Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam: Theological, Political and Social Contexts 9781350987111, 9781786730268

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Meir Hatina is a professor and Chair of the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the former Director of The Nehemia Levtzion Center of Islamic Studies at the same university. Meir Litvak is Director of the Alliance Center for Iranian Studies at Tel Aviv University and an associate professor in the Department of Middle Eastern and African History at the same university. He holds a PhD from Harvard University.

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“There is no volume I am aware of that brings together such a rich and disparate set of reflections on the important topic of martyrdom in Islam.” Bernard Haykel, Professor of Near Eastern Studies and Director, Institute for Transregional Studies at Princeton University “The breadth and the depth of the scholarship assembled in this volume is truly impressive, and several of the articles constitute substantial progress in our understanding of the topic.” Rainer Brunner, Director of Research, The French National Center for Scientific Research, Paris

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam Theological, Political and Social Contexts EDITED BY MEIR HATINA AND MEIR LITVAK

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Published in 2017 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright Editorial Selection © 2017 Meir Hatina and Meir Litvak The right of Meir Hatina and Meir Litvak to be identified as the editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Copyright individual chapters © 2017 William O. Beeman, David Cook, Robert Gleave, Isaac Hasson, Meir Hatina, Liora Hendelman-Baavur, Yagil Henkin, Philipp Holtmann, Jacob Lassner, Meir Litvak, Reuven Paz, Liad Porat, Nico Prucha, Micha’el Tanchum, Roy Vilozny and Daniel Zisenwine. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Every attempt has been made to gain permission for the use of the images in this book. Any omissions will be rectified in future editions. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. Library of Modern Religion 55 ISBN : 978 1 78453 508 7 eISBN : 978 1 78672 026 9 ePDF : 978 1 78673 026 8 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset by Newgen Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

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In memory of Moshe Gammer, colleague and friend

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Table of Contents List of Contributors Acknowledgements A Note on Transliteration List of Figures Introduction Meir Hatina and Meir Litvak

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Part I:  Historical and Legal Framework

1. Martyrdom, Self-Sacrifice and Early Islamic Politics: Some Preliminary Observations Jacob Lassner

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2. The Ambivalent Shiʿi Attitude towards Martyrdom: Some Thoughts on a Pre-Buwayhid Source Roy Vilozny

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3. The Status of the Battlefield Martyr in Classical Shiʿi Law Robert Gleave

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4. Developing Martyrology in Islam David Cook

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Part II:  Martyrdom in National-Sectarian Conflicts

5. From Nationalist Combatants to Martyrs: The War of Independence and Martyrdom in Algerian Memory 99 Daniel Zisenwine



6. Martyrdom is Bliss: The Iranian Concept of Martyrdom during the War with Iraq, 1981–88 Meir Litvak 7. The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon Isaac Hasson vii

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8. Self-Sacrifice and Heroism in the Discourse of the Syrian Muslim Brethren Liad Porat

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9. Hamas Suicide Attacks: Sublime Islamic Goal or Merely Another Weapon? Reuven Paz

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10. “Keen on Dying”? Martyrdom in Chechnya from Kunta Hajji to Rustam Gelayev Yagil Henkin

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11. Deobandi Sectarian Militancy and Martyrdom in Pakistan: Appropriation and Transvaluation in Indo-Muslim Traditions of Sacred Sacrifice Micha’el Tanchum

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Part III:  The Culture of Martyrdom

12. The Other ʿAshuraʾ: The Martyrdom of Fatima in Contemporary Shiʿi Discourse Liora Hendelman-Baavur

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13. Martyrdom, Shiʿa Islam, Taʿziya: Political Symbolism in Shiʿa Islam William O. Beeman

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14. Warrior Saints: ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam’s Reflections on Jihad and Karamat Meir Hatina

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15. Tales from the Crypt: Jihadi Martyr Narratives for Online Recruitment Nico Prucha

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16. The Use and Genre of Hudaʾ (uplifting battle songs) versus Anashid (hymns of praise) in Jihadi Indoctrination and Death Rites Philipp Holtmann Notes Bibliography Index 

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List of Contributors William O. Beeman is a professor and Chair of the Department of Anthropology, University of Minnesota. He is an expert in the field of performance studies, particularly the study of non-Western theatrical traditions, including in Iran, Japan, China and South Asia. He is the author of several books, including Language Status and Power in Iran (1986); Iranian Performance Traditions (2011); and The “Great Satan” vs. the “Mad Mullahs”: How the United States and Iran Demonize Each Other (2008). David Cook is Associate Professor at Rice University. His fields of interest include early Islam, Muslim apocalyptic literature and movements for radical social change, historical astronomy, Judeo-Arabic literature and West African Islam. He is the author of Contemporary Muslim Apocalyptic Literature (2005); Understanding Jihad (2005); and Martyrdom in Islam (2007), and co-author of Understanding and Addressing Suicide Attacks: the Faith and Politics of Martyrdom Operations (2007). Robert Gleave is Professor of Arabic Studies, University of Exeter. He is Director of the Islamic Reformulations project in the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies there, and has led the Legitimate and Illegitimate Violence in Islamic Thought project (www.livitproject.net). His most recent monograph is Islam and Literalism: Literal Meaning and interpretation in Islamic Legal Theory (2012). He is also the co-editor of Violence in Islamic Thought from The Qurʾan to the Monglos (2015). Isaac Hasson is Professor Emeritus of Arabic Language and Literature at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His research deals with early Islamic history, the place of Jerusalem in Islam, and aspects of Islamic historiography. In recent research, he has focused on the modern Shiʿa and on SunniShiʿi polemics. He is the editor of Fadaʾil al-Bayt al-Muqaddas by Abu Bakr Muhammad b. Ahmad al-Wasiti (1979) and co-editor of Le Voyage de Muhammad ibn Saʿid al-Suwaysi au Yaman 1890–1895 (2008). ix

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Meir Hatina is a professor and Chair of the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His research focuses on the history of ideas and politics in the modern Middle East, and has an emphasis on Islamic thought and politics. His publications include Identity Politics in the Middle East (2007); ʿUlamaʾ, Politics, and the Public Sphere (2010); and Martyrdom in Modern Islam: Piety, Power and Politics (2014). He is also the editor of Guardians of Faith in Modern Times: Ulama in the Middle East (2008), and the co-editor of Narrating the Nile: Politics, Cultures, Identities (2008) and Religious Knowledge, Authority and Charisma: Islamic and Jewish Perspectives (2014). Liora Hendelman-Baavur is a lecturer in the Department of Middle Eastern History at Tel Aviv University. Her research focuses on g­ ender studies, the history of Iranian journalism, popular culture and civil society. She is the author of ‘ “The Mirror Has Two Faces”: The Islamic Republic’s Dual Policy toward the Internet,’ Orient IV (2013); “JudeoPersian Communities: The Islamic Republic of Iran, (1979–2009),” in Jewish Communities of Iran, ed. Houman Sarshar (Encyclopedia Iranica Foundation, 2011); and “Grotesque Corporeality and Literary Aesthetics in Sadeq Chubak’s The Patient Stone,” Iranian Studies 47/4 (2014). She is also co-editor of Iran: Anatomy of Revolution (2009, in Hebrew). Yagil Henkin is an expert on military history. His research focuses on Israeli military history and “Small Wars” involving non-state-actors, ­terrorism and irregular warfare. He also regularly leads battlefield tours, both in Israel and in Western Europe, and writes hiking and battlefield guidebooks. Among his publications are Either we Win or we Perish: the History of the First Chechen War, 1994–1996 (2007, in Hebrew); Uneasy Red: A Self-guided Journey around Omaha Beach, following in the Footsteps of Those Who Fought There on D-Day (2014); and The 1956 Suez War and the New World Order in the Middle East: Exodus in Reverse (2015). He is also co-author of the Israel National Trail and the Jerusalem Trail (2011). Philipp Holtmann is a scholar and journalist analyst specializing in the Middle East, where he has lived and worked in several countries. He conducts in-depth research on jihadist media as well as on Muslim conflicts and reconciliation issues. He is a research associate of the Terrorism x

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Research Initiative and has worked for a number of universities and government think tanks, such as Harvard and the University of Vienna, and the German Institute for International and Security Affairs. His publications include ʿAbu Musʿab al-Suri’s Jihad Concept (2009) and Martyrdom, Not Suicide: The Legality of Hamas’ Bombings in the Mid-1990s in Modern Islamic Jurisprudence (2009). Jacob Lassner is Professor of Jewish Civilization, specializing in medieval Near Eastern History with an emphasis on urban structures, political culture and the background to Jewish-Muslim relations. Among his publications are The Middle East Remembered: Competing Narratives, Contested Spaces: Memory and Communal Conflict in the Medieval Near East (2000); Islam in the Middle Ages: the Origins and Shaping of Classical Islamic Civilization (co-author, 2010); and Jews, Christians, and the Abode of Islam: Modern Scholarship, Medieval Realities (2012). Meir Litvak is an associate professor in the Department of Middle Eastern and African History and Director of the Alliance Center for Iranian Studies at Tel Aviv University. He is the author of Shiʿi Scholars of NineteenthCentury Iraq: The ʿUlamaʾ of Najaf and Karbalaʾ (1998); co-author of From Empathy to Denial: Arab Responses to the Holocaust (2009); co-author of Iran: from a Persian Empire to an Islamic Republic (2014, in Hebrew); editor of Palestinian Collective Memory and National Identity (2009); and coeditor of The Sunna and Shiʿa in History: Division and Ecumenism in Islam (2011). Reuven Paz is a lecturer and the head of the Project for the Research of Islamist Movements (PRISM) at the Interdisciplinary Center, Herzliya, Israel. His research focuses on Palestinian society and politics, radical Islamic movements and global jihad. He is the author of Sleeping with the Enemy: is Hamas Capable of Hudna? (1999), and co-author of Talking to Terrorists: Understanding the Psycho-Social Motivations of Militant Jihadi Terrorists, Mass Hostage Takers, Suicide Bombers & “Martyrs” (2012). Liad Porat is a lecturer at the University of Haifa and Ariel University. He also serves as a researcher at the Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies at Bar Ilan University. He is an expert on Muslim Brethren movements xi

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throughout the Middle East. During the years 2010–11, Porat was a research fellow at the Crown Center for Middle East Studies at Brandeis University. His publications include “The Syrian Muslim Brotherhood and the Asad Regime,” Middle East Brief (Crown Center for Middle East Studies, Brandeis University), December 2010; and The Muslim Brotherhood and Egypt-Israel Peace (The Begin-Sadat Center for Strategic Studies), no. 102, January 2014. Nico Prucha is a research fellow at the International Centre for the Study of Radicalisation and Political Violence at King’s College, London. His work focuses on jihadi online activities related to Syria, Iraq and the organized opposition. The main aspects of his research cover the textual and audio-visual content of jihadist activity online, specifically focusing on extremist shariʿa law interpretations of hostage taking and executions and the social media strategies used by groups such as The Islamic State (ISIS). He is the author of The Voice of Jihad: al-Qaʿida’s First Online Magazine (2010, in German). Micha’el Tanchum is a fellow at the Hebrew University’s Truman Institute for the Advancement of Peace and at the Center for Iranian Studies, Tel Aviv University. His fields of research include religion, identity, and governance in contemporary Muslim societies; Islamist movements; religion, public diplomacy, conflict resolution and Islamic mysticism. His publications include “The Constitutional Consequences of the Failure of IntraReligious Accommodation in Pakistan: Implications for Religious Liberty in a Religious Nationalist State,” Journal of Law, Religion, and State 2/1 (May 2013); and “Sunni Sectarian Agitation as Means of Contesting the Nation-State in Pakistan: Implications for Islam and Liberal Democracy,” in The Nation State and Religion: The Resurgence of Faith, ed. Anita Shapira, Yedidia Z. Stern and Alexander Yakobson (2013). Roy Vilozny is a postdoctoral fellow at the Polonsky Academy for Advanced Study at The Van Leer Jerusalem Institute and a lecturer at the University of Haifa. His fields of research are Shiʿi literature, religious thought and theology between the ninth and eleventh centuries. Among his publications are “A Shiʿi Life Cycle according to al-Barqi’s Kitab al-Mahasin,” Arabica LIV/3 (2007); and “Pre-Buyid Hadith Literature: The Case of al-Barqi from Qum xii

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(d. 274/888 or 280/894) in Twelve Sections,” in The Study of Shiʿi Islam: History, Theology and Law, ed. F. Daftary and G. Miskinzoda (2014). Daniel Zisenwine is a research fellow at Tel Aviv University’s Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies. His research focuses on modern North African history. He is the author of The Emergence of Nationalist Politics in Morocco (2010) and co-editor, with Bruce Maddy Weitzman, of The Maghrib in the New Century (2007) and Mohammed VI’s Morocco (2012).

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Acknowledgements This book provides some of the first in-depth explorations of the evolving notions of sacrifice and death in early and modern Islam, and highlights the affinity between history, ethos, and politics in various Muslim societies. This volume could not have come out without the financial support and backing of the Israel Science Foundation (ISF), the Institute of Advanced Studies (IAS) at the Hebrew University, and the Alliance Center for Iranian Studies at Tel Aviv University We are grateful to all those who were involved in the production of this volume. Special thanks go to the contributors of the chapters and to the other participants in the workshop for their cooperation and insightful observations: Eli Alshech, Muhammad al-Atawneh, Meir Bar-Asher, Anat Berko, Giora Eliraz, Rachel Kantz- Feder, Etan Kohlberg, Maram Masrawi, Eldad Pardo, Mordechai Rotenberg, Soli Shahvar, Emmanuel Sivan, Mira Tzoreff, and Itzchak Weismann. Another participant, Moshe Gammer, a worldwide expert on Islam in the Caucasus sadly passed away in 2013. This volume is therefore dedicated to his memory. The manuscript was reviewed by Bernard Haykal of Princeton University and Rainer Brunner of Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRC). We wish to extend our deepest appreciation for their learned and valuable comments. Belina Neuberger skillfully copy-edited the book. Last but not least, we thank the editorial staff at I.B.Tauris, especially Azmina Siddique, Baillie Card and Lisa Goodrum for their counsel, encouragement and active role in the production of the manuscript. Meir Hatina and Meir Litvak

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A Note on Transliteration The English transliteration of Arabic and Persian words in this volume follows standard academic rules as established by the International Journal of Middle East Studies. The letter ʿayn is represented by ʿ and hamza by ʾ. The transliteration from Persian generally follows the system used in modern Persian (except for words and names that are common in modern Arabic). All Arabic and Persian terms are italicized, except for those that recur often, such as hadith, jihad, ʿulamaʾ, fatwa, shariʿa, shaykh, imam, Mahdi, Ayatollah, ʿAshuraʾ. For the sake of convenience, and in order to make this volume more accessible to non-specialist readers, diacritical marks and macrons for long vowels have not been used in the main text. Anglicized place and corporate names are given in their familiar form (Cairo, Baghdad, Tehran), and dates are given according to the Western calendar.

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List of Figures Figure 8.1

Commemorating Marwan Hadid

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Figure 11.1 Pakistan flag and Sipah-e Sahaba flag

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Figure 12.1 The assault on Fatima’s house, depicted on the cover of Fatima al-Zahra

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Figure 13.1 Iran: the Institutional Complex

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Figure 15.1 The wondrous miracle (karamat) of the jihadi media activist Abu ‘Umar

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Figure 15.2 Praise for the martyred jihadi singer Khalid al-Farisi

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Figure 15.3 A Facebook fanpage dedicated to Jabhat al-Nusra martyr Abu Qasura

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Figure 15.4 Abu Qasura at the Syrian front

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Figure 16.1 Screenshot from “The Procession of the Lovers of Paradise Maidens” in Winds of Victory

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Introduction Meir Hatina and Meir Litvak

Martyrdom (istishhad) and martyrs (shahid, pl. shuhadaʾ) have become major objects of glorification by Islamist movements and by some sectors of Muslim society. While in earlier centuries Muslim martyrs were mainly soldiers in Muslim armies, nowadays most martyrs are members of substate organizations for whom the act of self-sacrifice has become the epitome of their fight for Islam and a parameter of true belief. Martyrdom has also become a subject of intense religious and intellectual debate in the Arab-Muslim world, while in the West, especially following the September 11 attacks, a heated debate has developed over the link between Islam, intolerance, and violence.1 Yet, the importance of martyrdom notwithstanding, it has not received its due share in modern scholarship, which deals mostly with the concept of jihad in modern Islamic discourse. Scholars who did address the theme of martyrdom focused mainly on suicide attacks,2 a new phenomenon of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, without tracing their historical and ideological evolution.3 Most researchers delved into an exploration of the personal motives and mindset of the perpetrator, sketching a typical profile of such a martyr. Only recently has martyrdom been studied in a broader perspective, including by scholars participating in this volume,4 but much research remains to be done. 1

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

This volume offers a thematic and comparative discussion of the evolving notion of martyrdom in modern Islam and its sociopolitical and cultural functions. It explores three dimensions: a historical framework, linking the classical and middle periods to the modern era, thereby tracing the dynamics of change in an array of historical issues related to martyrdom; an integrative discussion of cross-sectional themes, ideological trends and geographic spaces, extending as far as Chechnya, Afghanistan, and Pakistan; and a comparative perspective of Sunna and Shiʿa. By intertwining these three dimensions – the historic, integrative, and comparative – the book offers a major contribution to a better understanding of Islamic martyrdom, while providing a context for future research. * The idea and ideal of martyrdom for the sake of one’s beliefs has been viewed in most religions as the epitome of devotion to God. Martyrdom in the monotheistic religions originated in Judaism and early Christianity.5 Yet, in recent decades it has become associated in the media and in the public discourse mainly with suicide attacks carried out by radical Islamists, and as characterizing their modus operandi. While martyrdom is invariably an individual act, it has served for adherents of all religions as a model of meritorious conduct, and as such has had far-reaching social, political, and cultural ramifications. For example, annual ceremonies honoring fallen soldiers, reflected in the various commemorative practices in Europe and the US as historian George Mosse has pointed out, can enlighten us as to how a nation views itself.6 This is also true regarding Muslim societies, where the cultivation of martyrdom illuminates important aspects of Muslim cultural and sociopolitical history from earliest times to the present. The foundations for the Islamic concept of martyrdom were laid by the Prophet Muhammad when the new Muslim community in Medina became increasingly engaged in battles. The first reference to the term appeared following the Muslim defeat in the battle of Uhud (625), in which a number of Muslim warriors fell. In addressing the pain and loss of the believers caused by these casualties, the Prophet stated that “We deal out such days among people in turn, for God to find out who truly 2

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believes, for Him to choose martyrs from among you” (3:140). However, the core idea that shaped the future concept of martyrdom among all Islamic sects and movements by associating it with heavenly rewards came later in the same passage: “[Prophet], do not think of those who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for, happy with what God has given them of His favour” (3: 169–170). As in early Christianity, the Arabic term for martyr – shahid – originally meant “to witness” or “to bear witness.” The term itself and possibly the very concept of martyrdom were very likely influenced by Christianity and Judaism. However, the Islamic concept of martyrdom had unique features from the beginning. In Christianity, in Judaism, and in many respects of Shiʿi Islam as well, martyrdom was the outcome of religious persecution, as martyrs usually accepted death rather than surrender their faith to the powers that be.7 It was an act of defiance by the weaker or powerless martyred believer, demonstrating spiritual or moral superiority over his/her oppressors. By contrast, in Sunni Islamic history, martyrdom was usually linked to death in battle or in an active struggle against foreign or internal enemies, and, since early Islamic history was mostly a successful history of a rising religion, it was often associated with victory. Yet, the ideal of self-sacrifice did not necessarily determine the course of history of the three Abrahamic religions, and the term martyr acquired additional meanings besides death by oppressors or in the battlefield. For example, it also included the attributes of asceticism and holiness that were ascribed to living people who spread God’s word or who led the community of believers. Attributes such as piety, pilgrimage to holy sites, and miracle making were sufficient to perceive the bearer as a martyr, while the old and more brutal pattern of self-sacrifice became less common, although still commemorated in official martyrological literature.8 In Christianity, ascetics and holy men (both living and dead) were a focus of admiration and cults, especially in the early Middle Ages. In Judaism the emergence of the Hasidic movement in Eastern Europe in the eighteenth century also fostered the holy status of living Hasidic rabbis.9 Islam, too, followed this trend. By the tenth century, the criteria for acquiring the status of martyrdom had been loosened to include death in more mundane and peaceful circumstances. The change reflected the 3

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shift from an expanding Islamic polity to a more stable one, less engaged in warfare. Presumably, this might have pointed to a decline in the readiness to pay the ultimate price for gaining the rewards associated with martyrdom. The pluralization of the notion of self-sacrifice, and the shift of its emphasis from battlefield to ordinary life, was also enhanced by the Sufi perception, which defined the struggle between inner lust as mightier than the military struggle against enemies.10 Shiʿism, too, contributed to a softening in the perception of violent martyrdom by presenting devotion to the Shiʿa faith throughout one’s lifetime as equal to jihad in the battlefield, entitling the believer to the title of martyr. This perception reflected the Shiʿi quest, as a minority, for communal survival.11 The modern era ushered in changes in the status of martyrdom in all three of the Abrahamic religions. The idealization of martyrdom in modern Christianity declined, influenced considerably by the Enlightenment, which positioned man in the center of existence, and by Protestantism (as well as certain Catholic trends), which fostered a productive approach to the believer’s secular life, with an emphasis on economic activity.12 The ethos of martyrdom, however, did not completely disappear. During World War I, for instance, Protestant churches spoke of Germany’s “holy war,” terming it a “crusade,” or as the mission of German Protestantism to spread the gospel throughout the world. Referring to the war as bringing “salvation,” the death of soldiers was interpreted as martyrdom, their blood fertilizing the world from which the new Germany would arise, thereby giving the mass death of young men a positive meaning.13 All fallen soldiers in that war were referred to in their home countries as martyrs and their commemoration included strong Christian motifs, reflecting the nationalization of religion and religious symbolism by the various states. Thus, while the wars and armed conflicts in which Western countries took part in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries were carried out in the name of nationalism or radical social ideologies, religion nevertheless was a means to motivate and mobilize for war, and subsequently to soften the pain it had inflicted.14 In modern Judaism, the idea of kiddush hashem, or dying for the sanctification of God’s Name, acquired renewed importance during and after the Holocaust as a symbol of the effort of orthodox Jews to preserve Jewish 4

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Introduction

laws or practices in the ghettos and Nazi camps in defiance of the death penalty it carried.15 Yet, this aspect of martyrdom did not acquire a dominant place in the collective Jewish memory of the Holocaust. Religious motifs did play a certain role in the Israeli culture of mourning for fallen soldiers, but they were not perceived as having any special status. Military sacrifice and death were commemorated publicly in texts and monuments in a national rather than a religious or divine context.16

Evolving concepts of martyrdom in the Muslim Domain Like Islam itself, jihad and self-sacrifice in the Arab-Muslim orbit underwent important changes as a result of the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire and the establishment of new political entities under foreign patronage. These entities were determined to create a new focus of national identity. Instead of jihad against unbelievers or in the battlefield, the national agenda of the new elites, which emphasized a communal jihad and enlistment, aimed to develop the country’s human skills and natural resources as the key to gain economic strength and national power. The cultivation of a civic narrative of jihad was entrusted to Muslim modernists,17 but was placed mainly in the hands of the religious establishment, especially in the Sunni milieu, a further indication of the continuation of an enduring quietist tradition.18 Martyrdom became the weapon of non-state actors. Some of them, e.g. the Front de libération nationale (FLN) in Algeria and the Palestine Liberation Organization, were more nationalist than Islamist, but they used the appeal and power of religion as a means of popular mobilization and as a motivating force among their followers. For Islamist movements such as Hamas, Hizballah and Al Qaeda-affiliated organizations, martyrdom was much more central in their overall ideology, often portrayed as the ultimate goal of the Islamist fighters and as important as attaining victory in battle. Indoctrination through confrontation (al-tarbiya bi’l-sidam) became a key component in the power narrative of these groups. Modern movements also used the notion of martyrdom as a means to ameliorate the pain of heavy losses in the community, as was the case in Algeria, or in order to provide reason and meaning to the tragedy of 5

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the suffering of the people, as was the case in Chechnya. In the case of Hamas, it was also used as a means of community building and unifying society. The growing role of non-state actors in the modern period led to a shift in the Sunni world from its legal-scholarly discourse, developed mostly by clerics, to a discourse led predominantly, though not exclusively, by lay writers and propagators. This change is part of a broader process of the fragmentation of authority in modern religions, including Islam, and the challenge that lay leaders, mostly of Salafi groups, pose to the religious establishments.19 These assertive groups took Islam from the mosque and the madrassa into the streets and the battlefield. The most explicit manifestation of this development was provided by the Islamic State of Iraq and the Sham (ISIS), which occupied the extreme pole of the contemporary Islamist spectrum. ISIS intentionally positioned its military commanders and warriors in the battlefield as the highest authorities in leading jihad, based on the circumstances of the battlefield and in pronounced disavowal of the authority of the ʿulamaʾ. The latter were derided as “men of religion who grew fat from sitting on their chairs” and were “ignorant of the real world.” One of the ISIS ideologues, Abu al-Hasan al-Filastini (d. 2014), declared that suicide operations by means of explosive belts, booby-trapped cars, or hijacking and blowing up airplanes are modern means of warfare that earlier traditional scholars never had to confront. Thus they are products of ijtihad (human reasoning) in accord with the circumstances. Moreover, they had proved their great usefulness in the battlefield.20 Bravery in battle, culminating in heroic death, was probably more appealing to the younger lay activists than to older, more mature legal scholars. The shift in the Sunni leadership from religious scholars to lay ideologues and warriors, in contrast to Shiʿism, where the clergy retained its control over religio-political activism, was also marked by the removal of certain moral and legal constraints in modern Islamist thought and practice. This was manifested in growing intolerance of opposing views and the propensity to declare rival groups and persons apostates (takfir), implying the permission or obligation to kill them. Other examples were the lack of differentiation between enemy soldiers, prisoners of war, and 6

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Introduction

non-combatants or civilians, and ignoring some of the legal qualifications set for waging jihad (e.g. ability, strength and public benefit).21 Modern technology also created new means to propagate martyrdom, with TV, the internet and social networks replacing the pulpit and the written fatwa. The virtual space became the main arena for the dissemination of radical Islamist perceptions. Moreover, the appeal of martyrdom may have been an outcome of the dire socio-economic and political conditions in many Muslim countries. With life in the present world being so difficult for many young people, paradise, particularly in its more visual and sensual manifestations, becomes much more attractive. Historically, the early martyrs, mainly Sunni, acted most often as part of an army or of a larger group in battle. In modern times, however, the martyr who acts alone has become a more widespread phenomenon. Though these martyrs are sometimes members of a movement, they often are unaffiliated individuals inspired by Islamist groups, particularly by way of the internet or even by a pervasive mood in the public at large. These new martyrdom-seekers do not necessarily face armies but rather unarmed civilian populations. The evolving concept of martyrdom was more evident in Shiʿi Islam. Early Shiʿi discourse focused on the Prophet’s family as the epitome of martyrdom and awarded the status of martyr to any Shiʿis who retained their faith. The implication was that adherence to Shiʿism required intense perseverance and sacrifice to merit such an honorable status, which superseded even death in combat for the sake of Islam (as nurtured by Sunnis). By contrast, the martyrdom of Imam Husayn in the battlefield became a dominant symbol in twentieth-century Iranian political and religious discourse. It was held up as the pinnacle of the believer’s mission in life during the Iran-Iraq War, and as a central component of the very essence of Shiʿi existence. Although public enthusiasm for martyrdom in Iran has declined significantly since the war against Iraq, and has been criticized in recent years by political opponents as well as by war veterans and students, the ethos of martyrdom remains a living culture in the Iranian religious milieu, vigorously commemorated by various official agencies.22 The convergence between Sunni and Shiʿi attitudes toward martyrdom in the modern period was due to two complementary processes: First, the shift to political activism by the Shiʿa brought its position closer to that 7

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

of the Sunna, possibly as a result of borrowing from Sunni texts, however unacknowledged. Secondly, the emergence of a Western political and cultural threat to the Muslim world from the early nineteenth century onward lessened sectarian animosities and violent clashes at least until 1979.23 The Western threat evoked similar responses in both camps and sometimes even mutual inspiration and cooperation. For example, successful suicide attacks by Hizballah against Israel apparently inspired the Palestinian Islamic movements to adopt this strategy as well, with Hizballah providing them with training and logistical support over a considerable period of time. Ultimately, Sunni martyrdom, as demonstrated mainly by suicide attacks, exceeded that of the Shiʿis. It targeted not only army forces but also  – and predominantly  – civilians, thereby evoking an internal Sunni dispute about the legal and ethical legitimacy of using this weapon, especially when Muslims were targeted.24 Conversely, the rise of radical Islamism, both Sunni and Shiʿi, led to a situation where Muslim sectarian conflicts produced more martyrs and victims of martyrdom operations than conflicts with non-Muslims (with the exception of the Afghan war against the Soviet invasion). The Iran-Iraq War, which was depicted by the Iranian authorities as a religious war between Islam and disbelief, was the bloodiest war in modern Middle Eastern history, producing the highest number of martyrs in the region. In subsequent years, Sunni Salafi-jihadi organizations carried out numerous suicide operations against Muslim civilians.25 Shiʿis were the main targets of these attacks in Iraq after 2003, as well as in Pakistan and in Lebanon. Sunnis were also victims of suicide attacks in Syria, in post-Taliban Afghanistan, and in Pakistan. Shiʿi groups did not carry out similar attacks against Sunnis, although they did resort to sectarian violence in Iraq. Such acts ignited debates and divides also within the Salafi-jihadi camp over the legal constraints of jihad and takfir.26

Martyrdom, power and religious authority Although there were certain differences between them regarding the rewards expected for the martyr, all propagators of martyrdom relied on the same Qurʾanic passages. In his discussion of early Islam, Robert Gleave 8

9

Introduction

underlines differences in the ritual handling of the martyr’s body, reflecting the Shiʿi perception of its purity. In modern times, various Islamist movements, such as the Sunni Hamas, the Syrian Muslim Brethren, and the Lebanese Shiʿi Hizballah, emphasized the physical pleasures awaiting the martyrs in paradise. Salafi ideologues, most notably Shaykh ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, focused on miracles connected to their bodies. Sunni radicals, mainly laymen (as previously discussed), viewed mujahids (warriors) and martyrs as above the clergy in the hierarchy of religious righteousness meriting reward in heaven. For these radicals, fighting in the battlefield, rather than preaching from the pulpit or engaging in scholarship, was the true source of religious legitimacy and authority.27 In this context, they revered the founder of the Hanbali school, Ahmad b. Hanbal (d. 855), who, when asked about the best way to memorize religious knowledge, replied: “apply it.”28 Islamist martyrologists, mainly Sunni, were charged with the production of extensive hagiographic literature about warriors and martyrs who were endowed with God’s grace and superhuman attributes (baraka, karamat), such as a close connection with God or the ability to perform miracles. This practice contrasted markedly with the restraint displayed by the Muslim Brethren toward their own martyrs, who fell in battles against the Jewish community in Palestine and the British in the 1940s, or were executed by the Nasser regime in Egypt in the 1950s and 1960s, and by the Baʿth in Syria in the 1970s and 1980s. This was also true for militant groups who had broken away from the Brethren in the 1970s and waged jihad against local “apostate” regimes.29 The innovative Sunni perception of warriors and martyrs as saints and friends of God challenged not only the modern Sunni discourse, but also the Shiʿi discourse. The ritual glorification of departed martyrs by the revolutionary regime in Iran or by Hizballah in Lebanon did not attribute karamat to marytrs, unlike ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam and his Sunni followers, who did. By contrast, and partly due to Khomeini’s personal mystical inclinations, the Shiʿa martyrs were perceived as moralists and ascetics whose reward was the spiritual-mystical realm of proximity to God, although they were not perceived as miracle workers. That favored status was still reserved for the Shiʿa imams. The issue of karamat may have been related to the differences in the leadership roles of the clergy among the Shiʿis and the lay leaders among the Sunnis. In part, these differences probably reflected the need by Sunni 9

10

Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

non-state actors, who were vying for political influence in their communities, to adopt symbols or rituals that would appeal to the broadest constituency possible. In their perception, baraka was seen as spiritual power in the service of earthly activism. The attribution of karamat to the Salafi-jihadis reflects a clear appropriation of Sufi ideas, which is particularly striking as the Salafi-jihadis reject Sufism as a distortion of “true Islam” and blame it for Islam’s modern predicaments. Such appropriation, which attests to the endurance of Sufi culture in modern times, might have been a conscious means to appeal to the Sufi sensibilities of ordinary believers in order to take advantage of every possible means to mobilize and motivate prospective martyrs. Alternatively, it might have reflected a broader phenomenon characterized by reformists such as the Egyptian Hasan al-Banna (d. 1949) and the Syrian Saʿid Hawwa (d. 1989), who retained various Sufi beliefs or practices even though they had abandoned organized Sufi affiliation.30 The Salafijihadi appropriation of the Sufi concept of baraka, however, did not blur its different meanings and usages by both sides. While Sufis perceived baraka as the individual’s ability to preform miracles, to cure, restore fertility or provide safe passage, Salafi-jihadis perceived it as a mobilizing agent and idiom for political action and resistance.31 The multiple functions of the martyrs in Salafi-jihadi narratives of martyrdom – as mujahids, preachers, ascetics and saints – discussed in Meir Hatina’s chapter, were also aimed at elevating the purity of their motives beyond any doubt or criticism, given the intensive debate regarding the legitimacy of suicide operations and the self-inflicted death of the perpetrator. It constitutes yet another element in the fragmentation of religious authority, mainly in the Sunni milieu, subjecting Islamic knowledge to an active process of redefinition and turning it into an open space for competing agents and narratives. The discussion regarding rewards promised to the martyr has been more elaborate in Islam compared with other religions. This difference is striking, since Judaism and early Christianity supposedly had a greater need to provide prospective persecuted martyrs with incentives, provided by elaborate and palpable visions of heavenly rewards, in order to dissuade them from giving up their belief. Jewish tradition speaks of martyrs being awarded the highest place in paradise, among the most righteous 10

11

Introduction

Jews, but refrains from any detailed explanation of what that would mean.32 European commemorations of fallen soldiers in World War I often contained strong allusions to the intimate link of the dead soldiers with Christ and to the resurrection at the end of time, but heaven itself remained an abstract concept.33 In contrast, the Islamist emphasis and elaboration on tangible rewards for the martyr was probably motivated by the need to recruit volunteers willing to consciously sacrifice their lives, often singly rather than as part of a group.34 Many of these volunteers were very young, as was the case in Iran and Hamas, or came from a low socio-economic background, or were recent converts to the Salafi-jihadi cause. Their knowledge of Islamic teachings was relatively limited and superficial. Hence, it seemed likely that they would be more attracted to martyrdom by concrete visual descriptions of paradise than by abstract metaphors about a spiritual existence in heaven. On the whole, the sense of being left back by the powerful West led to the glorification of sacrifice and death as an ideal to be aspired to for its own sake rather than as a painful but necessary means to attain justice and victory. Seeking to overcome the fear of death, and to motivate Muslim believers to action, Hasan al-Banna, founder of the Muslim Brethren, published an article titled Sinaʿat al-mawt [The craft of death] in 1938, as the Palestinian revolt against the Jewish community and the British was raging. He concluded the article with a paragraph that later acquired prominence: To a nation that perfects the industry of death, and knows how to die nobly, God gives proud life in this world and eternal grace in the life to come. The illusion that has humiliated us is no more than the love of worldly life and the hatred of death. So, prepare yourself to do a great deed. Be keen on dying and life will be granted to you; work towards a noble death and you will win complete happiness.35

Hamas, for example, promoted the cult of death as an ideal and as the epitome of the believer’s aspirations. Martyrdom in occupied Palestine, according to Hamas writers, constituted an important component of the laudable return to Islam. The true believer knows that an honorable life can be attained only through sacrifice and death. The Israelis “crave life,” explained Ahmad Yasin, founder of Hamas, while “we are not afraid of 11

12

Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

death: we seek death for the sake of God, and the day one of us dies for the sake of God is a day of joy.”36 In a similar vein, the elevation of martyrdom to an aspired goal led the Iranian regime to portray it as one of Iran’s major war aims and as a manifestation of moral and ideological victory, equal to – if not more important than – victory in the battlefield itself. Thus, no matter how the actual war proceeded, Iran would emerge triumphant, as even defeat in the battlefield would be regarded as victory if it resulted in martyrdom. The same idea, in almost the same words, was voiced in 2014 by Abu Muhammad al-ʿAdnani, spokesman of ISIS, who represented the extreme opposite in the Islamist spectrum. Explaining his movement’s inherent advantage, he said: “Being killed … is a victory. You fight a people who can never be defeated. They either gain victory or are killed.”37 Notably, the radicalism of ISIS was demonstrated not only by suicide attacks against Muslims and non-Muslims, but also by public, and widely publicized, executions. The organization thereby blended “hard power” (cruel violence) with “soft power” (the use of the media and social networks) to project a horrifying image, representing a struggle for authority, and shaping the world of Islamic conceptions and images.38 ISIS’s perception of jihad was based on two foundations: the principle of inghimas – that is, plunging into the enemy’s lines to ensure their losses and assure significant gains for Muslims; and the principle of dabh, the slaughter of enemies. Both foundations were presented as intertwined instruments, whose declared aim was to “break the enemy’s head” and spread panic in its ranks.39 The Islamist glorification of death contrasts sharply with the way European governments grappled with unprecedented slaughter during World War I. Having recklessly sent young men to die in the battlefield, these governments presented their death as a sad, albeit necessary, price that had to be paid for the higher goal of defending one’s nation or land. Of equal importance, Europe sought to soften the grim meaning of death to help its population overcome the grief over its huge losses. One way of doing so was to reconfigure death as “peaceful sleep.”40 The extensive acts of commemoration throughout Europe after the war sought to preserve the memory of “the sacrifice, the suffering, the slaughter,” and the names of the fallen. This “cult of memory,” in Jay Winter’s words, “became a cult of mourning.”41 Elevating death in Islamist discource was 12

13

Introduction

also in sharp contrast to the Jewish perception of martyrdom and life. Jewish tradition, while requiring voluntary death to avoid forced conversion (kiddush hashem), viewed it only as a last resort. Furthermore, the Biblical phrase “and therefore choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19) was interpreted as sanctifying life as a religious duty. Contrary to their role in the Jewish and European perception, the Muslim elaboration of the rewards awaiting the martyrs, as well as their commemoration, are not designed to ease the pain over the loss of life. Rather, they aim to encourage and mobilize others to follow the path of the martyrs. The efforts at glorification of martyrdom were particularly evident in the public space: parades, processions, speeches, songs, graphics, audiovisual tapes, internet sites, and social networks (Facebook, Twitter, etc.). These venues have constituted part of the “art of presence,”42 serving as memorial spaces for the preservation of the martyrs’ images, but also as a contentious arena for religious authority. This was well expressed by Ayman al-Zawahiri, second in command and successor to Osama b ­ in Laden in Al Qaeda, who defined modern communication as a battlefield for the hearts and minds of believers, the importance of which is no less than that of armed battle.43 The glorification of both martyrdom and the destruction of the enemy – particularly in their visual form, as evident in Salafi-jihadi video clips on the internet – is reminiscent of the “aestheticization of destruction, even self-destruction.” According to Alan Kramer it was a leitmotif throughout World War I, and was widely disseminated by the proto-Fascist and Fascist European Right in the post-World War I period.44 With this, it is important to emphasize that the ethos of self-sacrifice also served as a functional instrument and as an expression of political strategy. It was perceived as an effective tool in armed struggle, but also as a social and pedagogical asset in enhancing loyalty and unity, tarnishing the enemy, reinforcing the righteousness of the cause, and assuring future generations of martyrs. For regional Islamic movements that were involved in state politics, such as Hizballah in Lebanon and Hamas in Palestine, the ethos of martyrdom against foreign occupation was only one component, albeit an important one, in a general resistance strategy (muqawma). The appearance of global jihad as a supra-state transnational actor, that is, with no local political considerations, turned martyrdom into the primary 13

14

Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

ideological and operational tool for Al Qaeda and its subsidiary movements, including ISIS. Martyrdom also had a clear male-centered gender bias. Fighters from earliest times to the present, both in the Muslim world and in other civilizations, were predominantly male, and the legal discourse about martyrdom obviously focused on men. In this context, the traditional view confined women to being mothers and sisters of martyrs. The prospective reward in heaven of 72 virgins reflected a clear male bias as well. In fact, the first Middle Eastern female suicide bomber, 17-year-old Sanaʾ Muhaydli, was recruited by the Christian-dominated Syrian Social Nationalist Party (SSNP/PPS) in 1985 to blow up an Israeli military convoy in Lebanon. Islamist groups from the Palestinian territories, Chechnya, Turkey, India, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, and Iraq emulated the Lebanese example and operated female suicide bombers on a broad basis.45 The Iranian case was different, not in the actual role of women as martyrs in the battlefield (they were not present there), but in the elevation of Fatima, the Prophet’s daughter, as the first martyr of the family of the Prophet and as a model for moral womanhood in modern Iran, as discussed by Liora Hendelman-Baavur in this volume.46 Initially, conservative Islamic authorities, such as Shaykh Muhammad Sayyid Tantawi, rector of al-Azhar University in Cairo, and Hamas founder Shaykh Ahmad Yasin, faulted women who took part in these operations for breaching the boundaries of modesty, as they left home improperly dressed and unaccompanied by a male family member. Ultimately, however, both men relented and gave their approval to such otherwise immoral conduct if the goal was sublime, as was martyrdom, in view of the overwhelming public enthusiasm for the first Palestinian suicide bomber, Wafaʾ Idris, in January 2002. Thus, doctrinal and legal considerations gave way to the need to comply with public opinion and popular religiosity.47 In addition, the realization that women could better circumvent the enemy’s security arrangements convinced the Islamic Jihad and Hamas, as well as the Chechens, to use women for this purpose. Women’s role in suicide bombings has served the dispatchers’ intention to project an image of participation in the ethnonational and/or religious struggles by all segments of their respective societies. The Egyptian Islamist weekly al-Shaʿb hailed Wafaʾ Idris for teaching women “the meaning of true liberation through women’s rights activists … It is a woman who 14

15

Introduction

has now proven that the meaning of [women’s] liberation is the liberation of the body from the trials and tribulations of this world … and the acceptance of death with a powerful, courageous embrace.”48 In the same vein, a columnist in the Jordanian al-Dustur met Western appeals for women’s equality by concluding that “this is how we understand equality – this is how the martyr Wafaʾ understood equality.”49 Significantly, for this mission the Palestinian organizations preferred childless, divorced or unwed young women, or women whose moral chastity was suspect, so that martyrdom was the only way they could redeem their honor.50 Overall, considering the relative weakness of most Muslim societies vis-à-vis their ideological adversaries, particularly the West, martyrdom became an effective weapon to compensate for technical inferiority vis-àvis the enemy and as an instrument of intimidation. It was also used as a psychological tool for local communities, designed to prove the superiority of Islamic spirituality over Western materialist technology. More important, the commemoration of martyrdom played an emotional and psychological function in empowering Muslims vis-à-vis their enemies.51 This quest for power was closely intertwined with a power struggle in the Islamic spectrum over authority, resources, and the right to speak in the name of Islam. In this respect, the venue for acts of martyrdom was the public space and not only the battlefield. This reality may also explain the intensive commemorative project of martyrs  – textually, audio-visually and physically. At the same time, such glorification and commemoration can also be seen as an escape route from the failure of Islamists to attain their political goals.

Structure of the book This volume addresses martyrdom in three broad contexts: the historical and legal dimension; martyrdom in ethno-national conflicts; the culture of martyrdom. Part One focuses on its historical perspective, discussing varying interpretations and emphases of martyrdom in Sunni and Shiʿi discourse in their historical context and close affinity to politics and power struggles. It challenges the conventional view of a one-dimensional Shiʿi approach, which supposedly promoted or glorified martyrdom from the earliest time to the present. Jacob Lassner maintains that the early Muslims 15

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

did not place much value on deliberately choosing death in defense of a principle. Rather, when faced with certain defeat, Arab tribesmen in the pre-Islamic and early Islamic period generally preferred to compromise on their politics, so long as they did not have to forfeit their honor. However, at times individuals entered into conflicts based on principles that were doomed from the outset and often led to their death. These occasions gave rise to subsequent depictions of such deaths as acts of martyrdom. Over time, they earned the respect of various religious communities, with the Alid revolt against the Umayyads – particularly the death of the Prophet’s grandson Husayn in the battle in Karbalaʾ – being the most notable. Roy Vilozny points to ambiguous approaches to martyrdom in the early Shiʿi-imami hadith. The Shiʿi hadith corpus is rich in traditions that depict shahada as a desirable religious goal to which the believer should aspire. However, a more in-depth analysis of these traditions reveals a strong dissonance between the high value attributed to this religious duty and the discouragement to perform it, reflected especially in a passive expectation of the Mahdi (the Shiʿi messiah). These opposing traditions stipulated that any Shiʿi could attain the status of shahada so long as he adhered to his faith until death, and no matter how he died, in contrast to Sunnis, who could not achieve this status even if they died in active jihad. Vilozny concludes that the depiction of the death of every Shiʿi as martyrdom leant meaning to life while lessening the resolve to meet an unnatural, premature death. Robert Gleave examines Shiʿi juristic works on the status of the martyr. He shows that in legal terms, the primary differences between the Sunni and Shiʿi treatment of martyrdom revolve around the issues of who qualifies as a martyr and the rituals that follow martyrdom. Most important is the Shiʿi “no-wash” stipulation with regard to the battlefield martyr, which serves as a reflection of the purifying nature of the martyr’s death. David Cook’s comparative essay on martyrdom in classical and contemporary Islam shifts the discussion to modern times. Cook states that martyrdom in early Islam was closely associated with battle rather than with death resulting from persecution. With the passage of time, the categories of martyrdom widened considerably because of the rewards it promised. In modern times, martyrdom was often bestowed on those who fought against Europeans for independence, regardless of their religious devotion. With the outbreak of the Afghan war against the USSR, Sunni martyrology 16

17

Introduction

regained prominence. Sunnis never developed the practice of designating martyrs, nor was there a consensus over the authority to sanction various types of suicide operations. Since the major justification for such attacks was their effect on the enemy, Cook believes that political arguments for suicide attacks were the main driving force for their emergence. Part Two of the volume analyzes the role of martyrdom in several national conflicts in the Arab-Muslim world. Martyrdom in these conflicts was depicted as a weapon of the weak in the struggle for liberation from occupation, although it also served as a tool in domestic rivalries. According to Daniel Zisenwine, Algeria’s struggle for independence, with its high number of casualties and its ethos of national sacrifice, presents an unusual case for exploring the uses of martyrdom in constructing collective historical memories. The ideology of the FLN incorporated radical Western ideas (outlined by Frantz Fanon and others) with nationalism cloaked in an Algerian-Islamic garb. Notions of martyrdom were adopted to give meaning to the high number of casualties. The mobilization effort during the 1979 Iranian Revolution, and the war with Iraq (1981–88), established martyrdom as a major pillar of modern religious discourse in Iran, according to Meir Litvak. In setting the contours of the cult of martyrdom, Ayatollah Khomeini, leader of the Islamic Republic, emphasized several complementary themes: first, the mystical dimension whereby the martyr reaches close intimacy with God and attains a superior grasp of divine truth; second, the superiority of self-sacrifice over the material advantages of the enemy; and third, the moral, social, and political benefits accruing to Iranian society and to Islam as a whole by the spirit of martyrdom. As military success became increasingly unattainable, martyrdom was portrayed as an end in itself. The Iranian model inspired other Islamist movements. Isaac Hasson focuses on the methods employed by the Lebanese Hizballah to instill the value of martyrdom and to produce fighters willing to sacrifice themselves. Hizballah leaders, drawing from Iranian literature about martyrdom, depict self-sacrifice as part of the essence of Shiʿi existence. They portray the ultimate reward of shahada as attaining a place in paradise close to the greatest Shiʿi martyr, Imam Husayn b. ʿAli. Hasson concludes that by glorifying these martyrs Hizballah turned the human tragedy of death into an object of desire and a source of pride. 17

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

The shift of the Muslim Brethren in Syria in the late 1970s toward armed struggle against the Baʿth regime, Liad Porat explains, included systematic preaching for self-sacrifice. Marwan Hadid, who led the movement’s radical wing, elaborated in his poetry on the eternal life and the pleasures the martyr enjoys in heaven. Hadid saw in the younger generation in particular a shining example heroism and self-sacrifice. Porat points to the continuity in the themes of martyrdom that the Brethren preached from the late 1970s until the Syrian civil war, which broke out in 2012. Reuven Paz shows how the Palestinian Hamas viewed suicide operations as an essential component of its defensive jihad against Israel and the Western offensive against Islam. It cultivated a culture of martyrdom, which it claimed distinguished the Palestinian people from others and represented the strongest weapon that they had. Consequently, suicide attacks became its favored strategy also serving as a means of mobilizing Palestinian society. Yet, many of the volunteers for these operations were influenced more by national fervor than by deep religiosity. Paz concludes that merging the motif of nationalist sacrifice (fidaʾ) with the Islamic concept of self-sacrifice (istishhad) formed an important constituent in the process of community and state building. Suicide attacks formed a large part of the Chechen struggle against post-Soviet Russia, Yagil Henkin points out. Salafi radicalism introduced by Arab volunteers became dominant following the collapse of the social order and traditional law, and the fragmentation of Chechen society following the 1994–96 war against Russia. A glaring manifestation of this crisis was the growing role of women – mostly widows – as suicide bombers. Henkin concludes that martyrdom supplied substance and meaning to the tragedy of people who lost their loved ones, and to Chechen suffering as a whole, as well as providing an instrument for revenge. Turning to Pakistan, Micha’el Tanchum analyzes the changing perception of martyrdom from a traditional trans-sectarian orientation in Indo-Muslim culture to a highly sectarian modern one. The development of the transsectarian orientation derived from South Asian Sufi traditions that present the martyrdom of Husayn at Karbalaʾ as a paradigmatic example of the Sufi practice of fanaʾ (the mystical “annihilation” of the self). Subsequently, in the early twentieth century, an Indo-Muslim modernist discourse appropriated Husayn as a model of political action decoupled from his specifically Shiʿi 18

19

Introduction

narrative moorings. By contrast, the Jihadist Sunni Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan (the Army of the Prophet’s Companions; SSP) held up the martyrdom of two of its leaders as a source of popular mobilization with the aim of advancing the symbolic and actual authority of Sunnis over Shiʿa in Pakistan. Part Three of the volume addresses aspects of the modern culture of martyrdom, exploring the affinity between martyrdom and the social environment, and highlighting the importance of social networks in offering moral, psychological, and material incentives. Commemorative aspects of martyrdom are also highlighted, focusing on various remembrance venues: written texts, rituals and ceremonies, and audio-visual materials. Liora Hendelman-Baavur explores the transformation of Fatima from the status of a conduit of her son Husayn, “the master of martyrs” (sayyid al-shuhadaʾ), to the first martyr of the family of the Prophet (ahl al-bayt) as perceived in the Shiʿi discourse on gender in Iran. Throughout the ages, the mythical image of Fatima reflected varied ideals and aims among Shiʿi scholars. During the post-Iran-Iraq War years, when a multifaceted model for moral womanhood was required, Fatima came to represent universal values of sacrifice, justice and even human rights. William Beeman examines the use of the trope, or master symbol, of Imam Husayn and his martyrdom in modern Iranian politics, pointing out that the popular appeal of the commemoration of Husayn’s martyrdom derives in part from its power to embody many elements that are characteristic of core themes in Iranian life. For example, during the 1978–79 revolution, Iran was likened to the plains of Karbalaʾ where the act of martyrdom took place; and the Iranian people were likened to Husayn’s followers. In the post-revolution period, Beeman concludes, the trope of martyrdom evolved as a definitive proof of the legitimacy of the regime. Meir Hatina analyzes various aspects of modern Sunni hagiographic literature about martyrdom that projected a charismatic image of the martyr as embodying a metaphysical mission, chosen by God. ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, one of the primary founders of this literature, made extensive use of the theme of baraka and karamat (miracles and supernatural powers) attributed to martyrs. Hatina also discusses the cultural and symbolic functions of this genre and its affinity to politics, shows the strong Sufi connotation embodied in the karamat concept, and its adaptation to the Salafi discourse. 19

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

Modern communications played a key role in fostering and spreading the concept of martyrdom, as shown in the contemporary globalization of the martyrdom discourse. Nico Prucha examines the role of jihadi martyr narratives in Salafi internet forums and websites as a means of political mobilization. While many types of literary genres lauding martyrs and martyrdom are produced, jihad videos that feature detailed descriptions and ideological sanctioning of martyrdom operations have become a popular element in jihadist propaganda and a key to motivating viewers. Elements of the stories, such as the proclaimed importance of “virtuous intention” (al-niyya al-saliha), the accrediting of miracles to the martyr, and the perception of becoming a celestial “soldier of God” (jund Allah) are used to heighten the appeal. Striking components include the male role model, namely the active mujahid who becomes a martyr in contrast to passive consumers who only watch jihadi movies and read its literature. Philipp Holtmann concludes the third part of the volume with an analysis of the role of battle songs and theological music in Islamic martyrdom culture. This practice, which commemorates martyrs, reinforces group identity and provides spiritual incentives for suicide operations. The music plays a key role in jihadi indoctrination ceremonies celebrating the transition from fighters to martyrs, and supporting a ritual of rebirth and attachment to God that embodies psychological stages resembling those in rites of passage. As such they become essential tools to strengthen group cohesiveness and communitas in jihadi communities. Once released to the internet, martyr songs are intended to transmit these feelings directly to the jihadi target audience, evoking a re-experience of the excitement of self-sacrifice and re-enacting it. * The varied themes in this volume demonstrate the broad spectrum of manifestations of martyrdom in Muslim culture, as well as continuity and change in its evolution as a historical phenomenon. The essays highlight the intersection between ethos, history and politics, and the methods devised for sustaining religious fervor and sacrifice along with group cohesion and allegiance. While not definitive, the volume offers persuasive insights that suggest areas for future research in the ideological, political and sociological rationale of Islamic martyrdom and its historical settings. 20

21

Part I

Historical and Legal Framework

22

23

1 Martyrdom, Self-Sacrifice and Early Islamic Politics: Some Preliminary Observations Jacob Lassner

Recent events have occasioned considerable interest in Muslim martyrs (shahid, pl. shuhadaʾ), especially in suicide bombers intent on giving up their own lives while killing unbelievers or deviant Muslims. Also proclaimed as Muslim martyrs are protesters who are injured or killed as they demand justice for their cause. Even passive bystanders, who happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, may earn the label shahid. Interest in modern Muslim martyrdom is now widespread both among scholars and media types in the West and Muslim religious authorities in the Abode of Islam. Various Muslim religious scholars, faced with the phenomenon of the modern shahid, have grappled with the fine points of Islamic law, keeping in mind that self-immolation is traditionally forbidden to Muslims.1 This essay traces how Islamic notions of martyrdom and self-sacrifice evolved during the formative period of Islamic civilization. One of the questions raised is whether current understandings of what it means to be a Muslim martyr might be based on direct parallels to persons and events in the first two centuries ah. Or, put differently: would the early Muslims have understood what it means to be a shahid in the same way Muslims do at present, or as Muslims seem to have understood martyrdom, beginning in the late eighth century ce and lasting until recent times? 23

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam

Approach As an unreconstructed Orientalist, who believes that philology is still an acceptable coin of the realm, my first concern is the traditional Muslim understanding of the concept of “martyrdom.” In the Western world, the term martyr conjures up memories of early Christian, and for Jews also Jewish, martyrs. And so it is applied to a person who chooses suffering and even death rather than renouncing his/her religious faith. The ancient Christian martyrs had no physical means of resisting the pagan Roman authorities and never even tried to offer any resistance. They were in effect led to their deaths, remaining passive. The same inability to confront a malevolent authority, especially during the Crusades, applied to the majority of Jews in the Latin West, when entire communities preferred death to abandoning their ancient faith.2 Later, the concept of martyr was broadened to include any person put to death or made to suffer greatly because of a belief, cause, or principle. Similarly, the Arabic term shahid also took on multiple meanings at different times. As in Greek and Latin, the Arabic word now used for martyr originally meant witness. Shahid and various derivatives of the verb sh-h-d appear more than sixty times in the Qurʾan. In each instance, the semantic register of these words in Muslim scripture is “to witness,” “bear witness,” and by extension “giving evidence” (3: 81), or when scripture condemns to severe flogging those who hurl charges [of adultery] without supplying four witnesses (shuhadaʾ) (24:4). While shahid, meaning witness, continues to be the first understanding of premodern Arabic lexicographers, they added a series of rather different meanings, as did their Christian counterparts. Among them: someone killed in the cause of God (a rather loose formulation that can apply to many circumstances) and, more narrowly, a person killed by unbelievers on the field of battle.3 What gave rise to these and other interpretations of what it means to be a shahid, and how might these varied interpretations have evolved over time? The earliest Arabic lexicon, al-Khalil b. Ahmad’s Kitab al-ʿAyn, dates to the eighth century ce. But this work underwent several revisions, and in its present form represents the cumulative effort of later scholarship.4 At present, there is no indication that Muslims at the earliest stages of their history placed a positive value on choosing death in defense of a religious 24

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or politically linked religious principle, a concept at odds with the residual influence of the tribal milieu in which the first Muslims and Islam were generated. Arab tribesmen, when faced with an extremely unfavorable outcome, generally preferred to compromise their politics, as long as they did not have to forfeit their honor. Given the instability of tribal life and the short duration of tribal alliances, there would always be the occasion to fight another battle. What was imperative was the preservation of the bloodlines of extended kinship groups. This precluded any loss of life that could be avoided without complete loss of face. Parties about to enter into a conflict whose outcome was in doubt could resort to arbitration, or limit the loss of life and settle disputes through ritual combat between representative champions (mubaraza). In these last two cases, we are dealing with groups of more or less equal strength. Where the balance of forces was unequal, different measures were adopted. The usual means by which extended family groups salvaged an untenable situation was to enter into diplomatic negotiations. The outcome of tribal negotiations was more often than not understood in advance by the parties to a conflict. The aim of the negotiations was not to narrow down the differences, but to ratify objective realities. As these realities underscored that the weaker party would lose, it was necessary to enable the losers to salvage their honor. For loss of honor would render the losing side prey to other tribal groups. As for the stronger party, this diplomatic arrangement served to end the conflict on favorable terms without further loss of life. At times, individuals, or more inclusive groups, did not accurately measure the calculus of power, and took up arms in defense of their honor. Overtaken, however, by the realities of battle, the soon-to-be vanquished tribesmen might prefer risking a valorous death than living with the shame of defeat. The term shuhadaʾ appears in pre-Islamic poetry, where – unlike the variants of the Arabic root sh-h-d in Muslim scripture – it connotes the highly esteemed tribal values of manliness (muruwa) and valor or bravery (shajaʿa), particularly with reference to the field of battle. In pre-Islamic times this understanding of shuhadaʾ did not extend to combat in defense of religious ideals or indeed any matters of religious faith.5 The tribal concepts of honor and shame continued to have a profound effect on political behavior and as such became linked to evolving Muslim sensibilities. Expressions of tribal valor became intertwined with a concept 25

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of martyrdom couched in religious terms. In effect Qurʾanic shahid meaning “witness” was transmuted into an individual who sacrificed limb and even life, not merely based on residual tribal sensibilities of honor and shame, but for the sake of Islamic principles. The transition from the shuhadaʾ of the pre-Islamic Arab to the shuhadaʾ of the early Muslims is a subject worthy of attention, however difficult it would be to trace that transition, given the complex state of Arabic lexicography and the nature of early Arabic historical writing, which tends as a rule to confuse past and present in anticipation of the future. Like the Arabic lexicons, the preserved historical narratives of the past were all written down after the first Islamic century. After close examination, these accounts often appear tendentiously driven by politics and religious ideals reflecting that later moment.6 How does one explain the shift of meaning from martyr as witness to martyr as someone who gives his life in defense of the faith under circumstances that may include engaging in jihad against the unbelievers? Some Arabic scholars lead us to believe that angels were present (and thus bore witness) to the deeds of the shuhadaʾ (that is, those who died defending the true faith); or that the angels witnessed the ritual washing and removal of the shahid’s corpse. For some authorities, merely dying in defense of the faith was sufficient to cleanse the body for removal to Paradise.7 The lexicographers also note that angels will testify on behalf of the martyr so that someone who has given his life fighting for God’s way will be ensured entry to Paradise. In these instances, the martyr is not a witness, but someone whose meritorious deeds and fate are witnessed by heavenly beings. Another lexical citation actually combines the two senses of martyrdom: bearing witness on the one hand and dying in combat against the unbelievers on the other. It is said that Muslims who die upholding the faith in combat will be called upon to give testimony with the Prophet Muhammad when those who denied God’s prophets in the past are summoned before the heavenly tribunal on the Day of Resurrection. The medieval dictionaries drawing on the vast literature of hadith, and its references to martyrs and martyrdom, further widened the semantic field of shahid to include Muslims who neither gave their lives in some vague defense of Muslim values nor explicitly died on the field of battle. In such cases, one could achieve martyrdom if one merely asked God for the opportunity to be a martyr (on the field of battle) and then died (peacefully) in bed. In time, a 26

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pregnant woman who died before childbirth was considered a martyr along with those who drowned at sea, perished by fire, were killed when a house collapsed upon them, died of pleurisy, or perished of some undefined intestinal disease (mata fi’l-batan). According to ʿAʾishah, quoting the Prophet, even those who recited al-hamdu li-llah, “Praise to God,” twenty times on a Thursday would be considered martyrs after death, even if they died in bed. In effect, the meaning of martyr was universalized to include virtually anyone faced with adversity, including those who died in foreign lands, or on Friday (the day of communal prayer), or were deeply in love.8 It is doubtful that we can provide a proper historical context for this seemingly random selection of what it meant to be a martyr. However, taking all of this into consideration, there is a general convergence between the great Arabic lexicons and the evolving Christian understanding of the term. Note that the ancient Greek and Latin meaning of “witness” gave way in ecclesiastical Latin to a person who suffered death by refusing to renounce Christianity or any of its articles of faith or practices, as did the celebrated Christian martyrs of Roman times. Those men and women of religious principle allegedly followed a course described earlier in the Book of Maccabees, when traditional Jews resisted the Hellenizers and their foreign pagan ways, preferring instead to suffer persecution and even death. Ultimately, the term martyr as employed among Christians signified, as it did in the Arabic lexicons, anyone who suffered for any principle and then hyperbolically someone who suffered stoically from afflictions that caused mental or physical anguish, thus widening considerably the community of martyrs.9 Given the linguistic convergences between Muslim and Christian notions of martyr and martyrdom, we might speculate whether the Christian concept of martyr as one who suffered persecution or even death in defense of religious belief might have entered the collective consciousness of the Muslims as a result of direct cultural contact between the two faith communities. And if so, might that contact have taken place as early as the lifetime of the Prophet even though there was no reference to shahid as martyr in the Qurʾan? Or, if there was in fact a direct link between Christian and Muslim notions of martyrdom, did shahid, equaling martyr in defense of the faith, take on that meaning for Muslims sometime after the Arab conquest, when Arab Muslim tribesmen were brought into close contact with Jewish and Christian communities beyond the borders of Arabia? 27

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When looking at the possible influence of Christian martyrdom on the Prophet, one is immediately drawn to the south Arabian city Najran, a place celebrated for its Christian martyrs who suffered persecution under a Judaizing authority in the first half of the sixth century ce.10 However, any attempt to identify Najran with “the towns We had blessed” of the Qurʾan (34:18) – a connection which, if proved correct, would seemingly establish a possible link between the Prophet and Christian martyrdom – seems more than a bit of a stretch. The medieval exegeses commenting on the verse in question display differences of opinion regarding “the towns We had blessed” (al-qura allati barakna fiha). Most authorities identify them as places in al-Ard al-Muqaddasa, that is, in parts of al-Sham or Greater Syria. None place them in South Arabia. In sum, there is no self-evident proof that shahid equals martyr, in the Judeo-Christian sense of dying in defense of the religious principles that reached Islam in the time of the Prophet.11 To be sure, any number of early Christian converts to Islam might have introduced the concept of dying for religious principles to the Muslims, even as the earliest Muslim community evolved in its Arabian setting. But how are we to know whether that was in fact the case? The only contemporaneous text we have is the Qurʾan, which as regards our concern is not helpful. Nor can we turn with assurance to the great Arabic lexicons of the premodern period, since they are not historical dictionaries, like the Oxford English Dictionary, which trace words to specific times and even places. The concordance of pre-Islamic poetry allows us to focus more directly on the meaning of shahid and shuhadaʾ in place and time. But that collection – while referring to shuhadaʾ as reflecting tribal ideals of “manhood,” “bravery,” and “valor in battle”  – does not indicate that shuhadaʾ also refers to combat in defense of religious principle or behavior, let alone that it was proclaimed a mark of political legitimacy.

Martyrdom, religious ideals, and claims of political legitimacy To be sure, a sense of martyrdom linked to claims of political legitimacy did not evolve in a historical vacuum. During a critical period of the seventh and eighth century ce, the Alid and Abbasid branches of the Prophet 28

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Muhammad’s family chafed under Umayyad rule. Although connected by close blood ties and a common and growing opposition to those who displaced the Prophet’s rightful successors as rulers of the Islamic realm, the two families became rivals. Both Alids and Abbasids claimed the right to inherit the Prophet’s moral and political authority and thus restore his family to its proper place at the head of the Muslim faithful community. Given their superior tactical and strategic skills and with no small amount of good fortune, it was the Abbasids, and not the Alids, who succeeded in overthrowing the Umayyad regime and establishing a dynasty of their own that would last, in some fashion or other, for 500 years. Once in power, the Abbasids were hard-pressed to justify why they were entitled to inherit the Prophet’s mantle, which might or should have gone to their worthy cousins. As did the Alids, the Abbasid dynasts stressed the manner in which they boldly risked punishment and even death by resisting the usurpers. Claiming the right to rule, both branches of the Prophet’s house presented themselves as sacrificing well-being for principle and in certain instances preferring the ultimate form of sacrifice, namely martyrdom.12 But did the Banu ʿAbbas, leading a revolutionary apparatus to overthrow the hated Umayyads, or, for that matter, the early Alids, seeking to overturn that usurper regime, risk security or even life entirely on religious principle? Or are the reports to that effect literary inventions of a later time, when such behavior was regarded as both a meritorious and necessary credential for rule? For the most part, the recorded history of early Islamic times reflects a past that should have been, or at best might have been, opposed to an unrecoverable past that was. Turning to a past that might have held onto notions of political sacrifice and martyrdom, we are obliged to raise the question as to whether we understand the motives of key political ­figures – often described as martyrs and/or individuals who are said to have risked their lives and fortunes for religiously driven political principles – in light of residual tribal sentiments? Several cases drawn from the first 150 years or so of Islamic history illustrate the circumstances in which traditional tribal notions of honor and shame were linked by a later generation of apologists to the evolving Islamic notion of sacrifice, even to the point of giving one’s life in defense of religious ideals intertwined with political realities. Chosen from among 29

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any number of illustrative cases, they are based on descriptions of events beginning with the rise of the Umayyad regime and the response to its first dynastic ruler Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan (r. 661–680 ce). They include:  Firstly, Hasan b.  ʿAli’s seemingly unheroic response to Muʿawiya’s offer to settle the dispute between them, thus ending five years of a debilitating civil conflict that split the Islamic community and occasioned untold suffering. The reference is to Hasan’s decision not to pursue the caliphate and reengage the battle with Muʿawiya, despite the wishes of many of his followers that Hasan follow the path of his father and defend the honor of the Prophet’s family and their legitimate right to rule. Secondly, Hujr b. ʿAdi’s defiant stance in refusing to recognize the legitimacy of Muʿawiya’s caliphate, thus forcing the first Umayyad to execute the Alid sympathizer, even though Hujr’s quixotic mocking of the Umayyad regime during the Friday prayer service would hardly have been seen as deserving such drastic punishment. Why did Hujr choose death when a simple declaration recognizing Muʿawiya as commander of the faithful would have gained him the pardon of a ruler known for his legendary forbearance (hilm)? In addition there is the celebrated “martyrdom” of Husayn b. ʿAli, who took to the field of battle against what were truly insurmountable odds (a small company of Alid sympathizers against an entire squadron of Umayyad cavalry). Why did Husayn, unlike his brother Hasan, decide to engage in combat despite the possibility, if not indeed probability of failure on the field of battle? The death of Husayn became without doubt the quintessential example of martyrdom in the world of Shiʿi Islam, a model of behavior for future Alids intent on challenging unwanted authority by force of arms. Other premature and strategically unsound Alid attempts to dislodge the Umayyads (and at a later time the Abbasids) by taking up arms – at times with little or no chance of success  – inevitably led to the death of the Alid rebels. As these rebels were all seen in retrospect as invoking the highest moral principles, their actions were considered acts of martyrdom rather than political misadventures. And, finally, I  will mention various examples drawn from Abbasid historiography, where apologists from the Abbasid house sought to portray their patrons and forebears as rebels or potential rebels, who suffered as had their Alid cousins under Umayyad 30

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usurpers rule, thus making the Abbasids worthy inheritors of the Prophet’s mantle. Given the tendentiousness of the sources at our disposal, it is not likely that we shall be able to reconstruct even in broad outline the circumstances in which Hasan, the heir to the murdered caliph, ʿAli b. Abi Talib, relinquished all claim to rule. This surprising move occasioned considerable comment, especially from Alid sympathizers, who were hard pressed to explain Hasan’s less than heroic response to the circumstances following the murder of his father. Looked at through a critical lens, Hasan’s reaction to the historic moment left him without any claim to muruwa or shajaʿa, let  alone to the kind of personal sacrifice later associated with a true shahid.13 Hasan was reportedly approached by representatives of ʿAli’s army, a force of 40,000 men. The number represents a literary trope, but it can be taken to mean that Hasan had access to a loyal and formidable army. In various traditions, ʿAli’s son is seen as equivocating with regard to accepting his father’s, and hence the Prophet’s, mantle, and more particularly as hesitating to engage Muʿawiya and his Syrian army in combat. A series of negotiations followed. In the end, Hasan relinquished his claims and in return Muʿawiya granted him and his supporters complete amnesty. This was hardly an unusual or overly generous act, given the tribal sensibilities that ordinarily governed such negotiations. The Prophet himself granted general amnesty to his Meccan adversaries, including Muʿawiya’s father. More damaging to Hasan’s reputation in agreeing to these terms, which were explained as an attempt to prevent further bloodshed, was his accepting the tax revenues of several provinces as a reward for his compliance. That act could be seen as self-serving with little in the way of excuse. Following his agreement with Muʿawiya, Hasan lived on in relative seclusion for more than thirty years, collecting his pension and the tax revenues promised to him. He appears to have distanced himself completely from politics, even after his brother Husayn’s death in a confrontation with the Umayyads. These actions clearly demanded an explanation on the part of the Alid faithful – hence, the later Alid traditions explaining Hasan’s passive role in the politics of the moment. It is reported that Muʿawiya guaranteed Hasan that he would be the next caliph and/or that Muʿawiya promised 31

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to form an electoral body (shura) to choose his own successor (leading readers to believe that Hasan had every reason to expect that the shura would choose a proper Hashimite, presumably an Alid, if not Hasan himself). There are also reports that Hasan received other concessions from the Umayyads in return for relinquishing his claims to the caliphate. That is, he successfully bargained generous stipends of money and pensions for his brother Husayn and members of his extended clan, the Hashimites. It could then be said that he acted in the best interests of his kin and extended clan. These too were probably inventions, although there is evidence that Muʿawiya deflected possible opposition from the displaced Hashimites by bestowing favors upon them.14 One can readily see why a later Alid tradition had to reshape, if not completely rewrite the history of Hasan, especially in light of an evolving concept of martyrdom that linked sacrifice against unwanted authority to claims of political and moral legitimacy. Hasan’s response to the circumstances he faced would appear entirely consistent with the realities confronting him. Despite the large army that was at his disposal, the military situation was not favorable and despite declarations of support from his followers, the larger community of the Muslims had grown weary after five years of civil war. It was, therefore, opportune to enter into (tribal-like) negotiations that would end the conflict without recriminations and provide the weaker party (Hasan and the Hashimites) with incentives that salvaged their honor, for example financial inducements. The fact is that throughout his lengthy reign as commander of the faithful, Muʿawiya treated the Hashimites with the utmost respect, supplemented by financial rewards, to obtain their acceptance, if not their unequivocal allegiance.15 Neither Hasan nor his Hashimite followers had any way of knowing that Muʿawiya would go against every tribal and Islamic precedent by creating a dynastic line of succession, in this case one that had the potential of denying in perpetuity the Prophet’s family from rule.16 Another early Muslim who seemingly gave his life for his Islamic principles was also a supporter of ʿAli b. Abi Talib, namely Hujr b. ʿAdi, who strenuously resisted Hasan’s negotiations with Muʿawiya, as well as his ultimate decision to relinquish his claims to the caliphate.17 Conventional wisdom has it that throughout Muʿawiya’s reign Hujr was at the center of all Alid agitation in Kufa and ultimately went so far as to invite Hasan’s 32

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brother, Husayn, to come to the city in order to challenge the standing caliph. With the current Umayyad governor absent from the city, Hujr (according to the accepted version) stirred up an uprising and, after an extended chase, was apprehended and found guilty by a tribunal of Arab tribesmen. He was later brought to the caliph and given the choice of acknowledging Muʿawiya as commander of the faithful and renouncing his support for the Alid cause, or face execution. Hujr chose the latter and in this respect has come to be recognized as the first true martyr among the supporters of the Alid line. A close reading of the sources allows us to paint a more complex picture. It confirms Hujr’s martyrdom, but it also speaks of Hujr’s peculiar personality and places his actions and those of his contemporaries against the background of traditional tribal politics. While attending the Friday prayers, Hujr would react to the so-called “cursing of ʿAli,” that is, deprecatory remarks towards ʿAli that were linked to that part of the prayer ceremony in which a representative of the government expressed fealty to the Umayyad caliph. As was his custom, Hujr would substitute for the official language humorous remarks disparaging the Umayyad regime. But he did so only loud enough to be heard by a small coterie of worshippers in his immediate vicinity. The Umayyad governor was well aware of Hujr’s activities but took no action against him for, however disrespectful, this behavior would not occasion any problem for the Umayyad rulers of the city. Above all, the governor of Iraq had no desire whatsoever to antagonize the Arab tribes settled in the garrison town that still sympathized with the Alid cause. Thus Hujr and the Umayyad governors played out their game according to mutually accepted rules. While one of the governors was away, Hujr raised the ante and created a disturbance at the mosque in which he and his supporters stoned the security forces – in any case hardly an offense that should have called for drastic action. It is reported that Hujr also repudiated the caliph. Upon his return, the governor found Hujr repeating his antics at the reciting of the khutba, at which time Muʿawiya’s representative leading the Friday prayers pledged the congregation’s loyalty to the caliph and added deprecating remarks concerning ʿAli. Because he had mocked this weekly endorsement of the Umayyad regime and created a serious incident, Hujr was to be arrested. 33

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Hujr and a small group of followers then took flight. Respectful of tribal sensibilities, the governor did not attempt to arrest them. Instead, he summoned the tribal notables and had the leaders of each clan rein in the hotheads among them and demand that they forego any such behavior. The majority of the troublemakers complied. Only Hujr and a handful of others defied their tribal leaders. Still, from a tribal perspective Hujr had done nothing to merit such severe punishment. He led no rebellion, spilt no blood, and for the most part merely did what the authorities had overlooked in the past. Several delicate issues were now in play: How to apprehend Hujr without causing turmoil among the proud Arab tribesmen, particularly his own kinsmen, who were honor bound by tribal conventions to protect him. The matter was resolved by the application of tribal diplomacy and Hujr was handed over to the local authorities on condition that he be taken to Muʿawiya. As the caliph was known for his legendary forbearance, they no doubt expected that at worst Hujr would receive a reprimand. The Alid supporter was then brought to the caliph, along with a dozen of his followers. Muʿawiyh apparently recognized the inherent foolishness of treating Hujr’s ‘rebellion’ as anything more than a minor incident and thus gave the prisoners the opportunity to earn their release by recognizing the legitimacy of the caliph’s authority. Some complied, but Hujr b. ʿAdi. and a handful of others did not. The caliph then felt compelled to have Hujr executed. Eventually Hujr was celebrated among those who martyred themselves in defense of a principle, namely for upholding the right of the Alid family to rule the community of the faithful. On the other hand, Arab contemporaries seemingly viewed his “rebellion” in light of the Umayyad’s incipient challenge to Arab tribalism, whose norms did not recognize the legitimacy of any centralized authority. The execution of Hujr was in this respect a harbinger of an increasing trend among the caliphs to break the back of tribal autonomy and introduce the hitherto unknown concept of sedition to the world of Muslim politics. The death of Husayn is without question the most discussed and celebrated instance of martyrdom in the history of Islam.18 There is a voluminous literature on ʿAli’s second son, born to Fatima. The events leading up to his death in battle are, however, largely confined to a single early source (Abu Mikhnaf), who wrote an account by and large favorable to the Alids. 34

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We can therefore assume that the description of events was not intended to diminish the status of ʿAli’s heirs, quite the opposite. Without going into great detail, we can say that a careful reading of the sources reveals the following picture: Hasan, who withdrew from politics, initially encouraged his brother to take the fight to Muʿawiya and restore the Prophet’s family to its uncontested status of ruling the Muslim community. However, he did not succeed in getting his brother to act. As did Hasan, Husayn accepted the largesse of the Umayyad caliph and did not challenge his authority. He rejected all overtures to encourage armed rebellion as long as Muʿawiya lived. However, when Yazid was declared the heir apparent to Muʿawiya  – which in effect signified that no new group of electors would be convened to choose a new commander of the faithful, and that the Hashimites could be denied the Prophet’s mantle in perpetuity as one Umayyad succeeded another  – Husayn refused to recognize the line of succession. Still, he gave no indication that he would lead an armed insurrection should Yazid inherit his father’s authority as expected. When Yazid was actually acclaimed caliph, Husayn refused to render him the oath of allegiance, but retreated to Medina, the center of the Hashimites, as residence in the holy city would serve to protect him from any reprisals. The Arab tribesmen of Kufa, chafing under Syrian rule, suggested to Husayn that he come to Iraq and raise an army to confront the Umayyads. Ever cautious, Husayn tested the ground by sending ahead his relative Muslim b. ʿAqil. The plot was discovered, and Muslim was put to death while Husayn, who was already en route to Kufa, continued his journey. When the dimensions of the plot were discovered, the Umayyad authorities followed Husayn’s movements very closely, remaining in direct contact with him. It is clear that they had no intention of killing him and his relatively small band, which included women and children. To the contrary, they made every effort to convince him to turn back, invoking diplomatic initiatives while denying his entourage access to water. Most importantly, at a given point Husayn reportedly suggested in a private conversation witnessed by no one (what does one make of the authenticity of such an account?) that he be given one of three options to end the extended standoff: (1) that he be allowed to go the frontier as an individual warrior (ghazi) to do battle with the unbelievers (a dignified action by a 35

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man of faith, which at the same time afford him the opportunity to injure the Umayyad regime); (2) that he go to Damascus to meet with Yazid, the caliph. By all accounts, Yazid had no desire or intention to kill one of the leading Muslims. And no doubt Husayn could expect Yazid to spare him any real harm because Husayn had not as yet fomented any active rebellion against the caliph; (3) that he be permitted to return to Medina (at worst under house arrest, but in any case in comfortable political retirement). Egged on by relatives of Muslim b. ʿAqil seeking revenge, and faced with the humiliation of capitulating unconditionally, Husayn took to the battlefield and fought until his death. The major villain of this extended account, as portrayed by the Arabic chroniclers, is Shimr, the last Umayyad commander to arrive at the scene. We are led to believe that previous to his arrival and in good tribal fashion a solution could have been found to the impasse that might have been acceptable to both the caliph and Husayn. However, we have to remember that at this point the leading members of the Prophet’s family were not fair game for summary execution unless they were engaged in open combat. Husayn had every reason to expect that the traditional codes of amnesty would be applied to him in the current circumstances and that the negotiations would be acceptable to his sense of honor. The failure of Shimr to apply this code and negotiate as required precipitated the disastrous ending of the abortive rebellion. To make matters worse, the body of Husayn was reportedly mutilated and his head sent to Damascus. Over time, an evolving concept of martyrdom, meaning dying in combat for Islamic principles earned the considerable respect of specific Muslim communities, if not indeed of a more broadly constituted Islamic umma. Muslims noted the Alid opposition to the Umayyad usurpers, beginning with Husayn’s heroic death and followed by various unsuccessful revolts towards the end of Umayyad rule. The same opposition to established authority continued throughout the early Abbasid period and thereafter, as the Alid claimants and their followers argued that the Abbasids, although close relatives of the Prophet, had no legitimate claims to succeed him. One of the strong arguments used to undermine Abbasid credentials was their failure to expose themselves to danger and confront the Umayyads during the history of the usurper regime, an indication that martyrdom in defense of religious principle had already taken root in the latter half of the eighth century ce. 36

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Once they seized power, the Abbasids rewrote history and represented themselves, if not as martyrs in the sense of having given or even endangered their lives in opposing the Umayyads, at least as individuals given to self-sacrifice and suffering for their beliefs. To claim martyrdom, as did the Alids when they were denied the expected fruits of their opposition to the usurpers, simply would not have worked for the new Abbasid rulers. Even the most imaginative Abbasid propagandists could not hope to convince the public at large that their patrons had a record of dying in battle forged on the anvil of a real history. A virtue had to be made of the pragmatic course they followed in delaying open opposition to the Umayyads. The Abbasid propagandists thus reshaped history to show that they had indeed opposed the Umayyads and suffered indignities at their hands. But as these fabricated stories paled when compared to the active, if failed, rebellions undertaken on behalf of Alid claimants, the Abbasids had to go a step further. They had to demonstrate that the Prophet himself had warned his followers that excessive and ill-timed pursuit of battle in order to dress oneself in the garb of valor and manliness was counterproductive to long-range goals. Rather than seek martyrdom, it was far wiser to wait for the opportune moment to engage unwanted authority. In effect, the apologists for the house of ʿAbbas would claim that the success of the Abbasids in overthrowing the usurpers was their ability to control tribal instincts and wait for the proper moment of redemption, as did the Prophet when confronting the pagan oligarchs of Quraysh. The reluctance of the Abbasid leadership to openly defy the usurpers on the field of battle, until circumstances demanded they take action or lose their revolutionary following, was defended by invoking the words of Muhammad, who reportedly celebrated caution. What better model of behavior could a Muslim follow, if not one drawn from the life of the Prophet?19 We are still left to determine when martyrdom in the sense of putting Islamic principle ahead of one’s safety or even life took root among the Muslims. One would be hard-pressed to answer this question with any certitude, but a good guess would be when the turn of the first Islamic century brought about messianic expectations of cosmic change that would have included the collapse of the Umayyad dynasty. With such anticipated change on the horizon, the time was considered ripe for men of principle 37

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to sacrifice their lives in restoring the Prophet’s family to its rightful place at the head of the Islamic community. Once the concept of martyrdom took root, it remained to bloom, particularly in the gardens of the Alids. Whereas they were perennially destined to fail in open confrontations with established authority, their reputation as having perished in defense of principle remained impeccable, proving time and again that in the Islamic Near East nothing is as enduring as total failure on behalf of a principled cause.

