may be appreciated as the mundane acts of life, the volunteers make no clear distinction. Indeed, if ibada is to be considered a ritual in this sense, then yes it does comply with this definition to the extent that it is structured differently from the rest of everyday life. However, if we are to talk about the value of time, it is nearly impossible to make such a distinction, as every mundane practice can be sacred if it contains the properties that make it valuable. We have already discussed that ritual as a separately structured performance that is different from other mundane activities is somewhat blurred in the experiences of the volunteers. I iterate here for the sake of making a clearer argument. Rappaport makes the observation that all rituals “take time,” as their temporal structures can vary immensely; they are a temporal order where performances follow a sequel (Rappaport 1992, 8). It seems, he adds, that although our relation to time is framed in terms of successions (each experience comes after the other), this continuity is “vague” and “ambiguous” (Rappaport 1992, 11). What is more, it is in rituals that we find the “punctuality” of performance. Their structure necessitates a clearly constructed chain of events (Rappaport 1992, 11). The punctual properties of ritual therefore distinguish it from natural processes, the latter being reflected as ambiguous processes of discontinuities. Thus, rituals create “phases,” or a clearly distinguished “state of affairs” (Rappaport 1992, 11). What is more relevant for this chapter comes after this point, as Rappaport states that there is no clear-cut transition from one

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phase—or stage—to another. There are what he calls intervals between them. He explains that, On the one hand, what is called ‘ordinary’ or;mundane,’ or ‘profane’ time prevails in periods, but intervallic ‘time’ is said to be different, mysterious phases, such as ‘extraordinary’ or ‘sacred’ time, or even ‘time out of time’ are used. (Rappaport 1992, 12)

What interests me is this state of “time out of time” and how it becomes an indication of time well spent for the volunteers. Volunteering gives them a sense of transformation, the transforming of the mundane to something “sacred,” as Rappaport argues. His explanation is located in the very orderly practice of ritual; nevertheless, it is difficult to speak of such order for the volunteers’ practices, both in form and in content. Hence, this notion of sacred time becomes more complicated and gives us an idea of how normal, linear time pertains to many complex fluctuations and fragmentations. Moreover, we will explore how linear time becomes interrupted with what Rappaport explains as “intervals,” and how these intervals become the indication of time value. The next section examines how volunteering is detached from temporal limitations by being subtracted from any spatial restrictions. The notion that volunteering is for ‘everywhere’ and at ‘any time’ is specific for the respondents as opposed to modern and neoliberal forms of volunteering. It is undoubtedly located in the belief that the pious individual pursues an ethical trajectory in all of life, hence adding a spiritual meaning to the practices that constitute this time. Nevertheless, it is interesting that this conception also borrows from neoliberal ideas of organizing time, time efficiency, and making a calendar of practices. The ensuing section follows the notion of “time out of time” and how this experience becomes tangible for the respondents in their articulation of baraka and God’s agency in interrupting time experience. In Rappaport’s study, God is not mentioned as an agent in this experience; however, we will see how, for the respondents, it is exactly God’s appreciation of a practice that influences its spatiotemporal process. The organization of time seems to have a specific approach in Western societies, related to the rise of capitalism and industry (Ingold 1995, 5).

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According to Ingold, capitalist production introduces a sharp division between work and social life, a division he suggests is absent from traditional “task oriented” societies (Ingold 1995, 6). Ingold adds that this division is not natural or bound to experience but “enforced […], against a resistance founded in the inevitability of people’s mutual involvement in the concrete settings of practical activity” (p. 6). Referring to Wadel and Sahlins, he conveys that in so-called traditional societies work is not disengaged from social relations and roles (p. 6). It is not that the concept of work does not exist in these societies, but they are conceptualized differently and integrated within social relations, as family relations or part of a kin group, village, or community (see Wadel 1979). Ingold unpacks the term “task” as an activity that is embedded in social relations, and it is exactly this point where it differs from “work,” as there is no such separate state where an individual transitions from being a father/patriarch to becoming a “worker” (Ingold 1995, 6). Some well-known modern thinkers have already covered how modern political, economic, and bureaucratic institutions have affected modern management of time (Bear 2014, 6; see Marx 1992 [1885], Weber 2008 [1922]; Beck 1992). Modern time is actually a very complex phenomenon, and a “historical product” (Bear 2014, 7). Capitalism is a profound temporal measure in assessing the value of time in labor and other economic transactions, including the routines of State institutions, whose seemingly “secular” and “universal” practices are based on Christian and military routines (see Foucault 2012; Weber 2008 [1922]). Even science links “social,” “human” time to non-human and external measurements (Bear 2014). Quintessentially, what we can understand from these different studies is that modern time attempts to “order hierarchically, separate, and adjudicate, between ‘other’ social time” (Bear 2014, 7; see Ssorin-Chaikov 2006) and to distinguish between practices by creating spatiotemporal phases. These distinctions are not only apparent in labor and social time, as it reaches out to “sacred” and “profane” time (see Durkheim 1995 [1912]). A closer reading of Durkheim helps us understand how this division is grounded in the Christian tradition, where there are “beliefs and practices” that are united in one moral community of the Church, and everything else that falls apart from the Church (Durkheim 1995

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[1912]). Van Gennep further strengthens this point by adding that “[…] the only clearly marked social division remaining in modern society is that which distinguishes between the secular and the religious worlds – between the profane and the sacred. […] it is a significant fact that, because of fundamental differences between them, secular and religious groups as a whole have remained separate throughout the countries of Europe” (van Gennep 1960, 1). As Robert Bellah quotes, “sacred time is devoted primarily to ritual” (Bellah 2005, 184). Whether we talk about ritual as a symbolic or functional entity, it seems to be mostly taken as a separate entity from that of other entities of life (not unlike work and social life) (Bell 2009). Bell mentions “ritual environment” (Bell 2009), and Eliade refers to sacred spaces (Eliade 1959), while Rappaport describes how rituals “take time” (Rappaport 1992). While these studies question the homogeneity of time and add that sacred time allows us to think through these constructs, they nevertheless seem not to be able to question “sacred time” as a separate division that is almost always located in ritual. I found that for my interlocutors there is no “sacred time” but the sacralization of time experience, grounded in how practices are embedded with a certain consciousness. In this context, any kind of practice or period of day can be divinely valuable, as long as the consciousness and niyya (intent) imbue them.

Time Value “Volunteering is not a temporary thing that we do; it is a lifelong commitment, our path to God,” said Elif to the seven or so women sitting around her in her living room. “It is the path that we built our life upon—is it not? School, careers… there are things we need to do, and we need to work hard in order to be successful in them. But we also shouldn’t forget our aim of reaching God, and we need to be as careful in that path as we are with our worldly aims. You are all educated people, you must have some kind of worldly aim… and if you manage to integrate spiritual aims within those worldly ones, then your whole life will have a spiritual essence, whatever you do.”

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“But I don’t understand the spiritual aims. The examples I mean…” said Tuba, breaking the heavy silence among the women. “Examples… For example, being careful of doing your ibada even during working hours, or keeping in mind that you are a volunteer and trying to frame your life in that way.” She was referring to what I discussed in the previous sections of not neglecting ibada on the one hand and being attentive to public realities on the other. Volunteering is not always organizing events and bringing people together, per se, but a way of life; it implies a consciousness towards the self as both a subject of God and an individual living in a context, in a certain reality, and the volunteers should embody that consciousness with their bodily practices, speech, and general state of mind. Elif acknowledged the women’s busy lives—they are lawyers, doctors, academics, teachers, mothers, wives, daughters, friends, and so on—and realized that volunteering, if it is to be a life’s goal, cannot be limited to what they do in the associations. It has to embrace the lifeworlds of the women and be integrated into all aspects of their lives. Hence, it can be a smile to a customer, as my interlocutor Esra, a pharmacist, would say, or it can be finishing your PhD project, trying to show your ‘xenophobic’ promoter that a Muslim woman can achieve, as my other interlocutor Tuba would say. Volunteering is not something they just do; it is life itself. I would like to underline how my interlocutors strongly relate to the modern division of time, labor, and other forms of social time. Indeed, Elif emphasized that everyone has “schools, careers […],” but that it is their duty to be able to integrate spirituality within those units. The volunteers accentuate the different phases of life quite often, as they refer to family time, work time, leisure time, and so on. It is not that their spiritual endeavors subject them to a different calendar, but they do inform a different time-consciousness. Amidst these different units of commitments, my persistent question always concerned how they integrated volunteering into that schedule. What I came to understand was that the commitment of volunteering weaves into the separate units (work, leisure, family, etc.), imbuing them with value. Obviously, these units are laden with value, just from

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their own intrinsic practices; however, as the women reinterpret these spatiotemporal practices through a spiritual purview, those compartments of time, and the practices that are intrinsic to them, are teased and blurred. Tim Ingold elaborates on the division of time space and practices, following a Marxist reading of production, labor, industrialization, and, ultimately, capitalism. He touches upon the separation of “work” and “social life,” wherein the former is described by the use of time designated by another person (i.e. an employer), and the latter by the individual themselves. Social life is an indication of who the individual is, in this sense. Ingold inquires deeper into what work time means for the individual. In conversation with Marx, Ingold asserts that work has a value, one which can analogically be assessed by weight (Ingold 1995, 12). All objects have weight, according to Marx, and can be “placed in a quantitative ratio” (Ingold 1995, 11); however, the value of its weight is harder to determine and can be assessed by its use, what Ingold calls “use-value” (Ingold 1995, 11). The value of any given thing can only be measured in relation to something else, whether it be in the barter system, in terms of metrics, or even money; “the amount of value-ingeneral that a thing contains is always revealed as its exchange value […], the amount of another thing for which it would be considered equivalent in exchange (Ingold 1995, 11).” Ingold makes this point to explain how modern labor imbues a task with homogenous and quantitative value. If the individual has the task of doing a form of work, the value of their labor will be assessed in terms of that labor alone, as well as the efficiency that is concentrated in that labor. Whereas, in task-oriented traditional societies, the sociality of work makes it heterogenous and qualitative, that is the individual is not just a worker but embodies several roles and duties simultaneously. It is not my interest to argue that my respondents pertain to such a traditional/modern division in assessing the value of their spatiotemporal practices. As I have noted before, they take modern divisions of work, family, and social life as a reference point. However, the notion persists that spatiotemporal practices, whether they be leisure or labor, cannot be homogenized and always pertain to a higher meaning. Being conscious of God, as the ultimate possessor of time and space, is enough for my

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respondents to have heightened awareness of the value and meaning of how they fill those moments. I can trace this thinking to how Arlie Hoschild (1997) makes sense of “quality time” in her study. She examines how parents (especially mothers) cut time they spend with their children, most often because of employment reasons; however, they intensify the value of the limited time with their choice of making the most of it. In this sense, it is not the amount of time spent with the child that matters, but how that period is optimized. Likewise, for my interlocutors, the quality of time is highly dependent on how they regard it as an opportunity to get closer to God. Certain realities and necessities of everyday life do test the consistency of this thinking, for sure. I often found my interlocutors struggling with their true intentions, as they tried to make sense of whether they were investing in a certain type of labor for the success of that labor, or for God. “It is difficult to understand yourself sometimes. Am I spending hours and hours in the lab to be a successful scientist, or because I want to show the hard-working efficient face of the Muslim?” Tuba told me. She is not alone in having this internal debate. It applies not just to work, but also to leisure time. “Any gathering, social event, or meet-up where we don’t mention God is a waste of time and de-values that gathering,” Meral said. God is not always mentioned by name, but the idea is that, one way or another, a spiritual reference is made to mark His presence in that space. Not referencing God imbues the time with negativity. Gossiping or lying might also mark an event negatively. This is highly important for the women, because as soon as a context is infused with such negativity, there can be no kind of hayr that can come out of it, making it highly damaging for their ethical trajectory. I have already discussed how the volunteers regard leisure as practices that are not meant for recreation, per se, but to utilize recreational activities to spend time with people in order to morally awaken them. Devoting what is normally considered spare time to such a fundamentally vital duty is essentially what makes time worthwhile for my interlocutors. While the practices that constitute this time division may be completely mundane, the consciousness of faith—ensuring that they are carried out with a moral niyya—completely transforms their value in spiritual terms. In this understanding, we cannot evaluate leisure time

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as spare time, but as a division that ultimately works on the individual’s pious self and their commitment to social morality. The question of what people do with their spare time has come out only recently, as it became a visible problem in the middle to late twentieth century, when working hours were organized so people had time to invest in recreational activities (Currell 2010). How people utilized this spare time came to be categorized as either ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ depending on how ‘wholesome’ it was or whether it was just an idle way of spending time (Currell 2010, 2). Even in this example, we can see that spare time is actually not that spare, and even in the modern world it is meant to be devoted to something productive or meaningful. Such time is valuable, as it works on the individual, improving them. Similarly, the notion of spare time or leisure time is problematic for my interlocutors, in that it is really an option to spend it for self-pleasure; it is meant to be used for moral demands. While we have so far talked about the increase of time value depending on how it is fulfilled with spiritual intention and consciousness, sometimes this spirituality is rendered in a mathematical calculation made by the volunteers. The use-value of time is complicated by some respondents as they uneasily assess their efficiency by calculating the time they spend volunteering in comparison with other things they do. One of the significant points that I noticed when I first started spending time with the volunteers was that volunteering did not necessarily refer to unpaid labor, at least in their definition. It is from this point that the complicated nature of how they structure volunteering becomes evident. The volunteers can be divided into groups: those who volunteer officially in the associations and get paid for their work, and those who are not the staff of the associations and do not get paid for their work, although they also take part in organizing events through the associations. When we make a difference as such, we need to recognize how this influences their idea of what volunteering entails, both spiritually and in the many different parts of everyday life. Starting with the first category (the volunteers who are the staff of the associations and get paid for their work), I would like to note that it is this example that precisely makes me want to go over conventional definitions of volunteering and how it differs from professionalism. The

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volunteers who are paid did not make up the majority of my interlocutors. There are only a limited number of them. The reason why the associations have paid staff is because they need full-time employees who give their full attention and concentration to the projects that are carried out. These volunteers devote their time and energy into organizing and executing the events, notifying the relevant people, taking care of the logistics, as well as anything else that comes to mind that may seem necessary in organizing a project. While this is not unconventional for associations, what is interesting is that these women still define themselves as volunteers, a rationale in need of elucidation. Esra, one of the young interlocutors, welcomed me to her office in Brussels one evening in October 2015 to talk about her work. Although, she is very young, only in her mid-twenties, Esra is the vice president of one of the associations and the project co-ordinator for the Pangea Wiskunde Mathematics Olympics. This is a project that aims to bring as many schoolchildren as possible to Flanders, where they take a mathematics test together in a large examination hall. Thousands of children take part in this test, and the winners are awarded after the evaluation. Important educational figures, like academics and people from the Ministry of Education, attend the award ceremony. In some cases, the winners of the test are included in different social responsibility projects. She and her husband have been volunteering for years; it was actually how they met, and, as she tells me, they still devote most of their life to this job. She mentioned something else that made me think about the narrow definitions I mentioned before and how the volunteers knowingly or unknowingly transgress these, but are still informed by them. “When I work in the association, I feel like I am volunteering but I also feel like I am not volunteering… I don’t know… because I’m being paid, I feel like I do get something in response for my work, something complementary… but… I mean… I don’t remember ever working nine to five… We start working in the early morning, till late evening and then the sohbet can last till midnight… If something is to be done on the weekend, you can’t say no. We don’t have time to even eat dinner together… I mean this is our life, our priority. In that sense, it is volunteering, because we do much more than we get. The more you do, of course, you do it for God… I mean I hope it is.”

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On the one hand, Esra problematizes her volunteering because she is paid for it, which does not feel like volunteering to her; on the other hand, she feels the necessity to stress that it is volunteering because of the extra time and effort she devotes to the associations. In a way this is a reverse reading of Marx’s thinking. Here the value lies exactly in the extra labor the volunteer invests in time, rather than a possible equalization of the time–labor equation. “I’m not like the other sisters, you know, who are running around trying to do something, doing their best to organize events, raise money for logistics, invite people they know… sometimes prepare food… I really admire them. It was because I felt like a regular employee, you know like in a bank or something, that I wanted to give a sohbet to a group of girls… It is extra work late in the evening but it made me feel like I am doing my service.” Here we have a closer understanding of how Esra echoes conventional definitions of volunteering, and how she finds that definition more meaningful spiritually, as it is something she acknowledges an individual does truly selflessly. For her, the unpaid volunteers are a step ahead of her, in terms of spiritual progress, because volunteering is not their job; it is not a structured part of their life, but they still do it on top of their jobs and daily duties involving their families and friends. Esra, who actually possesses an engineering diploma, has never worked in that field. From the day she graduated, she worked on different projects for the associations. Her responsibilities usually involve management, organization, bookkeeping, and human relations. During our conversation, she lengthily explained how it was difficult for her to adapt to that line of work, not even stopping to consider if she enjoyed doing it. She recalled that it was not she who asked to join the associations, but the other volunteers who asked her to take up the responsibility. She agreed, thinking, “This will be my ethical commitment.” Ever since that day, she regarded her job as such, although of course she saw a difference between herself and those who did not receive money. Although being paid is problematic for Esra, she embeds her voluntary service in an alternative narrative, one of giving up her original profession to work in a field she had no experience in, and the struggle that came with this process. Indeed, many people may prefer to work outside their

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field of study; however, with Esra it was not her own decision to do this. It was a decision that came out of a deliberation with her co-volunteers, a responsibility she took for the team, so to speak. It is this sacrifice, or in other words, complying with the community decision, that makes it an ethical decision, hence her ethical commitment. However, we still see that modern separation of labor/social life/sacred time come out as a concern in her narrative. For Esra, any form of labor is work, as far as its use-value can be compensated. Although her work is technically volunteering, she feels unease that its spiritual use-value is abated, because at the end of the day, she is paid for it. Her reasoning is that what makes her labor true volunteering are the extra hours she (and her husband) spend on the events that are not part of her salary. We can see how Esra goes between modern conceptions of labor (and time division) and nonliberal conceptions of time value. While a classical Marxist reading of this phenomenon may imply that this is an explotation of labor, for Esra it is the extras that make her endeavors meaningful and not self-alienating (as Marx would argue). The true value of time lies where it cannot be surmounted by anything else that is material.

The Baraka in Time “Each moment is an alem (universe) for the iman. If that moment reveres God then it is filled with light and God prolongs those moments.” These, again, are the words of the sohbet teacher on that evening when we talked about time. For me, these words really emphasized the significance of making each moment (ethically) count. The idea that each moment is its own universe suggests that even a moment is powerful and every moment devoted to God is touched with a blessing which we will now discuss. I often came across my interlocutors referring to the “maddening aspect of time” (zamanin cildirticiligi). My interlocutors, based on religious sources, describe the ahir zaman as a period during which time will flow at increased speed. Ahir zaman is explained as the time after the Prophet Mohammad, the last prophet and hence the last of times. It is the period when creation draws closer to the end of time, namely the apocalypse. There are several indications that are associated with the

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end of time (see Saritoprak 2003; see Filiu 2011). The relative increase in time flow in the modern world is also considered one of these indications by the respondents. The maddening aspect of time, so to speak, is exactly the inability to keep up with it, get things done, manage time, or understand its pace. As the end gets closer, they often repeat, years will go by like minutes, an experience that apparently was not so for those people who lived before ahir zaman. It is interesting that my respondents describe this relative increase in pace as “maddening,” as if it were something against the natural order of things, something to cope with as much as one can cope with madness. Of course, this is also associated with incompleteness; time is so fast that the individual cannot accomplish their worldly or spiritual goals. The only remedy or solution to resist this maddening experience is to increase time’s value. And how is that possible? Time value increases by filling it with meaningful content and avoiding idleness. Such endeavors are meant to expand the present experience and resist that increase of pace that is associated with the nearing of time’s end. Going back to Hochschild’s (1997) concept of quality time, valuable content is highly subjective, dependent on many different personal and social factors. Nevertheless, this implies that time does not just flow past; it is acted upon by the individual. The pious subject is expected to employ an ethical approach to time. “Let us make our time full of baraka,” my interlocutors would often say. Baraka means divine blessing or divine abundance, depending on the context (Mittermaier 2013). According to this definition, baraka is a blessing that is given to the pious subject; nevertheless, once we pay attention to how my interlocutors refer to the notion, it is also what is earned by them. Vaktimizi bereketlendirelim, literally translates as actively doing something so time is embedded in baraka, as opposed to the expansion of time, which is effectively God’s doing. “The time spent between the morning and noon prayers is full of baraka,” said Meral during one morning sohbet with a group of home makers. “Likewise, whatever you do between the hours you pray is full of baraka. God blesses those times as if you are doing ibada all day long. Hence baraka is not merely an economic blessing, it does not narrow into an equation, the abundance of food, money, or even time.” I agree

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with Mittermaier’s observation that baraka transcends economic calculations and leaves a space for the subject to surpass the logic of counting for good deeds (Mittermaier 2013). However, I would also like to add that in her description, baraka is almost traceable, as in the transactions of giving and charity. However, what I understand from my interlocutors’ experience of baraka and time is that it exceeds transactions between the self and recipient. Baraka is lived, in its fullest sense, and it is a blessing that is to be sought by the subject. It is not sought in the transaction per se, but it adds value to the transaction by its being an ethical practice; in this sense, baraka is part of the ethical. To put this in a more solid perspective, I would like to turn to an example that is often repeated by my respondents. The time spent between two prayers of the day has an ethical value because, according to my interlocutors, “praying informs you with a consciousness of God, which prevents you from doing sins in between the times of prayer.” Thus, baraka is not only a value God reflects on a practice, but it is also a purification of deeds, because the believer is kept from sinning by being conscious of God’s presence. Likewise, I am often told by my interlocutors that the times when they feel their days have less baraka, and seem to pass quickly but also insignificantly, are the ones when they menstruate (as they cannot perform their usual ibada). During these days, the women cannot pray, read the Qur’an, or fast. Thus, they are excluded from the obligatory ibada. “We have to be more careful during these days,” remarked Elif, “because we have nothing to remember God. It is highly possible that, God forbid, our days do not have any baraka.” There is a great tension of uncertainty surrounding baraka; while it is believed that it embeds time on the condition that the subject cultivates time with ethical practices, it is also incalculable and untraceable. Not being able to do the obligatory practices of worship admittedly rids the women of certain experiences they feel are significant and closely related to baraka, such as remembering God and feeling the fulfillment of doing worship. Significantly, they experience similar consciousness over time when they volunteer. Indeed, baraka is something they desire God will reflect on what they give, but they also give time to others; even when they are

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giving food they are giving time. Beyond obligatory worship, the idea of “doing something for God” reflects the presence of God in the volunteers’ consciousness that makes the experience ethically significant. Here the reader must bear in mind the previous discussions on the scope and forms of volunteering, and how this also refers to forms of employment. Baraka, in this light, can be present in a job, just as it can be in the act of giving or in the object they transact; it can be in a moment or in the day, or even a period of their life. The concept of baraka has often been the focal topic of literature on Sufism (Safi 2000; Pinto 2008; Gibb 1999; Lewis 1955; Coulon 1988). In these studies, baraka is often associated with a saintly figure who mediates the distribution of blessings. Michael Gilsenan (2000) discusses this concept as constituting a power structure among Lebanese lords, sheikhs, and lay people. Gilsenan here reads baraka as the wealth of the Lord, who blesses the poor in response to their loyalty, where social organizations of power are constituted and reconstituted through these transactions. The Lord is the holder of the baraka, claims Gilsenan, because of his possession of wealth. The association of baraka with a holy figure has a long tradition, often implying that it is either the spiritual and/or social significance of the subject that gives them access to blessings. While acknowledging the importance of baraka for the “spiritual economy” (Rudnyckyj 2010), I propose to think through how it is unpacked as an attainable ethical character, which can be acted upon by the pious subject, but is also a gift of God to the subject. This idea of baraka not only removes the intermediary sheikh in attaining such blessings but also implies that the subject can search for it in all of life, like time, by engaging with life from an ethical framework. Complicating it a step further, the believer in this trajectory is both “subject and object” (Mittermaier 2011, 86), both working for the blessing but also being blessed by it. It does not belong to them but is given by God. It is not in the object, but in the consciousness of God that is reflected on the object. It is not part of time, but in how time is embedded with an ethical projection. It is not traceable, but is experienced with the expansion, duration, or contraction of time. It is not calculable but is significant in how it alters

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perceptions of lived time. Baraka cannot be demanded of God, but it can be attainable through time’s cultivation. It does not alter what is calculable: an hour is an hour, but the value is altered dramatically. In the next section, I discuss how this alteration comes to be experienced by the volunteers, as their ‘God-consciousness’ finds life in behavior and practice.

Expanding Time According to some scholars, to be ethical is to engage with the Islamic tradition in all categories of life’s challenges (Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006). I find this assertion valuable in that it acknowledges the ethical to be widespread, similar to the ‘spreadedness’ of time we previously mentioned. This is different from dividing time into “sacred” or “ritual” phases (Rappaport 1999). Rappaport divides time into phases, where all ritual activity takes time and each “act or utterance, or one ritual, succeeds the one preceding it in established order” (Rappaport 1998, 8). What is interesting in his account is that he explains that while this sense of succession can vary in experience in daily life, it is during ritual where this experience is more “precise,” as there is a clear understanding of which performance should follow the next (Rappaport 1992, 10–11). This is what allows him to conceptualize ritual in phases, that is to say, “unambiguous stages appearing as a series of distinct states of affairs” (Rappaport 1992, 11). However, these stages are not instantaneous, in his observations, and they are separated by “intervals”; it is these intervals that mark the transition between “profane” time and “sacred” time (Rappaport 1992, 12). It is also during these intervals when “extraordinary,” or as Rappaport coins it, “time out of time,” is experienced (Rappaport 1992, 12). The “peculiar” or out of the ordinary events and experiences that constitute these interval periods have been a focus of study for many other ethnographical researchers (see Van Gennep 1960; Turner 1967; Leach 1961). Indeed, these “time out of time” experiences are relevant for my interlocutors, whose consciousness of time in these periods is interrupted, making it ‘expand,’ ‘slow down,’ ‘go faster,’ and/or ‘attain value’ in relation to the baraka. However, my

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observations indicate that these experiences are not restricted to intervals or periods between ‘sacred’ and ‘mundane’ time. It is not limited to an order as conveyed by Rappaport. It is exactly this point that makes my respondents’ experiences interesting. Their experience of extraordinary time is a tangible experience that is God’s blessing and an indication of how time is handled in relation to the ethical; it pertains to what Mahmood and Hirschkind assert as the whole of life. The idea of time-consciousness carried me to a different kind of engagement with my interlocutors. Most often, it is difficult to ‘empirically’ observe how the volunteers experience time. I believe it is a very subjective experience, one influenced by their own internal spiritual tensions. Indeed, even during the same events or occasions, two volunteers would not bear the same experiences, which is not problematized by the volunteers themselves. There is no expectation that being in the same community of givers, or having the same aspiration to cultivate the ethical self, de facto generates the same or similar experiences for the women. Time as such is one of those complexities that is shared collectively but claimed subjectively, and this type of condition is usually informed by the ethical devotion the volunteer has invested into that period. In December 2015, I ran across the Brussels streets, trying to avoid the heavy rain. I was drenched from head to toe, as I impatiently rang the doorbell of my interlocutor, who lived in an apartment in Schaerbeek. She quickly invited me inside. Shivering and almost completely soaked, I directed myself to the living room. I thought Feryal, my interlocutor, pitied me. I had never met Feryal before. She was a tiny woman in her fifties, having three daughters and already several grandchildren. I immediately felt her maternal side, as she offered me dry clothes and hot tea. I accepted the tea. “It is raining quite heavily, dear,” she asserted as I sat down with my tea, brewed the Turkish way. “Maybe we should have rescheduled for a better day?” I assured her I wanted to talk. I was about to start writing, and was eager to finish my interviews. “It is good that you have this determination… If only we could do all our duties with such perseverance, but, you know, not only with worldly

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things but also for God. Of course, you do your studies for God, so this is your hassanah.” Upon her words I immediately started questioning myself: was some part of me doing this for God? Or was I only concerned with finishing my doctorate? I asked, “And you? Can you talk about your hassanah?” “Cooking, cleaning…” she laughed. “No, but really, that is what I do for khayr. If one of the sisters asks me to cook for a group, or clean the associations, I do it gladly, although sometimes it is hard. I do it for God.” “Do you find it hard?” I asked. “Yes and no. I mean, we have so much to do, don’t we? I have children and grandchildren, and you know our volunteering, never on the clock, never planned or organized, always spontaneous… Someone calls asking you to do a favor. It is not for them you do a favor, of course, it is for God’s consent, but still, sometimes the urge to say ‘no’ is so strong. But if you don’t, and you do it just for God and not for the other sister, then you feel how God has accepted that deed. “Once, I was called in the morning by a sister who wanted me to cook soup for some guests who would arrive at the association. They needed the soup at twelve o’clock and it was already ten… The group had more than 50 people and I didn’t even have the complete ingredients for the soup… So I said no, I cannot do it, it is simply not possible; I don’t have enough time. Then we hung up, but I felt so restless, so guilty for not doing it, so I said ‘Feryal, do it! It is not your place to say no.’ I called the sister back and said, ‘Okay, I will do my best to get the soup ready.’ I bought the ingredients, and when I came home it was nearly eleven.” Feryal then opened her eyes large and spoke to me directly. “And then believe me, just believe me, I am not lying about this… I am sure of the time I started… I am sure… believe me… when I cooked the soup and had it ready, I looked at the clock and not one minute had passed, it was still the same time… believe me…” I didn’t know what to make of this, universal physics rules bouncing around in my head. Instead, I asked her what she made of this experience.

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“If you do something with ikhlas, and just for God, not thinking about anything else, just so that God is not disappointed with you, he makes things happen that you cannot comprehend with your mind. I was so worried that the soup would not be ready on time… but I just somehow thought only about God’s consent and disappointing Him by not being able to carry out my duty; and He expanded my time. He made it so I had all the time, and even so that not one minute had passed.” Feryal’s anecdote of an experience that obviously had a great impact on her indicates how time is value-laden depending on the subject’s dispositions. “… He expanded my time…” allows us to engage with multiple interpretative frameworks. Feryal conceptualizes time as not only being acted upon through ethical practices and inward dispositions, but also as something that acts on the individual. While the subject ascribes value to time by choosing how to appropriate a certain period, its value is also largely dependent on how God responds to the endeavor. In this sense, timeconsciousness is not only intertwined with the subject’s cultivation of it, as in Feryal’s case. The expansion of time is not something that the subject can initiate with their practices, which belong to the will of God. Time-consciousness depends on self-cultivation but is not determined by it, because time does not belong to the subject. The idea of belonging is brought forth by Mittermaier, as she quotes Stefania Pandolfo in arguing that dreams “are never one’s own” (Pandolfo quoted in Mittermaier 2011, 103). “One can do much to prepare, but one can never demand” (Mittermaier 2011, 103), in the case of metaphysical experiences such as time expansion. It is not uncommon to seek such experiences but also be amazed by them (Mittermaier 2011, 103), unable to explain them, and this one attributes them to a higher being. It can also be argued that demanding such an experience, where time expands or holds still, is contrary to the true aim, which is God’s consent. Feryal herself did not ask for time to stay on hold as she cooked; it was given to her by God. Humans, who were created within a corporeality, do not have the ability to interrupt time themselves, whereas this is not the condition for God, who “existed alone in timeless eternity prior to creation and has no relation to motion and consequently none to time” (Böwering 1992, 80).

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Nevertheless, while individuals cannot do much to interrupt the natural flow of time, there are some intense experiences that can interfere with the ‘now,’ causing it to expand or contract. Brough (2001) comes close to illustrating the contraction and expansion of the now in the experiences of individuals who have just heard that they have a terminal illness. He illustrates how temporal experiences are flexible, and how this flexibility presents itself more vividly when the individual is confronted with an extraordinary situation (Brough 2001, 38–39). Especially in cases where the individual is confronted with the news of a possibly terminal illness, the idea that the future may be lost creates a sensation of being “melded to the moment” (Scannell 2005, 55). The internal time-consciousness of the individual experiences an expansion of the now, wherein their recollection of their past life and the imagination of a lost future are all overlapping in the present (see Toombs 1990; see Scannel 2005). This does not mean that the general flow of objective clock-time is disrupted, in that the flow is flowing around the individual while they are frozen in place. Painful realizations can “stretch the now, compress the past, and shorten the future” (see Murray 2000, 59). “Time ceases to be a straight line” in our internal experiences according to Murray (2000, 58). While the devastating intensity of an illness can alter the experience of now, via expansion or contraction or both, the extreme focus Feryal implemented in doing something for God’s sake stimulates a similar perception. The cause of this perception for Feryal, however, is not solely located in her internal time-consciousness, but in a higher, divine intervention. The expansion of time has been a much-deliberated topic in the Islamic tradition, although it is a relatively understudied area in scholarly literature. Gerhard Böwering, who has written on the concept of time in the Islamic tradition, elaborates on ideas of time in Islamic philosophy. He asserts that due to the exposure to Greek philosophy, two profound philosophical notions of time were developed (1992, 80). The Aristotelian view, beginning with Ya’qub b. Ishaq Kindi, proposed time as a measurable quantity and motion (motion according to what is ‘before’ or ‘after’ something else) (1992, 80). The Platonian view, taken up in the Ikhwan as-safa’, suggests time to be a product of the conscious, “of a thinking mind and defined as a duration” and which has no “extramental reality” (1992, 80). This perception of time is interesting in that

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it assumes time to not be in existence with the creation of eternity (since unlike the Aristotelian view it is not dependent on motion), but exists as the “duration of God’s infinite consciousness” (1992, 80). These two opposing views are important to point out, since neither of them explains divine interventions to the chronological flow of time and its human experience. One of the most prominent examples of the interruption of time would be the Prophet’s ascension to the mi’raj. It is narrated in the Qur’an (verse 17:1) and hadith that one night the Prophet was lifted from his bed in Mecca and taken to a temple in Jerusalem aboard a winged horse, after which he rose to the heavens, meeting former prophets and, ultimately, God. It is added that when the Prophet returned to his bed from this journey, it was still warm. The period between his departure and return was so short that his bed had not gone cold yet. There are many theological details in this story, as well as interpretations of its significance for the Islamic faith and certain practices (Vuckovic 2004; Sells 1996; Wagner 1997; McMichael 2011). The issue of time, however, has been relatively understudied. There have been debates among Islamic scholars as to whether the journey was a physical or spiritual vision (dream), as the story has many points that push the boundaries of physics (Fletcher, accessed 2016). While Sufi thinkers have interpreted the Prophet’s Night Journey as a “spiritual model of ecstatic states,” most scholars still accept it as a physical and bodily journey that was made in the course of a night (Fletcher, accessed 2016). My interlocutors, who also accept the Night Journey as a physical and bodily experience, also acknowledge that such a journey is a miracle that can only be permitted to those who are closest to God, exclusively prophets. What interests me in this story, beyond the theological implications, is how the body transcends its physical capabilities in time and space. While people traveling at light speed is still a distant possibility, the idea that the subject can imagine another type of experience that pushes the boundaries of time and space is very well accepted by my interlocutors. The Night Journey where the Prophet ultimately meets the divine is framed as a miracle; however, the pious subject can also be acted

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upon by God (Mittermaier 2011), their physical experience altered. Time is accepted as the highest entity in the world by certain Sufi scholars, such as Muhammad b. Zakariyya Razi and Abu Hayyan Tawhidi, who perceive space as a phenomenon that is a causation of the body, but time as infinite and connected to the soul (Böwering 1992, 81). In these deliberations, time existed long before the body due to the existence of the soul (and the consciousness of God, if it may). Ibn Arabi also interprets time as a divine condition, where God’s existence is symbolically embedded in time (Böwering 1992, 81). These various conceptions of time in Sufi thought merge at a juncture where they point to time as infinite and connected to the spiritual (the soul is also infinite) as opposed to the temporal physical. Therefore, an experience of time expanding, such as Feryal’s, is often interpreted by my interlocutors as an outcome of inner spiritual intensity, where the mind and heart are so infatuated with God that the soul can experience unexplainable moments.

Conclusion This chapter presents an ethnographic study of the complexity of time as experienced by the female volunteers. The approach to time in this section is to understand time as it appears to the individuals. This approach tries to understand the different traditions and practices that inform the time-consciousness of my respondents, and as it gradually unpacks we explore how modern (even neoliberal) divisions of ‘universalcalculable’ time are embedded in a sense of value that is stimulated by the Islamic tradition. There is an objective dimension to time, where it “belongs to a worldly process,” often determined by the cycle of the sun and world and measured by clocks and calendars. The length of a process can very well be measured. Consequently, objective time is “public and verifiable.” In the very beginning of the chapter, we discussed how such objective time is culturally divided into phases, and that it is particularly a Western (modern) tradition to divide time into divisions such as ‘work,’ ‘family,’ ‘social,’ and so on. Each of these time phases has its own space, practice,

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and social environment separating it from the other phases. Following the discussion of Rappaport, it is also asserted that rituals, too, have their own spaces, practices, and time divisions. This is what Rappaport calls “sacred time,” as opposed to “mundane” or even “profane” time. He is not the first scholar to determine such a separation, as thinkers such as Durkheim (1995 [1912]) also made reference to such “sacred” and “profane” aspects of time. By examining how time appears to the volunteers, I first problematized this dichotomy, suggesting that what makes a period of time sacred is how the practices are embedded in a certain God consciousness and spiritual intention. What is so interesting about this is that it frees sacred time from the limits of ritual and allows us to see how it factors into other conveniently divided modern categories of work, social life, leisure, and family. The use-value of time in these categories, or what it means to pass quality time, is drastically transformed for the women, for whom such concepts cannot exist if they are disconnected from God-consciousness. If we are to talk about time-appearance, this phenomenon sheds light on how my interlocutors relate to the different divisions of daily life, viewing each as a project to be worked on through an ethical perspective. In this context, we can disagree with the Marxian reading of time value as an effective channeling of labor, something individuals do for an employer and that is essentially self-alienating. Once labor is embedded as something done for fashioning the self, and ultimately for God, it is released from its self-exploitative property. Extra labor, and investing more time in this labor, becomes of essential value for the individual in this case. But this is not relevant for only work or labor; it so happens to be the case when my interlocutors plan their leisure or recreational activities, too. This is not spare time, but an opportunity to make something moral out of their time. In the end, it is up to them what kind of activity or practice makes time moral, but as I will repeat again, it is the intention or consciousness that ultimately matters and transforms leisure time from being spare to being something meaningful. While this section still pertains to how my interlocutors organize their time in relation to modern constructions, the next section explores what happens in those periods that Rappaport (1999) calls “intervals” or “time out of time.”

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These periods are often seen as “extraordinary” time segments that are experienced differently from those of mundane periods. The final section presents a phenomenological approach to how extraordinary time is experienced as expansions or contractions of the flow of the present. This may seem complicated or supernatural, but the idea is that internal time-consciousness is not a linear experience to begin with (see Husserl 1964). The present overlaps with past experiences and future expectations as we experience the now, and the intensity of a moment can disrupt this flow, cramming many more memories or future notions into the moment. A good example is from Husserl (1964), who explains how devastating news can “meld someone to the moment,” making it stretch on and on. Though not the same, the intensity of focusing on God while doing something stimulates the perception of time expanding for many of my respondents. For them, this is much more than an impression or a perception; it is an intervention by God, who blesses their time and fills it with value, causing it to expand. There are two faces to this coin. On the one hand, it is only God, the ultimate owner of time, who can interfere with its natural flow, bless it, and cause its expansion. On the other hand, this does not happen just so; it needs the active exertion of the individual in what they are investing in that time, the intense focus on doing it for God that makes it possible for divine intervention. This suggests that expansion is not expected for the passive experiencer of time. The individual needs to resist what my interlocutors call the “fast-pacing” of time, and actively own their days, months, and years. The flow of time-consciousness is up to them, in the end. If they are idle, it is bound to flow by fast, meaningless, and empty. Life, however mathematically long it may be, will be over in a blink of an eye. But if they value time, if they make meaningful endeavors in their time, it will be blessed by God; it will expand, and the moments will be filled with many more experiences. Life, however mathematically long or short it may be, will be lived with much greater depth and seem longer.

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7 The Adab of Da’wa

Da’wa literally means “call, invitation, appeal, or summons” (Mahmood 2005, 51). It is a concept that is found in the Qur’an inciting the prophets and humanity to believe in the “true religion” (Mahmood 2005, 51). The call for religion can have multifarious forms and scopes and has been subject to different studies; however, it still remains a much-debated issue to this day. Egundus Racias’ rightly titled dissertation, The Multiple Nature of Da’wa, explores the complicated phenomenon that is fashioned according to many different interrelated dynamics. One of the most contentious issues surrounding this term is that the “call to the true religion” establishes Islam as a missionizing religion, the historical cause of many military activities, and, more specifically, holy wars, namely jihad (Racias 2004). Although these have been the topic of many debates, there are some details that most scholars agree on, which is that da’wa is a duty that falls on the shoulders of all believing Muslims, a moral responsibility that is the individual duty of all (Mahmood 2005, 64). This is a significant point that my interlocutors also take seriously; volunteering is essentially categorized as their

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da’wa. This brings me to the point of why I chose to title this chapter the adab of da’wa. Adab translates literally as manners, and the arbitrary nature of da’wa ensures its practitioners adopt a different manner in its conduct. Moreover, my respondents agree that da’wa is a sensitive trajectory that needs to be undertaken with rational deliberation and propriety. Even such a Qur’anic duty must be embodied in the proper norms of its context. This chapter unpacks the techniques of adab that embed the da’wa process in the practices of the volunteers. It attempts to provide an elaborate discussion on how the complex and diverse forms of their understandings of da’wa mold their daily interactions. Indeed, it is an endeavor that is imminently located in the muamelat (social interactions) of the individuals. Hence, the sections gradually explore the hermeneutics of the registers and vocabularies through which the individuals shape their social techniques. Effective technique pertains to discourses of the common good, and its conceptualization in the context of a liberal-secular democracy, where citizenship duties are at the core of the public scene (Kymlicka and Norman 1994). Da’wa is located in the very microfibers of social interactions and ideas of salvation are located in how my respondents design their personal interactions, embed their social conduct, and serve as a conscious regulatory guideline. Moreover, these social interactions differ greatly when they are with Muslims or non-Muslims. Interrogating these two entities separately gives us a more nuanced understanding of the praxis that constitute the governance of da’wa. While their social interactions with Muslims address the revitalization of a religious consciousness, it is important to understand how being a proper Muslim unpacks in consort with challenging the structural problems and stigma they face as minorities. This unfolds in the practice of utilizing leisure activities to ignite an image of the Muslim migrant who is devoted to ‘self-help.’ My interlocutors design their interactions with non-Muslims regarding their ideal to naturalize their public existence. This ideal involves translating the Islamic moral tradition through liberal-secular registers and working on conflict through an emotionalized, depoliticized framework.

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The Good Muslim: The Common Good and Practices of Caring In a way, the public presence of da’wa continues through informal connections, which pertain to social codes and norms. The behavioral codes are directed at constructing a particular type of subject—one who respects that the common good is the ultimate aim of any conduct, particularly pious conduct. In this section, I attempt to bring the behavioral codes of adab into a broader context where their ethical labor is vested in conceptions of being a good Muslim. The goodness does not necessarily depend on being more pious, but addresses a specific audience, their moral epistemologies. These two entities merge with discourses of maslaha (common good). The values that define the common good shape the public, and in the Islamic tradition, public, social, and communal affairs are never detached from religion (Eickelman and Salvatore 2006, xiii). In the recent literature, the notion of an “Islamic public sphere” has been suggested (Schulze 2000 [1994]). However, Muhammad Qasim Zaman asserts that this does not mean the religious repercussions in public matters are not subject to change and development according to newly arising circumstances (Zaman 2002). It is to this point that I draw attention and reiterate that da’wa, as an overarching valance for my respondents’ social praxis, is subject to such “change and development,” while the common good is the ultimate notion that brings forth such discernment. The common good is a discourse that embeds da’wa as a pedagogical process; as its embodied manifestations enter the public scene, they highlight a moral framework for ways of being. The public presence of da’wa is not necessarily conceived of as ‘good,’ as some scholars have located a parallel between da’wa and jihad (holy war) (Racias 2004), or between da’wa and the Christian mission (scholars often allude to the idea that the missions were colonial and had a racial bias towards the non-believers) (Kerr 2000). It is because of this reason, my respondents tell me, they are exceedingly careful in not using this term in any other context than the sohbet meetings to avoid being misunderstood. They describe themselves as Muslims who are trying to work for the benefit

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of society, the common good, and this is the fundamental principle that shapes their public conduct. This is not to say that in their own private spheres they refer to da’wa and forget the common good, as if to say that the term is only a useful cover for their public discourse. What I mean to say is that what they understand as da’wa translates as the common good in the society they are part of. There is not a huge discrepancy, but the discursive (often negative) baggage of da’wa pushes them into the comfort of the common good, which provides a logical and moral foundation for their volunteering and their interpersonal contacts. Eickelman and Salvatore (2006) assert that a “shared sense of public” is subject to variable factors, “with context and notions of personality, responsibility, welfare, justice, and not least piety. Notions of public are rooted in those values that define the common good” (2006, xiv). Likewise, for my interlocutors the way they understand their public immensely influences how they factor in their religious praxis. One aspect of this deliberation is to differentiate their Muslim identity from other forms of being Muslim. The otherness is explicitly located in some Muslims’ interpretation of their religion as providing a reactionary element in society. I talked about this issue with Nur, a respondent of mine who gives sohbet lessons. Today I will talk about zealotry, bigotry in religion, and extremism. I mean it is at this point that we see the importance of ijtihad and openmindedness. If we want to live in this society, we have to let go of this reaction and embrace what we have.

Salwa Ismail contends that the public sphere is not only a space for individuals to deliberate on their conduct but also a space “of identity formation through performances of subjectivities and visual displays as well as through validation and authorization” (Ismail 2008, 24; see also Warner 1992). The topic Nur chose is a strong indication of how my interlocutors carefully fashion their public presence to blend into the Western experience, which is a public that understands itself as neutral towards identity, both secular and rational (Habermas 1991 [1962]; Benhabib 1992; Fraser 1992). Nur is careful to point out that their position as volunteers is non-reactionary (to the dominant public scene), open-minded, and not supportive of zealotry. What is apparent here

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is that there is an exclusion of a type of Muslim self, which is also an attempt to normalize its public presence. This is not to say that my interlocutors dismiss the significance of religion as a marker of their identity in the public space; however, it is telling that Nur states the importance of ijtihad as a method of easing into a space that by nature excludes their ontological stance. It has already been asserted that the public sphere is constructed on a discourse of exclusion. Whether it is the domestic issues and gender (Fraser 1992), or certain ethnic and religious groups (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003; Benhabib 1992), there is a historical trajectory that denies access to the public space for certain groups. The Islamic tradition in this debate is regarded as the ontological other of Europe: anti-modern, fundamentalist, and backward (Fadil 2014). Ijtihad in this perspective is an Islamically valid method that traverses with “historical traditions of discipline and normalization” (Ismail 2008, 25). As such, the former head of the Royal Commission on Migration Policy, Paula D’hondt, in her 1989 policy report explained that migrants’ “cultural expressions” should not “pose a threat to the public order nor to the social principles that the host country holds on to” (D’hondt in Zemni 2011, 31). Ismail adds that this is in relation to the image that Muslims are “recalcitrant subjects” (Ismail 2008, 25), and it is to this that I add that my interlocutors respond for the common good. The associations, both in Brussels and in Antwerp, are structured so that they cover certain platforms: the youth platform, the women’s platform, the platform for professionals and expats, and so on. The different platforms focus on different projects that usually center around a focus group. But even this structuring is telling, in the sense that they are insinuating their public presence within the characters of a discourse, the good Muslim. The good Muslim is an identity that is taken up by the volunteers themselves and that they desire to become. However, the good Muslim’s hermeneutics, registers, and vocabularies are shaped through social and political discourses that are ultimately projected as a mainstream expectation of them. The audience of the good Muslim is not just God, but the whole public. The good Muslim will be unpacked in the coming sections, and it will be mentioned in several other chapters.

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The term ‘good’ here refers to the way the volunteers characterize themselves, which is quite different from how the good Muslim is described in public discourse. Jonathan Birt talks of the “good imam,” who is assertive in embodying “civic virtues, interfaith tolerance, professional managerial and pastoral skills, […] involved in inner city regeneration, work as an agent of national integration, and wage a jihad against extremism” (Birt 2006, 687). This is opposed to the “bad imam,” who is socially divisive at best, and at worst, prone to illegitimate behavior, crime, and is ultimately deported (Birt 2006, 687). My observations point out that my respondents very much tap into this description of the “good imam,” making it their duty as normal citizens to embody those virtues, and they present a Muslim self that is docilely appreciative towards this discursive binary. Having clarified this, its importance in this section pertains to its evident relevance for understanding how my interlocutors engage with the common good as an approach that directly structures the hermeneutics of their volunteering in categories that befit public causes. Identifying as the good Muslim—as opposed to other Muslims, who are not considered good, both in terms of public norms and Islamic norms—suggests a specific politics of their identity. Although I have mentioned these two categories separately, I observe that my interlocutors do not conceive of these as separate entities but as two complementary traditions. Indeed, what is Islamic must also have a reality for the public, even a liberal-secular public. In this sense, I agree with the argument made by Eickelman and Salvatore, who bring together the conversations of several authors to assert that, for the Muslim community, the public is built into multiple registers of “personality, responsibility, welfare, justice […] piety” (Eickelman and Salvatore 2006, xiv). Thus, the self (identity) is also shaped in accordance with these registers. Salwa Ismail suggests that in Western literature, religion is the defining point of Muslim identity, in that other entities of a person’s identity seem to develop in relation, and secondary, to religion (Ismail 2004). In such cases, as explained by Ismail, the actors articulate the necessity of an Islamic public and politics (Ismail 2004, 616). She adds

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that the image is so that Muslims seem to be more devout than those who adhere to other religions and this religiosity is “intimately tied” in with their politics (Ismail 2004). This normative claim does not represent the reality for many Muslim individuals or communities. My respondents perceive of religion as providing an ethical model which works with public registers and provides a frame of reference for their everyday conduct. Religion is not the primary logic that shapes all systems, but it works with them to create a meaningful existence for the actors. It is also important to note here that religion is not “transhistorical” and it is shaped by the conditions of the social world (Asad 2002). According to Asad, “there cannot be a universal definition of religion, not only because its constituent elements and relationships are historically specific, but because that definition is itself the historical product of discursive processes” (Asad 2002, 116). It is telling, then, that the sohbet teachers encourage their students to read more newspapers or watch local news channels rather than tune into Turkish channels via satellite. Although I have little observed how this actualizes in real life, nearly all my respondents waste no opportunity to point out that they follow the local more than other Turks, who are too hung up on Turkish news—and thus contribute nothing to the society they actually inhabit. Even this seemingly small example gives away a lot in perspective of what we have talked about throughout this section. Reading Dutch–French newspapers or following local channels (some of the respondents even pointed out that their children only watched Belgian cartoons), and contemplating on that information at their sohbets, meetings, events, and hermeneutics of their practical volunteering, greatly influences how they desire to engage with their public presence, with religion as a technique that is vested in a specific way of being Muslim in a liberal-secular society. The politics in their identity politics invigorates in the micro-spaces of daily life rather than manifests in macro claims. It is to this point that I next turn, by interrogating how my respondents construct their social interactions. In the coming sections, I discuss how these interactions shape da’wa in the very microfibers of society.

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Affection and Communicating Ethics One of the main forms of carrying out da’wa is through acts of care and affection, and by spending time with their entourage. We have already seen how care and affection are intertwined with relational ethics. They also override how the volunteers interpret da’wa and how it should unfold on a daily basis. With each section, we will explore what da’wa entails for the volunteers, but it is important to understand that no matter what the form and content, the underlying motive for taking on the duty of da’wa is to communicate a moral way of living for the people around them. The method of communication depends on who they are interacting with: Muslim, non-Muslim, young, old, type of profession, and level of education. What does not change is the feeling of care for the person with whom the interaction occurs. In a sense, the adab— manners—of da’wa points exactly to this attention to the performance of niceness. Care is an essential pillar of da’wa and, what is more, it cannot be thought of independently from the common good. To put it more exactly, da’wa is the practical manifestation of caring and the common good. Therefore, we will discuss how affects and care figure into communicating ethics. For the volunteers, none of their personal or professional relationships are mundane; they are the construction sites of a very specific form of moral interaction. The pious women carry out their engagements with the exact motive that they are communicating morality. This should not be confused with proselytizing. Taking into consideration the social and political context, my interlocutors are under no such illusion that they can simply start converting people. Communicating morality in the way they experience it is about being close to people and leading an exemplary life that upholds basic universal morals of goodness, kindness, altruism, forgiveness, and so on. Their performativity of these morals will, in turn, motivate the people around them to also commit to that lifestyle. Although these values would come across as common decency that most good people at least try to embody in their lifetime, for my interlocutors a true internalization of these values is also the key for social cohesion and the eradication of issues of racism, violence, discrimination, and even wars. This, for them, is the only way that the long, utopian,

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tumultuous road of communicating morality can be fulfilled. Care is a product of deliberation of the common good, and emotions are part of this deliberation, as they become a means for communicating ethics. During one of my first encounters with Vefa, she was reading a (religious) book about love, compassion, and caring. We were in her three-story townhouse in Brussels on a Friday afternoon with a couple of other volunteers. She stopped to discuss her own history as a volunteer, and what affection and intimacy mean to her: “I used to have a group of students a few years ago, and my duty was more than just teaching them, but also mentoring them. But to mentor a group of teenage girls, you really need to connect with them, and to connect with them, you need to love them. But there was this one girl whom I could not love initially. This was a problem for me, and I really did my best to develop a certain kind of affection toward her. I prayed to God for weeks so that he planted the seeds of love in my heart toward her, and I really actively tried to spend time with her and understand her, just get to know her to build affection and eventually a relationship with her.” Vefa’s problematization of emotions—or the lack of emotions—and her mental, physical, and spiritual endeavor to overcome this problem suggests that emotions are not taken for granted as “chaotic,” “irrational,” “subjective,” and “physical” (Lutz 1990, 69), but as “work” (Hochschild 2003), and a disposition that can be cultivated and fashioned. Mentoring younger students is not unusual for the volunteers, who usually spend their time tutoring and mentoring groups of teenagers and adolescents, often on a weekly basis. It was new to me when Vefa effectively asserted that there needed to be affection in this relationship. Affection, or muhabbet (affection, attachment), is often stressed by my interlocutors as an essential requisite in their interactions with others. Emotional detachment has often been considered a moral virtue in liberal-secular thought (Yarrow et al. 2015), often described as “rational thinking,” “objectivity,” and “reason.” This, however, has been criticized by many succeeding scholars (see Yarrow et al. 2015), who contest taking “disengagement” over “engaged agency” in rational thinking (Das 2013, 102). Charles Taylor argues for the attention to “human embodiment” as an essential requirement in the shaping of everyday experiences

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(Taylor 1993). Likewise, my interlocutors’ affective embodiment plays an important role in their daily relationships. Although Vefa did not go into explaining the reasons why emotional attachment matters, my discussions with other volunteers opened a window into understanding how they moved between different affective valances. Emotionality is not merely being intimate or nurturing love, but it is as Meral effectively suggests, “…being respectful and compassionate… not teasing and making fun of the other… not breaking another person’s heart, not calling them names or reprimanding them… tahkiki iman (true piety) lies in sorority.” Hence, while Vefa’s anecdote connotes a problem in the absence of affection with her student, Meral identifies a general character that must be embodied in daily interactions with others. One is not rude, but polite and compassionate. When Meral was discussing this subject with us, she was interpreting a verse of the Qur’an, the Surah al -Hujurat, which is mainly about good manners. Through the interpretation of this Surah, Meral continued explaining how the pious believer should shape their manners and inner dispositions in their social life. I have been in several other discussions where this Surah was interpreted and explained, and they all seemed to focus on the idea of sorority (or fraternity) and the cultivation of compassion through eliminating obstructive behavior. Moreover, such emotional propensity is way of communicating ethics. I consciously use ethics instead of morals from a Foucauldian perspective, in that the idea is not only to communicate a certain worldview, but the practices and techniques of self-cultivation that are grounded in that worldview and cosmology. In the coming sections, I will go deeper in explaining how this unfolds. This brings us back to the ‘why’ of the necessity of emotional intimacy, and the reason its absence is often seen as a predicament that must be overcome and ‘worked on’ by the volunteers. “If people like you, they will like what you stand for,” my interlocutors will often say. By embedding the relationship in an emotional state, my interlocutors communicate their outward practices as “pleasant” and “relatable” to others. I went to visit Esra, a young volunteer who has only been volunteering for a few years. Esra is a platinum blonde, very forthright French-speaking mother of two. When I first met Esra, I was

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extremely surprised that she volunteered, indicating my own approach to my interlocutors is heavily influenced by an expectation of a certain typology. My discussions with Esra, at the school where she was a secretary, led her to explain how her own familiarity with volunteering began because of affections: “I first started working as a secretary for one of the associations. I had just given birth. I had little job experience and was willing to work for anyone really… so I came across this job as a secretary and after the first day, I came home and I told my husband, no way, tomorrow I’m going back and resigning, it was far too unprofessional, even for me… And like I said, I had very low standards. So I went, the next day… but I just couldn’t resign. I mean, these people are so nice, so gentle, so polite, and they stay way after working hours and I stay with them, working on projects… I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s like they become your family and you want to do what you can for this family. And those years where I had a new baby and was looking for a ‘simple’ job became the busiest years of my life.” Working beyond normal hours and compensating for unprofessionalism are some of the things my interlocutors previously mentioned as a given of volunteering, even though they may be paid. Esra, who had no volunteering experience, started her job unaware of these facts, looking for a place where she could gain some experience and money. However, affection carried out through “nice, gentle, and polite” acts communicated a certain lifestyle to Esra, which she came to accept and eventually embody as an ethical disposition. Affection can be considered a dynamic in establishing relationships that can form on a common ethical ground. However, it can also become a practical means of achieving a ‘material’ goal, which I turn to in the next section.

Da’wa and Relational Asceticism For most of my respondents, da’wa is not a concept that is there, explicitly, in their discussions or everyday exchanges. Yes, they did refer to having a da’wa from time to time during the sohbet meetings, but it was so vague and so underdeveloped that it actually escaped my attention at first. I only returned to the phenomenon as an analytical concept after I

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realized that some other phenomena that were very explicitly referred to by my respondents were actually quite closely interrelated to da’wa—and even constituted it. Da’wa quite literally is unpacked as a contemporary form of asceticism by my interlocutors. Although asceticism is not exactly favored by the volunteers, as it is perceived as an outdated and even selfish mode of pious subjectivity, they do suggest that some kind of sacrificial mode of being is necessary for the individual to become immersed in a divine cause. Giving, as discussed throughout this book, is the ultimate form of worldly asceticism. Not only does it entail the subject fulfilling their duty as human in this world by completing the divine union through ensuring the mobilization of rizk, it also compels them to detach from their worldly possessions and sacrifice them. But giving is not only their ascetic endeavor to fulfill, at least according to my respondents; it is an affair that must be embraced by all. Hence, their da’wa is unpacked as the mission to ignite other Muslims and non-Muslims to this reality. The Muslim– non-Muslim divide is important to make. Indeed, both communities are addressed by my interlocutors, although from completely different angles. I will look at how both groups become subject to da’wa in more detail in the coming sections of this chapter. My interest is to examine the particularities of da’wa, a phenomenon that is ever so vague and changeable. Defining it as a form of contemporary asceticism, I question what it means not only for the objects of this cause, but also for the subjects, that is those who take this duty upon themselves. When my interlocutors refer to this interaction, when they establish a connection with other people in the context of da’wa, they often say they are attending to them. The original Turkish word for this relationship is ilgilenmek, which can be unpacked as “being concerned or preoccupied with someone.” It is a broad term that can denote any kind of care activity. I prefer to use the verb ‘attending,’ simply because the practice itself in many ways involves the volunteer’s full attention toward the other person. All my respondents experience the burden of attending to another person; it is the main discussion of most sohbet meetings, and even informal conversations. Such a highly significant phenomenon deserves much more in-depth exploration.

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It was during a long trip from Schaerbeek to Anderlecht that I had the chance to talk to Aynur, my long-term interlocutor and gatekeeper. Aynur was the volunteer who helped me enter the sohbet circles and introduced me to everyone. In her early thirties, she is one of the most active volunteers in the volunteering scene. She arranges the sohbet meetings and gives sohbets to the sohbet teachers themselves—for, indeed, they also need a source of information. An engineer by training, but a full-time devotee to volunteering, Aynur explained to me why it was so important to reach out to others, and, more specifically, to take care of them. Aynur: You know we live in an age when recognizing your spiritual weaknesses has become harder. Especially here in Belgium, where Turks have forgotten the way to live as proper Muslims. Yes, we cover our hair, some men grow beards, and even pray and fast, but what is essential to Islam, the spirituality, has been forgotten. Me: So attending to someone is to remind them of that spirituality? How so? Aynur: Do you know the story of Aziz Mahmud Hudai? Well we regard Aziz Mahmud Hudai as a great Islamic scholar. He lived in Ottoman times and was a well-respected scholar by the people and the Sultan himself. He was also a very wealthy person because he was a kadı (judge). So he was from the upper class, and he dressed well and lived well. After some years, he wanted to become the student of the Sufi Sheikh, Uftade. When he went to Uftade’s place of teaching and told him about his intentions to become a student, Uftade was very angry. He said that his place of teaching was for the ones with humility, the love of God, and learning, and not for the ones of wealth and egoism. He asked Aziz Mahmud how he dare come with all the expensive clothes on his back and expect to be accepted to his spiritual circle. Aziz Mahmud, being very embarrassed and of course broken, looked down and said that he would do anything to be accepted into Uftade’s circle. So they came to an understanding with Uftade that Aziz Mahmud would put aside his ego as a great Islamic scholar and sell meat in the streets to quench his ego. If he could nullify his ego, then Aziz Mahmud would be eligible to be apply as a student… So he sold meat on the streets like a common person till his ego, his nafs, left him and his iman shone. I am telling you this story because in the past there were sheikhs like Uftade and spiritual circles to help people overcome their egos and

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nafs, but today, in our societies, we have no such mechanism. Giving from our wealth is one of the most effective ways to overcome our nafs. Like Aziz Mahmud, who melted his ego when he was selling meat like a common person, today the one way we can melt our egos for God’s sake is to give what we have. It is an overlooked tradition in Islam today, like we only need to give if it is Ramadan or Eid, but no, it is so much more than that. Giving is always everywhere and we need to revive that tradition and understanding.”

This elaborate Sufi story that Aynur told unpacks the idea behind attending to the other, albeit implicitly. In the past, in Muslim-majority countries where Islam was the mundane ‘way of being,’ people had more interior and exterior structures that assisted their ethical trajectory. The Sufis had their own tariqah which prescribed them with daily worship and zikir, and paved their way for an ascetic life, drawing them closer to God. As the modern person, according to Aynur, did not have such a designated social or physical sphere for being closer to God, they needed their own ways of being ‘proper Muslims.’ Aynur explained that “today, the one way we can melt our egos for God’s sake is to give what we have,” implying that giving, or more specifically volunteering, is the worldly asceticism once practiced by Sufis in various forms and structures. It is their duty as Muslims to remind other Muslims of their duties to society, their ethical selves, and, ultimately, to God. The sohbet of that morning was devoted to stories of the life of the Prophet Mohammad, his companions, and his wives, and how religious figures over the centuries tried to reflect on selflessness and asceticism. After the sohbet, there was a session when Aynur asked the 15 or so women who were there how many people they had met the previous week and what they had done to form closer contact with those people. The women who participated in the sohbet were mostly in their late thirties and forties. They were not very highly educated, and I can say that none of them, except for Aynur and me, had a higher degree; the majority worked in manual jobs, like cleaning or factory work. I can imagine that for these women, whose time is divided between work, family, and volunteering, meeting new people and socializing is a difficult and distant aspiration. But I suppose Aynur did not share my sentiment.