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2 The Ambivalent Shiʿi Attitude towards Martyrdom: Some Thoughts on a pre-Buwayhid Source Roy Vilozny

Background Reading through imamite traditions1 with the intention of determining what opinion the imams held on doctrinal, theological, or legal issues can be a perplexing task.2 At times imams contradict each other, while different traditions may ascribe opposing statements to the same imam. Several explanations, both imamite and scholarly, have been offered to resolve these contradictions. That such inconsistencies in the imamite corpus of hadith are the result of practicing taqiyya – i.e. the obligation to conceal one’s true beliefs at times of danger or persecution – is perhaps the best-known explanation, both amongst imamite and Western scholars.3 The idea that they reflect different opinions, retrospectively attributed to imams in order to promote certain views, is of course not plausible within the imamite community, which does not question the authenticity of this corpus. Another possible explanation is that the imamite view concerning a specific legal question or doctrinal matter has simply changed in the course of time. For the believer, however, this too would be unsatisfactory since it does not tally with two fundamental imamite principles: eternal, all-encompassing knowledge, and immunity against sin and error (ʿisma) attributed to all Shiʿi imams.4 39

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In the matter in question, that is, the early imamite attitude towards martyrdom, one is confronted with another problem, since the apparent contradiction between the high value of holy war and martyrdom on the one hand, and the principle not to engage in it on the other, may be implied by the words of a single imam in a single tradition. Needless to say, none of the preceding explanations can help us resolve this type of ambivalence, which is the focus of the present study. Prior to examining the ambivalent attitude of the imams towards martyrdom, I would like to draw the reader’s attention to a number of issues. The first important point is that there is nothing sectarian or particularly Shiʿi about death; it is obviously the inevitable last stage of life. In the Islamic world, for both Sunnis and Shiʿis, death is a necessary step on the way to martyrdom, or istishhad.5 In this chapter, I will show how this universal fate is described from a Shiʿi point of view in the Shiʿi hadith literature, making sacrifice and death two of the most significant characteristics of the Shiʿi faith. The traditions that will be analyzed clearly discourage active jihad, until al-Qaʾim, the last redeemer, appears and leads believers to it.6 At the same time, these traditions depict jihad and shahada as the highest religious level one can aspire to. How, then, in such contradictory conditions, is one expected to attain the coveted status of martyr? The second important point with regard to the Shiʿa view of martyrdom is that the notions described in this study reflect the Shiʿi attitude at a very early stage, before two historical turning points that were crucial for the development of the Shiʿi doctrine: the beginning of the greater occultation of the twelfth Imam in the middle of the tenth century, and the ascent to power of the pro-Shiʿi Buwayhid dynasty in Baghdad, both of which date back to approximately the same period (941 and 945 respectively). Since the crystallization of the Shiʿa as the Twelvers, as well as the canonization of imamite literature, took place at a later time, it was only natural that the imamite approach towards martyrdom – among many other doctrinal principles – also underwent significant modifications. In order to examine the Shiʿi attitude prior to these events, this chapter will focus on one of the earliest hadith collections extant: Kitab al-Mahasin by the Qumi scholar and traditionalist, Ahmad b. Muhammad al-Barqi.7 The date of al-Barqi’s death is given either as 888 or 894,8 that is, about half a century before the above historical turning points. 40

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Thirdly, when examining imamite traditions, one should not forget that while the main architects of the early imamite doctrine, imams Jaʿfar al-Sadiq (d. 765) and his father Muhammad al-Baqir (d. 732 or 735), were preaching against active jihad and promoting a policy of quietism, other currents of Shiʿism, mainly the Zaydis, held more activist approaches, advocating death in holy war as a means to attain martyrdom. The early imamite attitude which will be presented may therefore be seen not only as resulting from objective circumstances – being a minority and lacking sufficient military power to conduct a holy war – but also from a doctrinal dispute within the Shiʿi community. As Kohlberg argues, this dispute was not peculiar to Shiʿi circles, since preaching against the fanatical urge to find death in battle (talab al-shahada) was common to both imamite and Sunni scholars.9 In the Sunni world this was particularly relevant under the Abbasid rule, since the wave of great Islamic military expeditions and territorial expansion started to fade. The change in attitude, which initially discouraged engagement in holy war – at least until the long-awaited appearance of al-Qaʾim, the redeemer, who was expected to lead it – can be traced back to the late Buwayhid period, when the Sunni Seljuks first threatened Baghdad. Imamite scholars then realized that if they kept on banning all forms of warfare and refrained from authorizing some sort of active jihad, the Buwayhid rule might be endangered. This led to the first meaningful modification in the imamite attitude, formulated by the jurist Muhammad b. al-Hasan al-Tusi (d. 1067), the first scholar to authorize defensive jihad in the absence of the twelfth Imam.10 This change seems to have gone hand in hand with the shift in status of the imamite community: from a persecuted minority struggling to survive, to a group supported by the ruling Buwayhids, but in danger of losing its newly acquired, privileged position. One should bear in mind that al-Tusi wrote his theological and legal essays during the greater occultation and that, by that time, imamite scholars had already become accustomed to making new legal decisions in the absence of the imam. Furthermore, in al-Tusi’s lifetime the Shiʿi community identified the figure of al-Qaʾim, as the last redeemer, with that of al-Mahdi or the hidden twelfth Imam.11 Before the occultation this could apparently not have been the case, as an imam was still accessible to his community, not yet 41

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being “awaited” and thus unreachable. Yet holy war had to be postponed until al-Qaʾim’s appearance. Our focus will be on two recurring and related themes in the imamite tradition: firstly, that a Shiʿi believer who dies is filled with joy. The term used in the sources to describe this, namely ightibat, describes the feeling of joy resulting from satisfaction with one’s condition, accompanied by gratitude;12 and secondly, that every Shiʿi believer dies as a shahid or martyr, regardless of the manner in which he has died.13 Death in Shiʿi belief will therefore be considered from two different perspectives: a. Emotional: how does the dying believer feel at the moment of death? b. Legal: in what circumstances may the dying believer be regarded as a shahid? Not surprisingly, being part of the Shiʿi community is a prerequisite for one’s death to be weighed according to these two criteria. For such discussion to be apposite, the dead person must have known or acknowledged the imam. Otherwise, we are told repeatedly, his death is not Islamic and equals a pagan death.14

The emotional dimension Islamic traditions dealing with death, the first step toward the afterlife, clearly hint at events taking place beyond this world, where all difficulties will be swept away to be replaced by a new, true order. Focusing on the believer’s feelings at the moment of death is a doctrinal attempt to resolve an individual’s difficulties when he/she faces death, before turning to an eschatological vision of the world to come. Imamite notions of death and eschatological traditions share the same problem: they can neither be verified nor proven wrong. The special joy mentioned earlier can be experienced solely by the dying person. In this sense, the moment of death, just like preexistence or the afterlife  – two other major themes in Shiʿi hadith literature  – is fertile ground for the development of various kinds of myths, including myths dealing with feelings of joy at the moment of death.15 It is not surprising that the legal dimension of death is discussed in the imamite hadith. After all, religious law – which, in addition to the Qurʾan, 42

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is also based on sayings of the imams  – has to cover all aspects of life, including death. When an imam assures the believers that they will be filled with joy upon their death, his promise necessarily conveys an instructive message for his followers.16 How then can they afford to have an emotional experience dissimilar to the one described in the imam’s hadith? It seems that on this matter their only option is to trust the imam and hope that his prediction regarding the believer’s feelings will be realized when the time comes. Describing the moment of death as happy will inevitably have some tangible effect, or formative influence on the believer’s life. The actual consequences of this notion will however remain vague. In his Martyrdom in Islam, David Cook states that one of the major differences between Shiʿis and Sunnis lies in their emotions with regard to martyrdom:  while the former’s experience is characterized mainly by deep grief and expiation, the latter’s is depicted as joyous and happy.17 Cook, however, refers to the feelings of people close to the shahid, and not the martyr himself, so that one cannot ignore the contradictory emotions ascribed to the Shiʿi martyr, as opposed to those of the people that surround him. However, as Kohlberg shows, the emotional complexity of the situation cannot be narrowed down only to these two extremes: grief or joy. Happiness about the martyr’s rejoicing, sorrow at the shahid’s death, the family’s awareness, or lack of awareness, about his new status as martyr and the presumed pleasures awaiting him in heaven are just some of the possible elements in this ambivalent mixture of feelings.18 Before discussing specific reasons why a believer would experience profound joy at the moment of his death, one may assume that traditions conveying this message constitute a Shiʿi attempt to portray a difficult reality in a positive light and recruit it for doctrinal purposes. Death, so it seems to the student of these traditions, is particularly baffling for Shiʿis because it strikes everyone, believer and non-believer, alike. How can it be that Shiʿis and non-Shiʿis share the same fate? What implications does this common fate have on the imamite relativization of different faiths, which places the Shiʿi creed over and above all others? In this sense, death is just a private case of the general difficulty that arises when one attempts to translate universal human values into sectarian values. This is, of course, a tendency found in numerous religions, and is not exclusive to Shiʿi Islam. 43

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As is often conveyed in Shiʿi traditions, while the Shiʿi believer is to be filled with joy at the moment of his death, the non-believer is not.19 This contrast is evident, for example, in the argument that the hatred felt by non-Shiʿis towards the Shiʿi faith increases dramatically,20 apparently precluding the non-believers from repenting their sins, when they die. A tradition ascribed to the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-Sadiq, makes it clear that God’s judgment about Shiʿi vs. non-Shʿi believers is essentially different. According to al-Sadiq, God is torn between His desire to meet the believer, and His consideration of the believer’s unwillingness to die. Al-Sadiq describes this divine state of indecision as one of the hardest God faces: “I [God] do not hesitate concerning anything the way I do with regard to the believer’s death, I am anxious to meet him, whereas he hates to die.” God’s indecision is so marked that He may decide to postpone the believer’s death.21 God’s difficulty clearly contradicts the idea of joy at the moment of death, since it views the believer’s death as an undesirable fate to be postponed. If death was such a good thing for the believer, God would know it and would, for the believer’s sake, not postpone it. Contradictions of this kind are very common in Shiʿi literature, since the desire to underline the high value of one aspect of the faith often results in the devaluation of another. Even when a believer does not want to die, preferring life to death, he may well feel joy at the very moment of death. This state of mind teaches us something about the limited influence of doctrine on inner emotions; although the believer ought to be aware of the joy he will experience at his death and should therefore look forward to it, yet he prefers to live. The reason for the believer’s joy is, on the face of it, quite simple. As Jaʿfar al-Sadiq, the sixth Imam, puts it: death is the only thing that stands between a believer and seeing what will please him; at this very moment he is being told that he has attained all the things he desired during his life, and that he is safe from all the things he feared. His imam, so he is told, is a true imam.22 Before we try to understand what stands behind each of al-Sadiq’s three laconic statements, a comment about the belief that one is actually being spoken to upon one’s death seems appropriate. In most traditions describing the believer’s joy we learn that he is being addressed orally as he/she dies. In certain traditions the verb “to say” 44

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appears in the passive as no speaker is mentioned;23 in others – as will be shown below – the speakers are the Prophet and ʿAli,24 and in one case the speaker is al-bashir, i.e. the bringer of glad tidings.25 Three prominent factors contribute to the believer’s joy. Firstly, he enjoys the privilege of knowing what his destiny in the afterlife will be or, in the words of the fifth Imam, Muhammad al-Baqir: “The believer will be happiest about the state he is in when he arrives at the edge of the hereafter and this world is cut off from him. When he reaches this point, he will know that he is headed toward grace and honor by God.”26 According to Jaʿfar al-Sadiq’s exegesis of the Qurʾanic verses 10:63–64 “For those who believe and are conscious of God; for them there is good news, in this life and in the Hereafter,” the Shiʿi believer’s privileges are recorded in God’s holy book.27 Secondly, the believer is now safe from all things he had been afraid of during his lifetime. Indeed, at the moment of death he is no longer part of this world and is hence free of its evils.28 The fact that he experiences relief when he is in a transitional stage between life and death is significant. The moment of death, that is, of passage from one world to another, is described as the happiest moment the believer can possibly experience. Here, too, the wish to color death as the supreme experience, leads to a devaluation of life in this world and, even more significantly, of life in the hereafter. The unique feeling of being in a transitional state – no longer in one place and not yet in another – doubtlessly contributes to the manner in which this particular moment is perceived. Thirdly, the believer is allowed the privilege of meeting the most important figures of the Shiʿa:  Muhammad, the Apostle of God, ʿAli, Fatima, Hasan, and Husayn. According to some traditions, Muhammad and ʿAli actually speak with the dying person. According to one tradition, they reassure him, asserting that God will protect him from everything he had been afraid of before and that only those things he wishes for now await him.29 In another, Muhammad sits near the dying person’s head while ʿAli sits at his feet. At first Muhammad approaches the dying man and tells him, “Oh, friend of God, rejoice, I am the Apostle of God and my company is better for you than the things of the world that you leave behind.”30 Then ʿAli approaches, “Oh, friend of God, rejoice, I am ʿAli b. Abi Talib, the one you have loved, I will indeed be of benefit to you.”31 45

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Combined, these three factors provide ultimate proof of the truth of one’s faith:  “And he will know with certainty that what he believes in is the truth and that anyone who opposed his religion was wrong and will perish.”32 Naturally, if all of the above are substantiated, the imam one has followed throughout one’s life is “a true imam” (imam sidq).33 In short, at the very threshold of the hereafter, the true believer receives absolute proof of the veracity of the faith he has adhered to all his life. Up to this point one gets the impression that the moment of death is an exclusive, joyful experience shared by all members of the Shiʿi community. As such, this concept fits the binary vision of humanity as divided into two opposing groups: Shiʿis vs. non-Shiʿis. A tradition ascribed to the sixth Imam provides a more complex depiction of reality. Al-Sadiq assures his disciples that only death stands between them and ultimate joy, regret, or sorrow.34 One might conclude that upon their death even Shiʿis face emotions other than joy. It is only later on in his account that Imam al-Sadiq attributes the positive experience of dying to true believers only. According to him, individuals who do not fear God and do not support their fellow believers will be deprived of these privileges. Fear of God (waraʿ) and solidarity with cobelievers (muwasa) are thus two crucial characteristics of one’s true belief.35 People who are not God-fearing will, at the moment of their death, be denounced as sinners who have adopted love (mahabba) only outwardly, hence hiding their lack of faith.36 The possibility that they have lived their lives as Shiʿis and were exposed as hypocrites only upon their death is very real in al-Sadiq’s eyes. When ʿUqba b. Khalid and Muʿalla b. Khunays, two of Jaʿfar al-Sadiq’s disciples, visited him, another interesting aspect of joy experienced at the very moment of death came to the fore: the fact that it belongs to the esoteric dimension of faith. Following Jaʿfar al-Sadiq’s statement that the only thing standing between the believer and seeing the things that will please him, ʿUqba asks the imam what these things are. ʿUqba reiterates his question a number of times, but Jaʿfar al-Sadiq refuses to elaborate. It is only after ʿUqba shares his fear of the moment of death with the imam and bursts out crying that al-Sadiq is willing to reveal to him what he meant: namely that at the point of death, the believer will briefly see the Apostle of God and ʿAli. As to ʿUqba’s question whether the believer will return to this 46

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world after his encounter with Muhammad and ʿAli, the imam replies in the negative, clarifying that the believer “goes ahead,” apparently meaning to the hereafter.37 It is worth noting that in ʿUqba’s view returning to this world, rather than going on to the afterworld, represents the ideal reward after death. ʿUqba’s human weakness leaves one with the impression that in addition to their obvious sectarian and doctrinal purposes, joy traditions also have a therapeutic goal, that is, to help the believer deal with his fear of death. Let us now try to understand how this agrees with the concept of shahada, or martyrdom.

The legal dimension Traditions that deal with shahada maintain that a Shiʿi believer dies as martyr or shahid if he “[dies] while believing in this matter,”38 “this matter” being Shiʿa Islam. This, says Jaʿfar al-Sadiq, is so “even if he died in his bed,” as he will then be considered to be “alive with his Lord, [and] well provided for.”39 Jaʿfar al-Sadiq paraphrases part of Qurʾanic verse 3:169 by referring to “those who have been killed in God’s way;” in doing so, he proclaims that every person who dies believing in “this matter” achieves the status of a shahid killed during jihad. Similarly, when a disciple of al-Sadiq asks him to pray to God so that He may grant him the noble shahada, the imam answers: “the believer is a shahid wherever he dies” and, again, recites Qurʾan 3:169.40 In another tradition, Jaʿfar al-Sadiq determines that whoever dies “while believing in this matter” is equal to anyone “who fights in Allah’s way.”41 As long as the person belongs to the Shiʿa, he is a shahid, whether “he was devoured by a wild beast, burned in a fire, drowned or killed.”42 Interestingly, in this tradition the imam preaches that the manner in which one dies “will not harm him,” as he will at any rate be a shahid. The word choice, common in Shiʿi tradition, is not fortuitous and clearly reflects the fear of dying a natural death, i.e. not dying a glorified death on the battlefield, and thus being deprived of its rewards. One should remember that for several generations, and mainly during the Abbasid period in which Kitab al-mahasin was composed, the Shiʿis were a persecuted minority. Adhering to one’s faith under such circumstances, 47

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which occasionally demanded practising taqiyya, must have meant being engaged in an ongoing struggle or, in Arabic, in jihad.43 Moreover, advocating such quietist interpretation of jihad rather than a jihad involving physical fighting was necessary for the sect’s survival, as we shall see. The third Imam, Husayn b. ʿAli, also states that anyone who dies believing in the Shiʿi faith is a shahid.44 Upon a disciple’s enquiry whether this is true, in spite of the fact that most Shiʿis die a natural death, Husayn presents a somewhat different argumentation. According to him, if only individuals dying while performing active jihad were to be considered to be martyrs (shuhadaʾ), their numbers would be small. He bases his argument on the Qurʾanic verse: “Those who believe in God and His messengers are the truthful ones who will bear witness before their Lord” (57:19), where shuhadaʾ may indeed be interpreted as all Shiʿi believers. The disciple, who was of course familiar with this verse, was so surprised by the imam’s interpretation that he said: “it was as if I had never read this verse before.”45 In fact, Qurʾan commentators widely discuss the ambiguity of the meaning of shahid in this verse. There are two major difficulties. First, should the word shuhadaʾ be connected to the first part of the verse, according to which those who believe in God and his messengers become shuhadaʾ when they die? And second, does the word shuhadaʾ in this context mean martyrs, or does it refer to all those who bear witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is the Apostle of God (i.e. the term shahid is used with reference to the first pillar of Islam, al-shahada)?46 Interestingly, for Husayn – himself the ultimate, heroic martyr – the word shuhadaʾ is clearly connected to the first part of the verse so that its meaning in this context is indeed martyrs. As we said, for Husayn, the Shiʿi believer earns the status of shahid when he dies, regardless of the mode of his death. These concepts are developed further in other traditions according to which “whoever dies while believing in this matter” is equal, not only to someone who “fights in Allah’s way,” but also to “those who died as shahids together with the Apostle of God” – clearly the highest form of jihad one could wish for, even higher than fighting alongside al-Qaʾim when he appears.47 To better understand Jaʿfar al-Sadiq’s line of thinking, let us now take a closer look at a tradition attributed to him: “The person who dies [while believing] in this matter of ours has the same standing as the one 48

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who sets his tent next to that of al-Qaʾim [in battle], and as the one who fights side by side with him, and as the one who dies as a martyr alongside the Apostle of God.”48 In another version of this narrative the imam remains silent for a while between his description of the various degrees of martyrdom, thus creating tension and increasing the listener’s/reader’s curiosity.49 Messianic expectations of al-Qaʾim’s return and a commitment to stand by him in battle are also considered prominent forms of jihad. Through a tradition ascribed to the fifth Imam, Muhammad al-Baqir, one is also given a glimpse of the atmosphere among Shiʿis at the time, or at least at the way it was perceived retrospectively. A devoted believer tells al-Baqir that he and other fellow believers “left their markets,” that is, they discontinued their commercial activities, since they were expecting “this thing” – apparently a reference to the expected return of al-Qaʾim.50 Some believers must have felt that his return was so near that they actually left everything and prepared to join him in the battlefield. For some, as the tradition clearly asserts, this act of withdrawal from commercial life led to such utter financial disaster that they literally had to beg for money.51 Muhammad al-Baqir’s initial reaction to the story is to reassure the believer that God will surely provide a solution for those who devoted their lives to Him and to the Shiʿi cause. Then, the imam uses the following words to comfort the believer, who is worried about the possibility that he will not live long enough to stand by al-Qaʾim: “Those among you who say: ‘If I live long enough [to see the return of] al-Qaʾim, I will support him’ are equal to those who fight for him with their sword; and he who dies as a shahid while fighting for him, receives [a reward equaling] two shahadas.”52 It does not matter if the person committing himself to the support of al-Qaʾim dies before his return; what matters is the expectation of his return and the commitment to stand by him. It is clear that leading the believers to holy war is a role reserved exclusively to al-Qaʾim and not to the present imam. As mentioned, it is only during the greater occultation of the twelfth Imam that the two characters, al-Qaʾim and the hidden imam, merged to form a single messianic figure.53 Although the concept of shahada may be seen as encouraging jihad among the Shiʿis, the traditions previously discussed, while portraying 49

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shahada as a positive value, do offer the believer an alternative, safer way of achieving martyrdom:  to adhere to one’s Shiʿi belief. By doing so one reaches the highest level of jihad, just as if one died fighting side by side with al-Qaʾim or with the Apostle of God. These traditions, in which spiritual or intellectual jihad is on equal terms with physical jihad, appear to be typical of an attitude advocating a policy of quietism (quʿud). Whether attained on the battlefield or on a peaceful deathbed, shahada resembles other Shiʿi concepts in its clearly dualistic division of the world into believers and non-believers. On the one hand, the special status of shahada can be achieved by any Shiʿi believer who adheres to his faith. On the other, non-Shiʿis cannot achieve it, even if they die in active jihad. When people killed in war are mentioned in Jaʿfar al-Sadiq’s presence, he says: “what profit will they get out of it? They only hasten their death in this world and in the hereafter. I swear by God, that there are no shahids but the members of our sect, even those who die in their beds.”54 According to this, only those who die in battle are actually seen by the public as true martyrs. If this is so, then the value of martyrdom achieved by Shiʿis who do not die in combat is highly questionable. Had this not been the case, the imam would have had no reason to declare their falling in battle to be meaningless. The imam’s attempt to minimize the value of active fighting hints at the difficulty of maintaining a quietist attitude in a violent environment.

Conclusion In conclusion, I would like to suggest that the extension of the concept of shahada, to include believers whose passing is peaceful, has emerged not only from political and historical circumstances in which it was practically impossible for Shiʿis to engage physically in holy war, but also from a universal human condition. The two notions I  have presented in this chapter – namely that the Shiʿi believer is filled with joy at the moment of death and that every Shiʿi believer dies a shahid  – represent two sides of the same coin:  the Shiʿi endeavor to solve the most difficult riddle of our existence. I would like to suggest that, more than anything, these two doctrinal ideas are fundamentally derived from the never-ending search for meaning in a finite 50

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existence. This explains the dissonance between the extremely high value attributed to the religious duty of shahada on the one hand, and the proscription against it on the other. Depicting the death of every member of the community as shahada lends meaning to life, and at the same time lessens the resolve to meet an unnatural, premature death. The ambivalent imamite attitude towards shahada thus achieves two simultaneous goals: to sweeten the agony of death and at the same time to supply the Shiʿi community with a doctrinal justification for remaining alive.

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3 The Status of the Battlefield Martyr in Classical Shiʿi Law Robert Gleave

Introduction The Arabic term shahid, usually translated as “martyr,” is not simply an important element of emotive, popular Islamist discourse. It has a legal definition in the history of Islamic jurisprudence, and certain legal procedures follow the death of a shahid, which distinguish the ritual treatment of the shahid’s body from those of other deceased Muslims. Even within the category of shahid (pl. shuhadaʾ), Muslim jurists distinguished between martyrs who died on the battlefield, and those who died after the hostilities, but from wounds inflicted in battle. The latter, for some, are to be treated as shahids, though strictly speaking they do not fulfill the criteria for this classification. In the eyes of some, women or children who die on the battlefield should be accorded a different set of rituals from a martyred male, even though they are also classed as shahids. For yet others, a shahid not only dies on the battlefield, but without his comrades being present during his final moments; without this final contact, for some, the term shahid, sensu stricto, may not apply, and a different set of rituals for the martyr’s burial are performed. In this chapter, I examine some of the legal and ritual discussions in Shiʿi juristic works, with particular focus on four influential manuals of jurisprudence. Through this analysis, I aim to supplement the 52

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popular and mythological elements of Shiʿi (and other Muslim) conceptions of martyrdom, with a technical understanding of the religio-legal issues at stake. Like most juristic discussions in works of Muslim jurisprudence (fiqh), discussions around issues such as whether a deceased person is a shahid, treatment of his or her body and, ultimately, the body’s burial are replete with technical distinctions in which the opinion of one jurist (or group of jurists) is distinguished from another with delicate precision. Sometimes, the differences can be traced to differing understanding of revelatory material (primarily, statements of the Prophet or, in Shiʿi Islam, of the imams, too); at other times, divergent opinions have no apparent scriptural basis and may be based on individual juristic preference, or implicit legal reasoning. It has been observed that martyrdom in Shiʿi Islam has a distinct dynamic when compared to its role in the Sunni tradition. This, so it is argued, is primarily due to the (alleged) martyrdom of Shiʿi imams, and the regular commemoration of these martyrdoms in an annual cycle of public and private rituals, combined with the usual narratives of the oppressed Shiʿa in Islamic history. Martyrdom is particularly marked in the Ithna ʿAshari (Twelver Shiʿi) tradition, but is not entirely absent in groups associated with the other Shiʿi succession lines. The modern period, it should be noted, has seen a heightening of martyrdom discourse in Sunni circles, particularly amongst the so-called Jihadi trend of Salafism, but even with this distinctly modern notion of martyrdom, there is little to compare with the thoroughgoing ritualization of suffering and martyrdom in Twelver Shiʿi Islam.1 These differences, though no doubt real in the community life of the various expressions of Islam, are not generally discussed in terms of legal doctrine. In legal terms, the primary differences between the status of the shahid in the Sunni and Shiʿi traditions concern the rituals that follow the martyrdom, and the conditions under which those rituals might be activated. Following an ordinary (non-martyr) Muslim death, the funerary rituals involve a ritual washing (ghusl, often performed by a close relative), removal of clothes, and the donning of a shroud (kafan) and embalming (hinata) before burial. For a shahid, these rules are modified; there is a ritual dispensation such that one or more of the elements need not be completed before burial. Which elements can be omitted is the subject of juristic dispute. 53

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If one were to characterize the fundamental distinction between Sunni and Shiʿi treatments of the issue of martyrdom, one would say that the Sunni jurists argue over which rituals follow the martyr’s death, whilst the Twelver Shiʿi jurists agree that although there is no need to wash, strip, shroud and embalm the martyr’s body, there remains the obligation to say prayers over him. There is also, and perhaps more fundamentally, juristic dispute over who qualifies for these modified rules, and by implication, who qualifies as a shahid. There is in some of the following discussions presented a potential subcategory of shahid: someone who may not qualify as shahid but should, nevertheless, be treated as such (summed up in the refrain hukmuhu hukm al-shahid, “the rule applied to him is the rule applied to a martyr”; it could also be translated as simply “he is to be categorized as a shahid”). In legal terms, the distinction is irrelevant. From an eschatological perspective, though, there is sometimes a difference between a shahid and someone else who has died “in the path of God.” In order to illustrate how the classical Twelver Shiʿi tradition treats the ritual status of the shahid, I  present here four texts from different works of Twelver Shiʿi fiqh, taken from different periods (from the eleventh to the seventeenth century) in which the difference between the Sunni and Shiʿi rules are illustrated: how revelatory material is used in Shiʿi juristic argument, and, significantly, how even within the Shiʿi legal tradition, there remains some juristic dispute.

Sunni-Shiʿi differences in the treatment of the martyr’s body: al-Shaykh al-Tusi’s Kitab al-Khilaf [The book of dispute] The first text (Text A, translated below) is taken from the Kitab al-Khilaf of Muhammad b. al-Hasan al-Tusi (d. 1067). Al-Tusi was a major systematizer of Shiʿi thought, composing works of jurisprudence, legal theory, and Qurʾanic exegesis (fiqh, usul, and tafsir respectively), as well as important collections of hadith (reports from the Prophet and the imams). In his Kitab al-Khilaf, al-Tusi outlines the differences between Twelver Shiʿi legal views and those of other (usually Sunni) schools. In the course of doing so, he shows how divided the Sunni schools are, and how the Shiʿi positions, unlike those adopted by the Sunnis, are always justified by “proofs” 54

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(termed “our evidence,” daliluna). Naturally, if there is no dispute between the schools, there is no “issue” (masʾala) to discuss. The Kitab al-Khilaf is not, then, a comprehensive examination of all issues of jurisprudence, but a selection of issues on which there is a difference between the Twelver Shiʿi doctrine and the other schools (madhahib, pl. of madhhab). Al-Tusi cites opinions not only from the famous four schools of Sunni Islam (Hanafi, Maliki, Shafiʿi, Hanbali) but also the many opinions of other Sunni jurists (including al-Thawri, al-Awzaʿi, al-Hasan al-Basri) and even at times respected companions of the Prophet (such as Abu al-ʿAbbas). The doctrine of a Sunni school is normally presented as the doctrine of the school’s eponymous founder, for example, by “Abu Hanifa says X” al-Tusi means, “the Hanafi school doctrine is X,” and so on. The purpose of the work as a whole, it might be argued, is not simply to demonstrate the distinctive Shiʿi contribution to Muslim fiqh, or even to demonstrate the superiority of this contribution. It is also, one suspects, to present Shiʿi legal doctrine as nestled within the range of opinions found in early Islamic legal thought, and to demonstrate that Shiʿi law is not outlandish but really quite ordinary, and (crucially) reasoned and coherent. The aim may be to convince Sunni jurists of the acceptability of Shiʿi fiqh, or to provide Shiʿi jurists with ammunition when in debate with their Sunni counterparts, or to reassure the Shiʿa that theirs is a credible law. What is clear, though, is that al-Tusi is employing a standard literary form (a khilaf work in which different legal positions are listed), which can be traced back to the earliest period of Shiʿi thought. With regard to the rituals following the discovery of a martyr’s body (the topic of Text A), the distinctive Shiʿi juristic doctrine can be located in the insistence on a prayer over the body of the martyr, and the refusal to shroud the body, but instead bury the martyr in his battle garments. This is the first of seven “issues” (masaʾil) over which there is Sunni-Shiʿi legal dispute. The Shiʿi doctrine is stated at the outset [1]‌. Next, al-Tusi outlines how the Sunni schools differ amongst themselves over the performance of the burial prayer and the martyr’s burial garments [1a]–[1d]. Finally al-Tusi provides the evidence for the Shiʿi doctrine ([1e] daliluna). This is the standard structure of the khilaf discussions in the work as a whole, and, more broadly, in khilaf works (which focus on juristic differences between scholars or more generally schools). 55

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The burial attire of the martyr is disputed, and is discussed tangentially in the first issue of the text (section [1]‌in Text A on the following page). The majority position (in which al-Tusi also includes himself) is that the martyr is buried “as he is” (kama huwa), that is, in the clothes in which he was killed, with the exception of animal hides. The Shafiʿi school also requires any steel to be removed. The topic is merely alluded to in the text, though it forms a major in intra-Shiʿi disputes in the subsequent texts (see Texts 3 and 4). Al-Tusi’s presentation is not particularly helpful, in that the issue of washing/praying over the body is intermingled with the issue of the martyr’s burial attire. Of course, if the body is to be washed, clothing has to be removed, and this might also necessitate their replacement with new clothes. If it is not to be washed (as is al-Tusi’s doctrine), no clothing need be removed. In this simple practical matter, the link is to be found between the obligation to wash (or rather the lack thereof) and the obligation (or permission) to remove the martyr’s clothes. Perhaps the distinctive Shiʿi position, which al-Tusi wishes to ensure is to be found not in the specific legal views associated with the school, but in the combination of those views into a coherent legal position. Only the Shiʿa have the combined legal view: Namely that there is to be no washing of the martyr’s body, no removal of clothing other than animal hide, no shrouding or embalming; but that there is an obligatory prayer over the deceased before burial. The other issues covered in Text A establish the dogged insistence of the Shiʿi jurists on the prayer/no wash combination mentioned above. This applies to minors and women as well as adult males [2]‌, to those who have a major ritual impurity [3], to those who are found on the battlefield [4] and to those who are wounded on the battlefield, but die elsewhere during a lull in the fighting [5]. It does not apply to those who live beyond the battle [6], nor to anyone who dies away from the battlefield [7]. It is not clear whether those who fall short of one or more of these criteria cease to be shahids in either the popular or the specifically legal sense. What is clear, though, is that to qualify for the particular honor of the ritual dispensations associated with martyrdom, one must die on the battlefield while fighting. Others may qualify as shahid, but they do not gain the premium status accorded to those who die in battle. Al-Tusi’s legal notion of this premium-status shahid, then, is restricted to one who dies or is mortally wounded during battle; the phrase “during 56

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battle” refers to the period of time from the commencement of one set of hostilities to the start of a second set after a lull. It includes all those who die on the battlefield (young, old, women, men), even if their death cannot be directly proven to have been at the hands of the enemy (i.e. perhaps they died of natural causes during the battle). In the case of people who die during a lull, or without evidence of an enemy attack, there is some doubt as to whether they are actually shahids. Al-Tusi seems uninterested in their precise eschatological status; instead, he is only interested in the legal response to the situation, and in this case they are treated as if they were shahids even though they may, in the final reckoning, not be categorized as such. The crucial element of legal reasoning here is that the body is treated in accordance with the “apparent nature of the situation” (zahir al-hal); that is, even if the body does not have signs of enemy aggression, the fact of it having been found on a battlefield, during a battle, is sufficient to establish the appropriateness of the rituals associated with martyrdom (as opposed to any other, non-martyred death). The implicit message is that it is better to risk giving a non-martyr a martyr’s burial than to fail to mark a martyr’s death appropriately.

TEXT A: Al-Shaykh al-Tusi, Kitab al-Khilaf (Issues relating to Martyrs’ Issues)2 [1]‌ Issue: The martyr who is killed on the battlefield is buried in his clothes, and nothing may be removed except for animal hide. He is not washed, but he is prayed over. [1a]  This is also the opinion of Abu Hanifa,3 and al-Thawri4 as well. [1b]  Al-Shafiʿi5 states that he is not washed or prayed over, though the animal hide and steel are removed. [1c] Concerning clothing, the first group [who believe in not washing, but praying over the body, al-Tusi included] vacillate between, on the one hand, removing them and burying him in something else, and, on the other hand, burying him in them. Malik,6 al-Awzaʾi7 and Ahmad [Ibn Hanbal]8 argue for the latter. [1d] Ibn al-Musayyib9 and al-Hasan al-Basri10 say that he should be washed and he should be prayed over. 57

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[1e] Our proof is that there is a consensus of the [Shiʿi] sect, and also that it is reported that the Prophet prayed over Hamza11 and the martyrs of Uhud. [2]‌ Issue:  The same rules [concerning washing and prayer] apply to the minor and the adult, the male and the female, when they are martyred on the battlefield. [2a] This is also the opinion of al-Shafiʿi. [2b] Abu Hanifa says:  “It is obligatory to wash them and pray over them [viz. minors and females].” [2c] Our proof is that every report concerning the martyr relates that he is buried with his blood [showing] and is not washed, which they understand to be general in application. [3]‌ Issue:  The person with a major ritual impurity, when he is martyred on the battlefield is buried as he is. He is not washed, but he is prayed over. [3a] Al-Shafiʿi says that he is not washed and not prayed over, based on his presumed original state [of purity]. [3b] Abu al-ʿAbbas,12 relating from his companions, says that he is washed, but he is not prayed over. [3c] Our proof here is that the reports show, in a general manner, that the martyr must be buried in his blood without being washed, and this is their general indication. [4]‌ Issue: When you find a dead person on the battlefield, and there are no traces of him having been killed, then the rules concerning him are the rules applied to the martyr. [4a] Al-Shafiʿi says the same thing. [4b] Abu Hanifa says that if there is no sign on him [of having been killed] then he should be washed and prayed over. If there is a trace [of having been killed] upon him, then there are two alternatives: If blood has come from his eyes or ears, then he is not washed and he is prayed over. If blood has come from his nose or from the front or the back, then he is washed and prayed over. [4c] Our proof is that the obvious interpretation of the situation is that he is a martyr, because killing can leave trace, or it can leave no trace, and the rule is based on the obvious interpretation of the situation. 58

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[5]‌ Issue:  If he leaves the battlefield and then dies after an hour or two, before war is resumed, then the rule that applies to him is the rule of the martyr. [5a] Al-Shafiʿi argues in this way. [5b] Abu Hanifa states: If he ate or drank or spoke during the battle, then he is washed and prayed over. [5c] Our proof is that the report are understood to be of general indication referring to anyone who is killed between the battle lines, and these are relevant to him. [6]‌ Issue: When he dies after the resumption of fighting, then he is washed, shrouded and prayed over. [6a] This is al-Shafiʿi’s view also. [6b] Abu Hanifa says that if he does not eat, or drink, or speak, then he is like a martyr and is not washed and prayed over. [6c] Our proof is the consensus of the saved sect on the point that one who dies after the recommencement of fighting must be washed. [7]‌ Issue: Everyone who is killed outside of the battlefield must be washed and prayed over, whether they are killed by weapons or otherwise, whether their death was witnessed or not, whether it was intentional or not. [7a] Al-Shafiʿi agrees. [7b] Abu Hanifa states: If it was witnessed and the killing was intentional,13 then he is not washed but he is prayed over, like a martyr. If it was not witnessed and14 it was either an unintentional or intentional killing, then he is washed and prayed over. [7c] Our proof here is that the basic assumption concerning those who have died is that it is obligatory to wash them, and pray over them. In this case, there is no evidence by which washing might be abandoned, for the reports which relate to someone who dies on the battlefield do not apply to this case.

Martyrdom and political legitimacy: Ibn Idris al-Hilli’s al-Saraʾir [The secrets] Al-Tusi established the basic positions in Shiʿi fiqh for the coming two centuries. The major critique of his approach came from Ibn Idris al-Hilli (d. 1202), who is renowned for his rejection of al-Tusi’s promotion of 59

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“isolated reports” as sources of law. Ibn Idris’s approach is typified in his work of fiqh, al-Saraʾir, which can be described as an informed critique of the Tusi method. In the section on the treatment of the martyr, he only enters into a brief discussion of different opinions within or without the Twelver school. Actually, his only mention of dispute revolves around whether or not an item splattered with blood should be buried with the martyr or not [3b]. Of course, the aim here is not to discuss the Shiʿi position in the context of other views, but rather to assert Ibn Idris’s view of the Shiʿi position vis-à-vis other potential Shiʿi positions. The potential readership is clearly entirely internal to the tradition. The translation of the relevant section (Text B below) establishes some additional elements of the legal discussions around martyrdom that were not present within al-Tusi’s discussion in Kitab al-Khilaf. First, there is the requirement that the shahid be engaged in a legitimate conflict (that is, a conflict sanctioned by the Just Imam or by one designated by him). Dispute over the possible referent of the phrase imam ʿadil has been a central feature of scholarship on Twelver Shiʿism in the recent past, and whether the sole possible referent is one of the infallible imams, the last of whom went into occultation in 874.15 At the time of Ibn Idris, I see no other candidate, given that a legitimate conflict for Ibn Idris can only happen at the Infallible Imam’s behest. That he may have designated someone (who is not a Just Imam himself, but has been appointed by the latter to lead hostilities) can be interpreted widely, though in Ibn Idris’s time this designation (nasab) is direct and specific, rather than the general and in absentia designation claimed by the scholarly class in later writings. The rather vague way in which Ibn Idris and other authors talk of “a Just Imam” is, I would argue, nothing more than a scholarly fiqh convention: it is the imam’s role as a legitimate leader that is being discussed here, rather than his theological position as the source of all religious knowledge. For the latter, there is no more than a single, infallible imam who is currently in occultation. The second point to note concerning Ibn Idris’s discussion is the introduction of differing regulations regarding whether or not an item of clothing, or an accessory, or a weapon is “splattered with blood” (isabat al-dimaʾ). This, for Ibn Idris, is only relevant to accessories – normally they 60

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might be removed, but if they are splattered with blood, then they should be buried with the martyr. No reasoning is provided, merely a preference for one view over another is expressed. The issue of blood-splattered items becomes a major point of dispute within the Shiʿi school (Texts 3 and 4). With regard to those who are injured on the battlefield, but die somewhere else (and perhaps after the ending of hostilities), Ibn Idris takes a view opposed to that of al-Tusi:  one must die on the battlefield to be accorded the particular ritual dispensations  – including the washing of the martyr’s body. Ibn Idris cites the eleventh-century jurist, al-Sayyid al-Murtada (d. 1044, and whose work predates that of al-Tusi) in support of this view, implicitly accusing al-Tusi of introducing a new opinion into Shiʿi fiqh, using the technical term of irtithath. This is not particularly surprising given Ibn Idris’s generally critical view of al-Tusi’s methodology and legal positions.

TEXT B: Ibn Idris al-Hilli, al-Saraʾir16 [1]‌  Those who have died should all be washed … but one category of them should not be washed, not before they die and not after it, and these are the martyrs killed whilst in the employ of a Just Imam, or in the employ of one appointed by him to assist him. [2]‌  He is not shrouded, and he is buried with everything with him which comes under the name of “clothes,” whether they are splattered with blood or not. He is only shrouded if he is naked and has been stripped; then it is obligatory to shroud him. [3]‌  As for items other than clothing, then they are divided into two categories – weapons and non-weapons. [3a] Weapons must be removed from him, whether they are splattered with blood or not – and on this there is no difference of opinion. [3b] Non-weapons, such as the pelt, headgear and slipper-socks, then if these have any blood splattered on them, then our colleagues have differed. Some have required them to be removed even if they have blood splattered on them. Others have said they should only be removed if they do not have blood splattered on them; if they have blood splattered on them, do not remove them. This latter opinion is stronger in my opinion. 61

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[4]‌  If he is transported from the battlefield, and he is injured, and then he dies somewhere else, then it is obligatory to wash him. [5]‌  Al-Sayyid al-Murtada in his Issues on Which There is Dispute, on the question of washing the martyr writes: “If it is said: There is no dispute that the mortally wounded (irtithath), he is washed with the obligatory testimony of faith. We say that he who survives did not die on the battlefield.” Here ends the words of al-Murtada.17

Intra-Shiʿi differences concerning martyrdom: al-ʿAllama al-Hilli’s Mukhtalaf al-Shiʿa [Differences amongst the Shiʿa] In al-ʿAllama al-Hilli’s Mukhtalaf al-Shiʿa one has a yet more introspective Shiʿi text in which the various opinions of the great Shiʿi jurists who preceded al-ʿAllama (d. 1325) are listed, followed by al-ʿAllama’s own reasoning. The structure of the text is similar to that of al-Tusi’s al-Khilaf, but the opinions are taken from within the Shiʿi tradition. As with al-Tusi’s al-Khilaf, the author inserts his own reasoning and evidence, following his account of the different viewpoints. A  tradition which has within it such variations, and can hold them together in a single “school” is, perhaps, one which is more confident of the permanence of its structural elements, and unafraid to deal with difference of opinion (ikhtilaf) within its accepted boundaries. It should be noted that al-Tusi’s opinion is invariably presented first. The passage translated below (Text C) comprises three “issues” (masa’il) over which the Shiʿi jurists have differed. First, there is the issue of blood-splattered items and whether they are buried with the martyr, or removed. Second, there is the dispute over the martyr who was in a state of major ritual impurity when he died, thus raising the question whether he requires a ritual washing (ghusl) notwithstanding the fact that he has been martyred. Finally, there is the dispute over the one who dies on the battlefield, but without any signs of enemy aggression upon him: is he considered a martyr or not? All of these issues have been referenced in the fiqh literature that preceded al-ʿAllama’s discussion, though the extent of the variation of opinion has never been so fully presented as it is in ʿAllama’s discussion. Citing scholars, as al-ʿAllama does, both reflects and creates a juristic tradition of thought in which the author situates himself. 62

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On the first issue, the problematic nature of blood-splattered objects is discussed through categories (clothes, accessories, weapons), with dispute around the various rulings for each category. The accessories, for example, are now spelled out as slipper-socks, pelt, headgear etc. Clothes are understood to include, amongst others, trousers. Weapons are sometimes referred to as a subsection of a larger category of “steel” items (al-hadid). Generally, items splattered with blood should be buried with the martyr. The religious reasons for this stipulation are explored briefly in the conclusion. Items not so bloodied are more often disputed. For some the trousers can be removed; for others not. Weapons, it appears, should always be removed. Al-ʿAllama’s own position is presented as emerging from particular reports from the imams: for him, the martyr is buried in his clothes, bloodied or not, though certain items are removed [1i] on the basis of a report from Zayd b. ʿAli. The second issue, concerning the washing of a martyr with a major impurity infraction, was already mentioned in Text A. There, al-Tusi presents one specific Shiʿi view as undisputed (there is no washing of the martyr, even in the case of a major ritual infraction). Here the intra-Shiʿi dispute is presented as between al-Tusi and Ibn al-Junayd (d. 991). Ibn al-Junayd is famously condemned by later jurists for his promotion of the much-despised (Sunni) method of qiyas (often translated as analogical reasoning, though much more is encompassed by the term in legal theory). Here Ibn al-Junayd appears to take the view of Abu al-ʿAbbas Ibn Surayj, cited in Text A (above, [3b]), namely that the martyr is to be washed (presumably to purify him before burial). The dispute is, then, around the reason for the preburial wash generally: is it to remove any major ritual purity infraction, or is death itself such an infraction and requires redress through the wash? Does the martyr, by dying as he does, become exempt from the wash because, unlike other deaths, his involves no major ritual infraction, indeed it has a purifying effect on the body so that it is ready for burial. I return to these questions in the concluding comments below. The third issue concerns the person who dies on the battlefield, but bears no signs of enemy attack – that is, the cause of death is unknown. Once again, the dispute is between Ibn al-Junayd (who denies this person the status of martyr – or rather denies to him the martyr’s ritual dispensation) and al-Tusi. Ibn al-Junayd here takes the Hanafi position, as 63

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described in al-Khilaf, namely that the body must show signs of enemy attack in order for the person to be treated as a shahid. His point is technical: the definition of a martyr is not merely one who has died in the path of God, or on the battlefield, but one who shows the signs of having been killed by the enemy. Hence someone whose cause of death is uncertain cannot, for him, qualify as a martyr. Al-Tusi (and one suspects al-ʿAllama also) bases his decision on the “obvious interpretation of the situation” (zahir al-hal). If the martyr died on the battlefield, it is safe to assume that he died at the hands of the enemy. The dispute concerns the nature of evidence, and the presumptions the lawyer can use in deducing the law from that evidence.

TEXT C: Al-ʿAllama al-Hilli, Mukhtalaf al-Shiʿa: (The Rules concerning the Martyr)18 [1]‌  ISSUE: Al-Shaykh al-Tusi says that the martyr is buried in his clothes, and receives no ritual washing. Buried with him is everything he was wearing which was splattered with blood, including the slipper-socks. It is reported that even when they are splattered with blood, then they are buried with him. [1a] [al-Tusi] says in al-Khilaf: He is buried in his clothes, and nothing is removed from him other than animal skin. [1b] Al-Mufid19 says: He is buried in the clothes in which he was killed; of all the things he was wearing only the trousers are removed, unless they had been splattered with blood. In this case, they are not removed and he is buried with them on. In the same manner, pelt and headgear are removed, but if they are splattered with blood, they are buried with him. His slipper-socks are removed in every circumstance. [1c] Ibn Babawayh, in his Risala,20 states that no element of his clothing is removed other than the slipper-socks, pelt, belt, headgear, turban and trousers. If any of his clothes are splattered with blood, they are not to be removed. [1d] Ibn al-Junayd said: Animal hide is removed, as is any steel and fabric which has been separated from him. His trousers are removed unless they are splattered with blood. 64

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[1e] Sallar21 stated:  Nothing is removed other than the trousers, the slipper-socks and the headgear, providing blood has not come into contact with any of them. If it has, then they are buried with him and not removed. This demonstrates that it is obligatory to bury the slipper-sock if it has been splattered with blood. [1f] Ibn Idris said: He is not shrouded, and he is buried with everything with him which comes under the name of “clothes,” whether they are splattered with blood or not. He is only shrouded if he is naked and has been stripped; then it is obligatory to shroud him. As for items other than clothing, then they are divided into two categories  – weapons and non-weapons. Weapons must be removed from him, whether they are splattered with blood or not – and on this there is no difference [of opinion]. Non-weapons, such as the pelt, headgear and slipper-socks, then if these have any blood splattered on them, then our colleagues have differed. Some have required them to be removed even if they have blood splattered on them. Others have said they should only be removed them if they do not have blood splattered on them; if they have blood splattered on them, do not remove them. This latter opinion is stronger in my opinion.” [1g] As for the obligation to bury the [martyr] in his clothes, then according to [the report] from Aban b. Taghlub,22 soundly transmitted from [Imam Jaʿfar] al-Ṣadiq, who said: “He is buried as he is, in his clothes.” [1h] The reliable [report] from Zurara from [Imam Muhammad] al-Baqir. He said to him “I saw the martyr buried, all bloodied, on the battle field.” [The Imam] said, “Indeed, in his clothes all bloodied. He is not embalmed, or washed; he is buried just as he is.” [1i] As for removing the pelt, the slipper-sock, the headgear, the turban, the belt and the trousers, then according to the [report] from ʿAmr b. Khalid, from Zayd b. ʿAli from his forefathers, who said: The Prince of the Believers [Imam ʿAli] said “Remove from the martyr the belt, the slipper-sock, the headgear, the turban, the belt and the trousers, unless they are splattered in blood. If they are splattered with blood, then leave them. Do not leave him in anything tied up, but untie it.” 65

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[2]‌  ISSUE: [Al-Tusi] says in his al-Mabsut and in his al-Khilaf: Someone who has a major ritual infraction and is martyred, then there is no need to give him a ritual wash, as his rule is the same rule as one who has no [purity infraction]. [2a] Ibn al-Junayd says he should be washed. [2b] The reasoning here is for the first, according to what [al-Tusi] reliably reports from Aban b. Taghlub from al-Sadiq: “I asked him about the one who was killed in the path of God – should he be washed, shrouded and embalmed? He said he should be buried as he is, dressed in his clothes. [2c] As it is in the report of Zurara, previously referenced. This is general applying to all those who are in a state of major ritual impurity or not. If the rule was to be different, then it would be obligatory for the Imam to announce this difference before answering in a general manner. [2d] What is reported reliably from Hariz is [as follows]: I said to Abu Jaʿfar [al-Imam Muhammad al-Baqir]: “A person dies whilst in a state of major ritual impurity. How should he be washed, and how much water will achieve this?” He replied, “ He is to be washed with a single wash, which is sufficient for both his major ritual purity infraction and his death. They are both sacred [elements], coming together in in a single sacred [act]. [2e] Ibn al-Junayd argued that, of those killed [in battle], the angels washed Hanzala b.  al-Rahib alone because he was in a state of major ritual impurity. [2f] According to what he reports from ʿAys in a sound manner, from Abu ʿAbdallah [Jaʿfar al-Sadiq]: I asked him about a man who dies when in a state of major ritual impurity. He said, “Do a single wash with water, then wash him [again] after that.” [2g] With reference to the first of these reports, we say that the ritually sufficient actions of the angels are not applicable to us. [2h] With respect to the second report it should be interpreted as establishing the recommended [not the obligatory] nature of the second wash. [3]‌ ISSUE: Al-Shaykh [al-Tusi] says that when you find a dead person on the battlefield, and there are no signs of being killed upon him, then he is subject to the same rules as martyrs. 66

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[3a] Ibn al-Junayd said that the martyr is one who one finds with traces of his enemies actions upon him by which his soul, in an unjust manner, departed. He upon whom there is no trace of such an action, is treated in the manner one might treat any other dead person. [3b] Shaykh [al-Tusi] argues that the obvious interpretation of the situation is that he is a martyr, because the killing could have taken place in a way in which there was a trace left; and a way in which there was no trace. The rule should be in accordance with the obvious interpretation. [3c] Ibn al-Junayd responds that naming of it as a killing is the cause of [it being classified as] a martyrdom. It is not proven that there was a killing here, as it is possible to trace his death to causes other than killing. Therefore the result of the cause [i.e. naming him a martyr] remains unproven. The legal reasoning underlying the positions in an internal Shiʿi dispute are rarely laid out. The final issue in al-ʿAllama’s text is exceptional (Text C [3]‌). Similarly, Ibn Idris’s discussion of what is, and what is not, included under the rubric “clothes” (thiyab) is essentially an explanation of the differing views, since it is the “clothes” which are buried with the martyr.

The legal implications of martyrdom reports from the imams: al-Hurr al-ʿAmili’s Wasaʾil al-Shiʿa [The Means of the Shiʿa] In Text D (translated below), the great Safavid Akhbari scholar, al-Hurr al-ʿAmili (d. 1693) lists, and occasionally comments upon, the reports from the imams related to the ahkam al-shahid (rules concerning the martyr). I have omitted the chains of transmission from the translation below (isnad), not because they are unimportant, but mostly because, in the eyes of al-Hurr al-ʿAmili, they are irrelevant for the evaluation of the veracity of a report. The Akhbari school, of which al-Hurr was a prominent member, was based on the notion that reports (akhbar) found in the Shiʿi collections have already been subject to rigorous investigation by the collection compilers, and the task of the scholar is merely to extract the rulings from the akhbar.23 In this sense, all reports within approved collections are of equal probative force for Akhbaris. This, to an extent, explains why al-Hurr is 67

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most concerned to prove that the reports on the status and ritual dispensations due to the shahid could be joined together into a single set of rulings, without contradictions. In the text translated, al-Hurr lists twelve reports (23 reports if one counts the same report by different isnads), and intersperses these with comments, either cited directly from al-Tusi, or penned by himself (at times in contradiction to al-Tusi). Not all the reports are deemed worthy of comment by al-Hurr, and he only adopts an explicit authorial voice (with the word aqulu, i.e. I say) after a comment by al-Tusi. From this we can deduce that al-Hurr believes that the akhbar speak for themselves as to the legal rule they create, and only need to be the subject of explicit comment when they have been subjected to (faulty) commentary by previous authors (primarily al-Tusi). Of course, the neutral presentation technique al-Hurr is promoting is in truth message laden. Not only does the technique of listing reports make them the focus of attention (a standard Akhbari doctrine), but the ordering of reports is also constructed to enable legal rules to appear in the reader’s mind, without any explicit authorial interference. So the first hadith establishes the Shiʿi rule already encountered: for the no wash/prayer ritual dispensation to be valid, the martyr must not only die on the battlefield, but die before his comrades reach him. He must be dead on finding [1]‌. The reason for the no wash/prayer dispensation is explained in the next report; that is that the angels wash the incorporeal “body” of the martyr [2]. The exceptional status of the one who dies at the front is reaffirmed, as is the requirement that he be dead on finding [3]. Next there is a problematic report, in which Imam ʿAli is recorded as not praying over the body of two of his companions at the Battle of Siffin [4]‌. It is reported by 3 different isnads, so it cannot easily be dismissed by those who value isnad analysis. Al-Saduq (also known as Ibn Babawayh and referred to previously) is recorded as saying that the report simply contradicts the basic presumption that all deceased Muslims, independently of whether they are martyrs or not, require a funerary prayer. Al-Tusi reports that the phrase describing ʿAli as not praying over his martyred companions may have been inserted by a transmitter, or it may have been transmitted by the Sunnis, since that is one of their doctrines; or it may have been issued by ʿAli under taqiyya. These possible explanations for a report 68

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that contradicts established legal doctrine [4c-4e] are clearly not exhaustive or persuasive in the eyes of al-Hurr. He therefore embarks on a series of alternative explanations which, one might say, are not necessarily more convincing that those of al-Tusi and al-Saduq [4f]. Al-Hurr’s explanations are all based on the report’s wording being sacrosanct. For example, al-Hurr states that whilst the report says that ʿAli did not pray over the bodies, this does not mean they were not prayed over by someone else; perhaps he ordered another person to pray over them. That there are other reports in which it is stated that ʿAli did pray over them is an added complication for al-Hurr, as he does not wish to reject one report in favor of another but to bring them all together in a single narrative. Hence these reports are also subject to reinterpretations:  perhaps his prayer was not the obligatory prayer. The reports that record “he did not pray” may thus mean that “he did not recite the obligatory funerary prayer,” and those that record “he did pray,” mean that “he prayed a supererogatory prayer,” or “he prayed an extemporary duʿa prayer, which is sometimes referred to with the common word for prayer (i.e. salah). The explanations are not convincing, but their intention is clear: to avoid undermining the historical accuracy of any of the reports. After the obligatory nature of prayers for the martyr is established, the reports move on to the washing dispensation. One report seems to indicate that a martyr’s body left for a few days should be washed [5]‌; al-Tusi rejects this as a taqiyya report (“in line with the doctrine of the Sunnis”), and therefore legally irrelevant. Al-Hurr, true to form, wishes to understand it as referring to a fighter wounded on the battlefield, but who dies elsewhere. It could be interpreted this way, but it does seem a little forced. Similarly, a woman who is beaten to death by the enemy whilst in prison (and not on the battlefield) has the same religious status as a shahid, though she is not, strictly speaking counted as one, and providing she could not have prevented being beaten [6]. The next debate concerns the clothes in which a martyr should be buried. The reports all indicate that he is buried as he died without any shrouding or embalming ([7]‌, [8], [9]). One report [10] indicates that some items should be removed unless they are splattered with blood, indicating that these are not counted as clothes (“the pelt, the slipper-socks, the headgear, 69

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the turban, the belt and the trousers”). These are not “attached” to the martyr in a way that means they qualify as “clothes” (thiyab). He is buried “as he is” and “in his clothes’ ([11] and [12]), but these locutions need to be defined by reference to other reports. One can see then how the major areas of internal Shiʿi dispute are answered, for al-Hurr, by a simple statement of reports. These issues are: (i) Is the funerary washing to be performed [1]‌-[3]? No. (ii) Is the funerary prayer to be performed [4]? Yes. (iii)  Must the deceased have died on the battlefield and without a witness to his last moments to qualify for these dispensations [5]‌, [6]? Yes. (iv) Should he be buried in his own clothes [7]‌-[9]? Yes. (v) What counts as “his own clothes” [10]-[12]? Everything that is splattered with blood; but not the pelt, the slipper-socks, the headgear, the turban, the belt, and the trousers, if they are clear of blood. Whilst the formal presentation is that of a list of hadith, the intention is to present the law through the citation and arrangement of reports.

TEXT D: Al-Hurr al-ʿAmili, Wasaʾil al-Shiʿa24 Chapter 14: On the rules concerning the martyr, and the obligation to wash every deceased Muslim whoever they might be. [1]‌  [… isnad …] from [al-Imam Jaʿfar] al-Sadiq … who said, “When the martyr is barely alive, then he should be washed, shrouded, embalmed and prayed over. If he has passed his final breath, then he is dressed in his own clothes. [1a] al-Kulayni25 relates this also [by a different isnad] [2]‌  al-Saduq26 said: “Hanzala b. Abi ʿAmir al-Rahib was martyred at Uhud. The Prophet did not order that he be washed, and he said, ‘I saw the angels between the heavens and earth washing Hanzala with cloud water in a silver bowl, and this was called “the Angels’ wash.” [3]‌  Muhammad b. al-Hasan [al-Shaykh al-Tusi] report [… isnad …] from Abu Khalid [a close associate of Imam Muhammad al-Baqir] who said:  “Wash every deceased person  – he who has been drowned, he 70

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who has been eaten by wild animals or whatever, except any [one] killed between the two [battle] lines. If he has a breath of life remaining, then wash him, and if not, then don’t. [3a] al-Kulayni related this [… via his own isnad …] from Abu Khalid. [4]‌ From [al-Shaykh al- Tusi] [… isnad …] from ʿAmmar, from Jaʿfar [al-Sadiq], from his father [Muhammad al-Baqir] who said that ʿAli did not wash ʿAmmar b. Yasir, or Hashim b. ʿUtba [known as] al-Mirqal. He buried them in their clothes, and did not pray over them. [4a] And by another isnad from [al-Shaykh al-Tusi] … from Masʿada b. Sadaqa from Jaʿfar b. Muhammad [al-Sadiq]. [4b] And by another isnad from [al-Shaykh al-Tusi] … from ʿAddi b. Hatim, who was with ʿAli. [4c] Al-Saduq reports it, with a missing link in the [isnad], and then says “This is how it is related, but the base assumption is that one does not abandon a single [deceased] member of the community without a prayer. [4d] Al-Shaykh al-Tusi commented: “The statement in the report did not pray over them is the supposition of the transmitter, because [the duty to perform a] prayer is not lapsed in regard to him.” And he continues, “It is possible that this aspect [is understood] since it is what the Sunnis relate from ʿAli, and this comes out as agreeing with their [position]. [4e] In another place he says that this report should be interested as issued under dissimulation. [4f] I [i.e. al-Hurr] says: It is possible that the intended meaning here is that he himself did not pray over them, because someone else had already done it. Hence this duty had been completed, and it was no longer obligatory. If it is reported in some of the reports that he prayed over them, perhaps he did not pray an obligatory prayer over them, but rather a supererogatory prayer, after one of the people had prayed over them. Or the intended meaning of the work ‘prayer’ (salah) here is a “supplication” (duʿa) for them both. Or the intended meaning is he ordered someone to pray over them, but did not do it himself because he was busy 71

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with other things. Or whatever. So it is safe to conclude that proving [that prayer over the martyr’s body] is a flight of fancy, and disallowing it [to act as a proof that one need not pray over the martyr’ body] is the truth. [5]‌  From [al-Shaykh al-Tusi] [… isnad …] from Zayd b. ʿAli, from his father [Muhammad al-Baqir], from his forefathers, from ʿAli who said that the Prophet of God said: “Whenever the martyr dies on that day [of his wounds] or on the next day, then they should bury him in his clothes. If he is left a few days such that his wounds change, then he is to be washed.” [5a] Al-Shaykh [al-Tusi] says: “This agrees with the Sunnis and we do not act upon it.” [5b] I [al-Hurr] says: You could interpret this as being someone who is removed from the battlefield, and lives for a few days, having his last breath of life, and then dies, just as has already been stated, and which shall be below. [6]‌  From [al-Shaykh al-Tusi] [… isnad …] from Jaʿfar [al-Sadiq] from his father from ʿAli b. al-Husayn [al-Imam Zayn al-ʿAbidin] who reports that the Prophet was asked about a woman whom the enemy had imprisoned. They beat her until she died. [He was asked] whether she has the same position as a martyr. He said, “Yes, unless she could have helped herself [to prevent it].” [7]‌  [al-Kulayni] reports [… isnad …] from Aban b. Taghlub: I asked Abu ʿAbdallah [Jaʿfar al-Sadiq] about someone who is killed in the path of God and whether he should be washed, shrouded and embalmed. He said, “He is buried as he is, in his clothes, unless there remains in him a last breath and then dies. [If this is so] then he is washed, and shrouded, and embalmed, and prayed over. The Prophet himself prayed over Hamza, and shrouded him because he had already been stripped. [7a] Al-Saduq relates this also from Aban b. Taghlub. [7b] Al-Shaykh [al-Tusi] also relates this. [8]‌  From ʿAli b. Ibrahim al-Qumi27 [… isnad …] from Zurara who says, concerning Abu Jaʿfar [al-Imam Muhammad al-Baqir], that he asked him, “Do you think the martyr buried with his bloodied [clothes]?” He 72

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replied, “Indeed – in his clothes covered in blood; he is not embalmed, nor is he to be washed. He is buried as he is.” Then he added, “The Prophet of God buried his uncle Hamza in his clothes upon which blood had splattered. The Prophet covered him with a garment, but it did not cover his feet. He called for some incense and threw it over him. He prayed 70 prayers over him, and uttered 70 takbira [the phrase allahu akbar]. [8a] Al-Shaykh [al-Tusi] relates the same thing from Muhammad b. Yaʿqub [al-Kulayni] up until the words He is buried as he is. [9]‌  From [al-Kulayni], [… isnad …] from Aban b.  Taghlub who heard Abu ʿAbdallah [al-Imam al-Sadiq] say:  He who is killed in the way of God should be buried in his clothes. He is not to be washed unless the Muslims get to him and he still is breathing his last breath, and then dies afterwards. Then, he is to be washed, and shrouded and embalmed, for the Prophet shrouded Hamza in his own clothes but did not wash him, but he did pray over him. [10]  From a number of our scholar colleagues, [… isnad …] from Zayd b. ʿAli, from his forefathers, from the Prince of Believers [al-Imam ʿAli] who said, “the pelt, the slippersocks, the headgear, the turban, the belt and the trousers are all removed from the martyr, unless they have blood splattered upon them. If they are splattered with blood, then they are left. Only those things actually attached to him should be left with him.” [10a]  Al-Saduq relates this with a broken isnad. [10b]  Al-Shaykh [al-Tusi] also relates this from al-Kulayni. [10c]  Al-Saduq in his al-Khisal relates it [… isnad …] from Ahmad b. Muhammad b. Khalid. [11] al-Fadl b.  al-Hasan al-Tabarsi28 in his Majmaʿ al-Bayan says:  The Prophet said, concerning the martyrs of the [Battle of] Uhud, “Wrap them in their blood and clothes.” [12]  ʿAbdallah b. Jaʿfar al-Humayri29 in his Qurb al-isnad reports [… isnad …] from Jaʿfar [al-Sadiq], from his father that ʿAli did not wash ʿAmmar b. Yasir, nor did he wash Ibn ʿUtba on the say of the Battle of Siffin. He buried them in their clothes and he prayed over them. 73

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Concluding comments Our understanding of the religious significance of martyrdom in a Shiʿi Muslim context is informed by numerous pieces of evidence, and not only by the legal definition and exploration presented here. Folk practice, the history of Shiʿi oppression, the particularly gendered nature of mourning and suffering in Shiʿi Islam all have their part to play in a full understanding of the distinctively Shiʿi conception of the martyr. However, the idealized portrayal of the martyr presented in these texts, and the debate around the appropriate rituals to mark his or her martyrdom, do reveal some preoccupations of the fiqh writers, and some specifically Shiʿi notions of martyrdom emerge. Although greater detail could be added to this portray, by examining additional sources, they do reveal how certain doctrinal (or even folk theological) notions are reflected in law, as they trickle into the formulation of particular ritual stipulations. Of course, these distinctive Shiʿi views are invariably traced back to reports from the imams, which is unsurprising. What is important to the Shiʿa is almost always attributed to the imams first and foremost. The “no wash” stipulation for the battlefield martyr is, of course, a reflection of the purifying nature of the shahid’s death. A non-martyred death renders the body impure, and in need of ritual cleansing (ghusl); a battlefield shahid is exempt from such pollution since the death itself is untouched by the usual defiling process of bleeding and death. The debate takes the question of ritual cleansing of an “impure” body (junub) even further. The Shiʿi stipulation that the body does not require a cleansing, even if in a state of major ritual impurity at the point of death, implies that a battlefield death per se has a purifying effect (rather like the usual ghusl). Martyrdom purifies the body, so that the usual processes of decay do not apply to it. The lack of a need to embalm the body is undoubtedly linked to the popular notion of the martyr’s body that does not go through the usual processes of decomposition. The no wash/prayer dispensation is shared with the Hanafis, but the extension of this to women and children is distinctively Shiʿi. This could, of course, be traced to historical precedents, the most memorable being ʿAli al-Asghar, son of Imam al-Husayn at Karbalaʾ. Furthermore, as in the legal 74

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doctrine of most schools, women are permitted to take up arms as part of the defensive jihad, and hence can also be a shahid. The doctrine extends the martyr’s ritual dispensation to the widest range of individuals, representing perhaps greater access to martyrdom status in Shiʿi law than in the Sunni schools. Similarly, the rejection of Ibn al-Junayd’s view that premium shahid status (i.e. the full no wash/prayer dispensation) is reserved for those found dead and wounded on the battlefield, also increases the potential number of martyrs. The requirement that the martyr must die on the battlefield (and that, for some, death is un-witnessed), could restrict the number of martyrs created through this process. In addition, the common Shiʿi stipulation that death must occur during fighting to qualify for ritual dispensation raises the categorical importance of the battlefield itself as the scene of “true” martyrdom, where angels perform a specific washing ceremony (ghusl al-malaʾika). And, finally, the need to bury the martyr’s blood with the body (including clothes and accessories splattered with blood) and the refusal to shroud the martyr – since he must be buried “as he died” – might indicate a particular ritual status given to the martyr’s blood. Unlike other blood-splattered clothes, the battlefield martyr’s clothing is worthy of burial on and with the body. Being splattered with his blood, the clothes almost become part of the martyr’s body, and therefore must be interred with it. The removal of animal hides reflects the need for the martyr’s body to be the only animal substance interred in the grave. It is, then, not individual rules that create particular Shiʿi legal concepts of martyrdom and the martyr’s ritual status. In terms of individual doctrines, the Shiʿi jurists most often share these opinions with those of other schools of thought. Rather it is the combination of the rules, and the conception of the battlefield martyr emerging from this combination which reveals something distinctively Shiʿi. Undoubtedly, this conception was both informed by, and perhaps also itself informed popular notions of the martyr and his status in this world and the next. The precise causal dynamics are difficult to identify. It is clear, though, that the peculiar Shiʿi promotion of martyrdom, undoubtedly a product of the Shiʿi historical narrative, can be found implicitly expressed within the usually dry rules of the fiqh texts. 75

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4 Developing Martyrology in Islam David Cook

Martyrdom in Islamic history Martyrdom, while important as a component of Islam, is not really central to it as a whole.1 During the earliest phase of Islam, that is, during the ministry of Muhammad in Mecca (approximately 610–22), many Muslims suffered or were killed for their belief (as opposed to the dominant pagan belief). The hardships and social isolation that went hand in hand with their faith were primary factors in Muhammad’s migration (hijra) to Medina in 622, which indicated the beginning of the Muslim polity. The sufferings of these early Muslims are well known through the contemporary Muslim world. However, in the Qurʾan early martyrs are not given a specific title (as in 8:26, or perhaps indirect allusions, as in 28:5); one cannot say that their historical experience is normative for Islam.2 It is comparatively rare for Muslims (historically speaking) to die as the result of non-Muslim persecution aiming at their apostasy. For the most part, Muslims have been enjoined to live under Muslim rule, or to make hijra in the event of their homeland coming under non-Muslim rule, so that only rarely have they had to choose between Islam and death (or persecution). The more common Muslim martyrological memory derives from the narratives of the first battles of the Muslims against the pagan Meccans (between 622–32). The only unambiguous allusion to martyrdom in the 76

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Qurʾan (using the word shahid/ shuhadaʾ) is in 3:140:3 “if you have suffered a blow, they too have suffered one like it. We deal out such days among people in turn, for God to find out who truly believes, for Him to choose martyrs (shuhadaʾ) from among you.”4 This verse is associated with the defeat suffered by the Muslims at the Battle of Uhud (625), in which a large number of Muslim warriors fell. The sense of the word shahid in this verse appears to be related to a test of strength when one is expected to sacrifice one’s life for the sake of one’s belief system. For Muslims worldwide the best-known verse associated with martyrdom also stems from the aftermath of the Battle of Uhud. Qurʾan 3:169–170 states: [Prophet], do not think of those who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for, happy with what God has given them of His favor; rejoicing that for those they have left behind who have yet to join them there is no fear, nor will they grieve.

This verse is frequently found on martyrs’ gravesites. However, one should note that the word shahid is not mentioned in it, nor are the rewards bestowed on the martyr substantially different from those given to other Muslims (at least at this earliest level of Qurʾanic martyrdom; there are differences in later Islam, as will be seen below). This is consistent with the fact that, while there are graphic descriptions of the rewards of the next world in the Qurʾan, they seem to be accorded to all Muslims. For Sunnis, who throughout history have mostly belonged to the majority and have only rarely had to face persecution, martyrdom was closely associated with battle, and while fighting “one of the two best things [to] happen to us” (9:52) – victory or martyrdom. Therefore, martyrdom was sought in battle and not imposed by an oppressive government or authority. Martyrdom was in itself a victorious process, since, even though the individual died, the collective victory of Islam, or at least the personal redemption of the martyr, was assured. Because only a tiny component of all Sunnis ever took part in jihad fighting, the martyrs, while lauded, hardly constituted a major component of the population. On the other hand, given the importance of martyrdom narratives from the time of Muhammad, it 77

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is perfectly possible that this emphasis could change should circumstances warrant it. Ideas concerning martyrdom in Sunni Islam mostly date from the period of the great Islamic conquests (634–740) or perhaps from the following century, and definitions of martyrdom in either Sunni or Shiʿi Islam are difficult to come by. One prominent tradition in the authoritative collection of al-Bukhari (d. 870) is the following: … the Messenger of God [Muhammad] said: God Most High has established [the martyr’s] reward according to his intention. What do you count as the circumstances of martyrdom? They said:  Dying in the path of God [jihad]. The Messenger of God said:  There are seven categories of martyr other than being killed in the path of Allah. The one who dies of a stomach complaint is a martyr, the one who drowns is a martyr, the one who dies of plague is a martyr, the one who dies of pleurisy is a martyr, the one who dies in a structural collapse is a martyr, the one who dies in a fire is a martyr, and the woman who dies in childbirth is a martyr.5

This tradition appears to widen the categories of martyrdom considerably beyond those of mere fighting. In the sixteenth-century collection of al-Suyuti’s writings (d. 1505), the author lists over fifty different circumstances that can lead to a person being called a martyr.6 There is not much evidence that these broad categories of martyrdom had much impact upon the broader Muslim perception of martyrdom, but they illustrate the difficulty in defining what exactly constitutes martyrdom. The major reason why the categories of martyrdom expanded so much in the classical period was most probably because of the rewards they brought. It was not long before the martyrs (shuhadaʾ), who, together with the prophets and other pious people (salihin), are mentioned as a separate category in the Qurʾan (4:69, 39:69), began to be the recipients of more substantial rewards than other Muslims. The most prominent tradition affirming that idea can be found in another of the six canonical collections, namely that of al-Tirmidhi (d. 910): In the sight of God the martyr has six [unique] qualities:  He [God] forgives him at the first opportunity, and shows him his place in paradise, he is saved from the torment of the grave,

78

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Developing Martyrology in Islam he is safe from the great fright [of the Resurrection], a crown of honor is placed upon his head – one ruby of which is better than the world and all that is in it – he is married to 72 of the houris [women of paradise], and he gains the right to intercede for 70 of his relatives.7

With such rewards it is easy to see the reason why Muslims aspire to achieve the rank of martyr. The two rewards that usually garner the most attention were the final two, marriage to the houris or women of paradise (the number 70 should be understood to mean “a considerable number”), and the intercession for one’s relatives. Although the practice of intercession is problematic in Islam, both in Sunnism and in Shiʿism, because it enables the person receiving the intercession to avoid any penalties for their sins, the concept has always been a popular one. The best evidence is that from the classical period onwards fighters have been encouraged to go to war using ideas based on the traditions above. For example, even in the earliest book on jihad, a treatise by ʿAbdallah b. al-Mubarak (d. 797), we find the following exhortation, which has remained popular to the present time: Yazid b. Shajara said:8 When the prayers are fulfilled, the gates of heaven, of Paradise and of Hell open; when the two lines meet [lines of fighters meeting in battle] the gates of heaven, of Paradise and of Hell also open, and the houris are decorated and descend [from heaven]. When a man advances, they say: “O God, make him steadfast, help him.” When he retreats, they hide from him, and say: “O God, forgive him, help him attack the opposing forces” … When he is killed, the first bubble of his blood causes his sins to fall off, like a leaf falls off the branch of a tree. Two houris descend to him, and wipe his face, saying: “We are ready for you” and he says to them: “I am ready for you.” They will dress him in one hundred garments – if he’d put them between his fingers they would expand. They are not of human weaving, but are the fruits of Paradise.9

Even though one might be tempted to think that classical books, such as those of ʿAbdallah b. al-Mubarak and the great jihad collection of Ibn al-Nahhas (d. 1411), have no bearing on contemporary martyrology, the fact remains that modern radical Muslims translate this literature and still see it as normative.10 79

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Ever since the classical period the paradigmatic martyr for Sunnis has been Hamza, the Prophet Muhammad’s uncle, who was killed in the Battle of Uhud (625). Hamza was a warrior, an early convert to Islam; he used his great bodily strength to support the new faith and was a mainstay in its early battles. Because he had killed one of the prominent members of the Quraysh (the Prophet Muhammad’s tribe and principal opponents), he became the target of a “bounty hunt” and was killed by the throw of a javelin. Afterwards the daughter of the Quraysh member killed by Hamza ate his liver, thus desecrating his body. Although many other Muslims died like Hamza in the battlefield, his closeness to the Prophet and his death have made him a symbol of martyrdom. The concept of martyrdom in pre-modern times was ill-defined, unless the martyr was killed fighting non-Muslims. “Martyrs” were mostly people who were killed while fighting other Muslims, like Shiʿis, for instance. With the advent of European domination the use of the term shahid with a religious connotation decreased considerably, and the term was frequently bestowed upon those who fought for independence against the Europeans, whether they were devout Muslims or not. Even people who were socialists or communists were honored with this title. Whole lists of shuhadaʾ are now available from the Algerian War of Independence (1954–62) or from various Arab-Israeli wars.11 But with the Afghan war against the USSR (1979–89), and subsequently against the regime of Muhammad Najibullah until 1992, the term shahid came back into prominence. In the very first issues of his journal al-Jihad, ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, the Palestinian founder of Al Qaeda, started publishing stories of martyrs.12 The martyrdom stories published in al-Jihad have become normative for radical Muslims, and today can be found in numerous collections, usually focusing on either thematic material devoted to a specific conflict or on country-based collections that highlight the number of martyrs originating from a given area. While the early stories in al-Jihad were quite gory and filled with graphic pictures of the martyrs, later literary collections were devoid of pictures (perhaps because of the unwillingness of some of the radical Muslims to either be photographed or to be commemorated in a manner they deem un-Islamic). ʿAzzam himself also contributed significantly to the doctrine of martyrdom by publishing a series of articles discussing its legal issues. He 80

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also preached a form of martyr-based, salvational Islam that held to the revolutionary ideal of martyrdom as equaling redemption.13 He was apparently the first radical Sunni Muslim to promote the ideal of suicide attacks. While commenting on a tradition that enjoined the fighter to go out to the battlefield, even on his own, he stated that this is proof that it is desirable for the Muslim to fight, even alone, and even if he is certain of death, if this is to the benefit of the Muslims … and it is a proof that it is desirable for the Muslim to carry out suicide attacks (ʿamaliyyat intihariyya), knowing that he will die during them, if this is for the benefit of the Muslims.14

One should note that ʿAzzam did not hesitate to use the term suicide attacks, rather than the term that would become popular in the late 1990s, “martyrdom operations” (ʿamaliyyat istishhadiyya). There is no evidence, however, that any suicide attacks were carried out by radical Muslims in Afghanistan during the war against the communist regime. ʿAzzam also contributed substantially to the popularization of a radical Muslim martyrdom mythology. Such martyrologies contain significant supernatural components: dreams and visions of the dead martyr, prognostications of his death, the sanctity and purity of his body from corruption after death, and miracles associated with either his body or things formerly his (such as, weapons or movable possessions). Although some of this mythology has some basis in classical Muslim teachings, it is in fact an adoption of the miracles and blessings associated with popular Sufi saints (ironically condemned by radical Muslims worldwide) into the jihadi mythology.15 With all of these contributions ʿAzzam himself was granted the title of shahid after he was assassinated in November 1989, but the title of martyr merely underlines the problem of conferring it, since no one knows who actually placed the explosives that killed him. Even among globalist radical Muslims, shahid is more of a recognition of one’s life’s work than a statement that the person was without doubt killed by a non-Muslim. A number of martyrologies of radical Muslims were produced after the death of ʿAzzam, focusing upon fighters killed in the Afghan war, the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina, the Chechen conflict and in Afghanistan (2001 to the present) and Iraq. Taken together these martyrologies convey a formula for the creation of an image of martyrs. The martyr must face some trial or 81

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temptation in order to be considered worthy of the battlefield. This means either standing up to familial opposition, resisting temptations of this world (women, job offers, studying or otherwise furthering oneself), or overcoming physical weaknesses. Then the fighter must distinguish himself by being the most pious person in the group. He is usually a loner, set apart for death as it were, always helping others, but never really close to anybody. Dreams and visions of his upcoming martyrdom, at times quite detailed, may come to him and his friends. The martyr is a hero; he boldly confronts the enemy and usually takes a number of them with him when he dies. After his death he often appears in the dreams of his fellow fighters, telling them of his place in heaven. His body is always uncorrupted and pure, unlike the bodies of the non-Muslims in the battlefield.16 The Palestinian al-Aqsa Intifada (2000–05) was a major step in the creation of martyrologies, though not for radical Muslims, because the conflict against Israel was supported by a number of different elements. A book titled Intifadat al-Aqsa lists 3,288 martyrs, and gives the reader the stories of 904 of those.17 This is undoubtedly the most complete attempt at creating a martyrology for any conflict in the contemporary Muslim world. Not surprisingly, the martyrology starts off with the story of Muhammad al-Durra, a boy who was killed on 30 September, 2000.18 The pictures of al-Durra crouching behind his father, who was attempting to protect him, were spread far and wide all over the Muslim (and non-Muslim) world. These pictures created one of the two images that the Palestinian martyrologies wanted to create for the conflict: that of helplessness on the part of the Palestinians in the face of superior Israeli firepower. The boy killed in this manner – no matter who killed him – powerfully supports this image, as do the dozens of other child martyrs listed in Intifadat al-Aqsa. The other image that the martyrology creates is that of the defiant hero who confronts and possibly overcomes the Israeli superior firepower. Some of these martyrs are also depicted as helpless and recall the image of the Chinese demonstrator confronting the tanks in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Another type is the martyr actively engaged in fighting (in military or paramilitary units) – fighters on “suicidal” missions and on martyrdom operations. Although these groups are mixed together, and not all of the martyrs on suicide operations are actually listed, they serve as a counter-point to the helpless martyrs.19 In highlighting those fighters, the martyrology that 82

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is created is considerably different from any that could be generated from the first intifada (1987–93), where there was little active fighting. In general the book Intifadat al-Aqsa tries to create an Islamic image of martyrdom in most of the stories that it tells. Standard tropes such as dreams and visions, and the uncorrupted body are commonplace. Miracles associated with the various martyrs are common, and Islamic terminology (muʿjiza) is used to describe them.20 But most of the material consists of just stories with a pathos-evoking litany to them. It is significant that there are virtually no martyrologies from other places in the Muslim world (other than Iraq or its borders) where Muslims suffered. For example, extensive searches throughout the former Soviet Central Asian republics have revealed no commemorative martyrologies – neither of Muslims who were killed by the communist regime, nor, even in Tajikistan, during civil wars between secularists and radical Muslims.21 There are limited martyrologies of Pakistanis killed in Kashmir, but no formal lists of martyrs from that conflict. Nor has a formal martyrology from the Chechen conflict (other than of the Arab fighters) or from that in the Philippines ever been published. Until now, while there have been martyrologies from the Iraqi conflict, there has been no attempt to make a complete list to tell the stories of individual martyrs. What narratives there are, are of certain small groups from a given area (such as Kuwait) or individual stories scattered over many websites. After the beginning of the Palestinian intifada, the two greatest radical Muslim popularizers of martyrdom narratives were Yusuf al-ʿUyayri, the former leader of Al Qaeda in Saudi Arabia, who was killed in 2003, and Abu Musaʿb al-Zarqawi, the Al Qaeda leader in Iraq, killed in 2006. Al-ʿUyayri was the first radical Muslim leader who moved the discourse of martyrdom away from the Palestinian arena, focusing the attention upon Chechnya with his Hal intaharat Hawa? [Did Hawa (or Khava) commit suicide?], which referred to the Chechen woman who carried out the first suicide operation in that country in June 2000.22 In this document al-ʿUyayri put forward all the significant arguments in favor of carrying out martyrdom operations as a normative tactic of globalist radical Islam (this point will be discussed in the following). Al-ʿUyayri was also responsible for writing Haqiqat al-harb al-salibiyya al-jadida [The truth of the new crusader war), in which he took the 83

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discussion of globalist martyrdom operations further by explaining the justifications for the attacks of September 11, 2001. As Haqiqat al-harb al-salibiyya al-jadida is too long for most readers to go through, al-ʿUyayri and his cohorts, catering to popular taste, published a number of abbreviated texts.23 With al-ʿUyayri’s and other justifications of September 11, the intellectual and religious framework of contemporary radical Muslim martyrdom was to a large extent complete. By way of contrast, al-Zarqawi developed the conception of martyrdom as theater. Although the suicide attacks of September 11 and other prominent Al Qaeda operations were similarly theatrical in nature, al-Zarqawi used the continual martyrdom operations in Iraq and, manipulating the possibilities opened up by the internet, turned the scenarios laid down by ʿAzzam and others into a quasi-theatrical production. This has produced a very standardized drama of emotional incitement (drawing, amongst others, on the idea of the sanctity of Islam, the honor of the Arab and Muslim world, the humiliation of the oppressor), triggering a powerful individual response (such as suicide attacks), which provides a fertile ground for further incitement as it is carried out in full view of the world. The videos published by al-Zarqawi and others have literally revolutionized the discourse of Sunni radical martyrdom. The literary descriptions of martyrdoms by al-ʿUyayri and others are already out of date, however, and read by only a few, while the videos are gaining in popularity.24

Shiʿis and Sunnis: Some comparative notes On the whole, one could say that for Shiʿis martyrdom is a primary component of their belief system. All imams  – starting with the Prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law (and, according to the Shiʿis, his rightful successor), ʿAli b. Abi Talib – were viewed as martyrs, so that a much more normative status was conferred to the title of martyr in Shiʿi Islam. There can be no doubt of the centrality of the martyrdom of Husayn (killed at Karbalaʾ in southern Iraq in 680) for Shiʿis, as his sacrifice is seen as paradigmatic and redemptive. In classical times, Husayn was generally seen as a tragic figure who had foreknowledge of his own death, and who willingly participated in the gruesome butchery of his family so that the Prophet’s family would come by their legitimate rights. 84

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But for Shiʿis, the martyrdom of Husayn is not only paradigmatic; it is also an actual sin that must be expiated generation after generation. The blood of Husayn can be compared to some degree to that of Jesus in Christian theology (although Husayn is not a god-like figure and cannot actually confer salvation upon his followers). As an event, the martyrdom stands out, not just as one more tragic event, but as the unjust way in which the Sunnis treated the family of Muhammad. In Shiʿi eyes, Husayn is thus a symbol of everything that is wrong with the Muslim world, and commemorating the unjust shedding of the blood of Husayn is a means by which this injustice is actively combated. While in classical times Husayn’s sacrifice was seen as a tragic event, over the past fifty years he has gradually achieved the position of a revolutionary and a proactive leader, who actively confronted oppression and (at least morally) defeated it. To a large extent this turnabout was achieved by activist leaders of the Shiʿi community, such as Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr, Ayatollah Khomeini, and Musa al-Sadr (in Lebanon). This change in Husayn’s image has also had the effect of creating something of a Sunni “hero” image. However, it should be noted that there does not seem to be a figure comparable to that of Husayn in Sunni Islam. Because of the yearly commemoration of the death of Husayn and other prominent figures in Shiʿism, the idea of martyrdom is never very distant. From the classical period, martyrologies such as Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s (d. 967) Maqatil al-talibiyyin (which listed about 150 members of the Prophet Muhammad’s family who were killed) and al-Kashifi’s (d. 1504) Rawzat al-shuhadaʾ (which focused on the imams themselves) have always been prominent. While the concept of martyrdom is much more central to Shiʿism, it is considerably more focused on the Prophet Muhammad’s family and some of their very close early supporters than on common Shiʿis, who perhaps also died a heroic death for their beliefs. To some extent this trend changed with the introduction of a more activist form of martyrdom, especially in Iran during the course of the Iran-Iraq War (1980–1988) and among southern Lebanese Shiʿis (Hizballah) during the course of their struggle with Israel (1983–2000).25 Martyrologies from the Iran-Iraq War fall into several broad categories. The first one is the more specifically Islamic type of martyrology that dates 85

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from the first desperate years of the war (1980–82). This was the period when Iran was mostly on the defensive, and the slaughter of its soldiers significant. The discourse from this period frames the war very much in Islamic and Shiʿi terms: the Iranians are the heirs of Husayn, while the invading Iraqis are as it were Yazid (al-Husayn’s opponent and the person most hated in Shiʿi Islam).26 Hizballah has frequently published pictures and commemorations of martyrs during the period when it fought against the Israeli domination of south Lebanon. It only exhibited some resistance during the first Lebanon War (1982–84) as it used suicide attacks against the United States and France in West Beirut. None of the official documents of the organization make any mention of the actions at this time, probably for fear of retribution by the U.S. The organization also officially denies the 1994 suicide attacks in Buenos Aires against a number of Jewish targets, though the balance of the fighting against Israel is proudly remembered. Like the Pakistani and the Palestinian groups, Hizballah does not substantially differentiate between ordinary fighting and actual suicide attacks in its martyrologies. From a literary point of view, its official publications are surprisingly muted. All of the collected martyrologies in the official Hizballah: al-Muqawama wa’l-tahrir [Hizballah: Resistance and liberation], of which 104 are listed, commemorate the martyrs through letters from their mothers (the vast majority), extended families, sisters, wives, or children.27 This is even more clearly evident in another official Hizballah book, Mawsuʿat Hizballah [The Hizballah encyclopedia], which contains a volume dedicated to martyrs, lists only ʿAbbas Musawi and Musa al-Sadr, and includes only a short tribute to numerous other martyrs (unnamed) at the end of the book.28 Unlike with the Palestinians, there is no attempt to build an impersonal portrait of the martyr, and in surprisingly few of the accounts are there any details of about the operation in which he was killed (all the martyrs being male). Usually just details of the person’s life are given, and some childhood recollections (especially on the part of the mothers), followed by some standard Islamic themes of the promise of paradise. That these fighters are actually martyrs is never called into doubt in any of these accounts. However, just as with the Sunni miracle stories associated with ʿAzzam and Al Qaeda, Hizballah collects miracle stories associated with martyrs. 86

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Since the 2006 campaign with Israel there are stories, strikingly similar to those from the Afghan war or Bosnia, in which slain martyrs rise up and kill the Israelis who have killed them, or support the Hizballah fighters at key moments.29 In these types of miracle stories, radical Sunnis’ and Shiʿis’ record of martyrdom is quite similar. In contradistinction to these earlier martyrs, radical Sunni martyrs have been lionized on a personal level regularly ever since the Afghan war; martyrologies – whether associated with radical Muslims themselves30 or with more secular popularizers31 – have become extremely detailed and hagiographic. It seems that the goal of their is to provide the Sunni Muslim world with heroes and mythologies that will serve as a counterbalance to secular heroes and mythologies or to Sufism. Perhaps the reason for the difference between Sunnism and Shiʿism in this regard is the fact that the existential crisis or lack of cohesive identity is more evident among Sunnis. Consequently the need for flesh-and-blood martyrs is greater. The justification process for suicide attacks is also much more complicated in Sunnism than it is in Shiʿism. When suicide attacks first became popular among Hizballah, they were referred to as suicide attacks (ʿamaliyya intihariyya just as with ʿAzzam),32 not the more popular Sunni designation of “martyrdom operations” (ʿamaliyya istishhadiyya). One should note, however, that since the mid-1990s Hizballah has clearly adopted the latter terminology, and anachronistically associates it with its earlier operations and statements. Therefore, one has to be careful not to use the terminology of the 1980s in this context. In addition, there was no significant body of literature associated with Shiʿis that justified suicide attacks. It seems that suicide attacks were accepted without a great deal of legal discussion, although there was a general pronouncement by Khomeini in their favor: “The action of seeking martyrdom is among the highest levels of self-sacrifice in the path of God.”33 It seems – in light of the fact that suicide attacks will one day be called “martyrdom operations,” literally “actions of seeking martyrdom,” – that Khomeini was calling for their implementation. But this is by no means clear, and it is quite likely that he was actually supporting the type of mass attacks against the Iraqis that were so common during the first two years of the Iran-Iraq War. 87

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Today, many Shiʿi scholars appear to be in favor of suicide operations. It is significant, however, that while Shiʿi rhetoric continues to be quite powerful, the record on the ground is much more nuanced. Hizballah for the most part stopped carrying out suicide attacks in the late 1980s, presumably because of their ineffectiveness against the Israeli army.34 Even during the more recent (summer 2006) campaign between Israel and Hizballah, no suicide attacks were launched by Hizballah. Hundreds of suicide attacks were carried out against Shiʿi civilians in both Iraq and Pakistan by Sunni radicals, and yet there has not been a single case of a Shiʿi counter-suicide attack in either country (a fact that should not be taken to mean that the Shiʿis do not retaliate in other ways, through death squads, and targeted bombings and assassinations in both countries). This lack of response seems to indicate that the Sunni radicals in Iraq and Pakistan have found a symbiotic relationship with the Shiʿis in terms of suicide attacks, albeit for entirely different reasons. Sunnis are conditioned more in terms of the heroic fighter who gains either martyrdom or victory, while killing vast numbers of Shiʿi civilians, while Shiʿis are well prepared to take such heavy casualties because of their historically subordinate position and their unwillingness to take action against Sunnis without the sanction of their ʿulamaʾ. Were the situation reversed, Sunnis would not be able to take the sheer numbers of casualties that Shiʿis have been able to absorb. Perhaps the tactics of the Sunnis could be called a sum of parts, hard though brittle, while the Shiʿis could be described as an immovable mass, able to absorb the killing blows that the Sunnis have inflicted upon them.

Authority to call for martyrdom or to grant the title of martyr From the classical period onward, no one has had the authority to appeal for God’s consent to an act of martyrdom. While leading ʿulamaʾ are known to have encouraged such acts or allowed for the possibility that one could pray for God to grant a fighter martyrdom, there is no evidence that such prayers have actually been answered. The problem with the idea of calling for martyrdom is the fact that it cannot be known who precisely is a martyr in Islam (neither in Sunnism nor in Shiʿism). Although many people are 88

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conventionally referred to as “martyrs,” only God can accord the title of martyr because only He can know the intentionality of a person’s actions in the last moments of his/her life – hence the radical Muslim formulas “so-and-so is a martyr, if God wills” or “we pray that God will accept them as martyrs.” These statements allow for the possibility that the person designated as a martyr was not truly a martyr and that the truth will only be discovered in heaven. Likewise, as previously described, there are no set criteria for actually declaring someone a martyr, nor is there an authoritative list of martyrs, even within the Shiʿi tradition. With regard to certain figures, such as Husayn and the other imams, there is a general consensus (even if for certain of the later imams the issue is cloudy from a historical point of view). But martyrologies, such as al-Isfahani’s Maqatil al-talibiyyin, which list large numbers of martyrs would not necessarily be accepted by contemporary Shiʿis, mainly because they focus upon the Prophet Muhammad’s family in its broadest sense, and not specifically upon the family of the Twelver Imams. For Sunnism the question is entirely without any basis. There is no mechanism by which a given person can be designated as a martyr, and no historical precedent for doing so. Martyrs for Sunnism can be grouped into several broad categories: • Early martyrs, such as Hamza, who are considered martyrs because of their early association with Muhammad, or their defense of the Muslim community in its early years. These people apparently achieved martyrdom through broad consensus. • Local or regional martyrs, who were associated with jihad against infidels or who were Sufi holy men, and are remembered as martyrs through the consensus of a smaller community (oftentimes through the influence of their descendants or relatives), though not by the broader Muslim community. • Martyrs of sectarian battles or conflicts. These martyrs, who perhaps fought against Shiʿis or other sectarians, are usually commemorated as symbols of what Sunnism represents, and not necessarily for their own deeds. Sometimes they are again given prominence after long neglect, when a sectarian situation becomes intense and there is need 89

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for a martyred hero. Probably the best example is the figure of Musʿab al-Zubayri (d. 692), an anti-Shiʿi figure who ruled in Iraq, and was virtually forgotten by the Sunni population until, in the tenth century, the Shiʿis began to mourn the death of Husayn. The Sunnis then “resurrected” Musaʿb as a Sunni martyr for about a century, when he was forgotten again as the conflict became less intense. In short, sectarian martyrs are polarizing figures, and only count as martyrs because their community promotes them so strongly; the opposing community, on the other hand, will demonize them equally strongly. • Martyrs associated with nationalistic goals. They are proclaimed to be martyrs by secular or semi-secular governments that at times use Islamic formulae, at times not (and in certain cases even accord the title of shahid to non-Muslims or to non-religious Muslims, e.g. Communists). Although these people are in the aggregate called shuhadaʾ, once their cause is no longer prominent it is no longer clear to what degree the population will remember them. In the case of large numbers of “martyrs” (as in the case of the Palestinians) it is difficult to remember more than the most prominent (though no doubt the families and local clans do remember). • Another, problematic group includes people who did not actually die in battle or whose killers are unknown, and who are conventionally called shahids, simply because of the prestige of the title. On more than one occasion, for instance, Hafez al-Asad was referred to as a shahid in Syria, even though he never took part in a battle and died of natural causes. As noted previously, ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam himself could be included in this category. Although he is conventionally referred to as shahid, no one knows who killed him and it is possible that his killer was another Muslim (for example from one of the competing Afghani groups around him or from Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI)). Nevertheless, as he lived the life of a fighter, he was given the title of shahid. In short, the declaration of martyrdom by a given group, sect, or government does not necessarily ensure that such a person will actually be accepted as a martyr. The entire process relies extensively upon intangibles rather than any formal mechanism. 90

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As noted previously, the general acceptance of suicide operations by Sunnis covers up the problematic aspect of these attacks within the context of jihad. This problem centers on the question of authority. There is no question that the relative popularity of suicide operations (at least until 2003, from which year onward large numbers of Muslims were killed, too) was used by radical Muslims to challenge the authority of the established and governmentally supported ʿulamaʾ. There have been two basic trends in Sunnism in the call for suicide operations. One comes from radicals outside the religious structure, who hold that individuals who are either on the battlefield or otherwise fighting for Islam have the spiritual authority to make pronouncements about jihad. Because the radicals view mainstream scholars as hopelessly compromised and subject to governmental direction, the latter cannot be relied on to make unbiased pronouncements. The other trend relates to mainstream scholars who are usually influenced by whatever government they live under, but are also both tradition-driven (to avoid innovations) and consensus-driven (to avoid acting in a manner that is contrary to the Sunni consensus). Consequently, their pronouncements will always be conservative and tend to limit and regulate whatever issue is at hand. Both of these trends, while harking back to an unchanging tradition, are in fact clearly subject to Muslim public opinion, a fact that more than anything else drives the need for the implementation of new tactics, such as suicide operations. Whoever can assume the authority for declaring their legitimacy, will do so. As for the targets, the radicals will expand while the mainstream scholars will limit them – both to the best of their ability. Victory will most probably go to whichever group is able to win over public opinion. Not all of the statements coming from the ʿulamaʾ concerning suicide operations are necessarily so weak. But in general, the well-thought-out proclamations come from radicals who are of either low rank in the religious hierarchy or are completely outside it. The first justification of suicide operations among Sunnis was penned by Ayman al-Zawahiri;35 when one reads through it, one can easily see the defensiveness that underlies the writing of this tract. Virtually the entire content consists of citations from either the Qurʾan, the hadith or from classical legal treatises. But, in the end, al-Zawahiri was unable to explain precisely why the tactic of suicide operations was 91

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so much more effective than any other jihadi tactic, nor was he able to deflect the charge that the perpetrators were committing self-inflicted death. For justifications of suicide operations that fell into the mainstream one had to wait for the beginning of the al-Aqsa Intifada. With the publication of Nawaf al-Takruri’s initial edition of al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya fi’l-mizan al-fiqhi [Martyrdom operations in the legal balance], a true collection of essays was issued, followed by Muhammad Saʿid Ghayba’s much smaller collection and commentary.36 Because al-Takruri collected 29 fatwas from a wide variety of ʿulamaʾ from all over the Arabic-speaking Muslim world, the book conferred upon the subject a sense of consensus (which is one of the bases of Sunni Islam). In the rest of the book, al-Takruri showed himself to be quite an expert at uncovering classical authorities on suicide attacks, who had been virtually unknown in classical Islam. Arguments in support of suicide operations are twofold: political exigencies and the fact that they are effective. Most of the fatwas of the ʿulamaʾ in the appendix refer to Israeli, American, Russian, or Indian incursions as the justification for the use of suicide attacks. This fact raises the question of whether such attacks are purely political, albeit with a religious veneer, or whether there is something intrinsically Islamic to them. Other than the stray references by Ibn al-Nahhas al-Dumyati (d. 1411) there are no premodern references to anything remotely resembling suicide attacks,37 although there are cases of Muslims carrying out suicide attacks or attacks where there was no reasonable chance that the fighter would survive. In not a single instance, however, can any of the fatwas or other religious justifications bring up a case identical to that of someone blowing himself up in order to maximize casualties among the enemy. The political element of most arguments in support of suicide attacks is therefore, in my view, their primary driving force in the Muslim world today.38 However, having said that, I would also say that the problematic aspects of suicide attacks within the context of Islam are so great that it has become necessary (within Sunnism) to defend them – out of all proportion to their relative value for jihad as a whole. In other words, common statements such as “jihad is the pinnacle of Islam, and suicide operations are the pinnacle of jihad” actually cover up the problematic justification of suicide attacks.39 Only by lionizing them and putting them on a pedestal, and by a 92

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kind of “emperor without clothing” attitude towards the whole issue can it be fully justified. The consensus that has been achieved on behalf of suicide attacks in Sunni Islam is quite brittle and could very well disintegrate were someone of serious religious stature and prestige to challenge it. It is my opinion that the religious justifications serve to paper over the problem and give some “respectability” to the question of martyrdom. Broad acceptance of suicide operations raises the question of whether the ʿulamaʾ are leading or following with regard to such operations. Ordinarily, the conservative nature of the ʿulamaʾ establishment would render it virtually impervious to being stampeded into a decision, but the fact remains that within a very short period of time (1997–2002) a substantial percentage of prominent ʿulamaʾ were willing to join in the support of suicide operations. Only a very few, usually those at the very highest level of the governmental religious establishment (Tantawi of Egypt, Al al-Shaykh of Saudi Arabia) or those that were generally independent thinkers (al-Buti, Ibn ʿUthaymin, Hasan Ayyub, and others) were able either to oppose or at least to go back and forth between support and opposition. Support for suicide attacks revealed the fact that the ʿulamaʾ were (collectively) feeling very vulnerable to the sustained attacks by various radical Muslim groups and sensed that they had to support even something as dubious as suicide attacks in order to boost their popularity. The second-tier ʿulamaʾ and outsiders have generally been much more willing to hold radical views concerning suicide attacks. It is primarily from this group that one finds movement away from merely seeing suicide attacks as a stratagem mandated by Israeli tactics or conduct, transforming it into a generalized method of warfare that could actually bring about a revolutionary transformation in Islam. It is easy to see the reasons why governmental ʿulamaʾ would shy away from this trend, since they are the ones against whom the revolution would be instigated. However, for these second-tier ʿulamaʾ, suicide operations not only promise victory on the battlefield, but also a move towards a non-governmental Islam that would be self-sacrificial in nature and independent of the handouts of governments, and would actually thrive in the battlefield. 93

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Ironically, al-Takruri (or at least those who prefaced his book) showed the way in this as well. Already in the 4th edition, his prefacer Muhammad al-Zuhayli noted that suicide operations could be used in a number of conflicts beyond that of Palestine.40 This idea was brought forward by Indonesian imam Samudra, whose book on the justification of the Bali bombings of October 2002 formed the basis for the justification of suicide attacks among Southeast Asian radicals.41 Imam Samudra cited al-Takruri by name, and then proceeded to list his arguments on behalf of suicide attacks, noting that al-Takruri had wanted to confine this tactic to the Palestinians.42 For Samudra this was ludicrous, and he demonstrated, quite logically, that al-Takruri’s basic arguments also applied to other parts of the world, including Indonesia. The problem of authority was not resolved by the attempts of the ʿulamaʾ to answer the radicals. Fundamentally, people such as Yusuf al-Qaradawi and others never answered the question of why they supported attacks against Israel and not against the United States. This fundamental problem was revealed by the fatwa promoted by the Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesia’s top Muslim clerical body, in which they condemned suicide attacks. In the end, however, they affirmed the possibility of suicide attacks against unjust oppressors (presumably so as not to condemn the Palestinians), thus not prohibiting them entirely.43 After all, it would be simplicity itself to translate this exception into any of the conflicts in the Muslim world today, and even if they do not want to move in that direction, merely globalizing the issues can easily cause this to become meaningless. For this reason the question of authority is one that is still very much up in the air, with the governmentally supported ʿulamaʾ having all the structural advantages, and the outside radicals enjoying a great deal of spiritual prestige.

Classical versus contemporary: Difficulties and inherent contradictions in theories of martyrdom While there are contradictions between classical and contemporary Muslim conceptions of martyrdom, the similarities are probably much stronger. Some of the obvious problems are the following: In Sunnism the contemporary ideology of radical martyrdom attempts to create martyrologies 94

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that have no basis in the classical tradition. Among radicals, the focus is to wean Muslims away from the hagiography associated with Sufi saints and focus it on martyrs of jihad, instead. While this cannot be said to be non-orthodox, the martyrology within radical Islam poses some problems. For one, it creates a sense of fame for the martyr that presumably draws in others seeking to be commemorated in the same manner and to gain similar fame. Martyrology also creates a cult of sainthood around the martyr, involving miracles and intercessions, which ironically are the very elements that radicals criticize with regard to Sufi saints. Similarly, the issue of suicide operations is problematic within Sunnism. They can be censured as innovative, and endorsed only weakly in the classical sources, with virtually no examples of similar activities involving the Prophet Muhammad or his companions. Although there is currently a consensus about the permissibility of their use, this could very well disintegrate when cardinal issues are brought up and discussed at a later time. Concurrent issues of whether suicide operations are a form of selfimmolation, and whether the targeting of non-combatants and Muslims is permissible have led to fierce polemics, and continue to divide the radicals from the larger community of Sunnis. Though most of the apologists in defense of martyrdom operations focus on the targeting of civilians, the question of suicide is also often debated by members of the religious elite.44 The issue of the taboos associated with suicide operations would have to focus on the killing of non-combatants or of Muslims of a different denomination, which as previously stated is the point upon which most of the apologetic material dwells. Another possible taboo would or could be the use of women and children for carrying out suicide operations. Evidence indicates that there are not many jarring irregularities between classical and contemporary martyrdom in Shiʿism. The adoption of martyrologies focusing on martyrs killed by Israel or Iraq seems to have been a minor problem in Lebanon, and was presented as a sop to Iranian nationalism in the case of martyrs from the Iran-Iraq War. Other Shiʿi martyrologies have yet to be examined. The adoption of suicide operations by Shiʿis was not seriously opposed or even discussed by the religious elite. In both Lebanon and the Iran-Iraq War suicide operations, while brutal, were exclusively directed at military targets. In both Iraq and Pakistan the local Shiʿi population, though 95

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frequently targeted by suicide attacks, has yet to respond to Sunnis in kind. One could argue that while Shiʿis did not carry out suicide attacks in Iraq since they had already achieved power, power in and of itself is not an impediment to suicide attacks (as one can learn from the Sunni experience in Pakistan). In contrast, the Sunni radical approach is to promote the figure of the single hero, who confronts an enemy or a structural evil and destroys it, or who takes revenge for an injustice. According to the classical ideal of jihad, this sense of hero-building is problematic. Declaring slain individuals to be “martyrs” is, strictly speaking, against a number of Islamic teachings because only God can know who is truly a martyr. After his death the martyr achieves some kind of salvation or expiation. Though denial of the salvation accorded through a suicide mission could be useful for combating radicalism, this might be difficult to achieve because of the widespread belief in the benefits of martyrdom. In the end, we may say that while martyrdom is quite developed in Shiʿi Islam, it has been fairly marginal as a theme in Sunni Islam, at least until quite recently. Overall, within the Sunni context, suicide operations have gained widespread approval among the religious leadership in the 1990s and early 2000s, and while approval has to some extent been withdrawn after 2003, the religious arguments supporting suicide missions have circulated well beyond the mainstream, and have been articles of faith for radical Muslims.

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Part II

Martyrdom in National-Sectarian Conflicts

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5 From Nationalist Combatants to Martyrs: The War of Independence and Martyrdom in Algerian Memory Daniel Zisenwine

Introduction Algeria’s violent struggle for independence, with its long casualty lists and ethos of national sacrifice, presents an unusual case for exploring the concept of martyrdom and its later uses in constructing collective memories. As with many theoretical research themes raised in the context of North African studies, Algeria’s war of independence against France (1954–62) offers diverse perspectives on questions related to personal sacrifice, death, and the lingering impact of a violent conflict on postcolonial politics. For France, the war was seen at the time as an ongoing wave of terror, waged by indigenous guerrillas that had to be confronted and defeated. For many years after the conflict ended with France’s withdrawal from Algeria, French officials refused to recognize it as a nationalist uprising, but viewed it as a violent domestic insurrection. To this day, Algerian demands for a formal French apology for France’s colonial rule are rejected by the French government.1 For their part, Algerian officials and scholars offered a different perspective on the conflict. They presented a portrait of a unified society determined to end a more than century-long French rule. Their version tended 99

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to blank out the discordant voices that challenged the notion of an encompassing national uprising. This perspective disregarded any opposition to Algeria’s Front de libération nationale (FLN) and ultimately presented an illusionary narrative of a united society waging a desperate, heroic struggle for independence against colonial repression. The FLN, with its dominant position over all rival organizations, thus became the sole voice of Algerian nationalism.2 That approach, which reigned supreme for many years, clouded our understanding of contemporary Algeria and the later rise of an Islamist current in the country’s public life. As with other themes underpinning Algeria’s anticolonial struggle and postcolonial history, martyrdom and its impact remain a highly contentious topic that warrants an in-depth study. This chapter outlines the development of the concept of martyrdom during Algeria’s long struggle against French colonialism within the ranks of the nationalist movement. It also traces the impact of the war and its martyrs on Algerian memory in the postindependence era. Drawing from historic studies of the FLN, memoirs and personal testimonies of the movement’s members and militants, it probes another aspect of Algeria’s complex national discourse. Exploring the development of martyrdom in Algerian memory paves the way for expanding the discussion beyond Algeria’s nationalist struggle, thus linking this study to the broader theme of martyrdom in modern Islamic history. The notion of an Islamic-inspired martyrdom in the context of a nationalist struggle for independence is not an inherently natural fit for Algeria’s FLN. As with other concepts and values, the FLN’s complex nationalist ideology was not directly linked to Islamic traditions. The movement embraced a diverse ideology, which conflated an array of ideas and traditions. Its ideological backbone was influenced by a mixture of radical Western ideologies (outlined by Frantz Fanon and others), frequently adapted to local political and social mores. As with other ideas, FLN leaders presented a watered-down version of foreign concepts to the masses, cloaking them in an Algerian-Islamic garb that would be more familiar to the public and render them more appealing. The embrace of concepts and idioms that reflect a religious content among various political movements across the Arab-Islamic regions is 100

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quite common and not unique to the FLN or to Algeria. In his study on Islam’s political language, Bernard Lewis presents a host of such examples, spanning Islamic history. Lewis notes that these words, when acquiring a new value, do not entirely lose their old meaning. The ratio between religious and national content in which they are used may vary considerably according to time, place, circumstance, and user.3 Martyrdom also varied widely in the context of Algeria’s nationalist struggle for independence. Broadly speaking, the FLN, over time, adopted the term in an effort to provide meaning to the rising number of Muslim casualties as the war against France went on. In doing so, it sought to further motivate the Algerian public to rally under the movement’s banner as France intensified its repression of Algerian nationalism and the prospects of independence seemed dim. As Benjamin Stora asserted, Algerian nationalism had made the goal of independence its supreme value. Independence was embraced by the FLN as its primary goal, serving as a value that could transform a disparate indigenous population, which had experienced over a century of harsh colonial repression, into the citizenry of a reinvigorated country. For Algerian nationalists, independence was a remedy that would overcome the many fault lines and fissures that divided Algerian society, and steer the country towards a brighter future, moving away from its troubled colonial past.4 The FLN’s ideological doctrine and praxis were affected by a combination of socialism and Islamic tradition. Many of the party’s leaders were effectively rootless, detached from their social origins and conducting their life as “professional revolutionaries,” removed from prevailing social taboos, family expectations, and the challenges of negotiating everyday life in colonial Algeria. This may have suited these leaders and was appropriate for the lifestyle of militants on the run. It was not, however, compatible with the outlook of the Algerian public, which emphasized the importance of family, clan, and other primordial forms of identity. These structures underpinned life for most Algerian Muslims throughout the anticolonial struggle, and were strongly associated with Islam. For most Algerians, Islam was a well-understood, trustworthy ideal – a reliable compass for navigating the obstacles of daily life, even more so during the traumatic decades of repressive colonial rule. Nearly all of them remained faithful to traditional customs and mores throughout the colonial 101

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era. The Algerian independence movement reactivated religious fervor and transformed it by adopting Islam as a combat ideology and a social project. Their promised independence and the social revolution associated with it exhibited some characteristics of revolution, based on millenarian, messianic hopes. Nationalism, for many Algerians, was understood as a refusal to compromise with French rule, and was based on the spirit of religious ideals, namely that of waging a holy war against the enemies of the faithful – and thus radically different from Western interpretations of nationalism. The FLN’s turn to martyrdom should be understood against this backdrop of the movement’s position (and use) of Islam.5 The idea of a religious-inspired martyrdom was more easily understood by the broader Algerian Muslim working-class, urban migrants and peasants in the city and in the countryside, than the Western nationalist theories, which were alien to them and often at odds with their social reality. The concept of an Algerian “nation” had already been introduced by various individuals who preceded the FLN. However, this did not necessarily correspond to the notion of modern nationalist sacrifices championed by the FLN’s ideological foundations. This gap between traditional Islamic concepts and a more Western conceptual framework of the nation state, as championed by the FLN, was and remains an ongoing issue, overshadowing the study of Algerian nationalism and the country’s struggle for independence. Exploring the theme of martyrdom within the context of Algeria’s national struggle immediately becomes entangled with broader historiographic questions concerning the Algerian war. A close analysis of the meaning of the concept of “martyrdom” also focuses attention on the incomplete, if not flawed, historical account of the long and violent war against French rule, which lasted from 1954 to 1962. To highlight the questions surrounding the study of the Algerian war, one must be aware of the historic background that led to its outbreak, and understand the nature of Algeria’s nationalist movement and its leaders.

Historical background: French colonialism and Algerian nationalism In the annals of French colonialism, Algeria holds a special, perhaps even exclusive, place. Algeria was in many ways the jewel in the crown of the 102

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French colonial enterprise – somewhat reminiscent of what India was to Britain, but in reality much more than that. For Algerian Muslims, however, French rule was underpinned by harsh repression and violence and did little to promote the local population in any way. Algerian Muslims were left with limited opportunities for embracing French culture. Indeed, throughout France’s rule over the country, any policy initiative intended to improve, even modestly, the population’s political situation was rarely implemented.6 This would remain the reality for France until the 1950s when consecutive French governments sought to address the Algerian question in a number of ways. These efforts peaked after 1958, when Charles de Gaulle initiated a dramatic turnaround in France’s policy on Algeria, leading to Algeria’s independence in 1962.7 Throughout the nineteenth century, Algeria witnessed numerous attempts to rebel against the occupying colonial power. In fact, until 1871 hardly a year went by without a revolt of some sort erupting against French rule. These uprisings were mostly localized, lacking a national leadership that could oversee an all-encompassing revolt against the French. They were certainly not nationalist in the modern sense, and were clamped down by the French. The one exception was perhaps the revolt of ʿAbd al-Qadir in the 1840s. Al-Qadir may not have conceptualized his uprising or endowed it with any sort of ideology, but he effectively utilized Islam as a rallying point, as he viewed Islam as an ideology that could promote his cause, without actually fully articulating this idea. ʿAbd al-Qadir’s uprising was ultimately brutally repressed by the French military, but the revolt lived on in the Maghribi collective memory and was later invoked by Algerian nationalists as a protonationalist uprising.8 The crushing blow that France delivered to the Algerian uprising of 1871 cowed the Muslim population and repressed anticolonial positions for at least a generation. Only after World War I did anticolonial sentiments resurge. They were an outcome of the Algerian Muslim postwar frustration at not being “rewarded” for their wartime sacrifices for France. For Algerian activists, the failure to grant even modest concessions to the Muslim population in the late 1930s under France’s progressive left-wing government, led by Léon Blum, dashed their last hopes for some sort of change in French policy. France’s defeat in World War II suggested to them 103

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that, whatever the war’s outcome, France had already lost its prestige as a colonial superpower. All of these positions would ultimately transform into a full-fledged nationalist movement with the start of the Algerian War of Independence in 1954.9 The actual movement that emerged from this diverse personal and ideological portrait, however, was quite different from what one might have expected. There are many nuances and divisions among what was initially perceived as a united, cohesive group, which transformed anticolonial sentiments that were widespread among Algerian Muslims into a nationalist movement that purported to bring about a political and social revolution that was to transform Algeria. Indeed, to this day the nationalist movement and Algerian historiography refer to the war of independence as the “Algerian revolution,” suggesting that this was much more than a struggle to end foreign rule. This was an event of rebirth within Algerian society.10 The reality, however, was far more complex. The emergence of the nationalist movement itself was far from being a straightforward, linear process. It involved internal rifts and struggles between individuals, factions, and ideological orientations. The conflict drew a myriad actors with mixed motivations, ranging from proFrench sentiments to Communism, liberalism, and nationalism. The impact of wider transnational ideologies, such as pan-Arabism, also played a role.11 Identifying these figures and their personal convictions is crucial to the understanding of the nationalist movement’s endorsement of “martyrdom.”12 As Algerian nationalist activists coalesced and established the FLN in 1954, the new movement shifted its ideological positions, distancing itself from established Islamic concepts understood by the majority of Algerian Muslims to a vaguer, more ambiguous Arab-Islamic concept.13 The FLN’s historic leaders have been described as the offspring of a rural elite impoverished by the impact of French colonial policies. Few of them knew written Arabic, and some were more secular in their outlook than others. While the FLN embraced the French term of “revolution” in its French publications, the Arabic term it adopted – thawra – was understood among the Algerian public more as an uprising rather than an effort to overturn existing structures. The movement did not have a vision of constructing society anew, but rather of returning to Arab Islamic “values,” without however fully defining them. 104

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Seeking to steer away from the cult of personality that surrounded rival nationalist groups, such as Messali al-Hadj, the FLN lionized the Algerian people as a collective war hero, rather than promoting individual figures.14 This approach further clouded the FLN’s use of the concept of martyrdom, effectively reducing each individual martyr’s sacrifice and opting instead to promote a large group of “martyrs,” who fought for the country’s independence and embodied the Algerian nation.

The FLN and the outset of Algeria’s war of independence As the Algerian War of Independence began, the FLN’s political charter of 1954 stated that the movement’s struggle was aimed at securing independence through the “re-establishment of the social, democratic, sovereign Algerian state within the framework of Islamist principles.” Although the formulation of the FLN’s Islamic bent was vague enough to be left open to future discussions, during its early years the movement insisted on religious belonging as the binding glue of the national unity it sought to achieve. Islam was viewed by the FLN’s leaders not only as a culture, but also as a foundation of society and political unity. The movement colored its struggle with Islamic shades, using a religious-based terminology easily understood by Algerian masses that were still by and large undecided about their own involvement in the newly established FLN and its struggle. References to Islam were a constant in the movement’s discourse. Accordingly, the FLN’s vocabulary at the time promoted terms such as jihad, mujahidun (holy warriors) in defining its struggle. The use of martyr – shahid – as a concept was part of this vocabulary and the political motivation that underpinned its usage.15 Islam was the dominant language of history and culture the FLN promoted among the Algerian public. It served as a powerful narrative, which even the most cosmopolitan leaders could not escape, so that they sought to present themselves as its epitome.16 Despite promoting an Islamic discourse, the FLN’s explicit ideology gave priority to national liberation and the removal of the colonial system, and not to religion. Sliman Chikh, a former member of the FLN’s National Liberation Army (ALN) and later a professor at the University of Algiers, contended that Islam had been invoked instrumentally by the 105

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movement merely as a mean to affirm an Arab-Islamic national identity. Chikh contended that for the FLN, Islam was a mobilizing ideology that was more political than theological, and argued that it should be viewed in a political, rather than religious context. In the movement’s writings, Islam offered the option of promoting messages among the public, and served as a value of combative resistance rather than a deeply embedded religious belief.17 Notwithstanding the FLN’s embrace of Islamic terminology, much of Algeria’s population kept its distance from the movement and its armed struggle at the outset of the war. Uncertain about the prospect of a successful outcome of the conflict, unfamiliar with the full meaning of a national identity the FLN championed, and reflecting many deeply entrenched social fissures which underpinned Algerian society, many Algerians did not rush to engage in battle. Their undecided, if not indifferent, approach troubled the FLN during the early stages of the country’s independence war (1954–56). This reality is largely overlooked by FLN veterans and Algerian historiography, which depicts a unified, highly motivated and committed population as participating in the struggle. An example of this approach is a call published in the FLN’s central newspaper, El-Moudjahid [The warrior] in 1958: “Our revolution is becoming a melting pot where men of all conditions – peasants, artisans, workers, intellectuals, rich and poor – mingle in such a way that a new type of man will be born from that development,” thus underscoring the movement’s effort to foster a dynamic of unity among its ranks.18 Although the war has been depicted as an act of the people rising up against oppressive French colonialism and Western imperialism, the struggle did not erase internal conflicts within Algerian society. The FLN’s slogan “by the people and for the people” was in reality “by the FLN for the nation, with the support of the people whenever possible and against the opposition of the people whenever necessary.” This approach was also linked to the FLN’s use of violence, which received justification and became a doctrine of historical necessity and inevitability, combined with the image of an armed popular struggle, which bore hardly any relation to reality. For the most part, FLN militants did not confront the French enemy on the battlefield, which would have evoked images of historic Islamic 106

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conquests. Clashes between the two sides were mostly guerrilla warfare and urban confrontations, producing a different kind of wartime images. This analysis contradicts the old stereotype that underscored the ubiquity of violence as an explanatory factor in Algerian history and the intensity of this presumably pathological profile.19 The FLN’s efforts to bring the struggle to the streets of the capital Algiers, as part of what became known as the Battle of Algiers (1957), reflected the movement’s interest in strengthening its position among the Algerian population. The acts of violence unleashed by the FLN in a civilian setting, alongside the brutal response of the French security forces, ultimately pushed many Algerians into the arms of the FLN. Beyond the scholarly analyses of the war and its outcome, the reality in Algeria of a violent conflict that resulted in hundreds of thousands of casualties, the displacement of millions of peasants and the dismantling of the economy should not be forgotten. Although the FLN later capitalized on the conflict by presenting itself as the sole heir of Algerian nationalism in the post-independence era, the immediate memory of most Algerians who experienced the war was one of hardship and violence.20 Alongside concerted efforts to recruit Algerian Muslims, the FLN also sought to “internationalize” the Algerian question and generate foreign interest in its struggle against the French. The inclusion of the Algerian question on the United Nations’ agenda in September 1955 marked, according to scholars who studied the war, the beginning of an ideological shift that also affected the FLN’s political vocabulary. Seeking to court the support of the West, the movement employed an increasingly secular discourse rather than the original Islamic one – as part of the double discourse, the “cultural ambiguity” mentioned earlier. Algerian historian Malek Bennabi refers to this as FLN’s “bilingualism”  – for instance, the term jund (soldier) replaced mujahid (holy warrior). While the movement adopted a more Western-oriented vocabulary, it did not entirely abandon its use of the Arab/Islamic terminology that was current among the Algerian population at the time.21 A post-independence Algerian official publication defined a mujahid as any combatant in uniform who served after November 1, 1954 (the outbreak of Algeria’s War of Independence) and after January 1, 1962, voluntarily bearing arms in order to liberate the patrie. The Algerian law 107

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distinguished between members of the ALN (National Liberation Army, the FLN’s military wing) – junud (plural of jund) assigned to various units within the ALN and members of the FLN civilian structures, and recognized as veteran mujahidun. This definition does not encompass religious idioms, and reflects a rather straightforward, modern use of the term. The same publication referred to militants engaged in combat between January 1 and March 19, 1962 and killed in action as “chouhada” (that is, martyrs).

Martyrdom and the Algerian War To analyze the ways in which the movement integrated the concept of martyrdom into its political vocabulary, it would be best to invoke the voices of FLN leaders and activists themselves. Here again, one encounters difficulties in reaching beyond the messages and images about the war that the FLN and its leaders sought to project. As previously noted, any reference to an individual martyr was at odds with the FLN’s emphasis on the Algerian nation as a collective. Slimane Chikh explained that death in the eyes of the FLN had ceased to be an individual affair and assumed a collective nature. For the individual believer, the promise of paradise was given to those who sacrificed themselves for the glory of God. All such martyrs were piously honored at their funeral with a special recitation of the Surat Al ʿImran. These traditional beliefs clashed with ideas that were associated with a nationalist struggle for independence and were not inherently religious. For a nationalist militant, Chikh asserted, death in battle was the price to be paid for achieving independence, and was not linked to religion. A shahid’s religious fervor accentuated its import as “oath,” ultimately reinforcing solidarity within Algerian society. Chikh did not shy away from acknowledging the FLN’s ambiguity with regard to the concept of martyrdom. He deemed it an attempt to desecrate politics and to politicize religion.22 This ambivalent approach underpinned many of the movement’s ideological positions, and was not unique to its approach to martyrdom. Nevertheless, the heavily charged concept of a shahid highlighted the FLN’s duplicity more than did other cases, which did not arouse equally strong passions among Algerians. 108

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As a concept linked to the nationalist struggle, martyrdom was of particular importance to nationalist militants from the outset of the Algerian War. One of the first Algerians executed by the French in July 1956 referred in his farewell note to his family to the concept of martyrdom, associating it with the national struggle and reflecting the FLN’s complex approach towards conflating the religious with the political: “Dying for the cause of God [guarantees] an eternal life. And dying for your country is a duty.”23 It is difficult to conclude from this statement which of the two features, the religious or the political, was considered more important. For FLN publicity, both were key elements the movement was keen on promoting. One factor that further complicates an understanding of the term shahid in Algeria’s war of independence is the fact that the actual number of direct clashes between Algerian and French forces was limited, and the number of casualties of the ALN was small, compared to the number of civilian casualties. Throughout the fighting, French forces tended to stay behind their fortified structures, shelling Algerian militants with mortar shells and grenades. When the Algerians lost men, it was generally to mines and shells that hit them as they tried to break through the lines. It was the Algerian civilian population that suffered the full French wrath, and not the nationalist soldiers.24 The perception of the fallen soldier as a shahid was further affected by that reality, providing such a victim with an added prestige that went well beyond his dying for the sake of the nationalist cause. For civilians killed in clashes with French forces, recognition as martyrs endowed their death with greater meaning, which it might otherwise not have received, especially against the background of an unglamorous conflict. More recent studies have underscored the complex nature of the war, pointing to the fact that in reality it consisted of three parallel struggles – a civil war within Algeria between the FLN and its opponents, a war between the FLN and the French forces, and a domestic political war raging in France. The FLN’s position towards martyrs was affected by this reality. Mohammed Harbi’s work on the FLN is one of the leading studies of the complex nature of the movement. Harbi himself was an unusual FLN activist, who eventually escaped to France and engaged in scholarly work on the movement rather than remain a political figure in Algeria. There is much valid methodological critique of the use of Harbi’s work as a historic 109

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source, but most critics have praised his direct, critical view of the FLN and his willingness to unveil a direct portrait of the movement and not overlook its flaws.25 Harbi showed how, unlike what Fannon described and what was enthusiastically promoted by the FLN, the struggle for independence was a far cry from being a popular uprising. Algeria’s peasants did not spontaneously rebel against the French, and the military campaign against the colonial administration was conducted largely from above, by militant leaders who were detached from the masses. The Algerian public, Harbi noted, mostly played a passive role.26 Other historians who probed the FLN have also admitted that the rebels represented only a small minority of Algerian Muslims. They concluded that the movement had ended up taking control of the revolution and continuing it by force, while marginalizing competing factions, such as Messali al-Hadj’s Mouvement national algérien. Another factor related to the study of martyrdom in the Algerian context was identified by Alistair Horne, who focused on the FLN’s emphasis on Algeria’s national collective identity. He contended that from the FLN’s perspective the Algerian revolution was a movement of collective leadership, collective suffering and, above all, collective anonymity. Ultimately, this approach affected the FLN’s position on individual martyrdom. Owing to the concept’s religious resonance among ordinary Algerians, deliberate efforts were made to veer away from anything resembling a cult of the individual hero or martyr.27 Even when a war casualty was identified as a shahid, the movement steered away from promoting his memory as an individual, opting to view casualties as a collective. Under these circumstances, martyrdom and its later role in Algerian collective memory is a complicated concept, which doesn’t lend itself to easy definitions. As with other themes associated with the FLN, martyrdom and its contradictory usages and meanings further underscore the complexity of Algeria’s nationalist movement as the above examples suggest. Mohammed Harbi offered a startlingly direct explanation as to how and why the movement promoted the concept of martyrdom among Algeria’s peasant population in the early stages of the war. He noted that the FLN was surprised at the Algerian population’s wait and see, very nearly indifferent, approach to its activities in 1955. According to Harbi, 110

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the movement was in the midst of a crucial struggle for promoting its cause among Algerians. The FLN at that point faced moral, political, and physical pressure. Against this backdrop, the movement combined tactics of persuasion and violence in an effort to strengthen its roots, particularly in the Algerian countryside. When invoking the concept of jihad, the FLN expected the rural population to assist their militants and obey instructions of the liberation army. Martyrdom, as it was applied on an individual basis, demanded the highest degree of personal sacrifice, along with a willingness to sacrifice one’s belongings and property. FLN leaders were particularly irked by the fact that many peasants preferred to defend their own interests rather than “fulfill their national duty.” FLN militants often felt that they had difficulty recruiting the public, and that only a tiny fraction of Algerian Muslims were entrusted with active roles. The majority of Algerians had to settle for propaganda and slogans. Harbi also argued that this led to a jihad/martyrdom principle, directed towards a population that lacked any degree of political conviction and comprehension of the movement’s ideas. The FLN, for its part, was not in a position to embark on a widespread education campaign, nor did it have the time to initiate one. Circumstances only allowed it to resort to slogans that could be easily understood by the peasant population. Harbi viewed the shahid concept, along with the establishment of the Popular Assemblies (created in 1956), as part of the FLN’s effort to take control of the public’s unrestricted power. According to one FLN leader, however, the Algerian people eventually began to accept the notion of sacrifice and increasingly made their way towards the FLN, suggesting that the utilitarian approach did meet its goals. The active involvement of the peasant population marked a new stage in the Algerian struggle, supplanting the role of the city in the fight for independence and in the militant leadership.28 These individuals took their place within the FLN liberation army, entering a world that offered little comfort apart from the goal of eventual independence. The liberation army’s principal units, the Katiba, were equivalent to a light company or platoon and consisted of some 30–100 men each. The units, with their limited resources, promoted a deep sense of solidarity amongst their members. They shared the same equipment, as well as a shared background – that is, of rural folk who had been trained 111

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for a hard life since birth. Because of the underground war they were now waging against the French, the outside, ordinary world was closed off to them. There was no means of escape for them, apart from death or a definitive peace.29 This reality, and the militants’ personal background and attachment to Islam, help explain the appeal and prestige of martyrdom within the context of a violent, uncompromising conflict against a colonial power. In his personal memoirs, one veteran FLN combatant drew a distinction between his deceased comrades in arms and chahids, with little emphasis on the term’s religious context, but rather on personal sacrifice for a nationalist cause, that is, fighting against a foreign enemy. The dismal reality of Algeria’s “savage war,” alongside a widespread public attachment to Islamic mores, combined to pave the way for labeling the casualties of the war as martyrs. This was also convenient for the FLN, which as noted was compelled to promote the idea of Algerian nationalism in general and allegiance to the movement in particular amongst a populace that was initially distanced from it.

Epilogue: Fostering a collective memory The FLN usage of martyrdom did not end with Algeria’s independence. In many ways it intensified and became entangled with the party’s efforts to monopolize its control over Algerian politics and, even more importantly, over the newly independent country’s collective historical memory. FLN leaders continued to refer to all casualties of the Algerian war as “martyrs,” and the term (as previously noted) gained traction in the movement’s political vocabulary. When the war ended, the FLN embarked on what has been referred to as a “commemorative frenzy,” which paved the way for the establishment of a postindependence military state and concealed the pluralism and clashes between factions and rivals within and outside the ranks of the FLN.30 It was at this stage that the FLN embarked on a process of “memory work,” in which it sought to bolster its historical legitimacy and monopoly over political life in the postindependence era. Algeria’s reality of unfulfilled promises and expectations, expedient national and religious discourses, and a military authoritarian regime 112

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added urgency to the task of lionizing the nationalist struggle as the postindependence era’s moral foundation and to bolster the standing of the FLN among a new generation of Algerians who were born after independence.31 This approach and usage of the concept of martyrdom is even more fascinating, and possibly more cynical and damaging, than the FLN’s wartime attitudes towards martyrdom. As part of its efforts to oversee and control the meaning of Algerian history, the FLN presented Algeria’s armed struggle in a heroic mode. The Algerian revolution, as the FLN referred to the war, was presented as a divinely inspired act of “the people,” which stood up to a monolithic oppressive force – an act blended into Islamic religious history and incorporated with the concept of martyrdom.32 Beyond the reference to an individual people, the FLN placed special emphasis on the literary genre of biography as it set out to entrench its version of the struggle for independence in the Algerian public discourse. The publication of biographies that focused on those who fell in battle during the struggle for independence reinforced the FLN’s focus on sacrifice and martyrdom. By lionizing the victims of the war against the French, these biographies elevated obscure people to center stage. The publications, as Stora argued, had to do with men who died in battle, holding onto their weapons. Such a profile of fallen heroes produced a ceremonial discourse, aimed at celebrating the building of an Algerian state through the intermediary mechanism of “national heroes” or martyrs who had given their lives and were set forth as examples. The FLN’s repertoire of heroic figures played a key role in fostering that collective memory in a country that was emerging from over a century of colonial rule and finding its way as a newly independent state. The focus on heroes and martyrs turned the personal stories of these individuals, their religion-based categorization as shuhadaʾ, into a means of refashioning Algeria’s violent past as a projection of its postindependence challenges and power relations. The FLN was selective in highlighting some of these individuals, discarding anyone whose story, background, or reputation could potentially tarnish its carefully crafted efforts to outline Algeria’s recent history. Some of the posthumous war heroes appeared in these biographies and were 113

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further elevated to a prominent position in Algerian history, while others “disappeared,” left behind by the FLN and all but forgotten by the country’s new generation.33 The symbol of the Algerian martyr became entangled in the FLN’s quest for historical legitimacy. That legitimacy was eventually discredited because of the party’s corruption, and careerism, further complicating the ideal of martyr amongst Algerians. The movement’s efforts to stimulate a form of postcolonial nationalism made its way into Algerian novels that focused on this period. The Algerian Francophone writer Tahar Djaout’s novel, Les chercheurs d’os, published in 1984, offers a compelling fictional, yet highly representative take on how the FLN’s rhetoric on nationalism, duty, and privilege was received by Algerian villagers.34 In the novel, the author suggested that though the villagers in the novel had perhaps forgotten their deceased family members and friends, they were “awakened” by the postcolonial rhetoric, which revived their traditional sense of family honor and national obligation towards the fallen warriors. While these villagers might initially have been motivated by an authentic emotional attachment to the dead, the manipulation of the memory of the independence war martyrs was understood by the novel’s young narrator as an effort to retrieve these martyrs from history’s dustbin. Djaout’s novel underscores the hopelessness of Algeria’s postindependence political reality, which generated a myth-making process necessary for establishing the period’s historical significance. The novel further depicts the manner in which a magico-mythical recovery of the skeletons of the dead became a way of establishing a person’s belonging to the new nation. Indeed, the novel raises the question of how Algeria’s dead martyrs have been accommodated into the present.35 In brief, a potentially “normal” and constructive approach to the war’s fallen martyrs is presented, as the villagers set out to immortalize them within a more individualized narrative of the past, removed from colonial and postcolonial shades. To some extent, this is what has ultimately played out in Algerian society, and offers a more optimistic outlook on the future reference to martyrdom in the country’s modern history. It does not, however, erase the FLN’s highly problematic use of the concept during and after the struggle for independence.36 114

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The concept of martyrdom and its usage is but another example of the FLN’s hollow embrace of Islamic concepts. The movement may have recognized the intrinsic value of these symbols in the eyes of Algerian Muslims, but did not genuinely adopt them as its ideological foundation. Its underpinning was far less Islamic than what may have been imagined, and was affected by external circumstances related to the war and its progress. Where this leaves Algerian Islam is another issue, and how the FLN manipulated a religious/historic/cultural concept is yet another. To conclude, one should note that such manipulation of the term shahid is not the FLN’s only ideological or political error. It is part of a long list of grievances held by many Algerians against it. The movement’s catalogue of manipulations is long, and will continue to provide ample work for scholars studying modern Algerian history.