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I listened with interest to how some of the women proudly conveyed they had met someone at work and exchanged numbers and how some sat uncomfortably in their chairs with no story to tell. “Yes, but I work full -time, I really had no time,” they said, or, “I really don’t have those social skills.” One woman said, “Yes, but how am I supposed to meet someone, I mean where? ” To all of these ‘excuses,’ Aynur had one answer: “These are not arguments. It is about the desire to want to meet someone and attend to them that allows you to do it; time and opportunity are only circumstantial. You will make the time and find the opportunity if you can fully grasp the importance. We need to meet people, to take care of them. This is our duty if we really want to fulfill our piety. People are living unaware of morals, unaware of what they can do for this world, and it is your duty to make them aware.” Aynur sat back sternly and the women looked quite embarrassed about not doing more. I could sense their consciences laying heavily on them. After the women left, Aynur and I were sitting at the table and eating biscuits, when she said to me, “You know a lot of the women here have been volunteering (for a long time), but they still find it hard to give… their time, their money, their attention… They give excuses like, oh but I have no money; yes, but you have your husband’s credit card, and you use it relentlessly. It is the nafs, a barrier between us and Allah. By attending to people, being with them, guiding them, we overcome the nafs together.” I asked, “And giving is the best possible way of doing that, jihad al -nafs?” “In these times, yes,” she said. It is noteworthy how in this context da’wa is not a mission carried out on the other; it is a contact that is meant for both parties. My discussion with Aynur led me to the observation that da’wa is more of a dialogical process, wherein both the attender and attended experience a transformation together as their relationship gradually unfolds. This is different from the more common idea of da’wa being an invitation or call to the truth, which I discussed earlier. There is indeed a call to “enjoining what is right” and “forbidding what is wrong” (Kerr 2000), whereby the good is obviously volunteering. Egd¯unas Raˇcius asserts that the doctrine of da’wa is closely linked to that of amr bil maroof wa nahl anil munkar (enjoining the good and forbidding the bad). Fadlullah (1994, 34) makes the distinction that da’wa is a concept that can be used when the issue

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concerns non-Muslims; however, if the case is that Muslims are trying to enlighten other Muslims, we can talk about amr bil maroof . I would not make such a distinction based on my observations. My interlocutors address both Muslims and non-Muslims with the approach of making them aware of the good/right. However, what is interesting here is that da’wa is a process of teaching the other what is good and bad. It is a process and an ongoing communication that gradually builds up. I think attending to the other can be examined within this framework. It is noteworthy that such a dialogical relationship is also an indication of the volunteers accepting their own ‘imperfectness.’ While the volunteer, with amr bil maroof , is in the course of bringing the other into a state of realization of their responsibilities to God, they are also acting upon themselves. The volunteer is also reflecting on their own responsibilities as they engage with the other. Aynur vehemently pointed out that, “By attending to people, being with them, guiding them, we overcome the nafs together.” Togetherness does not only denote their inspiring others, but also others inspiring them to be better Muslims. This imperfectness is also visible in Aynur’s engagement with her students, as she explicitly conveyed to them that no matter how much they give, it is not enough; they are bound to the other, to achieve perfectness in volunteering. While it may seem that the volunteer, who upholds ideas of ‘proper Muslimness,’ takes care of the other, it implies a precedence over the presumably less pious, ‘other’ Muslim, but Aynur latently challenges this. The volunteer is a learner, who learns as she teaches. This imperfectness is why most of them struggled to answer Aynur’s question. They were not struggling to explain why they did not take care of anyone, but with their feeling of guilt. Ultimately, they are not accountable to Aynur as a person, but to God. Aynur is the messenger, as they are a messenger for other people. In another group discussion, the sohbet teacher emphasized this critical relationship between the volunteer and the other. “Being in strong relationships with one another, forming bonds, and always warning each other of our shortcomings are crucial points in renewing ourselves spiritually,” said Vefa. “Whoever we have in our close circles, we need to invest in them so much that they at least adopt the basic moral principles. In order to do this, we need to drop anything else we are doing and

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start looking for ways of entering into people’s hearts. We need to reach out to more people because we need to expand our number of volunteers and donors, but also reaching out to people is part of amr bil maroof . This alone should give us enthusiasm to put our energy into it; it should give us the feeling we have when we see a newborn baby.” Vefa was one of my many interlocutors in her late twenties. She had been volunteering since she was just a high school student in Vienna. Although she is based in Brussels, her executive position in the associations requires her to visit other associations that do similar work. We were taking part in a sohbet together, in Vefa’s home in Brussels, when she talked about the moral importance of reaching out to others. Social interactions and daily connections with other people may strike one as an obvious, prosaic part of everyday life. However, I believe there is a nuance in Vefa’s description of social interaction and personal spiritual renewal, which also taps into what Aynur tried to convey to me during our car ride in Brussels. The individual’s connection to the other constitutes “crucial points in renewing ourselves spiritually,” and the idea that “they at least adopt the basic moral principles,” insinuating it is a multivalent process that has implications both for the self and the other. Studies in everyday religious experience already point out that pious individuals cultivate their outward behaviors to be politer, more approachable, and good towards others (Mahmood 2005; Jouili 2015). Mahmood gives an ethnographic account of how among her interlocutors such a cultivation is acknowledged as necessary for the pious individual to develop her own personal piety (Mahmood 2005). Moreover, the mosque movement within which her ethnography was performed was almost entirely focused on restoring Islamic practices in the everyday life of women (Mahmood 2003). Indeed, throughout this book, relationality plays out as an important dynamic in my interlocutors’ religious experiences. However, relationality takes on a different form in the narratives of Aynur and Vefa. They tenaciously remind their students of the inextricable relationship between the other and their self. This relationship is made into a project by the women, in that daily interactions with the other are pervasive and entail much more deliberation than spontaneous encounters.

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I suggest that we discuss attending to the other within the framework of Mahmood’s reading of Bourdieu’s notion of habitus (Mahmood 2003; see also Mahmood 2005). Mahmood defines habitus as “an acquired faculty in which the body, mind, and emotions are simultaneously trained to achieve competence at something” (Mahmood 2003, 851). Bourdieu’s conceptualization of habitus understands it as an embodiment of dispositions that are articulated and re-articulated through the “structural” and “class positions” of individuals (Bourdieu 1977). According to Bourdieu, this process is at most unconscious (Bourdieu 1977). Mahmood, taking off from this point, examines habitus as a term that “addresses the centrality of gestural capacities in certain traditions of moral cultivation. Aristotelian in origin and adopted within Christianity and Islam, habitus in this formulation is concerned with ethical formation and presupposes a specific pedagogical process by which moral character is acquired” (Mahmood 2003, 851). From this perspective, habitus is acquired through a repetition of outward practices and supported by inward dispositions (Mahmood 2005). According to Mahmood, this trajectory is how the subject achieves the embodiment of virtues. In the case of my interlocutors, this trajectory is not only limited to the self. The pedagogical process that Mahmood elaborates is not only limited to the individual, but also closely concerns the other. While the volunteer is in the process of acquiring virtues through the habitus of giving, their attendance to others incorporates them into that process, creating a shared experience of ethical formation.

Negotiating the Tactics of Attending to the Other So far, we have been exploring the components of contemporary da’wa, by observing the values individuals attach to advancing close interpersonal relationships. In this section, I want to explore the dynamics of this rapport more closely. More specifically, I want to examine how the traditional Islamic notion of adab, in structuring mu’aamalat, is re-articulated as a social tactic. I borrow the term mu’aamalat from Paul Anderson (2011), and it is described as “social exchange and

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interaction.” Anderson explains that anthropology needs to pay more attention to mu’aamalat rather than personal worship, ’ibadat, and “go beyond Foucauldian conceptions of ethics as self-formation” (Anderson 2011, 4). While I do agree that mu’aamalat cannot be studied independently from the individual’s own ethical subjectivity, I should add that it is complementary to’ibadat, and not lesser or more significant. An important example can be found in Fatima’s description of how the volunteer must contemplate their approach to the other. She gives a detailed account of how attending to someone else should unfold: “Attending to someone is like planting a seed and waiting for it to grow. First we need to determine the people whom we will take care of, and we can have discussions between ourselves on how we should attend to those people and give each other ideas. Of course, first attending to people who are closer to volunteering and spirituality by nature is more logical. When we have determined who we will attend to, we need to put this person on the list of people that we pray for. Praying for someone and mentioning their name is like writing a letter to Allah directly from them. It directly goes to Allah in their name. Of course, these prayers need to be done with ikhlas and sincerity if we want them to be accepted. Apart from praying for them, finding solutions for the material and spiritual problems of the people we are attending to is one of the most effective ways in forming bonds with them. Be helpful about the children of the people you are attending to. Their children are [the] most important things in people’s lives, so teach their children to read the Qur’an for example [This is only possible where the attended is a Muslim]. Take note of their special days, and give them presents. Do not get easily upset with them over nothing, forget your anger, and be forgiving. We have no right to be upset towards other people. It is part of our infaq to give our wealth and our sympathy and be forgiving. We need to take the individual characteristics of people into account when we are attending to them. We cannot act the same towards everyone. People have different fitra. Also, please take into consideration the society you are living in and act toward people in the way that the society can understand and relate to. The best way to reach out to people is to live the way we are preaching. Living examples are the most effective methods.”

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“Attending to someone is like planting a seed and waiting for it to grow.” This opening line indicates that attending to people is a long process that requires patience and investment, like cultivating a plant. In fact, Fatima’s description of how this process unfolds indicates its association with both material and spiritual concerns. Attending to the other in her description unfolds as a pedagogical process where the volunteer is in an active, dialogical process of being part of the other’s life, not only physically speaking but also in the barzakh, “that which is located between presence and absence,” (Mittermaier 2011, 89). Thus, “spiritual investment” refers to establishing bonds with the other beyond worldly matters. It is this point that embeds the relationship within an ethical matter and abstracts it from a mere mundane daily encounter. The relationship between the volunteer and the other has an al -batin (Mittermaier 2011, 85) quality, where the visible and physical act of taking care of the other establishes a connection between God and the caregiver. This connection is very much an aspired one, as there is no certainty and no material indication that indeed the subject can establish a spiritual connection with the divine through a physical, mental, and spiritual investment in the other. Hence, this investment is imbricated in a constant moral engagement for the volunteer, in which the dialogism implies that the other is not a passive recipient of care, but an active participant of the caregiving relationship. Being specifically in tune with the other’s personality and fitra asserts that this pedagogical process is not detached from the recipient. The aim of taking care of the other is to introduce a lifestyle of volunteering and inducing a desire to be a proper Muslim, as we have previously discussed. Since this is a lifelong investment, it is important for the volunteer to acquaint the other with this idea. My interlocutors recognize that this requires a commitment on their side to be personally devoted to the other, as well as achieving a response from the other. Looking at Fatima’s description of taking care of the other more closely, we can uncover how the volunteers develop a complex practice embedded in multiple discourses, switching between morally laden and structured long-term projects, such as teaching “their children to read the Qur’an,” and daily behaviors of kindness and sensitivity, such as,

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“tak[ing] note of their special days, and giv[ing] them presents.” My interlocutors, who spend a third of the weekly sohbet meetings discussing how they managed to reflect on the information they learned the previous week, often asked each other what they did for someone else the previous week. “It doesn’t have to be something extreme, maybe even having a cup of coffee with your neighbour that you neglected for some time,” Elif said, often gently inducing her students to take initiative. Attending to someone is apparently instilled in the mundane, the most seemingly unimportant circumstances of everyday life; however, it still implicitly follows a code of conduct. This is different from, for example, the da’wa movement in Mahmood’s ethnographic setting that mainly takes place within the mosque context (Mahmood 2005). In the coming sections of this chapter, we will focus more closely on what it means that the volunteers trace their da’wa in the mundane. Fatima’s description engages with that conduct and gives the other volunteers a prescription to work on. Michel de Certeau’s The Practice of Everyday Life (2011) is still one of the most influential works that approaches the mundane as the site of the “operation of power in its daily enactments and renegotiations” (Fadil and Fernando 2015). De Certeau locates resistance to power in the smallest fractions of activities, such as folktales, songs, myths, and legends (De Certeau 1984). In what he calls tactics, De Certeau describes actions that are not supported by the power structures, but are still articulated within those structures (De Certeau 1984). Thus, “it does not have the means of containing itself in itself, in a position of retreat, of anticipating, of gathering itself: it is movement ‘in the enemy’s field of vision’ […] and in the space controlled by him […] It must vigilantly utilize the gaps which the particular combination of circumstances open in the control of the propriety of power” (De Certeau et al. 1980, 6). De Certeau explains tactics as a form of resistance, working with propriety within larger structures of power. In the case of my respondents, I have observed that tactics are conducts that work in propriety within the power structures not to resist, but to bring about micro-level individual (and gradually social) change. The volunteers are extremely careful that their approach to others is completely context-appropriate.

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My interlocutors are aware that if da’wa is to bring another person into a state of moral awareness, this has to follow a context- or person-specific route. Attending to someone requires constant assessment of that route, and a creative approach to each different person and circumstance, trying to inspire a moral change while at the same time “inscribing them within, rather than dislocating them from, existing norms and values” (Fadil and Fernando 2015, 66). This resonates in Fatima’s last caution that each volunteer should “take into consideration the society you are living in and act toward people in the way that the society can understand and relate to.” All my respondents articulate these tactics from a more Islamic and less confrontational perspective. For them, being in propriety, and working within the social, cultural, and political structures of society to initiate a moral change is an obvious indication of adab. This notion is complicated and in many ways can be unpacked from a behavioral angle. Lapidus translates adab from its original Arabic as “the ethical and practical norms that regulated the life of a good Muslim” (Lapidus 1984, 38). It refers to an education that aims for moral righteousness and good behavior (Lapidus 1984, 38). Moreover, what I find more relevant and striking with Lapidus’s clarification (1984, 40) is that adab is closely related to knowledge (’ilm), and what is more, putting knowledge to action. Thus, the individual can only truly know if they are able to manifest it in their outward practices. The very essence of faith (iman) is located in the ability to project what is in the mind, heart, and vocabulary. Adab is not only being in propriety with dominant structures, and it cannot be reduced to a tactical existence in society. It is an embodiment of knowledge—not only of Islam, but also of the other human individual, and the multiplicities that make that individual. If the volunteer is to carry out da’wa, they need to have some level of knowledge. However, this knowledge can only be projected to the other through attendance, and not so much open preaching. This latter point, I have come to realize, is where tactics and adab meet. In regard to my interlocutors, I have often witnessed them vocalize this. One of the most important outcomes of taking care that my interlocutors anticipate is that the other is eventually invited and integrated into a sohbet circle. “We can’t just phone a woman and ask her if she’d

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like to join our sohbet,” said Aynur to her students, “Who would enter a group they know nothing about for’ilm? Of course, we are on the right path, but it will take time for others to trust us and believe in this path. That is why we need to establish these friendship bonds, so that we are trusted and this path is trusted, and others are willing to contribute themselves. But, if we cannot establish that closeness and call other women to our sohbet, they will never have a platform like you do to learn the importance of giving.” Attending to someone is connected to the ultimate outcome of integrating the recipient into a source of knowledge, which initiates the ethical awakening and not the ‘care process’ itself. This is a complex process, during which the care process is actually a process of establishing intimacy and trust for the next level of inviting them to a meeting. Sohbet as a platform for knowledge is closely intertwined with the idea of trust, in Aynur’s words. She suggests that the subject must trust their source of knowledge for it to make a lifelong learned difference, for it to be education. This brings us to the point that Vefa mentioned at the very beginning, “reaching out to others is our amr bil maroof ”; in other words, it is their way of calling others to do right and stay away from wrong.

Attending to Muslims Da’wa has only recently been associated with the calling back of fellow Muslim believers to the rightful path of God (Racias 2004, 6). The expansion of Christian missionary activities in the nineteenth century gave way to a reactionary sense of duty to deal with those Muslims who had gone astray (Racias 2004, 6). Kate Zebiri draws a line between the kind of da’wa Muslims pursue among their fellow Muslims in terms of “methodology, content, and motivation” and coins this as ‘intra-ummaic da’wa’ (Zebiri 1997). The Islamic scholar al-Mu’taz describes this type of endeavor as “the da’wa of renewal and correction,” meaning that it is a venture to correct the faith (iman) and perfect the ethical self. Although Racias (2004) points out that da’wa towards fellow Muslims is a post-Qur’anic development, the volunteers lean on Prophetic stories to explain how they conceive of this duty. In their imaginations,

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Mohammad was the first person who was to call His own community to a more faithful life, and it was later expected that the first Muslims guided each other towards righteousness, assisting with their shortcomings or failures, and warning one another of their bad deeds. Intra-ummaic da’wa is perceived as an ethical imperative, especially in a context where Muslims are confronted with discernible challenges to living and expressing their faith. These challenges are not only framed in terms of discrimination or compatibility with the West, but also as the mere problem of learning the right Islam and where to start. This latter point may seem confusing in this day and age, when knowledge is literally at the tip of our fingers, to which my respondents add that even at times when knowledge is available for everyone, there must be a desire to seek and find that knowledge. In this regard, attending to Muslims materializes this ecclesiastic aspiration to direct other Muslims to attend to their self, mainly by seeking knowledge and realizing an ethical habitus. Attending to Muslims is a process with multiple concerns for the volunteers. First, is the responsibility they have in guiding the other Muslim to become a ‘better’ Muslim, or proper Muslim. Second, it relies on how they conceptualize their identity as Muslims in Belgian society. This conceptualization is largely related to their positions as ethnic and religious minorities. This is important to observe as it largely determines how ‘attendance’ takes shape at the micro-level. We have already discussed the common good extensively earlier in this chapter. Attending to Muslims is not detached from that discourse, and thus re-investing in the Muslim self is no longer only about rejuvenating faith but also about other failures that are attached to their minority status. The specifics of attending to Muslims are not accidental, in my opinion, but reflective of how they make sense of their category as Muslims in Belgium and how they connect the deficiencies related to that category to the serious deficiencies they identify in the iman of the same people. According to my interlocutors, while being a pious Muslim requires some kind of ethical labor, being a proper Muslim who understands their self and the society, and develops self-techniques with the proper consciousness requires a much more complicated and elaborate ethical investment. Attending to Muslims in this case is being a guide on their developmental trajectory.

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The Spa and the Sohbet Bringing other women to a certain sense of ethical consciousness is often a complicated process that calls for extended deliberation, and often leads to inconsistencies. A group of my volunteers were having tea together in Tulay’s house in the suburbs of Brussels one rainy December evening. Tulay had just found out that there was a swimming pool–spa resort in Antwerp that could be privately rented. “We don’t have many options for swimming and wellness, and it would be great to take some people we know to this event… You know it’s an opportunity to build stronger bonds with those people… Maybe later we can invite them to a sohbet ….”, said Tulay. All the women seemed to really enjoy the idea of taking their friends to a spa resort and saw it as a genuine chance to bond with their friends in the process of taking care of them. “Remember ladies,” said Tulay, “this is not a treat for ourselves; it is for our friends and the real aim is to become closer with these women.” Later that week, Tulay set up a Viber group, to which she also added me; although I was not in a position to bring a friend, she still wanted to include me. During the week, they discussed this event elaborately, considering who they would bring and up to how many women they could bring, as well as what they should wear in the resort. The volunteers are all observant women who do not feel comfortable wearing revealing swimwear. They decided to wear something that closely resembles a burkini, but then the problem arose as to what their guests would wear. How could they tell them, without telling them, that a bikini would not be a decent type of swimwear? In the end, my interlocutors decided that they would not intervene in what the other women decided to wear, but themselves would be very careful not to be too revealing. At the end of the week, and before the big day, the whole event got cancelled. All of a sudden, everyone had something to do and could not make it to Antwerp. My interlocutors were supposed to meet the next Wednesday evening, and they did. I noticed that Tulay, who usually stands out, was quiet all

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through the evening; during the sohbet, she did not ask a single question or make a single remark. At the end of the sohbet, the volunteers started to talk about their future projects and their goals for the following week. Tulay suddenly interrupted them and said: This is like a joke! We were supposed to take our friends out last weekend, but no one could be bothered to participate. I don’t understand… If we can’t get these women to come to a fun event, how are we going to persuade them to come to a sohbet ? I wonder, all of you, one by one, what were your reasons to cancel?

The atmosphere naturally became tense, as the women looked down at their feet, not commenting. “Of course, it was our mistake,” said Esra. “We did promise… You are right, we should be able to at least bring our friends to recreational events.” “Yes, but that is not enough,” replied Tulay, still looking very agitated. “It’s always the same thing: we try to do something, everyone jumps in, but then it gets cancelled because somehow, on the last day, everyone jumps out. We are so selfish that we think we can cancel these events because we don’t have time. Who said it was about us? It is about them, the people we are attending to, and the fact that we are not engaging with them enough. And then, if we have an event or a campaign, or if there is a sohbet, it is just us who participate, and no one else, because we did not engage with them enough beforehand, and we didn’t spend time with them. So why should they come and feel the need to give?”

Tulay’s angry words can be unpacked from several perspectives and serve as an effective indicator of the morals behind taking care of other Muslims. What the women were aiming to do with the spa event was an attempt at getting closer to their acquaintances in an out-of-context setting, so they could establish enough closeness that they could invite them to an in-context event or campaign. The volunteers perceive that it is harder to engage with people in a religious setting, or a context where they are expected to contribute for a cause, as not everyone may be in

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that ethical consciousness, as I have previously noted. However, bonding with others in a relaxed atmosphere, like a field trip or a swimming pool, helps them take the process to a new level. Tulay’s frustration lies in the fact that the volunteers do not take the first process—the one that is meant to be easier, lighter, more fun—with enough seriousness. This may be a recreational event for their guests, but for them it is as serious as any other volunteering event. Tulay warned the women that “this is not a treat for ourselves, it is for our friends…,” meaning that it is not an event where they should aim for fun or relaxation, but they should concentrate on those who are invited and definitely not cancel the whole program. Secondly, the spa, as a social space, is re-articulated through “the power of moral authority” (Deeb and Harb 2013, 26). If space does define “categories of people and practices” based on notions of what is good and bad (Deeb and Harb 2013, 26), we see how the spa is re-introduced as a site for morally relating to the other. Deeb and Harb investigate how consumption is related to morality, politics, status, and identity in general. I refer to their work in examining how leisure space, time, and consumption can be ascribed different forms and meanings in relation to moral concerns. However, my primary concern is not consumption but how leisure practices are re-claimed as a creative way to communicate morality to others. While the dynamics of taking care of others suggest an often social and relaxed environment where the aim is to bond, it is often asked of the volunteers to detach themselves from this expectation and concentrate on the leisure of the other and try to bond with them at the expense of their own relaxation. The fact that the guest is also a Muslim makes it easier for them to connect on some issues. They feel comfortable in asking their friends to a spa and wearing a burkini without feeling reservations. This is only one example. When interacting with Muslims—even those who are not observant or only know Islam from their parents—my interlocutors still feel a certain freedom in embedding their practices in an ethical reasoning that borrows from religion. There is something shared with the other Muslims that does not make it a problem if they meet in a non-alcohol-serving café; it does not seem weird when they wear a different bathing suit, or even when they use religious jargon. As Tulay indicated, when attending to Muslims, the ultimate aim is to invite them to a sohbet and introduce them to a source

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of religious knowledge where they are to gradually internalize an ethical consciousness towards giving. Schielke finds a problem in the understanding of religion as a “clear, exact set of commandments and prohibitions that leave little or no space for different interpretations or negotiation” (Schielke 2010, 28). It is a problem because these interpretations and negotiations may not work perfectly with the criteria that pertain to a moral self. In the case of my interlocutors, morality is not located in the act or the space, but in how these elements are creatively re-articulated to establish sites of moral engagement. When asking my interlocutors why they rely on leisure activities in their relationships with others, they replied that it was “for God’s consent.” Notably, the volunteer interprets leisure outside its ‘fun’ context and imbricates it in a moral cosmology. Leisure is a tool in a sense, one used to bond with the other Muslims and impel them to other causes, like the acquisition of knowledge.

Where the System Fails There Will Be a Volunteer Esra is a young woman in her mid-twenties. She has volunteered for the associations since her early college years. She was introduced to the community by a friend, who then convinced her to participate in sohbet meetings and volunteering. She then married her current husband, who also volunteers, and she explained that they are both very committed to their responsibilities; they see volunteering as their life’s project. Esra’s main duty is to organize the Flemish Mathematics Olympics (Pangea Wiskunde Quiz). As big as the name suggests, it is indeed a huge organization where about 9000 children come together for a mathematics test; those who score highest are rewarded with a prize. Throughout our interview, Esra tried to explain the essence of why such events were important: “These events are important because they are an opportunity for us to meet new people, and young students who have something to offer to the world. The competitions that we organize are not really difficult; the aim really is to motivate the children in their education. The ultimate aim is, of course, to introduce these people to the volunteering community and find a way for us to work together. I mean we all know how

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as Muslims we are represented as a burden on the society in media and politics, but we want to show that we can give something to the society and that we do have a lot to contribute. And I think reaching out to young students, getting to know them and developing the potential they have, is really important in this sense.” Organizing a macro project, where thousands of young students participate, has a very micro-level aim for Esra. The project itself aims to motivate students for further education, but ultimately her moral reasoning is getting in touch with students, spending time with them, and, through the associations, introducing them to the community and working together to contribute to society with their potential. When Esra says “introducing someone to the volunteering community,” she refers to it as a way of life, not just a group of people. More explicitly, reaching out to people and introducing them to the community does not necessarily entail them becoming members of the associations or an organic part of the (volunteering) community, but it refers to them internalizing the ideas that motivate the volunteers, such as working for social welfare and investing in the society, and so on. Ultimately, introducing someone to the associations refers to integrating their potential volunteer into the associations’ ideals and expecting a social reform from that dualistic relationship. What is important in Esra’s explanation is the idea that by introducing young, successful students to the associations, they use that potential to motivate other students. We have discussed how my interlocutors reflect on the narratives concerning the low educational levels of Turkish Belgians. These narratives also influence how they approach taking care of Muslims, as social, economic, and religious problems usually center around Muslim minorities that consist of Turkish and Moroccan youth. Thus, when the volunteers talk about taking care of other Muslims, they not only refer to enhancing their ethical becoming, but usually also point to projects that have a more tangible social dimension. Paula D’hondt’s 1989 report on migration describes that though there are problems surrounding “education, employment, health, welfare,” it was largely left to the immigrants to deal with these problems, insinuating a gap between them and the rest of society that they needed to work on (Zemni 2011,

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31). My interlocutors explicitly suggest that they are trying to ‘fill in that gap’ by working on their own communities’ developments. The volunteering associations have a large number of highly educated volunteers, both female and male, some of whom are still pursuing their Bachelor’s degrees. Having spent time with the female students, I found them very enthusiastic about tutoring younger students or organizing events where they would present the degree they are working on in order to help the students make choices about their future education and careers. I found that by embracing this ethical stance, and presenting as ‘pious’ Muslims, my interlocutors are able to get through to other Muslim families and individuals, by building trust on the premise that they share the ‘same moral concerns.’ This allows them into the inner circles of those in need of help, support, or some kind of structure. The volunteers often express how they can help students who need extra attention and care through special tutoring, and it is because they offer this help as ‘moral Muslims’ that the families can trust them with their children. This was also expressed by Fatma, one of the volunteers who lives in Antwerp: “We live in a closed community. My parents would only engage with people they knew or with our relatives. Growing up I always wanted to get a good education, but that was not really a thing in our neighborhood. Do you know what I mean? People I knew would just go to vocational schools and find an easy way to get into a job or acquire their rights for unemployment money. I mean, not really intellectual, right? And I got married so young, I was 20, but my husband said okay, if you want to I will support your education. But it was really hard as a young married woman. Then I met this woman from the associations. She was older than me, and doing her Master’s degree. She guided me personally; she put so much effort into me so that I would pursue my education. She inspired me to go on. Without her in my (Turkish) community I would never have gotten into university.” Fatma is in her mid-thirties. She has been volunteering for the associations since the age of 20. She was born and raised in Antwerp, in a Turkish family. Her father is a businessman, as is her husband, and she works together with her husband. When I met Fatma, she was quite critical of her community—for its lack of interest in education, its lack of

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openness, and, interestingly, its lack of piety. The lack of proper piety was very much because they were not interested in the world around them and were not investing in their community. My interlocutors often talked about young university students, especially females, cutting their education off to marry. They usually complained that the families do not gives these girls a proper vision for life. One would make a comment now and then that “I was the one who married latest in the family,” meaning they went to school and worked before marriage. But by saying this, they also detach themselves from their community and turn back to them with the desire to help. Inevitably, they feel that they are the main person responsible for their community’s short comings. In the case of Fatma, one of the reasons that volunteering was so attractive to her was because it was parallel to her own personal ambitions. When she met the woman who coached her to pursue an education, it was an example of how the volunteers take one-to-one interest in caring for the other, namely bringing out their potential. According to Fatma, such an individual interest provides an alternative to structural restrictions and community neglect. The volunteer is hence a moral role model, often having to understand her community vis-à-vis the larger community, and constantly re-engaging with the social narratives to try to find a place to direct their volunteering and have a meaningful presence in other lives. Eickelman and Salvatore describe this kind of deliberation as a way of expressing a “shared sense of public,” whereby notions of public are linked to responsibility, welfare, and justice, and are founded on the common good (Eickelman and Salvatore 2006, 14). In the case of my interlocutors, they reclaim the ‘public’ by investing in what has slipped through the public conscious. These are usually related to what they identify as problems in their own communities. The larger society also describes these issues as ‘problems,’ but generally fails to take up the responsibility for solving them. What Eickelman and Salvatore describe as the common good, my interlocutors describe as their personal duty. Lara Deeb eloquently argues in a similar direction, stating that interpretations of Islam based on social and political experiences are regarded by many Muslims as the correct way of living Islam. This deduction is in line with what I observed with my interlocutors, who are convinced that

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the common good lies in tackling communal and structural problems, individually and with those who are subjected to these problems. “She guided me personally, she put so much effort into me […] She inspired me to go on…” Here we see an absence of the community, which is compensated for by an older role model. In situations where the systems or the institutions (education, family, community, local, and political administrators) fail to motivate people out of their shortcomings, relational piety unfolds by individually guiding those people, hence assigning the volunteer as a moral role model. Manço and Kanmaz (2005) also suggest that while the Muslim population in Belgium (more specifically in Brussels) suffered a period of stigmatization and discrimination stretching from the early seventies right up to the new millennium, this image gradually changed due to the upward mobility of Muslims. What I find more interesting is that during the nineties, the debates on “turning Muslims into responsible citizens” seemed to replace blatant Islamophobic statements. This new discourse entailed the desire to “raise the Islamic faith from its state of underdevelopment” (Manço and Kanmaz 2005, 1109). The Muslim population’s entry to different areas of employment and civil society (Jacobs 2000) has improved the public image of Muslims, at least according to Manço and Kanmaz (2005, 1111). Despite improvements, it has not eliminated the social and political problems that have been blamed on their presence, or their quest for “recognition and participation” (Manço and Kanmaz 2005, 1111). While these authors pick up on an important nuance, my respondents effectively convey how they pick up on these discourses— that they are responsible for any discrepancy that may exist with the larger society. Self-help becomes one of the most important techniques in achieving recognition as a healthy part of society. What is more interesting is that these techniques are translated through religious registers and become their raison d’être.