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6 Martyrdom is Bliss: The Iranian Concept of Martyrdom during the War with Iraq, 1981–88 Meir Litvak

Introduction The ethos of suffering and martyrdom has stood as a central component of Shiʿi worldview and identity since the death of Husayn, grandson of Prophet Muhammad and the third Shiʿi Imam, in the battle of Karbalaʾ on 10 Muharram 61/680. Husayn was glorified and mourned by Shiʿis for many generations as the “prince of martyrs” (Sayyid al-Shuadaʾ) and as a symbol of self-sacrifice in the cause of justice. Yet, following a series of failed insurrections, and in view of continued persecution by the Sunni majority, the Shiʿis developed principles of taqiyya (dissimulation), which gave priority to survival over martyrdom, and of quʿud, that is, refraining from any revolt against the powers-that-be while waiting for the return of the Hidden Imam as the Mahdi (messiah).1 Traditional Shiʿism glorified the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, but advocated passivity until the advent of the Imam-Mahdi. The Imams who followed Husayn were mourned as martyrs, since according to Shiʿi belief they were all killed by the Abbasid rulers. Similarly, Shiʿi tradition exalted four martyred scholars, who had been executed by Sunni authorities between the fourteenth and the nineteenth centuries. All of them, imams and scholars, were willing to die for their belief, but did not actively pursue 116

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death, let alone place it as a goal in and of itself. The revival of the jihad idea in Shiʿism, born out of the need to confront Russia at the beginning of the nineteenth century, generated some change in attitude towards martyrdom. However, the focus was still on the authority to declare jihad, less on the centrality of martyrdom.2 A shift towards the exaltation of martyrdom took place in the 1960s and 1970s, with the turn to Shiʿi political activism. It was manifested, inter alia, in the writings of leading clerics, such as Mahmud Taleqani and Murtaza Muttahari, and lay ideologues, such as ʿAli Shariʿati, who highlighted self-sacrifice as a central Shiʿi ideal.3 It was also evident in the changing nature of the ʿAshuraʾ commemorations, which glorified Husayn’s death as a model for struggle and combat rather than primarily as a tragedy that should be mourned, and in the debate on the intentions and goals of Husayn’s march to Kufa.4 Martyrdom was also an overriding motif of the Iranian Revolution (1978–79) and the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran. In the chronology of the revolution, mourning and funerary rituals were transformed into political demonstrations and used as powerful symbols for popular mobilization. During the days leading to ʿAshuraʾ (December 2–12, 1978), which saw the peak of anti-shah demonstrations, Ayatollah Ruhallah Musavi Khomeini, who emerged as the leader of the revolution, issued letters saying that “torrents of blood might be spilled on ʿAshuraʾ, but blood would triumph over the sword,” adding that good Muslims must be prepared to die in order to defeat the enemy of the people.5 The nature of each revolution was self-sacrifice, he stated, and “the prerequisite of a revolution is martyrdom.6 As a mystic, quite early in his career, Khomeini wrote about the spiritual “greater jihad.” Yet, he never rejected the “jihad of the sword,” nor the price it entailed. Shortly after his triumphant return to Iran in 1979, he declared that “Islam triumphed throughout the ages with blood, sword and weapons,” as had all the great religions of the preceding prophets, who “while clutching divine books for the guidance of the people in one hand, carried arms in the other.”7 The mobilization effort required by Iran’s long war with Iraq (1981–88) elevated martyrdom to unprecedented heights, manifested in the cultivation of a “culture of martyrdom” (farhang-e shahadat) and the promotion of the “love of martyrdom” (ʿishq be shahadat) as major components of IranianShiʿi religious and political discourse. 117

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In addition to genuine religious beliefs on the nature of life and death, the Iranian leadership was motivated by practical considerations as well. Religious discourse became major tools of popular mobilization, as ideological zeal was deemed to be the means to make up for the material inferiority of the Iranian armed forces, which resulted from their partial disintegration during the revolution, and large-scale purges afterwards. From 1982 onwards, Iranian offensives saw a massive display of “suicidal” drives, when thousands of ill-trained, poorly armed volunteers, carrying plastic keys that purported to deliver the holder to heaven in the event of his death, were pushed into “human wave” charges through the Iraqi minefields.8 This chapter seeks to analyze the theological and ideological themes of the Iranian cult of martyrdom during the war with Iraq, and place them within the broader context of Shiʿi doctrines.9 It will focus on the ideas of Ayatollah Khomeini, who set the contours of this discourse in dozens of statements during the war. In setting the principles of the cult of martyrdom, Iran’s leader emphasized several complementary spiritual-doctrinal and utilitarian themes. Most important among them was sacrifice, as the epitome of bliss for the believer and for humanity, the optimal fulfillment of Islamic ideals, and the most commendable means to achieve eternal life. As military victory became increasingly unattainable, Khomeini portrayed martyrdom as an end in itself, whose occurrence meant the realization of a major goal of Iran’s war against Iraq, namely the fight for Islam. Other themes highlighted martyrdom as the proof of the superiority of ideological conviction over the enemy’s superior technology and material advantages, also stressing the moral, social, and political benefits accruing to Iranian society and the Muslim nation from the spirit of martyrdom. From its outbreak, the Iranian leadership sacralized the war, in Saskia Gieling’s words, by depicting the Iraqi attack as a war on Islam, on the Qurʾan, and on the Prophet of God. Islam, as used by Iran’s leaders, did not mean the entire Islamic world, nor did it refer to the Sunni world. Rather, they associated the notion of Islam solely with the Iranian Islamic republic. Since Iran represented Islam, then by definition its enemies represented unbelief (kufr). By depicting Iraq’s leader Saddam Hussein as an idolatrous tyrant (taghut) and as the epitome of unbelief, Iran’s leaders overcame the ban on waging jihad against fellow Muslims. Hence, in the 118

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Iranian parlance the “Muslim nation of Iran” was fighting a “jihad in the path of God” against the taghut and kufr, rather than merely waging an ordinary war against a national enemy.10 In the words of one Iranian writer, Khomeini elevated the essence of the war from a mere military struggle to the most exalted spiritual and mystical experience.11

History as a model and inspiration The past, particularly Islam’s early years, is a major source of inspiration and a historical model for Muslim scholars and activists, as is the case with most other religions. Following this path, Khomeini drew a “red trail of martyrdom” through history, beginning with the Prophet. The road of martyrdom was the way of Muhammad’s family, he said, and this pride passed from the family of prophecy and guardianship (wilaya) to their descendants and followers. From the ruins of the Mosque in Kufa (where ʿAli died) to the desert of Karbalaʾ and throughout its “red history” the nation of Islam “offered sacrifices to our beloved Islam in the path of God.”12 Khomeini added that Islam took pride in offering noble martyrs on the path of God, and that they [the Iranians], too, were proud to offer martyrs in the path of Islam.13 Within this historical legacy, the martyrdom of Imam Husayn in Karbalaʾ served as the most powerful source of inspiration and as a model to be emulated by Iran’s modern holy warriors. According to Khomeini’s reading of Iraq and the war, Saddam Hussein played the role of Yazid and the Umayyad oppressors, while the Iranian public was cast as Imam Husayn and his supporters. Karbalaʾ’s uneven armed conflict made the historical metaphor even more appropriate in his eyes when applied to the material asymmetry between the Iranian and Iraqi armies.14 Moreover, Imam Husayn had set the model for all future Islamic warriors, and particularly for those fighting for the Islamic Republic: “Is there anything else for me to look forward to except for these two beautiful [alternatives] victory or death?” Khomeini asked.15 In glorifying Husayn’s martyrdom, Khomeini stressed two seemingly contradictory motifs:  martyrdom for its own sake and martyrdom as a means to promote justice and eliminate evil. He stated that among the major goals of Husayn’s movement was martyrdom per se, since “the blood of the 119

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martyr will be the shame of the oppressor and a proof for the victory of the Islamic school. Every martyr Husayn offered up in the battle of Karbalaʾ increased his joy (ibtihaj), because it brought him closer to victory.”16 Khomeini conceded that Husayn had been defeated in the battlefield, as had the Prophet when he suffered military setbacks and as had Ali when he confronted his Umayyad rival Muʿawiyya. However, Husayn’s death in battle was an act of obedience and a getting closer to God. Therefore, all that happened to him added to his dignity and sublimity, and was thus neither a defeat nor a failure.17 Moreover, according to Khomeini, Husayn’s martyrdom was a source of inspiration and a model to be emulated, not only by the Shiʿis and the entire Muslim world, but by humanity at large. Thus, in a sermon on the ʿAshuraʾ of 1983 Khomeini stated that: Muharram is the month of the glorious movement of the lord of the martyrs (sayyid al-shuhadaʾ) and the lord of God’s friends (awliyaʾ Allah), who through his revolt gave humanity lessons in building steadfastness. He also taught that the way to eradicate the oppressors and defeat them is only through sacrifice and the sacrifice of the self, just as he showed how to annihilate oppressors and defeat them through sacrifice and the sacrifice of the self. This issue was to be the most important teaching of Islam to the nations until the end of time.18

While extolling the spiritual facets of Husayn’s martyrdom, Khomeini pointed out its broader political implications. Husayn sacrificed his life willingly. “Ever since he left Medina,” said Khomeini, “he knew what he was doing.” He had two political goals in mind: he sought to seize power and rule, not for the sake of power, but because he knew that government should only be in the hands of people like himself. Equally important was the fact that “his aim was to establish good and to remove evil. His aim was to create justice and remove injustice … for evil to be destroyed, for that tyrannical government to be removed.” Thus, while Husayn was martyred, and seemingly defeated in battle, his sacrifice was in fact the main cause for the eventual downfall of the evil Umayyad dynasty.19 Moreover, Husayn and his followers sacrificed themselves in order to become the “redeemers of society” aiming to reform society and bring about social justice. Following Husayn’s model, every act of martyrdom 120

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encompasses this striving for social justice. Just as a person sacrifices himself to redeem his soul, he should do so for the sake of redeeming his community.20 In fact, all the prophets had been sent for in order to reform society, Khomeini explained, and all of them maintained that it was commendable to sacrifice an individual for the sake of society, no matter how great this person was, even if he was the greatest person on earth. This was the basis of Husayn’s action as he sacrificed himself and his companions. If the sacrifice of a person was in the interest of society, then that person should be sacrificed, Khomeini concluded, since justice had to be served.21 The attribution of political goals to Husayn’s mission and death distinguishes Khomeini’s analysis from the traditional Shiʿi view. Formerly, Shiʿi scholars sought to explain Husayn’s occult wisdom – which enabled him to see the future and his own imminent defeat and death – by maintaining that he knowingly sacrificed himself in order to shake the consciousness of the Muslim umma against Umayyad tyranny and not in order to achieve tangible political goals. This view was openly challenged in the 1960s in Niʿmatollah Salehi Najafabadi’s Shaid-e Jawid [The eternal martyr], which argued that Husayn had actually launched a bid for power.22 Khomeini apparently tried to pursue both themes. In fact, Husayn’s political aim of seizing power served as another legitimizing model of self-sacrifice for the Islamic Revolution, while his martyrdom – as an ideal in itself – would serve to inspire Iran’s soldiers in the battlefield. Likewise, Husayn’s struggle to eradicate evil should guide Iran’s warriors and martyrs in the fight against Iraq, and bring about the fall of Saddam Hussein’s regime.

The spirituality of martyrdom The crux of Khomeini’s unique approach to martyrdom within the broader Shiʿi-Islamic discourse was his emphasis on its mystical essence. Khomeini sought to overcome the natural human fear of death in several ways:  He rejected what he termed the corrupt materialistic concept – both capitalist and communist – that death meant the end of existence. Rather, he maintained, “the entire world is not limited to the natural world,” further insisting that the natural world is the lowest part of the creation, the dregs of creation. The true arena is the divine worlds which are inexhaustible, from whence we have come and whither we shall

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On another occasion he asked rhetorically: “If we believe in the existence of another world beyond the present one, shouldn’t we thank God for death in the path of God, and join the martyrs’ ranks?”24 Like all Muslim advocates of martyrdom, Khomeini based the belief in the martyr’s eternal life on Qurʾanic passages, assuring the believers that those who “have been killed in God’s way” are not dead, but “are alive with their Lord, well provided for,” (3: 169–170; 9: 111). Moreover, martyrdom was the choice of the most noble, sublime, and self-willed form of death, which assures the believer passage from the temporary world to the eternal. “Those who fear martyrdom are afraid of death because they regard it as final. By contrast, we, who know that man lasts, and that eternal life is better than material life, what should we be afraid of?” he stated.25 Seeking to diminish the value of earthly life even further, Khomeini emphasized the corrupt nature of humanity stemming from its obsession with material things. Thus he spoke of the bestiality and “animal qualities,” of human life when it turns away from the path of God. Martyrdom, he implied, was the ultimate denial of one’s material “self,” and as such it would better humanity and strengthen Muslim unity.26 Hence, the form of death, whether voluntary or not, and its purpose was far more important than the fact of dying. There are those who regard death in the battlefield as a definitive loss for the individual and as an open wound in the nation’s body, caused by the loss of revolution’s young generation. This view would have been correct, Khomeini explained, had the goal of the war been merely to preserve our lives, so that the loss of life would mean losing the war. However, the Iranian leadership maintained that the questions of life and death and of victory and defeat should not be viewed in and of themselves, but only in the broader religious and philosophical context of the real meaning and goal of life. True victory depends on achieving the true goal of life and religion, whereas spurious goals will only produce a false victory. Starting from this premise, the real goal of jihad is thus to achieve a greater purpose, demanded by God, that is, obedience as mentioned in the Qurʾan (51: 56). Hence, the ultimate goal of martyrdom is to reach the highest level of worship and proximity to God.27 122

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Death is a certainty and there is no way of avoiding it. A natural death may be ordinary, but is of no consequence. A voluntary death in the cause of Islam, on the other hand, is a manifestation of monotheistic belief (towhid), the noblest form of Islamic observance and of the aim to please God that a Muslim can attain.28 “What could be better in the service of Islam and the noble Islamic nation than to drink the beverage of martyrdom and proudly meet God?,” Khomeini declared.29 People do not sacrifice their lives for material reasons, “for a comfortable home,” Khomeini said disdainfully. Rather, the essence of martyrdom was love of God and the craving to meet Him. It is “love of the true beloved (mahbub-i haqiqi) that obliterates everything else.” The warriors are not only a weapon against the enemy, but are like mystics (ʻArifan) who reach out for the elimination of matter (in the neo-Platonic sense of evil) and free themselves from the desires of this world. The soul imprisoned in the human body is offered up to God and is thus freed from its shackles.30 Although Khomeini rejected the notion that the martyr’s heavenly reward can be measured by worldly criteria, he sought to portray martyrdom as a seemingly rational transaction between the believer and God. It is only logical that a man would give his soul to God, and in return be granted a superior spirit, that is, an all-encompassing divine spirit, whose will is active and compelling, and whose aspirations are invariably fulfilled. Therefore, whoever does not accept the principle of divine transaction is either a fool or a liar.31 Indeed, in all of their statements, Khomeini and all other Iranian leaders referred only to the spiritual essence of this sustenance (rizq), picturing martyrdom as a “divine light” that surrounds the martyr.32 In this Iranian discourse I did not find a single reference to the 72 heavenly virgins (hurʿin) promised to each martyr, which characterized the Palestinian discourse of martyrdom after 1987.33 Similarly, a study of the written last wills and testaments of would-bemartyrs reveals that no material reward was offered to volunteer warriors. Rather, there was spiritual redemption and guaranteed entry into paradise for the martyrs and social compensation in the form of higher social status for the survivors, both the families of the dead and other fighters.34 Khomeini elaborated on the mystical ideal asserting that the martyr attained the closest intimacy with and immersion (fanaʾ) in God, as well as a superior understanding of the divine truth. As point of departure he took 123

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the veils, or barriers, that separate man from God, and that exist because of our limitations as human beings  – or, in his words, “we are the veils between our essence and the face (wajh) of God. These human limitations are the greatest veil of all, and all other oppressive veils emanate and end in man itself.” The sacrifice of one’s life for God, which demonstrates the greatest devotion to Islam, removes all veils of individuality and selfishness and is the best way to cut across the barriers that separate us from divine truth, thereby enabling the believer to reach ultimate perfection.35 As proof, Khomeini cited a tradition from the early Shiʿi compendium Usul al-kafi, according to which the most important reward of a martyr was that he would see God (ruʾyat Allah), within the limits of his being.36 He went even further when he claimed that the martyrs, who had sacrificed all they had for God, would have the veils removed, and God revealed to them in the same way that he had been revealed to the prophets, who were immersed in him and who regarded themselves from God. Martyrdom, then, constitutes a source of happiness, the fulfillment of truth that enables the martyrs to liberate themselves from the shackles of the human condition and reach the ranks of the angels in heaven.37 Those who failed to actualize the love of meeting God through martyrdom, with its profound esoteric rewards (thumratiha al-batiniyya) and spiritual manifestations, would not reach the ultimate marvel of metamorphosis and of divine victory, he declared. Khomeini, therefore, equated the reward of those who carried out the “greater jihad” with that of martyrs in the battlefield, as both attained the state of spiritual elevation (fayd), which every lover wishes for himself – the encounter with the beloved.38 Moreover, Khomeini described martyrdom as a form of “art” (honar), explaining that the warriors and martyrs were not only artists, but that they also produced a unique type of art, which ordinary artists were unable to create.39 Khomeini conceded the inability of the clergy, let  alone of ordinary people, to grasp or imagine the elevation of the secret worlds and spiritual gradations that the martyrs attained.40 What philosophers and mystics reached via logic and contemplation, the martyrs saw with their own eyes; and what the former were looking for in books and manuscripts the martyrs found in the arena of blood and martyrdom. The capacity of grasping the supreme level was one of the attributes of the “perfect man” (insan kamil), that is, the mystic who attained the highest degree of spirituality.41 124

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Yet, while glorifying the martyr’s elevated spiritual level, Khomeini and other Iranian spokesmen refrained from openly attributing supernatural attributes (karamat) to them, as was the case among some Sunni circles.42 Conceivably, they believed that such attributes belonged only to the “fourteen pure ones” (the Prophet, the twelve imams, and Fatima), and they did not wish to place the martyrs on a higher level than the clergy, thereby potentially challenging the clergy’s charismatic and political authority. The intimate encounter with God, or “meeting the Beloved,” according to Khomeini, became the subject of passion for all awliya-e Islam. They wanted their spirits to leave their bodies; had it not been for the specific lifespan assigned to them, their spirits would not even have remained in their bodies – out of longing for recompense (thawab) and fear of punishment (ʿaqab). First and foremost amongst them was ʿAli, the commander of the faithful, who yearned for martyrdom, as should all his followers and lovers. “We should ask God to bless us with martyrdom, one moment followed by eternal bliss. If we believe in the “mysterious/supernatural (ghayb), we should thank God almighty that we will get killed and join the assembly of martyrs, he concluded.”43 The Awliyaʾ regarded death as sweeter than honey, Khomeini declared, and “your sons at the battle fronts have acquired part of this [sweetness], and the passion [for death] engulfed them. Some of this passion and sweetness was also revealed among the martyrs’ family members, and we [the ruling clergy] are bound to say that they wished they could be with the martyrs and gain this great victory, too.”44 With the ideal of martyrdom viewed as the complete opposite to materialism and this-worldliness, Khomeini and other Iranian spokesmen maintained that all martyrs-to-be would undergo psychological, spiritual, and moral metamorphosis, which would draw them nearer to God, even before they received the heavenly reward. Sacrificing one’s life for the sake of the community, so that it will mend its ways is by itself a sign of greatness and the highest level of devotion. Yet, not everyone can become a martyr – only those chosen by God do, thanks to their piety, their understanding of the magnitude of the act, their asceticism and devotion to the “school of ʿAshuraʾ.”45 Not surprisingly, Khomeini expressed his envy of the martyrs who had achieved such great bliss, “while we cannot join them,” and “stay in this lowly earthly world.”46 Moreover, thanks to the culture of martyrdom, society at large has undergone a conscious change of values, norms, and social beliefs towards greater 125

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spirituality, in harmony with individual transformation. In the present materialistic world, the culture of martyrdom plays an important role in the fight against foreign values and in disseminating Islamic values, such as altruism, vigilance, endurance, and cultural awakening. Islam, whose basis is love of martyrdom, should be the subject of universal devotion.47 Hence Khomeini highlighted the importance of the spiritual attachment of those living alongside the martyrs’ spirits. Reading a martyr’s will shakes the spirits of the living and awakens the individual’s conscience, which Satan wishes to silence. It brings the soul of the living closer to the martyr’s soul, till they become one and the former is ready to receive divine spiritual emanation, that is martyrdom.48

The social and political role of martyrdom In addition to the spiritual value of martyrdom for the individual, Khomeini elaborated on its importance as essential for the awakening of Islam, the fulfillment of its values, and particularly for the Islamic Revolution’s long-term survival and success.49 Based on the model of Karbalaʾ, the quest for martyrdom comprises two battles:  a struggle against the internal “devil of the soul” and a struggle against external demons. The culture of martyrdom is an appropriate tool to confront the immoral and inhumane West. The holy warrior defeats these forces, as he replaces anger with enthusiasm, and lust with love.50 Accordingly, the ideals of martyrdom and of the 1979 revolution strengthened each other. The spirit of martyrdom was crucial for the revolution’s victory, and was at the same time revitalized by the blessing of the existence of an Islamic government. Khomeini boasted that Iran had been transformed into a society that was on a par with the nascent Islamic community, just as its youth concurred with the early believers’ vision of “martyrdom as a victory.”51 Moreover, the spirit of martyrdom would also enhance national harmony and ideological unity. Wherever we offer a martyr, our nation becomes more unified, he concluded. Iran, he further stated, “has achieved a situation which we cannot describe in any other way except to say that it is a divine society (italics added). It is a country whose people have realized that they should sacrifice themselves for the sake of Islam.”52 126

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From a military point of view, the ideological commitment of Iranian fighters, epitomized by the spirit of martyrdom, was a crucial means to overcome the material and technological inferiority of its armed forces vis-à-vis the Iraqi army. The choice of self-sacrifice, the official Iranian discourse claimed, was the most powerful weapon of the holy warrior, prevailing over material factors, and therefore invincible. Such conviction in the “victory of blood over the sword” (piruzi-ye khun bar shamshir) and the “superiority of the ‘Allah Akbar’ weapon over material weapons” should also be viewed within the broader issue of the superiority of the “spiritual” Islamic society of Iran over materialistic Western culture. The claim was that Islam’s enemies, who loved this world (dunyadust), wrongly believed that a large number of soldiers and weapons would ensure their victory. They failed to understand that material equations did not have the last word in the battlefield, but that it was the spirit and particularly the genuine desire for self-sacrifice that did. “No power can overcome a people whose men and women stand up with the utmost readiness to sacrifice their souls, insisting on martyrdom,” Khomeini stated. The aspiration for martyrdom in the war, he assured the Iranians, would guarantee Iran’s victory and would shame its enemies, even if the whole world supported them.53 “It is faith in God, and love of martyrdom that will give our people victory,” he promised.54 Moreover, the culture of martyrdom was essential as a weapon to compensate for the brutality that served the enemy in the battlefield.55 Equally important was the fact that martyrdom was seen as crucial for the strategic empowerment of Iran and the entire Islamic world vis-à-vis the imperialist West. First, as mentioned above, the ideal of martyrdom was to help achieve greater national unity in Iran.56 Second, thanks to its promotion of martyrdom, Iran would serve as the model for other nations or, in Khomeini’s words, “Qum is the center of martyrdom and valiance, from Qum knowledge is disseminated over the whole world and from Qum martyrdom will be spread over the whole world.” Third, Iran would be the propagator of the idea of international cooperation based on religious ties and anti-imperialism,57 while the spirit of self-sacrifice would allay the fears of Iranians and oppressed peoples all over the world. The Iranian nation, Khomeini declared, “is not afraid of any enemy, of any power, of any conspiracy. Its only fear is that martyrdom will no longer be part of its religion.”58 127

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Khomeini believed that the ideal of martyrdom would generate a wave throughout the world that would revive Islam, enhance the status of the oppressed, of freedom-seekers and Muslims, and restore the proper balance of power in a predatory international system. In this way, the enemies’ efforts to sideline Islam would fail.59 Moreover, he added, “The fall of Western and Eastern cultures will not succeed without martyrdom.60 In addition, Khomeini sought to enlist the ideal of martyrdom to combat growing discontent among ordinary Iranians over the increasing economic hardships caused by revolutionary upheaval, ongoing warfare, and governmental mismanagement. It was inconceivable, he admonished the people, that a nation whose men and women “love martyrdom” would complain about a shortage of a negligible number of products. “Such moans are only raised by materialistic people, but those who love God will not be influenced by abundance or shortages. Those who march towards martyrdom are not interested by news that their money had been stolen by thieves, or by rising food prices. They are not marching to gather booty, since their booty is eternal.”61 With such perceptions, it is not surprising that Khomeini and all Iranian leaders described martyrdom as “bliss” (saʿadat), a divine boon (niʿma ilahiyya), a “blessing” (fayd), or a divine gift that God awards only to his closest and most favored worshippers.62 “Red death,” he declared, “is better than black life, and our people prefer red death over dishonorable life, and they pledge to God to follow the path of Imam Husayn.”63 The elevation of martyrdom to a subject of aspiration and of victory led to its portrayal as one of Iran’s major war aims and to a manifestation of moral and ideological victory, equal to – if not more important than – victory in the battlefield itself. The culture of martyrdom, Amini Rad argued, possessed unique characteristics, which distinguished it from other cultures and countries. Its “theocentric” (khodamehvari) principle stood in opposition to principles guiding other armies in the world. The warriors of Islam looked for God in contrast to other strategies, regarded the conquest of territory merely as a secondary goal.64 This argument became more and more crucial as Iran was unable to achieve decisive military victory and as casualties in the war mounted, so that enthusiasm for martyrdom faded and the number of volunteers declined.65 Accordingly, if the Islamic republic fought for Islam against kufr, and if martyrdom is the ultimate fulfillment of Islam, then Iran and 128

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the Iranians will attain their ultimate aim and secure victory over the enemy. In other words, no matter how the actual war proceeded, Iran would emerge triumphant, as even defeat in the battlefield could be construed as victory if it resulted in martyrdom. Or, in Khomeini’s words, “a society for which martyrdom is bliss is a victorious society; whether we kill or get killed we are victorious, as we will attain the sacred goals of religion and preserve the legacy of Islam.”66 “You are on the winning side,” he promised the Iranians “because you have embraced martyrdom whereas those who fear martyrdom are the defeated ones.”67

Conclusion The Iranian discourse of martyrdom during the Iran-Iraq War was the culmination of a process that began in the 1960s and in which Shiʿism assumed a more activist and politicized form. The active pursuit of martyrdom was the outcome of a process of politicization, when both the onslaught of the modern state and secular ways of life posed unprecedented challenges to Islamic identity and way of life, and when Shiʿi scholars – both laymen and clerics – sought to transform religion into the basis of a new political system. The 1979 revolution and, even more so, the long war against Iraq drove the glorification of martyrdom to new heights. It was undoubtedly motivated by the necessity to mobilize the masses and call for sacrifices in extreme circumstances, and was a means to overcome the technological supremacy of the enemy. An additional factor appears to have been Khomeini’s personal inclination. During the revolution, he espoused the most confrontational position against the Shah’s regime, regardless of the price it entailed. He was the one who framed the war as a religious struggle against the idolatrous taghut, and he relented only when he realized that Iran could no longer carry on the fight. Equally important, Khomeini’s mystical inclination led to the focus on the martyr’s spiritual proximity to God as the great reward for his self-sacrifice. A major issue in dealing with such a discourse is that of reception of the message by the intended audience of the martyrdom discourse. During the war’s first years, the regime’s glorification of martyrdom was very effective, as shown by the huge number of volunteers and the wills written by future martyrs. Moreover, the memoirs of many front-line soldiers described 129

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the war experience as a “unique religious happening in which they felt an inexplicable mystical proximity to their creator and the Shiʿi imams.” They called the war front “the land of light,” where the scent of love and God filled the air. The stench of mutilated burned and dead bodies was attenuated by the sweet scent of spiritualism and supernatural occurrences.68 It seems quite plausible that there was some element of retrospective manipulation and invention of such feelings. However, the mass manifestations of self-sacrifice by Iranian soldiers attest to the genuineness of these beliefs. Similarly, the inculcation of the Karbalaʾ paradigm was most successful among the Islamic Revolution Guard Corps (IRGC), the hard core of the Iranian regime’s loyalists. According to Farzaneh, IRGC martyrs left wills that were overwhelmingly (over 95 percent) religious in tone, as they highlighted Karbalaʾ and Imam Husayn. This is not to say that the majority of them did not allude to Iran and its territorial integrity as a motivation for fighting, but this was not the central theme. Concurrently, the wills left by the Basiji (a volunteer militia) were more balanced (ca. 60 percent were overwhelmingly religious), so that they gave both secular and religious reasons for their fight.69 As the war continued and decisive victory eluded the Iranian armies, enthusiasm for martyrdom declined. The growing emphasis on the political and social benefits of the spirit of martyrdom voiced by Iran’s leaders pointed to a need to justify their policies with more “rational” arguments for martyrdom as empowering Iran and Islam. A more problematic theme of this process was the presentation of martyrdom as an end in itself and a manifestation of victory, and as the greatest fulfillment of Islam. Although Khomeini and other spokesmen of the regime had portrayed death as the epitome of bliss, by the end of the war most Iranians ultimately preferred life.

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7 The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon Isaac Hasson

Introduction This volume discusses the concept of martyrdom (shahada) as perceived in early and classical Islam but mainly in the modern era. The present chapter focuses on the Lebanese Hizballah, and on the methods it uses to instill the value of martyrdom and to produce fighters who are willing to sacrifice themselves – whether in attack or in defense. It will examine the sources of Hizballah’s doctrine of martyrdom and the organization’s methods of disseminating them. The Shiʿi community in Lebanon has undergone many profound changes in recent decades – social, cultural, political, and economic.1 Once a marginal component of Lebanese society in terms of its economic and social clout, it has become the most powerful sect in the Lebanese state. This transformation began with Imam Musa al-Sadr, who was active in Lebanon from 1960 until his disappearance in Libya in 1978.2 Al-Sadr established education and welfare infrastructures for the Shiʿi community and helped it shake off the social and cultural backwardness that characterized the majority of its members. He also helped rid the Lebanese Shiʿis of their negative self-image, and thus paved the way for the rise of the next influential Shiʿi leader, Sayyid Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah. 131

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Fadlallah, whose influence grew considerably after Sadr’s disappearance, worked hard to inculcate the notion that the Muslims in general, and the Lebanese Shiʿis in particular, must get power and weapons in order to avoid being in a position of inferiority. In his book al-Islam wa-mantiq al-quwwa [Islam and the logic of power], he argued that Muslims must take the initiative rather than merely react to the actions of others.3 He stressed that “power played a major role in the initial outward surge of Islam, and therefore we must know its characteristics and limits, lest we distance ourselves from the straight path of Islam.”4 He attacked scholars who claimed that “only preventive or defensive war is permitted in Islam,” as well as “those who reject the notion that war … is one of the methods of daʿwa [i.e. proselytizing Islam], and “one of the practical ways of recruiting others to this religion.”5 He added, “the Qurʾan as a whole constitutes a practical constitution for the use of power in all domains of life, both intellectual and practical.”6 He detailed the ways in which the Lebanese Shiʿis would place themselves on an equal footing with the Christians and Sunnis in the country and shake off the image they had acquired, as mustadʻafun (disinherited) or as a weak sector. Fadlallah thus prepared the Shiʿis for the next stage: that of armed struggle and the advent of Hizballah. In fact, he served as the organization’s ideologue during the first years of its activity.7 Under its third secretary-general, Sayyid Hasan Nasrallah, Hizballah managed to transform the Lebanese Shiʿis into one of the most powerful – if not the most powerful – sectors in the country. Thanks to a combination of factors, including its comprehensive education system, it inculcated its doctrine and developed an enormous arsenal and well trained, well organized militia, with the full backing of Iran and Syria.8 This organization now uses its power to dictate Lebanon’s political agenda, enthrone and dethrone prime ministers, and virtually exercise sovereignty in the Shiʿi-populated regions under the military control of Hizballah forces. As many Western researchers have long emphasized, Islamic doctrines are not just a set of religious beliefs and laws, but they also contain aspirations to be a body of government that regulates the affairs of Muslim society. Today, Muslim writers have widened the definition to include nearly every domain in the believer’s life. In his 1976 book The Spread of Islam, Iranian researcher Abu Al-Fazl Ezzati, then a lecturer at Tehran University before the Islamic Revolution, proposed the following definition: 132

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The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon Islam is an all-inclusive systematic religion, an interrelated set of ideals and realities covering the entire area of human notion and action, beliefs and practices, thought, word, and deed. Islamic principles and concepts cannot be fully and properly appreciated unless they are analyzed and realized with the framework of Islam as a whole.9

This definition accurately describes what modern Muslim fundamentalist Sunnis and Shiʿis alike, try to achieve in the countries or areas under their control. It describes the situation in Afghanistan under the Taliban, and, to some extent, in Iran and in Lebanon. Media reports indicate that in the parts of Lebanon under Hizballah control, the movement’s leadership involves itself in nearly every aspect of the residents’ lives, and successfully inculcates a wide range of messages – political, military, social, and educational. One of the messages that has received the greatest emphasis pertains to shahada (martyrdom) and istishhad (seeking martyrdom).10 In spreading these concepts, Hizballah has to a large extent followed the lead of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Founded, funded, and armed by Iran, Hizballah has adopted the ideology of Ayatollah Khomeini, the founder of the Islamic Republic. Among the many elements it adapted to the Lebanese reality is Khomeini’s doctrine on the struggle against the “enemies of Islam” and on its methods of indoctrinating society. It especially espoused Khomeini’s ideology in all that pertains to recruiting the younger generation and instilling in it the ability to undertake any necessary task ahead of the coming of the Shiʿi messiah, the Twelfth Imam. The imam – also called sahib al-ʻasr wa’l-zaman, the “lord of age and time” – is expected to appear and vanquish the enemies of God, that is, the age-old enemies of the Shiʿa. One of the important tasks in paving the way for his arrival is to develop military abilities and amass military power in order to root out his potential enemies and to join his forces should he arrive in the foreseeable future. Dying in the course of these preparations and thus “missing” the chance to join the forces of the Mahdi does not entail any loss for the believer, since a martyr is unfailingly ensured his reward in the next world and a place near the imams in paradise. Shiʿi literature throughout the ages is replete with descriptions of the joys awaiting the martyrs in paradise, and is rich in traditions that supplement what the Qurʾan says on this topic. The 133

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Iranian Revolution made extensive use of these verses and traditions, especially during the Iran-Iraq war (1980–88), thus providing Hizballah with plenty of material that can be disseminated among the Shiʿis in Lebanon.11 Hizballah inculcates this message in all sectors of Lebanon’s Shiʿi population in such a way that the majority regards it as the pinnacle of religious aspiration. In the following sections, I present examples from various official Hizballah publications that exemplify the ideal of martyrdom and show how the organization presents and spreads this message.

The concept of shahada in the Shiʿa since the Iranian Revolution In 1980, faced with an invasion by Saddam Husayn’s army, the Iranian regime had to organize military forces to replace the army of the deposed shah, most of whose top commanders and pilots had defected or were in prison. The regime swiftly organized a propaganda campaign with intense religious overtones, aimed at generating religious-patriotic fervor and rallying all citizens, young and old, to the defense of the homeland and the revolution. The Iranian recruits were taught that the fall of the revolutionary regime would not mean the fall of Iran, but of Islam itself (since, according to the doctrine of this regime, the Shiʿa is the only true form of Islam). The media of the revolution placed special emphasis on the importance of shahada and istishhad; they drew heavily from the classical Shiʿi heritage, which provides a multitude of historical and religious traditions that could be used to promote the value of seeking martyrdom and the rewards of paradise. The leaders of the Iranian revolution added a new dimension to the importance of shahada by linking it directly with the Hidden Imam. They taught that the regime of wilayat al-faqih (the governance of the jurisprudent, established by Khomeini in 1979) was the only legitimate regime in Islam, and that its role was to prepare the ground for the Hidden Imam’s arrival. They also led the masses to believe that the wali faqih – the cleric at the head of Iran’s ruling hierarchy – was the actual representative of the Hidden Imam on earth. This notion was adopted by Hizballah as well.12 When mentioning the wali faqih, Hizballah’s official organs often make a point of adding the title al-qaʾid al-mulham (the leader inspired by God).13 In some cases, the rule of the faqih was described as “bearing characteristics 134

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of the prophets and the imams.”14 Some even claimed that the legitimacy of Khameneʾi’s rule was derived directly from God, and that the committee that elected him was divinely inspired and therefore not authorized to depose him.15 His orders were therefore binding for every Muslim. The ultimate reward of shahada is attaining a place in paradise as close as possible to the greatest Shiʿi martyr of all times, Imam Husayn b. ʿAli, killed in Karbalaʾ in 680 ce. To merit such a reward, a believer must die in the service of the Hidden Imam, in the course of activity aimed at preparing the ground for the imam’s appearance and his domination of the world, as foretold by Shiʿi Islam for generations. The Iranian revolutionary regime is presented as a crucial stage on the way to his appearance, so that dying in defense of this regime, or the territory it rules, is considered shahada of the very first order.

Hizballah and the shahada Hizballah was founded at Iran’s initiative in 1985, three years after the Israeli invasion of Lebanon, with the express aim of liberating this country from the Israeli occupation and establishing an Islamic republic there, modeled after the Islamic Republic of Iran.16 There was hence a need to prepare a large force of warriors willing to die in battle. However, the specific case of Hizballah involved a new dimension, unprecedented in Muslim and Shiʿi history:  Iran’s wali faqih appointed a personal representative of his in a country where the Shiʿis formed a minority, not a majority, and where different groups had been struggling for years for political and ideological hegemony. As the representative of the wali faqih, the current Hizballah’s leader (presently Nasrallah) himself becomes an indirect representative of the Hidden Imam. This means that any activity he dictates assumes the status of a religious obligation, which, when met, earns the believer a reward. In fact, Nasrallah’s appointment by Khameneʾi is reminiscent of the Shiʿi tradition of the Four Ambassadors (al-sufaraʾ al-arbaʿa) who were appointed successively by the Hidden Imam during his Lesser Occultation (al-ghayba al-sughra).17 Another important dimension of Hizballah’s and Iran’s ideological doctrine is the centrality of the Jews as enemies of Islam. At the beginnings of the Muslim Empire, its traditional enemies were Byzantine Christians and pagans. The Shiʿis, who usually lived in a state of oppression under 135

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Sunni rule, regarded them as enemies. As for the Jews, who are reviled in the Qurʾan, they were perhaps a virtual and ideological “rival,” but it was inconceivable that they would ever have a state or an army of their own. According to the Qurʾan, the Jews are condemned to humiliation and destitution (2:61); to God’s anger, poverty, and abasement (3:112); to the anger of their Lord and abasement in this present life (7:152). The popular Sunni exegesis called Tafsir al-Jalalayn explains that the state of humiliation and destitution “adheres to them as the dirham [coin] adheres to what is stamped upon it.”18 When it explains Sura 7:152, the same exegesis adds: “They are condemned to humiliation until the Day of Judgment” (duribat ʿalayhim al-dhilla ila yawm al-qiyama).19 As he began to export his revolution to Sunni or partly Sunni countries, Khomeini branded Israel, and the Zionists – or, more explicitly, the Jews – as the enemies of his country and of Islam.20 This required no great effort, because Shiʿi tradition is replete with anti-Jewish motifs. Today – now that Iran’s Supreme Leader, Khameneʾi, has called to stage attacks against the Zionists (who are dubbed the Small Satan), and now that a special force has been established in Iran, called the Quds (Jerusalem) Force, whose declared mission is to liberate Palestine – Israel and the Zionists have become one of the primary targets of jihad. Thus dying in the struggle against them is presented as the highest form of shahada, earning the shahid the greatest reward in the world to come. It should be stressed that the joys of the world to come form a supremely important aspect of Hizballah’s concept of martyrdom. In the Shiʿa, and generally in Islam, life in this world is only one stage in a man’s existence. The end of life here on earth is not the end of a man’s existence, but the beginning of a much more meaningful stage: either paradise, with all its pleasures, for those who have followed the correct path in this life, or else hell (for a limited period or for all eternity) for those who have not. Hizballah greatly emphasizes this point. In an article titled “This is How Hizballah Members Educate Themselves,” Shaykh Mustafa Qasir, director of Hizballah’s Islamic Organization for Education and Culture, wrote: The Islamic educational program is based on an ideological perspective that determines the philosophy of man’s existence, the purpose of creation and the end to which we aspire … Man

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The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon was created to remain, not to perish … and therefore life in this world, which expires and ends in death, is only one circle among the circles of life, and a temporary station from which man moves on to an eternal life untouched by death. Man toils here so that his life in the world to come will be honorable and saturated with joy and calm. This, providing that he chose well and followed the correct path.21

This passage implies that Hizballah fighters who care about their fate in the world to come must carry out any orders issued by the representatives of the Hidden Imam, without being afraid of dying in the course of this mission. If he dies, he is guaranteed a place in paradise, alongside the other martyrs and the Twelver Imams, which is supposed to be the ultimate aspiration of any Shiʿi. In this context, it should also be stressed that not all martyrs enjoy equal privilege in paradise. The class of “martyrs” includes not only those who died in holy war. A prophetic hadith lists several others, such as victims of drowning or fire, who are also considered martyrs.22 Another hadith holds that people with a great love in their hearts for the Prophet’s family also count as martyrs.23 Since love and reverence for the Prophet’s family is one of the fundamental principles of the Shiʿa, this hadith can be taken to imply that any Shiʿi who adheres to the tenets of his faith is automatically considered a martyr. However, one who dies for a noble cause in the service of one of the Twelver Imams naturally enjoys a much higher status than other martyrs. Statements made by Nasrallah in late 2005 reflect the perception of martyrdom that Hizballah wishes the Lebanese to internalize. At a funeral of Hizballah fighters killed in a series of clashes, he said, We meet today at a martyr’s nuptial celebration. It is an important but standard day in our journey and in our country. The martyrs are the natural face of our actions, and are not strange or unusual, nor are they a passing phenomenon. They are part of our culture, our civilization, our religious beliefs and our essence, the crux of our existence and the truth of our journey.24

These statements by Nasrallah exemplify some important aspects of Hizballah’s perception of martyrdom. 137

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First, the funerals of martyrs are routinely referred to as “nuptials” (a phenomenon also found in Palestine), thus presenting the burial ceremony, usually regarded as a sad and somber occasion, as joyful because the martyr has earned the greatest reward one can attain. He acquires a place in paradise alongside the Twelve Imams, the prophets and the righteous, and access to almost limitless pleasures of the flesh, including ones that are forbidden in this world (such as the company of the Wide-Eyed Virgins, whom the martyr is “marrying”). In addition, thanks to the martyr’s virtue, his family members, and friends are also admitted into paradise. Nasrallah also stresses that self-sacrifice is part of the Shiʿi faith, part of the very essence of Shiʿi existence. This is nothing new; it is a perception that developed throughout the history of the Shiʿi movements, since Karbalaʾ. Another salient aspect of Hizballah’s perception of martyrdom is the honor that a martyr’s death confers upon his family. Nasrallah stressed this aspect in the eulogy he delivered at the funeral of his son Hadi, who was killed in 1997 in a battle with Israeli soldiers. He said: “I thank God … and praise Him for his great bounty … [namely] that He accepted me and my family as members in the holy and honorable assembly of martyrs’ families … I am the one who has been orphaned by your death, my son.”25 In these statements, Nasrallah not only acknowledged the honorable status of the martyrs’ families, but also set a personal example: he had lost a son, but, as a good Muslim, he must thank God rather than rail against Him for taking his loved one. More than that, he publicly thanked God for choosing his son as a martyr and his family as worthy of this honor. In another statement, stressing the great privilege conferred upon the martyrs’ families, Nasrallah said: I congratulate the martyrs’ families that their sons were [found] worthy of this supreme divine honor and that they attained it. Their sons were chosen and picked out by God to be martyrs. …They demonstrated nobility of spirit … by persistently continuing on the path of struggle. We [the living] are unworthy to speak of the martyrs, their status and their greatness. God is the one who spoke of them [when He said]: ‘Do not think of those who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for’ [3:169]. In our culture and

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The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon our way of thinking, martyrdom is a gate leading from the false life to the true life, from everyday life to eternal life, from a life of amusements, games, boasting and bragging to a life of true paradise, lasting peace and the fragrance of flowers. … We place the martyrs in God’s hands and present them to him as a sacrifice. We promise them that we shall follow in their footsteps until we join them.26

These statements of Nasrallah’s speak for themselves and require no further explanation. The important point is that some of his followers regard his word as sacred and utterly credible because he is the personal representative of Khameneʾi, who is the deputy of the Hidden Imam and is, ultimately, inspired by God. Since the greatest martyr in Shiʿi tradition is Husayn b, ʿAli, many of Hizballah’s publications cite Khomeini’s statement in which he associated today’s martyrs with Husayn and the latter’s companions, who died in the Battle of Karbalaʾ: “The blood of our martyrs is a continuation of the pure blood of Karbalaʾ.” This statement often appears as a header on Hizballah texts dealing with martyrs and martyrdom.

Disseminating the message of martyrdom In an editorial in Hizballah’s official newspaper, the chairman of the paper’s board of directors writes: The resistance [i.e. Hizballah] has managed to present a new model of fighting based on the principles of jihad and shahada … The plan of the resistance necessitates inculcating this culture and its principles via the media, preachers’ pulpits, [social and political] salons, various circles, periodic forums and other means… It is a promising step in a 1,000-mile journey.27

As this passage shows, Hizballah has continuously used every means at its disposal to disseminate its ideas among its supporters and potential supporters, and even among its enemies. Realizing the importance of matching the channel of communication to the target audience, the organization uses a wide range of media and other means of communication: a network of TV and radio stations that air live news; cleverly produced programs, such as pseudo documentary historical series that stress the hostility of the 139

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Jews towards the Prophet Muhammad; lectures and courses for adults and youths, including courses for women and girls, that elevate figures like the Prophet’s daughter Fatima, the mother of Hasan and Husayn, who died as a martyr, or her daughter Zaynab, who bravely confronted the Umayyad Caliph Yazid b. Muʿawiya. Hizballah also makes use of Iranian publications on various aspects of a believer’s life. As part of this, it translates and distributes nearly all material published by Iran’s religious-political leadership that addresses or promotes jihad and martyrdom.28 All these means are geared to achieve the goal of indoctrination with the objective of turning the masses into disciples of wilayat al-faqih, who obey the directives of Khameneʾi and his Lebanese representatives and pursue victory at any cost. Hizballah’s radio and television stations dedicate programs to glorify the families of the martyrs. In most cases, the martyr’s mother speaks first, stressing in particular her son’s upbringing and how he was guided towards the path of sacrifice, and expressing satisfaction – even joy – that he has gained the special status of martyr. The mother is usually followed by the martyr’s wife and children. On 3 September 2011, ʿAli Haydar, a Shiʿi Lebanese journalist from a village in Jabal ʿAmil and an opponent of Hizballah, published an article titled “Joy Is Not My Profession: The Industry of Istishhad on [Hizballah’s] al-Manar TV.” The striking or amazing thing about the interviews with the martyrs’ families are the words that are uttered, first by the mother and then by the wife – not to mention the others, such as the children, who are clearly trained to repeat formal statements, unnatural for their age, which they recite in a dialect that is closer to high-flown standard Arabic than to colloquial Lebanese. These expressions roll off their innocent tongues like political speeches off the tongues of Hizballah’s commanders. For example, one little boy, the son of a martyr who died in the July 2006 war with Israel, says: “I promise my father to follow in his footsteps. I know, father, that you are in paradise, close to our leader Husayn, peace be upon him.”29

Haydar also compared how South Lebanese families responded to news of a loved one’s death in battle before the emergence of Hizballah, and after 140

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it. He wrote:  “In the past, we never saw the martyr’s mother celebrating her son’s death, or the wife coming out smiling to receive congratulations!” Various official Hizballah publications contained sections devoted to martyr stories. Baqiatollah, for example, had a section called al-Shuhadaʾ: Umaraʾ al-Janna (“The Martyrs: Princes of Paradise”), each publication dedicated to a different martyr. The articles contained a photo and personal details about the martyr: his childhood and upbringing, how he joined Hizballah and how he was killed. The texts consistently describe the martyr as an ordinary, average individual, who at a certain point of his life felt the need to serve his country and fight its enemies, and therefore enlisted, burning with the desire to attain martyrdom. Naturally, the martyr is always depicted in glowing terms and the reader is encouraged to follow in his footsteps. Another section, called Midad al-Shuhadaʾ (“Ink of the Martyrs” or, translated more loosely, “From a Martyr’s Pen”), showcases poems, stories, or contemplations written by martyrs. The quality and authenticity of the material are unimportant; the important point, from our perspective, is the reverence shown the martyr and his family. Yet another section is called Juʿbat Muqawim (“The Resistance Fighter’s Quiver”), which presents stories about Hizballah’s battles against Israel, each focusing on a particular fighter, usually one who was killed. These texts are written by professional editors and do not purport to be penned by the fighters themselves. They too are replete with overt messages glorifying martyrs and martyrdom. Hizballah holds periodic competitions for “the best story about an istishhadi (martyrdom-seeker). The terms of the competition specify that the story must describe “the main milestones in the martyrdom seeker’s life, his education, jihad activity, virtues, and conduct.” Participants are also instructed to consult the competition committee about the martyr’s identity. Furthermore, the committee notes that it is willing to help the writers and provide them with “the material and information necessary for the story.” The first competition, held in 2006, carried 3 prizes of 1,500,000; 1,000,000; and 750,000 Lebanese pounds (then approximately 1,000, 660, and 500 USD).30 Also used by Hizballah for indoctrination purposes are martyrs’ last statements, which are published as part of articles about the martyrs, or as 141

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separate texts. A prominent example is a book titled The Passionate Love of Karbalaʾ (al-ʿIshq al-Karbalaʾi). The title is deliberately ambiguous, referring either to a passionate love for the city of Karbalaʾ (where Imam Husayn b. ʿAli was killed), or else to the passion for martyrdom that characterized prominent Hizballah commander Husayn Mahdi Muhammad ʿAli, whose nom de guerre was “Karbalaʾ.” The 304-page book (no date) is a compilation of traditional Shiʿi prayers recited at various places of pilgrimage and on specific occasions. But the important parts from our perspective are the first 18 pages. After a text that dedicates the book to “the noblemen and saints of this [Shiʿi] community, the martyrs of the Islamic resistance,” and to Hassan Nasrallah, “patron of the blood and the spirits”, there is a brief biography of Husayn Mahdi Muhammad ʿAli, followed by the full text of his last statement. This text, obviously authored by a skilled writer, probably not by the fighter himself, sheds much light on the notion of the ideal fighter that Hizballah wishes to inculcate in the masses. The statement opens with a Shiʿi declaration of faith, which says, “I declare that the Imam al-Mahdi is my master and the Imam of my age. May my soul and blood be spilled as a sacrifice onto the soil over which he will come.” Then comes a series of blessings for Khomeini, “the sacred and most holy” (al-muqaddas al-aqdas), for “the leader of all Muslims ʿAli Khameneʾi, and for Nasrallah. An analysis of this last statement and others like it that appeared in various publications reveals an attempt by Hizballah to liken its martyrs to prominent Shiʿi figures of the classical period. The martyrs are presented as steeped in the principles of Shiʿi Islam, which they believe without a shadow of a doubt. They see the enemies of the Shiʿa throughout the ages as their own enemies, and curse those who “oppressed and killed the Imams” – albeit without mentioning their names, as was done in the past by Shiʿis living among a Sunni majority.31 In The Passionate Love of Karbalaʾ, the martyr urges his comrades to keep fighting without fearing death, because all men must die and fighters should strive to sacrifice themselves upon the altar of martyrdom and regard death as joy and life amid their oppressors as sorrow.32 He enjoins his comrades to remember that “were it not for the martyrs, they would not have attained a level of might and strength to be proud of.” Large portions of the statement are remarkably reminiscent of speeches by ʿAli b. Abi 142

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Talib, the first Imam of the Shiʿa, as compiled in the book Nahj al-balagha (Peak of eloquence) which is quoted extensively in Hizballah publications. Addressing his father, the martyr apologizes for being unable to repay him even a little of what he owes him, and emphasizes that he joined the resistance thanks to the upbringing his father gave him. He reminds his father that he knew his son would likely fall in battle, and that he (the father) would be rewarded by “his beloved ʿAli, commnder of the faithful.”33 Addressing his mother, he asks her, when she feels like crying over him, to remember Zaynab, sister of Husayn, who lost her entire family in the Battle of Karbalaʾ. He adds that weeping over a martyr is an act that harms the martyr himself. He asks her to greet his fellow resistance fighters with joy and pride, for they are the few who have dedicated themselves to God and their souls to the resistance.34 He also addresses his wife, asking her to forgive him if he ever hurt her in any way, and reminds her, too, of Zaynab, who endured the worst possible disaster – the loss of her brother Husayn. He urges her to raise their son and daughter, ʿAli and Fatima, on the principles of Islam, which means being proud of their father and of his death as a martyr, and being willing to die as martyrs themselves for the sake of the Mahdi or his representative. To his young children, he says: “I wanted so much to see you defending Islam – but now the responsibility [for raising you to do all this] falls to my parents and my brothers.”35 Finally, turning to his brothers, he tells them that, as Khomeini said, the road to attaining the goals of Islam is long and difficult, and that they must persist on it. The difference between this and other last statements attributed to “ordinary martyrs” rather than to “martyred commanders” is the emphasis placed on the need to fight the bitterest enemies of God and mankind: the Jews and their helpers.36 Khomeini’s decision to set as his primary goals hostility towards Israel and the Jews, the liberation of Jerusalem, and drawing Sunnis to his ideology and revolution, finds expression in every page of this statement, as in most essays, articles, and sermons published by Hizballah. Hizballah receives special funding from Iran to cover the costs of maintaining a martyrdom culture. Among the recipients of this funding are the husayniyat, institutions providing religious, social, and educational services that are spread throughout South Lebanon. 143

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Finally, the militarization of society and inculcation of the ideal of martyrdom is also achieved by means of youth and sports activities. Hizballah’s youth movement, called Kashshafat al-Imam al-Mahdi (Mahdi Scouts Society),37 holds semimilitary activities and its members are explicitly designated as resistance fighters in training. As part of their training, they attend series of lectures, including ones that glorify martyrdom and martyrs. Hizballah’s Department of Sports is called the department of “mobilization through sports” (al-taʿbiʾa al-riyadiya), as the competitions it sponsors have a decidedly military flavor.

Conclusion Hizballah has turned the issue of martyrdom – which was already quite developed in classical Shiʿa – into a central theme in the life of the Shiʿis under its rule, promoting this ideal with the backing of Iran’s supreme religious leadership. Hizballah uses all conventional and electronic media to stress the importance of martyrdom in God’s reckoning and the great reward awaiting the martyr and his family in the world to come, and to describe it as one of the most important commandments that helps to preserve the Shiʿa and transform it into a dominant force in the Muslim world. It seems that Hizballah and its ideologues have succeeded in this mission, well beyond what they intended, as evidenced by the thousands of Hizballah fighters willing to participate in the deadly civil war raging in Syria. By glorifying the martyrs and their families and lavishing care on the martyrs’ dependents, and through commemoration projects and memorials attended by the organization’s top leaders, it has turned the human tragedy of death into an object of desire and a source of pride.

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8 Self-Sacrifice and Heroism in the Discourse of the Syrian Muslim Brethren Liad Porat

Introduction The Muslim Brethren set their sights on overthrowing the secular Arab regimes in the second half of the twentieth century. They carried out their struggle in various ways, in accordance with their ability and the response of the Arab rulers. Their campaigns ranged from propagation (daʿwa) to waging armed jihad. It appears that from all the Brethren groups in Arab countries, the Syrian Brethren waged the most aggressive and uncompromising campaign against the country’s incumbent regime. This chapter analyzes the transition from daʿwa indoctrination to armed struggle, shedding light on the ongoing discourse within the movement. This strategic shift was accompanied by an intellectual effort to find religious justification for the toppling of regimes. The indoctrination of self-sacrifice, intended to legitimize jihad while emphasizing the heroism of the holy warriors (mujahidun) in their ranks, is the focus of the discussion. This chapter argues that the shift to the use of arms constitutes an integral part of the Brethren’s concept of jihad. As opposed to other jihadist factions, the Brethren are more flexible in their interpretation of the complexity of the struggle. In other words, their evolving political approach facilitates flexibility in their campaign management. 145

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The Muslim Brethren have been calling for military jihad ever since the rise to power of the Asad regime in Syria – during the rule of Hafez al-Asad in the late 1970s and of his son Bashar (2000–), when exiled leaders incited activists to jihad and civil war. Although the Brethren preached jihad against both Asad regimes over a period of several decades, it appears that their basic concept of struggle did not change. What then were the aspects of their ideology that did actually change? Early on, research literature had depicted the Syrian Brethren as espousing democracy and liberalism.1 From the movement’s foundation in the 1940s until the rise to power of the Baʿth Party in March 1963, it took part in elections and was associated with the political establishment. Some of its representatives were elected to parliament and served in government. The 1963 coup d’état by Baʿthist military officers marked a break in the ideology and conduct of the Brethren. Ideological conflicts and governmental suppression led to a change in the Brethren’s stance. The violent incidents in the town of Hamah in 1964 revealed the regime’s inclination to brutal repression. When Muslim Brethren activists barricaded themselves in the al-Sultan Mosque, the army responded by shelling the mosque, killing dozens. From this point on it became clear to the Brethren that its members were now targeted by the state. Their activists were called upon to fight against the regime, which was described as an enemy of Islam, and be ready to sacrifice themselves. In the following years, the Muslim Brethren were torn by internal splits, as the Hamah faction opposed the Damascus and Aleppo groups, whom it blamed for backing down and surrendering. ʿIsam al-ʿAttar, who is identified with the Damascus branch, believed that the movement could become influential and promote its cause without resorting to violence. He was mindful of the Syrian army’s military advantage and of the repercussions of an armed revolt.2 Eventually, the militant stance of the Hamah branch prevailed. Marwan Hadid played a key role in tipping the balance towards armed struggle. A close reading of Hadid’s discourse is significant for gaining a better understanding of the motivation and dynamics behind the Brethren’s perception of jihad. Hadid studied in Egypt, where he had read the radical teachings of Sayyid Qutb (d. 1966). He was inspired by the latter’s perception of the struggle, and regarded him as a mentor and role model. Hadid translated Qutb’s profound 146

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hostility toward the Nasser regime into a justification of the struggle against the Baʿth regime. On his return to Syria, he found fertile ground amongst the Brethren activists for the idea of underground groupings and trained them for armed struggle. To this end, he founded the Fighting Vanguard.3 Immediately after Asad seized power in 1970, the tension between the Baʿth and the Muslim Brethren mounted. Asad cultivated a nationalist ideology and drew closer to the atheist, communist Soviet Union. In 1973, the new constitution led to a further rift between Asad and the Brethren. The movement threatened to call a protest strike and Asad was forced to compromise temporarily. Pressured by the protest, he retained the clause stating that the country’s president must be a Muslim, and allowed for shariʿa law to remain (at least on paper) a major source of legislation.4 Although Hadid did not officially hold a Brethren leadership position, he initiated the armed struggle against the state, pushing the movement to adopt his militant approach. By the end of the 1970s, Hadid’s military strategy had gained the support of the movement’s leadership. This found expression in the publications of the Brethren. The calls for self-sacrifice were transformed into systematic indoctrination, with those who had been martyred in the struggle held up as shining examples of heroism.5 Hadid himself composed poems about the struggle, encouraging Muslim activists to sacrifice their souls in armed jihad. His poems were collected in a special album and still serve as a milestone in the Brethren’s struggle. With the eruption of violence in the late 1970s, the use of a sectarian motif became more prominent. The Brethren depicted the regime as being dominated by heretical minorities, the ʿAlawites in particular, that were actively seeking to wipe out faithful Sunni Muslims. Given such escalation, the Brethren proclaimed the town of Hamah to be liberated territory. In order to liberate the land from Asad’s rule, they called for armed jihad and martyrdom. By the end of February 1982, the regime had gained the upper hand and defeated the dissident movement. The consequences of the repression of the revolt, in particular the killing of thousands (an estimated 5,000 to 30,000 victims), turned the armed struggle into a religious obligation for the Brethren. These violent events, sapped the Brethren’s strength and ability to carry out effective resistance for many years, leaving an indelible mark on the movement, which was also reflected in the style and content 147

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of its publications. Consequently, the Hamah massacre became a formative event around which the Brethren organized commemorative events, giving them a more relevant meaning. From that moment on, Marwan Hadid, who died in prison in 1976, was thought of as the person who had initiated the armed struggle. The circumstances of Hadid’s death are not quite clear. The Brethren told one story, while the Asad regime presented a different version. The former asserted that Hadid had been tortured to death in prison, while the regime stated that Hadid had died after going on a hunger strike.6 In any event, the Brethren’s narrative turned him into a “living martyr” and a symbol of self-sacrifice, dedication, heroism, and true faith. Hadid’s activist vision became anchored in short poems, edited and published in 1983.

Hadid’s martyrdom legacy Hadid’s poems testify to his firm religious faith and to his being ill at ease with Syria’s political reality. In the poem “A Meeting with Destiny” Hadid stated that he gained comfort and spiritual strength from his closeness to God. He later declared that he was ready to kill in the name of his creed, and would do so with great satisfaction.7 Apart from his fear of God, Hadid said, he had no fear of death. He wished for a heroic death in the name of God, as it was through this kind of death that he would find life, forgiveness, and grace. In his poems, Hadid encouraged his friends, the holy warriors, to offer their souls to the struggle since “martyrs will be granted absolution.” He claimed that the death of heroes cured their spirit,8 and that warriors should have no doubts or fear of death. In his poem “To Death,” the title of which speaks for itself, Hadid encouraged self-sacrifice: “Let’s go to our deaths and to the killing.”9 In another poem, “I Am a Martyr of the Camp,” Hadid expressed his unwavering religious faith alongside his willingness to sacrifice his life. This poem evolves into an activist call for the deliverance of the soul and for martyrdom: “Oh my brothers, do not be saddened … I am the martyr of the mihna.” The term mihna (ordeal) was used by the Egyptian Muslim Brethren to describe the political and ideological persecution of the Muslim faithful by tyrannical and heretical regimes. Hadid was predicting 148

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Figure 8.1 Commemorating Marwan Hadid (source: https://soundcloud.com/ ahtd993/svrdxsimpx67).

or invoking the future when he would die as a hero in this struggle: “My joy lies in my heart’s desire (to die as a martyr) … today I will end my exile.” Indeed, Hadid’s life gave him no peace. His religious beliefs and perception of the conflict dictated that he could only follow one path: “My honor is in being a martyr which gives me joy.”10 Death, he said, liberates us, cleanses us, and grants the shahid eternal life.” He described the pleasures of paradise where, he claimed, the shuhada’ would meet their loved ones, as well as the Prophet Muhammad and his followers. The poem ended with the words “Our faith is our weapon … and our lives reside in heroism.”11 Hadid expanded upon the benefits of eternal life in paradise, when all sins are forgiven: In death the martyr, who sacrifices himself of his own free will, is rewarded with eternal life for having shown outstanding courage.12 According to the poem “Towards Death” Hadid had committed himself to God in his youth and promised to fulfill his religious obligations, including fighting heretics and dying a martyr.13 Indeed, Hadid refused to accept the presence of a heretical ruler who treated his people like slaves. He called 149

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out to the movement activists to take up arms and to clean the land of all tyrants with the aim of instating the law of God. Dedication to the cause, determination, and heroism are the central motifs that run through all of Hadid’s poetry, defining the Brethren adherents and distinguishing them from Asad’s forces. In this, Hadid did not differ from other leaders of the Brethren who emphasized this absolute dichotomy. In “You Have No Place in My Heaven” he expressed this divide precisely. The poem opens with an outspoken attack on Asad’s regime: “They killed me and ripped me to pieces … they drowned me in my own blood,” and forewarns, “You will never live in my land … you will never reside in my heaven.”14 It epitomizes “heresy and treachery” and, in Hadid’s words, “as your hatred and poison are overt, your behavior blots out the light … My revival is to be found in your deaths.” The death of the Asad’s followers was thus a precondition for life itself. Each and every member of the Brethren was expected to fight the regime to the death, since those who supported and enforced it were perceived as a plague, spreading poison and death.15 Hadid also charged the Baʿth party of deepening the sectarian divide and causing dispute and hatred, and accused its leadership of spreading atheism, and heresy.16 The Baʿth party was described as corrupting young people and causing moral degeneration, targeting young girls for prostitution and seducing young men. In the same vein, it was denounced for encouraging promiscuous pleasure, and advocating a hedonistic culture associated with public houses and alcohol. In short, the Baʿth Party was casting aside Islam. Those who had destroyed the sacred mosques of Hamah (in the events of 1964) were depicted as pigs and heretics. Despite his paying lip service to religion by going on pilgrimage (ʿumra) and starting his speeches with the phrase bismillah (in the name of Allah), Hafez Asad was the ultimate hypocrite.17 Hadid argued that the army was a tool in the tyrant’s hands that it was cast in the image of Asad, and hence of the ʿAlawites, the enemies of Islam. Among the army’s numerous wrongdoings were the destruction of sacred buildings, the killing of Muslim clerics and, above all, “the struggle against the authentic Syrian population, including the Muslim Brethren, instead of the real enemy, Israel.”18 In addition to castigating the army for being the enemy of Islam and responsible for people’s moral degradation, Hadid also charged it with being unpatriotic and treacherous. 150

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Hadid claimed that Asad was consistently deceitful, thus betraying his people, as he did after the war against Israel in June 1967. The Syrian army was defeated (Asad was defense minister at the time) and Hadid used harsh words against the leadership.19 Hadid asked a rhetorically: “What is the use for Asad to go on pilgrimage if he sells Islamic land to the enemy?” According to him (and to other Brethren leaders), this proved that Asad was the adversary of Islam.20 These claims, increasingly apparent in Hadid’s poetry, resurfaced in later editions of al-Nadhir (the whistleblower) and al-Bayan (the manifesto), the official newspapers of the Brethren. Hadid’s concept of absolute war between good and evil, his fostering of self-sacrifice, and promise of rewards in the afterlife were the cornerstones of the Brethren’s publications over a period of almost two decades after his death.21 For many younger activists Hadid was a shining example of martyrdom and heroism. His poem “God’s Brave Young Lions” reflected the view that youth know no fear, and are not deterred by the possibility of defeat. When guided by religious principles, they overcome every barrier of fear and are ready to sacrifice their lives in the fight against the regime. Unlike their elders, they are willing to meet any challenge and pay any price.22 These ideas resurfaced in 2010 in the sermons of the Brethren leadership with the election of Riyad al-Shuqfa as their leader.23 The Brethren spoke explicitly about the outstanding qualities of the younger generation, in particular of the young people who were leading the struggle. Furthemore, a close examination of the Qurʾan verses quoted in Brethren publications shows that they were mostly jihadi verses, aiming to encourage warriors to take up arms. The most prominent of these verses was: “[Prophet], do not think of those who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for” (3:169).24 Further analysis of the Brethren’s use of verses promoting military jihad shows a noticeable rise in the use of the following terms since the 1980s: istishhad (dying for God’s cause), and shahid (martyr), as well as a greater emphasis on verses that deal with the awards waiting the shahid in the afterlife.25

Rejecting the ʿAlawites as a collective Alongside similarities between Hadid’s preaching and the Brethren’s publications against the regime, there are important differences, mainly along 151

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the dividing line between good and evil. For Hadid there was a dichotomy separating individuals faithful to Islam (and the Syrian people) from the Baʿth Party, the army and the Asad regime. Hadid did not relate to the ʿAlawites as a group and saw the Baʿth Party as a sectarian minority regime. He referred to the ʿAlawites by their historic name, nusayriyun, ridiculing and disparaging them. The Brethren publications, on the other hand, perceived a clear dichotomy between the ʿAlawites and the Syrian nation. The Brethren’s clear, well-rooted sectarian motif (ta’ifiyya) guided their struggle. Not only the Baʿth regime, Asad and the army were perceived as the enemy, but all of the ʿAlawites, who had always been looked upon by Sunni Islam as a perverted and extremist sect, whose historical past was thought to include heathen, Buddhist, and Christian elements, in addition to the Islamic ones as well as low morality.26 Defaming the ʿAlawites and portraying them as infidels appeared more frequently in the Brethren publications, especially following the failed assassination attempt on Asad (June 1980). As the calls to assassinate Asad were more or less coincidental with the attempt on his life, they should be held accountable for having lent religious significance to the assassination attempt and moral support to those carrying it out. Asad’s efforts to gain religious legitimization only prompted more attacks by the Muslim Brethren, apparently because they feared that his efforts might succeed.27 A common term used by the movement against the regime was al-khawna al-murtaddun (the traitors who have turned away from Islam).28 Categorizing the entire ʿAlawite community as infidels and labeling their sons as the enemies of Islam intensified the mutual hostility. More importantly, the charge of infidelity rendered the struggle against them as a defensive jihad, and elevated those killed in battle against them into martyrs. After the death of Hadid, the leaders of the Muslim Brethren, including Saʿid Hawwa, a dominant Brethren ideologue, determined the tradition of mihna or ordeal (as did Hadid) in the struggle against the state. They used the circumstances of Hadid’s death to intensify the call for military jihad. Writing in al-Nadhir, as well as al-Bayan Saʿid Hawwa and ʿAli al-Bayanuni made clear that the movement was facing a critical trial period and that it needed to fight for survival against its main enemy, the regime. Accordingly, they exhorted the activists to military jihad, including self-sacrifice.29 152

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The legacy of the Hamah massacre The legacy of the Hamah massacre (1982) served as a reminder and warning of an existential threat. It rested on the ideology that no Muslim land should be ruled by a foreigner hostile to Islam and that such lands should be liberated and returned to dar al-Islam (realm of Islam). There was a determined effort on behalf of the movement to instill the historical heritage of Hamah into the communal memory, to analyze and remember the Brethren’s interpretation of the massacre, particularly in the face of the regime’s systematic efforts to prohibit any inquiry or public debate, while at the same time portraying the Brethren as enemies of the nation. Throughout the years, the Brethren’s publications were dedicated to victory in the name of justice and Islam, placing special emphasis on these concepts. Victory attainable in combat, although it is not determined by the outcome of a battle, but by a number of other factors:  the resolute nature of the struggle, loyalty to the faith and the zealous preservation of the principles in the name of which the holy warriors fight. In other words, it is a symbolic-moral, if not an actual, victory, resting on the willpower of the fighters: “The victory of blood over the sword, the victory of the victim over the murderer, and the victory of man over beast.”30 Thus, while Brethren activists and civilians killed in battle are described as martyrs who sacrificed themselves in a holy war, there is no reason to grieve for the soldiers of the regime as they are no longer perceived as human beings. At best, they could be seen as some form of automatons operated by the mechanism of the state for abhorrent ends. In the worst case, they are described as vicious criminals, deserving death, as were their commanders.31 To describe the destruction in Hamah and the civil protests that were brutally suppressed in the summer of 2011, the Brethren used terms such as al-madina al-muslima (the Muslim town) or Hamah al-mu’mina (faithful Hamah). The image of Hamah as a protective sanctuary and place of refuge for Islam became deeply embedded into the collective consciousness of the Brethren, set against the backdrop of the bloodshed suffered by the protesters against Bashar al-Asad’s regime. In their eyes, as in Hadid’s poems, soil soaked with the blood of martyrs becomes sanctified, so that the flag of Islam is raised over it.32 The term “holy warriors” (al-mujahidun), as given 153

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expression by the Free Syrian Army (FSA), was associated with the name of the city, which is often described as Hamah al-mujahida (Hamah the warrior town), Hamah al-shahida (Hamah the martyr), and Umm al-shuhadaʾ (mother of martyrs).33

In the shadow of the civil war Given the 2011 civil war, a clear distinction is made between those who fight and die for the regime and those who oppose the regime, and whose death is perceived as martyrdom.34 The thread that runs through the Brethren’s publications is the ideal of martyrdom. Stories about martyrs usually appear at the end of the publications and conclude them. Such shahid columns represent one more way of stressing the dichotomy between the two camps.35 Over the years, the Brethren have continued focusing on the Islamic activists and innocent civilians killed by the regime. New magazines, focusing on a younger generation, include shahid columns:  Ashbal al-Sham and Shabab al-Sham. Occasionally Marwan Hadid is remembered as a symbol of self-sacrifice and heroism. With the deadly ramifications of the civil war, the Brethren started publishing a new magazine in which they continue to dedicate many pages to the martyrs, as they did in the past. This linkage between commemoration of past and present martyrs aims to empower the struggle against the regime, while emphasizing the historic role of the Brethren. In an updated version, called “Story of a Martyr” (summer of 2013), a Shahid column was included in the al-ʿAhd (the oath) magazine. It tells the life-story of martyrs, with particular emphasis on their moral merits and willingness for self-sacrifice, heroism, and on the circumstances of their death. Each is to serve as a model to others activists.36 Martyrdom in the name of a lofty ideal is perceived as the highlight of the struggle.37 The preaching of martyrdom started many months after the first bloodshed in the current civil war. Initially, Muslim Brethren advocated peaceful demonstrations and protests. However, a rare document, published by al-Markaz al-Iʿlami (the Brethren’s center of propaganda and public relations) in May 2011, revealed that the movement was preparing public opinion for the struggle, including references to self-sacrifice.38 The document was published about a month after the civil protests began and was a de 154

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facto guide on how to carry out demonstrations while encouraging martyrdom. It exposed the movement’s perception of a dichotomy between good and evil. In the light of the regime’s many abuses and brutality against the population, and of the growing number of victims, the Muslim Brethren increased their calls for martyrdom. Throughout 2012, which witnessed the siege of large cities across Syria, mainly of Homs (March 2012), the Brethren increased their calls for revenge and for a military response. They authorized the use of arms through shariʿa law, as interpreted by Sayyid Qutb, namely the right to oppose anyone aiming at the destruction and killing of Muslims (radd al-iʿtida): “The regime continued killing protestors … given this situation we are required to increase the use of force in order to deter murderers just before they undertake to kill more people,” stated.39 Like Marwan Hadid and the Brethren’s leaders had done previously, Zuhayr Salim, the Brethren’s spokesman, used motifs of sanctity to strengthen the religious content of his messages. In his essays he also used jihadist verses with the same aim in mind.40 In the al-ʿAhd magazine of February 2013, the Brethren argued that dying in the cause of Islam is perceived not only as an act of heroism, but also as a natural part of life.41 In practice they consented to a spontaneous use of weapons by individuals. But as the situation deteriorated, they reevaluated the need for an armed struggle, reviving the jihadist concept developed by Marwan Hadid.42

Conclusion Following their military defeat in February 1982, the Brethren kept calling for a political struggle, advocating non-violent means. In the 1990s and 2000s, under al-Bayanuni’s leadership, the struggle was mainly channeled into communicative and propagandist channels. These years were nonetheless influential in terms of fostering a heroic resistance legacy. To a large extent, this trend has remained relevant during Bashar Asad’s rule. However, as the civil war unfolded, the Brethren renewed their call for armed struggle. Hadid’s activist worldview, which had in the past been 155

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downplayed, gained renewed momentum. The movement treated him as the pioneer of jihad, thus positioning him as hero and supermartyr. They praised Hadid’s conduct, asserting that his actions were justified as they were taken in defense of Muslim life and faith.43 Adopting self-sacrifice was a result of the specific circumstances the Brethren were facing. Unlike in the past, their narrative of sacrifice developed hand in hand with the ongoing civil war. The leadership was aware of the fact that in order to urge people to take up arms they had to persuade them that sacrifice was indeed justified. Furthermore, the beneficial and “profitable” aspects of martyrdom had to be made clear to them. The armed uprising against Hafez al-Asad was engraved in the collective memory of the Brethren, and they carefully preserved and drew moral support from it, reinforcing their belief in the justice of the cause they espoused. The fact that the three highest-ranking officials of the Brethren were natives of Hamah, and had in person experienced brutal oppression, impacted on their discourse and conduct. The Muslim Brethren have used a wide repertoire of terms that has enabled them to adapt the images and descriptions to a changing reality, and modify the character of the struggle accordingly. The civil war allows for a unique perception of the way the Brethren have used this terminology.

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9 Hamas Suicide Attacks: Sublime Islamic Goal or Merely Another Weapon? Reuven Paz

Introduction Suicide attacks against Israel were first carried out in Lebanon in the 1980s, mostly by members of Shiʿi groups. Palestinian organizations adopted this strategy only in the 1990s, although in earlier years they had carried out operations from which there was only a slim chance for the fighters to escape with their lives. From that moment on, such operations became the favorite strategy of Hamas (acronym of Harakat al-Muqawama al-Islamiyya, the Islamic Resistance Movement) and of the Islamic Jihad of Palestine.1 Hamas sanctioned them as part of the process of military escalation during the first intifada (1987–93). The intifada started as a popular rebellion of stone throwers, who eventually “progressed” to the use of knives, that is, of cold weapons (al-silah al-abyad). The uprising peaked when it turned into a military struggle against Israeli soldiers, settlers, and civilians within Israel proper. What made the Palestinian suicide attacks in the 1990s exceptional was the increasing tendency to target civilians, unlike in the Shiʿi attacks in Lebanon. In the Islamic-religious framing of the struggle the enemy included the entire Jewish community, all of which was viewed as part of the Israeli military. Moreover, the 2001 uprising and the rising number of Palestinian casualties fomented a desire for revenge against Israeli society 157

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as a whole. Since Hamas was both an Islamist and nationalist movement, it confined its attacks to the territory of historic Palestine. Hamas launched its first suicide operation in the West Bank against a group of IDF soldiers on April 16, 1993. Since then their number has fluctuated, peaking in 1997–98 and 2002–05. Hamas resorted to suicide attacks, not only as an effective weapon of intimidation against Israeli civilians, but also as a means of mobilizing Palestinian society for jihad against Israel. While the motivation was ideological, the timing and intensity of the attacks were largely determined by Hamas’s broader political considerations. While suicide attacks were initiated in 1993, the issue was already seriously debated in Palestinian Islamist circles in the late 1980s. On 5 June, 1988, the monthly publication al-Islam wa-Filastin of the Islamic Jihad produced a special, unsigned supplement, titled Qiraʾa fi fiqh al-shahada [Readings in the jurisprudence of martyrdom]. It was the first written document to advocate suicide attacks against Israel, and contained all the arguments from Islamic law and history that would appear later on in numerous Islamist publications. Ideologically, the Palestinian Islamic Jihad was affiliated with Iran from the very beginning, the first, and only, Sunni radical group to do so. In 1988, its leadership resided in Lebanon, where it established close contacts both with the Iranian Revolutionary Guards stationed there and with the Lebanese Hizballah. Qiraʾa fi fiqh al-shahada was probably a result of this alliance.2 For Hamas, however, the ideological endorsement of suicide attacks was gradual, as the Palestinian struggle during the first intifada intensified and became increasingly violent. In an article published in 1989, the term “martyrs” did not include those who had committed “suicide,” but only those slain in “Israeli terror attacks.” They were all worthy of praise and glory, as “self-sacrifice and falling victim to Israeli terror is an ideal manifestation of the struggle between good and evil, and good will prevail.”3 A more active approach towards martyrdom to thwart the Jewish enemy was adopted in an October 1990 manifesto entitled “It is Our al-Aqsa, Not Your Temple,” and is worded as follows: Every day, the Jews prove that they are the same Jews – bloodsuckers of humanity, they sow the seeds of dispute and evil in every generation, plot against humanity, and fight every religion

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Hamas Suicide Attacks and every group … The luck of Jews today has run out, as they are now up against an enemy consisting of believers and fighters, who are well versed in the art of war and yearn to sacrifice their lives. They hanker for death as they hanker for life, and they believe that God’s decree of total annihilation of the Jews, as written in the Qurʾan, is imminent.4

An article published in the movement’s organ Filastin al-Muslima in December 1990 advocated the use of every type of weapons, since the enemy understands only the language of force.5 Another, unsigned, Filastin al-Muslima article dated September 1991 included praise for ventures undertaken in the name of God and resulting in death in light of the grim reality faced by the Palestinians. The article, which is actually a battle cry addressed to the members of the movement, concluded: Arise and pour forth your wrath. The entire world is your battlefront; do not avoid a confrontation. Let there be an uprising against the occupation, for death awaits you in any case. A life of humiliation makes your life virtually meaningless and transforms it into death. … We stand today before a crossroads between life and death, although life without self-sacrifice is death. Seek death, for it will give you life.6

Between April 1993 and September 1999, Palestinian organizations carried out 21 suicide attacks against Israelis, 19 of them by Hamas, in which 166 people were killed.7 Between October 2000 and April 2008 there were 146 suicide attacks in Israel and the PA territories, in which 516 people were killed, constituting nearly half of all people killed (1,178) during that period, the vast majority of them civilians.8 Still, while suicide operations inflicted heavy casualties, Israeli society largely overcame the challenge they posed. Resort to suicide attacks as the preferred modus operandi by Hamas was the result of two major developments in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Hamas rejected the 1993 Israeli-PLO Oslo Accords as threatening the struggle for the liberation of Palestine in its entirety. In fact, efforts to derail the agreements required an escalation of the armed struggle. In addition, the deportation of 415 Islamists, most of whom were Hamas activists, to south Lebanon in December 1992, following the murder of an 159

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Israeli soldier, paved the way for a close cooperation between Hamas and the Lebanese Hizballah. Despite ideological differences between the Sunni Hamas and the Shiʿi Islamic Republic of Iran, dozens of Hamas members were trained by Hizballah and returned to the Palestinian territories in December 1993, equipped with improved military skills. With the outbreak of the al-Aqsa Intifada in October 2000, suicide attacks became widespread, as Fatah and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) joined Hamas and the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. Significantly, Fatah’s participation appeared as a justification of the Hamas doctrine of jihad in the path of God. These operations were also widely viewed as a successful way to redress a huge imbalance between the Palestinian and Israeli weapons arsenal. Palestinian society in general suffered from Israel’s retaliatory measures and mass arrests, and Palestinian organizations took heavy casualties, including the targeted killing of military and political activists, mainly Hamas and Islamic Jihad. Concurrently, the prestige of the operations and growing anger at Israel increased the number of volunteers and supporters for these operations. Thus, with the assistance of Fatah and Islamic Jihad, Hamas managed in only a very few years, especially between 2001 and 2005, to turn martyrdom in general and suicide attacks in particular into a death-wish subculture. The spread of suicide attacks by Al Qaeda and other groups affiliated with the global jihad movements gave Hamas a sense of pride for being part of a worldwide Islamic Revolution, even though it strictly limited its struggle to the borders of Palestine proper. Suicide attacks, however, assumed additional meanings to the purely religious, Islamic one. From jihad fi sabil Allah (jihad for God), the phenomenon became jihad fi sabil al-watan (jihad for the homeland). Nevertheless, many of the hundreds who volunteered to carry out these operations and become shuhadaʾ were not well versed in the growing number of Islamist publications that endowed martyrdom with the proper juridical and doctrinal legitimacy. Rather, many were influenced by the wave of national enthusiasm that engulfed the Palestinian territories. By 2005, the number of suicide attacks had declined significantly as a result of Israeli countermeasures. In March of that year Hamas declared its tahdiʾa (tranquility) policy and in January 2006, it won the elections for the Palestinian parliament, and headed the new Palestinian Authority 160

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cabinet. In June 2007, Hamas seized exclusive control over the Gaza Strip and had to contend with conflicting political and ideological considerations in the conduct of its policies. Hamas spokesmen attributed its victory in the 2006 elections and the expulsion of Fatah from Gaza in 2007 largely to its suicide attacks. Yet, a closer examination of the movement’s statements shows a shift in focus on political achievements rather than on the religious dimension of its suicide attacks. Unlike the groups and ideologues affiliated with the global jihad movement, Hamas saw martyrdom mainly as one type of weapon within a larger arsenal, and not as a sublime goal in itself in its mobilization of the Palestinian public. In other words, Hamas would restart its suicide attacks, should it view them as beneficial to its overall strategy.

Doctrinal justifications of suicide attacks As was the case with other Muslim Brethren movements, Hamas was headed by highly educated laymen, mostly physicians and engineers, and therefore lacked senior clerical authorities within its leadership ranks. Furthermore, the majority of senior Palestinian ʿulamaʾ lived outside Palestine. Those who acquired fame and a large following, e.g. ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam (d. 1989), Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi or Abu Qatada al-Filastini, were affiliated with the Salafi-Jihadi camp within the Islamist movements. Still, as a religious movement, Hamas felt it necessary to establish a sound juridical-legal basis to legitimize suicide attacks, in addition to the political-ideological arguments. Therefore, initially whenever Hamas needed a fatwa (religious ruling) to legitimize its suicide attacks, they approached Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi, who was regarded as the leading legal authority of the mainstream Islamist movement in the Middle East. In later years, Hamas set up “the league of ʿulamaʾ in Palestine” (Rabitat al-ʿulamaʾ fi Filastin), which on 5 May 2001, following the outbreak of the second intifada, issued the movement’s first document supporting suicide attacks according to Islamic law.9 The central role of jihad and istishhad (seeking martyrdom) in modern Islamist ideology particularly that of Hamas is a result of their view of the current challenges threatening the Muslim world. As is well known, the Islamist movements disagree on the definition of Arab regimes as apostate 161

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(or not) and consequently on the correct way to wage the fight against them. Yet, they all agree on the threat to Islam posed by the infidel West, irrelevant to whether it refers to Western cultural onslaught (al-ghazw al-thaqafi) or to other aggressive acts against the Muslim world. This is even truer with regard to Israel, which, as a Jewish state, is viewed both as the vanguard of Western “infidel” culture and as “conquering sacred Muslim land, expelling Muslims from their land and oppressing those who have remained there.”10 One of the main contributions by the Muslim Brethren to the recent Islamic revival is the idea of cultural threat posed by the “Crusader” West to the Muslim world. The perception of Western culture as the sworn enemy is based on its perceived characteristics, mainly secularism, the separation of church and state, individualism, materialism, and in particular its “aggressive” nature. On the basis of these premises, the Muslim world considers itself to be under siege and as facing an existential threat. The proper response to this threat is the revival of the greater Islamic state, whose government is based on Islamic law. Hence the struggle to reestablish the ideal Islamic state is intertwined with the notion of waging a war of self-defense against a broad Western offensive. This idea of self-defense necessitates waging uncompromising jihad against the enemy, by all possible means. The conflict between the Muslim world and Western culture is defined as a defensive jihad (jihad al-dafaʿ) against an invasive enemy, and thus imposes a personal religious obligation (fard ʿayn), incumbent upon every Muslim and not just on particular segments of the population (fard kifaya). Consequently, self-sacrifice has become a core value, and death in jihad (istishhad) is most highly regarded.

Jihad against the Jews All Islamist movements regard Zionism and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948 as a clear manifestation of the Western onslaught on Islam. Moreover, following the 1967 War, when Israel seized control of the al-Aqsa Mosque and of all of Jerusalem, the Islamist view of the Middle East conflict as an uncompromising struggle between Islam and Judaism took hold. Thus, Nidaʾ al-Aqsa, a Hamas journal published outside Israel, formulated the essence of the struggle as follows: 162

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Hamas Suicide Attacks This is a struggle between a noble truth (al-haqq), represented by Islam and accepted by Muslims, and the falseness (al-batil) of the Jews. This is a struggle between two religions. One of the religions – that is, Islam – is true, and as such, it abrogated all religions that preceded it. The other religion, that is, Judaism, is mistaken and thus invalidated. This is a struggle between the supreme calling to Paradise and the corrupt Jewish calling to Hell; it is a struggle between believers who represent the victorious Party of God (Hizballah) and the representatives of the corrupt Party of Satan (Hizb al-Shaytan). It is a link in the chain of eternal struggle between truth and falseness, … which will continue until the resurrection of the dead.11

According to Hamas, “all the Jews of Palestine are occupiers and invaders. They are enemy fighters, and even if evidence is to the contrary regarding some of them, the way they are treated should be based on this assumption.”12 Thus the issue at hand is an existential war for both societies: the person who perishes in that war is therefore not perceived as someone who attempts to save himself, but rather, as someone who tries to save his society. One can apply to Palestinian society what Lebanese sociologist Wajih Kuthrani said in the 1980s about the Shiʿi struggle in Lebanon: “Religion plays an important role in resistance, and Islamic culture has created a psychological climate of mobilization for self-sacrifice and for jihad unto death.”13 The struggle for Palestine and the struggle in the territories have intensified these feelings among the Palestinians, including the non-Islamist nationalist organizations. The term shahid has come to mean not only one slain within the framework of Hamas or any other Islamic group, but also anyone who is slain by the “Zionist enemy.” The use of the term became customary not only by groups such as Fatah, which have Islamic roots, but also in the publications of Marxist organizations within the PLO, as well as by the Palestinian and Israeli communist parties. The Palestinian Authority has also adopted this usage. In the past, the title shahid went hand in hand with the financing of the shahid’s family. This created a badge of honor of sorts with an Islamic resonance. Even the few Christian Palestinians killed over the course of the intifada merited this title. In February 1997, the Palestinian Authority granted this title, graced with the personal signature of Yasser Arafat, to eleven residents of the West 163

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Bank who died in their car due to local flooding, in order for their families to qualify for the payments given to families of shahids. Although a Muslim who dies by drowning is regarded as a shahid according to Muslim law, the Palestinian reasoning in this instance was not religious, but rather the indirect hand of Israel in their death: As a result of the closure enforced by Israel on the territories, these workers were left with no other choice but to search for illegal work, despite the life-threatening danger that this posed. The religious essence of the struggle against the Jews was reinforced by the sanctification of Palestine as a holy Islamic land, the center of the Islamic world, and the missing piece that would lead to a united Islamic world.14 The Hamas Charter, which was published in August 1988, and remains valid to this day, portrays the Jewish enemy in demonic terms as “Nazis in action,” in order to justify the uncompromising struggle against them. The enemy exists not only within the State of Israel, but includes the Jews worldwide, as they were responsible for the “French Revolution, the Communist Revolution and most of the revolutions we have heard about.” The worldwide Jewish community is also responsible for the rise of Western imperialism, international organizations (defined as “destructive”), and the two world wars, for “one way or the other, Jews are responsible for every war that breaks out.”15 With the articulation of the struggle against Israel as a defensive jihad, self-sacrifice naturally assumes a central place in the conflict. Fostering the “aspiration of martyrdom” (talab al-shahada) has long been the domain of Islamic institutions that grew out of the Muslim Brethren. In 1938, the founder of this movement in Egypt, Hasan al-Banna, wrote an article on the subject of self-sacrifice within the context of the struggle against the Jews in Palestine. In defining self-sacrifice, al-Banna coined the term “the death industry” (sinaʿat al-mawt). Death is indeed an industry like all other industries. Many people know how to die with dignity in an honorable battle and at an appropriate time. Such a person sells his blood at the highest price and, in so doing, merits the greatest of all imaginable rewards … Palestine is Islam’s first line of defense. The issue is not that of an Arab land or of the Arab nation. It is an issue that pertains to Islam and all Muslims.16

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In the eyes of Hamas and all Palestinian Islamic Jihad group, martyrdom within the context of jihad against the Jews is an integral part of the conflict between good and evil, between true belief and heresy. From their point of view, this war is unto victory or unto death. These ideas have been supported throughout the Arab world by establishment clerics thereby establishing widespread consensus, allowing for very few exceptions. This support demonstrated not only the ongoing flow of ideas among various establishment clerics, mainstream Islamists of the Muslim Brethren or more radical SalafiJihadis, but also, and more importantly, a radicalization of establishment clerics by the Islamists.17 Within this debate, the radicals have succeeded in infusing a feeling of “siege and threat to Islam” among the masses, Following this line of thinking, and drawing heavily on earlier Islamic traditions of martyrdom,18 Hamas has elevated it into a supreme value as the epitome of jihad and as an object of personal and collective aspiration for Palestinians. The phenomenon of martyrdom in the occupied Palestinian territories, explains Dr. Yusuf Rizqa, constitutes an important component of an informed return to Islam. The true believer knows that an honorable life can be attained only through martyrdom. In Hamas thought, the path to happiness for the present generation is through martyrdom, not life, and if Palestinians fully understood the grace God bestowed on them through it, they would thank Him for opening the gates of martyrdom to those who defend His religion.”19 In addition to the doctrinal element, Hamas also highlighted the value of martyrdom as the weapon of the oppressed, the mustadʿafin fi’l-ard or al-mahrumun in Shiʿi terms, or “the wretched of the earth,” as Frantz Fanon phrased it.20 Hamas appeals to the strong sense of victimhood of the entire Palestinian society. In his March 2004 fatwa on the legality of suicide attacks, Shaykh Faysal Mawlawi, chairman of the European Council for Fatwa and Research and one of Hamas’s mentors, gave a very straightforward reason why the weaker side in a conflict ought to use this method: The enemy relies on sophisticated military equipment while denying the Palestinians their basic human rights, killing their women, children and men mercilessly, and rendering the Palestinians powerless and incapable of defending themselves…. So the Palestinians have nothing in their disposal but stones, which they throw at their enemy in order to defend their country. This, despite its indication of a high morale, cannot

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam deter the enemy. So the Palestinians resort to suicide attacks, in which the martyr blows himself up, sacrificing his life for the sake of his country and inflicting serious but reciprocal harms on the enemy.21

Cultivating the myth of heroism and self-sacrifice Seeking to build up popular support for suicide attacks, Hamas exerted every effort to cultivate a culture of martyrdom. According to Hamas leader ʿAbd al-Aziz al-Rantisi (d. 2004), the culture of martyrdom distinguishes the Palestinian people from others and represents the strongest weapon the Palestinians possess  – a weapon no one can defeat or take away from them. It is not an imported weapon and it does not require foreign experts to operate, as it has emerged from the depths of the Palestinian soul, suffering, and heroism. Thanks to it, and in contrast to the past, the Palestinians are now able to control events.22 “Resistance literature” (adab al-muqawama) and poetry (shiʿr almuqawama) played an important part in the Palestinian national struggle from the 1960s onwards. Previously, it had lacked a conspicuous Islamic flavor, for its main promoters were poets who saw themselves as secular – and even Marxist – members of the Palestinian national movement. In this poetry, death and the desire for death played a central role, reflecting both individual and group despair, stemming from the oppression, exile, humiliation, and most importantly from the idea of liberation of the homeland by force, which was the height of Palestinian aspirations. The yearning for death, whether in order to rescue the Palestinians from their despair or to restore the lost honor of both individuals and the masses, became a prominent theme in Arab poetry. The following lines from a poem of Muhammad al-Qaysi are a case in point: Plunge the knife into my heart And let me die. Guide me along the path, guide me Over the rolling fields and by the shade of the houses. Cover my face with a robe, And allow me to rest atop the dew-covered grass, I will be torn to shreds, I will live and return.23

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Hamas too developed its own Islamic intifada poetry and literature. This genre was designed to endow Palestinian popular culture with an Islamic essence, and to link a particular Palestinian struggle with the wider Islamic wave sweeping over the Muslim world. Practically every issue of Filastin al-Muslima contained poems written by martyrs or praising martyrdom. Significantly, Hamas leaders such as Rantisi and Ibrahim Maqadmah wrote poetry extolling the struggle and death: “With death, we make the dawn of tomorrow through our wounds, and the troves of martyrs, the flower of righteousness al-haqq would blossom.”24 Very few Hamas martyrs were the objective of so much reverence and adoration as Yahya ʿAyyash, “the engineer,” who planned and directed deadly attacks against Israelis, mostly civilians. Eulogizing his martyrdom by Israel in 1995, al-Maqadmah addressed him as follows: Your bombs have been launched, like the sun breaking through the clouds/ ʿAyyash, you are the light in a world in which fog prevails / ʿAyyash, you are the tiger who takes the roaming dogs on/ Spread your light, people can no longer endure this torment / finish off our misery [bomb it], open ways to our sweet wishes / ʿAyyash, do not leave and leave our dream to ravenous wolves. ʿAyyash, you are alive, despite the fact that you are covered with earth/ we have signs of you in the discourse of the Prophet and the Qurʾan.25

Another motif of the jihad-related literature that has evolved since the 1980s equates self-sacrifice with weddings: ʿurs al-shahada. Again, this motif originated in the 1960s, describing the death in battle of resistance fighters against Israel as a betrothal ceremony with the land of Palestine, metaphorized as a woman.26 During the 1980s, it acquired greater religious coloring, now picturing a hallowed image of the shahid. This motif was naturally associated with the celibate martyrs, who died single and could look forward to marrying seventy-two black-eyed virgins in Paradise.27

Public support for suicide attacks Suicide attacks have elicited public criticism of their efficacy and contribution to the Palestinian struggle, particularly in view of the widespread Palestinian suffering caused by closures that Israel has enforced in the 167

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aftermath of such attacks. Nevertheless, Hamas’s position on the correct strategy in the Palestinian struggle, suicide attacks in particular, has enjoyed broad support throughout Palestinian society, as well as unequivocal doctrinal endorsement by the Palestinian religious establishment. The aura surrounding the shahid, which has grown ever stronger over the course of the intifada, has contributed to the popularity of attacks initiated by Islamic groups, even after the PLO officially ended its participation in the fighting following Arafat’s death in 2004. An analysis of events in Israel and the territories between 1993 and 1997 shows that Hamas and the Palestinian Islamic Jihad had built a large reservoir of people waiting to commit “suicide,” who had received long-term, special mental training prior to their mission. In many cases, however, recruitment and training were short-term, and occasionally even spontaneous. One can assume that, aside from personal motives, which cannot be determined after the fact, the main motivating factors were public sentiment regarding the heroism of the shahid and the education provided by the Islamic movement. This support was at least partly due to “popular Islamic culture,” which glorified martyrs. Thanks to its religious symbols, such a form of popular Islam served as a powerful mobilizing force, particularly among people living under heavy political and economic, as well as religious and nationalist pressure. The fact that large numbers of young people expressed their willingness to sacrifice themselves generated a feeling of empowerment from within a society that was objectively weaker than the enemy. The feeling of power grew when it appeared that the enemy lacked the proper response to the methods used by the weaker side. There is currently no overarching authority within the Islamic world that has the power to enforce its religious legal decisions on all Muslims, or even on most of them.28 This explains the influence of religious legal decisions of Islamic movements like Hamas, especially when the movement has a broad base of public support and when it appropriates the right to act solely on the basis of its own authority. Members of Islamic movements can also find inspiration and encouragement by looking back on Muslim history, which, though it forbade self-immolation as such, nevertheless paved the way – even before the second half of the twentieth century – for jihadi self-sacrifice for the sake of God. 168

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Dr. Huda Zakariyya, a researcher in the Department of Sociology in Zagazig University in Egypt, where radical Islamic activities are rampant, provides an informative analysis of the phenomenon. After the attempt on the life of former President Husni Mubarak in Ethiopia in June 1995, Dr. Zakariyya wrote in her analysis of the phenomenon of Islamic terror: We are talking about youths who are at an age of potent creativity, yet who are subject to heavy pressure to take immediate action. Therefore, it is easy to take advantage of them, to organize them into soldiers within a group that will serve as an alternative to a preexisting group like the family or society around them. In order to carry out a successful operation, they are told to kill or be killed, within the context of death as selfsacrifice and leading to closeness to God. Whoever instills such ideas into a young man’s mind, turns him into a dangerous, disruptive person, especially when his personality is reshaped according to the needs of his new social group and its destructive interests. The group programs him in such a way that he is ready to blow himself up the moment he is activated by remote control. These new groups indoctrinate their members by a means that differs completely from that used by the members’ previous societal groups. The old group infused its values slowly through childhood and youth in order to ensure continuity and building, whereas the new alternative group carries out instant education and uses means that are considered sacred, such as religious beliefs. Its goal is not continuity, but rather it is to attack, shock, and destroy the existing structure of society. Its instructions and prohibitions are infused with religious sanctity in order not to be undermined or questioned, and to insure that they are carried out. Thus it disciplines it members and voids all independent thinking.29

In a similar vein, it seems that considerable portions of Muslim Palestinian society have turned self-sacrifice into an ideal that enjoys widespread support, and that this, in turn, strengthens the young person’s feeling of fulfilling a socio-religious calling. Over the course of the two intifadas, as well as subsequently during periods of increasing tension between Israel and the Palestinians, a sort of “ritualism” became popular, even amongst 169

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non-religious youth on their way to protests against or confrontations with Israeli soldiers. These youths acted as though they were setting out for a war from which they might not return. They wore clean clothes, paid off their debts, and prepared their families emotionally. They asked that sweets be distributed as a sign of happiness at the death of one who deserved to become a shahid. In actuality, however, mourning tents were also set up in the midst of this festive mood. Although many of the reports regarding such “rituals” are exaggerated, or were told after the fact, they have gradually contributed to the creation of a social norm according to which the whole of society perceives itself as waging jihad warfare, including those who are not members of any Islamic group and who play no organized role within this context. In the Palestinian case, these operations were set within the general popular struggle against Israel. The broad public support that these movements (Hamas and Palestinian Islamic jihad) enjoyed was more important than the religious-exegetical efforts to legitimize them. In addition, these operations received important, albeit unexpected, support from Arab Islamic establishments, which actually served secular-nationalist regimes that were open to political compromise with Israel.

Conclusion Among Palestinians, as well as among Lebanese Shiʿis, suicide attacks are regarded as extremely effective. In Lebanon, they were considered an important component of operations of “Islamic resistance,” which forced Israel to withdraw from the southern part of the country in April 1985 and from the rest of Lebanon in 2000. In the Palestinian case, such operations were seen as a crucial factor in the struggle, sowing fear throughout Israeli society and giving rise to the feeling that Islamic terror, as opposed to its secular-nationalist counterpart, was creating a strategic predicament for Israel, thus affecting major political decisions. Such operations are carried out in a measured and calculated way. It seems that their initiators refrain from transforming them into widespread forms of attack, not only because of the possible retaliation on the part of 170

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Israel or the Palestinian Authority, but also out of awareness that this could foment incidents that deviate from Muslim law. The number of people who committed suicide is too small to help draw conclusions as to the factors that caused them to implement their plans. Details of their personal lives, published after their death, did not expose personal or family crises. Most striking were the socio-national crises that merged with the ideology of the organization in whose name they carried out the operation. They left written or videotaped testimonies, including personal wills. Such items fall into the realm of propaganda, and therefore can not be relied on to indicate personal motives. At most, they indicate that the operations were not spontaneous, and that those carrying them out were fully aware of their actions. Émile Durkheim who studied the phenomenon of suicide more than a century ago, showed that the ethos of the society in which one lives can have a profound effect on its members, and that research on such phenomena as suicide must hence relate to social, and not just to personal factors.30 Modern society has become more accepting of the idea of “the logic of suicide” or “logical suicide,” especially in instances of terminal illness or mercy killings. This idea has developed alongside a process of secularization, which has fostered a distinction between such acts and religious offenses. It has also become more tolerant of the idea of suicide in out-of-the-way circumstances, such as capture or detainment by the enemy, and may even view such acts as heroic. Thus, for example, the IDF and secular Israeli society of the 1950s “sanctified” the suicide of Uri Ilan, a captive in Syria, who killed himself in order not to betray military secrets. In the instance of suicide operations by Islamic activists, there are several possible social explanations. One commonality, which Palestinian society in the territories shares with the Shiʿi community in Lebanon – aside from viewing Israel as a demonic, conspiring enemy – is that both societies are at the height of a process of community building. The enemy plays a central role in unifying the existing societies in their violent struggle against a common enemy, all the more so since the struggle is characterized as a religious obligation by Islamists, and as a sociopolitical revolution by secular nationalists. 171

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In Palestinian society within the West Bank and Gaza, the motif of revolutionary nationalist sacrifice (fidaʾ) has merged with the Islamic concept of self-sacrifice (istishhad), as one step in the process of communal building and of independent state building at a rudimentary stage. In such a process, it is natural to turn to exemplars who have demonstrated supreme courage and self-sacrifice for the greater good.31 Although he was not killed in a suicide operation like those carried out in the 1990s, ʿIzz al-Din al-Qassam has become a symbol of self-sacrifice for all factions, from Islamists to nationalists to Marxists. He stands for martyrdom for the protection of that which is most important to society: that is, the protection of religion, homeland, honor, and culture. This viewpoint strengthens the legitimacy of attacks involving self-sacrifice. Thus, it seems that only if and when radical Islamic groups start carrying out suicide attacks in Arab countries, in the context of their struggles against “infidel” secular regimes, will Islamic clerics and philosophers be likely to oppose them, and to see them as acts of suicide, which are contrary to Muslim law. Yet, as long as Israel, Zionism, Jews, and Judaism remain the crux of the problem, such “suicidal” operations will be encouraged, independent of whether they received official authorization from Islamic establishments and from leaders of Islamic groups, or not.

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10 “Keen on Dying”?: Martyrdom in Chechnya from Kunta Hajji to Rustam Gelayev Yagil Henkin

When one speaks of martyrdom in modern Islam, an almost uniform popular image comes to mind – of suicide bombers, blowing themselves up, whether among non-Muslims or, more likely, other Muslim sects, or of raging crowds during funeral processions of martyrs. In Chechnya, which is often seen as the site of interfaith conflict, one would expect to find a similar phenomenon. However, while Chechnya has had its fair share of suicide bombers and martyrs (some self-proclaimed, others not) it has followed its own unique path, owing much to the differences between traditional Islam in Chechnya and Middle Eastern Islam, and to the fact that the wars in Chechnya do not fully fit the familiar pattern of conflicts that have a significant religious dimension.

Islam in Chechnya: A short note Chechnya is a predominantly Muslim Russian republic in the northern Caucasus. The majority of its population are members of Sufi fraternities (tariqa, pl. turuq).1 Since an in-depth discussion is beyond the scope of this chapter, we will use Bennigsen and Wimbush’s definition of Sufism: “a corpus of techniques concerning the ‘journeying’ of a mystic adept toward God,”2 or more simply “the mystical core of Islam.”3 Three things are 173

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important, however: First, Sufism represents a minority among Muslims in most Islamic areas, with the exception of the Caucasus. Second, contrary to popular belief, Sufism is not inherently peaceful, as different Sufi brotherhoods hold different views on warfare and conflict. Not only in Chechnya, and definitely not only in modern times, did Sufism serve as the driving force behind uprisings and armed struggles. Over the better part of two centuries, the Sufi Naqshbandia Tariqat, one of the major Sufi orders, has influenced both Muslim resistance to foreign conquests and some of the concepts of Islamic fundamentalists.4 Third, many radical jihadists, including some who joined the Chechen struggle against the Russians, believe that Sufis are actually infidels, worse than Christians and Jews. This is, those radicals argue, because the Sufis believe themselves to be the true Muslims, when in fact they are idolaters.

Early martyrdom in Chechnya: Kunta Hajji and his quasi-peaceful legacy Perhaps the first instance of modern martyrdom in Chechnya was that of Kunta Hajji, the leader of the North Caucasus Qadiriyya Sufi Brotherhood. Despite being a pacifist and for this very reason being rejected by Imam Shamil, the famous leader of the contemporary anti-Russian struggle, Kunta was jailed by the Russians in 1864 and died three years later in exile. When demands were made for his release, Russian troops killed at least a hundred of his supporters.5 This transformed the Qadiriyya into a warlike brotherhood, and Kunta Hajji was commemorated as a martyr; many of his followers still believe that he did not actually die, but “has gone into a state of occultation from which in due time he will re-emerge to redeem his people.”6 His home village and his mother’s tomb became places of pilgrimage even under Soviet rule; during a festival in 1970, no less than ten thousand people visited the tomb.7 Kunta Hajji was not a violent martyr. He was not remembered for acts of killing, but for dying for his faith. As far as we know, he never thought he would ascend to heaven by killing his opponents, but concentrated on personal salvation. In his view, a precondition for instigating an uprising was imminent threat to one’s family, identity and culture, a view that was far from radical: “If they touch your wives, force you to forget your native language, culture, and customs, stand up and fight to the very last man!”8 174

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He supplied a rationale for when Muslims could surrender to Russian power, and still be considered good Muslims. Kunta Hajji believed that the faithful should not communicate with the infidels and should separate themselves by prayer, and that Muslims who were imprisoned or held by the infidels and therefore could not perform the pilgrimage and recite the Qurʾan, would be treated by God as “children who do not have to perform religious rituals but who still perform them.”9 As a holy man who was arrested for his sermons and died alone in exile far from his home and family, he was and still is considered a martyr and hero. It is fitting that during the first Chechen war in 1995, Wahhabi Muslims wanted to destroy the tomb of Kunta Hajji’s mother,10 but were repelled by local Qadiris.11 In their view, the martyr who argued that “war is savagery” and called on Muslims to remove themselves “from anything that resembles war,” unless their enemies tried to destroy their “faith and honor,”12 was so out of line with present-day martyrdom seekers, that they saw his approach as heretic.

The First Chechen War, 1994–96: Many heroes, few martyrs In late 1991, former Russian air force general Dzhokhar Dudayev declared Chechnya to be independent from Russia. For various reasons, Chechnya was pretty much left alone until 1994, when Russia increased its involvement in Chechen issues, up to the invasion of the breakaway republic on 11 December, 1994. Expecting to bring down the rebellious Dudayev in no time, the Russians were in for a terrible shock. On New Year’s Day 1995, in just sixty hours Chechen forces managed to destroy two Russian brigades in the capital Grozny. A fierce battle followed, and Grozny was taken over by the Russians only two months later. In August 1996, after a Chechen counterattack again denied Russia control of Grozny, a ceasefire was finally reached. Both parties framed the first war in religious terms. To cite a few examples:  ITAR-TASS, the Russian news agency, claimed in early 1995 that six thousand radical Islamic volunteers were fighting in Chechnya;13 In the years before the war, Dudayev visited Iraq, Jordan, and Sudan, declaring his support 175

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for “the fight of Islam against Russia, the United States and the West in general.”14 In November 1994 he proposed to introduce sharʿia laws in Chechnya, a move to which he had previously objected, and create an “Islamic battalion” to fight the Russians.15 Chechen leaders had actually used the threat of jihad as early as November 1991, as part of their secession from the USSR; both Dudayev and his deputy Zelimkhan Yanderbiyev (d. 2004) called for jihad against the Russian infidels (and failed to make the least impact). In actuality, it was not a jihad. Using Islam in public speeches was by no means tantamount to being religious. A famous anecdote tells of Dudayev’s meeting with journalists and claiming that he was “a good Muslim – I pray three times a day.” When told that Muslims pray five times a day, he immediately answered, “Well, the more, the merrier.”16 The “Islamic battalion” mentioned above never materialized, nor did the sharʿia law. Indeed, in 1993 Dudayev sarcastically told the Chechen Council of Elders that implementing the shariʿa would probably cause many of those present to lose a limb, if not worse, so they had better stick to the (rather secular) Chechen constitution.17 Up to his death – he was assassinated by the Russians in April 1996 – Dudayev spoke of radical Islam as a threat, even though this did not prevent him from threatening Russia with imaginary Muslim suicide battalions, which were not under his control and which “answered to God alone.” Of course, it would be hard to trust an argument based on declarations, let  alone Dudayev’s. After all, this was the man who had once accused Russia of planning to attack Chechnya with an artificial earthquake;18 this was the man who called for jihad one day, only to utter warnings against jihad the following day. However, it is quite clear that the Chechen nationals were not a Caucasian version of the Taliban or Hizballah. Visitors to the Chechen general staff in the first war never encountered any evidence of Islamism in the high command. There were indeed religious Muslims among the fighters and commanders, but most did not portray the war as a religious act. Even Shamil Basayev, later the face of Chechen radicalism, while no doubt a practicing Muslim, did not give the impression during the first war that he was a “particularly strict [Muslim].”19 Nor was the average Chechen fighter like the Taliban militia or current radical Islamic fighters. Israeli journalist Tzur Sheizaf spent some time in 1995 with Chechen fighters who wore green Islamic headbands, but apart from 176

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that fashion statement, their piousness manifested itself at the most in the use of the Arab greeting “salam aleikum” (peace be upon you).20 Others even partook of Russian pork.21 When prior to the war some Muslim radicals had preached for a “purer” Islam and for more modesty, they were generally frowned upon.22 A number of Middle Eastern volunteers fought in the first Chechen war. Under their famous commander Khattab (whose real name was Samir Saleh ʿAbdallah al-Suwaylim).23 Although they fought ferociously against the Russians in June 1995, and were responsible for the famous ambush near Shatoy in April 1996, where a Russian regiment was decimated,24 some Chechens treated them with contempt, while some accounts of the war did not even mention Khattab (or other Muslim volunteers). As their number was probably never more than several dozen, this is not surprising.25 Before dismissing the role of Islam in the Chechen war, one should remember that Dudayev would not have portrayed himself as a “good Muslim,” had he not surmised that such a pose would improve his position among the Chechens. The revival of Islam in Chechnya cannot be denied, and did reveal the deep religious feelings of many Chechens. In late 1991,26 the founding of the Grozny State Islamic Institute with its many instructors from the Middle East illustrates this, as well as the rapid construction of mosques in Chechnya when Soviet rule came to an end. However, it seems that apart from those instructors, Middle Eastern involvement, especially from Saudi Arabia, was more or less limited to subsidizing North Caucasians pilgrims (mostly from Dagestan), sponsoring students from Russia and its republics, and supplying Islamic literature.27 It would also be wrong to judge Caucasian Sufi Islam by applying criteria of Middle Eastern or Afghan Islam. In the Caucasus, for instance, people would raise their glasses of vodka, say bismillah al-rahman al-rahim (in the name of God, the most merciful)28 and combine prayers and drinks – “a church service and a pub crawl rolled into one,” as journalist Sebastian Smith put it.29 In short, Islam in the Caucasus was at times at odds with Middle Eastern patterns. Radical Islam did influence some Chechen leaders. A  notable example was Yanderbiyev, who succeeded Dudayev as Chechen president. He was influenced by Ahmed Qadi Akhtayev, a Dagestani Islamic leader, who 177

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chaired the fundamentalist Islamic Revival Party (IPV) in Dagestan.30 Yanderbiyev considered Akhtayev a significant religious authority, as did Chechen’s Information Minister Movladi Udugov, who became one of the leading Islamists in Chechnya. Udugov even invited Akhtayev to head Chechnya’s shariʿa court.31 Paradoxically, these radicals were not always separatists, nor were they always in conflict with traditional Islam. Akhtayev denounced calls for an armed jihad in Dagestan or the labeling of political opponents as heretics. His Islamic movement was to include all Russian Muslims, not only fundamentalists. As such, even if one ignored the fact that the IPV had only an insignificant influence on the Muslims of Russia, there was no place for radical politics.32 Until his death in 1998 he distanced himself from the radical Chechen Islamists.33 His partner in the leadership of the IPV in Dagestan, Bagautdin Magomedov, was a member of two Sufi tariqas. In the mid-1990s he broke connections with both Akhtayev and the tariqas, labeled them heretics, and started preaching for a violent jihad – though he himself only immigrated to Chechnya in 1997.34 Another oft-ignored fact is that, religiously speaking, the Chechens were not all that different from their Ingush and Dagestani neighbors, who, having chosen a different path, decided to remain part of Russia with most of them never considering secession. As some Sufi tariqas distanced themselves from politics, and adopted an ideology that included an acceptance of foreign rule,35 even a strong Islamic religious belief did not supply a focus for the struggle against Christian Russia, despite the fact that many Sufis supported Chechen independence. Neither traditional, nor radical Caucasian Islam necessitated secessionist politics.36 The attempts of Chechen leaders to use Islam sometimes reflected the manipulative efforts by people who did not necessarily understand the religion they were trying to use. Dudayev, as already noted, was an example of neither religious devotion, nor religious knowledge. Barbara Ann Rieffer-Flanagan has described Chechen nationalism as religious nationalism, which is “the fusion of nationalism and religion such that they are inseparable.”37 However, the events in Chechnya in the early 1990s fit her definition of “instrumental pious nationalism,” where “the nationalist movement is the primary movement, but religion comes into play as a supporting element that can unite a population.”38 178

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Perhaps it was because Chechens managed to keep much of their tradition and religion under Soviet rule that religion was not the decisive factor in who would support Chechen nationalism and who would not. Mobilizing religion in the interest of secession proved a complex process since there were enough pious men opposing Dudayev.39 To sum up, Islam apparently did not serve as a good rallying point in the first war, not because it lacked strength but because it was too strong. When not only the Chechens, but also the Ingush and many ethnicities in Dagestan shared the same religion and beliefs, Islam became a common denominator, but it did not necessarily provide a good answer to the question “Why should Chechnya secede from Russia?” The character of traditional Islam in Chechnya, in contrast to the Middle Eastern version, also explains why patterns of martyrdom were nearly absent during the 1994–96 war. There are no martyrs in stories like that of the defenders of the town Samashki, as told by Thomas Goltz in his Chechnya Diary.40 Neither are they to be found in the sardonic remarks regarding the Islamic fighters passed by Hussein Iskhanov, then aide-decamp to Aslan Maskhadov, the Chechen chief of staff, in his account of the first war.41 The goal was to win, and in their eyes God helped them achieve this aim and survive. Chechen militancy during the first war emphasized the religious theme, but not the martyrdom theme. It was generally tactical terrorism – at times with unforeseen strategic consequences. Its most famous case, the Buddenovsk hospital hostage crisis in June 1995, probably started as an attack on military targets, but turned into a mass hostage-taking situation when that attack – which was definitely not a suicide attack – failed. Neither in the Buddenovsk nor in the Pervomaisk hostage crisis of April 1996 was there any hint of Chechen fighters seeking martyrdom. Although they were ready to stand and fight to the end, they were not seeking death.42 In both cases, they negotiated a safe passage to Chechnya, and in Buddenovsk they even forced Russia to agree to a ceasefire with the rebels. This was not the case in the second hostage-taking attack, under the command of the notorious Salman Raduyev. In a deliberate attempt to kill the hijackers, even if this meant killing the hostages as well, the Russian forces ambushed the Chechen convoy, which was on its way back to Chechnya, in Pervomaisk. The battle lasted several days. A  Chechen commander 179

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admitted he feared the Russian psychological warfare, which called on his fighters to “take pity on yourselves, think of your mothers.”43 He made no mention of martyrdom, certainly not as a motivational force. Funerals, too, were very different from those often seen in the Middle East. They were usually traditional events. Rarely, if ever, were there scenes of sadness mixed with joy at the death of a martyr fulfilling his dreams of ascending to heaven. Indeed, it seems that references to martyrdom at the time were almost solely made by foreign organizations. A  case in point was the somewhat cheerful declaration by the American Islamic Group, an organization based in San Diego, California, which was “deeply honored and proud to report to all Muslims the martyrdom of one of our own faithful people in the land of Chechnya: Brother Muhammad Zaki,” the head of the organization’s relief mission in the republic. “He is believed to be the first American Muslim to be killed in Chechnya. May God count him as martyr and accept his jihad.”44 Even the death of Dudayev by a Russian missile in April 1996 did not bring the language of martyrdom into widespread use. Yanderbiyev dryly declared that Dudayev “was buried this morning in the presence of close relatives at one of the rural cemeteries in southern Chechnya.” Others promised to avenge his death and said that the struggle will be continued with tripled energy.45 No one referred to Dudayev as a martyr. Even the very religious Khunkar-Pasha Israpilov, a senior Chechen commander, called Dudayev “our symbol of freedom,” and then promised to obey orders from the new president, if nominated according to the constitution;46 the same went for Ruslan Gelaev, another senior commander, who spoke about Dudayev’s ideas about freedom and liberty.47 There was no funeral ceremony at all; even his brother was not invited to the interment, and was only told that “Dzhokhar had died and had been buried.”48 Nevertheless, three days of mourning were held throughout Chechnya. Then the war continued. The only resemblance to martyrs from earlier days was the rumor that Dudayev was not dead, but in hiding.49 This rumor soon died down, and the deceased president did not become a modern-day Kunta Hajji. Nor did anyone else. Though many had died, Chechens did not put the concept of martyrdom to a widespread use. The fighters fought to resist the Russians or to win the war, and martyrdom was at best a secondary consideration. 180

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Perhaps the best illustration is Aslan Maskhadov’s inauguration speech. In February 1997, after the first war ended, all Russian soldiers evacuated Chechnya and Maskhadov was elected president of the republic. He said: Now it is the duty of every one of us to realize the expectations of our ancestors, our heroes fallen in holy war, of the right to live freely and independently. For hundreds of years, our people were not allowed to be masters of their land … [they were] killed when the Russians wanted to kill, burned when the Russians felt like it … deported when Russia felt like it.50

It was the freedom from Russian brutality that formed the backbone of Maskhadov’s comments;51 martyrdom was mentioned merely in passing. However, few Chechens used a different vocabulary, their language strongly resembling that of other radical Muslims around the world. Shamil Basayev, a radical Islamist, was influenced by his own account by the “Arabs” who “opened his eyes” to a “proper” Islam, including the concept of holy war (ghazavat), which “should go on until all the Christians are converted to Islam.” True to his new beliefs, Basayev claimed that Dudayev “was sent to us from heaven, and died in combat … We are going to make war on all infidels, as Dzhokar Dudayev told us.”52

The Second Chechen War (1999–2009): Turning to martyrdom? Postwar Chechnya was significantly influenced by radical Islam, Middle Eastern style, as was happening elsewhere in the Caucasus,53 albeit more violently. Khattab, a fairly junior commander in the first war, settled in Chechnya, married a local woman, and began preaching his own version of Islam. He and other preachers gained great influence. Bassayev, a leading Chechen field commander in the first war, became closely associated with the Wahhabis, especially with Khattab. Though a minority, they held tremendous sway in Chechen politics. This turned out to be especially true when Bassayev – coming second in the elections – became vice-president and, for several months in 1998, acting prime minister. Traditional Islam in Chechnya thus came under attack of the radicals.54 In 1998, Khattab wrote a manifesto in which he accused the Sufis of falling 181

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One Chechen summed it up as follows:  “Most Chechens followed Tob Kunta Haji. Others preferred the Naqshbandiyya order. The Arabs said it was all wrong.”56 In 1998, there were even armed clashes between government supporters to Wahhabi activists. Maskhadov, once accused by Bassayev of trying to keep Chechnya within the Russian Federation, tried unsuccessfully to appease the radicals. This included such moves as allowing sharʿia courts in Chechnya to rule and perform public executions.57 In 1999 he announced that Chechnya would be ruled by sharʿia laws.58 As this did not change much “on the ground,” Maskhadov was possibly also trying to garner outside support by portraying himself as a Muslim radical.59 He even went as far as to blame “world Jewry” for sabotaging Chechnya.60 It is clear that the target audiences were Arab states and Muslim radicals inside or outside Chechnya. It is well known that this approach made many Sufis, including Chehnya’s chief Mufti Akhmad Kadyrov, view the Russians as the lesser evil. Indeed, in 1998 Kadyrov called the government to put an end to the anti-Islamic and antinational actions of the Wahhabis.61 Later on, he switched sides and, with Russian backing, became president of Chechnya, until his assassination in 2004. Meanwhile, the radicals created training camps with the outspoken aim of forming an Islamic state in the Caucasus, uniting Chechnya and Dagestan. In 1999, Bassayev and Khattab led an ill-fated invasion of Dagestan by Islamic forces.62 This division in Chechen society deeply affected the second war in Chechnya (1999 onward). Islam was much more salient in this war (one example is Maskhadov, who donned green Islamic headwear on numerous occasions during the second war, but almost never in the first war).63 The division of Chechen society and the views and active vocabulary of the Islamists affected the Chechen way of war no less than strategic and tactical considerations. Targeting civilians became commonplace, and 182

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traditional restraints were ditched altogether. While most Chechens supported neither attacks on civilians nor Wahhabism,64 a considerable number did. This, of course, influenced the concept of martyrdom. However, just as the war in Chechnya did not turn into a global jihadi effort, and remained a local war, albeit with a religious facet, martyrdom too kept a clear and distinct Chechen flavor. If our analysis of the limited role of Islam in the first war is correct, it is easy to understand how it changed and why. Whereas traditional Islam could exist, if uneasily, without necessarily trying to rid itself of Russian rule, the “new” radical Islam not only enabled the struggle against Russia, but also necessitated it. After all, the radicals viewed themselves as being surrounded not by sufficiently religious kith and kin, but by heretics who wrongfully saw themselves as true believers. The collapse of the social order and traditional law, and the fragmentation of Chechen society following the first war, gave place to what Valery Tishkov called “the Kalashnikov culture,”65 and opened the way for radicals to fill the void. Their theology gave people something to hold onto. Village law, so to speak, could be replaced by shariʿa law. Whereas shortly after the first war one women argued that Chechen women would never “behave in the way they [the radicals] prescribe: stay at home, cover their faces,”66 some, if only a small minority,67 indeed did. The same women said that “actually, it is women alone who work in Chechnya now, while all men hang about with automatic guns or sit at home jobless.”68 The place of women in society and war underwent changes that could at times be quite radical. The most striking examples are, of course, suicide bombings. The phenomenon was almost unknown in Chechnya until 7 June 2000, when two women drove an explosive-laden truck into Russian headquarters in Alkhan-Yurt.69 Participation of women in the fighting, or in violent acts, was virtually unknown in Chechnya before the second war, despite some persistent, unfounded rumors about Slavic female snipers. Actually, just a year earlier even Khattab himself ruled out the possibility of women taking part in the struggle.70 But later on, suicide bombers began to appear in significant numbers on the Chechen scene. In less than five years, some 112 Chechens participated in suicide attacks.71 Even more striking, by the end of 2006, women participated in 42 percent of the 36 suicide attacks by Chechens; the other 58 percent were either carried out by 183

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men or by both men and women.72 In one extreme case, two sisters tried to murder their father with a hand grenade since he tried to prevent them from joining the Wahhabis and becoming suicide bombers. In another, in 2002 a father, his son and his daughter mounted a suicide attack against a government complex in the capital Grozny – a unique case in the history of suicide bombing.73 The changing pattern of war did not take long to develop a new concept of martyrdom. The first suicide bomber, Khava (or Hawa) Barayeva,74 allegedly said before the bombing: “I know what I am doing; Paradise has a price and I hope this will be the price for Paradise.”75 Her words appear to this day in many radical forums and discussion groups, sometimes together with her picture in a niqab headwear, covering all but her eyes.76 Her words and deeds were as alien to Chechen culture as her dress, but were very similar to other martyrdom seekers, like those quoted above, for whom paradise was the goal. However, Barayeva also offered a radical interpretation of tradition. “Our forefathers would have killed anyone who tried to touch their women, but today Muslim women are getting attacked and raped in front of those who claim to be men – they have no jealousy for the honor of their Muslim sisters […] Do you consider yourself men?”77 In a society like Chechnya, where a survey found “respect for women” to be the second most sacred value (after justice),78 her accusation was both serious and humiliating:  With Muslim men straying from their sacred duty to protect their women, the latter had to protect their honor and strike back themselves.79 Women suffered much in the first war as well, but they still refrained from blowing themselves up. But now, as gender roles80 began to disintegrate, Wahhabis offered an alternative worldview. Whereas tradition prevented women from participating in combat operations, radicals (viewing Chechen tradition as little more than ignorant heresy) were more open to the idea of female combatants. And when the traditional role of men as protectors of women crumbled in the face of the Russian onslaught, radicals enabled women to fight back – even if by killing themselves. Barayeva’s martyrdom was further immortalized in a song, ‘Khava Barayeva,’ by popular Chechen singer and self-proclaimed Islamist Timur Mutsrayev. Barayeva “sacrificed herself,” and became a “shahid,” so that “blessed paradise is awaiting Khava.”81 Nationalism was not completely absent, but it gave way to an image of a glorious Muslim sacrifice against the infidels. 184

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Shortly after Barayeva’s suicide attack, the Chechen Islamists’ website Qoqaz.com published a long and detailed fatwa sanctioning suicide bombing in general and Barayeva’s actions in particular.82 Its rationale was similar to that of other well-known proponents of suicide bombing, such as the spiritual leadership of the Palestinian Hamas,83 and Shaykh Yusuf al-Qaradawi,84 who distinguished between suicide, which is prohibited, and martyrdom, which is allowed and even encouraged.85 The tone was definitely global, though Palestine was mentioned. The fatwa went as far as saying that not only are “martyrdom operations … permissible,” but “in fact the mujahid who is killed in them is better than one who is killed fighting in the ranks.” It also paved the way concerning female suicide bombers, at least in Sunni Islam.86 Al-Qaradawi’s fatwa supporting female bombers did not appear until a year later.87 The “Middle-Easting” of martyrdom continued. When Khattab himself was killed in 2002, his brother said with pride that Khattab had sought martyrdom for fourteen years, and finally “God granted it to him” though he had failed to achieve it earlier, in Afghanistan and Tajikistan.88 In what is said to be his last interview, Khattab said: “For us this war means carrying out our duty before God and any end of this battle would be suitable for us: victory or paradise.”89 While he did believe that the goal was to drive the Russians out of Chechnya, his equation of martyrdom and victory bore a closer resemblance to statements of Ayatollah Khomeini of Iran than to those of Dudayev, Maskhadov or even Bassayev in the first Chechen war.90 The kidnappers in the Dubrovka Theather Moscow hostage crisis in December 2002 also rammed this theme home: Every nation has the right to their fate. Russia has taken away this right from the Chechens and today we want to reclaim these rights, which God has given us … we will take with us the lives of hundreds of sinners. If we die, others will follow us – our brothers and sisters who are willing to sacrifice their lives to liberate their nation … I swear by God we are more keen on dying than you [the Russians] are keen on living. Each one of us is willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of God and the independence of Chechnya.91

Here was a mixture of nationalistic goals and radical Islam:  in order to allow Chechnya’s self-determination, the fighters would kill “hundreds of sinners,” that is, non-Muslim civilians from every sex and age – convinced 185

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that they would win because they were “keen on dying,” and prepared to sacrifice themselves “for the sake of God.” Another woman, who participated in the Nord-Ost affair, used the visions of jihad, martyrdom, and paradise in a note she left to a friend before leaving for Moscow: They will say that we bargained and demanded dollars and a plane in exchange for the hostages. It’s not the truth. We go on jihad. We know that all of us will die … we will not bargain … we shall meet in heaven … I am happy that I deserved jihad.92

Her message clearly focused on jihad, martyrdom, and paradise. Contrary to hostage taking in the first war, she said, there would be no negotiations: there would be death, and it would be welcome. In reality, the hostage takers (led by Movsar Barayev, a relative of Khava Barayeva’s) did make demands, if not wholly realistic: they demanded the full retreat of Russia from Chechnya. However, it was clear that this woman wanted to die, and go to heaven – as would the hostages. One of the jihadists told the hostages that “the most important thing for me is to die a martyr.”93 Some authors suggested the Islamic connection of Chechen suicide bombing was exaggerated, noting a host of other reasons leading to suicide attacks.94 However, the fact is that the concept of martyrdom, especially death seeking or paradise seeking as a goal in itself, was marginal in the 1994–96 war. The death, despair and Russian brutality in the first war did not cause Chechens to commit suicide attacks, nor did they speak at length about seeking paradise and killing civilian “sinners.” The radicals, whether foreigners like Khattab or locals, brought with them the terminology and ideological framework that enabled martyrdom to take on a significant role permitted women to take active part in the struggle, and funneled feelings and revenge seeking into particular warlike tactics.95 To this day, Islamist rebels in the Russian Caucasus continue to use similar themes,96 and many of their messages contain the slogan: Pobedya ilii ray! (Victory or Paradise!). When the Chechen separatist strategy, so successful in the first war, failed in the second, and victory was no longer perceived as a viable option, the promise of martyrdom and paradise gained more appeal. 186

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Against this background, it is quite remarkable that Chechen society has remained detached from this specific concept of martyrdom. Support for the Wahhabis remained low during the war, estimated at 5 to 10 percent.97 Indeed, as Pénélope Larzillière has written, “although somewhat modified by Islamic nationalism, Chechen nationalism’s significant influence limits the extent to which jihadist ideology can take root.”98 In their study of Chechen suicide bombers, Anne Speckhard and Khapta Akhmedova found that of all the relatives of Chechen suicide perpetrators, not one was willing to glorify the martyrs: Unlike what commonly occurs in Palestine, in Chechnya there are no public community wide celebrations that take place after a suicide act, nor are posters or other markers of honor placed in public places proclaiming the terrorists as either national or religious heroes … Unlike Palestinian[s]‌[…] where it is common for parents to simultaneously express grief and pride in martyred offspring, we did not find one parent who proudly acknowledged son or daughter as a martyr.99

Indeed, relatives and friends offered a host of justifications, excuses and rationalizations for suicide bombing; but there was no significant glorification.100 A decade later, the deaths of Ruslan Gelayev, a prominent Chechen commander killed in 2004, and of his 24-year-old son Rustam, who died in Syria in 2012, provided a striking example of the differences between the Wahhabis and traditional Chechens.101 The father was a very devout Muslim. The son, who followed in his footsteps, is said to have studied Islam in Egypt and Syria. The Islamist Kavkaz Center website published the news of his death, together with a picture of his face (taken after death), with the comment that he was fighting against the Assad regime in Syria.102 An earlier picture of him carrying a rifle was also published.103 Nevertheless, relatives living in Chechnya were quick to deny he had taken any part in the fighting. He was, they said, studying in Syria and was killed on his way to leaving the country because of the war.104 The point is not whether he died fighting or not; the point is that his Chechen relatives made no attempt to bask in the light of his martyrdom.105 They preferred to claim that his death was an unfortunate accident, rather than that it was his destiny. 187

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Conclusion The Chechen concept of martyrdom was, and still is, different from the popularized perception of martyrdom, as reflected in its Palestinian or Iraqi interpretation. There were martyrs, but Chechen society remained mostly alien to the concept of actively seeking martyrdom. Although Islamic radicals managed to instill the concept in some parts of the Chechen society, it apparently remained a minority point of view. Martyrdom gave meaning to the tragedy of Chechen suffering, as well as paving the way for revenge and its justification. But, just as most Chechens rejected the Wahhabi doctrine and remained true to Sufism and traditional Islam, they also rejected the Wahhabi concept of martyrdom. The Chechen case sheds light on the reciprocation between Muslim society and the concept of martyrdom. Its acceptance as a goal within the framework of Islamic religious belief are nonetheless not necessarily a package deal, even at times of violent wars in a violent society. Although more than enough Chechens willingly accepted the concept (and quite a few, apparently, went to fight a holy war in Syria or Iraq), society as a whole did not. Despite what Khattab thought or preached, it seems that the Chechens, while religious, were not drawn to martyrdom. They were not, as Khattab believed, “keen on dying.”

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11 Deobandi Sectarian Militancy and Martyrdom in Pakistan: Appropriation and Transvaluation in Indo-Muslim Traditions of Sacred Sacrifice Michaʾel Tanchum

Introduction In the Sufi-mediated traditions of South Asia, the reframing of martyrs has constituted one of the principal means by which the sharp boundaries of sectarian identity among Muslims have been rendered quite blurred, creating the traditionally fluid boundary between Sunni and Shiʿa in Indo-Muslim culture. Indo-Muslim nationalist discourse furthered the Sufi-mediated processes of appropriation and transvaluation of martyrdom narratives to create a suprasectarian political identity suited to the Pakistani nation-building project. This form of identity should be termed suprasectarian as opposed to transsectarian because the Indo-Muslim national discourse does not bridge Sunni and Shiʿi readings, rather it creates a new metastructure, which it places over both – particularly Shiʿi religious understandings. In its examination of the power of martyrdom narratives to reframe identity in Indo-Muslim culture and in Pakistani national discourse, this chapter will focus on the Deobandi Sunni organization Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan (army of the sahaba [in] Pakistan) or SSP. Despite the organization’s rabid opposition to the fluidity of sectarian boundaries, Sipah-e 189

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Sahaba Pakistan also engages in the typically Indo-Muslim practice of reframing martyrs and the meaning of their martyrdom. In 1985, members of the Deobandi movement in Pakistan formed the Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan, creating the first modern militant organization within Pakistan’s borders, almost a full decade before the Deobandi movement’s creation of the Taliban.1 In the mid-1990s, many SSP leaders were openly calling for an amendment to Pakistan’s constitution, declaring the Shiʿa to be non-Muslims in order for Pakistan to be considered a truly “Islamic” state. Under the leadership of the organization’s second amir Ziaur Rehman Farooqi and his deputy amir Azam Tariq, the SSP attempted to promote an unambiguously Sunni public culture, based on the sahaba (in contradistinction to the Shiʿi line of imams) and the glorification of the martyrdom of several SSP leaders. Ironically, the SSP’s method for implementing its Sunni sectarian agenda involved refashioning Shiʿi ritual and devotional forms with explicitly anti-Shiʿi, Sunni content.

Martyrdom and the development of a suprasectarian identity in Indo-Muslim culture and Pakistani national discourse The development of a suprasectarian identity within Pakistani national discourse, which the SSP opposes derives from a suprasectarian orientation within Indo-Muslim culture that has existed since the medieval period. This orientation is based upon South Asian Sufi narrative traditions that regard the martyrdom of Husayn at Karbalaʾ as a paradigmatic example of the Sufi practice of fanaʾ (the mystical “annihilation” or sacrifice of the self) and place Husayn, the third Imam for Shiʿa, at the beginning of a chain of spiritual succession of Sufi masters, most of whom are ostensibly identified as Sunnis. The construction of a suprasectarian Indo-Muslim national identity builds upon this Sufi-mediated appropriation and transvaluation of highly charged sectarian narratives of martyrdom in the Shiʿi tradition.2 The pervasiveness of the suprasectarian identity within modern Pakistani political discourse is illustrated by the remarks made by Pakistan’s then Chief of Army Staff (COAS) General Mirza Aslam Beg during the outbreak of the 1991 Gulf War. General Beg had previously served as viceCOAS under Ziaul Haq and oversaw Pakistan’s execution of Ziaul Haq’s 190

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Afghan policy. After Ziaul Haq’s death, the military under Beg’s leadership continued Pakistan’s strategy of developing a client state in Afghanistan through support for the largely anti-Shiʿa, Pashtun mujahidun. In January 1991, ten days after the commencement of Operation Desert Storm when airstrikes conducted by a U.S.-led multinational force began pummeling the forces of Saddam Hussein, General Beg spoke before an assembly of officers convened at the Pakistani army’s General Headquarters in Rawalpindi. Attempting to seize a moment of political opportunity created by the mass upsurge in popular discontent, Beg criticized the U.S.-led campaign against Saddam Hussein. In an astounding rhetorical role reversal, Iraq’s Sunni dictator, known for his violent suppression of his own Shiʿa majority as well as his initiation of an eight-year war against the Shiʿi Islamic Republic of Iran, was cast by Beg in his speech as Hussein, the martyr of Karbalaʾ. Similarly, the U.S.-led air campaign was likened to a modern reenactment of the tragedy of Karbalaʾ.3 Beg’s remarks reflect a rhetoric reflex of the official Pakistani political lexicon, whose tropes and metaphors derive from the early modern and modern Urdu high culture upon which Pakistan’s elite sought to base the country’s national culture. One of the greatest exemplars of this high culture is the beloved Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib (1797–1869). Ghalib served as court poet to the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, and his Urdu poetry is regarded as some of the finest examples of Urdu literature. Ghalib’s verses are steeped in Sufi mystical concepts. Typical of his writing is the following famous ghazal: “When there was nothing, so there was God / Should there be nothing, so there would still be God/Existence has drowned me/Should I not exist, so what would be?!).”4 With his ingenious use of polysemy, Ghalib is referring to the Sufi notion of fanaʾ (annihilation), specifically fanaʾ fiʾllah, the spiritual death or annihilation of the self in God. Following in the Hindavī/Urdu literary tradition, Ghalib was greatly influenced by the Sufi martyr Husayn b. Mansur al-Hallaj (d. 922), who is lionized in Sufi tradition as the paragon of fanaʾ fi’llah. Hanged on the gallows, beaten and then decapitated, Hallaj remained steadfast in his desire for unity with the Divine Beloved throughout his ordeal. Over 900 years after the event, Ghalib declares in one of his poems: “The secret is hidden in the breast and not the sermon; You cannot utter it in the pulpit, but on the gallows.”5 191

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For Sufis, particularly those inclined to the ecstatic (sukr) orientation in Sufism, Hallaj is the foremost exemplar of attaining tawhid (unity) with the Divine through fanaʾ or self-sacrifice. Hallaj was famous for saying, “Uqtulūnī yā thiqātī, inna fī qatlī hayātī” (Kill me, o my trustworthy friends, for in my being killed is my life).6 A disciple of the renowned Baghdadi Sufi master Junayd (d. 910), Hallaj was rebuked by his master when Hallaj uttered the phrase “Ana’l Haqq” (I am the Truth [the Divine]) as a sign of his self-annihilation.7 Upon his return to Baghdad after journeying in northwestern India, Hallaj attracted a mass following, while the pious movement that coalesced around him also carried overtones of dissatisfaction with the Abbasid administration. Hallaj was placed under house arrest in 912 and eventually executed in 922. The spectacle of Hallaj’s execution, through its retelling in the Sufi tradition and in Indo-Muslim literature has assumed the nature of a Christ-like Passion. According to Sufi tradition, a fettered Hallaj danced to the place of execution, feet covered in his own blood as the fetters tore through his skin. He stopped to pray and people started throwing stones at him. Hallaj was then lashed 600 times, after which his hands and feet were cut off. The remainder of his body was hoisted onto the gallows and his head was cut off. As David Cook observed, the death of Hallaj was the first high-profile execution of a Sufi by a Muslim government. Cook notes that the Sufi tradition considers Hallaj’s death to be “the result of an evil government and vile mob working together against a blameless holy man,” and therefore “alHallaj’s [sic] spiritual devotion, his single-minded desire to join his Beloved, without counting the cost of this joining, has raised him to martyr status.”8 In its drama and pathos, the story of Hallaj rivals that of Husayn – save for the fact that the latter was the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad. Hallaj’s martyrdom exerted a profound effect on Persianate Sufism. The widely influential, mystical Persian poetry of the thirteenth-century Anatolian Sufi Jalaluddin Rumi abound with references and allusions to Hallaj.9 The members of the Bektashi Sufi order of take their initiation on a spot in their lodges called the Dār-e Mansūr (Gallows of Mansur). From the Persianate Sufi tradition, Hallaj’s martyrdom entered the Indo-Muslim imaginary. The trope of Hallaj as the paragon of martyrdom was not simply an artifice of the Urdu high culture of the Mughal Imperial Court. The figure of Hallaj also permeates Muslim popular cultures across 192

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North India.10 Because of his visit to the lower Indus valley in 905, Hallaj holds a special place in Indo-Muslim culture. Hallaj features prominently in the “folk Islam” tradition of Panjab and most notably in the popular Panjabi poetry of the Qadiri Sufi master Sultan Bahu (d. 1691). Bahu was born in Shorkot, in the Jhang district of present-day Pakistan. Sultan Bahu’s shrine is located in Garh Maharaja, Jhang District, and is a frequently visited pilgrimage site.11 About Hallaj, Sultan Bahu writes: If you want to be a lover and earn love, then make your heart like the mountains Consider hundreds of thousands of acts of enmity and hundreds of calumnies to be gardens in bloom Like Mansur, those privy to all secrets were hung from the Gallows. Do not raise your head from prostration, Bahu, even if thousands call you an infidel.12

Sultan Bahu’s ʿurs (literally “wedding”) or death anniversary, which occurs during the Shiʿi holy month of Muharram, is attended by hundreds of thousands of devotees. On the day before the Shiʿi holiday of ʿAshuraʾ, the shrine of Sultan Bahu is given a ghusl (ritual bath) with rosewater. The meaning of Muharram and the ʿAshuraʾ is therefore blurred by being cast within a Sufi ritual framework. The blurred meaning is also manifest in Sultan Bahu’s poetry, for when he speaks of  ʿAli and Husayn, Sultan Bahu employs a strikingly similar language to that which he uses when speaking of Hallaj. All three are portrayed as mystical lovers who stayed faithful to the Beloved’s secrets even on pain of death. About ʿAli and Husayn, Sultan Bahu writes: A true lover is one who accepts death for the Beloved He does not desert love, nor turns his face, even if wounded by many swords He halts and stands wherever he sees the Beloved’s mysteries Bahu, true love is that of Husayn and ʿAli: to give away one’s head but never give away the secret.13

Following the Sufi-mediated, Indo-Muslim literary tradition exemplified by Sultan Bahu, Ghālib, almost two centuries later, groups Husayn together 193

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with al-Hallaj. He writes, “God has kept the ecstatic lovers like Husayn and Mansur in the place of gallows and ropes … in being martyrs they find eternal life and happiness and become witnesses to God’s mysterious power.”14 Building on this Sufi-mediated, suprasectarian identity, found in both popular and high culture, the great modernist proponents of an Indo-Muslim national discourse in the early twentieth century furthered the process of appropriation and transvaluation in their call for active engagement in political struggle. They built upon the Sufi-mediated transvaluation of Shiʿi narrative traditions to create a suprasectarian identity. One of the most important examples is Muhammad ʿAli Jauhar (d.  1931), best known for being the driving force behind the Caliphate Movement. His early education was at the Darul Uloom in Deoband; he then went on to the modernist ʿAligarh Muslim University, and then to Oxford. Jauhar was one of the founders of the All-India Muslim League, the party that would eventually bring about the creation of Pakistan. In 1919, Jauhar spearheaded the mobilization of Muslims in the Indian subcontinent into a mass movement known as the Khilafat (caliphate) movement. Its goal was to pressure the British to preserve the Ottoman Empire as the caliphate and the Ottoman sultan as the caliph after the Ottoman defeat in World War I.  In one of Jauhar’s most remarkable passages, he states: “The battle between truth and falsehood continues eternally. Those who are not frightened by falsehood are the partisans of Husayn.”15 The passage is remarkable for its redefinition of who constitute the Shiʿa. Jauhar’s phrase “Shiʿān-e Husayn,” means the “Shiʿa of Husayn.” Jauhar was a proponent of the caliphate, which is generally regarded by Shiʿa as the spiritual and temporal antipode to the imamate. Similarly, for Sunnis who view the caliphate in terms like those of the members of Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan, this suprasectarian identity within Indo-Muslim national discourse is likewise an anathema. This suprasectarian identity based on the Sufi-mediated appropriation and transvaluation of notions of martyrdom is also prominently attested in the writings of Muhammad Iqbal. A native of Sialkot, Panjab, the poet-philosopher Iqbal is regarded as the spiritual father of Pakistan.16 However, key philosophical elements of his emerging Indo-Muslim national discourse can be observed in his work, Jāvednāma [Book of 194

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eternity]. A Persian language philosophical treatise in poetical form, the Jāvednāma is patterned on Dante’s Divine Comedy.17 Instead of Dante and Virgil, Iqbal is guided through the heavenly spheres by Jalaluddin Rumi, as he encounters famous figures in Islamic and Western history. As a literary mechanism in which to frame the Muslim community in relation to world history and philosophy, the book is Iqbal’s disquisition on the Muslim sociopolitical condition of his time. Iqbal published the Jāvednāma in 1932, less than two years after his electrifying speech as president of the All-India Muslim League in which he suggested the establishment of an independent Muslim state in northwestern India. The title Jāvednāma also refers to Iqbal’s own son Javed, who was eight years old at the time. Eventually, Javed Iqbal would sit as a judge in the Supreme Court of Pakistan. Ostensibly addressed to the young Javed, the work can be regarded as a clarion call for the next generation of South Asian Muslims to conduct religious reform and political action toward the establishment of an independent state. In the fifth sphere, the Sphere of Jupiter, Iqbal encounters Hallaj and treats Hallaj as a medieval precursor to himself. Iqbal praises Hallaj for his dynamic sense of agency, based in love and faith, and presents Hallaj as an archetype of the devout, free-thinking Muslim. Iqbal extends the Sufi-mediated literary tradition, which creates a continuum from ʿAli and Husayn through Hallaj, to include Ghālib. After his encounter with Hallaj, Iqbal meets Ghālib in the fifth sphere. Iqbal concludes his encounter with Ghālib with the following words: “You and I are of Hayder, so no wonder would it be/ If we turn back the sun toward the East.”18 Hayder, meaning lion, is a common sobriquet for ʿAli, referring to his bravery in battle. The invocation of a supra-sectarian identity echo Iqbal’s controversial Urdu poem, Javāb-e Shikwa [The answer to the complaint], written two decades earlier. In 1909, Iqbal recited his poem Shikwa (the complaint) in which the poet complains to God for not being fair to the Muslim community after the Muslims conquered the world in order to carry the message of Islam. With the Muslims having liberated humankind from ignorance, as Iqbal sees it, the poet laments the decline of Muslim power. In 1913, Iqbal recited the Javāb-e Shikwa as God’s response to the poet, where God chastises the poet and explains that the degradation of the Muslim community 195

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is self-inflicted for having deviated from true Islamic teachings to follow corrupt Western and Hindu values. God declares to the poet: You are Muslims? Is this the Muslim’s way of life? You take on neither ʿAli’s [vow of] poverty nor Osman’s [pursuit of] wealth What relationship is there between your ancestors and you? Your forefathers were respected having been Muslims You are disgraced having abandoned the Qurʾan.19

In the original Urdu, “Ali’s [vow of] poverty” is expressed as Hayderi faqr, which invokes both ʿAli’s courage and the Sufi notion of spiritual poverty (faqr), alluding to his steadfastness in sacred self-sacrifice. Osman is ʿUthman b. ʿAffān, the third caliph, progenitor of the Umayyad dynasty and the uncle of Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan, the founder of the Umayyad dynasty. The pairing of ʿAli and Osman would be unthinkable for believing Shiʿa. There is no mention of Husayn in Iqbal’s Javāb-e Shikwa. However, in other parts of his Urdu oeuvre, Iqbal similarly praises Husayn for his steadfastness in martyrdom by invoking the Sufi concept of faqr. Following a tradition found among South Asian Muslims, Iqbal refers to Husayn as Shabbīr, the nickname reportedly used by Muhammad for his grandson, when the prophet of Islam would liken his relationship with ʿAli to that of Moses and his brother Aaron by using the names Shabbar (for Hasan) and Shabbīr (for Husayn), the names for Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu. About Husayn, Iqbal writes: “There is a poverty that of Shabbīr [Husayn]. In this poverty lies Kingship/ The inheritance of Islam is the wealth of Shabbir.”20 As he did with the figure of ʿAli, Iqbal uses the Sufi concept of faqr to reconstruct the meaning of Shiʿism’s paradigmatic martyr. Similar to the way Sufism incorporates Husayn into its chain of spiritual succession by regarding his martyrdom as an exemplary act of fanaʾ fi’llah, Iqbal incorporated Husayn into a succession of Muslim figures that exemplify Iqbal’s notion of the heroic exercise of will and political agency. Extending from ʿAli and Husayn to the nineteenth-century Mughal poet Ghalib, Iqbal’s succession of exemplars contributed a suprasectarian narrative of Islamic history to Indo-Muslim nationalist discourse that would serve as a frame for constructing a Pakistani national identity. 196