A Good Muslim Is an Integrated Muslim When I first started my project, the women’s organization had organized an event where they aimed to bring mothers from different ethnic and

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cultural backgrounds together to share their experiences. Back then, the association was still in a building in Schaerbeek, one of Brussels’ highly diverse districts. Indeed, the city itself hosts a high variety of ‘non-white’ immigrants. With the industrial economy developing, the city welcomed European and non-European immigrants as part of the labor migration. Spaniards, Italians, Moroccans, and Turks became the dwellers in neighborhoods like Schaerbeek due to cheap housing and close proximity to employment (Rea 2013). But labor migration is not the only reason for the diversity; eventually, asylum seekers from Bolivia, Congo, Brazil, Iraq, and so on came for a safer home and work opportunities. They added to the immigrant flow after the Soviet Union collapsed (Rea 2013). Hence, in the 1980s the proportion of the ‘non-white’ population in Brussels varied from 30 to 40% (Rea 2013). “Isn’t that crazy?” Ilknur, who was the secretary of the association back then, would ask me. “You can’t even count the number of diverse ethnicities sharing this neighborhood with us.” I asked her, “And what is your aim in trying to bring these mothers together? You say to share their experiences, but does that have a more specific scope?” Ilknur said, “Well we know that a lot of young people in this neighborhood have trouble in school, finding a job, you know, fitting in. So we wanted to bring their mothers together, just meet them and try to find a mutual approach to our problems.” I asked, “And you do this as a good citizen?” “Well, a good Muslim is a good citizen,” Ilknur said. “We do these things because we believe that a good Muslim should find solutions for problems in their community. That what we try to do here…” “A good Muslim is a good citizen” reflects how Ilknur has internalized an understanding that I hear a lot among my interlocutors, and that is often reflected in how they choose to develop an event. Eventually I started seeing a pattern in themes of the events they organize, and bringing together mothers from different ethnic and cultural backgrounds fit that pattern. My interlocutors do target social problems at their events, but I noticed that they target these social problems in a way that the problems are reflected on them. I find notable that during the time I carried out participant observation, I did not come across an event

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where they engaged with inequality, racism, or Islamophobia, which are some social problems they also acknowledge to exist. In public discourse, Islam is considered an integral part of immigration problems, maybe even “the most important part, because it is seen as the main element causing the social, cultural, and economic problems of immigrants, the roots of delinquency that does not allow ‘integration’” (Torrekens 2014, 156–157). Similar to the ‘multi-cultural mothers’ event, they usually reflect on issues like unemployment, educational problems, radicalization, and in general the problem of ‘integration,’ or indeed the lack of it. When I asked my interlocuters, quite like Ilknur, they told me that it is their duty as good Muslims to challenge these problems. The issues they choose to claim and address, and the themes they do not claim or address, indicate how their volunteering is informed by public discourses and re-articulated by reference to the Islamic tradition. I do not mean to say that my interlocutors are oblivious to the negative discourses surrounding their Muslim presence in society. In our personal discussions, they often refer to how hard it is to be a Muslim woman and sustain a professional life. Tuba, who is now a doctor and graduated from her Master’s degree with a summa cum laude, once told me that “whatever your grades, you can never be the most successful student in your class if you are a woman wearing a headscarf.” She said that she often felt belittled and under-appreciated by her doctoral advisor, who never even wanted her in the first place; they were somehow “stuck together.” Tuba’s mostly negative experiences as a visibly Muslim PhD student are shared among her close friendship group. Esra, a very outgoing volunteer and a close friend of Tuba’s, told me how it was difficult for her to find a job as a veiled pharmacist because most of the pharmacies she applied to explicitly told her they did not want a visibly Muslim woman interacting with their customers. It was only when a woman of Moroccan background, who understood her religious sensitivities, hired her that she started working again. These stories are not new to me, and the research on their real difficulties is extensive (Göle 2003; Amir-Moazami 2001; Shadid and Van Koningsveld 2005; Maussen 2006). However, such narratives do not seem to be incorporated into my interlocutors’ volunteering agenda. One can surely be a good citizen by

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effectively challenging structural and social inequality. Unpacking events such as the ‘multi-cultural mothers’ event is hence significant in this sense. It is an indication of how ‘the good Muslim’ is constructed in conversation with social and political narratives of minorities, Muslims, the idea of multi-culturalism (or its failure), ideal citizenship, and, of course, integration. What interests me most, more than the different forms of xenophobia/Islamophobia my respondents experience in their daily life, is that these conflicts seem to arise the most when they are pursuing this desire of being a good Muslim and social participation. Marian Burchardt and Ines Michalowski (2015) have an edited volume which they entitled After Integration: Islam, Conviviality and Contentious Politics in Europe. I agree with their thesis that what happens “after integration” is highly interesting because integration, which is a highly arbitrary concept as to where it begins and ends, has already happened on many levels for Muslims (Burchardt and Michalowski 2015, 4–5). This offers us a more nuanced approach in understanding how Muslim practices take shape in the European scene, as they are now increasingly “normalized” in that they are considered integral parts of society, but also highly problematized (Burchardt and Michalowski 2015, 5). They note this “complex parallelism of an expansion of Muslims’ rights and organizational and political incorporation on the one hand, and the rise of anti-Islamic populism on the other” (Burchard and Michalowski 2015, 5). Thus, the question throughout this chapter is not the extent to which my interlocutors have integrated , in light of their desire to work for the common good, but how they negotiate the conflicts that take shape after that point. From what they convey to me, I understand that the ideal that is projected on my interlocutors is also where their challenges begin. It is at this point, I observe, where they see their da’wa take shape, in the implicit but immanent cracks of a social imagination that cannot deal with the idea of accepting what for them is completely obvious and profound. This point was echoed by Elif when I asked her how they develop their events. “We need to show that Islam is not like they (the non-Muslim) think it is: backward and closed to development. Or Muslims are not like they see in the media.” This statement takes us back to the assertion

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that “a good Muslim is a good citizen,” suggesting that their religiosity is embedded in a context, or more explicitly how they describe a good citizen. My interlocutors do not naturally absorb these narratives but critically engage with them, negotiating with them in respect to how they construct their piety. The events they develop and carry out cultivate the self that is the pious ‘good citizen.’ The emphasis on tackling educational problems is a clear indication of how they acknowledge the discourse on Turkish Belgian students’ low educational progress. It is a discourse that is often described in statistical terms (Timmerman et al. 2003; Crul 2007). This was such a recurring issue that the years 2012–2013 were devoted mostly to challenging education, and later integration into the labor market, in the case of Turkish youth. One of the biggest events the volunteers organized was the three-day symposium ‘Diverse Talents for the Future of Europe.’ I attended the whole three days of this symposium as a listener. It took place simultaneously in the European Parliament, the Diamant Hotel in Brussels, and the associations. The symposium was not organized solely by my female interlocutors, but in partnership with their male colleagues. However, they did take part in the organization and planning of the event and were present throughout the symposium. Policy-makers, academics, and NGO representatives were all invited to present their findings on the educational situation of youth with immigrant backgrounds and how the youth can be helped and eventually ‘integrated’ into the labor market. Of course, there was a wide array of ideas and numbers thrown at us, but the main one was that for some reason these youngsters were showing lower development than their ‘white’ peers, and that this inevitably impacted their employment options in the future. After the symposium, a report was issued with the main bullet points. I asked Elif and some other interlocutors, who were working in executive positions of the associations, why they felt the need to organize such an event, as it must also cost them a lot. “Because we wanted to raise awareness of the problems surrounding the minority youth here,” she said. “[We wanted to] do something about that, you know, work for a solution.”

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Elif ’s initial assessment is that their events should tackle the “problems surrounding the minority,” which is a consciously chosen framework, as opposed to problems that are ‘reflected’ on the minority. Similar to the issue we discussed before about the headscarf, it is not that my interlocutors do not experience the challenges of social and political narratives reflected on them as a religious minority, but that they choose to frame their engagement with them in a certain form. That form is to accept minority problems as minority problems and tackle them from within, instead of shifting their attention to stigmas and challenges inflicted on them as a community. This approach in their volunteering is not detached from the Islamic tradition. It is embedded in a religious narrative that they accept as authoritative. With my sohbet group, we listened to an Islamic scholar’s lessons from a website, where they were posted on a weekly basis. A scholar in one particular lesson asserted that a Muslim must always serve their country. He added that “the love for one’s country depends on iman (faith).” Patriotism is a common theme in Islam, and it is very prominent among my interlocutors, who usually translated the lesson to mean “a good Muslim is a good citizen.” Scholars acknowledge that religious traditions are “institutionally” and “discursively” grounded, which provide a “set of moral and social references,” which then shape their social practices and the discourses that embed those practices (AmirMoazami and Salvatore 2003, 5). In this light, my interlocutors re-shape Islamic patriotism by problematizing the concept of ‘country,’ or more specifically which country one is to serve as a Muslim living in a country like Belgium. They unpack the ‘servable country’ by reference to the nation-state discourse. As in the examples of the education symposium, the multi-cultural mothers’ meeting, and many others like these, their serving the country as a good Muslim emerges as a disposition to discourses of integration. The first integration policies came out in the 1990s due to the political affirmation of the far right, which had carried out an intense ‘antiimmigrant’ campaign, and the highly mediatized youth riots in Brussels (Phalet and Swyngadouw 2003, 4). However, ‘managing’ ethnic diversity, along with cultural and religious diversity in the public sphere, has been an issue in Europe since the 1970s (Jacobs and Swyngadouw

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2002). The question is whether too much diversity in the public sphere will lead to social problems, and whether the minorities were loyal to the host country, assuming that even the second and following generations identify emotionally and politically with their parents’ countries of origin. Bousetta and Jacobs question this approach and ask the relevancy of sharing the same values in achieving a “harmonious” society (2006, 31–32). Belgium introduced a new set of ‘citizenship trajectories’ in the early 2000s. These trajectories were modeled after the Dutch citizenship norms. They entail newcomers learning a certain level of language in order to achieve “cultural assimilation,” a certain degree of knowledge of the country, and complete citizenship courses (Jacobs and Rea 2007). Integration is a process usually “imposed” by the political structures of a country, in which Joppke rightly describes that such structures divide the world according to “spatial segments,” not “non-spatial functions” or individuals who are have multiple identities and do not exist as one unified entity (2014, 4). Joppke adds that this may mean that a political structure cannot expect a person to be a national of two countries and be loyal to them simultaneously (2014, 4). He contends that in this condition, integration is more of a “practical category” utilized by politics than an analytical category that can be empirically measurable (Joppke 2014, 4). Political structures, being proponents of segregated spaces and especially in the case of Western liberal states, approach integration as the toleration of “cultural difference in private and associational life, but refuse to give it public status” (Joppke 2014, 7). To be more explicit, Joppke asserts that the liberal state tradition designates spaces and the human conduct in those spaces; hence, if an individual is a citizen of a country, they must comply with the public norms of that country. Jocelyn Cesari engages with this concept and questions whether integration is a term that is reflected equally on each immigrant community. Her question entails the concern of whether the immigration process is reflected more intensely on Muslim individuals and communities (Cesari 2004, 3). There is a persistent narrative of conflict that problematizes Islam’s presence and visibility in the public sphere and repeatedly asserts that, as a religion, it is resistant to modernity, and, hence, the Enlightenment ideals that define the European public sphere (Cesari 2004;

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Fadil 2014). In the Veil, Mirror of Identity (2009), Joppke enters a discussion where he points to the veil as an example of Islam’s problematic visibility in the European public sphere. He asserts that some norms and values immanent to the Islamic tradition (such as the headscarf ) remain irreconcilable with European liberal values (Joppke 2009). Hence, it is not just Islam’s growing visibility in the public sphere that ignites discomfort, but it is the actual ‘fact’ that there is something more normatively different and incompatible within Islam (Joppke 2009). He ‘sexualizes’ the Islamic question by leading his book with questions of gender rights and women’s emancipation, and idealizes European liberalism and reinforces the them–us divide that already prevails in these debates. Not going too deep into these debates myself, I would like to discuss how it is relevant for the Muslim volunteers. Most of the events, and I dare say all of the events, in which I participated during my fieldwork years were organized by a specific group of people. The volunteering community consists of many different people from various backgrounds, ranging from those who are so undereducated they can barely read, to those who are at a Ph.D. level or working in a European institution in Brussels. The events are usually structured so that the planners are very much the ones who hold a diploma, and these are the people who also carry out the events and are seen at the forefront. The others are usually those who logistically contribute to the events. Furthermore, the volunteers who plan the events, like my ‘graduate sohbet group,’ and those who stand at the front during the events are the ones who are more educated and very well informed about these social and political narratives. They are aware of how they are problematized as a group and are the subjects, in this discourse, of the ‘other.’ As I have mentioned before, many of them struggle with these challenges in their social and political lives. Being an object of ‘stigmatization’ that is often made explicit through public discourses on the incompatibility of Islamic traditions impacts the way Muslims “live, reclaim, and represent” their way of living (Amir-Moazami and Salvatore 2003). The idea of serving the country as an Islamic reference point factors in the struggle between obeying the liberal state as a sovereign and obeying God as the ultimate sovereign. Their responsibility as a citizen

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and responsibility to God converge, giving way to re-constructing their ethical practices, which still affirm their inner spiritual states. By confronting and dealing with social problems that are identified by macro-structures such as politics, media, statistics, and society in general, my interlocutors pursue a pious trajectory that is informed, constituted, and subject to their contextual discourses. These often include events that specifically target minority challenges, or are about ideas of promoting multi-culturalism, social cohesion, and dialogue. Working on such issues engages with conceptions of working on the self, and working on the community. In the previous section, we explored how volunteering itself is an ethical self-technique that aims to fashion a more pious self and ultimately make a ‘proper Muslim.’ However, by engaging with citizenship narratives by fashioning their volunteering events to create a certain profile, my interlocutors enter the mode of subjectivation, as a way of “recognizing their moral obligation” towards the State (Foucault 2003, 27). Volunteering as an ethical “self-forming activity” (Foucault 2003, 112; see also Mahmood 2005) simultaneously becomes one of the self-forming activities of citizenship. My interlocutors’ obligations towards the country and their obligations toward God merge and manifest as their obligation toward the common good. This is how they frame their practices, as serving for the common good. This term, or maslaha as it is referred to in the Islamic terminology, appears in several forms throughout this book, mainly because volunteering itself is carried out for the common good, hence the different dynamics that define the understanding of volunteering as embedded in the discourse of common good. Moreover, what makes a concert or a panel discussion an act of piety is the extent to which it is inextricably tied to the common good. Khaled Masud, who has written extensively on the concept of maslaha, describes it as a way of being good and manifesting all the good values such as “uncorrupted, right, honest, virtuous and just” (Masud 2000 [1977], 135). Furthermore, maslaha specifically means the “cause or source of something good or beneficial” (Opwis 2005, 182). Salvatore describes that it was thanks to the work of al-Shatibi that the maslaha became a concept that covers a “theory of social action and interaction” that is known to us as the “common good” (Salvatore 2007, 156–71).

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Attending to the Gayri-Muslim Attending to the gayri-Muslim differs greatly from how it unfolds in my interlocutors’ interactions with Muslims. The gayri-Muslim is anyone who is not a Muslim. It is a more or less homogenous category for my respondents. I find it better to use this term instead of non-Muslim, as it really refers to a group of people who ontologically do not engage with the Islamic tradition in their daily experiences, who are not necessarily for or against Islam but who do not share the moral epistemologies and ethical habitus that my respondents do. Having said that, attending to the gayri-Muslim follows two different tracks for the volunteers. In attending to the Muslims, we saw that the aim was revitalizing the sense of morality the Muslims had either forgotten or did not pursue in cultivating their ethical selves. The gayri-Muslim, however, is not part of that tradition. Hence, the first track is to introduce them to that moral ontology. This means introducing them to Islam, not necessarily as a system of belief but as a blueprint for living virtuously and, quite simply, as a good person. The second track is actively resolving any conflict that may exist with the gayri-Muslim community and establishing peaceful co-existence. I will explore this phenomenon more deeply in the coming section. Here, I want to tie them with a common string, in that both tracks follow a representational aim—what Jeanette Jouili (2015) refers to as representational da’wa. Jouili conceptualizes this representative selfawareness as representative da’wa (Jouili 2007). According to Jouili, this representative da’wa is considered a preliminary condition for Muslims in the West, so that they can maintain their “social, political, and spiritual well-being” (Jouili 2007). This form of piety can be carried out in different forms in the subjects’ daily social interactions, often with the precondition that they must challenge negative images of their presence as Muslims (Jouili 2007, 2015). Consequently, this form of da’wa is much subtler and implicit, based on representing Islam through behavior and stance rather than explicit proselytizing. Jouili merely touches upon this phenomenon, and I believe it deserves further unpacking. Moreover, it is important to understand how self-governance is inspired by a notion that the individual is a representative, and how this is managed in situations of conflict and fragmentation.

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Ideally, my respondents assert that the techniques of representation in a gayri-Muslim setting pertain to subtlety rather than a didactic approach. This is probably one of the most important pedagogical methods as they try to introduce their moral ontology. Our conversation with one interlocutor, Nuray, narrates exactly that point: “I don’t go around talking about my religion to people. That kind of attitude would lead you to become lonely. I know people think that as Muslims that is what we do, but usually I don’t talk about religion with my non-Muslim friends at all… If they don’t ask me, that is.” When Nuray told me that she “didn’t go around” talking about her religion to her non-Muslim friends, I asked what she did in order to represent her moral cosmology. “Well… for instance, one thing I did … back when I was in university, back in Vienna… I carried my books with me, books of Islamic scholars, and just waited… They would ask me something, like about my book, and I would then explain it to them. They talk about generosity, kindness, helping people… You know because they don’t know we read about things like that.” We talked some more with Nuray about ‘being different’ in Vienna. She told me how the way she dressed and abstained from certain activities, food, and drinks made her vulnerably different. Being in dialogue, as she puts it, helped her friends understand her, and, more pragmatically, helped her become someone—someone the others could relate to instead of being the ultimate other. Mayanthi Fernando describes this as “an indifference to difference” (Fernando 2014). Notably, when Nuray discussed the books she read and the moral positions she took with her non-Muslim peers, she used concepts such as “generosity, kindness, helping people,” which is a particularly discerned use of vocabulary. As such, she is trying to bring out the universal in the particular, by translating what she embodies as Islamic virtues to universal secular and liberal moral norms. Universal here is arguable, as to whether there is a universally consistent set of moral norms; however, my interlocutors, like most of their society, take European modern moral norms as ideal, and exemplary for other moral systems. I have argued in several chapters of this book that my respondents are informed by both the liberal-secular and Islamic traditions, often tapping into both discourses; however, it is interesting to see how they tactically translate certain ethical virtues that are grounded in

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the Islamic tradition as a way of convincing Western culture of the legitimacy of their morals. It is telling that Nuray mentioned that she did not think her gayri-Muslim friends were aware that she read about basic “goodness, kindness, and helping people.” In saying so, she expressed how she sees her position as the complete other in terms of moral virtues, and thus the impossibility Islam faces if it is to co-exist in this context. For the volunteers, challenging negative images becomes an “ethics of interaction” (Trundle 2012, 216), which situates volunteering as “compromised action” (Feldman 2007, 693). Such compromised action suggests that the volunteer, in their interaction with the non-Muslim other, feels the need to borrow from their moral tradition to represent what they feel they cannot refer to in the Islamic tradition. This “compromised action” has hindered my interlocutors, as it leads to debates that they themselves are still grappling with. One of the most obvious issues was sexual norms, such as homosexuals, same-sex parenting, and non-marital relationships. There were several instances where my interlocutors would tell me they simply avoided these questions because they could not find an Islamically grounded answer that would speak to the liberal-secular moral code. It was most significant that one of my respondents, frustrated, answered, “This idea that Islam has to find a solution for every problem is so modern! We just have to come together at the least common denominator!” The idea that Muslims have to come together with the gayri-Muslim “at the least common denominator” is a mark of their distinctiveness from other Muslim communities. This was repeated often by my respondents: that living with the gayri-Muslim is an art that needs to be carefully discerned, and only a handful of Muslims could get past their reactionism to actually embrace society and become part of it. From its founding until 2015, the women’s association experienced something of a ‘golden era.’ It organized several big events, like conference panels in the EU Parliament, as well as receptions, meetings with parliamentarians, and on one occasion, I was able to join an organized trip to the EU Parliament on the special invitation of Isabella Durant, the commissioner. When I talked to Elif, and asked how the association’s success reflected on them as Muslim women and active volunteers, she said, “We have so much great feedback, not only from the local and

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EU politicians we meet, but also from the general public and other local associations. When they come into the association, or when we visit them and they get to know us they say, ‘Wow, we’ve never come across Turkish women like you,’ and that’s really great.” I asked Elif what they meant by “Turkish women like you.” “Well,” she said, “you know, socially active, engaging with others, trying to solve problems… women who can express themselves.” I asked, “And what does this entail for them?” Elif said, “They feel that they can talk to us, that we understand them, and as we spend time together, they get to know us and understand what we are trying to do. I mean that is what we are trying to do, work together and have them see that we are not like the Muslims they think we are…” This conversation revealed many implicit discourses that underlie their subject position. Although they mark themselves as different from other Muslims in terms of actively claiming their social position, this trajectory proceeds through their initiative, as the minority and other. Hence, while my interlocutors celebrate instances where they, as individuals who represent a moral ontology, are accepted, they also convey the particularity of their situation in an ensemble of negative trajectories experienced by other Muslims.

The Small Politics of Dialogue The volunteers have several dialogue and ‘friendship’ associations in Brussels. One of these especially works as a grassroots organization, organizing friendship events, culture nights, and coffee hours. Most of the other female associations also organize such dialogue activities, and there are sometimes clashes between the associations. The dialogue programs are usually very easy to organize, and really address the local neighborhoods, where the volunteers have a chance to meet other residents or locals. These events are usually fun to attend for my interlocutors, and I often joined them at what usually turned out to be joyous events. They were different from the conferences, panels, or roundtable discussions, and certainly different from the sohbet meetings. The cultural nights, often referred to as dialogue nights by the volunteers themselves, are relaxed and meant to be fun, when people can bond over

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food, drinks, music, and even dance, as I once took part in a Scottish folkloric dance night (which included two Scotsmen in kilts playing bagpipes, no less). Dialogue as a technique for interacting with the gayriMuslim can present in multifarious methods, settings, and mediums. Regardless, dialogue insinuates socialization more than anything for the volunteers, but it also a political term that bears its own baggage, whereby the subject assumes a position in the dialogue relationship, often formed by already existing structures of power. Thus, dialogue merges as a “small politics of daily practices that are often submerged beneath the discursive realm of big politics” (Trundle 2014, 224; Jensen and Withereik 2012). Of the most notably critical studies conducted on dialogue relationships between State actors and Muslim minority institutions was carried out by Schirin Amir-Moazami (2011). Her main focus is on how governmental practices regulate the conduct and attitudes of Muslims in terms of “discipline” and “normalization” (Amir-Moazami 2011, 11). Amir-Moazami draws on the Foucauldian concept of governmentality (Foucault 1991) in framing her analytical approach. According to this perspective, governmentality is concerned with “technologies of power” (Amir-Moazami 2011). Dialogue in this context has emerged as a tool for regulating Muslims with rhetoric of “integration and cohesion” (Amir-Moazami 2011, 11). In this study, Amir-Moazami asserts that dialogue becomes a pedagogical technique whereby liberal-secular (gender, sexuality, citizenship) norms are conveyed to Muslims. Dialogue especially aims for these norms to be circulated by Muslims themselves, establishing a type of Muslim who is critical of their own religious traditions and thus embodies a more integrated (acceptable) presence (Amir-Moazami 2011). This is also an indirect but very relevant addressing of the ‘good’ Muslim–‘bad’ Muslim dichotomy. Aiming to tackle traditional gender and sexuality norms, as well as other ‘fundamental,’ ‘extreme,’ and ‘violent’ teachings of Muslims, through pedagogical techniques of dialogue, implies that there is a group of Muslims bound to these orthodoxies and others who have successfully integrated into liberal teachings (see Amir-Moazami 2011). Amir-Moazami’s work is significant in that it enquires into how dominant (governmental and non-governmental) institutions utilize dialogue,

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while minorities are the receiving end of this approach. In my observations, dialogue is a technique employed by Muslims to enforce an image that embraces the rhetoric that is articulated above. Dialogue thus also becomes a tactic of fostering acceptability, in society’s imagination. I use the concept “tactic” here, drawing on the work of Michel de Certeau. Tactics are different from strategies, in that the latter are produced by institutions and structures of power and the former are a way of being/surviving developed by the subordinated who are within those structures of power (see De Certeau 1984). My interlocutors consume the texts and sermons of Islamic teachers who are advocates of dialogue, whether it may be referred to as interfaith or intercultural dialogue. In many of these books, sermons, and lessons, the teachers elaborate extensively on dialogue, compassion, understanding, and hosgoru. Hosgoru is often translated into English as tolerance, a translation I personally do not favor. Hosgoru means seeing the good in people and events, rather than actually tolerating them, a term which has its own social and political baggage. Dialogue is, of course, an approach one takes in interacting with the other, as there is presumably much more understanding and exchange to take place between different parties rather than familiar parties. Having listened to hours of sermons and weekly classes, and read hundreds of pages of books, I never came across an occasion or statement where it is explicitly described how dialogue should unfold. There is usually the mention of the Constitution of Medina, the gracious manner the Prophet took towards non-Muslims, and other examples from the lives of the Companions and the Prophet that ask for goodness and understanding in interacting with the gayri-Muslim. There is also nostalgia toward an Ottoman legacy that taps into memories that situate the Empire as the epitome of peaceful co-existence and multi-culturalism. However, these narratives do not go into the specifics of how this dialogue must emerge in society, today and in the West, where there are a great number of volunteers. Nevertheless, there is one concept that comes up nearly automatically when it comes to living with the non-Muslim: tolerance. Dialogue and tolerance are nearly synonymous for my respondents, as they use them interchangeably during their discussions. These concepts do not only denote a state of being for the volunteer, but

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also methods of interaction that must be embodied if they are to live peacefully and meaningfully. Taking this point into consideration in this section, I will also use them interchangeably and synonymously. Dialogue and tolerance have been subject to critical inquiry in the social and political sciences, and Wendy Brown, whose work I draw on, has effectively pointed out how tolerance has come to depoliticize certain experiences of suffering (Brown 2009). She conveys that tolerance has become a term that denotes “civic peace” in the twenty-first century; however, it is also a way of racialization and reproduction of supremacy without actual violence or coercion. It became a buzzword in societies that were becoming more and more multi-cultural due to immigration, and these populations were in the process of claiming rights and recognition (Brown 2009, 2). However, the problem with tolerance, explains Brown, is that it does not have a unified meaning and it is unpacked differently in different contexts. The danger lies in essentializing tolerance as a liberal tradition within the West, as different from other non-liberal nation states. Thus, her argument is that we should recognize the social and political effect on tolerance and analytically scrutinize how it operates in situations of conflict, normativity, and “stratification and difference” (Brown 2009, 4). Brown effectively argues that tolerance is often appreciated as a universal and “transcendent” value, often depoliticized and detached from its own historical and geographical “purpose, content, agents and objects” (Brown 2009, 4). Brown’s argument centers on when this notion is put forward by dominant institutions and agents, whereas my interlocutors are the minority. Thus, in the case where the subject is Europe’s non-liberal other, it becomes more interesting to consider Brown’s questions: “What sort of rationality and sociality is tolerance imagined to require and what sorts are thought to inhibit it—in other words, what anthropological presuppositions does liberal tolerance entail and circulate?” Added to these questions, I am very curious about understanding what kind of subject position is created when the historical other embodies this concept that depoliticizes their social presence. In Belgium, where Turks have been minorities for decades, this unfolds in terms of co-existence and social solidarity. I had the chance to take part in a cartoon event in 2014. The name of the event was ‘Art de

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Vivre Ensemble’ (The Art of Living Together), and it was launched to commemorate the fiftieth year of Turkish migration to Belgium. The description of the event on the invitation read as such: 2014 marks the 50th anniversary of the bilateral agreements concluded between Belgium and a number of countries in order to fill the labor shortage in the industrial sector. On 17 February 1964, the agreements were signed with Morocco, followed by Turkey on 16 July of the same year. 1964 marked the beginning of the migration of Moroccan and Turkish workers to Belgium. Fifty years later, our association wishes to commemorate this event and launches the second edition of the cartoon contest on 50 years of immigration in Belgium in collaboration with its partners Press Cartoon Belgium and European Cartoon Center. Thanks to the eloquent and humorous language of the cartoons, our will, through this competition, is to draw attention to the 50th anniversary of immigration in an original way, to help break stereotypes and prejudices, to create links between communities and to illustrate in an original way the living together and the richness of the cultural diversity.

The initiators assert that they would like to challenge stereotypes and prejudices through humor, and indeed there were brilliantly expressed cartoons among the ones I saw. Many local and federal politicians were present throughout the event, and quite a number of my interlocutors were busy with the preparations and execution of the event, which took place in the Federal Parliament. The setting, the audience, and the message the cartoons aimed to give all seemed to address deep social and political problems and the attempt to bring these problems into consideration through the framework of dialogue, co-existence, and tolerance. My interlocutors do so on the assumption that they live in a liberal society. It implies a very specific method of problem-solving in that it naturalizes conflict, removes it from its historical context, and emotionalizes civic virtues like ‘co-existence,’ often glossing over the structural realities that lead to such conflict (Brown 2006). It leads to what Richard Rorty (1989) calls “an improvement of manners.” However, my respondents aim for a real transformation above manners when they organize such events. They act upon a “peace building” imagination, whereby

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their disadvantaged social position is compensated for through esthetical representations. Discourses of dialogue and its outward practices through art and esthetic bodily representations work within systems of conflict, aiming to replace those areas of contention. Instead of embedding those areas in problematization, they are re-articulated in an image of positivity. Positivity is a delicate issue wherein the individual tries to secure a social position and platform for legible discussion. Thus, dialogue is a way of voicing a demand for recognition (Amir-Moazami 2005) in a public entity that is highly exclusionary. Even in the early discussions on the public sphere, religion was seen as an “irrationality,” an “absolutist and authoritarian” tradition, and thus excluded from the modern public sphere (Cooke 2006). The positivity that dialogue plays into is an attempt to free religion from this image and reclaim a public place. It is up to my interlocutors to set the tone for this discussion, a carefully deliberated process they dutifully perform. The setting of the event, its content and the esthetics, in its execution, indicates dialogue as a medium of likeability. Paul Gorski identifies a paradox in dialogue when it comes to the issue of likeability (Gorski 2008). Dialogue is constructed as a mutual engagement that is meant to be carried out in equality, for both voices to be heard. According to Gorski, however, the voice of the dominant is already heard, in excessive proportion by the minority, hence it is the minority who is trying to reach the dominant (Gorski 2008). This becomes a problem when the minority may be voicing a ‘truth’ that may not appeal to the dominant, thus resulting in a “loss of likeability” (Gorski 2008, 523). The notion of framing a concerned voice in such an esthetic and ‘acceptable’ form of dialogue is a way of dealing with this loss of likeability and indeed hindering it to a certain extent. Nihan brought up this issue in regards to how she constructed a relationship with her son’s kindergarten teacher. “I try to be very polite with my son when I’m around his teacher. I mean it’s not that I am not polite with him, but you know when I go to pick him up from school I’m really conscious that she is observing us, so I’m extra, extra polite… I ask about his day and definitely kiss him…” Nihan’s awareness of being watched pushes her to behave in a way that she believes is the accepted social norm, but it is not expected of her to

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perform. Trying to relate to the teacher, and to be accepted and become part of the school body stimulates her to embody those social norms as a performance. I suggest that it is a performance, in the sense that she already believes she does embody those norms in the first place, but it is that sense of being observed and evaluated that makes her intensify in that role. As a word, dialogue does not exist in the Islamic terminology. What we see in the Constitution of Medina is the protection of life, wealth, property, and living according to an authority in harmony. As a concept, dialogue is contextually determined and applies to one specific time and place in history, which is modern democracy in the West (James 1999). What we see here is a depiction of the self -contained Muslim, who deals with conflict with good manners rather than negative reactions. Here I find useful Norber Elias’s The Civilizing Process, which provides an elaborate explanation on how the notion of civility and proper conduct evolved in Europe. In this work, he develops on the idea of “domestic pacification” in Western Europe as a way of creating social balance. The civilized self -image emerged as “one of the most important structural characteristics of more highly developed societies, and a chief factor molding civilized conduct.” Quintessentially, social actors recognized that they needed to be recognized with the “fears, needs, and aspirations of others if they are to succeed in reducing their own insecurities, in promoting their interests, and in realizing their hopes.” Although Elias’s observations pertain to a certain period of history between certain classes, the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie, I can trace a similar link between how my interlocutors try to share power within that exact paradigm of passivity. In this sense, dialogue exerts that image of the ‘civilized self ’ as an anti-thesis to the fears associated with the Muslim image. The behavioral conducts that stem from this discourse are designed exactly to “reduce their own insecurities” by recognizing the “fears” of others. While Elias adds that in most cases this process does not truly eliminate the enmity, my observations indicate that the volunteers carry out dialogue with the desire to initiate true positive social change and genuine emotional transformation. This is the Muslim who works within conflict without tilting the balances. The discursive formation of dialogue is a rationalization of conflict. It is a technique that presents

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an esthetically pleasing version of the self, with its multifarious conducts that are often excluded from representation.