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The Sipah-e Sahaba’s Sunni sectarian Jihad Opposed to the suprasectarian identity that became a basic component of the Pakistani nation-building project, the Deobandi founders of the SSP, called the organization Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan, the “Army of the Companions of Muhammad in Pakistan,” to indicate the creation of a militant organization consciously identified as Sunni in contradistinction to the Shiʿa. The Deobandi movement regards its interpretation of the Hanafi school of Sunni jurisprudence as the only legitimate political order. For Deobandis, their interpretation of Hanafi jurisprudence best represents the social order of the early Islamic community as implemented by the companions (sahaba) of Muhammad, the authoritative exemplars for an Islamic society. In 1945, a breakaway current within the Deobandi movement regarded the prospect of the creation of a sovereign Muslim-majority state from the partition of India as the means to begin to establishing their vision of an Islamic political order. The members of this Deobandi current created a political party in late 1945, called the Jamiat-e Ulama-e Islam (“Assembly of Islamic clerics” or JUI), to support the creation of Pakistan with the express purpose of restoring the caliphate.21 Upon the establishment of Pakistan in August 1947, the central concern of the Deobandi JUI became the constitutional status of Hanafi fiqh within the new state.22 The JUI refers to the system of governance based on its interpretation of Hanafi jurisprudence as “the system of the Khilafat-e Rashida” (Urdu for Caliphate of the Rightly Guided), and does not abide alternative constructions of Islamic authority. Thus, JUI-affiliated Deobandi organizations in Pakistan developed a deep tradition of anti-Sufi and anti-Shiʿi polemics and activism, particularly against the veneration of Sufi saints and the Shiʿi imams. The primarily Panjabi-based SSP viewed itself as working for the establishment of the Khilafat-e Rashida in concert with the Pashtun-based Deobandi organizations in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province (NWFP, since 2010 Khyber Pakhtunkhwa) and Afghanistan, and vice-versa.23 All of these groups shared the common Deobandi understanding of the role of sectarianism in the establishment of a true Islamic order. Founded six years after the establishment of the Shiʿi Islamic Republic of Iran, the SSP’s founders were alarmed by the new, Iranian-inspired assertiveness among 197

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Pakistan’s Shiʿi population and regarded Iran as an existential threat to authentic Islamic practice.24 In response to the perceived threats, the SSP prioritized a comprehensive campaign of anti-Shiʿi violence as a means to realize a Deobandi vision of an Islamic system of governance in Pakistan. The organization was formed in 1985 by Maulana Haq Nawaz Jhangvi, who began his career as an imam and preacher (khatib) in a Deobandi mosque in Jhang, Panjab in 1973. The 32-year-old cleric had participated in the 1974 Deobandi-led, Sunni sectarian campaign against the heterodox sect known as the Ahmadiyya.25 The anti-Ahmadi campaign of 1974, based primarily in Panjab, resulted in the passage of an amendment to Pakistan’s constitution, declaring the Ahmadiyya to be non-Muslims. The word “Muslim” has been erased from the tomb of Pakistani Nobel Laureate for Physics Muhammad Abdus Salam because, despite being Pakistan’s only Nobel Prize winner, he was a member of the Ahmadi community.26 For Jhangvi and his Deobandi contemporaries, the struggle against the Ahmadiyya constituted the first step in a broader struggle against Pakistan’s suprasectarian identity, which provided space in the public sphere for all Muslims with alternatives conceptions of Islamic authority, most particularly Shiʿa. During the three years in which Pakistan’s Shiʿi Prime Minister Zulfiqar ʿAli Bhutto remained in office after he secured passage of the antiAhmadiyya amendment, highly inflammatory anti-Shiʿi polemical writings were regularly published in Deobandi journals in NWFP, Panjab, as well as Karachi. Within the confines of its own literature, the Deobandi movement was demanding the same non-Muslim minority status for the Shiʿa that they had been successful in securing for the Ahmadiyya.27 While adhering to the JUI’s constitutional agenda, the Deobandi SSP focused on mobilizing Pakistan’s Sunni population on the basis of public political symbolism and sectarian militancy. For the SSP, the social and political order representative of the caliphate requires the symbolic supremacy of the authority of the sahaba, which means the symbolic and actual authority of the Sunnis over the Shiʿa. Changing the sensibility of Pakistan’s Sunni majority population and Pakistan’s national discourse has become one of the SSP’s primary goals. Upon Haq Nawaz Jhangvi’s sectarian-motivated assassination in February 1990, Jhangvi’s brother-in-law Ziaur Rehman Farooqi succeeded him as amir of the SSP. Malauna Easrul Qasimi became the deputy amir 198

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and also assumed the roles of imam and khatib at Jhangvi’s mosque. Under the leadership of Farooqi and Qasimi, the SSP expanded its activities and its base of support throughout Panjab, as well as into other regions of Pakistan. Farooqi and Qasimi mobilized support by exploiting the image of Jhangvi as a sainted martyr to the Sunni cause. The SSP began publishing thaumaturgic accounts of persons who had received visions of Jhangvi in the heavenly assembly of the sahaba. With the added inspiration of keramat being associated with the martyrdom of their founder, zealous SSP members also began to distinguish themselves by their enthusiastic participation in the Deobandi mujahidun organizations that were fighting in the Afghan jihad.28 The expansion of the SSP’s popularity under the leadership of Farooqi and Qasimi was reflected by the latter’s successful bid for a seat in the National Assembly of Pakistan in October 1990. While Haq Nawaz Jhangvi failed in his 1988 election bid for that same seat, the SSP’s use of the martyrdom of Jhangvi created enough support for one of his successors to win the seat. Despite Qasimi’s election, elements of the SSP carried on its campaign for the establishment of the Khilafat-e Rashida, primarily outside the legislative arena, through a campaign of sectarian violence. In December 1990, the SSP avenged Jhangvi’s assassination by killing Sadiq Ganji, the Director General of the Iranian Cultural Center in Lahore. In response to the attack, SSP deputy amir Esarul Qasimi was assassinated one month later, in January 1991.29 Mobilizing support based on Qasimi’s “martyrdom,” the SSP turned out thousands of mourners for Qasimi’s funeral as well as holding mass rallies and processions in Panjab and across Pakistan. The town, Faisalabad in Panjab observed a complete strike, and demonstrations were held in Lahore, Islamabad, and Rawalpindi. In Peshawar, capital of the Pashtun-dominated NWFP, as well as in Quetta, in the Pashtun region of Balochistan, rallies were also held. In Jhang itself, as well as several other areas in Panjab, violent clashes disrupted civil order and resulted in the deaths of SSP activists as well as their Shiʿi opposition. The growing number of slain SSP leaders and activists, portrayed as martyrs in the cause of defending the Islamic nation, a Sunni Deobandi nation, served to further enhance the jihadist appeal of the SSP. Upon Qasimi’s assassination, Maulana Azam Tariq succeeded to the post of deputy amir of the SSP. A fiery preacher, Tariq also assumed Qasimi’s duties in Jhangvi’s mosque. Under the leadership of Farooqi and 199

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Tariq, the SSP experienced significant growth, emphasizing the heroic martyrdom of its past leaders in the cause of establishing a Sunni state. In the October 1994 edition of the SSP’s monthly journal Khilafat-e Rashida, Farooqi announced that approximately 14,000 party units were operating, either in Pakistan or abroad, whereas only 300 such units were operating at the time of Jhangvi’s assassination in 1990.30 Even if exaggerated, the claim nonetheless reflects the growth of the movement. The SSP began to exert a powerful influence on the popular culture in the locations in which its units were operating. It engaged in a concerted violent urban campaign to control local public space, attempting to transform neighborhoods into local zones of enforcement of the Khilafat-e Rashida. These local campaigns would be conducted by units of militant SSP cadres, with such names as the “Moawia force,” named after Muʿawiya b.  Abi Sufyan, which would engage in vigilante violence and murder to remove all public signage related to Shiʿism, especially in mixed neighborhoods in Pakistan’s major city, Karachi. By the end of 1994, sustained sectarian violence in Karachi became a common fact of daily life.31 As the Taliban gained control over most of Afghanistan between 1994 and 1997, it provided training camps and other logistical support to its sister organization, the SSP. Emboldened by the Taliban victories, then deputy SSP leader Azam Tariq declared before a rally of thousands in Pakistan, “If Islam is to be established in Pakistan, then Shiʿa must be declared infidels!”32 In January 1997, SSP amir Ziaur Rehman Farooqi was assassinated and joined the ranks of martyred SSP leaders. His deputy, Azam Tariq, succeeded him to the leadership of the SSP.33 In 1998, under Tariq’s leadership, a contingent of SSP militants assisted the Taliban in capturing the key strategic city of Mazar-e Sharif. Defended by Afghan Shiʿi militants supplied by Iran, Mazar-e Sharif was the last remaining city in Afghanistan not under Taliban control. In securing the Mazar-e Sharif, the Taliban and its SSP allies were reported to have massacred 2,000 Shiʿis..34 A Taliban unit, assisted by SSP militants, occupied the Iranian consulate in Mazar-e Sharif, capturing and then killing eleven Iranian diplomats.35 Mobilizing its army on the Iran-Afghanistan border, the Iranian government threatened war against the Taliban. In response to the Iranian threat, Azam Tariq promised to send 20,000 SSP militants to fight alongside the Taliban against Shiʿi Iran.36 200

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The Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan’s appropriation and transvaluation of the suprasectarian identity Despite their anti-Sufi and anti-Shiʿi agitation, the SSP’s creation of an allegedly distinct Sunni culture similarly builds on the Sufi-mediated appropriation and transvaluation of Shiʿi narrative traditions of devotion and veneration of martyrs. Under Farooqi’s leadership, the SSP began to articulate its ideological program formally, on the basis of which it would organize parliamentary election campaigns as well as jihadist militancy. Farooqi himself authored a short book on the goals and outlook of the movement, entitled What is Sipah-e Sahaba? What does it want?. After the call for “Pakistan to be established as a Sunni state” and for the “enforcement the system of the Khilafat-e Rashida,” Farooqi’s SSP manifesto demanded constitutional and legal protection for the sahaba and ahl-e bayt [members of Muhammad’s family].37 In this manner, the SSP was striving for Pakistan’s constitution and legal system to declare as a matter of law that the companions of Muhammad and the family of Muhammad are equivalent in status and exist together in a single continuum, denying the privileged status of the male descendants of Muhammad through ʿAli and Muhammad’s daughter Fatima, who constitute the Shiʿi line of imams. The manifesto further calls for deniers of the sahaba to be given the death penalty. While seemingly ecumenical in nature, this demand was undoubtedly intended for Shiʿa, as was made clear by the next demand for “the complete banning of all tabarra against the sahaba in both writing and speech.”38 Tabarra is the Shiʿi religious obligation to curse publically those figures from Islam’s founding period that did not acknowledge ʿAli as the intended leader of the Muslim community upon Muhammad’s death or the leadership of ʿAli’s descendants after him. Among these figures are the first three caliphs, all close companions to Muhammad, who each assumed the mantle of leadership before ʿAli became the fourth caliph. Particular animus is reserved for Muhammad’s companion Muʿawiya and his son Yazid. Muʿawiya, the powerful governor of Syria and nephew of the third caliph, led a revolt against ʿAli’s leadership. Upon ʿAli’s murder, Muʿawiya became caliph and founder of the Umayyad dynasty. Muʿawiya’s son Yazid succeeded him as caliph and Yazid’s forces killed ʿAli’s son Husayn, the 201

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third imam for the Shiʿa, at the Battle of Karbalaʾ, an event which Shiʿa regard as an act of martyrdom with cosmological implications. According to the SSP, Shiʿis who engage in tabarra should be liable for the death penalty, a position that is used to justify Sunni sectarian militancy against the Shiʿa. By eliminating these publically performed rituals, the SPP has sought to eliminate the alternative Shiʿi narrative of Islam’s founding period from the public sphere within Pakistan. This intention is made clear by another demand in the SSP manifesto that Shiʿi commemorative mourning rituals (for the martyrdom of Husayn) be restricted to houses of worship. The Shiʿi holiday of ʿAshuraʾ (“the Tenth” of the month of Muharram), which commemorates the martyrdom of Husayn, is a centrally important holiday in the Shiʿi liturgical year. Engaging in public displays of intense emotion over the suffering and death of Husayn by the forces of the Sunni caliph, it is the time when Shiʿa most openly engage in tabarra. Not only does the SSP seek to use the power of the state to ensure that the Pakistani public sphere is devoid of any ritual or symbolic manifestations of the Shiʿi historical narrative, the SSP also demands that “commemorative days of the Rightly-Guided Caliphs be established as official state holidays.” In other words, in order to be a genuine Sunni state, the state should institute rituals that establish the Sunni version of Islamic history as the official public narrative of Pakistan. The most striking illustration of how the transvaluation of the Pakistani suprasectarian identity is at the core of the SSP’s program is the SSP flag (see figure). The Pakistani national flag consists of a main field of green with a white crescent and star in the center. There is also a white vertical column on the right end of the flag to represent Pakistan’s non-Muslim, mostly Hindu, minority. The SSP flag parallels the Pakistani flag, but the vertical column of white is overlaid with five black stripes on a field of white representing the five caliphates, while a field of red underneath represents the blood of martyrs. The main part of the SSP flag is the Green field with a crescent and star in the center. However, the crescent and star are quite different. Inside the crescent, the following hadith is written:

as-habi kan-nujum bi ayyihim iqtadaytum ihtadaytum. 202

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Figure 11.1  Pakistan flag and Sipah-e Sahaba flag.

“My Companions are like stars. Whichever of them you follow, you will be guided” Although a weak hadith, the purpose of the SSP’s usage is to assert a continuum of equivalence between the sahaba and the first three Shi’i Imams – ʿAli, Hasan, and Husayn. Each point of the five-pointed star is itself a star. Four of these stars are each inscribed with one of the names of the four rightly guided caliphs: ʿAli and his three predecessors. The fifth star is inscribed with three names – Hasan, Husayn, and Muʿawiya, indicating that Muʿawiya is as worthy of equal veneration as Hasan and Husayn. Like the Sufi tradition to which it is opposed, the SSP places ʿAli, Hasan, and Husayn in a line of figures who have no connection to Shiʿi narrative traditions, or are villains in Shiʿi narrative traditions. The symbolic use of the number five cannot be coincidental or unintentional. It reorients the focus on the ahl al-bayt (configured as the five figures constituting the “holy family”) to a focus on the sahaba. In seeking to supplant descendant succession with a form of apostolic succession to create an unambiguously Sunni public culture, based on the sahaba, the SSP has recreated the fluid boundary between Sunni and Shiʿi identity within Indo-Muslim culture that the Sunni sectarian organization finds so objectionable. To establish the Khilafat-e Rashida in Pakistan, symbolized by the SSP alterations to the Pakistani national flag, the SSP have placed Muʿawiya 203

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on a continuum that includes ʿAli, Hasan, and Husayn – an action that, in effect, continues the suprasectarian identity of Pakistani national discourse. Through the veneration of their own leaders as martyrs and the reworking of Shiʿi ritual forms associated with martyrdom, the avowedly anti-Shiʿi and anti-Sufi SSP conducts itself in a quintessentially Indo-Muslim manner, derived ultimately from Sufi-mediated appropriations and transvaluations of narratives of martyrdom.

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The Culture of Martyrdom

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12 The Other ʿAshuraʾ: The Martyrdom of Fatima in Contemporary Shiʿi Discourse Liora Hendelman-Baavur

The Iranian calendar for the year 2000 was marked by the introduction of a new memorial day commemorating the anniversary of the martyrdom of Fatima, who died a few months after her father, the Prophet Muhammad, in ad 632/3. The new memorial day was initiated by several prominent clerics based in Qum, the heartland of Shiʿa studies in Iran. Ever since its introduction Muslims of all schools and sects have been called to observe Fatima’s martyrdom (shahadat) in public gatherings (majalis), lamentation processions (mawakib) and other forms of rituals, for several days of mourning named ayam-e fatimiyyeh, or al-fatimiyya for short.1 Given that the actual date of Fatima’s death is uncertain, two dates are most widely accepted and identified as the first fatimiyya (75 days after the Prophet’s death) and the second fatimiyya (about 90 days after the death of the Prophet). In the interval between these dates, accounts of her death, suffering, virtues, ethical and moral merits, as well as her immaculate conception, are recited and discussed by Shiʿi preachers in many parts of the world. Fatima’s commemoration is also performed on stage, presented in exhibitions and promulgated online via Shiʿi websites, forums, weblogs, YouTube channels, Facebook timelines, and a special application SMS fatimiyya-condolences is also available for mobile devices.2

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The introduction of Fatima’s memorial day at the turn of the twenty-first century, followed by a soaring interest and rather excessive preoccupation with Fatima’s martyrdom in recent years, embody certain changes in Shiʿi hagiography. Unlike earlier tendencies to portray her as a marginal character in the drama of Shiʿism’s founding narrative, traditionally commemorated in annual rituals of the ʿAshuraʾ, Fatima acquires a leading role as the protagonist in pre-Karbalaʾ dramatic events. From a conduit of her son Husayn, “the master of martyrs” (sayyid al-shuhadaʾ), Fatima actually acquires the status of first martyr of the family of the Prophet (ahl al-bayt) in the post-Muhammad era. In what follows, the discussion will explore why and how these contemporary shifts originated in the Shiʿi discourse on gender in Iran.

Introduction to the elusive Fatima Historical investigation of Fatima is a daunting task. Academically oriented research of recent decades asserts that there is no uniform image of Fatima, mainly because there is no single, detailed, and consensual traditional biography (sira) containing her life as an historical figure. Denise Soufi mentions that the impression rising from the portrayal of Fatima in earliest sources is of a woman whose life is practically unknown and her personality seems not to have left a mark on history.3 Ruth Roded also emphasizes that “the relatively sparse early information about Fatima (compared to that on the Prophet’s favorite wife, ʿAisha, for example),” may support the thesis that she was not of much consequence in the events of early Islam and that her role was marginal and even passive.4 Later attempts to recreate Fatima as an historical figure, by continuing and departing from various details in her biography, have resulted in paradoxically disparate but contiguous “Fatimas,”5 leading academic inquiries to distinguish between “the historical Fatima,” based on Sunni sources and “the Fatima of legend,” based on Shiʿi accounts and modifications of fragmented Sunni narrations.6 Contemporary Shiʿi narratives of Fatima’s martyrdom are particularly sensitive and intricate for at least three interrelated reasons. First, because references alluding to the final months of her life are even more “partisan” 208

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in nature than those relating to earlier parts of her life. Matthew Pierce asserts that while classical Sunni and Shiʿi sources generally agree on Fatima’s life until her father’s death, the two traditions diverge considerably in their depictions of the period after his demise.7 Second, Shiʿi narratives vilify the memory of figures who are highly revered as “righteous” leaders by Sunnis (namely the first two caliphs, Abu Bakr and ʿUmar), holding them liable for Fatima’s humiliating sufferings and consequent death.8 As such, Fatima’s martyrdom, accommodated within a Shiʿi framework of suffering, injustice, tyranny, humiliation, and resistance, is vehemently rejected by Sunni circles, further fueling the sectarian schism.9 Third, the nucleus of Shiʿi narrations depicting her death is to be found in the historical Fatima, but its instituted commemoration within the Shiʿi framework of martyrdom is a new phenomenon of recent years, their authenticity contested by Sunni circles.10 For many centuries Fatima was most often associated with Shiʿi martyrology on account of events that occurred nearly fifty years after her death. Her idealization is directly connected with the martyrdom suffered by her son, Imam Husayn and his followers on the tenth day (ʿAshuraʾ) of the Muslim month of Muharram, (CE 61/680 at Karbalaʾ in the battle against the forces of the Ummayad caliph Yazid b. Muʿawiya.11 Historians mark this event as the founding moment in the formation of Shiʿism as a religious sect infused with an ethos of willingness for martyrdom, which was later ritualized in the taʿziya passion plays. These dramatic performances, originating from ancient public mourning ceremonies, probably emerged among early Shiʿi communities in the tenth century and were more formally ritualized under the Iranian Safavid dynasty (1501–1722).12 In her research about the image of Fatima in classical Muslim traditions, Soufi indicates that it is difficult, if not impossible, to ascertain when stories of Fatima’s suffering became an important part of these mourning ceremonies,13 but at least one contested work of early Shiʿi hadith, which relates to it, is attributed to the late Umayyad period (661–750).14 Nevertheless, scantiness of details did not hinder Shiʿi hagiographical imagination of Fatima from developing. Some Shiʿi traditions maintain Fatima was spiritually “present” at the death of Husayn, 209

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witnessing the tragic event from heaven.15 Others contend that she was notified of it beforehand by her father on his deathbed or after his demise by Gabriel, who frequently appeared before Fatima to console her, and tell her of future events.16 In all cases, it is indirectly, through the victimization of her son, known as “the master of martyrs” (sayyid al-shuhadaʾ) that Fatima’s position as a devoted mother of this most revered martyr was endorsed throughout the ages in Shiʿi literature.17 Moreover, in his extensive investigation of the evolutionary development of depictions of the martyrs of Karbalaʾ in modern Iran, Kamran Scot Aghaie concludes that even in literary accounts of the broader narrative of Husayn’s tragedy, women as martyrs were not generally stressed to the same degree as male martyrs. Presumably, up until the end of the twentieth century, martyrdom was specifically a male activity, while women were most often associated with the act of mourning.18 In this light, the amplified emphasis on the martyrdom of Fatima in recent years, signals an additional shift in her significant role within Iranian Shiʿi religious-ideological framework. Fatima the martyr becomes the harbinger of what Farhad Khosrokhavar defines as the “democratization” process of martyrdom in Iran, which has extended it to everybody.19 Women are no longer only the mothers of martyrs, but also recognized and honored for their meritorious shahadat.20 The following section will demonstrate how the emergence of a new Shiʿi discourse on gender and a religiously and politically inspired debate over Shiʿi historiography during the 1990s, resulted in “the other ʿAshuraʾ” (ʿAshuraei-ye digar), centered around Fatima the martyr.21

The Shiʿi discourse on gender in the 1990s and the reemergence of mythical Fatima The end of the Iran-Iraq War in 1988 paved the way for the emergence of a new Islamic discourse on women in Iran. After a decade of revolution and war, raising and debating issues pertaining to gender equality were more widely tolerated than during the years of internal turmoil and external threat.22 The general efforts of the state, under the presidency of Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani (1989–97), to reform Iran’s economy, reverse 210

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its international isolation, and reestablish a more capitalist society involved a reconsideration of the regime’s policies on women, family, and gender relations. Valentine Moghadam lists six sets of interrelated microdevelopments that shaped the trajectory of Iran’s new gender regime in the 1990s, which in turn aroused the attention of religious scholars. Iran faced a sizable literate population of modern middle class and working class that did not comply with strict Islamization; the mobilization of men during the war created employment opportunities for educated qualified women in the civil service; women were not banned from the public sphere despite religious attempts to discourage them from assuming public roles; women’s educational achievement, growing rate of women’s employment, and increased expectations for self-fulfillment challenged the ideal of full-time motherhood; rapid population growth, coinciding with a decrease in state revenues, forced the regime to implement a family planning program; and, finally, women advocates and social activists repeatedly petitioned to improve their legal status.23 Mehrangiz Kar and Homa Hoodfar further add that appeals to advocate amendments in women’s legal status were supported by an increasing number of war widows. As many of them had become highly politicized and the Martyrs’ Foundation (bonyad-e shahid) became a channel for their grievances, the government, which benefited from their support and conviction, had to respond to their demands for justice.24 In the climate of the postwar era as well as a growing interest in women’s issues in the international arena on the heels of the Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing (1995),25 debates on women’s rights in Iran were voiced in religious seminaries and in various government and independent publications, like Zanan (1991), Farzaneh (1993), and Zan (1998).26 These debates have centered on whether shariʿa injunctions should be considered according to demands of time and place. While arguments for reform came to be known as “dynamic jurisprudence” (fiqh-e pouya), those rejecting changes in the law were labeled “traditional jurisprudence” (fiqh-e sunnati). By the late 1990s, with the election of Muhammad Khatami for presidency, these clerical-opposing tendencies divided Iranian politics between two camps: the conservatives, 211

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who insisted on safeguarding the revolutionary ideals set by Ayatollah Khomeini, and the reformists, who wished to reconcile it with the discourse on human and women’s rights and democracy.27 As women and the extent of their rights became a contested topic between the two principal ideological tendencies in Iran in the 1990s, Fatima’s historiography resurfaced in the new Islamic discourse on gender. Throughout the ages, the mythical image of Fatima evolved into different ideals and with different aims in mind among Shiʿi scholars.28 Firoozeh Kashani-Sabet points out that by “developing” her biography, modern Islamic thinkers “have attempted to revise the myth to form new ideals of Shiʿite womanhood,” while preserving certain timeless feminine ideals they valued, like chastity, piety, and domesticity.29 In the early 1970s, ʿAli Shariʿati (d. 1977) revived the figure of Fatima in a series of lectures he delivered at the Tehran-based Hosayniya Ershad, an institute for progressive religious learning that was established in the 1960s. Some of his lectures were collected, revised, and later published under the title “Fatima is Fatima” (Fatima Fatima ast), by now the bestknown, most-cited and most-influential textual source on women in modern Islamic ideology. In this rather taxing monograph, Shariʿati discussed what he considered to be the identity crisis of Iranian women in the 1960s, caught between two inapplicable feminine models: the traditional and the Western. After rejecting them both, the first for being obsolete and the second for being culturally imperialistic in nature, he advanced Fatima as a modern Islamic model for young Iranian women, and cast her (and to a lesser extent her daughter Zaynab) as a symbol of revolutionary resistance to the Pahlavi monarchy (1925–79).30 Contrary to Shariʿati, who advocated seeing Fatima as a mundane role model for modern Iranian Muslim women by emphasizing her behavior and actions, his colleague at the Hosayniya Ershad, Ayatollah Murtaza Mutahhari (d. 1979), focused on her virtues and confined his efforts to establish her superior status, above that of all other female saints in Islam. Since Maryam bint ʿImran (Mary, mother of Jesus) is the only woman explicitly named in the Qurʾan, and titled “the queen of women” (sayyidat al-nisa’), Mutahhari focused on distinguishing between Mary and Fatima by analogizing the martyrdom of Hamza b. ʿAbd al-Muttalib and Imam 212

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Husayn. Hamza, one of the Prophet’s uncles and his foster brother, was killed in the battle of Uhud (in 625), after which he was the first person to be named “the master of martyrs” (sayyid al-shuhadaʾ) by Muhammad. More than half a century later, following the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, the epithet sayyid al-shuhadaʾ was taken from Hamza and conferred upon his brother’s grandson. Accordingly, Mutahhari explained, Hamza should be regarded as the sayyid al-shuhadaʾ of his time, whereas Imam Husayn is the sayyid al-shuhadaʾ of all times. By the same token, Mutahhari further clarified, Maryam was the role model for women of her time, while Fatima is an eternal example for women of all times.31 The notion of Fatima as a feminine ideal transcending the boundaries of time and place was reaffirmed by Ayatollah Khomeini, shortly after the establishment of the Islamic Republic. In a speech delivered in May 1979 on the anniversary of Fatima’s birthday, rendered at that time as the new woman’s day in Iran, he depicted her in the following manner: She was a woman who embodied all the virtues of the prophets, a woman who, had she been a man, would have been a prophet, a woman who, had she been a man, would have been the Messenger of God. Spiritual qualities, heavenly qualities, divine qualities, celestial qualities, human and angelic qualities all came together in this being.32

Khomeini, similar to Mutahhari and earlier Shiʿi scholars, focused his commentary on what Fatima was, rather than on what she did. He symbolically elevated her image to the rank of prophethood and the infallible imams, though not with the intention of actually conferring her such status as to enhance her historical role. While explicitly pointing out that she embraced all divine qualities, he also asserted that her status was not equal to that of the imams because of her gender. Basing her research on medieval accounts that evoked similar notions, Soufi rightly asserts that because in the Shiʿa only Fatima’s descendants were considered legitimate imams, she had to be incorporated in the idealization process of the Prophet and the imams.33 At the time, Khomeini’s statement, made shortly after the revolution, embodied his appreciation of women’s participation in the revolution, his perception of ideal womanhood in Islam (based on chastity, religious 213

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devotion, and domesticity), as well as his predicting the circumscription of their liberties in the name of Fatima.34 During the course of the 1980s, images of Fatima were invoked to instill appropriate sentiments and behavior in Iranian women.35 On occasion, she was depicted in Iranian visual arts as a shimmering white image that brings consolation to the soaring number of grieving widows and mothers of the martyrs of war.36 Yet, there was a general tendency to refrain from associating her with war or aggression. Faʾegheh Shirazi notes that there was a shift from Fatima as the essence of piety, patience, pain, and suffering to the figure of Zaynab, her daughter. Zaynab witnessed Karbalaʾ and survived to keep its memory alive, thus becoming a significant symbol of the sacrifice, bravery, and martyrdom of her brother Husayn. Shirazi further contends that invoking Zaynab represented a shift away from the revolution against the Pahlavi regime to the war with Iraq, a shift from internal crisis to external threat.37 Hence, while Fatima was predominantly the role model in prerevolutionary Iran and in the early days of the Islamic Republic during the war with Iraq, Zaynab became an equally important, if not more elaborated upon, ideal for modern Muslim women in Iran.38 Lara Deeb indicates a similar shift in Lebanon, where the figure of Fatima has taken a background role since the Islamic resistance of the early 1980s.39 In the 1990s, the myth of Fatima was revived and revised yet again in literary accounts, partly because she was an idealized model, more suitable than Zaynab for quieter times,40 and partly in response to external debates, mainly in Lebanon (discussed further in the following). Subsequently, her steadfast and self-sacrificing maternalist role was reemphasized in the discourse of gender along with further modifications. The shift in the construct of Fatima in the decade after the war is best exemplified in Monir Gorji and Massumeh Ebtekar’s 1997 article “The Life and Status of Fatima Zahra: A Woman’s Image of Excellence,” published in the journal Farzaneh, the first Iranian women’s studies quarterly.41 The publication of this review by two accomplished Iranian women within the political system of the Islamic Republic attests to the integration of women in a discourse that has long been governed by male theologians, scholars, and political ideologues.42 Based on their past revolutionary record, some question these authors’ identification with reformist or “liberal Muslim women” committed to 214

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women’s rights issues, but others maintain that their views have witnessed a number of changes since 1979.43 Departing to an extent from Shariʿati’s prerevolutionary portrayal of Fatima in the early 1970s, Gorji and Ebtekar review her life against the backdrop of the rise of the reformist movement, the broadening of Iran’s civil society, and within the framework of intellectual discourses on universal human rights. Although in their review, Fatima continues to uphold certain traditional gender ideals of motherhood, their emphasis is nevertheless on a woman of independent mind and action, who is not imposed upon by the views and actions of her husband, Imam ʿAli. She is also presented as a competent and philanthropic business manager, and an advocate of women’s economic independence in terms of their access to inheritance and financial resources. Overall, she is pictured as a knowledgeable woman, well versed in religious texts, with a long-lasting independent legacy of her own, directed at Muslim women in particular and humanity in general. The portrayal of Fatima by Gorji and Ebtekar implicitly links Fatima’s hagiography to Iranian social activists, who became involved in the public sphere, assumed public roles and articulated their grievances against the injustice and oppression of the institutionalized authorities. By the early 2000s, Iranian social activists from different fields, like Faʼeizeh Rafsanjani, Shirin Ebadi and Mehrangiz Kar, had become internationally known as well. One of the main issues addressed in Gorji and Ebtekar’s review relates to Fatima’s relentless endeavors to obtain her inheritance, following the death of her father (see below). Today, too, inheritance is an important topic in Iranian women’s struggle for equal rights. According to the Iranian code of law, which is based on interpretations of the shariʿa, when a deceased man has no other heirs besides his wife, she is entitled to only one fourth of his assets, while the rest becomes property of the state. Following an individual petition, Ayatollah Yousef Saneʿi (b. 1937) issued a religious edict (fatwa) in 2008, in line with “dynamic jurisprudence,” explaining that when a deceased has no legatee other than his wife, she becomes the sole heir of his assets.44 At the time, Gorji and Ebtekar’s reformist interpretation of Fatima did not necessarily correspond with new notions in the discourse of religious scholars in Qum. 215

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It does, however, point out certain issues of importance to their religiously observant and highly politicized constituency, which they have had to address and which occasionally require innovations in jurisprudence on perennial issues like inheritance.

The Shiʿa dispute over Fatima’s tragedy Contemporary narrations of Fatima’s martyrdom are closely associated with the tribulations that befell her shortly after the death of the Prophet in Medina. There is a consensus that his demise was the most tragic moment in the life of Fatima, who had to face numerous jihads (sacred struggles).45 Throughout her youth she witnessed the death of her siblings (none of whom survived her), experienced the loneliness and anguish of exile (from Mecca) alongside her father, and suffered the loss of her mother, Khadija. Later in life, she raised her four children in abject poverty in “a home where its only decoration and furniture is love and poverty.”46 Being a loving daughter, devoted wife, exceptional mother, and indefatigable housewife, and notwithstanding the hardships, she did not neglect any of her responsibilities. Yet, it was in the aftermath of the Prophet’s departure, as the Iranian Ayatollah Naser Makarem Shirazi metaphorically notes, that poisonous arrows flowed at her from every direction.47 The death of Muhammad is portrayed as heralding Fatima’s trials, the real beginning of her function as a guide once the community had lost the Prophet’s guidance.48 Thus, in his absence, Fatima’s concern for the future of the community only increased.49 Two specific episodes that occurred during the final months of Fatima’s life are often raised in contemporary Shiʿi discussions about her martyrdom. The actual order of events is uncertain, yet both are depicted as having taken place after Abu Bakr was nominated caliph at Saqifa, located in the area of Medina. One episode involved a dispute between Fatima and the newly elected caliph over the usurpation of her land. According to Shiʿi sources Muhammad bequeathed his daughter a tract of land, identified by the name Fadak, which is said to have been a flourishing and fertile village in the land of Hijaz, located two or three days’ journey from Medina.50 216

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After the Battle of Khaybar (629), the village surrendered without a fight to Muhammad. According to Islamic law, lands conquered through war were the property of all Muslims, but lands submitted without a fight, like in the case of Fadak, belonged to the Prophet.51 Whether the land was given to Fatima in the form of endowment and came into her possession during the Prophet’s lifetime, as some accounts mention, or in the form of future inheritance, as still others emphasize, Abu Bakr refused to recognize her rights over Fadak, thus cutting her family from their only valuable source of income.52 In response, Fatima was determined to defend her family’s rights by openly confronting the new leadership at the central mosque. In a highly emotional and well-versed sermon, depicted as an audacious revolt to overthrow the government, she displayed her deep concern for the future of Islam and the community, only to be faced with Abu Bakr’s diplomatic rejection of her claims.53 Throughout the second half of the twentieth century, a number of Shiʿi scholars addressed various emotional and socioeconomic aspects of the Fadak episode, while prioritizing its devastating political implications for the ahl al-bayt by linking it with the usurpation of the caliphate from the legitimate successor of the Prophet, ʿAli. In Fadak fi al-taʾrikh [Fadak in history, 1955], the earliest known published work of the Iraqi Shiʿi cleric Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr (d. 1980), he suggested that a pungent rivalry between the house of ʿAli and Fatima and the house of Abu Bakr must have affected the first caliph’s position on the dispute over the land with the Prophet’s daughter and her husband. Al-Sadr identified an old rivalry over the affection of the Prophet between his youngest daughter, who had just lost her mother, and his youngest wife, Abu Bakr’s daughter, ʿAisha. As the years passed, this “primordial” rivalry expanded to include other members of the Prophet’s extended family. According to al-Sadr it probably had some influence over the decision of ʿAli to counsel the Prophet to divorce ʿAisha, once rumors spread about her mysterious disappearance from an expedition raid in search of her lost necklace, after which she returned to camp, accompanied by a strange man who was not related to her. The refusal of Muhammad to wed Fatima with Abu Bakr, while accepting ʿAli as his son-in-law, and, further on, ʿAisha’s opposition to ʿAli’s accession to the caliphate in the battle of the Camel 217

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(656) are also mentioned by al-Sadr as incidents indicating an ongoing antagonism between the two houses. Debating the extraction of Fadak within the framework of a family feud originating in childhood quarrels between two little girls involved the risk of overshadowing the political implications al-Sadr wished to point out. Yet, by suggesting several sets of possible explanations he distracted the attention from considering this episode in materialist terms only, and claimed the Fadak area was of far greater significance than a mere dispute over a piece of land.54 In a later account, Makarem-Shirazi also emphasized that the confiscation of this property was in fact part of an orchestrated plot, schemed by the new caliph and his cohorts to undermine the status, prestige, and legitimacy of ʿAli’s leadership of the Islamic community. He further argued that it intended to eliminate the financial resources of ahl al-bayt, and initiate their social seclusion.55 The second episode in the metanarrative of Fatima’s martyrdom involves depictions of a violent assault against her house, meaning to force ʿAli and his supporters to pledge alliance to Abu Bakr. Upon orders of the new Caliph, ʿUmar and his men came for ʿAli, but Fatima prevented their entry by firmly refusing to open the door. Consequently, the men set the door on fire, forced their way in, and aggressively attacked Fatima, causing her to miscarry her son, identified by the name Muhsin.56 Accounts of the physical attack on Fatima testify to the serious transgression of her sacred, private space, but vary in their elaboration of the dramatic details of this violent incident.57 For instance, Fatima’s martyrdom account on the website of the World Foundation of Muhammad Shirazi (born in Najaf, Iraq) includes details of the intruders punching her in the face, throwing her to the ground, repeatedly kicking her, and hitting her with the sheath of their swords.58 Relating to the same incident, Mahdi Jaʿfari notes that after the door was set on fire, the men kicked it open so violently that a peg pierced Fatima’s bosom. After the assailants entered the house, one of them pushed her towards the wall, breaking her ribs, which resulted in the miscarriage. Wounded and humiliated she tried to lift herself up, as they put a cord around ʿAli’s neck, but one of ʿUmar’s men slashed Fatima’s arm with his whip.59 Other accounts indicate it was ʿUmar who inflicted her with severe injuries by kicking the door against her, 218

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either before or after setting the house on fire. A short while later Fatima died. Some commentators observed that the bruise from the whip was still visible on her arm, at her burial, which was held clandestinely, as she had requested in her final will.60 In the early 1990s, Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah of Lebanon (d. 2010) stirred a colossal controversy by questioning the probability of the depiction in classic narrations of the assault on Fatima’s house. Although he later denied claiming she had not been physically attacked, Fadlallah maintained in his sermons that it was “unlikely that anyone would commit such an act” against the house of the beloved Fatima and her family. He also stressed that narrations of the incident abound with contradictions and that the issue, being so contested and historically of only marginal importance, should not be used to stir up Islamic public opinion (namely, foment animosity between Sunnis and Shiʿis).61 This skepticism, expressed by a senior Shiʿi religious authority, elicited critical responses, initially from Fadlallah’s Lebanese peer, Jaʿfar Murtada al-ʿAmili (b.1945). Al-ʿAmili published a two-volume treatise in 1997, in which he drew on multiple references from various traditions and counter-traditions to dispel all doubts about the tragedy of Fatima. Although al-ʿAmili refrains from mentioning Fadlallah by name, in the introductory note he alludes to contemporary circumstances in which the tragedy of Fatima has become a symbol that affects the core of Shiʿa belief, and therefore considers it his duty to provide an “impartial” clarification on the matter.62 Throughout the text he debates, and harshly refutes, Fadlallah’s arguments. Addressing this theological dispute, several academic scholars even suggested that it epitomized a crisis of religious legitimacy in the Shiʿi world.63 Stephan Rosiny analyzed the controversy in the context of competing Shiʿi schools of thought: a modern mode of reasoning advocated by Fadlallah and his supporters in Lebanon, as opposed to an uncompromising dogmatic approach, represented by his opponents in Lebanon (mainly Hizballah associates) and his rival peers in Iran.64 In contrast, Roschanack Shaery-Eisenlohr directs attention to the influence of perceived national differences on power struggles over religious authenticity in the Shiʿi world. She suggests that Fadlallah was drawing on biased Lebanese perceptions of Iranians (parodying their language 219

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Figure 12.1  The assault on Fatima’s house, on the cover of the electronic book Fatima al-Zahra: from before her birth till after her martyrdom, prepared by ʿAbdallah ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Hashimi (Kuwait: Maktabat al-Faqih, 2001). Uploaded on 30 January, 2012.

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and pre-Islamic rituals) in order to leverage his position in the dispute over Fatima’s tragedy as modern and scientifically based.65 Rola el-Hosseini proposes, following Rosiny, that since the Iranian Shiʿi discourse experienced a shift from Fatima to Zaynab in the 1980s, as mentioned above, Fadlallah aimed “to have his followers emulate Fatima as a way to dissociate Lebanese Shiʿa from Iranian influence,” after the death of Khomeini.66 Despite obvious disparities in emphasis, there seems to be a scholarly consensus that Fadlallah used the sensitivities and contradictory claims surrounding Fatima’s death to consolidate his authorial religious position (as a marjʿa) by distancing himself from Iran and defying its hegemonic authority claims in the Shiʿi world. Responses from Iran to Fadlallah’s doubts came in various forms of public denunciation and hostile accusations of deviation with the intention of undermining his authority  – but it did not end there.67 During one of his visits to Qum, President Khatami was approached by Ayatollah Husayn Vahid Khorasani (b. 1921) with a request to help recognize the day of Fatima’s martyrdom as an official state memorial day. His request was backed by several other senior clerics, among them Mirza Javad Tabrizi (d. 2006), Lotfollah Safi Golpaygani (b. 1918), and Muhammad Fazel Javad Lankarani (d. 2007). In the summer of 1999, following its ratification by the cabinet and the majlis, the official memorial day was set for the 13th of Jumada al-ʼUla (the fifth Islamic month). Under state patronage, the above-mentioned ayatollahs pioneered the rituals of ayam-e fatimiyya.68 The late Ayatollah Javad Tabrizi used to walk with his students barefoot from the seminary (hawza) to the shrine of Fatima al-Maʿsume in Qum during al-fatimiyya processions. He also suggested that wearing black clothes, covering mosques with black banners and raising black flags on homes should become part of the rites dedicated to the memory of Fatima’s martyrdom, similar to the ʿAshuraʾ rituals.69

Conclusions Supported by the expansion of internet infrastructure and the international use of digital technology, commemorative expressions of Fatima’s martyrdom are disseminated on the world wide web in multiple formats 221

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(visually, textually, and audio-visually), and have surged during the days of al-fatimiyya since 2000. A burning shack, a torched wooden door pierced by burning arrows, stains of blood, and a veiled shimmering figure crushed by the door are recurrent features in the eye-catching digital visuals of her martyrdom that circulate the internet. Exploring the origins of such endorsements, this chapter has demonstrated how the reenactment of Fatima’s martyrdom became the setting of a sociopolitical and religious contestation in the Shiʿi world at the turn of twenty-first century. Juxtaposing a crisis of religious legitimacy, the renewed public discourse on gender in the 1990s was construed via certain shifts in Fatima’s hagiography. Unlike medieval writers, who viewed her suffering within the context of the entire ahl al-bayt,70 contemporary accounts of Fatima’s martyrdom magnify her personal oppression and physical abuse following the death of the Prophet. However, this sort of shift did not involve any major departure from the traditional significance attributed in Twelver Shiʿa hagiography to her eschatological role as an infallible and ultimate intercessory authority on the Day of Judgment, or to her mundane role as daughter, wife, and mother. In addition, the commemoration of Fatima’s martyrdom does not compromise the ideological values and ideals of the Islamic Revolution. Kashani-Sabet asserts that the politicization of Shiʿism in the modern era involved lending legitimacy and historicity to specific political causes by connecting revolutionary Islam to Fatima and the cult of martyrdom, which was already predominant in Shiʿi literature.71 Hence, this initiative was perhaps seen as a way to invigorate revolutionary fervor and reenhance domestic cohesion via martyrdom in Iran. Finally, Shiʿi symbols and rituals are the most pervasive forms of cultural and political expression in Iran.72 David Kertzer, inspired by the Islamic Republic of Iran’s use of rites and religious symbols in the undermining of the regime of Muhammad Reza shah and in consolidating its rule, delineates the potent value of rituals for extending hegemonies in political struggles.73 According to this notion, introducing the fatimiyya meant to formalize the claim of senior clerical circles in Qum over Fatima’s martyrdom as a legitimizing narrative for their religious authority in facing both domestic and external challenges. On the one hand, initiating the launch of the fatimiyya under state patronage signified valuable and necessary backing 222

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of a government apparatus for its national and international status. On the other hand, the state was given the opportunity to influence the evolution of the fatimiyya, like, for instance, by setting the official date of the holiday according to the 75-day narrative.74 Nevertheless, endorsing this new memorial day within a well-known framework of traditional mourning rituals meant it could be performed, practised, and illustrated in the popular imagination without any regard to the theological dispute of whether Fatima’s demise was vafat or shahadat (death or martyrdom).

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13 Martyrdom, Shiʿa Islam, Taʿziya: Political Symbolism in Shiʿa Islam William O. Beeman

The institution of martyrdom is frequently taken for granted as a ­universal phenomenon. In this chapter, I  attempt to show that martyrdom has a unique cultural construction in Iran. It has its own deep historical roots, its own mythology, and most importantly its own ideological and cultural construction. Key to understanding this construction in my analysis is an understanding of martyrdom as the ultimate proof and witness to the fundamental question of legitimacy in Iranian culture. Stated briefly, martyrdom is seen as the ultimate demonstration of legitimacy of authority – both religious and secular – and concomitantly the ultimate demonstration of resistance to illegitimacy and the illegitimate use of power. Related to the question of legitimacy are also notions of justice, fairness, and honor. My use of the term legitimacy is meant to encompass these other concepts as well – concepts that form a complex that may be subsumed under a panoply of Iranian cultural terms such as honor (namus), heroic nobility (javanmardi), and the spiritual values of the internal (batin), which I have discussed elsewhere.1 If legitimacy is in question, martyrdom is the ultimate sacrifice for its sake; and, conversely, if a person sacrifices him or herself, it must be in the service of defending legitimacy. Although one sees this cultural ideology reflected in the religious rituals and performances surrounding the death of Imam Husayn, which I discuss 224

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below, the ideology is pervasive in many settings. It is seen in the ideology of the Iranian Revolution of 1978–79, in the Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) and in ongoing struggles with opposition groups attempting to overthrow the post-1979 Islamic Republic. It also pervades the very structure of government in the Islamic Republic. For this reason, it is simplistic to identify the Iranian government with the blanket term “theocracy.” I maintain that the ideological core of Iran’s government lies not in the execution of religious doctrine through state mechanisms, but rather with the far more flexible and mutable question of legitimacy, with martyrdom being its ultimate proof.

The power of martyrdom rituals The most powerful mythic figure in the life of Shiʿa Muslims is the figure of the hero-martyr, Imam Husayn, third Imam, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad through his cousin ʿAli and his daughter Fatima. No other figure in Shiʿism commands the power of Imam Husayn to inspire sincere believers in their quest for ritual purity. The Shiʿa-Sunna split in Islam originated as a dispute over the right to inherit the leadership of the faithful from the Prophet Muhammad. The Shiʿa line demanded that leadership pass through the bloodline of the Prophet, and thus be inherited by his direct descendants. The Sunnis favored “election” of the leader by the community of believers. ʿAli, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet was the only leader who was recognized by both Shiʿi and Sunni believers. For Sunnis he was the fourth leader of the faith following Abu-Bakr, ʿUmar and ʿUthman. For Shiʿi believers, ʿAli was the first legitimate leader. Following his accession to power, ʿAli was challenged by the then governor of Damascus, Muʿawiya, cousin of the third caliph, ʿUthman. The struggle ended when ʿAli was assassinated, and Muʿawiya became caliph. ʿAli’s eldest son, Hasan, was persuaded to relinquish his claim to leadership, but his younger son Husayn was steadfast and adamant in his claim to leadership. During this controversy, Muʿawiya died, and his son, Yazid, now claimed the title of caliph. Husayn was summoned by a group of his supporters in the city of Kufa in Mesopotamia to come and be their leader. Although he was warned of 225

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the danger in proceeding to Kufa from Medina, where he was living, he set out with his followers and his family in the year 680 ce. On the plains of Karbalaʾ, near present-day Baghdad, Husayn was caught off guard and laid siege to by the army of Yazid, which was proceeding from Damascus. Husayn’s party was prevented from taking food and water, and told that they would be allowed to proceed only if Husayn recognized the Caliphate of Yazid. Husayn refused. He and his family chose to do battle with the forces of Yazid, including his generals Shimr and ʿUmar b. Saʿd. They put up a brave resistance, but were eventually slaughtered, and their bodies were mutilated. Their tents were burned, and the women and children, along with an invalid son, Zayn al-ʿAbidin, were led into captivity in Damascus. Zayn al-ʿAbidin survived to become the fourth Shiʿi imam. His descendants were the subsequent Twelver Imams. The ritual enactment of Husayn’s death has been a feature of religious life in Iran since the late tenth century although most scholars agree that pre-Islamic mourning ceremonies probably served as the basis for most latter-day Islamic observances. Theologically, one essential element in the veneration of Husayn as a hero-martyr is that he knew long in advance that he would die at Karbalaʾ, but chose to accept his martyrdom as proof of his commitment to justice, righteousness, and the will of God. It is this acceptance of martyrdom as proof of faith and conviction that has served as a powerful ethic for Shiʿa believers down to the present. Shiʿism was widespread, albeit diffused, throughout the Middle East and South Asia until the sixteenth century, when the Safavid dynasty (1501–1722) ushered in a new era in Iranian civilization. The Safavid rulers, eager to establish a strong Iranian cultural identity over their extensive empire, constituted the first dynasty to have united Iran (although they were ethnic Azeri Turks) in over nine centuries. Arts, crafts, philosophy, and literature flourished under their rule, and the grand city of Isfahan still bears witness to their architectural genius. As they wished to establish a strong Iranian cultural imprint on their surroundings, it is not surprising that they established Twelver (Ithna ʿAshari) Shiʿa Islam as their own state religion. During the Safavid period 226

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the elaborateness of mourning ceremonies for Imam Husayn, already established in the Shiʿa world, increased, taking many forms. Husayn’s death became the central theme in virtually all sermonizing. During the month of Muharram, in which the actual martyrdom took place, professional reciters of the Imam Husayn story would be engaged in leading the public mourning. Benefactors would endow them with the right to perform on a weekly or monthly basis. The reciters were also the staple of funerals and annual commemorations of deceased relatives. In the nineteenth century they were classified in civil codes as ‘entertainers.’ However, mere recitation of the martyrdom became much more elaborate over time. Starting as simple public observances of Husayn’s death, they turned into public street processions, celebrated with great pomp and elaborate costumes. At some point the depiction of the martyrdom became embodied by live actors marching in the procession, and ultimately by full-blown dramatic depictions, known today as taʿziya. The term taʿziya (lit. mourning) has been used by Iranologists and theater specialists to designate the dramatic form of these mourning ceremonies – a scholarly compromise, since it actually has many appellations. It is referred to today in the northeast province of Khorassan, where it is widely performed, as shabih or shabih-khani (lit. representation or representation chanting). This designation is also widely used in Azerbaijan.2 By the nineteenth century, with the rise of the Qajar dynasty, the elaborate ceremonies had reached their peak. They had turned into full-fledged dramatic performances, often with dozens of actors, live animals, and thousands of spectators performing in a ritual arena known as a tekiyeh or Husaynieh. Foreign ambassadors were invited to similar court spectacles sponsored in the Tekiyeh-ye Dowlat in Tehran.3 Muslim theologians have had an uneasy view of the representation of human beings in activities like drama. Shiʿa Islam, which allows pictorial representations of ʿAli, and even of the Prophet Muhammad, thus significantly departs from Sunni orthodoxy. Nevertheless, taʿziya performances were often severely criticized by the religious authorities. Many of the most influential religious clerics in Iran have, over time, disapproved strongly of the form and its presentation. Some cynics believe that this is 227

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because many clerics view it as competition to their own paid sermonizing and chanting of martyrdom stories – an activity known as rowzeh-khani (panegyric).4 Those who disapprove of taʿziya do so on orthodox grounds, claiming that Islam forbids the representation of living beings. Those who allow it argue that as long as the actors do not claim to represent living persons, and as long as the actors playing women do not represent the physical shape of women (in fact actors playing women – all men – are dressed in black and veiled), then the tradition is permitted, since it aids the population as a whole in mourning and in understanding the events surrounding martyrdom. Far more stringent opposition was offered in the twentieth century by Iranian government officials under Reza Shah (1925–41). Since they viewed emotionally charged religious gatherings, where probing moral questions are addressed, as far too dangerous to be sanctioned, they tried to forbid taʿziya performances for several decades. However strong their objections, religious and secular authorities alike have been completely unsuccessful in stamping out the performance of taʿziya. They continue unabated in all areas of the country – in villages and cities, performed by amateur troupes or professional players. The performances are enormously popular, and they outdo the other public mourning ceremonies that take place concomitantly. Taʿziya’s tremendous popular appeal derives in large part from its power to embody many elements that are characteristic of core themes in Iranian life, and in the lives of Shiʿa Muslims elsewhere: 1. All that is meaningful in life: an ideal hero undergoing a supreme test of his ability to submit to the will of God, surrounded by exemplary male and female relatives and companions acting in perfect faith. 2. All that is abhorred and despised in what is considered an ideal life: villains who murder the faithful, deny virtue, destroy the family, war with God and his messengers and, overall, act in bad faith. 3. A drama designed to convey to the common people the import of a cosmic struggle ending in martyrdom:  Heroes and villains alike reconstruct the sequence of events associated with martyrdom in a setting that includes the trappings of everyday life. Spectators are 228

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invited to associate their own sufferings with that of Imam Husayn, and thus forge a close association with the events that they are witnessing. 4. A drama which is in a very real sense a symbolic presentation of Iranian civilization as projected throughout the Shiʿa world: Taʿziya having evolved and risen to prominence as Shiʿa Islam became the state religion of Iran. Once the form had evolved, received royal patronage under the Qajars (1785–1925), and become a prominent event in the national life of the nation, it is not surprising that the best of Iranian art, music, architectural skill and craftsmanship made itself felt in this form, thus elevating the ritual presentation of martyrdom’s symbolic status. The figure of Imam Husayn is in itself an extremely powerful symbol of resistance against illegitimate external forces. The caliph of Damascus and his army represented not just usurpers of the true faith, but became representatives of the destructive forces that destroyed Iranian civilization at the time of the Islamic invasion, and were not truly defeated until the reestablishment of an Iranian dynasty with the Safavids. Husayn’s willingness to die in order to uphold the principles of truth and righteousness is still one of the principal themes in sermons surrounding the mourning ceremonies in Shiʿism today. He has been converted in popular religion into a Christ-like figure. Rheinhold Loeffler reports that some go so far as to say something akin to “Imam Husayn died for our sins.”5 The principal features that distinguish Imam Husayn are his upholding of right and true principles, his unwillingness to break under the pressure of outside, disruptive forces, and his refusal to compromise with evil persons, no matter how violent their assault. This makes his martyrdom a sacred act par excellence. He withstands the symbolic forces of entropy as embodied in the destructive actions of the attacks by Yazid’s army, which threaten to eliminate the legitimacy of his leadership. Public understanding of Husayn’s sacrifice is profound. It is depicted with all of the trappings of Iranian culture, so that in the end it becomes clear to the public that Imam Husayn has sacrificed himself for the people – or, more specifically, for Shiʿa Muslim believers. 229

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With such a role model, it is not surprising that all of Husayn’s successor imams in Twelver Shiʿism were believed to have been martyred as well. For Twelver Shiʿa believers, and even for the common people, martyrdom has become the most powerful mark of legitimization for revered religious figures. This is seen even in informal discourse today. The most common closing for a letter and in informal discourse is qorban-e shoma – (I am) your sacrifice. Taʿziya conventions provide a symbolic legacy for Iranians. Adults do not wear red, the color of the Umayyids who killed Imam Husayn. As mentioned above, the color green is associated with Imam Husayn and his family (as well as for sayyids – the descendants of the Prophet). Black is the color of pious dress for both men and women. White funeral shrouds show a willingness to be a martyr – a feature of the Iran-Iraq War, when young men, called basij, wore white shrouds before clearing minefields and committing effective suicide. Taʿziya also establishes the basic dynamic in Iranian theology between two vital symbolic dimensions: inside (batin) and outside (zahir). Iranian culture favors the inside (the direction of spirituality, esotericism, and purity) over the outside (the direction of secularism, exotericism, and corruption). Imam Husayn is clearly the most “inside” figure in Iranian culture, whereas those who would try to obtain power through illegitimate means, such as the Umayyids in the Muharram saga are the most “outside.”6 The trope of Imam Husayn and his martyrdom has been used repeatedly in Iranian political life. During the Revolution of 1978–79 Muhammad Reza Shah and the United States were equated with the killers of Imam Husayn. Iran was likened to the plains of Karbalaʾ, where the martyrdom took place, and the Iranian people were likened to the followers of Husayn – oppressed and pure. The Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) was framed as a renewed struggle between legitimate (Islamic) and illegitimate (idolatrous) forces. In 2009 the Iranian Green Movement, which supported Mir-Hossein Mousavi against President Mahmud Ahmadinejad, tried to reverse the symbolism of the 1978–79 Revolution by portraying the government, originally identified with the sacred color green, as the outsiders. The supporters of Mousavi, by appropriating the symbolism of the color 230

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green, were successful in portraying themselves as the true insiders with sacred legitimacy.

Theocracy and the role of martyrdom in post-revolutionary Shiʿism Many non-specialists on Iran have referred to Iran as a theocracy with no democratic institutions, based on the assumption that theocracy is incompatible with democratic government.7 Rather than using the lazy (and pejoratively intended) term “theocracy” as a blanket concept, Iran’s external critics might spend some time trying to discern precisely what elements are culturally dominant in Iran’s political system. Without begging the complicated question of what constitutes a democratic institution, or indeed a theocracy, it is important to note that political structures in Iran certainly have important features that any observer would classify as democratic, and others that are rooted in Shiʿa theological belief. Those political structures also have features unique to Iran and are dominated by two important cultural themes: • Legitimacy – the contrast between legitimate “inside” (esoteric) knowledge and processes, and illegitimate “outside” (exoteric) structures and processes • Martyrdom – the trope of martyrdom as definitive proof of legitimacy. Both of these Shiʿa cultural themes have dominated political and military action in post-revolutionary Iran, as well as in Shiʿa communities elsewhere in the world. The Iran-Iraq War, the rise of Hizballah in Lebanon, the resistance of Shiʿa communities to Sunni rule in Bahrain, and the Iranian elections of 2009 and 2013 are poignant examples of the workings of these themes. Understanding why and how this works requires a deep knowledge of the centuries-old cultural patterns alluded to above, as well as the ability to see their modern manifestations in cultural behavior and in society. In this regard it is important to see the difference between formal governmental and political structures and the hidden cultural patterns that govern 231

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what really takes place on a day-to-day basis. In order to explore this, it is important to first address the formal structures of Iranian politics and governance. Contrary to the belief of many external observers of Iran, the original government of the Islamic Republic of Iran was not “imposed” by anyone. It was established through an electoral process following the Iranian Revolution. Iranians may regret having ratified the constitution, but they follow its provisions closely. Although candidates for office are vetted before being allowed to run as finalists (see the following section), the final round of every election in Iran in the last four decades, with the exception of the contested presidential election of 2009, has been judged by international observers as free, and as having followed the prescribed constitutional electoral process to the letter. The concerns expressed by Westerners and some Iranians about the political system stem from the fact that half the institutions in the Iranian government, while unelected, have veto power over elected institutions. Furthermore, the army and the judiciary are both controlled by these unelected bodies. The framers of the constitution were optimistic that office holders would uphold the finest ideals of Islam and would exercise their powers judiciously. However, as it developed, those occupying positions in the unelected bodies are by and large the most conservative religionists in Iran. Therefore, problems with government in Iran stem not from the form of government, but rather from the political bent of those that occupy positions of power in the government. This is an important distinction, because it shows that much of what happens in Iranian political life is governed by informal cultural processes. Here again the question of legitimacy is paramount. Those who hold office are legitimized in their exercise of power by their office, but the question still arises whether they were legitimate candidates for those offices in the first place. This was not anticipated by the framers of the constitution, since the highest-ranking clergy, the defenders of Islam, were incipiently thought to be paragons of morality and ethical behavior. In essence, the Iranian public believed that they were placing a large number of Husayn-like figures in office. Now they wonder if these office holders have not become more like Muʿawiya and Yazid. 232

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An accurate picture of Iranian electoral institutions helps assess both their strengths and weaknesses. On the model of the Karbalaʾ paradigm, dictators must be resisted, as governed by the philosophy of the above-mentioned cultural themes of martyrdom and legitimacy. In order to show this, however, I must briefly sketch the Iranian political procedure, its main governmental institutional bodies, and some of the underlying dynamics of cultural political life in Iran today.

Shiʿi symbolic structure: esoteric knowledge, occultation and legitimacy As mentioned, in the dominant Twelver Shiʿism tradition knowledge of religion has an outside exoteric form and an inside esoteric form. This marks the theological difference between orthodoxy and orthopraxy. The orthopraxic, esoteric inner truth of religion was thought to have been passed from the Prophet to his daughter, Fatima, and to his cousin and son-in-law, ʿAli, and their successors. ʿAli, who traditionally was identified as the scribe of the Prophet’s visionary scriptural emanations, was thought to have been in possession of a body of Qurʾanic scriptures that was three times the size of today’s canonical Qurʾan, compiled and finalized by his rival, Caliph ʿUthman, the third Sunni leader of the faith. The esoteric knowledge constituted the core truth of the Islamic faith, passed on from Imam to Imam, culminating in the Twelfth Imam, Muhammad al-Mahdi, who disappeared into occultation as an infant. Nevertheless, he is thought to be alive today and in possession of the true esoteric knowledge of the faith. The Mahdi, as he is known, will reappear on the Day of Judgment, with Jesus to proclaim the true faith and rule over mankind. In Twelver Shiʿa theology, the Mahdi is viewed by today’s most conservative theologians as the only legitimate religious and temporal ruler, just as, in their time, ʿAli and his son Husayn were the only legitimate rulers. The occultation of the Mahdi creates an obvious theological dilemma for Shiʿis. If the Mahdi is the only receptacle of the esoteric truth of Islam, and the only legitimate ruler, then what are the rest of the community 233

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of believers supposed to do in his absence? This basic conundrum has dogged Shiʿa theology for centuries. Even today it remains the subject of controversy, and it stands at the core of current theological and political debate.

The intermediate role of the clergy In the Islamic Republic the role of the clergy is seen as protecting the “inside” core truth of religion from the “outside” forces of corruption. Of course, critics of the clergy frequently reverse the formula, claiming that it is in fact the clergy who are illegitimate – as seen in the Green Movement, which sprang from the 2009 election protests. In this formulation, persons dying for the sake of “legitimacy,” whether religious or political, are identified as martyrs and receive the posthumous title shahid, a term derived from the Arabic word for “witness.” In English, one may speak of a person “witnessing” their faith to the point of death. Soldiers killed in the Iran-Iraq War are regarded as shahids. Wall murals showing their pictures are to be seen in every major Iranian city. Though Americans often see religious legitimacy and political legitimacy as oppositional concepts, in the context of Islam they are emanations of the same social dynamic. ʿAli and Husayn were both religious and temporal leaders, and the Mahdi, when he returns, will likewise be a temporal ruler. Iran’s faqih or chief jurisprudent is referred to as the Rahbar (leader). Again, the question is not whether they can rule in this fashion; it is rather whether they are legitimate as rulers. It is now easy to see what martyrdom consists of. One can only be a martyr when one dies in the course of defending legitimacy. Martyrdom is thus not just a personal sacrifice, it is absolute proof of the rightness of the defense of that legitimacy, based on the model of Imam Husayn. Clerics and soldiers are Iran’s chief martyrs. Aside from the original 12 martyred historic Imams in Twelver Shiʿism, large numbers of assassinated clerics occupy modern Iranian political hagiography. Monuments, schools, public buildings, and streets have been named for a number of them. One of the most prominent was Prime Minister Muhammad Javad Bahonar (d. 1981), who was assassinated by the militant opposition group Mujahedeen-e Khalq (MEK) in a massive bomb blast. Also killed in an 234

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MEK bomb blast in 1981 was Ayatollah Sayyid Muhammad Husayni Beheshti, one of the main architects of the constitution of the Islamic Republic, who was also the secretary-general of the Islamic Republic Party, and head of Iran’s judiciary. The veneration of individual martyrs in Shiʿism is exceptionally easy. Because of the particular doctrines in Shiʿism, outlined above, individual “clergy” have a more prominent role as identifiable individuals than in Sunni Islam. Although, for convenience, we speak of “clergy” in Islam, in fact there is no formal clergy in the Judeo-Christian sense. Anyone (male or female) can study theology and, technically, any Muslim can lead prayer. The Shiʿa system in particular is based on consensus. When a person is known for their exceptional knowledge and wisdom, and following study, they receive a “permit to express opinion on Islamic law” (ijazat ijtihad) and receive the title mujtahid, or “practitioner of exegesis.” Such people are trusted to interpret Islamic law. When, due to his superior personal qualities and knowledge, such individual becomes a focal point for people to follow, and when prominent religious persons endorse his views, the mujtahid becomes a Marjaʿ-e-Taqlid.8 Marjaʿs are accorded the title Grand Ayatollah. This happens when followers of an ayatollah repeatedly refer to him, asking him to publish the juristic book in which he refers to daily Muslim affairs. The book is called a resaleh (treatise) and contains fatwas (rulings) on different topics, according to the marjaʿs knowledge of authentic Islamic sources and their application to current life. Where a difference in opinion exists between the marjaʿs, they each provide their own rulings, which the adherents will follow. Several senior Grand Ayatollahs constitute the Howze Elmiye, a religious institution in Najaf (Iraq) and a separate one in Qum (Iran). These are preeminent seminary centers for the training of Shiʿa clerics, but also for the gestation of evolving political opinion. It is noteworthy in this context that Iranian president Hasan Rouhani, first elected in 2013, completed his PhD. thesis on the flexibility of shariʿa law at the Caledonian University in Glasgow, Scotland. This topic is entirely in keeping with Shiʿa religious theological practice, in which individual religious scholars offer their own viewpoint on shariʿa law in Shiʿism. Discussions are usually framed by the two dominant themes I have identified above – the primacy of martyrdom and of esoteric knowledge.9 235

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Solving the problem of the Mahdi The problem of theological truth was debated extensively when Twelver Shiʿism became the state religion in the Safavid period (1501–1722). Two schools emerged. According to one school, the leadership of the faithful should be invested in lay rulers guided by the clergy; according to the other, only the wisest religious scholars should be allowed to approach the esoteric knowledge invested in the Mahdi. Those favoring non-religious governance warned that clerical rule would inevitably lead to corruption, thus endangering the purity of the faith.10 This controversy continued unabated, creating considerable stress in the early twentieth century as a constitutional revolution marked the decline of the Qajar Empire. The clergy were split on the question of the nature of religious authority in the Iranian state. Eventually, those in favor of lay rule with religious influence prevailed, and Reza Khan, an army officer, became Shah in 1926. It should be noted that Reza Shah subsequently proved not to be entirely respectful of religious authority. Shaykh Fazlollah Nuri opposed the establishment of constitutional rule, seeing it as inimical to shariʿa law. He was executed in 1909 during the Constitutional Revolution, which established the secular state in law. Muhammad Husayn Naʾini, who supported lay rule under clerical supervision, was rewarded by the Shah’s government and died of natural causes in 1936. This did not end the controversy. Grand Ayatollah Ruhallah Khomeini, who at the time of the Iranian Revolution was reportedly the Marjaʿ-eTaqlid with the largest number of followers in the Twelver Shiʿa world, gradually became more and more antagonistic to the Pahlavi regime. He tilted toward the idea of clerical rule and introduced a new doctrine, the velayat-e-faqih, or rule of the jurisprudent. According to this doctrine, the most prominent Grand Ayatollah would rule over the faithful in the absence of the Twelfth Imam, thus becoming the faqih. Lest anyone miss the connection with the long-running debate over secular vs. clerical rule, Ayatollah Khomeini declared Shaykh Nuri a martyr to the faithful and the forerunner of the Iranian Revolution of 1978–79. He was martyred because he defended a religious posture that eventually proved unpopular, but 236

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gained legitimacy in the context of the revolution. In this way the defense of clerical “rule” was at once a continuation of the doctrine of the Mahdi, and a vehicle for declaring all those who supported the legitimacy of strong clerical influence in government and died for their convictions. However, the controversy over legitimacy of rule continues even today. Ayatollah Khomeini’s doctrine was rejected by every other Grand Ayatollah. Traditionally, dating back to the Safavid era, Shiʿa spiritual leaders had eschewed temporal power for fear that this would corrupt religious judgment. Many felt that Khomeini’s innovation went too far. Nevertheless, his charisma and leadership skills were sufficient to persuade the Iranian electorate to ratify a constitution granting the unelected faqih power over all aspects of government, thus ratifying his legitimacy.11

Innovative structures Once the faqih was in place, other governmental institutions flowed from his office. Initially, he was intended to remain a remote figure, intervening to resolve questions of government and national leadership only when other means failed. This was essentially the “secular” model of governance favored from the Safavid through the Pahlavi dynasties. As the early years of the Islamic Republic devolved into internal factionalism between more moderate and more conservative factions, Khomeini was forced to intervene more and more. He thus began to tilt even more toward the “clerical” model of governance. However, absolute rule by clerics was still greeted with suspicion. The ultimate solution was to develop a hybrid system of government that would allow clerical authority to prevail, while introducing a large number of features of secular rule, thus preserving the legitimacy derived from the doctrine of the velayat-e faqih substituting for the “only legitimate ruler,” the absent Mahdi. The result was the constitution of the Islamic Republic, a highly complex document that tries to satisfy both sides of the theological argument, albeit with limited success. The velayat-e faqih embraces clerical authority, while other governmental bodies establish mechanisms for the public selection of officials. 237

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The legitimacy of this innovation, though it has now lasted more than thirty six years, is still being questioned. At present velayat-e faqih is supported neither by all theologians nor by the wider public.

The governmental system: balancing exoteric and esoteric The particulars of Iran’s governmental structure show the mix of clerical and non-clerical authority throughout the system. In effect this is a mixture of exoteric and esoteric ideologies – an attempt to meld “inside” spiritual with “outside” secular functions. After a few tweaks, the institutional powers of the Iranian state were distributed according to the constitution, as indicated on the chart below. I have provided a more detailed account of these structures elsewhere.12 UNELECTED INSTITUTIONS

ELECTED INSTITUTIONS ELECTORATE

PRESIDENT

SUPREME LEADER ARMED FORCES

CABINET

HEAD OF JUDICIARY PARLIAMENT

EXPEDIENCY COUNCIL GUARDIAN COUNCIL

ASSEMBLY OF EXPERTS

KEY:

Directly elected

Appointed or approved

Vets candidates

Figure 13.1  Iran: the Institutional Complex.

As shown in the chart, the faqih controls, directly or indirectly, almost every aspect of government. However, the faqih is himself chosen by an Assembly of Experts, themselves elected by the people.

Legitimacy and governing structures Even given the constitutional authority of Iran’s governing structures, the issue of legitimacy of authority still pervades the Iranian political system. It is this question above all that looms large in considering the issue of martyrdom as a political and social mechanism in Iran today. Early in the Iranian Revolution, judges, clerics, and military officials were executed because of their purported crimes against the public. These office holders 238

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of the Islamic Republic were assassinated by dissident groups that would not accept their legitimacy. Therefore the question of legitimizing structures and legitimizing personal conduct emphasizes the dynamic relationship between political and social life in modern Iran. For the Iranian public, direct general elections are a potent legitimizing force for government officials, despite the fact that the constitution does not grant the people full legitimization. Humans are seen as fallible and in need of guidance, so that the constitution needs to provide a balance between the religious ideals of consensus (ijmaʿ) and the clerical exercise of Islamic knowledge (ʿilm) and reason (ʿaql). This puts a legitimizing religious imprimatur on the clerics’ candidacy. It is the reasoning behind the institution of the twelve-member Guardian Council, jointly appointed by the faqih and the judiciary and approved by Parliament, vetting all candidates before they can be introduced to the public. Having personally observed three elections in Iran after 2000, I can confirm that the fact that candidates are preselected by the Guardian Council seems to have little effect on the seriousness of public debate or on the enthusiasm of voters. Only in the presidential election of 2009 was the legitimacy of the winner questioned by the electorate. Voting rates are typically high, ranging from 50 to 76 percent even in the most severely contested elections.