Conclusion The call to religion, da’wa, is often equated with proselytizing, whereas in this chapter we understand that it is actually quite a complex phenomenon. My first point is that da’wa is highly contextual, and in most cases it takes shape according to the public norms. Indeed, my interlocutors are invested in da’wa but they have little interest in proselytizing. Never would they imagine going from door to door and spreading Islam. So what does da’wa mean for the pious volunteers? First, da’wa has to be carried out in accordance with public propriety. It needs to be done with adab, with manners and rapport. The adab of da’wa observes the common good, and in liberal-secular society this largely centers on citizenship duties. Da’wa is in the slightest of my interlocutors’ daily interactions, and it determines their social conducts. Most important is that these social conducts differ according to whether they are with Muslims or nonMuslims. This is important to bear in mind in order to grasp a more nuanced understanding of practices that constitute what my interlocutors refer to as da’wa. In their social interactions with Muslims, my interlocutors are more concerned with self-help, community betterment, and moral consciousness. Most of my interlocutors’ Muslim entourage are Belgian Muslim minorities. They identify two main issues with the Muslim minorities in Belgium: first, the problem of faith, where Muslims are increasingly deviating from proper piety. Second, is that there are certain failures associated with minorities, such as education, integration, and employment. My interlocutors aim for the betterment of these two situations and the vast array of related issues. These two situations are also interrelated; the pious Muslim is also one that is committed to selfbetterment and progress. The iman strengthens not only with worship but also with rigorous investment in self-development. The volunteers try to spend a considerable amount of leisure time with their Muslim entourage to create spaces and opportunities where

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they can remind them of their responsibilities. By organizing spa days, picnics, fieldtrips, dinners, and breakfast meetings, they meet with people as much as possible. These meetings are very relaxed and social; they are meant to be fun and enjoyable. At the same time, they are opportunities for the volunteers to meet as many people as possible, form friendships, and closely attend to the issues that pre-occupy them. Most of their events and projects address problems they identify through these relationships, and these friends are invited to participate in the projects for self-development. But these spaces are also where the volunteers rehearse giving and introduce other people to these cycles of giving. People who take part in their projects usually take part in them as actors and reach out to more people and include them. This snowball effect aims to include as many people as possible from diverse communities for more effective and long-term solutions to societal issues. The volunteers’ relationship with the non-Muslim (gayri-Muslim) is quite different. There is not such an active da’wa with the non-Muslim, as their ethical reference is a different (liberal) tradition, whereas for my interlocutors the liberal tradition is always in conversation with the Islamic tradition. For the volunteers, the first step is to introduce non-Muslims to their ethical ontology. This means introducing them to Islam, not as a system of belief but as a moral tradition. This introduction is not done didactically but through bodily representation. Da’wa takes a representative form in this context. By acting morally, my interlocutors aim to show that a moral life is possible, even without a religious backdrop. Not only do the volunteers engage with an implicit form of da’wa, but they also try to translate their moral ontologies through liberal vocabularies. Goodness, kindness, and helpfulness become important signifiers. Another important signifier is dialogue and the idea that true understanding can only transpire through the practice of dialogue. Although this is quite straightforward for the volunteers, for some scholars it has been a point of critical intervention. Dialogue is usually carried out by the hegemony in an attempt to depoliticize subordination and to appear appreciative of difference. In this case, it is the minority that is pursuing dialogue. Indeed, my

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interlocutors do depoliticize their struggles with social and political issues. Dialogue is a space of non-conflictual negotiation, where the volunteers deliberately display likeability and compatibility. They repel negative tropes, conflict, and stigma through dialogue. It is a question whether this truly eliminates social conflict, but for my interlocutors it is the most effective step they can take.

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8 Transparency, Visibility and the Mahram

During my time with the pious volunteers, they repeatedly conveyed to me that there seems to be a demand from the larger public that they be more visible. This, of course, has a lot to do with them being Muslim women and the impression that the volunteers are not visible enough in the decision-making positions. The impression seems to be that the female volunteers are more active in the logistical side of volunteering, such as preparing the food for the events, and taking care of the more menial aspects of volunteering rather than managerial tasks. My interlocutors repeatedly express that they feel the gaze quite intensely and that this brings about the need to challenge these presumptions that Muslim women are, once again, left to cook and clean after their men while the men are busy with the public and more ‘serious duties.’ My interlocutors can relate to some of these criticisms to a certain extent, and we will discuss this further in the coming sections; however, they also express that the attention to this issue of visibility was brought to them because of these criticisms and not because of any internal demand. If there was any internal demand for greater visibility, it came from that person’s awareness of public scrutiny and gaze. What is more interesting is that the visibility question is nearly always directed at the © The Author(s) 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3_8

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women. So when I started to think about visibility and talked about this with some of my interlocutors, I also started to ask myself how much of this demand is about wanting to see more female agency, and how much of it is a demand for transparency in order to see these Muslim women’s commitment to liberalism. These are two different discursive positions. On the one hand, the question of visibility is grounded in Western feminism’s impetus for female emancipation, autonomy, and agency. On the other hand, transparency implies suspension and doubt: what are the women, who look very pious from the outside and claim to be working for social good and betterment, actually up to? There is an underlying suspicion of the sincerity of this claim from the public directed at the female volunteers. Is it really possible to be such practicing Muslims and carry out the liberal practice of volunteering at the same time? Or is there an underlying Islamic agenda to all this? I also have the feeling that these doubts extend to the point that the question becomes, ‘When will the volunteers be secular-liberal enough?’ When will we see them be more autonomous and less Muslim? These are the questions I thought through together with my interlocutors and which I will address in this chapter. The question of Muslim visibility is not a new one. While Muslims in Europe pursued their religious practices in private, usually in isolated areas, such as personal apartments or back rooms, the increasing need for a communal space to practice has led to requests for spaces (Cesari 2005, 1018). Cesari rightly argues that although praying can be carried out in private, some practices, such as funeral preparations, cannot, and requests that arise from such needs have often been received with relative resistance in the national (and local) context (Cesari 2005, 1018; see also Göle 2016). But the problem is not restricted to Islam’s institutional visibility. The negative apprehension of Islam’s public visibility is also connected to gender-related presumptions. Women veiling, and their physical choices (such as not shaking hands with or kissing male counterparts), are refuted on the basis that they violate liberal codes of female emancipation (AmirMoazami and Salvatore 2003). This being said, Muslims have been excluded from the national imaginations of European countries, as they have been regarded as unable to share the same “moral, political and cultural norms” (Fernando 2015, 57). Nilüfer Göle uses the concept

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‘stigma’ to unpack how some symbols embodied by Muslims in Western societies lead to their ‘social difference and public exclusion’ (Göle 2013, 810). For Islam to effectively become part of this imagination, it needs to transform into a secular religion, and thus, ironically, into a non-visible religion (Fernando 2015, 144). Muslims, however, are not the passive recipients of these normative discourses. Muslims living in the West are informed by these liberal discourses as much as they are informed by orthodox religious tradition. Their claims to visibility, acceptance, and recognition with regards to their religious practices are put forward within the framework of liberal vocabulary. Emancipation, choice, and free will become terms that embed their right to be different in the public sphere (Fernando 2015, 149; Amir-Moazami et al. 2011; see also Deeb 2006). Mayanthi Fernando frames this as the “right to difference,” which, in the case of her ethnographic setting in France, pertains to Muslims demanding “various forms of symbolic, political, and legal recognition” from the State so that they are still included within the national imagination, albeit with their differences (Fernando 2015, 91). Volunteering re-signifies (Muslim) visibility and also piety. While the many previous scholarly works have shown how difference becomes a point of demand, differences are re-thought to implicate sameness. Although this may seem a little conflicting and inconsistent, it is exactly such conflicting situations that lead my interlocutors to deliberate on the multifarious ways in which piety can be re-formulated in different contexts. What I am arguing here is not just that the volunteers are informed by the liberal-secular tradition; that is already taken into consideration throughout the book. My point is that being visible in such a public sphere, especially as an organized group of volunteers, leads them to rethink and re-locate piety in secular forms. This should not be confused with the Taylorian description of secularization (Taylor 1989, 2002, 2007), which argues that God is no longer the sole moral source for people’s actions, as reason and other moral sentiments have developed and evolved. Taylor traces the religious sources of secularization in the Reformation process, where people started turning towards their inner personal commitments and individual experiences, instead of external

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authorities and religious institutions (Taylor 1989, 215; 2007, 7). This internalization led to a shift; on the one hand, people declared their nonbelief; on the other hand, the ‘sacred’ became more accessible to ordinary people outside the clergy (Taylor 2002, 65). Taylor adds that today there is both a connection and a disconnection with this phenomenon, as there is the belief in the importance of a moral order, but also the idea that the goodness or righteousness of this moral order is not determined by God’s presence (Taylor 2002, 70). The volunteers’ experiences are quite different from this trajectory, in that morality is still determined through God’s providence. Although they re-signify the mundane with a moral meaning, it is still with the desire for a more pious life that they do so. Managing visibility is a complex trajectory that is informed by public expectations, being under the public’s gaze, and trying to answer expectations and demands. This leads the volunteers to re-visit their religious sources and search for new interpretations for a more liberally ‘compatible’ way of pious living. Multiple discourses of citizenship, integration, and the general-yet-ambiguous conceptualization of the ‘good Muslim’ are received by the volunteers. The volunteers reflect on these discourses as they tap into these rubrics and think through how religiosity (and religious practices) can be complementary to them. Having said that, I believe this chapter can provide us with information on not only how normative European secular spaces have transformed (willingly or not), as the other is becoming more and more visible with their demands, but also how the Muslim ‘others’ are ever-changing and incorporating the same values in their practices. As valuable as it is, the existing literature tends to focus on physical and behavioral formalities in analyzing Muslim visibility. These formalities more specifically include praying (spaces), fasting, veiling, physical restrictions, gender segregation, and so on, wherein the counter-arguments tend to be about ‘violation’ of the public sphere, ‘oppression’ of women, and gender issues. Taking notice of mundane, or ‘secular,’ practices being re-signified as pious and moral brings a different dimension to these debates, allowing us to move away from these rigid dichotomies, where Muslims are in the minority position, trying to ‘reach out’ to a standard. Quintessentially, this is an attempt to unpack how Muslims re-locate the moral, or religious, and

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become part of the national and public imaginations without feeling the need to compromise the other essentials of their identity. Developing on visibility and piety, it is worth noting that there is a nuance between what they describe as public religiosity and ibada. The first is everything they do in the context of volunteering, while the latter is the Islamic rituals that are obligatory (praying, religious readings, religious discussions, etc.). Ibada is the mahram for my interlocutors, which is quite different from in private because not everything that is private is mahram, and not everything that is public is exempt from mahram. The entity of mahram is fluctuating, depending on different intimacies and how their religious readings categorically signify what kind of intimate relationship is permitted access into specific mahram areas. Even aspects of volunteering can be mahram if they feel they would be misunderstood by the larger society and should protect themselves from that scrutiny. The reason why they practice so much of their ibada in the mahram sphere is exactly to avoid the scrutinizing gaze.

Performing Transparency “We are currently discussing visibility and how we can make our female volunteers more visible. You already know how we’re getting all this criticism for more visibility and female agency. Why aren’t our women more visible in the decision-making positions and in public events? It’s been a persistent question for as long as I can remember and now we are reflecting on this question,” Sema told me over breakfast in one of Schaerbeek’s cafés. “I like the fact that we are talking about these things. I like the fact that these issues are actually becoming issues, because you know how it was a couple of years ago. No one thought about visibility, or women having more agency. We didn’t even frame this as a problem, let alone talk about it… like there are so many women victims of all kinds of violence and stuff and we weren’t going to talk about female volunteers and more agency as an immediate problem. For most of us, we were all very lucky women to do what we are doing—emancipated, powerful,

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active, publicly visible women—and we needed to help other women around us. So now, at the moment in those big meetings [laughing], I see these important brothers (koca koca abiler ) talk about visibility. It really is the central topic of every single discussion.” “Well that is great!” I replied enthusiastically but still with a hint of doubt. But before I could voice my doubt, Sema added with a small smile, “But I don’t know how sincere this plea for visibility is. Do they [the brothers] really want visibility, or is it just something they do because they feel this is what society expects of us? I am in between feeling happy and feeling, well, pessimistic.” This was exactly the question in my mind. How many of these discussions are really for the women to become more visible agents in volunteering, and how much of it is a performance of transparency? Interestingly enough, while I was conducting fieldwork, I never found the lack of female visibility troubling. Because I never thought them to be non-visible or to lack agency. I know that there is only a limited number of women and men who are always at the forefront of events, and the majority of both men and women are working backstage. This has more to do with my interlocutors’ perception of who they believe would want to be seen by the larger public than any other reason. Women and men who are younger, more educated, who have a better command of the languages (French, Dutch, or English), and who look more progressive and modern are more visible during the events. Sumayya, who was the president of the Brussels Women’s Association and who was also young, chic and higher educated, always stood one step back during the events. There was one case where we were sitting together during a meeting in the association with Natacha Atlas. It was before her concert at the Bozar and she had agreed to have a short conversation with the volunteers at the association and answer their questions. I was already very excited to be there, having been a fan of Natacha Atlas for some time, and had some questions of my own. Before the conversation, Sumayya approached me and whispered in my ear, “Can you ask Natacha how she feels about multi-culturalism and social cohesion, being Brussels-born herself, a city that is highly multi-cultural and multi-lingual?” I turned to her, surprised: “Why don’=’t you ask her yourself?” She replied, “Well, I’m not comfortable with English.” Needless to say, I asked the question and Natacha gave a very optimistic and positive

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answer about multi-culturalism. Sumayya, who is also not very articulate in French and does not know Dutch at all, is noticeably absent at most events. She is always lurking behind the door or at the very back with some close friends. Based on the previously mentioned exchange, I imagine this is because she does not feel comfortable speaking in other languages, and that she does not want to engage with other people on those terms. Although she took on the bulk of the duties before the events, she was in the general term ‘invisible’ during the events. This can be said for most of the people not seen during the events, and for women their ‘traditional’ attire or look is an added factor. “Men can integrate more easily with the majority,” my interlocutors say. “Women are more easily identifiable as Muslim.” Coming back to our discussion with Sema, we can see the complexity of visibility and the different factors that determine whether the volunteers are, or want to be, visible. Personal reasons are intertwined with public perception and appearing as the perfect minority. If you do not appear as the perfect minority, then you do not appear. This brings me to the work of Falguni Sheth and her conceptualization of transparency. According to Sheth, transparency is the primary measure of credibility (Sheth 2019, 54) in Western liberal societies. She goes on to explain that especially in the age of ‘the war on terror,’ Muslim women who opt to veil are classified as ‘unruly subjects’ in the context of the Western liberal regime (Sheth 2019, 55). Muslim women who embody Islamic ethical norms such as the headscarf are conspicuously heterogenous in their comportment—openly subscribing to “Muslim” or “Islamic” culture. This breach is seen in explicit practices that are thought to contravene the fundamental ethos of Western liberal culture, namely that of political secularism. Such practices and signs are “unruly” because they conspicuously violate a dominant neutral cultural or political norm (Sheth 2006, 456). The ‘unruliness’ of Muslim women comes from the fact that they are violating the liberal-secular order by violating secular embodiments (Amir-Moazami 2013). This ‘disciplining apparatus’—as Sheth names it—that operates through embodied practices “re-inscribes the ideal of the good (vaguely feminist) liberal female citizen in contrast to the unruly, defiant, or difficult Muslim subject” (Sheth 2019, 56). She adds that “As a test of whether someone is trustworthy enough to live, engage,

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interact with ‘us’ in our midst, accommodation necessitates not only assimilability but a presumption of transparency. The presumed absence of transparency is an affront to secular-liberal doxa, which seeks refuge in the deceptive liberal conceit of openness […]” (Sheth 2019, 56). I would like to add to Sheth’s argument by pointing out that even in cases where Muslim women are ascribing to liberal practices, they are continuously being demanded to prove their ‘liberalness’ through the question of transparency. In the experiences of my interlocutors, where most of them don the Islamic headscarf but emphatically profess their loyalty to the liberal-secular public through (the liberal practice) of volunteering, they are expected to prove and then re-prove their loyalty by being more and more visible. While visibility has a certain liberal feminist undertone with an emphasis on autonomy and emancipation, in practice it has more to do with wanting to see they are sincerely liberal and more liberal than pious. The feminist demand for visibility is intertwined with the liberal-secular doubt about sincerity. My interlocutors are very well aware of this critical gaze, and this awareness is explicit in how they conduct themselves in public and how visibility—a non-question—is increasingly becoming part of their inner discussions. The framing of these in-group discussions prompts female volunteers like Sema to reflect on the sincerity of their own hierarchy and the willingness of ‘the brothers’ to grant them more autonomy and visibility. “Or is it just for appearances sake? I still don’t know,” says Sema, apparently disgruntled that the brothers are willing to change for the public’s sake rather than because of any internal demand. In the next section, I turn to the volunteers’ attempts to be more ‘compatibly visible’ by re-negotiating boundaries and redefining different forms of piety.

Compatibly Visible: Volunteering as a Spiritual and Disenchanted Practice Compatibility is the key word in this section, as this term has occupied a central place in public debates surrounding the Muslim presence in Europe. Most of the current research on Islam in Europe focuses on the

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ways in which Muslims can or cannot adjust to a Western context (Cesari 2005). One approach in particular considers the dialectic relationship between Muslim populations and European culture (Cesari 2003; Vertovec and Peach 1997; Vertovec and Rogers 1998). This approach observes that Muslim cultures also “affect and change” the European environment (Cesari 2005). As the European context changes, so do the practices that make up the individuals’ pious trajectory. I build upon this approach in this section, trying to understand how the volunteers are informed by national, secular, and liberal discourses, and interrogate how they take these discourses as a reference point, while advancing their religiosity in the public sphere. Gradually, I unpack how this consciousness of the public sphere, with all its normative baggage, orients my interlocutors, who embody their ethical dispositions in multifarious ways that speak directly to these public norms. The visibility of Muslims as a source of discomfort for the aforementioned norms has been covered extensively (Fernando 2014; Göle 2013; Moors and Salih 2009; Jouili 2015). Islamic symbols and their embodied forms create a starkly visible boundary that clashes with the boundaries of the European imagination. Indeed, the notion that there is a totally secular Europe has complicated Muslim communities’ struggle to secularize (Roy 2007). A useful concept in this analysis is “symbolic boundaries,” which goes back to Durkheim and Weber. According to Durkheim, symbolic boundaries are part of the classification system. We can initially locate these boundaries in the categories of the sacred and the profane. Each category has its own symbols, practices, ritual flows, and communal importance. Here, symbolic boundaries contribute to solidarity. Weber has a different take; he approaches symbolic boundaries as a source of social inequality. In his definition, such boundaries are a result of human struggle over limited resources. This competition creates categories that dominant cultures use to determine superiority over others. They determine status and position, and ultimately decide who gets the right to the resources. I borrow this term from Epstein, who states that, “Symbolic boundaries are the lines that include and define some people, groups, and things while excluding others” (Epstein 1992, 232). These distinctions are expressed in several ways, such as “taboos, cultural attitudes and practices,

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and patterns of likes and dislikes” (Lemont et al. 2001, 850). Moreover, such boundaries can have a profound effect, creating “inequality and the exercise of power” (Lemont et al. 2001, 850). In the case of Islam, as Mayanthi Fernando eloquently argues, certain Muslim practices have been “rendered foreign,” thus inevitably emphasizing those symbolic boundaries. Here, Charles Taylor directs our attention to fragmentation in contemporary Western societies, adding that, “There are substantial numbers of people who are citizens and also belong to [a] culture that calls into question our philosophical boundaries. The challenge is to deal with their sense of marginalization without compromising our basic principles” (Taylor 1994, 63). Taylor holds that when even the most marginalized minorities are shown equal recognition and respect, the struggle will cease (Taylor 1994). The main critique of this line of thought is that the majority is the de facto determinant of what is acceptable and what is not. Taylor seems to insinuate that minority and majority identities are permanently fixed, and the issue is simply whether the majority recognizes the minority (see Fernando 2015). I believe the dynamics that constitute symbolic boundaries are more complex than these sharply divided categories. While Islam has historically been regarded as Europe’s other, I scrutinize how these symbols are identified and adopted by the volunteers, who use them to bridge boundaries and create a sense of solidarity. The impact of different cultures, languages, and especially religions on the imagined homogenous European identity (Asad 2003) has been a topic for multiple studies (see Salih 2009). This phenomenon has been presented as a way of thinking through how notions of citizenship and national identity have become fragmented (Salih 2009). What we have yet to understand, and what I attempt to explore in this section, is how these discourses and practices of (national) identity and citizenship fragment the religious experience, and merge it with the national public experience. This observation evokes Eickelman and Salvatore’s concept of the “social Muslim” (Eickelman and Salvatore 2002, 101). The social Muslim takes a Sufi approach to living Islamically in public life (2002, 101). According to the authors, “Sufism asserted the right of individual believers to experiment with the ‘truth’ independent of the Shari’a, or accepted practice and the conventions of legal scholarship. Sufi orders,

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often interconnected over large distances, were usually not directly political but offered a template for intervention in society independent from both the state and from local affinities such as tribe, village or region” (Eickelman and Salvatore 2002, 101). Although my interlocutors do not belong to a Sufi order, we can see a similar attitude towards stepping outside conventional Islamic practices (if there is such a thing) to ease their visible presence in public, and create a more accessible religiosity. Muslims’ claim to be part of the public sphere by incorporating values that are traditionally excluded from the secular national imagination (Fernando 2015) has been interpreted as a reluctance to integrate. Integration is a process usually “imposed” by the political structures of a country; Joppke rightly asserts that such structures divide the world according to “spatial segments,” not “non-spatial functions” or individuals with multiple identities who do not exist as one unified entity (2014, 4). Joppke adds that this may mean a political structure cannot expect a person to be a national of two countries and be loyal to them both simultaneously (2014, 4). Here, Joppke contends, integration is more of a “practical category” utilized by politics than an analytical category that can be empirically measurable (2014, 4). Political structures, being proponents of segregated spaces, especially in the case of Western liberal states, view integration as tolerance for “cultural difference in private and associational life, but refuse to give it public status” (Joppke 2014, 7). To be more explicit, Joppke asserts that the liberal state tradition designates spaces and defines conduct within those spaces; if an individual is a citizen of a country, they must comply with the public norms of that country. Jocelyn Cesari engages with this concept and questions whether integration is a term that reflects equally on each immigrant community, or whether the process is interrogated more intensely with respect to Muslim individuals and communities (Cesari 2004, 3). A persistent narrative of conflict exists, which problematizes Islam’s presence and visibility in the public sphere, and repeatedly asserts that, as a religion, Islam is resistant to modernity, and hence to the Enlightenment ideals that define the European public sphere (Cesari 2004; Fadil 2014). In Veil: Mirror of Identity (2009), Joppke points to the veil as an example of Islam’s problematic visibility in the European public sphere. He

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asserts that some norms and values essential to the Islamic tradition, such as the headscarf, remain irreconcilable with European liberal values (Joppke 2009). Hence, it is not just Islam’s growing visibility in the public sphere that prompts discomfort, but the actual “fact” that there is something normatively different and incompatible within Islam (Joppke 2009). Here, Joppke idealizes European liberalism, reinforces the them– us divide that prevails in these debates, and “sexualizes” the Islamic question by leading with questions of gender rights and women’s emancipation. Without delving too deeply into these debates, I discuss how conversations about norms shape what is often perceived as a “good” Muslim. Politicians have already made us aware that a so-called categorical division exists between “good” and “bad” Muslims (Mamdani 2002). This divide emerged especially after 9/11, and sees good Muslims as those who are non-violent, who live by the law, and who are completely opposed to any kind of violent or non-violent intervention that would threaten the authority of the secular West (Wilson and Mavelli 2016). In contrast, the bad Muslim threatens the peaceful order (of the West), and is not even true to his/her religion, as s/he does not adhere properly to the tenets of Islam (Wilson and Mavelli 2016). These categories are projected on Muslims to assume a certain position, namely a position towards normative Western liberal-secular values. “Don’t you think a concert is too… um… a bit too much? I mean, people may criticize it. You know, boys and girls together… You can’t control them if they start dancing…” Asiya’s voice trailed off. We were having tea in the association with five or six women, trying to plan the next event. It was March, and the women wanted to organize an event in May, something like a spring festival. This three-day event would take place in a large outdoor space; there would also be an indoor display of artwork and a crafts table. Outside would be large food stalls with different examples of Turkish cuisine. While most of the food would be made and sold at the festival, many of the volunteers also planned to prepare sweet and savory delicacies at home and bring them to the venue to sell. The money that was raised would help finance upcoming events and fund the association’s needs. The women wanted to plan the event to be as fun and vibrant as possible, so that many people could come with their children and

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extended families and have a nice time. The aim was to attract as many people as possible from the Turkish community, especially those in Brussels; the activities had to be pleasing enough that people would choose to spend a weekend in May at the event, not anywhere else. Asiya’s concern spurred a debate that I sometimes saw among my interlocutors. That is: are the events that they organize appropriate for people like them, who define themselves as muhafazakar (religious and conservative)? Or, as one of the women asked, “Do we want to see boys and girls jumping up and down together, at our event?” We had this specific discussion with Elif and her sohbet group, which consisted of university graduates. This group of women plans and executes most events. The statement “boys and girls jumping up and down together” referred to what might happen at the concerts scheduled for the evenings of the festival’s three days. The organizers had planned for three well-known Turkish singers to come from Turkey to give a small concert on each evening. These concerts would draw many people from the Turkish community, since the singers were relatively famous among Belgian Turks. Naturally, these concerts attract interest and are thus an efficient way for volunteers to encourage attendance at their events. Yet, the dilemma persists. Is organizing a concert an appropriate choice for these women, who volunteer to pursue a properly Muslim way of living? Elif, who is generally easygoing, replied to Asiya in the same calm manner. “Yes, of course we don’t want to see anyone doing anything inappropriate at our event. But, I mean, they could be spending the same weekend drinking somewhere. At least they won’t be doing those kinds of things with us. I mean, what really matters is our niyya (intention). Are we trying to do something good here? Yes, we are… And who knows, uh, maybe we will be able to inspire someone to do good themselves with these events.” In the end, the concerts were organized in May, and some girls and boys did “jump up and down together.” But what I find important is Elif ’s assertion: “What really matters is our niyya.” Niyya comes up frequently in my interlocutors’ discussions, and its use in this context is significant. While organizing a concert is an exceptional moral challenge for some of my interlocutors, I observe that generally most of the events they plan do not have a religious form or content. What I mean by this

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is that, although they are volunteers inspired by faith, and though they try to work meticulously on their trajectory of faith by gaining knowledge through weekly lessons and reading activities, their events are not executed in a space that would conventionally be designated as “religious,” such as a mosque. Moreover, the events themselves do not have any religious content. I would even go one step further and note that none of the events that the volunteers organize for the larger public has any religious content or form. However, they usually add that while the event does not seem at all dini (within the boundaries of religion), it is the niyya that makes it so. I suggest that this is somewhat different from the examples we see in the present literature. Saba Mahmood’s elaborate research describes the trajectories of women who are part of the Islamic revival, but is limited to practices in the mosque space (Mahmood 2001). There is little mention of how these practices are carried out in ordinary daily life, within a secular context. Similarly, Lara Deeb, whose work is grounded in a completely different context from Shi’a Lebanon, limits her study of how her interlocutors become “proper” Muslims to a religious space. That is, the ethnographic content explores how a female volunteer’s practices are defined by participating in events that are accepted as religious, for example, the commemoration of the Ashura event, but in a redefined and “modernized” fashion. While both studies are valuable contributions to the anthropology of Islam, in that they recognize an ethical trajectory as a constant engagement with Islamic tradition in order to overcome the challenges of everyday life (Fadil and Fernando 2015, 63), Deeb and Mahmood overlook how a self-fashioning trajectory is formed and re-formed in larger society, out of the religious sphere. This section explores how the Belgian Muslim volunteers reframe their “spiritual exercises” in larger society. The ethnographic details that I gathered allow us to understand how they fashion their events in what can be called a “disenchanted” display. It indicates that my interlocutors reflect on their context as Muslims living in Belgium and challenge designated spaces defined as religious (private) or secular (public) by deconstructing normative assumptions of how practices should be formulated in these spaces. Furthermore, by blurring the concept of designated spaces, my

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interlocutors re-formulate ideas of what are pious versus mundane practices. I acknowledge that many studies on the anthropology of Islam indicate an assertion by Muslims that Islam is embedded in all parts of life, and that this is not a new discovery on my part. However, what I find noteworthy in this section is how my interlocutors structuralize this idea with their events, and how, by embedding these events in discourses of niyya, maslaha, and inclusiveness, they self-represent as a “compatible” Muslim minority in the West.

Insinuating Designated Spaces European secular political discourse is marked by binaries (Fernando 2010, 20; Fadil and Fernando 2015, 60), especially those that confine religion to certain spaces. The public/private distinction is important in “modern social order,” and religion is positioned within the historical ordering of what is in public and private spheres (Casanova 1992, 17). Casanova differentiates between “the secular,” “secularization,” and “secularism.” The secular refers to a more general understanding of how a certain reality, or “experience,” as Casanova claims, differs from “the religious.” Secularization denotes the “transformation and differentiation” of religious and secular institutions, such as the church, state, education, art, and so on, in the history of modernization. The secularization discourse covers part of European history, whereby there is an experience of institutional transformation to the secular. This discourse is eventually taken up as a discourse of development and modernization. The privatization of religion has become central to the secularization discourse, and while scholars have critically engaged with this understanding, it is still accepted as the defining point of modernization (Casanova 2009, 1050). In this order, we see the privatization of religion, whereby religion is designated to the private sphere and separated from public roles (Casanova 1992, 18–19). This approach to secularism has been interrogated by previous studies (Lewis 1988; Taylor 2002), and the focus of this section is not a debate about secularization and its forms. Rather, I discuss how these binaries are articulated in conceptions of designated spaces, whereby religious practices are confined to the religious or private

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sphere. I argue that these conceptions narrow our ability to understand my interlocutors’ experiences. By exploring how apparently secular practices of volunteering are embedded in narratives of niyya (intention) and maslaha (common good), I look at how the idea of “designated spaces” is deconstructed, allowing my interlocutors to practice and perform their religiosity in the public sphere. Like the concert, all the events that my respondents organize are consciously formatted in a certain way, in that they are secular. I would like to unpack what I mean by this, and why I find it to be of scholarly significance. Volunteering is experienced as an ethical endeavor by my respondents; that is, it is something they commit to in order to become a proper Muslim. But the events and organizations they serve as volunteers are de-Islamicized . The events have no religious content or form, and this, as I have seen many times while attending preparatory meetings, is done intentionally. My interlocutors are very careful not to organize anything religiously “pamphletic,” or even suggestive. When I asked Elif about this during the early years of my field study, she told me that they were not religious associations. But, I said, “You say that you are inspired by faith, and you say you do all of this for God’s consent. So even though your events are not religious, you are.” “Look, if you want to make progress, you have to integrate into the environment,” Elif told me. I cannot count the number of times Elif or another executive told me that their events do not contain religious content. By religious, they do not refer to ritual content per se, but to even small details, such as not organizing events that refer to “Muslimness” as an identity, or a challenge in that case. My interlocutors believe that what they are doing is as religious as fasting, pilgrimage, or prayer. I have seen them carry out the most basic tasks with such spiritual intensity that they have tears in their eyes. Even the simplest, most “mundane” act of volunteering, such as baking a cake to sell for charity, offers them a great religious experience. Again, the events do not have religious form or content. Other Turkish Muslim communities in Belgium, such as the Suleymanci or Milli Gorus, are embedded in explicit religious narratives. They organize mavlud sessions, Ashura days, and charities for war-torn or impoverished Muslim countries. My volunteers stay away from such events. If they do organize

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Ashura days, it is usually framed as an ‘interfaith’ event, and the objective is still to incorporate larger segments of society. But instead of ruling out these practices as non-religious, I explore them as a form of religious subjectivity that complicates positivist understandings of how religion is experienced in everyday life. To begin, it is important to understand who is meant to benefit from these events, and to explore how the audience influences their formation. As I have mentioned, most of the volunteers’ events target a specific audience. In Belgium, this audience can consist of politicians or of people working in politics in one way or another. I believe this is an especially “Belgian” case, based on what one of my respondents told me. Sumeyye, a woman in her early thirties then working at the association, stated that it is easy to get a politician to attend your event in Belgium because of the federal state structure, which ensures that the country has nothing more plentiful than politicians, and that they are willing to make themselves visible. When Sumeyye told me this, she added that it was important to reach as many politicians as possible, so as to indicate that as Muslim they are also proactive citizens; this echoes the previous section’s analysis of how a good Muslim is also a good citizen. Additionally, Brussels’ networks of NGOs, think tanks, and other such European institutions allows my interlocutors to get in touch with people in the public arena. It is not uncommon for volunteers to partner with such institutions and initiate panel discussions, roundtables, or events to raise awareness. For example, in 2016 the women’s associations partnered with UN Women in Brussels as part of their “He4She” campaign. I was with Fatima, who co-ordinated all the associations at this time, when she proposed the project to the UN. Although the associations did not have a specific “women’s” agenda at that time, they still wanted to take part in the project and organize an event with UN Women. Essentially, Fatima explained, they wanted to “be there,” “there” being the public scene where these discussions took place. Fatima asserted that they wanted to partner with the UN for its name, and thus add “seriousness” to their own name as a women’s association. “We need to present as Muslim women,” she told her assistant during a meeting. Brussels, a politically active city with many institutions and platforms, provides a space for my respondents to reclaim their Muslim identity