Martyrdom and reform Elderly clerics will obviously be replaced as they pass away. The question is:  Who will replace them? Most of the citizenry today has no personal memory of Ayatollah Khomeini or the revolution. Moreover, they are the best-educated Iranian population in history. They also have access to computers, satellite dishes, and every modern information technology. As a result, they are exceptionally well informed about their own lives and about international affairs. When they do assume political office, the reforms they are clamoring for will indeed take place. For the time being, they are able to work with their flawed governmental structures, despite the undercurrent of social unrest that will eventually bring reform. The reelection of President Ahmadinejad in 2009 sparked a huge public backlash against the government, and also created a large number of 239

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martyrs. This was somewhat anomalous since President Ahmadinejad had been as troublesome for Iran’s power elite as for the public. Nevertheless, his “victory” was thought by the opposition to have been engineered by Ayatollah Khameneʾi and/or his supporters. The principal opposition candidate, Mir-Hossein Mousavi, was deemed to have actually won the elections, though official tallies gave him 34 percent of the vote. He is currently still under house arrest. The antigovernment movement was labeled the Green Movement, ingeniously seizing the symbolic color green – the color associated with Imam Husayn and his martyred family – featured prominently in taʿziya performances. Public demonstrations against the election results lasted for weeks and were a tremendous embarrassment to the government. One innocent bystander, Neda Agha-Soltani, was shot during a demonstration. Her unusual situation as a female martyr gave her untimely death tremendous symbolic power for the movement. Her pictures were displayed in worldwide demonstrations protesting the election. The verbal attacks and economic sanctions against Iran by the United States and its Israeli and European allies fit the Iranian trope of martyrdom perfectly. Economic sanctions against Iran were implemented by President Ronald Reagan’s administration shortly after the revolution, and intensified under the Clinton, Bush, and Obama administrations for incomprehensible reasons. The United States, moreover, had sided with Iraq in the Iran-Iraq War. These and many other reasons caused Iranians to view the United States as hostile to their interests. Given the strong Iranian cultural tendency to view public affairs in terms of legitimacy, Iranians easily see themselves as under siege from illegitimate external forces, as was Imam Husayn at Karbalaʾ. The use of this metaphor is continually promoted by Iran’s political leaders, largely because of its enormous symbolic power. In terms of Iranian cultural logic, it rings completely true, and only the most sophisticated Iranians have the perspective that allows them to resist its formulation. This strong sentiment makes reform extremely problematic, as religious leaders accuse the reformers of being in league with the illegitimate outsiders – and of symbolically siding with the Umayyid murderers of the martyr Husayn and his followers.13 “Thus we see that both the government and the opposition are eager to identify with the martyr, Husayn, and to portray the other side as equivalent to his murderers. 240

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The 2013 election The presidential election of 2013, in which Rouhani was decisively elected, is demonstrative of the inability of outside observers who lack in-depth knowledge of Iranian culture to assess Iranian social and political processes. To be blunt, American, Israeli, and European observers were utterly wrong in predicting the election’s outcome. The victorious Rouhani, seen as the most moderate of all six candidates, was not predicted to win by these pundits, who followed their own superficial ideological bias, predicting that the election would be rigged by ultraconservative mullahs and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps to favor the most conservative contender. As Iranians turned out in large numbers – more than 70 percent of eligible voters by the most recent estimates – they gave the lie to this superficial Western view. A friend, who works for Press TV, the Iranian international Englishlanguage television news service, confirmed this dynamic:  “After the withdrawal of Mr. Aref, the people saw that Mr. Rouhani had a chance of winning. Many who had planned to boycott the election then decided to vote.” The surge occurred in the two days before the election. As a result, the three conservative candidates split the conservative vote and Rouhani, as the only moderate, surged in the polls and in the vote. Rouhani’s victory was decisive. He garnered three times the votes of his nearest rival for office, thus avoiding a runoff election. The results were met with delight in Iran. Speaking to a journalist friend in Tehran, Rouhani reported that the people were celebrating his victory in the streets in huge numbers. “They are very, very happy,” he exclaimed. The social issues agenda presented by Rouhani was absorbed by voters hungry for change. He vowed to increase freedom of expression, free political prisoners, establish more central roles for women, and encourage support of the arts and the economy, which was the most important issue for Iranians, who had been hard hit by U.S. and European sanctions. This makes the election similar to elections everywhere, when social and financial issues are the main concerns of the electorate. Even in the face of this “reformist victory” the dynamics of martyrdom still persist in Iranian political life in the form of perceived repression of the Iranian public by outside forces. From the myopic perspective of 241

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Washington, London, and other Western capitals, however, the only issue worth talking about in the wake of the 2013 election was Iran’s nuclear program. From the perspective of the Iranian citizenry, this was a minor issue, if it was mentioned at all. At best, the nuclear question was seen as an unfair characterization by the U.S. and its allies of a program in which Iranians take great pride because of its demonstration of Iranian scientific progress and knowledge. Iran’s ability to withstand this duress is seen as a willing act of readiness for martyrdom.14 In terms of this discussion, Rouhani’s victory was a triumph of the legitimacy of esoteric truth over exoteric power. Rouhani represented a pure, admirable inner core of virtuous truth. Despite its religious credentials, the current power structure was increasingly seen as illegitimate, as its leaders were clearly aware of. As many have opined, Rouhani’s victory, which was most probably tolerated by these officials, and their acquiescence in the face of the public’s desire for change could be seen as an attempt to realign themselves with an inner core of truth so valued by Iranians.

Conclusion: Islamic government, legitimacy and martyrdom Most Americans look at the term Islamic Republic and immediately associate it with pejorative terms such as theocracy, clerical rule, mandatory head covering for women, and prohibitions in the public domain. However, the Iranian government is an anomaly in the Muslim world, or even in the Shiʿa sect, with few theologians agreeing with its bedrock constitutional principle of the velayat-e faqih, or rule of the chief jurisprudent. In the Sunni world, this doctrine is anathema. Thus, it is highly unlikely that any emerging Islamic state will mandate clerical rule, Iranian-style or otherwise. What distinguishes political and social life under an Islamic Republic for Iranians, however, are the two cultural themes I  introduced at the beginning of this discussion:  legitimacy and martyrdom as the ultimate proof of that legitimacy. Iranians have an intense sense of core principles and moral values. When those core principles are seen to be violated by those in illegitimate positions of power, the result is eruption in social protest and resistance. The resistance is uncompromising, and when death is the result, it is a triumph, because martyrdom proves the correctness of 242

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that position. In this way change from within, as long as it emanates from legitimacy, will be supported by Iranian society. Illegitimate power mongering will trigger martyrdom. Either circumstance constitutes a victory. At the base of this drive for legitimacy is the ultimate sacrifice made to resist illegitimate rule and use of power: martyrdom. Those who are willing to make this sacrifice are revered as the most awe-inspiring humans on earth as they aspire to the exalted status of Imam Husayn.

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14 Warrior Saints: ʿAbadallah ʿAzzam’s Reflections on Jihad and Karamat Meir Hatina

Hagiographic literature is closely linked to the politics of martyrdom. It had become an important component of the struggle of contemporary Islamic movements against political rivals. The core of this body of literature consisted of biographical compilations of martyrs, mostly short, telegraphic and unified in nature, which projected a charismatic image of the martyr as embodying a metaphysical mission. One of the main founders of hagiographic martyrdom literature was Shaykh ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam (d. 1989), who was actively involved in Afghan resistance to the Soviet occupation. ʿAzzam depicted jihad and martyrdom as the ultimate act of worship and as the sole path to the restoration of Muslim dignity and strength in modern times. Evoking support for his cause, he not only did not confine himself to elaborating on the various rewards of the martyrs in paradise, but also made use of the theme of miracles (karamat) and supernatural powers (baraka) attributed to martyrs. ʿAzzam’s hagiographic output was later developed further by other Islamic movements. This chapter explores the cultural and symbolic functions of karamat literature and its affinity to politics. The strong Sufi connotation embodied in the karamat concept, and its adaptation to Salafi discourse, is also 244

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discussed, providing another avenue by which to examine the debated issue of the Salafi-Sufi encounter in modern times.

Introduction: hagiography and history Hagiography, the biographical literary genre of the lives of saints, constitutes a key component of popular culture in religious traditions. It developed in various communities and was largely associated with the concept of sanctity and the cult of saints, centered on tombs or shrines that contained their relics. The tombs and rituals that were created around them provided a tangible element to faith, and the tombs became popular holy sites attracting pilgrims. They radiated the presence of God in the physical world, while serving as a conduit to transmit requests to God for healing, fertility, forgiveness, and the like. While hagiography is not history and is not subject to historical discipline, it does provide some factual data, although it is mainly imbued with inspiring glorified stories featuring legends, miracles, and visions relating to the lives of saints.1 Their sanctity or holiness, however, stem from a social construction, namely the perception that their sainthood must be accepted and recognized by a community of believers and sanctioned by an official authority. In Aviad Kleinberg’s description, sainthood is a social phenomenon that involves debate, negotiation, and collaboration, or, as Vincent Cornell argued in the context of Sufi treatises, “sainthood is a matter of discourse. It can be nothing else … sainthood needs to be recognized by another to exist.”2 Hagiography is found in many religions, but it has been most prominent in Christianity from its earliest history. The cult of saints was central to the practice of Christianity mainly in medieval times, setting an inspiring example for the living, and confirming the Christian message.3 By contrast, Judaism and Islam did not develop a formal tradition of canonizing saints, in light of the prohibition of idolatry and human mediation with God. Most of Judaic and Islamic learning dealt with theological and judicial issues, although both creeds produced “praise literature” about important categories of venerated figures. In Judaism this was manifested mainly in the Hasidic courts,4 and in Islam mainly among the Sufis (manaqib, i.e. virtues, often synonymous with akhlaq, i.e. morals).5 245

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This laudatory literature, which was reflected primarily in biographical lexicons, traced the life and deeds of holy people from cradle to grave. Following a fixed format, it cited the subjects’ titles, lineage, and the names of their teachers and students, praising their moral and ascetic attributes, quoting some of their sayings, describing some of the miracles, and in some cases their firm stance in the face of political evil. In essence, it was commemorative literature about holy figures that was a voice of conscience, epitomizing ideal ethical norms that the community of believers, whether local or universal, should adopt. Desert recluses and ascetics, who renounce physical pleasures as a means to achieve spiritual perfection, as well as religious scholars, were often the subjects of hagiography, but so were warriors and martyrs who were engaged in defending their faith.6 The purity of the martyrs’ motivation in facing either passive death by their oppressors or active death in the battlefield made their blood holy and pure, spilled for a collective goal and blessed by God.7 The hagiographic literature of warriors and martyrs is closely linked to the politics of heroism. Its aims are threefold: to hold up an exalted model of virtue; to serve as a pedagogic and mobilizing agent; and to establish an official account so as to marginalize and exclude competing narratives. Thus, the quest for spiritual salvation is intertwined with power struggles in a quest for recognition and status.8 The hagiography of self-sacrifice became an important component of modern Islamic movements in their struggle against local and external rivals, with the core of this literature consisting of biographical compilations of warriors’ and martyrs’ lives. The biographies depicted charismatic modern heroes as embodying a metaphysical mission and as chosen by God – and thus beyond any doubt or criticism regarding purity of motives.9 The primary originator of this modern Islamic genre, Shaykh ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam – of Palestinian origin and a graduate of al-Azhar University in Cairo – was dedicated to the recruitment of Arab volunteers to the Afghan resistance to the Soviet conquest in the 1980s. ʿAzzam was assassinated in a mysterious explosion in 1989 in Peshawar, Pakistan.10

ʿAzzam’s concept of jihad and martyrdom An exploration of ʿAzzam’s warrior/martyr accounts reveals the cultural, symbolic and political functions of baraka and karamat (divine grace and 246

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miraculous powers) in the radical Salafi discourse.11 The strong Sufi connotation imbued in the karamat concept, and its adaptation to Salafi usage, also provides a valuable prism by which to examine the debated issue of the Salafi-Sufi encounter in modern times. This encounter was not necessarily characterized by full-fledged dissonance and hostility, as is often described in research literature, but also reveals points of convergence and mutual influence.12 A relevant point of departure in this discussion is ʿAzzam’s attitude toward the imperative of jihad, which, he argued, had been marginalized and even excluded from the Muslim consensus out of ignorance, or from a desire to counter Western allegations that Islam is a “religion of the sword.” In contrast to the apologetic stance of prominent Islamist thinkers such as Hasan al-Banna, Abu al-Aʿla Muwdudi and Sayyid Qutb, ʿAzzam stated boldly that Islam was indeed established by the sword, and that clear evidence for this could be found in numerous Qurʾanic verses associated with the term sword. Anyone who provides an interpretation contradictory to the literal meaning of these verses, he held, distorts the meaning of war in Islam and should be cast out. Moreover, ʿAzzam argued, the status of jihad is even more elevated than praying in the holy mosque in Mecca, or than its rejuvenation. In fact, ʿAzzam depicted jihad as the ultimate act of worship and as the sole path for the restoration of Muslim dignity and power in modern times. In his words, “being on the front line for God for just one hour is better than spending seventy years in prayer.” Just as prayer does not stop until the believer’s death, so jihad continues until the warrior (mujahid) meets his creator. Even if the power of the Muslim side is inferior to that of the enemy, there is no retreat from the duty of jihad.13 The pinnacle of jihad, in ʿAzzam’s view, is self-sacrifice. Here he showed himself to be a systematic and innovative exponent of the concept of martyrdom in modern Sunna, alongside such Shiʿi exponents as Ayatollah Ruhullah Khomeini, Murtaza Mutahhari, Mahmud Taleqani, and ʿAli Shariʿati.14 According to ʿAzzam, the martyrs (shuahdaʾ) are those who keep the tree of faith from drying up, and thereby write the history of their nations. He wrote: History does not write its lines except with blood. Glory does not build its lofty edifice except with skulls. Honor and respect cannot be established except on a foundation of cripples and

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Those who write the history of their nation, in ʿAzzam’s view, comprise a small group in terms of numbers, but superior in terms of quality, mainly young people. They are the chosen ones (nukhba) and they constitute the mentors, whose path to paradise is smoother than that of others. In shedding their blood, religious convictions are brought to life, ideologies are made victorious, and life is infused with sacred values.16

The embodiment of sacred power ʿAzzam, in seeking support for his cause, did not confine himself to elaborating on the various rewards of the warriors and martyrs in paradise only, but made extensive use of the theme of karamat and baraka attributed to them. He applied this concept mainly to the Afghan arena, collecting and documenting numerous accounts about karamat displayed by Afghan and Arab fighters against the Soviet forces. ʿAzzam compiled these stories in two books in the early 1980s: Ayat al-rahman fi jihad al-Afghan [The wonders of the Lord of Mercy for the Jihad of the Afghans], and, most prominently, ʿUshshaq al-hur [Lovers of the fair black-eyed women].17 The first volume is dedicated to both warriors and martyrs; the second to martyrs only. Many of the stories are categorized by theme, such as “God protects the mujahidun,” “The bullets don’t penetrate their bodies,” “The scent of the martyrs,” or “Light rises from the martyr’s body.”18 By way of example, ʿAzzam describes a group of Afghan fighters who, despite their inferior numbers, deterred Soviet planes and tanks, which retreated like “mice running from cats.” Some fighters emerged unharmed even though their clothes were on fire. Other mujahidun were assisted by angels, who were viewed as the manifestation of God’s presence in the battlefield. The belief in angels is a vital element in the Islamist perception, closely linked to the revelation of the Qurʾan to Muhammad. Dissociation from this belief is viewed as apostasy.19 Thus, from ʿAzzam’s point of view, incorporating angels in karamat stories about Afghan fighters heightened the drama 248

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and strengthened the divine nature of military campaigns. He also quoted Muhammad al-Qurtubi’s (d. 1273) commentary on the verse “If you are steadfast and mindful of God, your Lord will reinforce you with five thousand swooping angels if the enemy should suddenly attack you” (3: 125), for only fighters who show courage will have earned the assistance of angels.20 Notably, other Salafi ideologists, who were associated with Al Qaeda and global jihad in the 1990s, also emphasized in their writings the importance of belief in angels. For example, Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi, in an essay published in 1997 about the Islamic faith, included the belief in angels in the six articles of faith alongside the belief in God’s unity, the scriptures, prophets, and messengers, doomsday and predestination. He described angels as God’s honored servants (ʿibad Allah al-mukarramun), who protect and love the believers; one must act with awe and humility toward them, as they are part of God’s army (min jund Allah). Animals and forces of nature also played an important role in ʿAzzam’s karamat accounts, in the context of coming to the aid of the Afghan fighters. For example birds,21 which flew over the Afghan camps, warning them of the approach of Soviet bombers, or of enemy’s bullets, which then missed the galloping horses of the Afghan fighters. In one incident, the fighters were reluctant to light a fire at their mountaintop base for fear that spies would see the smoke and report them to the government. But God sent a dense fog, so that the smoke would be invisible. In another incident, when a group of fighters camped in a dry region in Pakistan, water began to flow in the area, which became green and fertile. But when the Pakistanis craved the area and routed the Afghans, ʿAzzam wrote, the water dried up.22 Fallen fighters, or shuhadaʾ, were sanctified by ʿAzzam because of their saintly actions. He related cases in which shahids refused to relinquish their weapons, displaying bravery and determination even after their death. One illustrative episode he documented had been related to him by Zubayr Mir ʿAlam: Zubayr Mir ʿAlam told me that [when] Mir Agha fell in battle with others, he was carrying a pistol. When the mujahidun came to take the pistol, he refused to relinquish it. When we brought him home, his father, Qadi Mir Sultan, came to him and said: “O my son! This pistol is not yours, it belongs to the mujahidun.” Mir Agha then gave up the pistol.23

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Other saintly phenomena, as witnessed by the dead martyrs’ comrades, were speech emanating from their mouths or the smiles on their faces. Moreover, after their bodies were removed for burial, a strong scent of perfume rose from the graves, and could be detected at long distances, lasting for months.24 Reports of a perfumed scent rising from graves, which was widespread in the Islamic tradition, and even more so in early Christian tradition, highlighted the purity of the martyr, his closeness to the divine spirit, and the sweet smell of heaven.25 Purity and closeness to the divine presence were also manifested through light rising from the martyr’s body, as can be inferred from the following account: The mujahid ʿAbd al-Mannan Muhammad, a commander in Almand [a region east of Kandahar] told me … Ever since the end of the battle, the bodies of the martyrs were left on the battlefield. Summer came, yet not a single body changed in appearance, and no stench or rotting occurred. Every night, a light emanated from one of the martyrs, ʿAbd al-Ghafur b. Din Muhammad. The light reached the sky and remained there for 3 minutes, and then came down. And all the mujahidun saw the light.26

Accounts such as these were found not only in literary texts, but also in visual formats as videos and clips, narrated by ʿAzzam and showing corpses of martyrs and demonstrations of elements of the karamat which they retained, such as intact bodies showing no decay, light emanating from them, and a smile on their lips. The combination of ʿAzzam’s rousing voice and the physical sight of the martyrs heightened the drama and authenticity of the experience.27 In anthropological terms, the martyr’s body, similar to the body of the saint in Sufi culture, is perceived as a symbolic asset that stirs religious significance and communal solidarity, constituting a site of holy power.28 In documenting karamat accounts extensively, ʿAzzam pioneered the field of Sunni hagiographical biographies of mujahidun in the 1980s. The format he devised was later adopted by other Islamic movements, such as Hamas in Palestine and Al Qaeda on the global scene.29 Generally, the biographies compiled by ʿAzzam were short, telegraphic, and consistent in their message of heroism and sacrifice. They included personal details of the warrior/martyr, descriptions of the event or operation, 250

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the number of enemy dead, injured, or captives, and the martyr’s will or testimony.30 However, these biographical texts were more an ethical than a historical narrative. The function of the biographies of warriors and martyrs was essentially the same as that of the biographical dictionaries of ʿulamaʾ and Sufis in Muslim history. They aimed, first, to posit a normative role model for imitation, and second, to highlight the specific figure in a group context, whether in a school of law (madhhab), a Sufi fraternity, or an Islamic movement, thereby promoting the influence of the sponsoring group in the public at large. They also established a linage (silsila) of God’s faithful soldiers, connected by spiritual and fraternity bonds in the path of jihad and sacrifice. Sacred biographies thus constituted a morality story, a commemorative agent, and a mobilizing force.31 An examination of the biographies compiled by ʿAzzam reveals that mujahidun are featured as a vanguard that is moralistic, strict in its religious conduct, never misses prayers, and diligently attends sermons in the mosque. Some are described as ascetics who renounced personal comfort, luxury and property, leaving behind family and children as an act of purification of the body and the soul – a sacrifice to God and the community. Many of these mujahidun were described as having been involved in previous acts of resistance and confrontation with the enemy. Some were tested by their leaders to evaluate their determination through members of the movement who were sent to them to try, and failed, to change their minds about self-sacrifice. Religious preparation for the act, and attendance at the mosque on the morning of the operation, figured prominently in the biographies, imbuing the act with spirituality, removing from it all elements of self-interest, and elevating it to a level of sanctity.32 In this, the family, and especially the mother, whose supportive statements and interviews are generally cited in the biographies, played an important role.33

Friends of God ʿAzzam portrayed the mujahidun and the martyrs as “friends of God” (awliyaʾ),34 whose baraka, or divine grace, was a result of their strict adherence to the laws of what the Prophet allowed or forbade. God 251

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bestowed His spirit and light upon them and granted themthe power to perform miracles. Nevertheless, ʿAzzam was aware of the problematic use of such terms as awliyaʾ, baraka and karamat, which bear a strong Sufi connotation and had the potential to challenge the key concept of the unity of God as the only entity worthy of worship (tawhid).35 This could deter Salafi followers or engage them in polemics with their ideological rivals, such as the Muslim Brethren or establishment ʿulamaʾ. He therefore sought to elevate these terms and legitimize them religiously, as can be seen even more explicitly in later editions of his essay, Ayat al-rahman fi jihad al-Afghan.36 He stated that, as a pious person who had dedicated his life to the cause of Islam and who was closely familiar with the lives of mujahidun, he was careful to verify the authenticity of the karamat accounts provided by trustworthy mujahidun, as well as his own first-hand testimony. He also pointed out that he had requested the opinions of prominent ʿulamaʾ to verify each case of karamat.37 ʿAzzam thereby sought to imbue the manifestations of karamat that he cited with the authenticity of reliable reporters (isnad) and content (matn), similar to that of the hadith corpus. The confidence which he expressed in the people whom he described as having taken part in the battles, and in the veracity of their account of events, led him to comment that if al-Bukhari (d. 870), the famous documentalist of the authentic collections of the hadith in early Islam, had been alive, these people would have been part of his chain of informants.38 ʿAzzam also adopted a series of strategies to downplay Sufi identification with karamat. First, he denounced rituals associated with Sufism, such as erecting mosques over saints’ tombs, or perceiving dead or living people as intermediaries with God. He also attacked Sufis for devoting themselves to the struggle against inner lust – “the greater jihad” in Sufi terminology – rather than against infidels. In this respect, he depicted himself as a strict follower of the puritanical Hanbali rite, as exemplified by Ibn Hanbal, Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya.39 Second, ʿAzzam presented karamat as an integral element of the Islamic worldview. According to him, the faith of the Muslim is based largely on a belief in the hidden world (ʿalam al-ghayb), for example the belief in angels, devils, the torments of the grave, heaven and hell, as well as karamat.40 252

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Third, ʿAzzam emphasized that karamat do not occur in daily life or as a matter of routine, but are confined to the battlefield, where difficult situations, such as fatigue, pressure, and distress, prevail. When they are performed, the karamat of mujahidun have moral-boosting and mobilizing functions. They strengthen the hearts of the fighters, increase their fervor, and instill the feeling in them that God protects them and is in charge of the campaign. Ultimately, the sanctity of the warriors and the martyrs derives from the military realm; its main goal being to empower the inferior Muslim side and strengthen its morale, rather than to serve as a conduit or mediator (wisata) of pleas for healing, fertility, livelihood, and other mundane concerns.41 The fourth strategy adopted by ʿAzzam to position karamat in Salafi discourse was to highlight the strict observance of Islamic teachings and the loyalty of the Afghans to the notion of the sharʿia as the sole source of legislation. The Afghan karamat are thus based on strong foundations of faith, morality, and purity.42 ʿAzzam’s fifth and last strategy was the attribution of karamat to the early Salafis, that is, the Prophet’s companions (sahaba), including the first two caliphs – Abu Bakr and ʿUmar. Quoting early Islamic sources, ʿAzzam argued that throughout their lives the sahaba spoke of the angels who had assisted them in the battle of Badr (624). Speech emanated from the mouths of sahaba martyrs, and their buried bodies were found to be intact even after many years.43 These and other manifestations of the karamat of the Prophet’s companions, ʿAzzam noted, were not perceived as heresy or a prohibited innovation (bidʿa) and did not bring about moral corruption in the community of believers. These karamat accounts were embodied in Islam ever since its inception, and reaffirmed historical reality. Their main function was to lift the Muslims’ spirit and strengthen their adherence to the way of God when their faith weakened, especially during periods of distress and rupture, such as in the modern era with its temptations and the superiority of the enemies of Islam. This important function of miracles, which “are intended to cause people to commit themselves to the way of God when their faith weakens,” ʿAzzam emphasized, also gained recognition from the medieval Hanbali theologian Ibn Taymiyya, whose pure faith should not be questioned. In his book al-Furqan bayna awliyaʾ al-rahman wa-awliyaʾ 253

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al-shaytan [The distinction between the friends of God and the friends of Satan], Ibn Taymiyya noted: Importantly, karamat can occur in accordance with a person’s needs. If a person whose faith weakens is in need of a miracle, it will happen, thus strengthening his belief and fulfilling his needs. A person closer to God has no need of this, and will therefore not experience such miracles, because of his great merits and because he does not require them.44

ʿAzzam, however, did draw a distinction between karamat and muʿjizat, namely between the miracles performed by God’s friends and those of the Prophet, whose spiritual rank is higher than the rank of his companions or, for that matter, of modern martyrs.45 Summarizing his defense of the karamat accounts, ʿAzzam accused people who doubted the veracity of these stories of committing their lives to materialism and remaining detached from the jihad reality. He called on them to visit the land of jihad and see with their own eyes that “God himself in all his glory leads the campaign.”46

ʿAzzam’s assassination: from narrator to saint Following his apparent assassination in a car explosion in Peshawar, Pakistan, in 1989, the discourse of his followers transformed ʿAzzam from narrator of karamat to object of karamat. He became a supermartyr, gaining wide hagiographical recognition. The story of his assassination was published at length in the media and in obituaries throughout the entire Islamic spectrum, with the aim of glorifying his image.47 The hagiographical narrative about ʿAzzam depicted him as longing for martyrdom  – a wish that was ultimately fulfilled. In this context, a will he published in 1986, and in which he called for the path of jihad and expressed his passion for self-sacrifice, was quoted frequently.48 His death three years later was viewed by his followers as a worthy gift to a loyal servant of God who had dedicated his life to the victory of the Islamic faith. The hagiographical narrative described ʿAzzam and his two sons heading for Friday prayers at the mosque as part of jihad. God chose Friday over 254

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the other days of the week for granting ʿAzzam a lofty karamat, namely the action of a father leading his children toward the aspired shahada. By mentioning the death of his two sons, who were assassinated alongside their father, his biographers sought to enhance the impact of the episode. Furthermore, witnesses of the explosion and mourners at the funeral pointed out the karamat linked to ʿAzzam, which attested to his piety: first, the sweet scent that rose from his pure blood, which persisted until his burial; second, the fact that ʿAzzam’s body was believed to have remained intact and close to the site of the explosion, despite the powerful bomb blast which created a huge hole and hurled parts of the car a long distance away; and third, the lack of injuries on the body itself except for one place, ʿAzzam’s forehead. The most amazing fact, according to the hagiographical narrative, was that ʿAzzam was found in a position of prayer, kneeling down. His disciples thought that he was alive and that he had bent over in gratitude to God for saving his life. But when they lifted him they discovered that he was dead. Another miracle associated with his death was that the scent of perfume that rose from his body was stronger than that from his children’s bodies, a clear sign of the various degrees of martyrdom.49 There was yet another facet to the hagiography of ʿAzzam’s martyrdom, namely his appearance in the dreams of his disciples as he delivered the message of continued jihad, along with defying rivals and critics. ʿAzzam’s face in these dreams was portrayed as glowing like a full moon, his luminous smile “inspiring tranquility among the souls.”50 One disciple related that in his dream he saw ʿAzzam together with Hasan al-Banna, the founder of the Egyptian Muslim Brethren. Al-Banna remained outside the big tent in which many were assembled, listening to a sermon delivered by ʿAzzam. Some of ʿAzzam’s followers commented to him that it was inappropriate for them to sit in the front rows while ʿulamaʾ remained in the back rows. The Shaykh looked at them in surprise, telling them to remain seated, as they were superior to the ʿulamaʾ. In another dream, ʿAzzam was sitting with al-Banna and Sayyid Qutb, surrounded by their followers, when a number of ʿulamaʾ appeared. Again, the young followers wanted to give their seats to the ʿulamaʾ, but ʿAzzam ordered them to stay put, for the same reason.51 255

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The message in the dreams was twofold:  first, highlighting ʿAzzam’s equal and even superior status as compared to al-Banna and Qutb, who were described as only attending the gathering, while ʿAzzam set the tone; and second, rebuking the ʿulamaʾ for their focus on preaching and absence from the battlefield. The figure of the Prophet was also invoked in ʿAzzam’s hagiography. One of his followers related that before ʿAzzam’s death he dreamt that he and his friends were seated around the Shaykh when the door suddenly opened and a man with an impressive bearing, a well-tended beard and a pleasant scent entered the room, blessing all present. No one replied – except for ʿAzzam, who took him by the hand, led him outside and closed the door. Only later, did they realize that they had been in the presence of the Prophet. In another dream, after ʿAzzam’s martyrdom, a disciple of ʿAzzam saw him in a crowd, which honored him with a feast in heaven – one of ʿAzzam’s most joyous moments. The Prophet and a group of sahaba approached, welcoming him. Sweets were then distributed to all.52 In emphasizing ʿAzzam’s marked closeness to the Prophet, his followers sought to heighten his status as one of the sahaba.

Between Sunna and Shiʿa: comparative notes Hagiographic literature about mujahidun further exposed the fragmentation of religious authority in modern Islam, adding a new element to the growing list of cultural agents in the contest over the image of Islam and the right to be its true guardian. In this perception, the mujahid goes beyond only performing a jihad act, but functions as a preacher showing believers the right path and, ultimately, as a saint blessed with miraculous powers.53 ʿAzzam’s innovative perception of warriors/martyrs as saints and friends of God challenged not only the modern Sunni discourse, but also the Shiʿi discourse. The “awakening Shiʿa,” guided by Khomeini, Mahmud Talaqeni, Murtaza Mutahhari, ʿAli Shariʿati, and others, turned active jihad and martyrdom into a moral imperative addressed to everyone, and no longer the province of the imams of the House of ʿAli alone. The Islamic Revolution of 1979 also actualized this imperative in the battlefield during the IranIraq War by memorializing those who had carried it out in an intensive 256

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public campaign.54 This has also been the case in the Lebanese arena with regard to Hizballah’s armed struggle against the Israeli occupation and its commemoration in the public sphere.55 However, the Shiʿi promotion of self-sacrifice was not accompanied by a similar nurture of karamat and the cult of sainthood, or at least not to the extent of the Sunni martyrology. Although there are numerous stories about miracles and martyrs, amongst others, in the context of the Hizballah conflict with Israel, hagiographic literature was far less developed in this context than in that of radical Sunni discourse.56 Shiʿi martyrs were perceived as moralists and ascetics, and, to quote Meir Litvak, as attaining the closest intimacy with God,57 but less as miracle-makers or the bearers of supernatural attributes. This privileged status was apparently still reserved for the Twelver Imams.58 By contrast, in ʿAzzam’s perception, which was embraced and further eleborated by some movements, such as Al Qaeda and its offspring groups, including the Islamic State (ISIS), warriors and martyrs were “friends of God.” This spiritual level could only be acquired in the battlefield. Thus the battlefield – rather than the pulpit, the madrassa, or the fatwa – became the source of religious authority and endowed the warriors with a superior spiritual standing and, in fact, infallibility. This perception reflected a sharp Salafi dissonance vis-à-vis the ʿulamaʾ who were accused of being preservers of the status quo; however, it also aimed to place the mujahidun, especially those who carried out suicide attacks, beyond dispute or reproach. Such attacks ignited disputes in Islamic circles and in the public at large regarding their religious legitimacy in two respects: first, the issue of the perpetrator who kills himself before killing others, which was viewed as possible self-immolation and was condemned in Islam; and secondly, the issue of targeting civilians.59

Conclusion Hagiographic literature of warriors and martyrs aimed to elevate them as the ultimate exponents of God’s will and as loyal to the common ideal. By seeking a deliberate death, the mujahidun affirmed their personal heroism and altruism as well as the true essence of the Islamic faith. They thus became the friends of God, members of a divine chosen elite. 257

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The use by the Salafis of hagiographic literature, which in Muslim historical memory was closely associated with Sufism and the cult of saints, also revealed the complex and ambivalent Salafi stance regarding Islamic mysticism in modern times. It was characterized by defiance and aversion to prevailing Sufi concepts and rites, such as the veneration of saints and the dhikr ceremonies, but also of Sufi inspiration and influence. The Sufi impact on Salafi discourse was already noticeable in such themes as communal altruism (ihsan), obedience to a spiritual leader (suhba), and asceticism (zuhd). In the late twentieth century it was also enhanced by another important Sufi belief, namely that of sainthood and karamat, which to a large extent resulted from ʿAzzam’s innovated hagiographical perception. Indirectly, this Sufi inspiration also kept Sufi culture within modern Islam, furthermore facilitated by its renewal and adaptation, employing modern means of organization and communication to reach new audiences.60

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15 Tales from the Crypt: Jihadi Martyr Narratives for Online Recruitment Nico Prucha

Introduction: Al Qaeda’s virtual spheres Modern channels and platforms of online media exploited by jihadis are interactive, inclusive, and empower users to generate their own content and interact by posting comments, questions, or responses. Online media in general facilitate a blend of audiovisual media interspersed with writings that further explain and validate specific ideological dimensions of jihadi activity. The new, electronic media play a primary role in advancing the cause of Islamist movements, including Al Qaeda, which use a range of online platforms, such as Twitter,1 Facebook, and YouTube,2 to disseminate their messages to target audiences.3 The role of the “media mujahid” has been sanctioned by the leadership of Al Qaeda,4 and is further encouraged by prolific ideologues with the release of general strategies and guidelines, although not all consider the move away from traditional forum-based interaction as positive.5 However, the classical online forums remain a primary platform for the dissemination of official statements and professional high-quality, edited audiovisual content.6 These forums continue to serve as the mainframe, the vital hub or “point of entry” for authoritative and cohesive propaganda. Initiated forum members, adhering to the obligation 259

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to conduct missionary work (daʿwa) online, acquire the latest propaganda material and disperse it over the social media channels. This relationship has become reciprocal with jihadist sympathizers and operatives who use social media services to upload pictures and disseminate comments. Twitter, Facebook and YouTube are the natural choice for the strategic communication of jihadist groups. Whether via retweets on Twitter, comments posted on YouTube videos, or “likes” on Facebook, by embracing the use of social media platforms via the mobile platforms that sites such as Twitter and Facebook facilitate, militant networks can allow anyone to connect with and disseminate propaganda content outside the “classical forums.” In addition, these social media platforms are an ideal way for jihadists to organize their “crowd-out strategy.” A crowd-out strategy entails coordinating a group of committed users to drown out alternative perspectives by flooding a discussion forum or Facebook page with comments until dissenting voices are dissuaded from posting further. Incitement to jihad is well established within the online dominions, where media activism can be achieved from any place, inside or outside the conflict zones. With a cluster of decentralized media workers supporting war correspondents “embedded” in fighting units, the jihadi media have over the past years greatly improved their proficient, expert videos and writings from real-life combat zones, intended for computers, tablets, smartphones, and television screens worldwide. As a role model, the “media mujahid” promotes embedded frontline cameramen in particular, without whom the quality and quantity of jihad groups worldwide could not have had a lasting impact or been of much relevance. In the jihadists’ self-perception, the media [workers] have become martyrdom operatives without an explosives belt, for they are entitled to these merits of jihad. Furthermore, haven’t you seen how the cameramen handle the camera instead of carrying Kalashnikovs, running in front of the soldiers during attacks, defying death by exposing their chests to the hails of bullets?7

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A new generation of role models: online presence in life and death The jihadi media worker has inspired and incited a cohort of passive sympathizers and active recruits, resulting in a new generation of martyrs. For those who joined jihadist outlets and were martyred fighting – but nevertheless had a virtual footprint by virtue of their profiles on jihadist forums, being contributors on Facebook, Twitter, or YouTube – reentered the very same jihadist segments of the internet after their death. These individual martyr stories, sometimes published as pdf or Word documents, or as threads on forums and social media in general, help intersect and parse the virtual online with the real-life offline world. Prominent stories include online and offline layers of the martyr’s life, turning his virtual footprint into an online obituary, while celebrating his acts and deeds in the offline world. The commemoration of the munshid, the nashid (praiseful hymn) singer of the al-Shumukh al-Islam forum by its administration in April 2012, or the eulogy of Abu Qasura, a young Libyan who was killed in 2012 in Syria while fighting alongside Jabhat al-Nusra, underlines the profound impact of jihadist missionary activities and mobilization. The martyr biographies described in this chapter are a consequence of Al Qaeda consistent presence on the internet. This has assumed greater importance as jihadist online presence is presented as a realistic mirror of the actual, offline world. In particular, after the death of Osama bin Laden in May 2011, the role of individual sympathizers, as well as of organized media workers, was further acknowledged and put on equal footing with that of suicide operatives or mujahidun who fought in the field and were made famous within online circles in the sphere of global jihadism. Individual operatives, for example the 9/11 hijackers, filmed their testimony at an early stage of the planned attacks. New materials were thus available to the jihadist media for celebrating the 9/11 attacks, with the individual hijackers speaking in their own voices, providing the audience direct access to their personal mindset and individual justification for the attacks, embedded in a greater

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narrative of postcolonial occupation and oppression, of a global “conspiracy against Islam”. The work of the jihadist media departments, which facilitated this brand of audiovisual indoctrination, has been acknowledged in recent years and is now propagated as a role model. Particularly within online spheres, the martyr, or the martyrdom seeker (istishhadi) are role models incorporated in all forms of jihadist propaganda. While suicide bombers regularly appear within jihadist videos, these operatives must be distinguished, both on a military and on an ideological level, from conventional mujahidun who die on the battlefield, during enemy aerial bombings, or as a result of wounds suffered in battle. The Arabic language clearly distinguishes between the suicide bomber and the mujahid who has died in battle. The verb istashhada, however, is also used in jihadist statements and declarations when leaders or high-ranking members are killed, and receive the status of shahid, thus bearing witness to jihadist-Islamic principles. But, unlike those who have carried out a suicide operation, the shahada is attained passively. The mujahid who dies in battle as well as the mujahid who seeks martyrdom, henceforth termed isthishhadi, are both wandering on the “path of God” in hope of being granted the shahada by good deeds. The shahada is the Islamic creed, the confession of faith that “there is no God but God and Muhammad is His messenger.” Thus, in jihadist speak, to achieve the status of shahada takes on the wider meaning of demonstrating one’s readiness to sacrifice all one’s worldly goods for God – including one’s own life. Hence the statements are often introduced by Sura 3:169: “[Prophet], do not think not of those, who have been killed in God’s way as dead. They are alive with their Lord, well provided for.” The stories of martyrs enable the narrator to present them as “true” Muslims who indeed live, fight, and sacrifice themselves to implement the divine definition of martyrdom as set down in the Qurʾan: “Many prophets have fought, with large bands of godly men alongside them who, in the face of their suffering for God’s cause, did not lose heart or weaken or surrender: God loves those who are steadfast” (3:146). And thus strengthen the belief that in the afterlife they are “alive with their Lord” (3:169). In his self-perception, the jihadi is part of the “bands of 262

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godly men” that have remained steadfast, reluctant to safeguard their own lives.

Abu ʿUmar: the new role model of the “media martyr” The story of Abu ʿUmar’s martyrdom is perhaps the most perfect account of self-sacrifice, and underlines the role played by the internet and the physical actors behind an ongoing online jihad saga. Abu ʿUmar is presented as the ultimate new role model and described as a “jihadi media martyr.” His contributions to the media enabled him to participate in jihad, as he was in charge of the media, conducting interviews and meeting with front-line leaders. He was an online media activist, and as such the same rewards were bestowed upon Abu ʿUmar as on any slain mujahid, who could claim to be “on the path of God.” The difference, however, was that stories such as his provided a different role model: It could be reenacted through the use of individual technical and communication skills for the greater good of contemporary jihad, as daʿwa is essential for any form of combat. Abu ʿUmar is widely revered as having actively attained the shahada, and his work is generally acknowledged and praised. His status being that of an istishhadi, he is fully equated to martyrs who crash their explosivesladen vehicle into a checkpoint or suicide bombers who strap explosives to their own bodies. He was a coworker in the Global Islamic Media Front (GIMF) and founder of the “al-Qadisiyya Media Department,” a media department committed to publishing material in Asian languages. Both GIMF and al-Qadisiyya issued statements to commemorate his work and pledge to continue his legacy. The first statement, published by GIMF via the online forums, is a classical eulogy. It describes the martyr’s life and death, praising his work and dedication. The emphasis is on the important role he played for the development of GIMF and the various language departments. The second statement, by al-Qadisiyya, is a collection of accounts by Abu ʿUmar’s colleagues and comrades, allowing the reader a personal connection to this outstanding man and his ethos, granting him “holy” attributes, 263

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usually limited only to “real” fighters. The jihadist media organs presented the true image of Abu ʿUmar, as visualized by his companion Abu Khalid, in this verse of the Qurʾan: “Muhammad is the Messenger of God. Those who follow him are harsh towards the disbelievers and compassionate towards each other” (48: 29).8 The GIMF statement was published on December 13, 2011 on the online forums and on YouTube,9 in Arabic, English, and Urdu. The statement by al-Qadisiyya was published in Arabic (January 26, 2012) and in Urdu (February 23). The death of Abu ʿUmar was celebrated together with the first anniversary of this media foundation, which he himself had established. The beginning of the statement is typical: For the Islamic umma in general, and for the mujahidun in particular, the martyrdom of one of the leaders of the Global Islamic Media Front, knight of all knights on the jihadi media and the online forums, brother ʿAbd al-Muʾayyad bin ʿAbd al-Salam, [referred to as] Abu ʿUmar  – may God accept him. This occurred during a martyrdom operation and firefight against the “soldiers of apostasy” of the Pakistani military intelligence  – considered as agents of Jews and Christians  – who had attempted to storm his safe house in the region Gulestan-eJauhar of the city Karachi.10

Abu ʿUmar’s key role and prominent position were correlated with the mainstream media that claimed the death of an outstanding individual, engaged in activities for GIMF over the internet.11 Tehrik-e Taliban Pakistan (TTP) attested to an operation in which three Pakistani “Ranger” soldiers were killed: “as vengeance and revenge for the brother, the mujahid Abu ʿUmar, who was martyred in this same area after a raid by those apostate soldiers on his apartment.”12 As confirmed by CNN-Arabic, Abu ʿUmar was indeed a U.S. citizen. As a martyr he was identified by his real name after his death, as indicated in the GIMF statement. According to the GIMF: He was raised and brought up in a wealthy family. He studied at the best schools and universities and worked as a teacher and as a translator at senior levels for international companies in

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The statement cited three main events that shaped the life and ultimate radicalization of Abu ʿUmar: Bin Laden’s 1998 declaration of the foundation of the Global Islamic Front for Jihad against Jews and Crusaders; the 9/11 attacks in United States; and the “Crusader assault on the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan,” about one month after these attacks. Here Abu ʿUmar’s actual story begins. “He moved on from theorizing and minor commitment to jihad and became fully engaged to support jihad and the mujahidun.”14 In a vital step, Abu ʿUmar entered a phase of segregation and seclusion, fully subscribing to the jihadist ideology and drawing lines of demarcation between himself and the other, the “enemy,” in order to retain his clearly defined boundaries of purity. This is a routine in radicalization processes when an individual commits himself to action and, naturally, he fully accepts a particular worldview, vision, or ideology.15 This could even be a distinct, psychological-emotional vector for radicalized Muslims, particularly those living in the U.S., that is, in a society perceived as the main enemy, and where Muslims are a minority. Abu ʿUmar drew the line of demarcation by translating his mental segregation or withdrawal by physically abandoning all of his worldly comforts and his job to support jihad…Therefore, he migrated with his parents from America to the Land of the Two Holy Sites [Saudi Arabia] and started his Jihad venture from there. He married a Pakistani, migrating between number of countries, and offering his material and media services to support the mujahidun.16

He worked as a facilitator and “moved to Pakistan to join his brothers in their fight.” At first, however, he seemed to have disapproved  of  the decision by the leadership to be assigned media-related tasks based on his experience and profession. He worked as a translator into numerous languages and was asked to contend with the vicious [Western] media

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assault on the mujahidun, especially in Pakistan and Afghanistan, and to provide media support of the mujahidun, promoting their voices from deep inside the battlefield to the Muslims in general.17 The GIMF statement emphasizes Abu ʿUmar’s wish to act as a media facilitator in a journalistic function, and promote the voices of the mujahidun in general, but in particular the mujahidun of the TTP and of al-Qaʿida, in as many languages as possible. Therefore, he set up local media groups and jihadist websites and forums online in Urdu, English, Bengali, and Pashto to defend the honor of the mujahidun and refute criticism and lies [promoted by the mainstream media]. Furthermore, his main motivation was to broadcast the true image of jihad and to correct its inaccurate portrayal, publishing the news and media data of the mujahidun to incite and inspire Muslims to join and gather support.

Abu ʿUmar’s technical fluency and his passion for his work were expressed in the same way as he rarely left his computer. His image as role model – i.e. that of the “office worker” who works tirelessly and with missionary zeal for the benefit of promoting Islam by a jihadist interpretation – is bolstered by his repeated claims that being a martyr “twenty-four hours for the media jihad is way too little.” The GIMF statement concludes that the martyrdom of this leader will not quell the workflow of the jihadi media. This is what we are saying to the nations of disbelievers [kufr], and the crusader armies, as well as to the legions of apostates and hypocrites; we are a nation that will not die without a fight. The death of our leaders and brothers will only strengthen our patience and resolve; their blood lightens our path.18

Fandom Art online accredits Abu ʿUmar with the same karamat that had been so vividly described by ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam with reference to the 1980s fighters, relating his smile and his bodily status “three days after his martyrdom” as “karamat for the most high-ranking shahids.”19

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Figure 15.1  The wondrous miracle (karamat) of the jihadi media activist Abu 'Umar whose body three days after his death did not decompose and emitted the smell of musk (source: https://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread.php?t=159657&page=4).

The martyrdom of the Munshid of the al-Shumukh Forum Another outstanding example is the story of Khalid al-Farisi, a member of the Shumukh al-Islam Forum, who was commemorated by the forum’s administration after his death, and praised as the “munshid al-shumukh,” one of the forum’s venerable hymn singers. The administrators’ announcement of the attained martyrdom of one of their prominent members is significant, as the legacy of al-Farisi is a vital part of the massive amount of propaganda material promoted by the forums in general. The vital audio-element of jihadi propaganda, the nashid, is highlighted even more strikingly via one of the voices that acted as a direct intersection between on- and offline indoctrination by its agent’s commitment to both worlds, thus promoting his active role in the forum. The administrators addressed the umma of al-tawhid in general and the members of the Shumukh al-Islam forum in particular: We announce the attained martyrdom of the mujahid, the knight (al-faris), the lion (al-asad) Abu al-Baraʾ Muhammad b. Salim alSudani, a renowned forum member, generally known by his online name “Khalid al-Farisi.” May God receive him in [the rows of the] shuhadaʾ and grant him residence in the highest level of Paradise.20

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Figure 15.2  Praise for the martyred jihadi singer Khalid al-Farisi on the main page of the Shumukh al-Islam Forum (source: http://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread. php?p=1059006469).

prestige al-Farisi had gained. On account of his contributions online, alongside his real-life commitment, he deserved the highest reward from God. Mostly, his real name was revealed to the community with the announcement of his death: “God granted him the hijra to Yemen and the wisdom to fight alongside his brothers of the Ansar al-Shariʿa against the tyrant, and against those who lost their religion to exacerbate the corruption of this world, in the battle of Lawdar in April 2012.”21 As the “prolific Internet shaykh” and prominent ideologue,22 Abu Saʿd al-ʿAmili would emphasize, in a strategic writing in April 2013,23 the administration of the Shumukh forum, embraced their members, and promoted this role model, thus also elevating their own status: For the enemies of God, death only means devastation and anguish, for they bury their heads in the sand [to escape reality]. Therefore, we the jihadi forums wage our war against them night and day … sending out a call (nafir) on our members, our knights, to join the battlefields of jihad and thus quench the thirst for blood.24

The jihadi media in general, and online forums and social media in particular, are vital “frontiers” (thughur), and are as essential in battle as are physical frontlines. The forum administrations portray the mujahidun, the virtual media activists, as the real fighters, just as they portray the murabitun, who are tied to the front in an historical-theological connotation, as “frontier-guards.”25 The official part of the forum posting is concluded by download links of a nashid entitled rahl al-habib (the journey of the beloved). “This nashid was sung by the brother, the shahid – may God receive him.” The nashid eulogy tells the story of two friends, one of whom attained shahada, while the other must remain in the temporal world (dunya): 268

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Tales from the Crypt The beloved has journeyed, for tears flood my eyes / while one’s heart is torn up over the loss / the one has journeyed who lived under His [God’s] sovereignty / advancing at a quick pace to the highest level / the beloved one who abandoned the brothers crying over his loss / with agony in their heart you embarked on your journey beloved one / tears flowing on the cheeks, mixing with my tears / tears running like fire we are accustomed to / had we been together we would beg to meet our Lord / death is a small river in the cracks of my heart [staying behind in this world] / for how long have I craved a friend like him

Libyan fighter Abu Qasura al-Gharib dies in Syria One of the first foreign fighters to be killed in Syria while fighting on the side of the Al Qaeda–linked Jabhat al-Nusra (JN) was 19-year-old Libyan Muhammad al-Zulaytani. A member of the official JN-forum “the support forum for the Front of Victory,” who goes by the virtual identity “muralQaʿidaib 2,” posted a eulogy one day after al-Zulaytani’s death, including his picture. Al-Zulaytani’s nom de guerre was Abu Qasura al-Gharib.26 The broader meaning of the term al-gharib (a stranger) suggests the added theological dimension bestowed upon him, as he understood this world as a mere passageway where he considered himself a stranger.27 “He attained the shahada as we reckon it to be on 4 January 2012.28 May God have mercy with you, Abu Qasura, and may you dwell in His Paradise.” The posting concludes with a fan-made picture: Brother Muhammad al-Zulaytani was born in 1994 in Benghazi, Libya. He heard the call (nafir) to support our brothers in Syria. He was killed [in a firefight] by the criminal Assad’s regime on 4 January 2013.29 The flag shown on the left in this picture is the new and revised flag of Jabhat al-Nusra. The handcrafted flag in another picture, published in a posting of the Shumukh al-Islam forum by his comrade “al-Asad alMuhajir,” shows that Abu Qasura had been a member of Jabhat al-Nusra from the early days of its formation. A similar, though slightly different, notion as expressed in the martyr biography “munshid al-shumukh” is portrayed in the story of Abu Qasura. The story, entitled “eulogy for the 269

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Figure 15.3  A Facebook fanpage dedicated to Jabhat al-Nusra martyr Abu Qasura eulogizes the Libyan and provides his biographical details (https://www.facebook. com/gazaanow).

beloved Abu Qasura al-Gharib,” is narrated by a comrade and a fellow fighter of his on the Jabhat al-Nusra forum.30 Photographs of Abu Qasura at the Syrian front are intended to further boost the story. One picture shows him posing with a Pulemyot Kalashnikova, a heavy infantry weapon, in front of a handmade Jabhat al-Nusra flag. He is thus clearly aligned to this elite band of mujahidun, which is greatly admired by followers of the Al Qaeda ideology. In a classical description of martyrs, his comrade states: “these words are coming from the heart; Abu Qasura drove himself to exhaustion to be the bravest amongst the mujahidun, who deem themselves sincere in their belief in God.” As a fighter, and an adherent of the ideology of Al Qaeda he contributed to jihadi forums. His status was thus further elevated by his routine online contributions. However, it was through the jihadi subculture on the internet that he was first drawn by the Al Qaeda ideology, as al-Muhajir stated in his address to his readers: Don’t you remember the day when you cried out in pain while you were watching the first Friday sermon, distributed [online] by Jabhat al-Nusra and inciting to jihad?  … Don’t you recall the day when we sat in the lodge of our beloved Abu Mariyya al-Tunisi, may God receive him? Don’t you remember how you ran out with him shouting “allahu akbar” when the preacher raised his weapon over his head on the pulpit?31

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Figure 15.4  Abu Qasura (right) at the Syrian front (Source: https://shamikh1.info/ vb/showthread.php?t=193834).

Abu Qasura was a role model and identity marker, for he had been a normal, everyday user of the internet. The general outline of his online radicalization, in combination with his combat actions in Libya and his exposure to fighters who were most likely to be at least sympathetic to Al Qaeda’s worldview turned him into a role model that could be taken as an ideal, even if just by following jihadist sermons distributed online. Before joining Jabhat al-Nusra, the online-inspired mujahid had perhaps been guided further by religious teachings and instructions. 271

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Ideologues like Palestinian Abu al-Walid al-Maqdisi, a prominent offline preacher based in Gaza and a vivid online activist, played a vital role in religious teaching.32 The Israeli Air Force killed him in a targeted mission in October 2012.33 The impact of active and internet-literate ideologues, such as al-Maqdisi, was also acknowledged by Ayman al-Zawahiri, eulogizing him and his commitment to jihad.34 Still active in the virtual landscape, Abu Qasura translated his newly acquired knowledge about religious affairs into comprehensible contributions online – intended for like-minded youth – perhaps picturing himself in the footsteps of his role model, al-Maqdisi. Whenever you completed your work, being instructed or on guard duty, you used to go straight to your iPad to finish your reading. O, how you loved Abu al-Walid al-Maqdisi – may God receive him – even though you had never met him! This is the muwahhid  – the true professor of monotheism – I poetize!!35 For he is a juvenile, a lion, a memorizer of the Book of God, Muhammad al-Zulaytani, may God receive him. He is one of the lions of Jabhat al-Nusra in the glorious Idlib [region].36

The story contains classical elements of the shahid genre and is at the same time a milestone with regard to the dissemination strategies of Al Qaeda groups such as Jabhat al-Nusra. It shows how classical forums are still used as the primary channel for disseminating information among the group’s members in particular videos, though without seeking to publish any further details. The “classical” jihadi forums serve as an authoritative basis, and any content published there is seen as credible and authentic. The content, however, is by no means limited to the forum. Rather, independent distribution via YouTube and Twitter boost role models such as Abu Qasura on all online channels. Photo-sharing social media sites, such as Flickr and naturally Twitter,37 where high-profile Al Qaeda activists advertise the martyr as a true role model,38 have contributed to the appeal of the shahid, who is also eulogized in special videos on YouTube.39 The death of Abu Qasura was also confirmed by the online forum of the Free Syrian Army in a posting entitled “the martyr al-Zulaytani of the Libyan martyrs, who attained martyrdom in Syria in 2013.”40 The posting was lent more weight by an emphasis on the divine obligation to fight in 272

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al-Sham (Syria), based on a hadith:  “The Messenger of God, peace and blessing be upon him, was heard saying: My blessings for Sham! My blessings for Sham! My blessings for Sham! They said:  O Messenger of God, what is the meaning of this? He said:  “These angels of God have spread their wings over Sham.41

The contemporary state of jihadism online Al Qaeda has managed to maintain a firm presence in the virtual world, despite ongoing attempts to close down online jihadi forums and their offshoots. Meanwhile, the audience of jihadi productions within online forums and on social media sites has remained global and, since Arabic remains a vital identity marker, jihadism online has expanded and adapted to the lingual and regional audiences it wishes to reach. This has enriched the essence and widened its appeal, globalizing the targeted audiences, while Al Qaeda continues to claim it is the only solution to real-life grievances portrayed on the internet. Ideally, the hearts and minds of individuals are won over by their constant exposure to the worldview of Al Qaeda and its authoritative texts, as well as by its professional videos. The written and audiovisual corpus comprises multifaceted elements, including verses of the Qurʾan, hadith, and historical writings by Islamic scholars, which are chosen selectively to promote jihadi role models and interpretations. This worldview has something for everyone, ranging from very graphic, bloody portrayals of grievances of Sunnis to down-to-earth analyses of jihadi operations or shariʿa rulings by Al Qaeda’s senior leadership.42 Grievances of oppressed Sunni Muslims worldwide are propagated and framed via professional videos and pictures, while both historical and contemporary ideologues of jihad address their digitalized calls (nafir) to young men, urging them to respond and join militant groups.43 However, with the internet now an integral part of our modern times, the advocated role model of the “media mujahid” has established itself as a new addition to the classical literary genre of the martyr story. Due to the massive output of the jihadi audio-visual and textual broadcasts to their watertight quality and firm argumentation, the moderate voices of Islam today are in a position where they have to compete with it, 273

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and not the other way around. Neglecting 1,400 years of Islamic history, theology, jurisprudence, and philosophy, the coherent virtual networks on the internet, fueled and maintained by offline proponents, are in the process of successfully portraying their actions and deeds as the only legitimate Islamic identity. The cohesive extremist ideology that claims sole authority over Islamic interpretations provides appealing role models, sanctioning violence as the only proper conduct of religious matters, justifying “an eye for an eye” as the answer to the occupation of Islamic territories and the discrimination of Muslims. Martyr tales are the key to the written and audiovisual propaganda of Al Qaeda and its affiliates, as well as of other nationalist-jihadist groups. The biographies and tales of martyrs are a separate literary and audiovisual genre of the jihadist ideological corpus that has been globalized with the rise of Al Qaeda. While individual, written martyr biographies, as penned by ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam,44 have remained a prominent literary genre since the early 1980s, popular literary elements thereof are integral to the narration of any contemporary martyr tale. Conflict zones have attracted mainly Arab foreign fighters who intend to fight and preach in the defense of local Muslims. Martyrs among these foreign fighters, called muhajirun, bring with them powerful tales with a high story-telling potential in the jihadi media. These individual stories highlight the personal commitment of the martyrs who apprehended the “truth” (haqq), as distinguished from “falsehood” (batil),45 instilling a specific interpretation of Islam that at times widely contradicted local traditions and beliefs. This combinatory strategy is used to this very day, as jihadis are being uplifted by ‘Azzam’s inspirational model to include elements such as the karamat, tales of “gracious wonders,” or miraculous events into the biographies.

Conclusion: social media jihad and the intersections between the on- and offline worlds By embracing the emergent behavior and “social search” that sites such as Twitter and Facebook facilitate, anyone can connect with and disseminate propaganda content outside of the “classical forums”. This has crafted a new 274

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generation of jihadists, who have been active in the virtual dominions of Al Qaeda, and whose exposure to the media has impacted their personal lives and understanding of religious conduct. When individuals of this new generation become martyrs, they ultimately re-enter the jihadi sphere of role models online, as they themselves are advocated as role models. Such personal biographies further strengthen the overarching narrative disseminated in the new social media that dominate the Internet. Twitter and Facebook are the natural choice for strategic jihadist communications, and specifically for crowd-out strategies, turning the new-generation martyrs into pop stars with access to Facebook profiles, YouTube commemoration videos, and the Facebook groups promoted within jihadist forums. Facilitating the internet as the most effective communication facility to lure consumers to their specific worldview is not restricted to the jihadi web. Militant groups of all colors and backgrounds employ similar techniques to gain sympathy through modern and pop culture elements. However, the quantity and quality of jihadi media, as well as its multilingual capabilities, are unprecedented and unmatched. I would like to attach the label “nashidworms” to the nashids (praiseful hymns)46 and hudaʾ (uplifting battle songs)47 that are used as powerful audio stimulants, since they trigger elements commonly known as “earworms,”48 – boosting profiles such as the martyrdom of al-Farisi across online communities. Like most elements of the jihadi media, this powerful emotional song craft combines with “appealing” visual elements of training, combat, or aspects of the mujahidun’s daily lives, using a powerful rhetoric to enhance their appeal. Social media such as Facebook, on the other hand, also pose a potential threat to jihadist groups and their physical networks. As the nature of social media consists of a constant information flow, groups such as Kataʾib al-Muhajirin bi Ard al-Sham, which is active in Syria, feel inclined to publish pictures and the names of every martyr on their Facebook group, or linking up to YouTube. This crowd-out strategy backfired, however, so that the Facebook page fell silent. On 5 May, 2013 the administrator posted an explanation of the group’s media outage: Peace be upon you, the mercy of God and His blessing, we apologize to every member of our honorable page for our

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Martyrdom and Sacrifice in Islam absence recently (…). We uploaded a couple of pictures [on our Facebook page] of those who we deemed to be martyrs, triggering the local security forces to respond in their respective countries, raiding the martyrs’ houses. We therefore stopped this to protect the families of the martyrs. We are sorry and ask for your forgiveness for our failure to protect them.49

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16 The Use and Genre of Hudaʾ (uplifting battle songs): versus Anashid (hymns of praise) in Jihadi Indoctrination and Death Rites Philipp Holtmann

Introduction The influence of battle songs and religious music is often overlooked by researchers of Sunni martyrdom culture, despite the crucial role they play in that culture. We will look at qualitative samples of songs in audio and video propaganda to argue our case. Songs commemorate martyrs, reinforce group identity, and provide spiritual incentives for suicide operations. In jihadi propaganda, songs play a key role in ceremonies celebrating a person’s transition from fighter to martyr (especially in rituals of passage, rebirth rituals, and rituals of attachment to God). The use of songs is, among other ritualistic practices, an essential tool to strengthen in-group cohesiveness, in-group bias and communitas in jihadi communities. Songs also play a crucial role during operations. A video produced by the Mujahidun Shura Council (Majlis Shura al-Mujahidun) in Iraq shows the driver of a bomb-laden truck shortly before he blows himself up as he is singing an uplifting battle song. Chanting plays a tactical role, relieving the driver of some of the pressure he experiences, for without it, he would be more fearful and less inclined to sacrifice his life in the attack. In addition, the act of singing also represents an oral ritual of rebirth. Similar videos of 277

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suicide attackers, such as the Kuwaiti Badr Mashʿal al-Harbi, who chant before an audience, help researchers gain a clearer insight into the role of religious hymns and battle songs in contemporary Muslim martyrdom culture. But before we enter into our jihadi-specific debate, let us mention some of the cross-cultural meanings of battle chanting. Battle songs and hymns can be found in almost every culture, especially in military and paramilitary groups. Battle music and chanting bond and prepare fighters, and deter and frighten enemies. Since the early stages of human evolution, primordial hunters probably stomped their feet and emitted vocal sounds – collectively and for similar reasons.1 It is well possible that the initial impulse for battle songs and military marching music was set millions of years ago. Generally, rhythmic sound patterns and chanting play important roles in fostering social, heroic, moral, political, and religious narratives, as well as myths of community, and salvation among human groups in conflict.2 It is hence important to remember that the poetry and music of war and death are not unique to Muslim extremists. In fact, musical prebattle rituals bear similarities worldwide. Soldiers in the Israeli army, for example, dance in circles and sing religious hymns after they have given their oaths of allegiance, or when they gather at religious shrines.3 The U.S. military uses battle music in recruitment videos to exalt war scenarios, and U.S. marines sing along to modern rock songs to hype each other up before or during military operations.4 The jihadi case sticks out because of the obvious connection between songs, suicide attacks, and specific death rites. But it is the tactic, rather than the song that irritates observers, for it may be safely assumed that actors of different cultures can revert to martial suicide tactics, if they find themselves in weak positions and are indoctrinated towards sacrificial death. Examples are the Sicarii at Masada (collective suicide as the ultimate form of resistance), the hundreds of Japanese suicide pilots at the Battle of Okinawa in 1945 (suicide as a military war tactic), or the Prussian officer Ewald-Heinrich von Kleist, who was supposed to kill Hitler with two hand grenades hidden under his uniform (suicide as tyrannicide).5 From a doctrinal point of view, these types of suicide martyrdoms are very similar, so that prototypical cases often bolster present-day martial doctrines. Yet, 278

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there are tactical differences: for example, fighting to the death is one thing, while killing oneself to escape imprisonment is another. When discussing jihadi conflict scenarios and their musical underpinnings, it is equally important to remember that there is a distinct, modern Western aestheticizing of political violence, war, self-sacrifice, and heroism through art and music. It is rooted in the cultic subjectivism of the eighteenth century, and was put in practice – for example at Verdun during World War I.6 The cult of sacrifice in modern European armies is epitomized by the Wilhelminian ideal of the soldier who loves to die for “the emperor, the people and the home country.” Similar aestheticizing, often conveyed by the entertainment media, has an almost anaesthetic influence on the collective psyche and, to this day, heavily informs ideological-propagandist narratives in Western societies.7 For example, Western action and war movies portray the sacrificial death of “heroes” with erotic and meditative musical themes.8 In point of fact, Western entertainment culture also influences propagandistic narratives in other cultures. Jihadis, for example, have appropriated Western aesthetic patterns and stylistic elements in their propaganda output, which at times remind the viewer of cheap action movies. At the same time, death is increasingly treated as a taboo in the West, which stands in stark contrast to the intensive engagement with death and afterlife in many Muslim societies, and the total focus on martyrdom among jihadis. The issue is particularly complex in the case of Muslim converts and diaspora youth in the West, who are strongly influenced by both cultures and develop extremist worldviews, at times to the extent of planning and perpetrating terrorist attacks.9 With this in mind, let us now return to our discussion of jihadi battle songs and hymns.

The roots of hudaʾ (uplifting battle songs) and anashid (hymns of praise) in Arab tribal culture Despite the fact that battle songs and hymns permeate jihadi propaganda at all levels and play a prominent role in jihadi culture, not much research has been carried out on this topic. Actually, the only literature available includes Tilman Seidensticker’s analysis of the wedding chants (anashid) of Said Bahaji, one of the 9/11 hijackers; a short chapter on anashid in 279

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Rüdiger Lohlker’s book Dschihadismus: Materialen, which analyses jihadi primary sources; Jonathan Pieslak’s comparison between jihadi songs and the music the U.S. military in Iraq listen to; and Behbam Said’s recent content analysis of different categories and styles of jihadi anashid, which is an excellent contribution to the topic and also traces the historical development of anashid.10 Said divides jihadi anashid into four major categories, namely battle hymns (the vast majority), martyr hymns, mourning hymns, and hymns of praise. We will, however, not focus on Said’s categorization, but on the role of hymns and uplifting battle songs (hudaʾ) for jihadi community building. Furthermore, Said interprets the neoclassical lyric poetry form of the qasida as “an expression of religious revival and Arab national pride.” The qasida is an ancient Arabic poem, which, as a rule, has a tripartite structure and whose meter is divided into two hemistiches. We will argue that jihadis attribute magic spell-casting power to the qasida, the form and meter into which they commonly transcribe their songs. Magic power is a common attribute of classical Arabic poetry, which has its roots in pre-Islamic tribal culture and survives in Muslim folk poetry until today. In regards to the different uses and genres of hudaʾ versus anashid in jihadi indoctrination, several stylistic differences come to mind. Battle songs and hymns of praise are inextricably connected to the past and present-day spirituality of Muslim believers. They can be found in a wide array of situations. Our concern is the utilization of Islamic songs during conflicts, especially in the context of terrorist attacks and prebattle preparations. In comparison to anashid in jihadi propaganda, the genre hudaʾ is characterized by a poorer sound quality and often recorded in the field by jihadi media organizations, the singers being actual warriors. The anashid genre is characterized by a high sound quality, digitalized sound effects and features its own “stars,” performing before mainstream Muslim audiences, and also involved in the jihadi scene (munshidun), such as the pseudonymous al-Sarmari, who works with the Global Islamic Media Front (GIMF), or the Yemenite Abu Hajir al-Hadarmi, who sings for Al Qaeda audiences in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). It seems that jihadis associate the hudaʾ genre with the poetic genre rajaz and its characteristics and qualities. In pre-Islamic times, the rajaz (also urjuza) was characterized by short poems, which originated from a 280

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concrete situation and were mostly improvised. The original pre-Islamic hudaʾ was sung in the rajaz meter and was defined as the camel driver’s song, the song of workers, or as a battle song. The key element was the chanted, almost meditative repetition of a main theme, which made it very apt as a toil and labor song for overcoming strenuous situations through the meditation of song. In the same way, contemporary Muslim warriors use the hudaʾ as an uplifting chant to induce the psychological state of battle trance before they engage in an armed conflict or in suicide attacks. A very illustrative example is the hudaʾ in the jihadi video “Riyah al-Nasr – ʿAmaliyat Jisr al-Khalidiyya.”11 A yet different approach states that the classical hudaʾ originally developed from the bikaʾ lament of women, initially written down in the rajaz meter. Moreover, already in the pre-Islamic period, Arab warriors frequently became involved in poetic oral exchanges with their opponents before directly confronting their enemy, so that “the factual power of words should hit the adversary and weaken him.” Magic was indeed one of the ancient elements of the rajaz.12 Belief in poetic magic goes back to ancient times, when Arab audiences listened to poetry before the Arabic script was invented. Poetic performances were an oral art, and poetic rituals fulfilled basic functions in pre-Islamic tribes.13 Poetry was spoken, not written. The correct recitation of poems among Bedouins on the Arabian Peninsula was governed by strict content and stylistic rules. Poetic recitation during tribal gatherings thus helped create social cohesion and foster collective identity. It accompanied all kinds of tribal ceremonies such as rites of passage, birth, death, conciliation, and allegiance; all a tribe’s stories and myths were told through poems. The creativity of an Arab poet was limited by his manner of speech, but the ritualistic character of the poem elevated his performance to supernatural levels. In terms of metric structure, the ancient rajaz meter has shorter lines, no caesura and forms a mono-rhyme (bayt mashtur), while the classical qasida meter divides each verse (bayt) into two equal hemistiches (mashariʿ).14 Anashid hymns are generally written in the qasida meter, and most contemporary jihadi hudaʾ songs, too, are transcribed into neoclassical qasida meter, where each verse has two hemistiches. The major distinguishing factor is that the hudaʾgenre originates from a concrete situation, 281

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is mostly improvised and has a “bluesy” rhythm, whereas the anashid genre is subject to a strict choreography and describes abstract feelings of longing and spiritual relief.15 The fact that jihadi hymns and battle songs are both transcribed as qasaʾid (pl. of qasida) is of particular significance. In 2009, Al Qaeda’s former chief theologian Abu Yahya al-Libi (killed by the United States in 2012) “predicted” the fall of the late Libyan leader Muammar al-Qaddafi in one of his poems.16 This was but another example of jihadi belief in the supernatural power of poetic expression, which plays an important role in present-day jihadi poetry and music. The belief goes back to deep-rooted influences from ancient tribal cultures and its association with classical qasida poetry, as well as to superstitions from popular Muslim folk culture. Poetic individualism consisted not in what was said but in the manner of its saying [making it] an art of expression and not an art of creation … the ritualistic aspect of poetry was consolidated by the concept of divine inspiration … If traditions are to be believed, the great bards of the Jahiliyya [pre-Islamic pagan period] considered that the poem was the speech of a god or of a jinni (demon) … This discourse, communicated to the poets by supernatural creatures, possesses a magical force on account of its provenance and also on account of the perfect arrangement of the verbal veneer.17

According to the interpretation of scholar Ignaz Goldziher (d. 1921), curses, wishes, and eulogies in classical poems can also have magical force and be endowed with supernatural characteristics.18 Today’s jihadi poetry and music deal with similar intentions. The modern, neoclassical qasida represents these ancient ritualistic and magic aspects. This idea is present in neotraditional Islamic poetry, albeit in a mitigated form owing to the general demystification of traditional societies. The belief in the supernatural power of pagan spirits in poetic verse was first subsumed under a monotheistic doctrinal umbrella with the advent of Islam. At times, however, it again gained strength in cultic and sectarian Islamic circles, where doctrines fostered belief in magic, miracles, and superstitions. Examples can be found in Shiʿi Islam, Sufism, or in jihadi subcultures over the last 30 years. In fact, the belief in supernatural forces 282

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and miracles (karamat) is prevalent in jihadi culture, and is thus reflected in its poetry and music.19 But similar ideas exist in mainstream Sunni Islam as well. For example, al-Azhar in Cairo, one of the most respected Muslim theological centers, approves asking the dead for help and intercession (shafaʿa). This approach is rejected outright by Wahabbi-Salafi fundamentalists of Saudi Arabia.20 In his verses, the previously mentioned jihadi poet and theologian Abu Yahya al-Libi, for example, combined religious doctrine with curses threatening his enemies, or with eulogies of his own group – which bears some similarity to the medieval Muslim qass, or story teller.21 In jihadi battle songs, quasi-prophesying curses and calls for the supernatural strengthening of the own group are omnipresent. From a ritualistic and ceremonial perspective, both anashid and hudaʾ fulfill another major common function in jihadi subculture. They serve rhetorical, verbal, and musical rituals of rebirth.22 Rituals of rebirth are structured similarly to “rites of passage,” an important analytical concept of processes of socialization introduced by the anthropologist Arnold van Gennep in 1908. Rites of passage are significant and life-transforming events that take place in the life of individuals, such as birth, puberty, marriage, and death. These transformations happen across cultures and in all societies. A rite of passage often comprises three consecutive subrites, which van Gennep defined as “rites of separation, transition rites and rites of incorporation.” Correspondingly, individuals go through three different stages, which may be spatial, temporal, social, or age related. Firstly, the individual or group finds itself in a preliminal state of separation from the familiar environment, leaving behind the known structures (the old community, for example). Then follows a liminal state of transition, in which the actual change occurs, and finally a postliminal state of integration and incorporation into the new environment, which stands in opposition to the old structure.23 Van Gennep observed that such changes of condition do not occur without disturbing the life of society and the individual, and it is the function of rites of passage to reduce their harmful effect. That such changes are regarded as real and important is demonstrated by the recurrence of rites, in important ceremonies among widely differing peoples, enacting death in one condition and resurrection in

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Based on the conceptual spadework of van Gennep and Clifford Gertz’ technique of thick description, the anthropologist Victor W.  Turner developed the concepts of liminality and communitas: Turner argued that group members who undergo a similar transition share powerful emotions, excitement and brotherly and sisterly love, especially during the liminal state. Turner coined this emotion communitas.25

Communitas and battle trance induced through singing Examples of the common chanting of battle songs, which induce feelings of communitas and battle trance (i.e. the preparedness to go into a real fight), can be found in many jihadi videos.26 Let us examine two videos – one by Jundullah Studios of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU) and the other by Al Qaeda’s media wing, al-Sahab.27 In the first video, the German jihadi Mounir Chouka, aka Abu Adam al-Almani, can be seen sitting among members of IMU in a training camp. He sings the following refrain: We have decided ourselves We have already decided ourselves For God and his Messenger And the life after death …. [We were] Created to fight Came to triumph Die to live28

The fighters are sitting in a circle around a lamp. The lamp here symbolizes a campfire, which is not only a common source of light and warmth, but a symbol of closeness and of protective space as well. A shared cause or narrative can also be a “symbolic campfire,” around which followers gather (for example, during ideological debates on the internet). The impression of communitas is further strengthened through the song, which reconciles 284

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the harsh message (“die to live”) with the alleged harmony of the group. The voice of Chouka has an artificial echo to it. In addition, two children who like the singsong and hum along, can be perceived in the video. The Al Qaeda video, Mujahid-Diary, portrays the life in training camps as harmonic and communitarian. Jihadis allegedly take part all day long in religious and spiritual activities, bringing them closer to both nature and faith. This includes common fishing, cooking, praying, weapons training, martial arts, singing, and dancing. According to the video, the fighters die with smiles on their faces. The harsh reality in the training camps is never mentioned. Songs play a crucial role in this narrative. One scene shows a circle of seated jihadis, in which some perform martial dances and sing theological hymns. The lyrics are as follows: Oh Islam, we are all ready to sacrifice ourselves for your sanctities […] You may build stairs from our skulls towards your dignity and honor […] The youth shed their blood in their thirst to follow the banner [the black jihadi flag].29

Martyrdom rites are used to raise group cohesiveness within intentional communities, the members of which “often see themselves at odds with or needing to withdraw from the larger society.”30 Intentional communities can be described as social groups that distinguish themselves by a high level of in-group bias, often marked by extreme stress and cultural confusion. While the martyr (shahid) gets killed “passively” in battle, “the martyrdom-seeker” (istishhadi) seeks death actively; he occupies the status of alter-martyr in jihadi communities and is held in even higher esteen because of his sacrifice and death. The istishhadi can only gain this status through extreme forms of rites of passage, as in the ceremonies surrounding suicide bombings. Fixed codes of communication  – in songs and discursive online and offline rituals  – help to prepare for the rite. “Distinguished” members of the intentional group (ritual elders) can help create a shared master narrative, among others, by means of songs. Their role is to inspire neophytes who are in the transitional process of becoming alter-elders (i.e. dead elders who allegedly reside in paradise) by carrying out suicide attacks.31 285

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Although battle songs, as we have seen serve manifold purposes in jihadi groups  – among others to induce altered states of consciousness, such as battle trance and communitas – we will now concentrate solely on their connection to suicide attacks. Such attacks are carried out at the peak of emotions connected to group culture, and against the background of common discursive, semiotic, and sound aesthetics and, as such, warrant further discussion.