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by reimagining their position and responsibilities in the public sphere, which are articulated in dialogue about what they understand as important in their context. This further emphasizes the point I made earlier, that my interlocutors reimagine their religious subjectivity in conversation with the liberal-secular public sphere and religious authority. However, this does imply that these articulations are consistent and unchallenged. Contrarily, the manifold practices of religiosity can sometimes create tension and fragmentation of opinion among my respondents. By deIslamicizing practices of religiosity, they enter into a hybrid and often problematic manifestation of Muslimness. The de-Islamicization of what my interlocuters acknowledge to be a purely religious endeavor often leaves them in a dilemma, in which they must assess whether or not what they are doing is ethically appropriate. “Boys and girls jumping up and down together” is but one of the aporias of which my interlocuters must make sense. The question boils down to how much they can re-fashion their events at the expense of a completely un-Islamic act. In the first years of my fieldwork, I was lucky enough to participate in an event organized by my interlocuters that involved going to a Natacha Atlas concert. Being a great admirer of Atlas, I already had a sense of her shows, which involved a lot of sensual belly dancing. I was not sure if my interlocuters were aware of this when they organized the event, however, as they were going to the concert in a mixed-gender group. I asked Sumeyye, who was president of the association at that time, if she was comfortable with her husband watching a female belly dancer. “No,” Sumeyye replied. “Didn’t Natacha Atlas convert to Islam?” “I really have no idea,” I said. “But even if… I mean, you don’t expect her to sit and sing hymns, do you? What if she dances; won’t that be awkward?” Immediately, Sumeyye said, very sure of herself, “No, she won’t dance. They [referring to the organizers in Bozar] said she wouldn’t.” During the concert, Atlas put on a great show, and belly danced for nearly half its duration. At one point, Sumeyye’s husband turned around and whispered, “Sumeyye, where did you bring us?” Sometime after the concert, I asked Sumeyye how it felt for her, as one of the most passionately devout Muslim women I know, to be caught up

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in a very un-Islamic concert, particularly having participated as a volunteer for the outing. “I did it for God’s consent,” she said. “Okay, it wasn’t a very desirable situation, but my aim was pure. I mean, in the end what matters is your niyya.” She added, “But don’t tell anyone else what happened. What happens in Bozar stays in Bozar.” The concept of niyya is one my interlocuters refer to many times. It translates as intention; obligatory (or, in some cases, non-obligatory) Islamic practices are preceded by a declaration of intent by the performer (Wensinck 2016). Without this declaration, the practice is rendered Islamically invalid (Wensinck 2016). In Ihya, al-Ghazali asserts that the niyya is required before performances of the ibada, such as bathing, praying, fasting, sacrificing, and pilgrimage, and that these acts are not valid if the niyya is not declared (al-Ghazali 2015). To understand how the volunteers confront and negotiate the conundrum of being religious in the secular public sphere, it is essential to understand how they unpack this phenomenon and reflect on it in daily life. By embedding their practices within the notion of niyya, the volunteers counter what can be defined as formalistic religion. William Tisdale claims that the emphasis Muslims place on “ceremonial observance,” such as fixed prayers and fasting on certain days, tends to make them “formalist,” in that the subject is not expected to have a “pure heart” (Tisdale 1910, 80, 88). As such, Tisdale makes the point that since Islam reduces ritual to mere acts, it is not a priority for the believer to feel that spiritual experience. I argue strongly against this point by introducing the concept of niyya, and assert that it is this exact formalism my interlocuters confront in their daily lives by de-Islamicizing their practices. I believe their pious subjectivity can be unpacked to reveal multiple levels of commitment; in this case, perfecting physical acts of worship (as seen in Mahmood 2005; Hirschkind 2006) is not the ultimate route to a pious self, but only one part of the dynamic that constitutes it. Several studies have been made of Islamic intentionality (Powers 2004; Denny 1990; Messick 2001), but their scope is limited, in that they focus on ritual or legal norms (Denny 1990). Rituals, which are at the heart of Islamic ethics, are a way for the believer to come closer to God, and the niyya is the declaration of that intention (Denny 1990, 209–210). While such studies aim to signify niyya in a way that clearly shows Islam as a

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non-formalist religion (Denny 1990; Powers 2004), I suggest that their arguments reinforce this image. These studies confine intentionality to the ritual and legal norms of Islam, and their attempts to study the social dynamic of this matter are quite narrow. Ethnographic encounters with my interlocutors indicate that niyya is a complex phenomenon that does not just entail the declaration of intention prior to ritual or the subject’s self-assessment of whether their intentions are religiously in order. It is at the heart of my interlocutors’ volunteering, which allows them to engage with multiple narratives and reclaim their religious subjectivity, and it is a form of negotiation that my interlocutors carry out collectively. Here, I would add that Power’s description of niyya as an individual, internal act carried out by the heart/mind that is “unavailable for direct assessment by anyone other than the actor him- or herself ” (Powers 2004, 436) is quite narrow. While this may be true for the declaration of intent before individual worship, we need to take into account how niyya evolves as a social phenomenon when the religious act (like the events that comprise volunteering) take on a social form. In such cases, intentionality becomes a collectively reasoned process. This is where the sohbet meetings become important, because it is at these meetings that the volunteers discuss together whether an event or activity has pure niyya behind it. This is not just an individual establishment of pure intention, as described in the literature (Powers 2004), but a collective reasoning over whether the content and form of a practice are Islamically permissible. While it may be difficult to understand how a Natacha Atlas concert can be Islamically permissible, at this point my interlocutors refer to what was discussed earlier as the common good. They embed their niyya in this precarious notion, which intersects with ideas of good citizenship and keeping that citizenship in balance with religious sensitivities. In this context, the common good, or practices that strive for the common good, are those that aim to bring people together. These “people” consist of the volunteers, the Turkish community, and ultimately larger society. I refer to the common good as a “precarious notion” because it is not clearly defined, but is in flux, depending on changing contextual dynamics. Hence, the niyya is seldom pre-determined, but is a product of active reasoning and group conversation. In 2012, education and unemployment in migrant communities were much discussed,

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and, as I have noted, my interlocutors directly addressed these issues at their events. Similarly, in 2016, after the ghastly terror attacks in Paris and Brussels, Islamic radicalism and extremism became a hot button topic in politics, the media, and society. The events my respondents organized or partnered with other organizations to stage explicitly addressed “countering violent extremism.” In this case, my interlocutors explained that their niyya was to show that Muslims were also participating in this debate and wanted to combat forms of violence that came out of their communities. Many of the sohbet meetings I attended addressed the theological grounds of jihad and how that cannot be confused with violence. During these years, between 2015 and 2016, their selfunderstanding as “good Muslims” was newly positioned as “Muslims who do not carry out violence, work for and with society, and hence work for God’s grace.” Consequently, I observed how the discourses of jihadi violence became narratives in relation to which my interlocutors defined their pious subjectivity, that is, as something that they are not. By embodying niyya in practices of volunteering, my interlocutors challenge what they believe are formalistic and simplistic approaches to piety. It is believed that the Prophet Mohammad said in a hadith that “Actions are defined by intentions, and to every person what he intends” (Powers 2004, 427). Niyya is thus interpreted as being that which gives an act spiritual depth (Powers 2004, 427). While intentionality is important in approaching acts of worship, it is also significant in “Muslim approaches to acts in general” (Messick 2001, 153). The appearance of a practice as apparently secular does not indicate that my interlocutors regard it as such. By reflecting the niyya of devoting that practice—or the labor, time and money expended on that practice— as a gift to God, my interlocutors negotiate the conundrums of what are “acceptable” practices, what are not, and the restraints of formalism. Consequently, the debate about whether a concert is an ethically good idea becomes a debate about how pure the volunteers’ niyya is. Intentionality creates its own authority by consent (Messick 2001, 162). While Messick traces this consent between two parties in some form of social or legal transaction, I would add that in the case of volunteering, consent is between the volunteers and God. My interlocutors offer assurances that their events are intended for God’s consent, and invest in that

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endeavor. What Messick describes as the “internal formulation of intentionality” is separate from, but more decisive than, “expressions, forms, and signs” (Messick 2001,162). Hence, volunteers like Sumeyye reflect on this notion of “intention over form” when struggling with ethical dilemmas. By deconstructing Islamic formalisms, and by taking pious practices out of designated religious spheres and reconstituting them in public, my interlocutors not only reimagine their pious subjectivity, but challenge secular formalisms. De-Islamicizing religious practices does not indicate that the volunteers are secularized Muslims, or that they have somehow assimilated into the liberal-secular public sphere. As individual Muslim women, their compatibility is often questioned, as I have described. But as a community of volunteers, these apparently secularized events allow them to take part in “public life” by meeting artists, politicians, and other associations and representatives. The women interpret their presence in these events as purely Islamic aspiration to be a proper Muslim, who is also a proper citizen. Hence, the volunteers actively take part in the liberal-secular public sphere by reimagining both their religious self and the secular imagination. On the one hand, they challenge Islamic formalisms, but on the other hand, they actively challenge secular formalisms, and the distinction between private and public.

Unpacking the Mahram My interlocutors often make a distinction between private ibada, and the public visibility of religiosity. However poignantly they make these distinctions, a closer observation indicates that what they live as private is articulated in nuances. The privatization of religion is historically one of the fundamental outcomes of secularization (Hann 2000; see Weber 1930). Nevertheless, even when we claim that a complete privatization of religious practices can be possible, we need to dig deeper into what happens in the private sphere. I often had the impression throughout my fieldwork that the private sphere more often connotes intimacy rather than individualism. Private ibada is not exactly the same as the privatization of religion, although it does borrow from the idea that formalist

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religion should be practiced in private spaces. Private ibada is imbricated in mahram, which is a much more complicated understanding of the private–public segregation. The obligatory rituals of Islam are extremely important for the volunteers; indeed, they often mention that a person can volunteer day and night, but if they are not careful about praying five times a day, and with ikhlas, as well as reading the Qur’an, fasting, and fulfilling other religious obligations, their volunteering is no more than charity work, and not important in the eyes of God. Ibada is the foundation of their faith, on which volunteering builds, and it is obligatory (farz ). Yet, it is also an individual trajectory. Thus, volunteering and ibada are co-constitutive; they constitute different aspects of the pious trajectory, the mahram complementing the public. I consciously use the term mahram instead of ‘private,’ borrowing the term from Nilüfer Göle (1991). Göle rightly contends that some concepts are difficult to translate across borders and cultures, and mahram is one of these concepts; usually translated as private, this does not really cover the meaning that mahram wants to convey (Göle 1991, 20). In Muslim societies, mahram refers to their formulation of sexual segregation, public morality, and privacy (Göle 1991, 20). Göle adds that using the term “private sphere” instead of mahram will confuse the specific differences of Muslim family and intimate life from what we see in the Western context (Göle 1991, 20). The following parts of this section construe how such forms of intimacy are essentially part of my interlocutors’ mahram spheres. “You can only find the strength to volunteer if you are reminded of God’s presence five times a day,” Sumeyye told me. Hence, ibada informs volunteering and completes it. According to Elif, “When we do ibada, it is our personal worship to Allah. It is a farz, and there is no chance of not doing it. It is what we do for ourselves, to show gratitude for what Allah has given us, ward off the evil, and ultimately [prepare] for judgment day. Ibada is what we do for ourselves. But Allah will ask us, ‘What did you do for me?’ For Allah, we need to devote all that He has given to us, for Him, and we must guide people along the moral codes He set. Whatever we do for society, we have done for Allah.” Volunteering constitutes the pious trajectory of the volunteer, just like individual worship does. One is not more important than another, but

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my interlocutors reflect on each trajectory differently. Ibada has its own sphere: the mosque, home, or a room where one can pray. The body is its boundaries; a person performs the prayer five times a day, they fast with their body, they read and study the Qur’an for knowledge about how to be a better Muslim; they make pilgrimages to experience the holy lands and fulfill an obligation of Islam; they give zakat, similarly to fulfill an obligation, for it is their money that they are giving—and their good deed. Although Elif described ibada as “what we do for ourselves,” and as a more individual experience, it is also the case that my interlocutors perform such worship together. The holy nights such as the lailat al qadr or lailat al -miraj are usually commemorated together, where not all but many of my interlocutors would come together in the late evening to read the Qur’an. They would also do a dua together. Dua is something that a person does in private, in silent, usually professing their inner wishes, hopes, regrets, and needs to God. However, during these holy nights, the women come together, sit in a circle, and openly profess these inner states. They take turns, each professing to God, while the others say “amen,” sometimes in tears from the emotional intensity of the moment. They perform the salah together, after which they together recite the salawat to the Prophet Mohammad. The night usually ends after this, and they depart for their homes; those who desire, proceed with their ibada at home in private. It is these nights, they believe, when God is more merciful and forgiving of their sins, and there is a higher possibility of their prayers being answered. As Fatima Nur says, “It is these nights that the doors of repentance are wide open, and we must ask for forgiveness. When we ask for forgiveness together, it becomes a stronger plea, and there is a higher chance that God will accept it. If there is one person with true ikhlas among us, then God will accept all our prayers for the sake of that person. Even just saying ‘amen’ together is a great hassanah.” There is a strong comprehension of ibada as private practices, between the individual and God, yet there are many instances when I observed them being performed quite communally. I would sit through these sessions quietly, with a headscarf tied around my head, hoping that

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they would not ask me to make dua aloud, as I felt highly uncomfortable expressing such private feelings so publicly. What was interesting to observe is that although we sat through these sessions together, my interlocutors still described the experience as private. The volunteers do not refer to collective forms of worship as “public piety,” and hence consider it as part of their obligatory worship towards God. My interest in this practice is in understanding how this experience is different from volunteering as a social phenomenon—different from ibada, which is experienced as part of their pious trajectory but is obviously very different from these sessions. My initial intuition was to understand why I felt discomfort in these contexts. Most of the women in that specific context were unfamiliar to me. I had met them for the first time and they knew very little of me. They knew each other very well, however, having participated in the same sohbet group for years, living in close neighborhoods, and sending their children to the same schools; they had vented and shared details of their lives. As they revealed their innermost desires during the dua, what they pleaded with God was already known to their friends. The intimacy they develop in these spheres is within the borders of mahram. Hence, however visible or audible their ibada, it is still private in the way they understand private as segregated from those who are not meant to hear, see, or know—the namahram (those who do not have the required intimacy to be mahram). From a psychological perspective, privacy, or the private, is closely related to the intimate, and those whom we allow to have access to certain aspects of our life (Reiman 1976). Charles Fried writes that […] privacy is the necessary context for relationships which we would hardly be human if we had to do without – the relationships of love, friendship, and trust… Love and friendship […] involve the voluntary and spontaneous relinquishment of something between friend and friend, lover and lover. The title to information about oneself conferred by privacy provides the necessary something. To be friends or lovers persons must be intimate to some degree with each other. Intimacy is the sharing of information about one’s action, beliefs or emotions, which one does not share with all, and which one has the right not to share with anyone.

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By conferring this right, privacy creates the moral capital which we spend in friend and love. (Fried 1970, 142)

Fried’s argument is that privacy is necessary for intimate relationships to emerge; in a sense, what distinguishes someone we are close to from someone whom we are not close to is the shared information (Fried 1970). According to Fried, simply sharing material things is not enough for an intimate relationship to occur, as the individual needs to be ready to share “everything about himself ” (Fried 1970, 142). This view is critiqued rather rigorously by Reiman, as it presents us with a “market conception of personal intimacy” (Reiman 1976, 32). He suggests that Fried’s notion of intimacy is founded on what people have or have not; it is not about the “quality or intensity” of what people share, but its “unavailability” to others (Reiman 1976, 32). More specifically, he suggests that “It may be that our personal relations are valuable to us because of their exclusiveness rather than because of their own depth or breadth or beauty” (Reiman 1976, 32). He concludes that Fried’s theory takes this assertion out of context, making it seem a necessity for intimate relationship rather than maybe a historical evolution of intimacy in certain societies where family structures and so on have influenced forms of intimacy (Reiman 1976). Although I agree with Fried that there is an undeniable link between the private and the intimate with regards to how much my interlocutors are willing to share with their fellow volunteers in comparison to the rest of the world, I also observe some nuances. First, while obviously the intimate relationship arises because of shared experiences, this does not necessarily mean that they are each other’s mahram. Fried’s privacy makes us think that intimacy naturally leads to sharing what is private, but that is far too holistic an approach, and contextually grounded. If we are to understand why the private is not necessarily individualistic or personal but visible, we need to understand why the mahram is more complicated. I suggest that how the volunteers experience a practice as ibada, meaning as part of their individual worship to God, and as volunteering, meaning what they do for God, is grounded in how that practice is contextually embedded. The commemoration of holy nights, collective prayers, and dua sessions are acknowledged as individual worship and

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strictly not part of their volunteering routine because they take place in a closed environment to which only certain people are admitted. This does not mean to say that people who are not part of the volunteering community are strictly forbidden from these events; on the contrary, I observed many times that the women brought along other friends, relatives, or neighbors to these gatherings. It means that these sessions are carried out in places that would usually be associated with the private sphere, such as their homes. Only people who would actually comprehend those ibada would be able to participate in them. It is a matter of sharing the same spiritual experience, aspirations, needs, desires, and hopes. While each woman may unpack these differently, the sameness lies in how they express it and that they want to connect with God. As each hand opens and is raised above the body, a woman would profess a sincere utterance to God, and the other women, who not only understand her aspiration but share it, would say “amen”; and the ritual carries on the same way until each woman has professed something that comes from the heart. I remember experiencing a related conflict with a sohbet teacher, whom I came to know personally over the years I was in the field. I had asked her several times if I could participate in her sohbet meetings, which was with a group of female teachers. She was hesitant to give me a definitive answer, and when I pursued, she apologetically told me that I could not. The simple reason was that the women in that group did not know me and did not feel comfortable with me present. The problem was not whether I wrote about their personal issues and conversations or not; the problem was what I knew about them. They had specifically told the sohbet teacher, “She might violate our mahram” (mahremiyetimize zarar verebilir ). On a related anecdote, during a discussion with a colleague, he told me that during his time with the volunteers he noticed that sometimes they would remove themselves from the group and retreat to privacy. He told me he would always wonder what they did during those times, and it gradually dawned on him that they were doing their own ibada. They were simply not interested in doing this ibada in sight of others. It was after this discussion that I gave this issue of mahram and public more thought.

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I felt conflicted. For the first time throughout my ethnography, I was not included in a space. However, it also gave me an opportunity to rethink these spaces and what they signify for the pious woman. These are not neatly established categories, as posited by liberal thought; nevertheless, they pertain to how the women negotiate and discern the physical performances and sensual hermeneutics that constitute these spaces. Thus, the mahram is not something inclusive of the wider society, and interestingly it is not a space in which they—in their own words—“perform for God.” It is for their own self, a fulfillment of the obligations (farz ). “Performing ritual for their own self ” should not be confusing for us. This means that they appreciate these ibada as non-negotiable and obligatory; thus, they perform it ultimately for their own salvation. In the Human Condition (1958), Hannah Arendt mentions how the private in a way preserves the sacred and mysterious spaces of life. Certain phenomena can change in form and implication when they are not private. Indeed, Alan Westin contends that privacy is a way of keeping autonomous and authentic to the self, where one can find a place to “self-evaluate”; where role-playing is not necessary, and communication is protected (Westin 1967). It is the choice of privacy where communication is particularly open, even when the individual is surrounded by others. They are her mahram; thus, what is not visible—or should not be visible—to others is visible to them. The next section examines giving in the open, as a practice, which in the Islamic tradition is conventionally meant to be private (to the individual alone); it also explores how it becomes visible—almost desirably—in the mahram as a source for motivation and inspiration for the pious individual.

Motivation—Giving Indiscreetly The Qur’an explicitly makes the point that giving must be discreet: “O you who believe! Do not render vain your charity by reminders of your generosity or by injury, like him who spends his wealth to be seen of men and he does not believe in Allah nor in the last Day” (2:264). Following this verse, it is interpreted that in the afterlife, the reward for giving alms discreetly is 70 times greater than the reward for giving publicly.

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As it happens, it was a surprise for me to find that my volunteering interlocutors had little disapproval of giving indiscreetly and frequently. Until quite recently, it was common for the volunteers to organize himmah events (himmet programlari ). Himmah programs are interesting, in that they involve a group of women coming together specifically to donate money (or other material goods). The giving here is consensual, as nothing is compelling the women to give, but they are expected to donate something if they attend the program. The women assemble in a large room where, one by one, they voice what they are going to donate; an instructor takes note of what is promised. The notion of a promise is important, because as soon as the individual says, “I promise to give…,” she is compelled to give that amount. Since the promise is made in a roomful of people, I asked some of my interlocutors if this felt uncomfortable or contradictory in any way. They explained that the promise is a somewhat public promise to God to donate a certain amount. Since it is a promise to God, these matters are ultimately between them and God: if they actually keep the promise; their ikhlas in making the donation; and how they will be rewarded (if they will be rewarded) for this gift. My interlocutors articulate what is for them a completely moral philosophy, though it can be understood as somewhat contradictory. Himmah derives from the Arabic al-himmah, which has several meanings. It is translated variously as a spiritual “aspiration,” “diligence,” “will,” “yearning,” “desire,” “purpose,” “ambition,” “intention,” “concentration,” and “determination” (Orhan 2008). The volunteers engage with himmah from a re-interpreted angle, specifically “reaching out to the needy,” and as a motivation for infaq (Orhan 2008). But how can a theological calling grounded in sincerity (ikhlas) and humility (tawajjuh) be so publicly displayed? I found Nuray in the middle of this dilemma. “I don’t know if giving so indiscreetly causes riya (hypocrisy) in our hearts… There can be jealousy among people, you know, like people may assume that giving more necessarily means having more, or it means that your place in heaven is automatically reserved. I can understand that these kinds of events motivate people to give in a sense, but I’m not sure what is left for the afterlife when we are so explicit with our virtues here (in this world).” Nuray is

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in an apparent dilemma. On the one hand, she accepts that indiscreet giving serves as a sort of motivation, wherein one feels the desire to be as giving and committed as the other volunteers. But she struggles with her own conscience, which still holds on to the traditional idea that sincere giving should be discreet. Nuray has a point when she determines that himmah allows a space within which to motivate other (more reluctant) givers. These events often follow a very emotionally charged and heightened trajectory, in which people can be found emptying their wallets on the table or taking off their last piece of jewelry and donating it to build a well in Africa. With people so emotionally involved in the event, an encapsulating atmosphere develops; individuals become part of that atmosphere and start giving more and more. The emotional intensity of the event often leaves little room for logic or questions. When making a normal donation, one may very well expect to hear a little bit about the cause in question, the technicalities of how the money will reach its destination, and the long-term aims of the project. At himmah events, these questions are seldom asked. The idea of sacrificing for God is so tangible that the cause itself is of secondary importance. This emotional response is often encouraged by the instructor, whose task is “managing motivation” (Khald¯un 1989), and channeling that energy toward different forms of giving. Himmah events are places where indiscreet giving can be directly observed, but this behavior is prevalent at even the most micro-levels of volunteering. I often encounter events at which envelopes are being distributed in the background. These envelopes have a picture of a hospital in Africa or a school in Kyrgyzstan that is in need of money, and people are expected to fill them. While the pressure is not as high, it is still strong. I do not typically find a respondent that does not fill the envelopes. These envelopes can also be given to the volunteers, who are expected to distribute them among their entourage. “How many envelopes should I give you?” a sohbet instructor will ask, and my respondents will reply with a number they believe they can distribute. I found this intriguing, in that it also has an element of compulsion. If a fellow volunteer takes ten envelopes, it is difficult to ask for three. More often than not, the

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sohbet instructor will find a proffered number too small, and will say, “You’d like ten? Then I will give you fifteen. You are from Brussels; you know a lot of people; you can definitely distribute more.” Some of the volunteers stated that they find this annoying, as their limited entourage makes it extremely difficult to distribute the envelopes, but they do it for God’s consent. Indeed, I have observed the envelopes returned and full. “But what if you can’t find 15 willing people to donate?” I asked Esra, who was sitting next to me, as she handed in her collected money. “I just fill the empty ones myself,” she replied. This is not uncommon; rather than return empty envelopes in front of everyone, my interlocutors would rather fill them themselves. From a social perspective, performances of indiscreet giving are materially rewarding. Managing motivation and inciting an intangible but existing compulsion to give triggers this dynamic. However, this raises other questions related to the personal sphere, and what this does for an individual’s nafs and her communication with God. “I guess that is why we have different (homogenous) sohbet groups, so that our giving is not pretentious,” explained Pinar. “I mean, I am a businesswoman. Of course my ability to give is not the same as a housewife’s, and if we were in the same group expecting to donate in front of each other, that would be extremely uncomfortable and not appropriate anyway. But I don’t see why this [indiscreet giving] is bad. Some people have all the ability to give, but they cannot, because they cannot overcome their nafs, and seeing other people give so fervently makes it easier for them to give too. It is like a sweet competition. There must be equality among the people who see each other donate, and the person needs to keep their nafs under control. But other than that, I think giving openly is crucial for being an example for others.” Pinar also relies on discourses of motivation, being an example, and personal ikhlas. For her, these rubrics are less problematic than they are for Nuray. Pinar does not describe a tension between visibility and piety, but a complementary relationship. Visible piety is considered a form of taqwa (van Nieuwkerk 2014, 20), wherein the individual is in charge of controlling his/her nafs, and the nafs of the other. Claiming these public, visible acts of piety is a way to maintain the giving image. Judith Butler turns to Victor Turner to explain how performance is

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constituted through repetition. The re-enactment of performance is a reaffirmation and “re-experiencing” of already established social meanings. These performances are a ritualistic “legitimation” of those meanings. Butler adds that gender roles, although individual enactments, also have a public bearing: There are temporal and collective dimensions to these actions, and their public nature is not inconsequential; indeed, the performance is effected with the strategic aim of maintaining gender within its binary frame… As a public action and performative act, gender is not a radical choice or a project that reflects a merely individual choice, but neither is it imposed or inscribed upon the individual, as some poststructuralist displacements of the subject would contend… so the gendered body acts its parts in a culturally restricted corporeal space and enacts interpretations within the confines of already existing directives. (Butler 1988, 526)

Similarly, I observe that however discreet individual giving may have to be, its public eminence legitimizes its moral meaning. Its performance merges the self anew with its pious role. We learn from Elif that volunteering, however, is very much socially embedded, and is contextualized as such. Volunteer events are those that my interlocutors develop and carry out for the larger society, including Muslim communities. Although my interlocutors see volunteering as an act of piety that differs from ibada because it aims to serve society, it needs to be socially compatible. Many scholars frame this as public Islam, but such a term is not homogenous, and borrowing it should not imply or suggest a uniform Muslim presence in Europe (or anywhere else). Public Islam is constituted by manifold social and political dynamics, and by how Muslim individuals reflect on those dynamics in light of their own identities, negotiations, and reasoning. Here, I explore these manifold dynamics in a nuanced way by focusing on how volunteering as a religious practice is formed and re-formed through socially and politically embedded discourses, and by my interlocutors’ personal and collective reasoning with those discourses. In the next section, I turn to how public forms of Islam are articulated in relation to public discourses.

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Articulated Piety Building upon the visibility of giving, I explore the ways in which personal piety is made visible in multifarious ways, following a similar logic of motivation–inspiration and maintaining togetherness. Most interestingly, I observe that my interlocutors embed their daily practices in a language that asserts giving and God’s presence. Significantly, forms of speech not only represent a practice, but also make practice, which constitutes a very important place in the subject’s becoming. In linguistic anthropology, speech is not only something that presents itself “in the context of action,” but is itself a form of action (Das 2010). Thus, I observe that the use of language by my interlocutors is not only an unconscious verbal statement, but actualizes ethical selfdiscipline. Speech in this context is more than literal utterance. It is a practice that both reflects and helps achieve inner spirituality. This is where I found my interlocutors to be most careful with their words, especially when talking about giving. Two concepts used regularly in dialogue between my interlocutors caught my attention: linked action and motion. My interlocutors did not use these two words explicitly in their daily dialogues, but particular ways in which they described a situation showed that they always bore in mind that being active was not something to tire of, but something to be desired. I first came to realize this when one of the older women, Lale, a housewife, told an interesting story during a kermes preparation. Several volunteers were working together in the kitchen, and I was standing with them, not doing much other than taking notes and occasionally tasting the already prepared foods. I knew that Lale was a hyperactive woman, always busy with something. So when someone remarked on her incredible pace, I was not surprised. Lale cheerfully replied: “I have a relative who goes to the kermeses of other religious (Islamic) groups, and once she asked me if I could help them with their preparations. I have no problem participating in other groups’ events, so I said yes. I worked so hard that day; I never sat down, not even once. Of course it attracted the attention of the other women, and now I hear that they are saying, ‘There is a tiny woman in the association running to every business when they organize a kermes, and she has still not dropped ill from fatigue.’ But this is all for

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Allah, right? I mean I would never work so hard for my own personal purpose.” When we heard this story, everyone in the kitchen laughed and remarked that this is true service to God . Lale displayed great happiness and pride while telling this small anecdote, which is one of the indications that the more these women work, the more content they are. Every now and then, when in deep discussion during the event, the women would assert that being active and occupied made them feel younger and more dynamic. They were ready to volunteer for longer hours, or be ready for any sort of physical and mental activity needed. In his studies on language and performance, Austin finds that there is a difference between language used in daily life and language used on the stage (Austin 1962, 21–22). He suggests that performance “transforms” the “serious” and “normal” use of everyday language (Austin 1962). Volunteering is not a performance in the sense that Austin uses the term (as a representation of life). It is a true experience for these women. However, as in a performance, their speech is somehow elevated, both by what they experience and by what they want to experience. In Lale’s case, after she told her story, which affirmed her commitment to volunteering and emphasized the importance of being active, the other women entered into long discussions of how much time they themselves spent volunteering. Some said they spared more time for the association than for their children, a gesture that was praised and not regarded as negligence towards the children. But talking about these experiences is not meant solely to solicit approval from friends. It is meant to inspire more action and greater dedication to the practice of volunteering. Talking about commitment and taking action is the first step in actually becoming a committed, action-taking person. Paying close attention to the words my interlocutors use when talking to each other during the kermes is crucial; it is similarly essential during other events and discussions, as seemingly unimportant everyday phrases can say a great deal about the intentions of the speaker. Phrases such as Allah rızası için (“for God’s sake/pleasure”), hayırlara vesile olsun (“may it lead to prosperity”), and bereket (“blessing”) are used predominantly in these dialogues. During the kermes at which Lale told her story, whenever there was a crowd or it seemed that a large profit was being

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made, one of the women would say something like, “May God bless our profits.” Sometimes, one woman would compliment another by referring to how hard they were working; the other would reply, “It is all for God’s approval.” Moreover, if it looked as if profits were low, the women would urge each other not to lose hope by saying hayırlısı, which literally means, “Although the situation may look bleak, may prosperity come out of it.” Making reference to such spiritually embedded concepts does not necessarily mark them as literal (Baumann 1975, 292). Whether the practice (giving, volunteering) has achieved its aim, which is God’s consent, remains a point of suspense. But the insistent projection of such language on the women’s practices is, contradictory as it may seem, a clear indication that the women are aware of this tension. In particular, my interlocutors embrace this narrative before organizing large events. After a visibly lackluster performance, Fatima Nur stressed this point: “We are adanmı¸s [committed] people. We have to be aware that what we have taken on is not easy, and not something that everyone can devote their existence to. But once you have decided to do this, you cannot let problems take their toll on you. Look at the prophets, look at the sahaba [Prophet’s companions]. We haven’t experienced half of what they had to suffer through. And who are we to think that God will protect us from what they had to toil through, and still be regarded as proper Muslims as they were? No… We cannot expect that, and we cannot expect to experience pleasure from what we do. And we can’t expect to see the results of what we are doing, so don’t pity yourselves… You do so much and there is no outcome… We do it because God wants us to, period.” While she accepts that volunteering is a difficult commitment, and often ambiguous in its outcome, for Fatima Nur this should naturally inspire more commitment on the volunteer’s part. It is trusting God and committing to such an endless project that makes a proper Muslim, one who re-lives the suffering and sacrifices of the sahaba in modern life. Suspense and hope co-exist as drives for the volunteer, and this is linguistically reflected in the interlocutors’ speech. The idea that speech does not necessarily have to represent reality indicates a discrepancy between modern conceptions of language. Bauman makes the interesting observation that the Christian reformists aspired

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to a “naked, natural way of speaking” (Bauman 1983, 2). Their aim was to achieve such a transparency of language that “it would do no more than refer to those things intended by its speaker,” creating a platform for what they defined as “objectivity” (Keane 2002, 66). This idea marks an important phase in modern European thought, in that the Puritan conceptions of objectivism and transparency reflect some characteristics of modernity (Keane 2002, 66). This state of language is commonly referred to as sincerity, wherein there is a correlation between words and interior states and beliefs (Trilling 1972). Keane adds that “to be sincere […] is to utter words that can be taken primarily to express underlying beliefs or intentions” (Keane 2002, 74; Trilling 1972). According to Keane, this is an ideological conception of language’s function, in that a special relationship is seen as existing between the selves of the speakers, and the interiority of the speaker is made transparent (Keane 2002, 74). In terms of religious experience, it signifies a centering on “truthful proposition” (Keane 2002, 74), instead of what could be defined as “ritual activities or bodily disciplines” (Asad 1993). More interestingly, Keane points out that the concept of sincerity assumes a hierarchal relationship between words and thoughts, where thoughts naturally overrule and determine words (Keane 2002, 74–75). A parallel must exist between words and thoughts if the speech is to be considered sincere, hence this supposition, which gives authority to the speaker “as a distinct and responsible self ” for the words he or she uses (Rosaldo 1982). My interlocutors’ use of certain vocabulary as an immanent element of ethical action, and, furthermore, of action itself indicates a disparity in modern forms of speech and language. Referring to ambiguous and suspenseful situations as truthful reality (i.e. asserting that there is bereket in the money when the volunteer cannot be sure of this) is not regarded as insincerity by my interlocutors; rather, it is seen as a depiction of their inner state’s commitment to this practice. Fatimanur’s words, “… and we can’t expect to see the results of what we are doing… We’re doing it because God wants us to, period,” indicate that recognition and acceptance, while still continuing with the practice, comprise true commitment in volunteering.

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Indeed, language in this case is an action, in that language is embedded in a certain ethical discourse. Veena Das asserts that “Language is central to the ethical, and the ethical to the language,” both grammatically and semantically, and in terms of the meaning and actions that arise from the use of language (Das 2010, 49). According to Hirschkind, whose work focuses on the ethics of listening, the discourse created through the cycle of listening and preaching is part of the pious subject’s selftransformation (Hirschkind 2006); these discourses “help sustain an emerging habitus” (Hirschkind 2006). The long nights spent at each other’s houses, trying to plan out the simplest of events, the attempts to avoid thinking about the children the women haven’t seen all day, and the continuation of work whether or not they have eaten dinner are all viewed as part of this commitment. In accordance with Hirschkind, it is usually this discourse that keeps the practice going. Coincidentally, I was at one of the associations just before a major event. A photography exhibition was meant to take place that evening, with very important people from other Belgian associations and local administrations in attendance. The exhibit consisted of photos showing the changing lifestyle of three generations of Turkish and Flemish families. As interesting as this sounds, I decided to stay at the association and work in a quiet office, look at the photos, and go home. Reality overtook me, however, when Sema, a long-term volunteer, entered the room. “We were supposed to prepare the finger food that needs to be served tonight, but no one is here. Can you do it?” she asked. She looked so desperate that I felt I had no chance but to agree. I spent the next seven hours with three other female volunteers, preparing dainty appetizers for 200 people. While I was making what felt like the hundredth canapé, Sema turned to me and said, “This must be so different from what you do every day.” I smiled, knowing that I strike them as a bookish PhD student, always in the library. “I don’t normally cook for this amount of people, but I cook every evening, so I don’t mind,” I replied. “Yes, we wondered if we could trust you with the food, but we had no other choice. Can you believe it? No one came to help,” Sema said, shaking her head in disapproval. “But never mind. This is your day’s service for God done. You’re very lucky.”

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When we finished, the other women, who, like me, were exhausted, went to their offices to change into new clothes, put on makeup, and attend the event. I had no energy left; despite my initial plans, I went home after a quick look at the photos. I knew that the event would continue till at least midnight. After that, my volunteer friends would spend several more hours cleaning up. Normally, their husbands would take care of the children, whom they would get to see only the next day. But it is your day’s service for God done, as Sema said. The implication here is that we did more than make food; what we sacrificed is nothing in comparison to what we did for God. This is akin to Hirschkind’s assertion: the discourse, the idea of finding hope in tense situations, maintains the practice. The sense of unity and shared experience seems to ease any tension and reinforce my interlocutors’ feelings of doing good . The last three sections have explored how ethical commitments become blatantly explicit within mahram circles. They strive to articulate the ways in which the private sphere can become a space for public manifestations of religiosity, even when such manifestations are considered undesirable, even sinful, pretentious, or egotistical, by the orthodoxy. What we see is that my interlocutors visit and re-visit conceptualizations of privacy and visibility that are ostensibly taken for granted. On the one hand, the liberal-secular norm holds that religion must be confined to the private sphere, and cannot filter through to the public. On the other hand, the orthodox religious position states that performances of piety (charity, ibada, etc.) should not be flaunted in public or turned into egotistical displays. Both the liberal and orthodox tensions are projected onto the spaces I examine, and are eased by the ways in which my interlocutors re-articulate these spaces, embedding them with discourses of intimacy, motivation, and continuation of good behaviors and impulses. We can see this dynamic more clearly in the determination of who is acceptable in a mahram, and the kinds of vocal and bodily practices permissible within this entity. In the world of my interlocutors, displays of pious conduct are not for everyone, but are constricted to the mahram. This informs how the women’s entourages view public displays or vocal articulations of spiritual commitment. Their visibility is detached from

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the traditional skepticism around pretentious piety; it is re-articulated within the mahram as a source of motivation and inspiration for others. Even as the women speak of their good deeds, their being heard is extremely intentional. It reinforces their commitment, and sets a moral standard for others to follow. Interestingly, this is a very modern reflex (Omoto et al. 2010). We see in some studies that group consciousness provides a motivation for action, that is, feminist consciousness mediates a relationship with activism (Duncan 1999). Similarly, the common practices, utterances, and the idea that viewing these behaviors within the mahram is limited to certain people become my interlocutors’ way of owning their actions and committing further.

Conclusion The visible presence of Muslims has been profoundly problematic for the political, media, and even academic scenes. The question of how to “cope” with the presence of a population that “threatens” the ideally defined boundaries separating these spaces and their governance remains the focus of much scholarly work. In the present literature, questions surrounding visibility focus on issues that imply religious practices and symbols are entering the public sphere: Muslims asking for spaces of worship and the right to be allowed worship time during the day; their organized movement to be recognized as ethnic and religious minorities; and Muslim women asking for the headscarf to be legitimately recognized in schools and work spaces. This chapter delves into the question of public piety. Again, public manifestations of religious symbols and practices are contentious in Europe. My interlocutors’ first concern is that their embracing of the Islamic religion be “compatible.” In them, we observe a strong acknowledgment of liberal-secular norms and an endeavor to “peacefully” merge these traditions in their ways of everyday living. In this regard, volunteering gives my interlocutors an opportunity to find creative ways to negotiate these spaces. What is most notable is how my interlocutors locate their spiritual growth in the everyday, by embedding such tasks

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within a discourse of intentionality. Thus, even the most secular—and I am fully aware of the weight and difficulty of this term—cases become sartorial commitments. In effect, what are regarded as “pious” markers are intentionally detached from formalisms, both in content and form, opening the doors of a public life the women make sense of with these spiritual but, at the same time, disenchanted trajectories. It is no secret that these dynamics blur the cherished separation of public and private, but what interests me most is how the Muslim volunteers understand these dichotomies. The women certainly acknowledge these different spaces, but they also share the liberal notion of public and private, and it is interesting to observe the practical and affective hermeneutics they thus ascribe to these spaces. Specifically, the private sphere is experienced through the culture of the mahram. The mahram is strictly confined to those who share the mahram culture: those who are also devoted to the ibada and commit to its practice; and those who draw from the same (or similar) epistemological sources. The mahram is much more than an entity of worship. It is a space where the women share their inner struggles and sometimes disclose their most troubling inner conflicts and desires. When we understand the mahram as such, we better discern how my interlocutors experience other phenomena that are seeming conundrums. The most important of these is giving indiscreetly, which in the Islamic tradition is often associated with ego, even hypocrisy. For my interlocutors, once giving is an act carried out within the mahram circle, it becomes a source of motivation and inspiration for their (volunteering) community. Although some of my interlocutors still experience unease with this practice, they nevertheless carry it out, believing it to be a great source of motivation for others to contribute. Likewise, being vocally expressive about piety and giving is embedded in a discourse of motivation–inspiration and personal growth. An individual being visibly expressive about his/her religious life can seem pretentious in some readings of Islam, but my interlocutors interpret this approach as the most effective way of influencing the morals of giving in their community.

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Conclusion: Further Thoughts on Volunteering

What has been provided herein has been an extended examination of the ways in which volunteering is thought of as an indispensable practice of pious trajectory, and how, in turn, the consciousness of being pious informs the desire to volunteer. Through this investigation, it has also been possible to examine interrelated areas, concerning how civic virtues and commitments tap into intentions of volunteering, along with orthodox religious sensibilities. One of the intentions of this book has been to critique established liberal notions of volunteering—ironically associated with civil participation, cohesion, and social solidarity—by teasing out the creative ways in which it becomes a space for carrying out their perceived responsibilities to God and society. God, individuals, and society are not perceived as detached from one another in terms of responsibility (as is often suggested in liberal thought with the idea of the ‘autonomous’ individual), but rather as part of the same union. Having observed this phenomenon, I set about tracking down as much literature as possible that concerns ideas of responsibility, both as a virtue concerning the individuals’ own accountability, but also as a prerequisite for vivre ensemble, as my interlocutors explain it, and ultimately © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3

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a vast array of duties towards God. There is a nuanced approach in the literature, wherein an interesting discussion starts after the Second World War. This period is often associated with anxiety concerning how such atrocities will be avoided in the future, reflecting on philosophers and thinkers of the period no less. These thinkers try to re-articulate responsibility in a way that it no longer concerns individual accountability, but an individual commitment to others’ well-being and survival. This book takes off from this point and attempts to bring an empirical and analytical interrogation of how this interpretation of responsibility coincides with my interlocutors’ sense of responsibility being their raison d’être. The methodology employed by this research attempted to bring forth how the many forms of volunteering, as the practical manifestation of this responsibility, stand out according to different contexts, both social and political expectations, public discourses that are projected on them as (Muslim) minorities, and the constant negotiations that come with these multifarious dynamics. It also explores how piety and pious practices come to be re-signified with volunteering. This entails even the most mundane embodiments being articulated as self-fashioning by embedding them with the notion of niyya (intention), locating piety in all sorts of secular and daily contexts and actions. This observation allows us to consider how conceptions of self-fashioning and manners of living as a pious Muslim are subject to vicissitudes of change. Regardless of the constant political and social tensions with countries like Belgium and their Muslim minorities, this research critically investigates how these tensions are made into ‘projects’ by the actors themselves (Muslims), translating their religious duties into liberal-secular vocabularies that can be understood and appreciated by the public. The book begins by considering how volunteering in such a sense is built on a strong disposition to care about others. My long conversations with my interlocutors show how their relationship with the people they volunteer for (or with) does not always come from a sense of care, but from a commitment to a duty. There are studies that look at how detachment from emotions is highly advised while volunteering. However, in the case of my interlocutors, volunteering has been embedded in positive affect that is felt by the volunteer towards the receiver. The absence of love, compassion, and mercy are highly problematized by the Muslim

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volunteers, and the cultivation of these emotions is considered as part of cultivating the ethical self. Thus, the individual is not a proper Muslim as long as they are unable to invest in bringing their selves to have an affective connection towards the people for whom they volunteer. One of the main reasons for this actually refers to a very practical reasoning, which is that for long-term volunteering to be effective people need to be emotionally invested in the job. Inspiring others to volunteer also pertains to having them share those emotions. In this chapter, many personal accounts are offered as to how my interlocutors deal with the challenge of ‘not feeling the love,’ and how this becomes a test of spiritual maturity—a test they need to constantly work on strengthening. There are also stories of how my interlocutors felt taken care for, loved, cared, and valued as they first got in contact with the volunteers, and how this ultimately inspired them to volunteer. It is interesting to note how caring while volunteering for the women became a reference point as they ‘neglected’ their household duties, and cut time spent with their families, children, and social circles. Duties that come with volunteering become a priority in comparison with duties associated with the household. My interlocutors effectively argue that as God comes before anything else (even their own personal desires), it only makes sense that they sacrifice time with the family for God as they volunteer. They take religiously and historically important role models in their pursuit to balance these different roles. Two of the most important role models are Hatice and Aisa, the Prophet’s wives. Both these women represent a different side of femininity for my interlocutors. On the one hand, Hatice is an important businesswoman, assertive, philanthropic—feeding the poor with her vast wealth—and she is also a mother. On the other hand, Aisa is a scholar, who transmitted the knowledge that was given to her by her husband to the women who were not able to access knowledge. Aisa is not a mother, but she is educated, and her philanthropy is through her intellect: giving the gift of knowledge. There is a vast amount of information on how both women were devout wives and social examples of their times in terms of chastity, and while my interlocutors talk about these aspects, their main reference is to their assertive public characters. This becomes an axis for how they should appear in modern society. Effectively, it is not a sin for a woman

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to be publicly active and caring for others outside their family; it is an indispensable duty. Moreover, it also indicates that the emotional bond is representative of the bond between the individual and God. Thus, positive emotions are not cultivated merely for the sake of the other individual. This critically engages with other studies on ‘emotion work,’ a term coined by Arlie Hoschild (2003). Emotion work is not meant cultivate emotions to fit into a certain frame of norms, where the individual is expected to be nice or polite. It is meant for the individual to truly become. However, this sense of becoming has become a real challenge for some interlocutors, as some gradually drift out of the volunteering scene, unable to commit to the ‘work.’ I outline the spiritual and ‘economical’ weight of volunteering and unpack the multifaceted aspects of volunteering, which is neither excluded from the market logic nor can be classified as a purely ‘spiritual’ labor completely divorced from constant calculation, and liberal modes of working efficiently and development. Volunteering is deployed in a manner which acknowledges both sides of the coin; most of its contents are developed within the frameworks of a project. However, there is also an incalculable side to voluntan ahg, in that it is essentially a transaction with God. Thus, how it will be blessed it inextricably bound to God’s consent for the ikhlas (devotion) that embeds the deed. Ultimately, while the form and content of volunteering may appear worldly, and even liberal to the extent that it is developmental, the notion that the individual does not seek personal but divine gratification makes it a labor of pious self-fashioning. The complicated nature of this pursuit— whether it is an act that is truly selfless and God-devoted or not—makes it all the more a ‘labor,’ an always ‘incomplete’ quest for perfecting the ethical self. Taking off from this point, I build on this discussion by examining how being a ‘volunteering community,’ and sharing common commitments and spaces creates a bond of belonging. This belonging is accompanied by a common identity—being a volunteer—that comes with an ‘aspirational character’ that the volunteers strive to embody. This aspirational character is achieved in stages, whereby the individual

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enters the volunteering community and gradually attempts to establish certain virtues in their character. My interlocutors explain this as taking on a ‘second character,’ wherein the individual’s performance of the virtues associated with being a ‘proper volunteer’ gradually becomes their own authentic character. Moreover, this transformation takes place within the dynamics of the community; the transformation must be performed, thus visible to the fellow volunteers. The more the performance is visible, the more the individual’s authority is accepted by their entourage. Authority here is not meant in the classical sense, which asks for a traditional Islamic education. None of my interlocutors have such an educational background. Most of them who do have higher degrees are usually from a university department. Nevertheless, there is a wellgrounded understanding of which of the female volunteers have the authority to carry out religious lessons (sohbet ), or be in a decisionmaking position concerning the events. It is exactly this kind of authority that is tied to how well they perform this ‘aspirational character.’ The woman who performs their responsibilities with the most commitment gradually asserts their authoritative image. This certainly does not mean that such women have no character flaw or are perfect believers. What it does indicate, however, is how strongly my interlocutors locate inner spiritual dispositions in sartorial practices. The next chapter covers an incredibly important part of volunteering, which is the phenomenon of time. My thoughts on this phenomenon started with the notion of giving time. This idea in a way developed out of observations of how the volunteers think of investing time in volunteering as one of the elementary factors that makes their ethical self. The whole notion surrounding volunteering is that it is a lifelong commitment, not bound to temporal restrictions. This concern about continuity represents its central difference from contemporary forms of volunteering. However, as my observations progressed and our conversations became more elaborate, my initial thoughts on giving time also became more complicated. The investment of time (in volunteering) is indeed a sacrifice: it is a sacrifice given to God—time spent on deeds for God—however, and its experience manifests in multifarious and complex ways. Time invested in volunteering is time spent for God, according to my interlocutors,

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which is already very clear. The intensity of the individuals’ ikhlas, or the degree to which they had to detach from other (important/nonimportant) ‘worldly’ activities, molds the experience of time. Thus, as the person disciplines more ikhlas, or if they are sacrificing a very important worldly duty to volunteer, the time that is invested becomes more valuable. The value of time, in other words God’s appreciation of that time, is only determinable by this unique experience, to which my interlocutors relate to as a form of baraqa. Baraqa is a blessing that can manifest itself in many areas of life. It is really up to the individual’s pure intentions and ikhlas that can call a blessing or baraqa from God. Following the narratives of my interlocutors, which were often very defiant of the laws of physics in this case, I traced how they sensed baraqa in how they sensed time. The value of time is embedded in how it expands, contracts, or even stops completely. These phenomena are an individual experience, often very hard to understand within parameters of linear time. There is literature that examines how intense life experience can alter individuals’ relationships with linear time. In such cases, where people are confronted with a near-death experience or receive life-changing news, they convey how time seems to ‘expand’ or even ‘stop.’ Quite similarly, the insanity of my interlocutors feeling God in their actions creates a similar effect. This intensity is described as ikhlas, or ihsan (worshipping as if God were visibly present). This chapter is revealing in the way it explores how even very mundane activities can inform my interlocutors’ self-exploration and their spiritual connection with God. While their relationship with time is linear as much as any other person’s in the modern context, this relationship is subject to interruptions, depending on this spiritual connection. As much as it may be difficult to relate to their narratives from time to time, it offers us a different way of thinking through taken-for-granted (modern) phenomena, like time. The following chapter analyzes a very complicated concept da’wa, which is often mistaken for its marginally interpreted forms in jihad and holy wars. There is a detailed account of da’wa in the current literature focusing on its theological underpinnings and historical interpretations, on both a political and societal level. What has been interesting to see

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in this chapter is how this concept has become integrated in the lives of my interlocutors as a contemporary form of asceticism. Departing from the previous literature, Ich focuses on the discrepancy between da’wa as a form of mission towards non-Muslim lands or people, this research looks at how the hermeneutics and practice of this phenomenon manifest where Muslims not only live in ‘non-Muslim’ lands among ‘non-Muslim’ people, but feel a sense of belonging to that context. This brings us to the signifier adab, as each age and society has its own internal dynamics that inform the manners of how da’wa should take place. Not unlike other public practices, it takes place in propriety. Considering manners brings in a multitude of stakes to how my interlocutors interpret the conduct of da’wa. They consider the secular foundations of social and political institutions, and also the fact that ethics are grounded on post-Enlightenment values. Thus, it is imperative that communicating their understanding of ethics, which are founded on orthodox Islamic norms, is translated through the general society’s vocabulary. My interlocutors engage their religious repertoires with the structures and institutions of their society and thus their ideological and cultural vocabularies. In this chapter, we see how the volunteers orient themselves not only towards the larger society, but also towards their own (religious and ethnic) communities. Da’wa is the reference for socialization, and socialization concerns not only the ‘non-Muslim’ other but also their fellow Muslim entourage. This point goes unnoticed in the previous literature. My interlocutors are not only in conversation with the majority cultural norms, but they also take note of the needs, problems and cultural reflexes of their own communities as they try to revive the moral spirit of their Muslim friends. The final chapter concentrates on matters of visibility and how my interlocutors designate between the private–public and the ways in which they use these spaces. My interest in this matter first came about during the first years of my ethnography, when I was constantly asked, “Well what about women’s visibility?” This question came from other academics, or non-academics who were not Muslim and whose information on this religious community was not empirically grounded. The

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question pertained to whether the women could be considered ‘emancipated,’ on the condition that their volunteering was not segregated from men, they were in decision-making positions, and were part of the public events and, thus, ‘visible’ to the larger society. Instead of addressing these questions, which are often quite divorced from my interlocutors’ experiences, I attempted to cover how they relate to visibility, and non-visibility. I include non-visibility because I observe how some very essential practices of ethical self-fashioning are not (publicly) visible but are still visible to a confined audience of people. These practices, such as ibada, are an essential part of volunteering, as they strengthen their ikhlas, but are non-visible to the general society simply because they would not relate to them. Thus, these practices are confined to their mahram, which is private but not non-visible. Following, I look at how the notion mahram—a space where only people who can relate and understand those practices come together— influences the religious practices that take place in those spaces. We see how different forms of ibada, which are traditionally meant to be done in private in order not to cause ego on the part of the performer, are carried out together. Additionally, women come together in these spaces to give together, to donate, collect money, or talk about the amount of time, effort and money they invested in volunteering that week. Giving is a strictly private business in Islam. Its public manifestation is often frowned upon and in many Muslim societies is a taboo. My interlocutors are very well aware of these norms, and that many Muslims object to this practice of visible giving. They discern this way of giving as a necessity to motivate others to give more, to do ibada more, and to connect with their spirituality. This is not about pampering the ego, but reminding people around them that sadaqa is an absolute obligation if a person must seek God’s consent. This brings us to our next point, public visibility. This section has explored how multiple discourses of citizenship and matters of integration and ‘acceptable’ Muslimness, attached to the phenomenon of citizenship, come to be integrated into their volunteering. There is a great volume of literature that tries to understand the ways in which Muslims are informed by liberal modern norms. This research has taken this a

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step forward in order to conceive of how practices embedded in postEnlightenment discourses are re-signified with moral intentions by the volunteers. This has given us a chance to think through how the context has immanent influence in how my interlocutors deliberate on what makes a good Muslim, how the moral is re-located (in the mundane), and how they attempt to share the public imagination without having to feel like the other. The last chapter ultimately comes back to what I tried to understand throughout this research: how does volunteering inform ethical selffashioning? Moreover, how does this trajectory become a negotiation of values: civic liberal values on the one hand, and religious orthodox values on the other hand. The study itself attempts to offer a more nuanced and detailed addition to the already existing literature on volunteering studies. The fact that volunteering, for my interlocutors, is a moral and religious commitment also places this research in studies that focus on the ethical turn in the anthropology of Islam. It critically engages with contemporary assertions of individualism and has unpacked how the pious trajectory is constituted of creative ways in which Muslims engage with the society.

Epilogue

The end of my fieldwork with the female pious volunteers coincided with some very difficult moments in Europe and Turkey. From mid-2015 to the end of 2016, we witnessed an increase in so-called radical Islamist attacks in Europe and in the rest of the world. Brussels woke up to two separate attacks, the first of which took place in the airport, and the second of which was carried out in one of the busiest metro stations. In addition, 2016 was the year during which Turkey went through incredible political turmoil, which peaked with a coup attempt in July 2016. All these incidents had profound and direct effect on my interlocutors. The final weeks of my fieldwork were shadowed with questions of whether my interlocutors would ever see the country of their parents again. Turkey is a country not only where their families are rooted, but also where they have a second citizenship, a country that categorically defined hundreds and thousands of its citizens as dissidents and even terrorists overnight. None of my interlocutors would be safe from prosecution if they stepped on Turkish soil, even if they did not have any direct connection with any of the events in Turkey. Some of my younger interlocutors had supported the Gezi protests (albeit from © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3

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online platforms), some of them were sympathetic with the “academics for peace”—a network of academics that condemned the government’s operations in South East Turkey—and some of them were embedded in pious networks that were in the bad books of the government. None of these was an issue when I started this project. Yes, some groups are always regarded with suspicion by Turkish society and politics, but never had this been at the level where a person could face actual prosecution the instant they made their political position clear. The deep distrust and suspicion that ran through the fibers of Turkish society was now also true for my interlocutors. They could trust no one outside their closest network. They had never felt so alienated from the country they visited at least once a year, where their extended family and friends still lived. Developments were not so bright in Europe either. It seemed like not a week passed that a bomb did not go off in some capital city; maybe those most clearly remembered were in Paris, Brussels, and London. News of trucks crashing into crowds also became frequent. The increase in terror attacks was also linked to a great number of Europeans leaving for Syria to live under the regime of the Islamic State. The context of these events inflamed the discussions of radicalism, extremism, and Muslims. Up until this day, there is no conclusive study on the measurability of radicalism and extremism and its link to violence or terrorism. There have been some very interesting studies conducted in this area (Fadil et al. 2019; Abbas 2019; Silke and Fadil 2019; Ragazzi 2016); however, these studies deal more with the aspect that Muslims are becoming the subjects of large-scale security surveillance, profiling, and discrimination due to countering extremist policies and programs. These studies say more about the ways in which Muslims are being pushed into a corner where they have to adapt to full transparency and embody liberal-secular practices and affects (Scheer et al. 2019; Morsi 2017; Mavelli 2013). Hence, while we cannot measure or describe a “radical” or an extremist inclined to violence, we do have a body of research that engages with how the very arbitrary idea of radicalism and deradicalization is further contributing to the racialization, stigmatization, and suppression of Muslim populations.

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While these two trajectories in Europe and Turkey unfolded, my interlocutors started feeling the walls around them narrowing. Even while I was writing, their insecurities were growing stronger and I was first asked to anonymize their personal names, then the names of the associations, and eventually anything that could lead to exposure of their identities. The ways in which they conducted their affairs changed much more drastically than my book chapters. Previously, their events had no reference to Turkey. I have mentioned this in this book several times and that situation has completely changed today. Now a lot of my interlocutors’ volunteering agendas cover the political situation in Turkey, and more so the violation of human rights and arbitrary detention of political dissidents. They are going through the painful process of alienation from their motherland and also the impossibility of disconnecting completely because they are so emotionally invested. In our discussions, later on after I finished my fieldwork, I noticed that they have devoted a lot of time and energy to make their case heard at the EU level. So now, those panels and roundtables at the EU actually address human rights, while once they were about breaking the glass ceiling. Now when they organize women’s rallies, it is about female prisoners in Turkey. When they organize mothers’ day events, it is about women who have been imprisoned and share a cell with their babies because of their political positions. Now it is about imprisoned journalists. But I have also noticed that their relationship with the EU is still grounded on this remarkable endeavor to constantly prove their sincerity, that they are the kind of Muslims who are invested in modern liberalism. Their overarching narrative is always that they are different from those Muslims who support Erdogan, or ISIS. They are committed to liberal democracy, to European values and institutions. Indeed, when the volunteers started applying for European funds for some of their new programs, most of their projects were focused on countering violent extremism (through interfaith dialogue), de-radicalization, or the prevention of radicalization. So here we can see an interesting dynamic, where the volunteers are further distancing themselves from other Muslim groups which they do not see as committed enough to liberal democracy. On the one hand,

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I believe this is a strategic choice, following the money and trying to free themselves from the shackles of negative stereotypes. On the other hand, I further think that this shows the kind of anger and resentment they feel towards everything that has happened and the detachment that comes with that. Coming back to Sheth’s (2019) conceptualization of transparency, their volunteering has turned increasingly towards proving their loyalty to Belgium and Europe. Some of my interlocutors took off their headscarves as a result of this. When asked why, their usual answer was that they did not want to have an identity anymore. They did not want to be noticed in their public life. They just wanted to be, without being pigeonholed due to their headscarf. There is always the risk that people think you are pro-Erdogan when they see you with a headscarf and notice you are Turkish, they told me. In the worst cases, they are stared at in the subway or pulled over on the street by policemen who do not believe they could be living in a certain upscale neighborhood. In a way, their taking off their headscarf points to Fernando’s (2014) argument that certain Muslims want the right to indifference. They do not want to be noticed. They also want to engage with the larger society through society’s cultural repertoires (Swidler 2002). Their idea of goodness, morality, and ethics is translated through the society’s vocabulary. According to Swidler, […] if we look at culture by trying to understand what is in individuals’ heads, we discover that people “know” much more culture than they use […] individuals sustain a lot of unconnected, sometimes contradictory, or simply uncoordinated cultural stuff in their repertoires. People make selections from their repertoire based on problems of action. Because they face many different kinds of problems with differing structures, they keep on tap multiple, sometimes discordant, skills, capacities, and habits. (2002, 2)

Quite similarly, my interlocutors engage their religious repertoires with the structures and institutions of their society and thus their ideological and cultural vocabularies. Europe turning towards radicalism and anti-radicalism has prompted the volunteers to translate their own concerns and conceptions of morality through that vocabulary. They

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turn to a piety that is detached from the kind of piety voiced by “unwanted Muslims” (i.e. Erdogan supporters, radicals, etc.). While this book documents the lives of my interlocutors before these upheavals, the scene is ever-changing, quite like any social reality. Nevertheless, this book, which is the result of the long years I have spent with the pious volunteers, opens up an avenue for us to think through what I believe is a very important intervention. Relational ethics is at the heart of this work, and it emphasizes that neither Muslims nor their faith are detached from context. Even knowledge is made in relation to the social. The over-emphasis on the individualization of the Muslim subject is a shortcoming that re-inforces the binary: Muslims are either modern, individualistic, and educated, or pious because their entourage is pious. Such an assertion painfully takes the “homogenous society” for granted. This really does not give us much insight into piety that is socially shaped in a society where Muslims are minorities, and diverse in the way in which they interpret and live Islam. This book pushes against conventional boundaries of scholarly interest in Muslims as mere pious subjects. Instead, it places Muslim women’s social capabilities at its center and traces the ways in which they rearticulate religious epistemologies and bend norms to answer to their contextual needs and desires. As far as we detach piety from diverse socially lived phenomena, we will miss the social influence on how piety is actually lived.

References Abbas, Tahir. Islamophobia and radicalisation: A vicious cycle. Oxford University Press, 2019. Fadil, Nadia, Francesco Ragazzi, and Martijn de Koning (eds.). Radicalization in Belgium and The Netherlands: Critical perspectives on violence and security. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019. Jaminé, Silke, and Nadia Fadil. “Tussen Preventie en Veiligheid. De Belgische aanpak in de strijd tegen radicalisering” (2019): 1–95. Mavelli, Luca. “Between normalisation and exception: The securitisation of Islam and the construction of the secular subject.” Millennium 41, no. 2 (2013): 159–181.

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Morsi, Yassir. Radical skin, moderate masks: De-radicalising the Muslim and racism in post-racial societies. London: Rowman & Littlefield International, 2017. Ragazzi, Francesco. “Suspect community or suspect category? The impact of counter-terrorism as ‘policed multiculturalism’.” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 42, no. 5 (2016): 724–741. Scheer, Monique, Nadia Fadil, and Birgitte Schepelern Johansen (eds.). Secular bodies, affects and emotions: European configurations. Bloomsbury Publishing, 2019. Sheth, Falguni A. “The veil, transparency, and the deceptive conceit of liberalism.” Philosophia 9, no. 1 (2019): 53–72. Swidler, Ann. “Cultural repertoires and cultural logics: Can they be reconciled.” Comparative and Historical Sociology 14, no. 1 (2002): 1–6.

Glossary

Etiquette/civility/manners. It is not only etiquette but also intellectual sophistication. Educated people are expected to behave in propriety and dignity at all times. It is the combination of etiquette and knowledge. Afyon: A city in Western Turkey. There is a large community of Turkish migrants from Afyon now settled in Belgium. Ahir zaman: End time. The period of time closest to the apocalypse. In the Islamic tradition, it is the period after the Prophet Mohammad. Ahlak: Islamic concept of ethics. It is based on the Qur’an, Hadith, Sunnah, and the scholarly tradition based on these sources. In some cases, Muslim scholars have also referred to Western ethics in developing an Islamic ahlak. It also refers to virtuous and ethical nature, character, and disposition. AKP (UETD): UETD Belgium is the Union of Turkish Democrats. It is a European branch of the Turkish Justice and Development Party and serves as a civil society organization. It aims to contribute to the social, cultural, and political development of European Turks. The UETD is operated by volunteers. Alem: Entity. World. Universe. Alevi: A local Islamic tradition, whose adherents follow the mystical teachings of Haji Bektash Veli. They are the second-largest sect in Turkey along with Adab:

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 M. R. Kayikci, Islamic Ethics and Female Volunteering, New Directions in Islam, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-50664-3

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the Sunni–Hanafi school. The Alevis revere the Caliph Ali, however, they are different from the Shi’a sect. Alevism incorporates Anatolian folk beliefs into their religious tradition, along with some Sunni, Sufi, and Shi’a influences. ’alim: Religious scholar. There is no clerical class in Islam, however, there are revered scholars and imams. The plural of ’alim is ulama and means, ‘mean of knowledge.’ Although they were quite influential in law, government, and religious conduct, their influence dwindled in the twentieth century, with most Islamic countries changing regime. They were an educated elite in Muslim countries. It is also a name of God, who is all-knowing. al-fuqara: Literally means ‘the poor.’ The al-fuqara are one of the categories of people who are entitled to receive zakat. There are some debates within the Islamic schools of law on the level of poverty of the fuqara. Some scholars argue that they have nothing, while others argue that they have some wealth but it is not enough to cover half their basic needs. Allochtoon: A Dutch word, which literally means ‘emerging from another soil.’ It is a term used widely to refer to immigrants and their descendants al-massakin: Literally means ‘the needy.’ The al-massakin are eligible to receive zaqat just like the al-fuqara. There are some debates among Islamic scholars as to who are the most impoverished; is it the al-massakin or the al-fuqara? Some scholars argue that the al-massakin are those who own nothing and ask for help. In practice, there is not much difference as both the al-massakin and al-fuqara are categorically eligible to charity. Sometimes this can be a preferred lifestyle, as in the case of some Sufi groups, where they choose a life of modesty and impoverishment. This is to avoid material distractions and be spiritually closer to God. Amel: Means any kind of action or deed. An amel can be either good or bad. A person will be judged by God based on their amel . Amr bil maan ahl nahl anil munkar: Literally means to enjoy the good and forbid the bad. It is a main principle in Islam, where the individual is advised to only engage with what is permissible and stay away from the forbidden. This is also a rule of moral education and missionizing activities, where each believer has the responsibility to advise others on the good and warn them about the bad. Asceticism: Pursuing contemplation and meditation. It is seen as a way of reinforcing piety. Ashura: The tenth day of the lunar month Muharram, the first month in the Islamic calendar. It also marks the day that the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad was killed during the Battle of Karbala. Ashura is a day of commemoration and a holiday in some countries. For Sunni Muslims, it is

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also the day that Noah leaves with his Ark. To commemorate this day, some Muslim communities make a special dessert (which is also called ashura) and distribute it to their neighbors. Assyrian: Middle Eastern ethnic and religious group who have populated the region since ancient times. Assyrian communities still exist today in the Middle East and also Europe. Modern Assyrians have largely converted to Christianity and have their own church. Baraka: Blessing. Blessing and abundance given by God. It is related to the concept of halal , as only halal profit, deals, or gaining in any sense can be blessed by God. Barzakh: The space that the living occupy from the afterlife. It resembles the Christian concept of limbo. It is also a place where unborn souls exist, waiting to be created into physical existence. Belgian Federation of Alevi Associations: Association for Alevi Turks. The Alevis are a minority Turkish religious group who follow the spiritual teachings of Haci Bektas Veli. They follow a tradition that is inspired by Sunni, Sufi, and Shi’a teachings that are also influenced by Anatolian folk customs. Burkini: A modest swimming attire mainly for Muslim women. It has been banned in several European countries. Burqa: A long and loose garment that covers the whole body from head to feet, which is worn by some Muslim women. Although the burqa resembles the niqab, it differs in some places. The niqab leaves the eyes open, while with the burqa there is a thin screen that covers the eyes. cahil: Turkish for ignorant. Someone lacking formal education or knowledge in a specific area. cemaat: Means assembly, group, congregation. In this context it also means a community of people who come together with similar aims and aspirations, which is quite similar to a social or religious movement. Chaussee de Haecht: Avenue that begins in Brussels and reaches out to the commune Haecht. Part of the avenue is in Saint-Josse-ten-Noode, which is populated by Turks and other minority groups. Many Turkish shops and business can be found on the avenue. CHP: The Turkish Republican People’s Party. It is a social democratic, civic nationalistic, secularist political party and the oldest party in the country. It is currently the main oppositional party. It was established by Mustafa Kemal Ataturk in 1919 and is regarded as the founding party of modern Turkey. It served as the only political party for some years. Constitution of Medina: An agreement made between the Muslim emigrants from Mecca and the residents of Medina as well as some Jewish communities and polytheists. The agreement took place after the hijra and determined

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the authority of the Prophet Mohammad, the ummah, and the early Muslim relationship with Jews. Da’wa: Literally means call to religion ‘Islam.’ In the Islamic tradition, da’wa is undertaken by prophets who call their communities back to the path of God. Today, this duty is taken up by Muslim individuals and religious movements to call Muslims back to the purer form of religious practice. It is often interpreted as proselytizing, and can address Muslims as much as non-Muslims. The aim is not only to convert to Islam but also ensure that the believer lives according to the norms of piety. It is also an ambiguous concept as its practice is vaguely defined. Different religious groups, movements and individuals have different ways of practicing da’wa. For some, group conversion is not the main aim, but morality and teaching a moral way of life is the ultimate goal. Some countries such as Saudi Arabia take up da’wa as a state responsibility. In most cases, da’wa is the work of private individuals and organizations. Deniz Feneri: It is a Turkish-based charity. It was founded in 1998 and provides food, clothing, education, and healthcare in several countries. The organization faced trial in Germany in 2008 for allegedly misusing funds. Din: Literally means religion, however, it also means more than just religion. In the Qur’an it is used to mean ‘judgment.’ It is also used to mean the ‘correct path.’ In some cases, it is used to mean the ‘Sovereignty of Allah.’ But essentially, it is a way of life and the many meanings of the word suggest that it actually covers all of the social and spiritual. There is no aspect of material life and spirituality that din does not touch. There is no space where din is not existent. The word religion comes with its binaries: mundane, profane, secular, and so on. Din has no such binary, as it touches all of life. dividual: Means shared. In this context. it means the self is not autonomous but shared with society and God. divine agency: God’s agency has no beginning and no end. Everything happens within the knowledge of God and he is the ultimate judge. The individual can only work within the boundaries of his/her will that was given by God. In this sense, the individual’s agency is tied to that of God, because every conduct, thought, and feeling goes through God’s will. Diyanet: The Turkish Directorate of Religious Affairs (Diyanet Isleri Baskanligi). It is a state institution established in 1924 after the abolition of the Ottoman Empire. The Diyanet is responsible for executing work concerning belief, worship, ethics of Islam, religious education, and the administration of places of worship (i.e. mosques). It also employs all Turkey’s imams, who are considered civil servants. The Diyanet also branches out to several

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countries in Europe and the USA and is responsible for financing mosques in those countries, appointing imams, and taking care of the religious education of Turkish minorities. Dua: Supplicatory prayers in Islam. Eid: Feast/festival. It refers to the Islamic religious holidays. There are two holidays, eid al-fitr and eid al-adha. eid al-adha: The Feast of the Sacrifice. It is an important annual festival, which commemorates the Prophet Abraham’s order from God to sacrifice his son Ismail. Upon seeing that Abraham was ready to sacrifice his son, he took his order back and asked him to sacrifice a ram in his stead. On this day, Muslims—those who can afford it—sacrifice an animal (sheep/goat/cow/camel). It is also the festival during which Muslims observe hajj. Eskisehir: A city in North Western Turkey. There is a community if Turkish migrants from Eskisehir who have settled in Belgium. EYAD: A local Turkish organization in Brussels. It describes itself as a cultural association that promotes social cohesion and lifelong learning. They organize French courses for adults and tutoring for adolescents. Executieve van Moslims van Belgie: The Executive of the Muslims of Belgium (EMB) is the body that represents the Islamic community in Belgium. It was recognized as an official interlocutor of the Belgian government by the Royal Decree of July 7th, 1996. Since the Act of July 19th, 1974, Islam has been recognized as an ‘official religion’ in Belgium. The Executive is composed of 17 members of the General Assembly of Muslim of Belgium, for which elections were organized in 1998 and 2005. Farz: Religious duty commanded by God. There are two types of fard : Fard alKifayah, which defines communal responsibility. According to this doctrine, if a duty is done by one or several individuals then others are exempt. Fard al-‘Ayn refers to all obligations in Islamic Law. These are individual obligations, and must be performed meticulously. There is no question regarding the certainty obligations. Fiqh: Understanding the sharia (divine law). Sharia cannot change; however, fiqh is open to change. This is more of a deliberation of the sharia and coming to a decision. Fitra: It is the original state of the human creation. God creates humans in a certain state and according to the Sufi tradition this original state must be restored. Gayri-Muslim: Someone who is not part of the Islamic faith. Gonullu: Turkish for volunteer. It means someone who does something with their own consent and desire.

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(Haqq) It means truth. In certain contexts it can also mea’ as ‘right.’ It is one of the names of God. According to the Islamic tradition, human beings are servants of God. Being mindful of rights and responsibilities are part of this service and this is called hak. Every individual holds rights over others and is equally responsible towards them. This is part of God’s will, and human beings are required to fulfill this aspect of God’s will. Crimes against others are also considered a crime towards God and the rights of God. Halal: Halal refers to what is permitted in Islam. It is a Qur’anic word. It is usually used to describe whether certain foods and drinks are permitted for consumption. For food and drinks to be considered halal , they need to prepared according to the Islamic tradition. Animals need to be slaughtered with a prayer or else the meat is not considered halal . Food and drinks cannot contain pork or alcohol for them to be halal . It can also have a much more general meaning. Halal is not only restricted to food but can also describe whether a certain behavior is permissible. Being mindful of halal is an integral part of ethical living. Hassanah: Credits that come with good deeds. It is an immaterial and incalculable and only God can determine the amount of hassanah a person receives for their good deeds. Himmah: Spiritual aspiration. It is used by Sufis to describe the determination to incline the heart entirely to God. Hizmet Movement: Also known as the Gülen Movement. Islamic movement inspired by the preaching of Fethullah Gülen, who is a former Turkish imam now living in the USA. Although it originated in Turkey, the Movement is active all over the world. It attracts sympathizers from all ethnic and religious groups. It is a faith-based movement that aims for the spiritual well-being of its followers, but it also pursues educational development, dialogue, and development, especially in African and Asian countries. The movement is currently on the list of terrorist organizations in Turkey due to the 2016 attempted coup d’état. Hoca: Turkish word for teacher. It especially refers to someone who is educated in religious studies, and serves as an imam or religious teacher. In the everyday context it can refer to any kind of teacher. Ibada: Acts of worship such as praying five times a day, fasting, reciting the Qur’an, and almsgiving. Ibn as-sabi: Traveler. One of the categories of people for whom giving zaqat is permissible. If a traveler is short of funds during their travels, they are eligible for zakat, regardless of their financial situation back home. Hak:

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The breaking of the fast every evening after sunset during the month of Ramadan. Muslims usually come together with their family and friends to break their fast after a day without water or food. IHH: IHH Humanitarian Relief was founded in Istanbul in 1995. It is an international NGO inspire by faith. It aims to deliver aid to people in need, victims of disasters, wars, and the impoverished. Today it operates in 135 countries with Istanbul as its headquarters. It was formed to provide aid to Bosnian Muslims in the 1990s. It is also active in Pakistan, Ethiopia, Lebanon, Indonesia, Iraq, Palestine, Sudan, Somalia, Ghana, Mongolia, China, Brazil, and Argentina. It holds a Special Consultative status as an NGO in the United Nations Economic and Social Council. Ihsan: Excellence and beauty. In Islamic ethics, ihsan means to have an excellent and beautiful character, spirit, and heart. It is the state of moral excellence. Ihsan is used in the context of worship, as it is believed that a person with ihsan would worship as if literally in the presence of God. Hence, it means to always be conscious of God and the presence of God. In Sufism, this state is achieved through rituals to purify the heart and soul and increase the bond with God. Ijtihad: Independent reasoning. The use of mental abilities and faculties to find solutions. In cases where the Qur’an and Sunnah did not provide a solution, jurists referred to ijtihad to come to a legal decision. The decision needs to be in the framework of the Qur’an and Sunnah, and the scholar who practices ijtihad needs to be learned in these areas. Ikhlas: Sincere or pure faith. It means that the individual carries out an act with the sincerest feelings. The only motivation is God’s consent and nothing else, especially no material gain or social praise. Iktisad: It means moderation. It is an economic term but different from modern economics. It is based on the teachings of the Qur’an and Sunnah and asks for an economic model that is based on these traditions. One of the main tenets of this economic model is that human needs are not infinite but actually limited. Excess and waste are prohibited and moderation is the focus. Ilgilenmek: Turkish word that means to be concerned with, to attend to, and to mind. It means to show attention to someone or somethin’. ’ilm: Knowledge. It can refer to both divine and human knowledge. Knowledge has a very important place in the Islamic tradition and it is mandatory for both men and women to seek education or educate themselves. The first revelation sent to the Prophet Mohammed was ‘iqra,’ which means to read, Iftar:

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recite, educate. This is seen as a divine commandment to seek knowledge and plays a central role in fashioning the ethical self. Iltizam: A form of tax that was collected in Egypt and the Ottoman Empire. The tax was taken from wealthy farmers who paid a fix sum of money to the treasury. The empire benefited greatly from these taxes. It also comes to mean a long-term commitment for a benefit. Imam: The Arabic word, which literally translated to ‘one who stands in front,’ and refers to the person who is a religious or political leader in the Muslim community. The imam is also respected as a role model in religious and mundane affairs. The imam usually leads the congregation in prayers. They may have training in religious studies but this is not an essential requirement. Shi’a Muslims believe that imams are divinely appointed and protected from sin, and as such they have authority in all religious and legal matters. Iman: Faith or belief in the Islamic religion. A person who has iman is protected from punishment in this world and the next. A person who has iman is considered a Muslim. Iman needs to be complemented with good deeds, religious observation, and ethical conduct. There is a close connection between iman (a state of being) and amel (conduct). While iman motivates to live ethically, an ethical consciousness complements iman. Infaq: It is an Arabic word for spending. In this context, it means spending to please God without asking for anything in return. The word is mentioned in the Qur’an. In the Islamic tradition, infaq not only purifies the self but also the wealth. This means that by doing infaq the wealth of the individual becomes completely halal. International Islamic Charitable Organization: Kuwait based NGO. It was founded in 1984 with the call of several Muslim scholars to combat poverty, disease, illiteracy, and unemployment in Muslim countries. It is a faith-based NGO. Intra-ummaic da’wa: Muslims engaging with their own communities to steer them back to the proper way of living piously. This is not a conversion but a reversion back to a spiritual and moral life. Interpal: It is a British charity founded in 1994 for Palestinian Relief. It aims to alleviate problems that confront Palestinians in Palestinian territories, Lebanon, and Jordan. Its work provides humanitarian aid, medical assistance, educational support, and community development. Islamic Relief worldwide: International aid agency that provides humanitarian relief and development programs in several countries. It was established in 1984 by Dr. Hany El-Banna in the UK to aid Africa. They collected

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from mosques and individuals to respond to the famine in Africa. Today, the donors include several the European Union, Switzerland, the United Kingdom, Catholic Agency for Overseas Development, CARE International, Oxfam, Secours Islamique France, Islamic Development Bank, Qatar Charity, Action Aid, UNICEF, and UNDP. The organization also aims to provide healthcare, education, water, hygiene, and sustainable livelihoods to those countries in need. It also carries out advocacy work on humanitarian issues. The organization is motivated by religious inspiration, namely Islam. They follow the Qur’anic and Sunnah principles in their practices. They are banned from operating in Islam, for allegedly funding Hamas. They are also seen as controversial in the United Arab Emirates because of their supposed connections with the Muslim Brotherhood. The organization has denied any connections to the Muslim Brotherhood and emphasizes their neutral humanitarian stance. The German government has also argued that they have ties with the Muslim Brotherhood, which they have again denied. While there have also been some controversies as to the agency’s connection to terrorism, they have ardently argued that this is absolutely not the case. Istisare: Seeking council. It is seen as a Sunnah and many Muslims convey that the Prophet Mohammad sought council before his conducts. Jihad al-nafs: The individual’s internal struggle with the nafs. The jihad (battle) is carried out on the nafs and the aim is to suppress the negative aspects of the nafs and bring it closer to God. Jihad al-nafs is an integral part of the pious trajectory. Kadi: Judge in the Islamic tradition. Personal and religious matters both fall under the jurisdiction of the kadi. Kayseri: A city in central Turkey. Kayseri is also a city whose population has migrated to Belgium. Kahvehane: Turkish coffee house, which is traditionally exclusive to men. These are spaces of socialization for men, who come together to drink soft drinks, tea, and coffee and play board games. Traditionally, these coffee houses are non-alcoholic. They can also be found in some European cities. Kermes: A sort of sale in a building or the open air, where people generally sell handmade or homemade goods to raise money for a (charitable/philanthropic) cause. The sales can also be accompanied by festivities, music, and dance. Khayr: It means good and is the opposite of bad and evil. It also refers to wealth and prosperity. Kurds: An ethnic group that is native to Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Syria. There is also a notable Kurdish diaspora in Europe. Their native language is Kurdish,

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which has several dialects. Although the Kurds were promised independence by Western Allies after World War One with the Treaty of Sevres (1920), this clause was taken out of the Treaty of Lausanne. This left the Kurds as a minority in their respective lands. Koninklijk Commissariaat voor Migrantenbeleid: Royal Commission for Migrants. From 1989 to 1993, it was responsible for formulating a migrant policy and investigating issues pertaining to migration in Belgium. The government appointed two royal commissioners for this purpose: Paula D’hondt and Bruno Vinikas. After four years of the Royal Commissioner, the Belgian government decided to establish a permanent structure to combat racial discrimination and to promote equal opportunities and integration. The Center for Equal Opportunities for Opposition to Racism was established in 1993. In 2013, the powers of this Center were divided between Unia (Interfederal Equal Opportunities Center) and Myria. Lailat al-qadr: The night of power and excellence. It is the night when the Prophet Mohammad received the first revelation of the Qur’an. It is commemorated annually at the end of Ramadan. It is not known with certainty which night corresponds to lailat al-qadr and Muslims are advised to search for it on the last ten days of Ramadan. Latifeyi rabbaniye: Sufi concept. Latife means the qualities of the soul. While the body has it organs, the soul has latife. These are qualities like kindness, loyalty, generosity, goodness, and so on. However, the more a person strays from the right path and starts sinning, the more these latife ‘die’ according to Sufis. If the person leads an ethical life and turns to goodness, these latife shine. Latifeyi Rabbaniye is the quality that feels and acknowledges God’s existence. The individual must remind him/herself constantly of God for this latife to shine and not die. This consciousness is also something that enhances piety. Mabrouk: It is an Arabic word meaning ‘blessed.’ The Turkish spelling is mubarek. Mahram: Literally translates as forbidden, inviolable, holy, sacred. It is derived from the Arabic word ‘haram.’ In Islamic law, those who are mahram to each other, such as ‘father, uncle, brother, grandfather, in-laws’, are not permitted to marry each other. Because marriage is forbidden among these family members, women are permitted not to cover around them. Married couples are considered mahram (those who are within confidentiality of each other) throughout their marriage. The mahram can also escort women on journeys. The wet nurse is also the mahram of whomever they breastfeed. In everyday conversation and especially in the Turkish context, mahram can also mean

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something private/confidential. In this book it is used to denote confidentiality and express that only a limited number of people are allowed into the mahram space. Who is allowed can change according to the situation. Malaka: Faculties. A competence in a skill due to continuous practice. It also refers to the potential each person has to understand, imagine, and deliberate. Maslaha: Public interest or public good. It is part of Islamic legal practice, where decisions are to be made keeping the general benefit of the population in mind. Maslaha is the categorical protection of religion, life, intellect, offspring, and property. Mavlud: The birthday of the Prophet Mohammad, celebrated by some Muslim communities. Milli Görüs: A religious political movement inspired by Turkish political figure Necmettin Erbakan. It was founded in 1969 and has thousands of members in Turkey, Europe, Australia, Canada, and the US. The movement is very critical of the West and ‘Western values,’ such as secularism. It is devoted to the moral and religious education of Muslims from all ethnic backgrounds and also aspires for industrial and economic development. Although ‘milli’ means national in Turkish, the word is used in a more religious sense by the movement. Milli refers to a religious unity instead of ethnic unity and includes everyone who is a Muslim. The movement has inspired Turkish political parties such as the Virtue Party, the Welfare Party, National Salvation Party, and the Justice and Development Party. In the diaspora they are as popular as the Diyanet. Mi’raj: The Prophet Mohammad’s ascension to God and return to the world. The world literally means ‘ladder.’ It is believed that God carried the Prophet during the night with a winged horse. The horse took Him to Jerusalem, where He prayed, and then up through the seven layers of heaven. The Prophet finally went to the presence of God. During the journey He meets previous prophets and the angels. MHP: Turkish Nationalist Movement Party. It is a mainstream Turkish farright conservative political party. It was founded by former Turkish colonel Alparslan Turkes in 1969. It followed a Pan-Turkist and nationalist political agenda. The political party is popular also among the Turkish diaspora. It was founded in opposition to the CHP (Republican People’s Party) because they believed the latter was straying from its initial founding principles that revered national identity and nationalism. Moors: Muslim people from North Africa (Arabs and/or Berbers) who ruled Spain from 711 to 1492.

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Literally means love, affection, friendship. In Turkish, it also means discussion carried out with love and affection. Muhafazakar: Turkish word, which means conservative. It can also be used to mean someone who is religious. Mumin: Literally means believer. The Qur’an refers to those who believe in God as ‘mumin.’ Muslim Aid: It was established in 1985 by community leaders from 17 Islamic organizations as a response to the drought in the Horn of Africa. It is a faith-based international charity that provides aid to victims of disasters, conflict, suffering, poverty, hunger, disease, discrimination, debt, injustice, and deprivation. They aim to provide long-term projects to provide sustainable solutions to the aforementioned issues. The organization is motivated by Islamic principles. They operate in several countries including, Bangladesh, Bosnia, Cambodia, Indonesia, Iraq, Jordan, Kenya, Lebanon, Pakistan, Somalia, Sri Lanka, Sudan, and Myanmar. Although it started out from humble origins, it is currently one of the biggest Muslim NGOs in the world. Mu’aamelat: Social interactions and dealings. It is part of Islamic jurisprudence that concerns civil acts and aspects of life that are not related to individual worship. Muslim Hands: This is an international non-governmental organization that operates in over 40 countries worldwide to help victims of natural disasters, conflict, and poverty. It was established in 1993 in the UK by Syed Lakhte Hassanain. It was founded to provide relief to those affected by the Bosnian war. Today, their work covers a wide array of issues as they establish long-term projects, such as schools, healthcare clinics, and sustainable economic programs. They have offices in France, Canada, and South Africa. Nafs: The self. It is used in the Qur’an to designate the self or the potential of the self to turn to good or bad. It also provides the subject with a sense of awareness of itself and of God. The nafs is what gives the individual a sense of ‘me.’ The more a person turns to negativity, the more their perception of me grows to surpass any other concern. Ultimately, the sense of ‘me’ can surpass consciousness of God. It is a complicated term that is understood differently in different schools of thought. However, the nafs is not necessarily a negative aspect of the individual. It is actually neutral and the person either drives the nafs into a negative state by sinning or a positive state by committing good deeds. Naksibendi: This is a major spiritual order of Sufism, which originates in the fourteenth century. Its name is from Baha-ud-Din Naqshband Bukhari Muhabbet:

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and it traces its spiritual lineage to the Prophet Mohammad, through His companion (and the first caliph) Abu Bakr. The Naksibandi emphasize that the pious believer needs to purify their soul through constant dhikr (repeated prayers). Dhikr, the constant chanting of prayers, has a central role in Sufi Islam. The Naksibendi disciples—like other Sufi disciples—closely follow their master. Namahram: Anyone who is not related to the first degree and thus is eligible for marriage. Relationships outside marriage with the namahram are forbidden. Niqab: A veil worn mainly by Muslim women in public, which covers all of the face except from the eyes. It is not worn by all Muslim women; however, some women adorn it as a sign of utmost modesty. In most cases it is the women’s choice whether to wear a niqab. However, in some countries, such as Taliban-run Afghanistan, it can be enforced by law. Niyya: Intent. The intention of the individual while they act. Intention is important in the Islamic tradition because it is conveyed that the Prophet said that actions are defined by intentions. Intent has an important place in Islamic law. It is also obligatory to start worship, such as praying and fasting, with a vocal declaration of intent. Nurcu: Modern Turkish religious movement. It takes its name from its founder Said Nursi, who was born into the Ottoman Empire. He was influenced by the Naksibendi order but he changed his outlook later in his life and argued that Sufi orders are too removed from everyday life and society. The Nurcu Movement aimed to be more socially integrated and inclusive, whereas Sufi orders were more exclusive. Nur means light, and the Nurcu Movement translates as ‘Men of the light.’ Sufi orders were abolished in 1925, as all religious activities were unified under the Diyanet. Nursi and his followers were prosecuted for resisting this development. The followers rejected this and argued that they were pursuing a revitalization of Islam, both intellectually and practically. The initial followers were aware of and accepted the modernization process that Turkey was going through, but argued that this process needed to be complemented with religion. The Movement’s principles were written by Nursi in his collection of books Risale-i Nur (Epistle of Light). It is still active in publication and educational programs, although it is divided into many different subgroups. Qatar Charity: It was founded as a humanitarian and development nongovernmental organization in 1992 in Qatar. It was founded as a response to the children who were made orphans by the Afghanistan war. Today, it also works in the areas of shelter, emergency, medical response, food aid, financial aid, health, education, housing, and social care. It operates in some

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of the most war-torn countries in the world, such as Syria and Yemen. Qatar Charity also partners with UN agencies, such as OCHA, UNHCHR, UNRWA, United Nations World Food Program, United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund, and the World Health Organization. Ramadan: Ninth month of the lunar calendar, during which Muslims fast. Red Crescent: It is part of the Red Cross Movement. It provides aid to alleviate human suffering. The emblem of the crescent was first used by Red Cross volunteers during the armed conflict of 1876–8 between the Ottoman and Russian Empires. The symbol was officially adopted in 1929 and several Muslim countries have recognized it. The crescent is derived from the Ottoman flag in a similar vein as the cross which was derived from the Swiss flag. Red Cross: International humanitarian movement with members worldwide. It was founded in 1863 in Switzerland and aims to alleviate human suffering. It seeks to help people affected by conflict and armed violence. It is an independent and neutral organization and is funded mainly by voluntary donations. Today it exists in nearly every country. Riya: A hypocritical conduct that is meant to appear pious but is not sincere in intention. Rizayi ilahi: Literally means God’s consent. It refers to God being pleased by the pious individual’s actions and behaviors. It also points to the level of piety achieved by the individual. A believer who has gained rizayi ilahi is at the height of their piety. Rizk: It means daily wage, livelihood, possessions, property, fortune, and blessings that are bestowed by God. In short, every material, food, drink, and so on is a bestowal of God and every creature has a right over their rizk. In the same way humans also have the responsibility to make sure that rizk is allocated as equally as possible and not to hoard God’s rizk for themselves. Sadaqa: Literally means charity and benevolence. It is used to refer to voluntary charity, as different from zaqat, which is an annual tax collected for charitable purpose. Traditionally, sadaqa is a sincere act of giving without expecting any gain in return. The believer does it only to gain God’s consent and for spiritual growth. Sadaqa can take material and immaterial form. Even an act of kindness, teaching, and acts of goodness can be considered sadaqa. Sadaqa gariya: An act of charity where giving is on a continuous basis. This means that the receivers will receive from the charity for a long period of time. These charities can be in the form of groups set up to establish hospitals, water wells, orphanages, schools, and so on. In this book it is also used

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to refer to a continuous commitment to giving sadaqa, not only long-term projects. Sahaba: The companions of the Prophet Mohammad. It also refers to the first generation of Muslims who have interacted one way or another with the Prophet Mohammad. Said Nursi: A late Ottoman revivalist thinker and the founder of the Nurcu Movement. He was born in East Anatolia. He was introduced to several Sufi orders during his youth; however, he concluded that the time for Sufism had passed. He was not only learned in Islamic studies but also in positive sciences. He strongly stressed that for true development and success it was necessary for religious studies and positive sciences to be learned together. He argued that both forms of scholarship complemented one another. Although he was engaged in early Republican politics in his youth, he became very disenchanted with the matter later in his life. He became more inwardly pious as he grew older and detached himself from worldly matters. He spent a considerable amount time in prison and was prosecuted by the Republican regime for violating the laic order. Saint-Josse: It is one of the 19 municipalities of the Brussels-Capital region. It is bordered by Schaerbeek. It is a bilingual municipality and home to a large Turkish community. Salah: Prayer and worship. It is the second pillar of Islam and Muslims are required to carry it out five times a day, every day. Schaerbeek: It is one of the 19 municipalities of the Brussels-Capital region. It is a bilingual (French–Dutch) municipality. It is home to a large Turkish community. Shari’a: Islamic canonical law based on the teaching of the Qur’an, Sunnah and Hadith. The Shari’a does not only bring clarification to social and political issues but also religious issues. Ritual practices are also defined by Shari’a. Sohbet: Literally means discussion in Turkish. In the context of the book it means religious discussion. Many Turkish religious groups and individuals refer to their religious teaching sessions as sohbet. It is usually an informal space where small groups of people come together to discuss a religious text, watch a sermon, or read the Qur’an and its translation. Sometimes these discussions are carried by lay Muslims who have little or no Islamic education. Other times, they may be led by a religious scholar. The discussions can take place in mosques but also non-religious settings, such as people’s homes. Currently, there are also websites for religious sohbet meetings, where people carry out religious discussions in chatrooms. The sohbet holds a central place

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in religious education in the Turkish context, especially among communities who want to self-educate. Sufism: Islamic mysticism, which emphasizes rigorous bodily and emotional discipline through ritual. This discipline is to intensify spiritual strength and connection with God. They believe in inner spiritual cultivation more than social interaction. Sufi orders detach themselves from sectarian splits and schools of jurisprudence. Sufi rituals typically consist of recitation of prayers, poems, Qur’anic verses, dhikr, and even dance. These rituals are seen as spiritual and devotional exercises. Sufi orders have a master (shaykh) and the disciples closely follow their master’s teachings. Each Sufi order has its own internal dynamics and rules and tends to be exclusive. Mystical religious experience has been criticized by some modern thinkers, who have argued that it is pre-modern and backward. However, they have played a great role in the expansion of Islam from the twelfth century onwards and have remained a dynamic part of social life in many countries. Sukur: Means thankfulness, gratitude, or acknowledgment of whatever blessings God has bestowed. It refers to being mindful of daily blessings and points to ethical maturity. Suleymanci: The Sulaimani Jamia, or Suleyman Efendi Cemaati, is a Sunni– Hanafi congregation based in Turkey. It is named after its founder Suleyman Hilmi Tunahan. He was a twentieth-century scholar born in the Ottoman Empire. He was a Sufi master and emphasized diligently following the Prophet’s teachings along with the Qur’an. The movement also had a diaspora in Europe and the US and is strict about learning and reading the Qur’an. Sunni: A major branch of Islam. The majority of Muslims belong to the Sunni sect. It recognizes the first four caliphs as the Prophet Mohammad’s rightful successors. This is different from the other major sect, Shi’a, who believe that the Prophet’s son-in-law, Ali, was the rightful successor. The Sunni sect also emphasizes the importance of the customs of the majority community. They incorporate the Hadith and Sunnah (words and practices of the Prophet) in their religious tradition. Surah al-Hujurat: The 49th chapter of the Qur’an with 18 verses. Hujurat means chambers or apartments. Tahkiki iman: Faith based on deliberation as opposed to imitative faith. It means that the individual is consciously and knowledgably pious. Taqwa: Refers to piety, virtue, and reverence towards God. Taqwa is a state of being that can only be achieved by constant self-fashioning. It is the perfection of the ethical self and the bond with God and requires spiritual and

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religious devotion. It requires continuous commitment to a pious life. Taqwa can be achieved with careful cultivation of behaviors and inner dispositions, such as affects. Tariqah: Is a Sufi school or order. Each Sufi school is a tariqah. It means ‘path’ and refers to a Sufi school’s chosen path to (spiritually) reach God. Tawajjuh: A term related to the Sufi tradition. It describes the situation where the disciple commits to a shaykh. ulama: Plural for ’alim, which means religious scholar. Although there is no class of clergy traditionally in Islamic societies, there has been an educated elite of scholars who have been influential in governmental affairs and politics. The influence of the ulama diminished with the expansion of colonialism, the advancement of Western powers, and the regime changes in Islamic societies. Vakif: The endowment of property for philanthropic reasons. The property cannot be used for any other reason than that specific philanthropic reason. There are three types of vakif : religious (such as mosques), philanthropic (hospitals/schools/libraries), or family vakif , where the income is distributed to the family members. The vakif system was very important in the Ottoman Empire and is still popular in modern Turkey. Veil: See also hijab. The hijab or the veil is a form of head covering used by Muslim women. It is also a particular style of dress that is considered modest. Different cultures have different forms of veiling. While some women only cover their hair, others also cover the face and eyes. Zaqat: A sort of payment made annually under Islamic law on certain amounts of wealth and property. The payment is used for charitable causes. Zaqat is one of the five pillars of Islam. In some countries, zaqat is collected annually in the form of tax. Traditionally, the amount is based on the person’s amount of wealth, and it is customary that 1/40th of the wealth is collected for zaqat. Today, in most Muslim countries zaqat is given voluntarily, as it is by Muslims in non-Muslim countries. Zikir: Literally means to remember. It is a practice in the Islamic tradition where the individual repeats Qur’anic injunctions and prayers to remind him/herself of God. Such rituals can be done individually and collectively and its form and content is defined by the shaykh of the order.