Ritual chanting frames rites of passage: rituals of rebirth and death processions of suicide attackers The presentation of martyrs (shuhadaʾ, people who die in battle) and altermartyrs (fighters who actively seek martyrdom) has a largely ceremonial character. Hymns of praise (nashid) serve to keep alive their actions, and the uplifting battle songs (hudaʾ), in contrast, play a central tactical role in jihadi operations and indoctrination. Online video clips show fighters singing shortly before they carry out an attack. In such situations the song supports a musical rite of rebirth containing psychological and spatial stages that resemble those in rites of passage: Typically, the driver is hugged and waved off as he gets into the bomb-laden car (preliminal stage), he is filmed as he drives off (the liminal stage); and finally the video will show footage of the explosion (the postliminal stage of rebirth and incorporation into the afterlife). Each stage of the ritual is attributed certain emotions, actions and places. The ceremonies are purposely presented to wider audiences (via the internet) to awaken their fascination. Thus, some martyrdom seekers are filmed while chanting, shortly before they launch a suicide attack. The ritual transition is very marked. The old social structure is represented by the mujahid, who is introduced to the viewer in a preliminal state. Then, shortly before the suicide operation, or while he drives his explosives-laden vehicle towards the target, the fighter enters a liminal state of transition, to finally be reborn as a shahid or, more specifically, as an istishhadi and bridegroom of paradise maidens in the postliminal phase.32 The actual bomb attack can be likened to a ritual of purification, conceptually carrying elements of an evangelist baptism ceremony. In the Iraqi case, a distinct rite of passage has emerged, which connects suicide bombings with uplifting battle songs. The U.S.-led invasion of Iraq 286

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in 2003 caused a dramatic increase of suicide attacks. Between 2003 and 2010 more than 1,000 suicide bombings took place in Iraq alone, in which more than 12,000 people were killed, the majority civilians.33 Several propaganda videos showed how suicide attackers were accompanied to their bomb-laden trucks by chanting comrades. The attackers were treated like soon-to-be bridegrooms, who had transcendental kinship relations with fellow suicide attackers since they would allegedly all reside in paradise, married to heavenly maidens. For example, in 2004 a member of the group Jamaʿat al-Tawhid wa’lJihad struck a U.S. outpost in Iraq with a bomb-laden vehicle. The outpost was situated under a bridge in the city of Khalidiyya (in the Anbar Province of Iraq). A video issued by the Al Qaeda affiliated group focused on ritualized singing and on the farewell procession of the truck driver. The bomber was accompanied to his van, which was loaded with threeand-a-half tons of explosives. His group chanted a battle song, and while the chanting continued, each member of the group hugged him and waved him goodbye, a state of communitas around death. The U.S. soldiers who were attacked by the suicide bomber under the bridge in Khalidiyya reported that they had repeatedly heard chanting and singing on the other side of the river prior to the attack.34 In this case, the singing served three purposes: It ritually carried the soul of the driver from here to the afterlife (rite of passage); it induced a state of battle trance; and, finally, the loud singing in the days preceding the attack was meant to deter and demoralize the U.S. soldiers on the other side of the river.

Procession of the lovers of the paradise maidens In jihadi parlance, the particular procession during the transitional stage from suicide attacker to martyr is called “procession of those who love the paradise maidens” (zaffat ʿushshaq al-hur). It is accompanied by a chanting that is notably different from the aesthetic nashid genre, and includes the typical rhythmic, almost hypnotic singsong of the hudaʾ, which strongly resembles toil or labor songs in the classical rajaz meter. The sound of the rajaz meter can best be compared to Arabic “blues.” This rite of passage introduces a liminal threshold state of consciousness through singing, preparing the shahid for certain death. 287

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The procession marks the peak of the liminal stage during the jihadi rite of passage, which promises marriage and pleasures in the afterlife. When the driver gets into the bomb-laden car and drives off, he has already entered the narrow margin between the liminal (transitional) and the postliminal stage (death). That is to say that the borders between the stages of this rite of passage are intertwined and slightly blurry.35 At this point the suicide attacker is at a stage between life and afterlife – spatially, and psychologically. He is not really dead yet, but barely alive. Musical rites of passage during suicide bombings contain additional transitional stages, which are situated between the liminal stage of anti-structure and the postliminal stage of incorporation of the individual in his or her new social position. Victor Turner interpretated van Gennep’s concept of the “liminal phase” as a situation of liminality and anti-structure, in which participants may share the experience of communitas, characterized by a heightened sense of solidarity, equality, emotional closeness and spiritual guidance.36 These intermediate stages can be, but are not necessarily, the procession (al-zaffa, i.e. waving off the suicide attacker), the journey (al-rihla), and the operation (al-ʿamaliya). The “procession of the lovers of paradise maidens” in the Khalidiyya attack was not an isolated case. In 2006, a member of the Shura Council of Mujahidun (Al Qaeda in Iraq) attacked a compound of U.S. forces in Ramadi with a bomb-laden truck. In a video released afterwards, his comrades hugged the bomber, blessed him and waved him off to his mission. The producers of the video filmed him in his truck during a test run, as he was driving with his index finger on the bomb switch, chanting a battle song.37 The footage strongly evidenced the pervasive tactical and spiritual role of uplifting battle songs in jihadi subculture.

‘Framing’ battle songs with Qurʾan injunctions on the afterlife The battle-song compilation hudaʾ al-shuhadaʾ (“uplifting battle songs of martyrs,” parts 1 and 2) by Al Qaeda in Iraq contains dozens of such battlesong ceremonies.38 Regardless of their technical simplicity, the productions are highly emotional and thus have the potential to motivate consumers to volunteer for suicide missions. The songs are framed by Qurʾan recitations 288

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(tajwid). In this context, “framing” means that jihadis connect Islamic metaculture to their own subculture through the use of quotes from the Qurʾan. Their goal is to create social capital in jihadi subculture, which is reinvested in jihadi indoctrination and the online recruitment of new followers.39 The recitation of a Qurʾan quote at the beginning of a battle song, which can be presented in video or in audio format, serves as an introductory ceremonial formula for a musical ritual of rebirth. A similar footage exists of the Kuwaiti Badr Mashʿal al-Harbi, who perpetrated a suicide attack in Iraq in 2008. Al-Harbi was an active contributor to jihadi forums and a propagator of jihad in Kuwait; in addition, he also received weapons training in Afghanistan. Following the U.S. occupation of Iraq in 2003, al-Harbi first travelled to Iraq, and then returned to Kuwait, before going on his final trip to Iraq in 2008. He left video and audio clips on the internet. On one occasion, he filmed himself, chanting theological songs while racing a car at maximum speed on the highway – thus reenacting a suicide attack. In general, the nashid-style ritual chanting induces a psychological state of fearlessness, which prepares the individual for his rebirth ceremony (that is, the real attack).40 In all above cases, the procession songs demonstrate the unique complexity of “martyrdom-ceremonies.” They function as transitions between two rites, namely the rite of separation, i.e. losing one’s life, and the rite of incorporation and rebirth, i.e. becoming an immortal, glorified martyr, who is sanctified by miracles (karamat). Popular cultural and mystical elements are integrated into the jihadi narrative, according to which the attackers will share transcendental kinship relations in the Hereafter. When disseminated on the internet, the martyr songs transport this feeling directly to wider audiences, who are supposed to experience the excitement of self-sacrifice, and finally reenact it.

Deciphering different layers of meaning in jihadi songs In the next analytical step, an anthropological approach may be taken to decipher the deeper meaning of audio-patterns in jihadi songs. The observation technique “thick description,” used by anthropologist Clifford 289

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Figure 16.1  Screenshot from “The Procession of the Lovers of Paradise Maidens” in the Jamaʿat al-Tawhid wa’l-Jihad video Winds of Victory (2004). His comrades embraced the suicide bomber, while the cantor, who also fulfilled a ceremonial role, chanted an uplifting battle song.

Geertz, allows a closer examination of different layers of meaning and interpretation behind social interactions, as well as of the symbols and representations used in these interactions.41 Every battle and theological song is based on a certain theme and uses key audio signs. The words, phrases, and concepts in the songs carry different layers of meaning in jihadi subculture, as well as in mainstream Islamic culture. For example, the jihadi nashid “Muslims are approaching [from Khorasan]” (Muslimun Qadimun) focuses on the key signs “horses” and “black flags,” which point in three spatial and temporal directions. Firstly, the black flag (raya) carries an ancient, fundamentalist meaning. It was used by Muhammad and classical Islamic armies as a war banner. Secondly, the flag belongs to jihadi reality, since every jihadi group and individual has seen, touched, or raised it. Finally, the black flag represents 290

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a future-oriented, apocalyptic vision. According to popular Islamic tradition, an army of horse riders led by the Mahdi will fight the final battle against all unbelievers. They will approach from the lands of Khorasan, which according to Islamic historiography are located in Asia, comprising parts of Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the central Asian states. The destination of the army, which carries black flags, will be Palestine, where they will tether their horses. Together with the horse, the raya is thus a key symbol of jihadi subculture. Oftentimes, the flag bears the Islamic credo – its confession of faith “La illaha illa Allah” – in white letters, together with the emblem Seal of Prophets. It is a digital icon and appears on almost every website or statement issued on the internet. Moreover, it is a sound image transported by jihadi songs. The symbol of the raya touches on the martyrdom myth, the salvation myth and bears strategic implications for global jihad, since tradition maintains that the last Islamic (Mahdist) army will lead its horses to the region of historic Palestine, that is, today’s Israel. These meanings transcend the narrow jihadi subculture. Variations of the song are intoned and internalized by generations of Muslims in Islamic societies. Other theological hymns convey key symbolic meanings and stress the community concept of the jihadi worldview. One example is the hymn ghurabaʾ (in the sense of “spiritual and physical strangers”). It suggests that jihadis emulate past Muslim warriors, reenact their deeds, and henceforth portray them as a Muslim elite. This is an integral part of the jihadi self-perception as an elite vanguard (taʾifa mansura, zahirin ʿala al-haqq, firqa najiya). It also refers to a messianic, eschatological hadith, and thus increases its symbolic and social capital within a broader Muslim culture. Many jihadi music videos evoke visual images of the songs. They are usually created by grassroots actors on YouTube.42 Strong myths of eternal sexual salvation are also encapsulated in jihadi hymns. For example, the hymn “The paradise maidens (al-hur) are calling me” calls up images of sexual freedom, which stands in stark contrast to the harsh sexual reality in many Muslim countries, let alone in jihadi communities.43 “Paradise maidens” are a recurring theme in popular Muslim culture, especially in jihadi subcultures. Jihadis appropriate them for propagandistic purposes to strengthen martyrdom and images of paradise.44 The appropriation of this theme in hymns helps create an aura of 291

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sexual phantasms around death, which is filled with the spell of the magical religious power of jihadi poetry. Theological anashid hymns dedicated to paradise maidens express a general sexual longing, as do uplifting battle songs in the hudaʾ genre, which are sung before attacks.

Conclusion Studying Muslim battle songs and hymns reveals to us important aspects of martyrdom in contemporary jihadi culture. The study of the semiotic, symbolic, and ritual aspects of jihadi chanting allows researchers to comprehend more fully militant Muslim thinking and its coded narratives. Researchers should hence also focus on central cultural semiotics, symbolic manifestations, and uplifting expressions in jihadi songs. Not only is the digital photographic or moving image central in framing policies and ideological narratives, but so is the music, which we often misunderstand as mere background noise. From this vantage point, one could take stock of the role and effect of martial music on violent behavior in online mediascapes and in real life.45 Furthermore, counternarratives and conflict-resolution campaigns could be better explored by way of a thorough understanding of jihadi music.

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Notes

Introduction 1 See e.g. Meir Hatina, Martyrdom in Modern Islam: Piety, Power and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), chaps. 7–8. 2 Suicide attacks or suicide operations are terms commonly used in Western parlance, and this volume reflects their usage. 3 Thus e.g. Marc Sageman, Understanding Terror Networks (Philadelphia:  University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004); Diego Gambetta (ed.), Making Sense of Suicide Missions (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2005); Mohammed M. Hafez, Suicide Bombers in Iraq: The Strategy and Ideology of Martyrdom (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Institute of Peace Press, 2007); Ariel Merari, Driven to Death: Psychological and Social Aspects of Suicide Terrorism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010). 4 David Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Philipp Holtmann, Martyrdom, Not Suicide: The Legality of Hamas’ Bombings in the Mid-1990s in Modern Islamic Jurisprudence (Munich: GRIN Publishing GmbH, 2009). 5 For martyrdom in Buddhism, see James Edward Ketelaar, Heretics and Martyrs in Meiji Japan: Buddhism and its Persecution (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). 6 George Mosse, “Introduction to the Hebrew edition,” Fallen Soldiers:  Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1993), p. 111 (in Hebrew). 7 Jewish law added two obligations that required the believer to choose death over life, i.e.: refrain from murder and refrain from committing incest. 8 Peter Brown, The Cult of Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981); Aviad Kleinberg, Prophets in Their Own Country (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992). 9 Joseph Dan, The Teachings of Hasidism (New York: Behrman House, 1982). 10 Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975), pp. 54, 112–14; Paul Heck, “Jihad Revisited,” Journal of Religious Ethics 32/1 (2004), pp. 95–128. 11 Mahmoud Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering in Islam: a Study of the Devotional Aspects of Ashura in Twelver Shiism (The Hague: Mouton, 1978), p. 51. See also Roy Vilozny’s chapter in this volume. 12 Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, translated by Talcott Parsons, with a forward by R.H. Tawney (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1958); Nurit Stadler, Changes in Contemporary Catholicism: The Opus Dei’s Sanctification of Daily Work (Jerusalem: The Shaine Center for Research in Social Sciences, 1996) (in Hebrew). 13 Alan Kramer, Dynamics of Destruction: Culture and Mass Killing in the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 175–8. 14 George Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 35, 74–7. 15 Pesach Schindler, “The Holocaust and Kiddush Ha-Shem in Hassidic Thought,” Tradition: A Journal of Orthodox Jewish Thought (electronic Edition) – http://traditionarchive.org/news/article.cfm?id=103977 16 Meira Weiss, “Bereavement, Commemoration, and Collective Identity in Contemporary Israeli Society,” Anthropological Quarterly 70/2 (April 1997), pp. 91–101. 17 For an ideological and historical profile of the modernist school in Islam, see Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age 1798–1939 (3rd edn, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), ­chapters 5–6; Malcolm H. Kerr, Islamic Reform: The Political and Legal Theories of Muhammad ‘Abduh and Rashid Rida (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966); David Commins, Islamic Reformism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). 18 On state-ʿulamaʾ relationships in pre-modern and modern times, see Jonathan Berkey, The Formation of Islam: Religion and Society in the Near East 600–1880 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

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Notes to pages 5–11 2003), pp. 216–30; Meir Hatina (ed.), Guardians of Faith in Modern Times (Leiden: Brill, 2008); Meir Hatina,ʿUlamaʾ, Politics and the Public Sphere: An Egyptian Perspective (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2010). 19 Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina (eds.), Religious Knowledge, Authority and Charisma: Islamic and Jewish Perspectives (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2014), mainly the introduction and part three of the volume. 20 Abu al-Hasan al-Filastini, Rudud wa-talmihat ʿala munkiri al-ʿamaliyyat. In: https://ia801007.us.archive. org/16/items/Alhemma_library (accessed January 15, 2015). 21 On the doctrine of jihad, see Majid Khadduri, War and Peace in the Law of Islam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1955), pp. 55–73; John Kelsay, Islam and War: A Study in Comparative Ethics (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1993); Rudolph Peters, Jihad in Classical and Modern Islam (Princeton:  Markus Wiener Publishers, 1996), pp. 1–54; Ella Landau-Tasseron, “Non-Combatants” in Muslim Legal Thought (Washington: Hudson Institute, 2006). 22 Kamran S. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shi’i Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Washington, D.C.:  University of Washington Press, 2004); Roxanne Varzi, Warring Souls:  Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in Post-revolutionary Iran (Durham:  Duke University Press, 2006); Pedram Khosronejad (ed.), Unburied Memories: The Politics of Bodies of Sacred Martyrs in Iran (London: Routledge, 2013). 23 The year 1979 marked the massacre of Iranian pilgrims carried out by Saudi security forces, which inflamed tensions between Shiʿa and Sunna. Tensions were exacerbated further during the Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) and were depicted as a Sunni-Shiʿi war, inflamed by Tehran’s support for the Baʿth regime in Syria following the massacre of the Muslim Brethren in Hamma in 1982. Yet another factor was the ideological aspect of heightened Sunni dissonance toward the favored Shiʿi aspect in Khomeini’s pan-Islamic policy. See e.g. Meir Litvak and Ofra Bengio (eds), The Sunna and Shiʿa in History: Division and Ecumenism in the Muslim Middle East (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011); Meir Hatina, “Debating the Awakening Shiʿa: Sunni Perceptions of the Iranian Revolution,” ibid., pp. 203–21. 24 Hatina, Martyrdom in Modern Islam, ch. 7. 25 On the inner divisions in modern Salafism, see Reuven Paz, “Debates within the Family,” in Roel Meijer (ed.) Global Salafism: Islam’s New Religious Movement (El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, 2009), pp. 267–80. 26 Eli Alshech, “The Doctrinal Crisis within the Salafi-Jihadi Ranks and the Emergence of NeoTakfirism,” Islamic Law and Society 21 (2014), pp. 1–34; Meir Hatina, “Contesting Violence in Radical Islam: Sayyid Imam al-Sharif ’s Ethical Perception,” Islamic Law and Society 23 (2016), pp. 120–40. 27 Alshech, “The Doctrinal Crisis”; Joas Wagemakers, “Reclaiming Scholarly Authority: Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi’s Critique of Jihadi Practices,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 34/7 (2011), pp. 523–39. 28 Ibn Hanbal quoted in Abdullah Azzam, The Lofty Mountain (London: Azzam Publications, 2003), p. 8. In: http://www.kalamullah.com/Books/lofty.pdf. (accessed 10 January, 2015). 29 See e.g. Kamil Sharif and Mustafa al-Sibaʿi, al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun fi harb Filastin (3rd edn, Cairo: Maktabat Wahaba, n.d.); Gilles Kepel, The Prophet and the Pharaoh (London: Dar al-Saqi, 1985); ʿAbd al-Salam Faraj, al-Farida al-ghaʾiba, edited and annotated by Muhammad ʿImara (new edn, Cairo: Nahadat Misr, n.d.); also Liad Porat’s chapter in this volume. 30 On al-Banna’s Sufi inclinations, see Khalil al-Anani, “The Power of the Jamaʿa: The Role of Hasan Al-Banna in Constructing the Muslim Brotherhood’s Collective Identity,” Sociology of Islam 1 (2013) pp. 41–63. On Hawwa, see Itzchak Weismann, “The Politics of Popular Religion: Sufis, Salafis, and Muslim Brothers in twentieth-century Hamah,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 37/1 (February 2005), pp. 39–58. 31 See e.g. Mira Zussman, “Baraka: Grace, Healing and Political Legitimacy in the Middle East and North Africa,” Yearbook of Cross-Cultural Medicine and Psychotherapy 99 (1999), pp. 87–101. 32 See e.g. Masekhet Brakhot, 2: 17, col.1. 33 Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, pp. 75–8; Kramer, Dynamics of Destruction, p. 242. 34 See e.g. Eli Alshech’s analysis of the change in the Hamas discourse during the first and second Palestinian uprisings, 1987–93 and 2001–05 respectively in his “Egoistic Martyrdom and H￵amās’ Success in the 2005 Municipal Elections: A Study of H￵amās Martyrs’ Ethical Wills, Biographies, and Eulogies,” Die Welt des Islams 48 (2008), pp. 23–49.

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Notes to pages 11–24 35 Al-Nadhir, 26 September 1938 cited in Hasan al-Banna, Majmuʿat rasaʾil al-imam al-shahid (Beirut, al-Muʾassasa al-Islamiyya), p. 437. See similar use in Yusuf al-Qaradawi “Filastin? sinaʿat al-mawt,” Islam Online, http://www. islamonline.net/Arabic/personality/2001/12/article6.SHTML. 36 Yusuf Musa Rizqa, “Falsafat al-mudafaʿa.” In: www.Palestine-info.info; Ahmad Yasin to Filastin alMuslima, November 2001. 37 Shaykh Abu Muhammad al-ʿAdnani al-Shami, “Indeed Your Lord Is Ever Watchful.” In: https:// ia801400.us.archive.org/34/items/mir225/English_Translation.pdf, cited in Shadi Hamid, “The Roots of the Islamic State’s Appeal: ISIS’s Rise is Related to Islam. The Question is: How?,” The Atlantic, 31 October, 2014. 38 The terms “hard power” and “soft power,” coined by Joseph Nye, are taken from the field of national security and relate to a country’s mode of conduct in the areas of foreign policy, security, and economy. Joseph Nye, Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York: Public Affairs, 2004). 39 On ISIS’s concept of martyrdom and its judicial justifications, see al-Filastini, Rudud wa-talmihat ʿala munkiri al-ʿamaliyyat. 40 Kramer, Dynamics of Destruction, p. 231. 41 Mosse, Fallen Soldiers, pp. 75–7; Jay Winter, Remembering War: The Great War Between Memory and History in the Twentieth Century (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006), p. 26. 42 The phrase “art of presence” was coined by Lina Khatib in Image Politics in the Middle East: The Role of Visual in Political Struggle (London: I.B.Tauris, 2013), p. 10. 43 https://www.fas.org/irp/news/2005/10/letter_in_arabic.pdf. 44 Kramer, Dynamics of Destruction, p. 94. 45 Yoram Schweitzer, “Introduction,” in Female Suicide Bombers: Dying for Equality? ed., Y. Schweitzer (Tel Aviv: Jaffee Center for Strategic Studies, August 2006), pp. 7–12. 46 See also ‘Ali Shariʿati, “Fatima is Fatima,” in Shariati on Shariati and the Muslim Women, ed. Laleh Bakhtiar, (Chicago: ABC International Group, 1996), pp. 75–213; Kamran Scot Aghaei (ed.), The Women of Karbala (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005). 47 Rivka Yadlin, “Female Martyrdom: The Ultimate Embodiment of Islamic Existence?,” in Schweitzer (ed.), Female Suicide Bombers, p. 51. 48 Al-Shaʿb, February 1, 2002. 49 Al-Dustur, February 5, 2002 cited both in “Wafa Idris: The Celebration of the First Female Palestinian Suicide Bomber – Part II,” Memri: Inquiry & Analysis Series Report No. 84, 13 February, 2002 – http:// www.memri.org/report/en/print610.htm. 50 Mira Tzoreff, “The Palestinian Shahida: National Patriotism, Islamic Feminism, or Social Crisis,” in Schweitzer (ed.), Female Suicide Bombers, pp. 19–22. 51 For an analysis of the idea of empowerment, see Meir Hatina, “The ‘Ulama’ and the Cult of Death in Palestine,” Israel Affairs 12/1 (January 2006), pp. 29–51.

1: Martyrdom, Self-Sacrifice and Early Islamic Politics: Some Preliminary Observations 1 For an overview of Muslim tradition and suicide, see F. Rosenthal, “Suicide in Islam,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 66 (1948), pp. 239–59. 2 Jewish laws of martyrdom are first discussed in BT (Babylonian Talmud) Sanhedrin 74a, according to which martyrdom is obligatory in three instances. When one commits idolatry, murder, or performs unchaste acts, for example incest, one is required to choose death. Otherwise, when forced to violate Jewish law and custom, one must choose life. Christian notions of dying for religious principles also cite the book of Macabees. There is no indication of Jewish martyrdom under Islamic rule. There are, however, instances of Jewish communities collectively choosing martyrdom at the time of the Crusades. For an overview of the Jews in Crusader times, see R. Chazan, European Jewry and the First Crusade (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). 3 See for example Ibn Manzur, Lisan al-ʿArab s. v. sh-h-d and other standard Arabic-Arabic dictionaries. For a list of the early lexical works and their arrangement, see J. A. Haywood, “K�āmūs,” EI2 4 (1997),

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Notes to pages 24–32 pp. 524–5. Note: As most medieval Arabic lexicographers were well trained in the religious sciences, the meaning for various words is often derived from the hadith. This is certainly true for shahid. A concise rendering of these lexical explanations can be found in E. W. Lane’s Arabic-English Dictionary (London: William and Norgate, 1863), s.v sh-h-d. Lane, who relied heavily on standard dictionaries, also consulted learned Muslim scholars while in Cairo. 4 R. Sellheim, “Al-Khalīl b. Ah�mad,” EI2 4 (1997), pp. 962–4. 5 I am indebted for this information to Moshe Sharon and Isaac Hasson of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, who checked the corpus of Pre-Islamic poetry that is housed there for the use of words derived from sh-h-d. 6 See J. Lassner, The Middle East Remembered (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), pp. 32–59, for the problems facing the modern historian of the medieval Near East. On the problems of early Arabic historiography, see also F. Donner, Narratives of Islamic Origins: The Beginnings of Islamic Historical Writings (Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1998); A. Noth, The Early Arabic Historical Tradition (2nd edn, Princeton, NJ: Darwin Press, 1994); and C. F. Robinson, Islamic Historiography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 7 For ritual washing, see G. H. Bousquet, “La pureté rituelle en Islam,” Revue de l’histoire des religions 138 (1950), pp. 51–72. 8 The different categories of martyrdom are treated in various canonical collections of hadith. See A. J. Wensinck, A Handbook of Early Muhammadan Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 1971), 146–8, who separates the various types of shuhadaʾ according to categories based on the standard collections. For example, he notes and gives full citation for the tradition “He who prays for martyrdom is considered a martyr” in the classic works of Muslim b. al-Hajjaj; Abu Dawud; al-Nasaʾi, al-Tirmidhi; Ibn Majah; and Ahmad b. Hanbal. Of these scholars, only al-Tirmidhi includes a special chapter (bab) on martyrdom. Readers seeking hadith on martyrs and martyrdom have to ferret out statements in other chapters for which Wensinck’s Handbook is indispensible, along with his and his collaborator’s Concordance et indices de la tradition musulmane, 4 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1962). For references to martyrs and martyrdom that give partial texts in Arabic, see vol. 3: 190 ff. 9 See note 3. 10 The most detailed treatment of the martyrs of Najran is that of I. Shahid, The Martyrs of Najran (Bruxelles: Société des Bollandistes, 1971). 11 See the standard Muslim Qurʾan commentaries on the relevant verses. The most complete review of the earliest commentators is al-Tabari’s Jamiʿ al-Bayan. The earliest published commentary, that of Muqatil b. Sulayman, placed the blessed cities of Sura 34:18 in “al-Ard al-Muqaddasah” [meaning] Jordan (al-Urdun) and Palestine (Filastin). The geographical parameters of eighth-century Jordan and Palestine do not correspond to present geographical conceptions. See B. Lewis, “Palestine: On the History and Geography of a Name,” Islam in History (Chicago: Open Court Publishers, 1993), pp. 153–65. 12 For early Alid-Abbasid relations and the events that brought the Abbasids to power, see J. Lassner, Islamic Revolution and Historical Memory (New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1986), and his Shaping of ʿAbbasid Rule (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1970); also M. Sharon, Black Banners from the East (Leiden: Brill, 1983), and his Revolt: the Social and Military Aspects of the ʿAbbasid Revolution (Jerusalem: Max Schloessinger Memorial Fund, Hebrew University, 1990); F. Omar, The ʿAbbasid Caliphate 132/750-170/786 (Baghdad: National Printing and Publication Company, 1969). 13 The most complete description of the events following ʿAli’s death are al-Tabari, Annales (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 2/1: 3 ff. and Ahmad b. Yahya Baladhuri, Ansab al-ashraf. IVa. edited by S.D. Goitein with additions and corrections by M. J. Kister (Jerusalem: Max Schloessinger Memorial Fund, 1971). 14 Ibn Tabataba, al-Fakhri (Beirut: Dar al-Sadir, n.d.), pp. 101, 103–4. 15 A reexamination of the historiography of the first great civil war in Islam would be welcome. The most incisive treatment of the historical traditions remains that of E. Ladewig Peterson, ʿAli and Muʿawiya in Early Arabic Tradition (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1964). 16 Even the vehemently pro-Alid Ibn Tabataba gives high marks to Muʿawiya for his political sagacity, especially as regards his disarming the Hashimites with favors. See Ibn Tabataba, al-Fakhri, pp. 104–5.

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Notes to pages 32–44 17 The most detailed accounts of Hujr’s ‘rebellion’ and death are to be found in al-Tabari, Annales, 2/1: 111–156; and Baladhari, Ansab, IVa: 211-136. For a brief summary, see H. Lammens, “H￵udjr,” EI2 3 (1986), p. 545. 18 Summed up in L. Veccia Vaglieri, “(al-)H￵usayn b. ʿAlī b. Abī T�ālib,” EI2 3 (1986), pp. 607–15. 19 Lassner, Islamic Revolution, 1–97; Sharon, Black Banners, pp. 13–48, 153–200.

2: The Ambivalent Shiʿi Attitude towards Martyrdom: Some Thoughts on a Pre-Buwayhid Source 1 In this chapter the terms “imamite” and “Shiʿi” are used interchangeably and refer to the main branch of Shiʿi Islam, also known as the Imamiyya and Ithna-ʿAshariyya. 2 The main source for this article is al-Barqi’s compilation of imamite traditions, Kitab al-mahasin, which was the subject of my PhD dissertation, “A Study of Kitab al-Mahasin by Ahmad b. Muhammad al-Barqi (d. 888 or 894)” (Jerusalem: The Hebrew University, 2012). 3 On the contradicting traditions resulting from the practice of taqiyya and their relevance for the later Usuli-Akhbari dispute within the imamite community, see E. Kohlberg, “Some Imami Shiʿi Views on Taqiyya,” Journal of the American Oriental Society (JAOS) 95 (1975), pp. 395–402; and Kohlberg, “Taqiyya in Shiʿi Theology and Religion,” in Secrecy and Concealment: Studies in the History of Mediterranean and Near Eastern Religions, ed. S. H. Kippenberg and G. G. Stroumsa (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 345–80. 4 M. A. Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shiʿism: The Sources of Esotericism in Islam (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), s.v. “ʿilm” and “ʿisma.” 5 E. Kohlberg, “Shahid,” EI2 9 (1997), pp. 203–7. 6 W. Madelung, “Kaʾim Al Muhammad,” EI2 4 (1976), pp. 456–7. 7 For further details about this source see: R. Vilozny, “Pre-Buyid Hadith Literature: The Case of alBarqi from Qum (d. 274/888 or 280/894) in Twelve Sections” in The Study of Shiʿi Islam: History, Theology and Law, ed. F. Daftary and G. Miskinzoda (London and New York: I.B.Tauris and The Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2014), pp. 203–30. 8 Al-Najashi, Kitab al-Rijal (Beirut: Dar al-Adwaʾ, 1988), vol. 1, pp. 206–7; al-Tusi, Rijal (Najaf: al-Maktaba wa’l-Matbaʿa al-Haydariyya, 1961), p. 398. See also Ch. Pellat, “al-Barki,” EI2 12 (2004) (supplement) pp. 127–8. 9 E. Kohlberg, “The Development of the Imami Shiʿi Doctrine of Jihad,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft (ZDMG) 126 (1976), p. 67. 10 Ibid., pp. 79–80. 11 S. A. Arjomand, “Imam Absconditus and The Beginnings of Theology of Occultation: Imami Shiʿism circa 280–90 A.H./900 A.D,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 117/1 (1997), pp. 10–11. 12 E. W. Lane, Arabic English Lexicon, s.v. “ightibat,” p. 2226. 13 The extension of the term “jihad” to include a variety of physical or spiritual acts other than holy war, as well as various diseases and disasters, is also common in Sunni Islam; see Kohlberg, “The Development of the Imami Shiʿi Doctrine of Jihad,” p. 66. 14 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin (Tehran: Dar al-Kutub al-Islamiyya, 1951), pp. 153–6, traditions 78–85. 15 Unlike the person’s state of mind at the very moment of death, which remains unknown to those surrounding him, myths regarding the physical condition of his body are more tangible. Islamic sources from different eras provide fascinating accounts of martyrs’ bodies that remained intact, or kept on bleeding long after the occurrence of death. Kohlberg, “Martyrdom,” pp. 13–14. 16 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, pp. 174–8, traditions 152–62. 17 D. Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 52–62. 18 Kohlberg, “Martyrdom,” pp. 10–11. 19 See note 16. 20 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, p. 175, tradition 156, where the sixth Imam, Jaʿfar al-Sadiq, addresses his disciples and refers to non-Shiʿis as “your enemy.”

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Notes to pages 44–57 21 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, pp. 159–60, traditions 99–100. Muhammad Baqir al-Majlisi (d. 1700), the author of Bihar al-anwar (Tehran: Dar al-Kutub al-Islamiyya, 1956–1972), must have been aware of this theological difficulty since he chose to interpret God’s answer to the believer’s wish not to die, as referring to his state in the afterlife rather than to the postponement of the timing of his death, see al-Majlisi, Bihar, vol. 6, p. 160, tradition 25. 22 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, p. 174, tradition 152. 23 Ibid., pp. 174–7, traditions 152, 155, 156, 161. 24 Ibid., pp. 175–6, traditions 157–8. 25 Ibid., p. 177, tradition 159. 26 Ibid., pp. 177–8, tradition 162. 27 Ibid., pp. 175–6, tradition 158. 28 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, p. 175, tradition 156, p. 177, tradition 159, pp. 177–8, tradition 162. 29 Ibid., tradition 157. 30 Ibid., pp. 175–6, tradition 158. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid., pp. 177–8, tradition 162. 33 Ibid., p. 174, tradition 152. 34 Ibid., p. 177, tradition 161. 35 Ibid. 36 Mahabba or hubb is one of the terms used in the sources to describe the Shiʿi faith, whose main pillar is loyalty and love towards the imams and fellow believers; see M. A. Amir-Moezzi, “Notes on Imami walaya,” in his The Spirituality of Shiʿi Islam (London: I.B.Tauris & the Institute of Ismaili Studies, 2011), pp. 231–75. 37 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, pp. 175–6, tradition 158. 38 Ibid., pp. 172–4, traditions 144–51. 39 Ibid., p. 164, tradition 116. 40 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, p. 164, tradition 117. 41 Ibid., p. 164, tradition 119; see also p. 174, tradition 150, where the dying believer is compared to someone fighting with his sword, following in Allah’s path. 42 Ibid; see also note 13 above. 43 For more on the imamite (and Sunni) view that jihad does not necessarily mean physical fighting in the battle field, see Kohlberg, “The Development of the Imami Shiʿi Doctrine of jihad,” pp. 66–7. 44 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, pp. 163–4, tradition 115. 45 Ibid. 46 See for example the exegetic discussion in al-Qurtubi, al-Jamiʿ li-ahkam al-Qurʾan (Beirut: Dar alKutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1994–95), vol. 9, pp. 228–9; see also Kohlberg, “Shahid,” pp. 203–7. 47 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, pp. 172–3, traditions 144–7, 149, 151. 48 Ibid., p. 173, tradition 145. 49 Ibid., p. 174, tradition 151. 50 Ibid., p. 173, tradition 147. 51 Ibid. 52 Ibid. 53 See note 11 above. 54 Al-Barqi, Kitab al-Mahasin, p. 164, tradition 118.

3: The Status of the Battlefield Martyr in Classical Shiʿi Law 1 For specifically Shiʿi rituals of martyrdom, see K. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shiʿi Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004) and the studies brought together in P. Chelkowski (ed.) Eternal Performance: Taʿziyeh and other Shiite Rituals (Greenford: Seagull, 2010). 2 Al-Shaykh Muhammad b.  al-Hasan al-Tusi, Kitab al-Khilaf 6  vols. (Qum:  Muʾassasat al-Nashr al-Islami, 1407/1987), vol. 1, pp. 710–13. The numbering of each masʾala is, as I understand it, inserted

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Notes to pages 57–73 at the editing stage rather than the original text. The sections translated here are numbers 514–20, here numbered [1]‌–[7]. As with all the translations here, the section numbering is my own. 3 Abu Hanifa (Nuʿman b. Thabit, d. 767), eponym of the Hanafi school of Sunni jurisprudence, based in Kufa in southern Iraq. He is used here as the origin of the opinions of that school, as does Malik for the Maliki school, al-Shafiʿi for the Shafiʿi school and Ahmad b. Hanbal for the Hanbali school. 4 Sufyan b. Saʿid al-Thawri (d. 778); early jurist and supposed founder of a (now non-existent) school of jurisprudence named after him, based in Basra in southern Iraq. 5 Muhammad b. Idris al-Shafiʿi (d. 820); early jurist and founder of the Shafiʿi school based in Baghdad and then in Egypt. 6 Malik b. Anas (d. 795); early jurist and founder of the Maliki school, based in Medina. 7 ʿAbd al-Rahman al-Awzaʿi (d. 774) early jurist and supposed founder of a (now non-existent) school of jurisprudence named after him, based in Syria. 8 Ahmad b. Hanbal (d. 855); early jurist and hadith collector, supposed founder of the Hanbali school of jurisprudence, based in Baghdad. 9 Saʿid b. Musayyib (d. 712), one of the earliest authorities in jurisprudence and based in Medina. 10 Al-Hasan al-Basri (d. 728), early Muslim thinker based in Basra and known for his pierty and his preaching. 11 Hamza died at the Battle of Uhud (in 625) and was a paternal uncle and companion of the Prophet. 12 Abu al-ʿAbbas b. Surayj (d. 918) was a key scholar in the development of the Shafiʿi school, and was based in Baghdad. 13 By which is meant: “if there was sufficient testimonial evidence to establish he was killed and it was intentional.” 14 Replacing “or” (aw) in the printed text (al-Tusi, Khilaf, vol. 1, p.  712) with “and.” It would, I  feel, make more sense: the argument would be that if the killing was not witnessed, there is no means of determining whether it was intentional or not, the victim’s body is treated as an “ordinary” death. This also complies with the rules set out in the Hanafi tradition: see al-Marghinani, al-Hidaya 2 vols (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 2000), vol. 1, p. 92. 15 The literature on this is extensive, beginning with the controversial A. Sachedina, The Just Ruler in Shiʿite Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), and the extensively referenced Ahmad Kazemi Moussavi, Religious Authority in Shi’ite Islam from the Office of Mufti to the Institution of Marja’ (Kuala Lumpur: International Institute of Islamic Thoughts and Civilization, 1996). 16 Ibn Idris al-Hilli, al-Saraʾir 3 vols (Qum: Muʾassasat al-Nashr al-Islami, 1410/1989–90), vol. 1, p. 166. 17 Ibn Idris then enters into a short definition and etymological analysis of irtithath. 18 Al-ʿAllama al-Hilli, Mukhtalaf al-Shiʿa 9 vols (Qum: Muʾassasat al-Nashr al-Islami, 1413/1992–93), vol. 1, pp. 402–4. 19 Al-Shaykh al-Mufid, and influential Shiʿi jurist and theologian based in Baghdad (d. 1022). 20 This work appears to be lost. Ibn Babawayh (d. 991)  was an important jurist and collector of Shiʿi reports based in Qum and Rayy. 21 Sallar b. ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Daylami (d. 1056), an important pupil of al-Shaykh al-Tusi. 22 Here and below are cited reports from the Shiʿi Imams. Reports are identified by their transmitter (Aban b. Taghlub, Zurara b. ʿAyyan, ʿAmr b. Khalid, Hariz, Ays. Imams cited are ʿAli, Muh�ammad al-Baqir and Jaʿfar al-Sadiq. Imam Zayd b. ʿAli, revered by the Zaydi Shiʿa but respected also by the Twelvers is also mentioned. 23 For a more extensive description of the Akhbari school, see R. Gleave, Scripturalist Islam: The History and Doctrines of the Akhbari School of Shiʿi Jurisprudence (Leiden: Brill, 2008). 24 Al-Hurr al-ʿAmili, Wasaʾil al-Shiʿa 30 vols (Qum: Muʾassasat Al al-Bayt, 1414/1993–94), vol. 2, pp. 506–11. In the edition, these reports are numbered 2768 to 2779 ([1]‌–[12] here). As with Text B above, the text refers to reports by their prime transmitter. 25 Muhammad b. Yaʿqub al-Kulayni (d. 941), famous Shiʿi collector of al-Kafi, the most voluminous early collection of reports from the Shiʿi imams. 26 Another name for Ibn Babawyh, referenced above. 27 ʿAli b. Ibrahim al-Qumi (d. 919), an early Shiʿi Qurʾanic commentator. 28 Al-Fadl b. al-Hasan al-Tabarsi (d. 1153). His Majmaʿ al-Bayan is one of the major early commentaries on the Qurʾan. 29 ʿAbdallah b. Jaʿfar al-Humayri (d. early tenth century, probably after 910) was an early transmitter and collector of Shiʿi reports from the imams.

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4: Developing Martyrology in Islam 1 For the purposes of this chapter, I defined martyrdom as “a narrative sequence or portrayal of the sufferings and/or death of an individual who as a result of this experience is seen by the larger community as a paradigmatic exemplar.” 2 By “normative” throughout the chapter I  mean within the ijmaʿ consensus of either Sunni or Shiʿi Muslims. 3 The word shahid or shuhadaʾ is used in the Qurʾan, mostly in its primary sense of “witness” or in lists of laudable figures (prophets and righteous people) in which the meaning is not clear (e.g. 4:69). 4 Qurʾan translation, Majid Fakhry, The Qurʾan: A Modern English Version (London: Garnet, 1997). 5 Al-Bukhari, Sahih, ed. ʿAbdallah b. Baz (Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1991), vol. 3, p. 278 [nos 2829–30]. 6 Al-Suyuti, Abwab al-saʿada fi asbab al-shahada (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Qayyima, 1987). 7 Al-Tirmidhi, al-Jamiʿ al-sahih (Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, n.d.), vol. 3, p. 106 [no. 1712]. 8 Yazid b. Shajara was the commander of the army for Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan, the fifth caliph (r. 661–80). 9 ʿAbdallah b. al-Mubarak, Jihad, ed. Nazih Hammad (Beirut: Dar al-Nur, 1971), p. 38 (no. 22); and see also pp. 117–18 (no. 143), 124–5 (no. 150). 10 See, e.g. the comments on the Uzbek translation of the martyrdom sections of Ibn al-Nahhas in Martha Olcott, Roots of Radical Islam in Central Asia (Washington, D.C.: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 2007), pp. 33–5. 11 For instance, Bassam al-ʿAsayli (ed), Jihad shaʿb al-jazaʾir (Beirut: Dar al-Nafaʾis, 1982, 13 vols); and ʿArif al-ʿArif al-Maqdisi, Sijill al-khulud: asmaʾ shuhadaʾ al-umma al-ʿArabiyya fi harb Filistin ʿam 1948, ed. Khalid Aba Zayd al-Adhriʿi (Abu Hassan) (Sanʿa: Maktabat al-Jil al-Jadid, 2006). 12 Al-Jihad 6 (May 1985), p. 26; see Thomas Hegghammer, Jihad in Saudi Arabia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 38–40. 13 See his “Martyrs: The Building Blocks of Nations” (from azzam.com) and his comments in al-Jihad 15 (October 1985), pp. 38–9 “al-Shahid wa’l-shahada: al-halqa al-thalatha.” 14 ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, Ithaf al-ʿibad fi fadaʾil al-jihad (Peshawar: Markaz al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, 1990), p. 91. 15 For ʿAzzam’s doctrines on the subject, see his Ayat al-Rahman fi jihad al-Afghan; for further examples, see “In the Hearts of Green Birds,” at almansurah.com (2003); and Qari Mansur Ahmed, “Why the Difference?” at khurasaan.com (2002) in addition to the martyrologies cited below; see also the Hatina chapter in this volume. 16 The martyrologies upon which this was based are ʿAdil b. ʿAli al-Shadi, Min qisas al-shuhada’ al-ʿarab fi afghanistan (Cairo: Maktabat al-Irshad, 1990), 2 vols (listing a total of 25 martyrs); Hamad al-Qatari and Majid al-Madani, Min qisas al-shuhada’ al-ʿarab fi busna wa’l-hirsak (at saeed.net); Usud alkuwayt fi bilad al-rafidayn (at tawhed.ws); and Yahya al-Ghamidi, “Shuhada’ al-hijaz ila ridwan allah,” Sawt al-jihad (1425: 16), pp. 27–9. 17 Intifadat al-Aqsa (Amman: Dar al-Jalil li’l-Nashr, 2001–5). 18 It has never been clear who exactly killed Muhammad al-Durra, and the footage of the scene has been the subject of a recent lawsuit. 19 Intifadat al-Aqsa, vol. 4, pp. 89–91 (Mahmud Marmash), pp. 97–9 (Nimr Darwish Abu al-Hayja and ʿAla Hilal ʿAbd al-Sattar Sabah), pp. 167–9 (Nidal Abu Shaduf), pp. 203–4 (ʿIzz al-Din Misri), pp. 259–62 (Hisham Abu Jamus), pp. 268–81 (Hasan Husayn al-Hotari), vol. 5, pp. 209–10 (Samir ʿUmar Shawahina), pp. 266–8 (Ahmad Daraghima), vol. 6, pp. 74–80 (Wafa Idris), pp. 216–17 (Andalib Tiqataqa), vol. 7, pp. 113–15 (Muhammad al-Ghul), vol. 8, pp. 149–51 (Samir al-Nuri and Buraq Khalfa), vol. 9, pp. 59–61 (Ahmad al-Khatib), pp. 102–3 (Hiba Daraghima), pp. 173–6 (Ayhab and Ramiz Abu Salim), vol. 10, pp. 84–93 (Hanadi Jaradat). 20 E.g., Intifadat al-Aqsa, vol. 10, p. 50. 21 Interviews with Bakhtiyar Babajanov (2004) in Uzbekistan and with Muzaffar Olimov (2005) in Tajikistan, in addition to searches for martyrologies in both countries and in Kyrgyzstan. 22 For an English translation of this document, see The Islamic Legitimacy of Martyrdom Operations: Did Hawa Barayev Commit Suicide? (Hal intaharat Hawa um ustushihdat? Available at alsunnah.info). The document was signed “a council of scholars from the Arabian Peninsula,” though it is now known that al-ʿUyayri penned it.

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Notes to pages 84–100 23 See e.g. my Understanding Jihad (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), appendix 3, pp. 175–81 for a translation of one of them. 24 Mohammed Hafez, “Martyrdom Mythology in Iraq: How Jihadists Frame Suicide Terrorism in Videos and Biographies,” Terrorism and Political Violence 19 (2007), pp. 95–115. 25 Note the lectures translated by Mehdi Abedi and Gary Legenhausen, Jihad and Shahadat: Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam (Houston: Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986), especially the lecture by Ayatollah Murtaza Mutahhari on the shahid (­chapter 4). 26 Werner Schmucker, “Iranische Märtyrertestamente,” Die Welt des Islams 27 (1987), pp. 185–249; and Farhad Khosrokhavar, Les Nouveaux Martyrs d’Allah (Paris: Flammarion, 2002, revised), ­chapter 2. 27 Hizbullah:  al-Muqawama wa’l-tahrir (Beirut:  al-Safir, 2006), vol. 12; for materials on martyrdom operations, see vol. 2 on military tactics. 28 Mawsuʿat Hizbullah (Beirut: Mu’assasat al-Hana International, 2007), vol. 9 (entire volume). 29 See Hamid Nasir al-Zabidi, Karamat al-waʿd al-sadiq (Beirut: Dar al-Mahajja al-Bayda, 2007), pp. 178–81, 204–7, etc. 30 Such as martyrologies published by ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam in al-Jihad (1987–95), in each issue of which there is a section devoted to the martyrs. 31 Such as the ten-volume Palestinian martyrology Shuhada’ Intifadat al-Aqsa, which contains obvious Islamic themes. 32 See e.g. Hizbullah: Muqawama wa-tahrir, ii, p. 3 (statement of 3 March, 1985), 11 (statement of 31 December, 1987). 33 Masa’il jihadiyya (Beirut: Mu’atamar ʿUlamaʾ al-Islam, 2002), pp. 27–8. 34 Hizballah had carried out suicide attacks against civilians in Buenos Aires in 1994. 35 Ayman al-Zawahiri, Shifaʾ sudur al-muʾminin (Silsilat Nasharat al-Mujahidun bi-Misr, 1995) (thanks to Elena Pavlova for obtaining a copy for me). 36 Nawwaf al-Takruri, al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya fi’l-mizan al-fiqhi (4th edn, Damascus: al-Takruri, 2004), pp. 102–79; Muhammad Saʿid Ghayba, al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya wa-araʾ al-fuqahaʾ fiha (Damascus: Dar al-Maktabi, 2001). 37 Ibn al-Nahhas al-Dumyati, Mashariʿ al-ashwaq (Beirut: Dar al-Bashaʾir, 2004), vol. 1, pp. 557–60. 38 Although I obviously do not subscribe to everything that Muslims themselves write about suicide attacks, in this analysis I was influenced by Ghazi Husayn, al-Irhab al-Isra’ili wa-shariʿiyyat al-muqawama wa’l-ʿamaliyyat al-istishhadiyya (Damascus: Matbaʿat al-Zaraʿi, 2004); Nawwaf al-Zarw, al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya (Amman: al-Muʾtamar al-Shaʿbi, 2003); Hani’ b. Jubayr, al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya (Riyad: Dar al-Fadila, 2002); and Husayn al-Bash, al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya (Damascus: Dar Qutayba, 2003). 39 Al-Qaradawi has stated this numerous times, and see also the statements of Ahmad b. ʿAbd al-Karim Najib, al-Dalaʾil al-jaliyya ʿala mashruʿiyyat al-ʿamaliyyat al-istishhadiyya (Damascus: n.p., 2006), pp. 5–7. 40 Al-Takruri, ʿAmaliyyat, pp. 12–13. 41 Imam Samudra, Aku Melawan Teroris (Solo: Jazera, 2005), pp. 171–3. 42 Personally I think that in the fourth edition al-Takruri’s tenor has changed, and he is more open to universal application, but the book still mentions Israel more than any other target. 43 Fatwa Majelis Ulama Indonesia tentang Terorisme (Jakarta: Majelis Ulama Indonesia, 2005), pp. 15–16. 44 Such as discussions of September 11, Bali, Riyadh, London, and other operations elsewhere.

5: From Nationalist Combatants to Martyrs: The War of Independence and Martyrdom in Algerian Memory 1 Martin Evans, Algeria: France’s Undeclared War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp 360–9; Lucette Valensi, “Le guerre est-elle finie?” La guerre d’Algérie dans la mémoire et l’imginaire, ed. Anny D. Rosenman and Lucette Valensi (Paris: Éditions Bouchère, 2004), pp. 297–304. 2 Evans, ibid., p. xv.

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Notes to pages 101–117 3 Bernard Lewis, The Political Language of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 41. 4 Benjamin Stora, Algeria 1830–2000: A Short History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001), p. xi. 5 Ibid., pp. xi, 65–6. 6 Evans, Algeria, pp. 19–41. 7 Benjamin Stora, “The ‘Southern’ World of the Pieds Noirs: References to and Representations of Europeans in Colonial Algeria,” Settler Colonialism in the Twentieth Century: Projects, Practices, Legacies, ed. Caroline Elkins and Susan Pedersen (New York: Routledge, 2005). 8 François Ponillon, “Abd el-Kader, icône de la nation algérienne,” La Guerre d’Algérie dans la mémoire et l’imginaire, ed. Anny Dayan Rosenman and Lucette Valensi (Paris: Éditions Bouchère, 2004), pp. 87–97. 9 Evans, Algeria, pp. 49–82, 85–112; J. Ruedy, Modern Algeria: The Origins and Development of a Nation (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), pp. 114–55. 10 Ruedy, Modern Algeria, pp. 114–55. 11 Evans, Algeria, p. xvi. 12 Adam Shatz, “The Torture of Algiers,” The New York Review of Books, 21 November 2002. 13 Benjamin Stora, Les Sources du nationalism algérien:  parcours idéologiques, origines des acteurs (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1988). 14 Evans, Algeria, pp. 119–20. 15 Rashid Messaoudi, “Algerian-French Relations 1830–1991: A Clash of Civilizations,” Algeria: Revolution Revisited, ed. Reza Shah Kazem (London: Islamic World Report, 1997), pp. 6–46; Gilbert Meynier, Histoire intérieure du FLN (Paris: Fayard, 2002), pp. 220–1. 16 James McDougall, History and the Culture of Nationalism in Algeria (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 233. 17 Sliman Chikh, L’Algérie en armes ou le temps des certitudes (2ième edition, Alger: Éditions Casbah, 1998), pp. 324–6. 18 Stora, Algeria 1830–2000, p. 83. 19 James McDougall, “Savage Wars? Codes of Violence in Algeria, 1830s–1990s,” Third World Quarterly 26/1 (2005), pp. 117–31. 20 Stora, Algeria 1830–2000, p. 29. 21 Messaoudi, “Algerian-French Relations.” 22 Chikh, L’Algérie en armes, pp. 324–6. 23 Patrick Kessel and Giovanni Percelli, Le people algérien et la guerre: Lettres et témoignages 1954–1962 (Paris: L’Harmattan, n.d.), pp. 46–7. 24 Richard and Joan Brace, Algerian Voices (Princeton: D. Van Nostrund, 1965), p. 111. 25 E. G. H. Joffé, “The FLN,” The Journal of African History 23/2 (1982), pp. 282–3. 26 Mohammed Harbi, Le F.L.N. mirage et réalité (Paris: Éditions J.A., 1980), pp. 310–12. 27 Alistair Horne, A Savage War of Peace Algeria 1954–1962 (New York: New York Review Books, 2006), p. 17. 28 Harbi, Le F.L.N. mirage et réalité, pp. 310–12. 29 Stora, Algeria 1830–2000, pp. 62–3. 30 Ibid., p. 30. 31 Mustapha Hamil, “Postcolonialism and its Ghosts in Tahar Djaout’s “Les chercheurs d’os,” The French Review 81/2 (December, 2007), p. 361. 32 McDougall, “Savage Wars?,” p. 124. 33 Stora, Algeria 1830–2000, pp. 189–90. 34 Tahar Djaout, Les chercheurs d’os (Paris: Seuil, 1984). 35 Hamil, “Postcolonialism and its Ghosts,” pp. 353–6. 36 Ibid., p. 357.

6: Martyrdom is Bliss: The Iranian Concept of Martyrdom during the War with Iraq, 1981–88 1 Yann Richard, Shiʿite Islam: Polity, Ideology, and Creed (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), p. 29. 2 On the legal debates regarding jihad in the Qajar period, see Anne Lambton, “A Nineteenth Century View of Jihād,” Studia Islamica 32 (1979), pp. 181–92; Robert Gleave, “Jihad and the Religious

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Notes to pages 117–123 Legitimacy in the Early Qajar State,” in Religion and Society in Qajar Iran, ed. Robert Gleave (London: Routledge, 2005), pp. 1–18. 3 Assaf Moghadam, “Mayhem, Myths, and Martyrdom: The Shiʿa Conception of Jihad,” Terrorism and Political Violence 19 (2007), pp. 125–43. 4 For this change, see Kamran S. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shiʿi Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004), p. 67ff. 5 Jill Diane Swenson, “Martyrdom: Mytho-Cathexis and the Mobilization of the Masses in the Iranian Revolution,” Ethos 13/2 (Summer 1985), p. 121. 6 Ruhollah Khomeini, Sahife-ye Nur: majmuʿa-ye rahnemudha-ye imam-e khomeini (Tehran: Vizarat-e Irshad-e Islami, 1995), vol. 16, pp. 219–20. 7 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 8, p. 269; Minhajiyyat al-thawra al-islamiyya: muqtatafat wa-araʾ al-imam al-khumayni (Tehran: Muʾassasat Tanzim wa-Nashr Turath al-Imam al-Khumayni, 1996), p. 52. 8 Jahangir Arasli, “Obsolete Weapons, Unconventional Tactics, and Martyrdom Zeal,” The George C. Marshall European Center for Security Studies, no. 10, April 2007, p. 14. 9 For the extensive governmental effort to commemorate the dead see Roxanne Varzi, Warring Souls: Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in Post-Revolution Iran (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006). 10 Saskia Gieling, Religion and War in Revolutionary Iran (London: I.B.Tauris, 1999), pp. 44, 76; Jawad Mohdithi, “Imam va-farhang-e shahadat-talabi,” www.imam-khomeini.com. 11 Mohammad Reza Dehshiri, “Jelveha-ye shahadat va-marg-agahi dar andishe-ye imam-e khomeini,” Huzur 29 (Fall 1378/2000), pp. 230–60. 12 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 5, p. 269; vol. 8, p. 269. 13 Ibid., p. 183, vol. 15, pp. 154, 252. 14 Mateo Mohammad Farzaneh, “Shiʿi Ideology, Iranian Secular Nationalism and the Iran-Iraq War,” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 7/1 (March 2007), p. 92. 15 Amir ʿAli Amini Rad, “Farhang-e shahadat-talabi va-naqsh-e an dar dowran-e difaʿ moqaddas,” Sazeman-e Tablighat-e Islami: naqd va-tahlil, http://www.ido.ir/a.aspx?a=1389062903. 16 “Mawduʿ al-shahada fi kalam al-imam khumayni (rh) wa-ʾadaʾihi,” http://www.navideshahed.net/ar/ print.php?UID=250874. 17 Khomeini, Nahdat ʿAshuraʾ: thalath khutab fi sha’n muharram wa-ʿashuraʾ – http://www.imamkhomeini.com/web1/arabic/showitem.aspx?cid=2189&h=19&f=20&pid=252. 18 Khomeini, al-Kalimat al-qisar mawaʿiz wa-hukm min kalam al-imam al-khumayni (qudisa sirruhu) (Beirut: Dar al-Wasila, 1995), p. 70. 19 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 20, p.  190, vol. 18, p.  140; Tehran Domestic Service March 20, 1988  – FBIS-NES-88-054, March 21, 1988; Khomeini, Nahdat ʿAshuraʾ 20 Sayyid ʿAli Akbar Khodaʾi Hajji-Abadi, “Shahadat-talabi az didgah-e imam-e khomeini,”  – http:// www.magiran.com/view.asp?Type=pdf&ID=356241 21 Khomeini, Nahdat ʿAshuraʾ. 22 On the debate, see Aghaie, “The Karbala Narrative: Shiʿi Political Discourse in Modern Iran in the 1960s and 1970s,” Journal of Islamic Studies 12/2 (2001), pp. 156–71; and Evan Siegal, “The Politics of Shahid-e Jawid,” in The Twelver Shiʿa in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History, ed. W. Ende and R. Brunner (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 150–77. 23 “Khomeyni ʿId Ghadir Address on Islam, War,” Tehran Domestic Service, October 28, 1980  – FBIS-SAS-81–282, October 29, 1980. 24 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 1, pp. 72, 292. 25 Ibid., vol. 15, p. 58; vol. 9, pp. 71–2, 102; vol. 21, p. 103; “Shahadat-talabi az didgah-e imam-e khomeini,” – revayate8.tebyan.net. 26 For this argument, see Marvin Zonis and Daniel Brumberg, “Shiʿism as Interpreted by Khomeini: An Ideology of Revolutionary Violence,” in Shiʻism Resistance and Revolution, ed. Martin Kramer (Boulder: Westview Press, 1987), p. 54. 27 Silsilat al-fikr waʾl-nahj al-khumyni: al-shahada (Beirut: Jamʿiyat al-maʿarif al-Islamiyya al-thaqafiyya, 1432/2011), p. 24; Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 21, p. 88. 28 Al-Kalimat al-qisar, pp. 74–5. 29 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 15, p. 122. 30 Ibid., vol. 18, p. 230, vol. 17, p. 189; “Shahadat-talabi az didgah-e imam-e khomeini;” Mohdithi, “Imam va-farhang-e shahdat-talabi.” 31 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 5, p. 510.

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Notes to pages 123–130 32 Ibid., vol. 20 33 On the Hamas discourse, and particularly the promise of the virgins, see Meir Litvak, “Martyrdom is Life: Jihad and Martyrdom in the Ideology of Hamas,” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism 33 (2010), p. 726. 34 Ian Brown, Khomeini’s Forgotten Sons:  The Story of Iran’s Boy Soldiers (London:  Grey Seal Books, 1990). 35 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 13, p. 272. 36 Gieling, Religion and War, p. 55n135. 37 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 13, pp. 272–4; vol. 14, p. 161; vol. 15, p. 51; vol. 17, pp. 57; vol. 21, p. 103. 38 Ibid., vol. 17, p. 188; vol. 17, p. 56. 39 Ibid., vol. 21, p. 30. See similar statements by President Mahmud Ahmadinejad in a July 2005 speech, Ahmadinejad asked: “Is there an art more beautiful, more divine, and more eternal that the art of martyrdom?” – http://www.memritv.org/clip/en/782.htm. 40 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 20, p. 188; vol. 19, p. 40. 41 “Shahadat-talabi az didgah-e imam-e khomeini;” Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 18, p. 119. On the Sufi concept of “insan kamil,” see Hamid Dabashi, “The Sufi Doctrine of the ‘Perfect Man’ and Question of Hierarchy,” Islamic Quarterly 30/2 (1986). 42 For such examples among Sunni circles, see Meir Hatina’s chapter in this volume. 43 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 15, p. 51; vol. 15, p. 122; vol. 1, p. 72; vol. 20, p. 237. 44 Ibid., vol. 21, p. 203; vol. 8, p. 257. 45 Ibid., vol. 10, p. 111; vol. 15, p. 154; vol. 15, p. 252; vol. 19, p. 296 46 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 14, p. 161. For other expressions of his desire to die, see ibid., vol. 4, p. 279; vol. 20, p. 113. 47 Ibid., vol. 6, pp. 38–40; Dehshiari, “Jelveha-ye shahadat.” 48 Al-Shahada fi fikr al-imam al-khumayni (Beirut:  Jamʿiyat al-Maʿarif al-Thaqafiyya al-Islamiyya, 2011). 49 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 13, pp. 65–6; vol. 16, pp. 133–6, 203–4, 219–20. 50 Marziye Mokhtari-pur, Hasan Mokhatri-pur and Sayyid Ali Sayidat, “Athar va-payamadha-ye farhangi-ye farhang ithar va-shahdat,” http://www.navideshahed.com/fa/index.php?Page=definition &UID=89736. 51 Husayn Husayni Mansh, “Shahadat-talabi-ye javanan az didgah-e imam-e khomeini,” http://www. rasekhoon.net/article/Show-3779.aspx. 52 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 11, pp. 238–40; “Khomeyni ʿId Ghadir Address.” 53 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 12, p. 62; al-Kalimat al-qisar, pp. 75–6; Minhajiyat al-thawra, p. 300. 54 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 16, p. 198. 55 Amini Rad, “Farhang-e shahadat-talabi.” 56 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 15, pp. 112–15. 57 Ibid., vol. 11, pp. 238–40; vol. 13, p. 151. 58 Ibid., vol. 12, pp. 67–9; vol. 13, pp. 65–6; vol. 14, pp. 8–10; vol. 15, pp. 51–2. 59 Ibid., vol. 6, pp. 113–14, 120; Dehshiari, “Jalvaha-ye shahadat.” 60 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 21, p. 108. 61 Ibid., vol. 19, p. 126. See also ibid., vol. 12, p. 138. 62 Ibid., vol. 20, pp. 59–62; vol. 5, pp. 240–2; vol. 12, pp. 44–9; vol. 14, p. 161. 63 Ibid., vol. 13, pp. 80–2; vol. 14, pp. 65–6; vol. 1, pp. 36–8. 64 Amini Rad, “Farhang-e shahadat-talabi.” 65 On problems in recruitment, see Anthony H. Cordesman and Abraham R. Wagner, The Lessons of Modern War: The Iran-Iraq War (Boulder: Westview Press, 1990), vol. 2, pp. 231–3. 66 Al-Kalimat al-qisar, pp. 74–6. This slogan became a popular motif in many of the “wills” inscribed in websites dedicated to Iranian war martyrs. 67 Sahife-ye Nur, vol. 5, pp. 262–3; vol. 8, pp. 8–10; vol. 9, pp. 57–8; vol. 12, p. 244. 68 For such descriptions, see Ali Rahnema, Superstition as Ideology in Iranian Politics: From Majlesi to Ahmadinejad (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 47. See also, Nader Nazemi, “Sacrifice and Authorship: A Compendium of the Wills of Iranian War Martyrs,” Iranian Studies 30 (1997), p. 263–71. 69 Farzaneh, “Shiʿi Ideology,” p. 96.

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7: The Concept of Martyrdom as Promoted by Hizballah in Lebanon 1 Vali Nasr, The Shia Revival (New York: W.W. Norton, 2007), pp. 108–15, 255–73; Yitzhak Nakash, The Shiʿa in the Modern Arab World: Reaching for Power (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), pp. 99–128. 2 A. R. Norton, Hezbollah: A Short History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), pp. 18–21; Fouad Ajami, The Vanished Imam: Musa al-Sadr and the Shiʿa of Lebanon (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986). 3 Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah, al-Islam wa-mantiq al-quwwa (3rd edn, Beirut: al-Dar al-Islamiyya, 1986), p. 6. 4 Ibid., p. 7. 5 Ibid., pp. 15–16. 6 Ibid., p. 19. 7 Martin Kramer, “The Oracle of Hizbullah: Sayyid Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah,” in Spokesmen for the Despised: Fundamentalist Leaders of the Middle East, ed. R. Scott Appleby (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), pp. 97–9. 8 Norton, Hezbollah: A Short History, pp. 27–88. 9 Abu al-Fadl Ezzati, The Spread of Islam: The Contributing Factors (4th edn, London: Islamic College for Advanced Studies, 2002), p. 79. 10 See for instance a series of articles by Shiʿi journalist ʿAli Haydar, an opponent of Hizballah, titled: “The Dahiya Republic” (Al-Dahiya is Hizballah’s stronghold in southern Beirut), which was posted in January 2012 on the website http://www.metransparent.com. 11 See also Meir Litvak’s chapter in this volume. 12 For example, an article published in Baqiatollah 118 (July 2001, p. 31) stated: “The position upon which the infallible Imam (the Hidden Imam) or his deserving deputy, the marjaʿ, commander, ruler of the Muslims, faqih and Imam Sayyid ʿAli Khamenaʾi.” 13 Naʿim Qasem in Baqiyatollah, Issue no. 113 (February 2001), pp. 13, 25. 14 “Al-Qiyada allati tahmilu muwasafat al-anbiyaʾ wa’l-aʾimma.” Ibid., p. 13. 15 Al-Mustaqbal (Beirut), November 19, 2009, p. 1. 16 The declaration of the establishment of Hizballah appeared on 15 February, 1985. One of the important targets of this organization was “the establishment of an Islamic Republic in Lebanon, religiously depending on Qum, Iran.” 17 On the Occultation and ambassadors, see Said Amir Arjomand, “The Crisis of the Imamate and the Institute of Occultation in Twelver Shiʿism: A Sociohistorical Perspective,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 28/4 (November 1996), pp. 419–515; Fadil al-Maliki, Kitab al-ghayba alsughra wa’l-sufaraʾ al-arbaʿa (Qum: Markaz al-Abhath al-ʿAqaʾdiyya, 1420/2000), pp. 10, 45–55, 66–7. 18 Tafsir al-Jalalayn (Beirut: Dar al-Maʿrifa, 1998), p. 13, explaining part of Sura 2:61. 19 Ibid., explaining Sura 7:151. 20 See the introduction of the book al-Quds fi fikr al-imam al-khomeini (Beirut:  Imam Khomeini Cultural Center, 2002), p. 7, which states: “Only after the victory of the Islamic Revolution in 1979 did Khomeini define the liberation of Jerusalem and Palestine as one of his first targets.” 21 Baqiatollah, Issue no. 176 (May 2006), pp. 82–6. 22 Malik b. Anas, al-Muwattaʾ (electronic edn, www.al-eman.com) vol. 1, p. 234. 23 Al-Zamakhshari, al-Kashshaf (electronic edn, www.altafsir.com): the exegesis of Sura 42:23, tradition 992. 24 From the archive of Sayid Hasan Nasrallah, 25 November, 2005. 25 http://youtube.be/Q41jVd8H_A4. 26 Citations from Nasrallah’s speech, 25 November, 2005, Archive of Sayyid Hasan Nasrallah. 27 Baqiyatollah, Issue no. 176, May 2006, pp. 4–5. 28 See for instance the numerous books published by Jamʿiyat al-Maʿarif al-Islamiya al-Thaqafiya (Society of Islamic Cultural Education) in Beirut. 29 ʿAli Haydar on www.metransparent.com, 3 September, 2011. 30 Baqiatollah, Issue no. 175, April 2006, inside cover page.

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Notes to pages 142–152 31 Toning down these curses and refraining from naming the figures at whom they are directed – that is, prominent Sunni figures like Abu Bakr, ʿUmar, ʿUthman, Muʿawiya and ʿAʾisha – is compatible with the policy laid out by Khomeini when he sought to export the Islamic Revolution to Sunni Arab countries. 32 The Passionate Love of Karbala’, p. 12. 33 Ibid., p. 14. 34 Ibid., p. 15. 35 Ibid., p. 16. 36 Ibid., p. 9–11. 37 It is not affiliated with the international Scouts movement.

8: Self-Sacrifice and Heroism in the Discourse of the Syrian Muslim Brethren 1 Itzhak Weismann, “Democratic Fundamentalism? The Practice and Discourse of the Muslim Brothers Movement in Syria,” The Muslim World 100 (2010), pp. 4, 7–12. 2 Umar F. Abd-Allah, The Islamic Struggle in Syria (Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1983), pp. 101–3. 3 Raymond A. Hinnebusch, “The Islamic Movement in Syria: Sectarian Conflict and Urban Rebellion in an Authoritarian-Populist Regime,” in Islamic Resurgence in the Arab World, ed. Ali Hillal Dessouki (New York: Praeger, 1982), pp. 151–3. 4 Eyal Zisser, Syria’s Facade:  Society, Government, and State (Tel Aviv:  Hakibutz Hameuchad, 2003), p. 250. [Hebrew]. 5 Liad Porat, “Hamah Rebellion 1982 in the SMB’s Discourse,” Hamizrah Hehadash 49 (2010), pp. 140–4. [in Hebrew]. 6 Zisser, Syria’s Façade, p. 255. 7 Diwan al-Qaʾid al-Shahid, p. 16. https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=sites&srcid=ZGVmYXVsdG RvbWFpbnxpc2xhbWFiZWQyMjAxMTE3ODh8Z3g6NWU1NDkwYzc3Y2NmZTc3MQ 8 Ibid., 16. 9 Ibid., p. 36. 10 Ibid., p. 17. 11 Ibid. 12 http://fmuslem.tripod.com/peothadeed.html (accessed 7 October, 2014). 13 Diwan al-Qaʾid al-Shahid, p. 36. 14 http://fmuslem.tripod.com/peothadeed.html (accessed 7 October, 2014). 15 Diwan al-Qaʾid al-Shahid, pp. 32, 41, 69. 16 http://www.arab-eng.org/vb/t254552-print-9637.html (accessed 1 August 2013). 17 Ibid. 18 http://fmuslem.tripod.com/peothadeed.htm (accessed 7 October 2014). 19 http://www.arab-eng.org/vb/t254552-print-9637.html (accessed 1 August 2013). 20 Diwan al-Qaʾid al-Shahid, pp. 34–5. 21 Liad Porat, “The Egyptian and Syrian Muslim Brothers and Their Struggle against the Secular Arab Regimes from the Beginning of the 1970s to the Early 1990s: Opposition Discourse and a Radicalization Shift” (PhD dissertation, Haifa: University of Haifa, 2008), p. 37 [in Hebrew]. 22 Diwan al-Qaʿid al-Shahid, p. 33. 23 islammemo.cc, March 16, 2007 [in Arabic]; www.savesyria.org/arabic/news/2007/06/002.htm 24 Al-Nadhir, no. 66, March 1984, p. 30. 25 Ibid., no. 61, 1983, p. 28; al-ʿAhd, June 15, 2013, p. 6. 26 The following publication of the movement contains attacks against various ʿAlawite leaders: al-Muslimun fi Suriya wa’l-irhab al-Nusayri 1964–1979 (Cairo: n.p. 1979), p. 9. 27 On Asad’s efforts to gain religious legitimization for the ʿAlawite sect and, consequently, for his regime, see Martin Kramer, Arab Awakening and Islamic Revival: The Politics and ideas in the Middle East (New Brunswick, 1996), pp. 200–1. 28 Al-Nadhir, June 1980, no. 19, p. 2. 29 Liad Porat, “The Syrian Muslim Brethren and the Asad Regime,” Middle East Brief 47 (December 2010), p. 5.

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Notes to pages 153–163 30 Majzarat Hamah (Cairo: n.p., 1984), p. 11. 31 Porat, “Hamah Rebellion,” p. 141. 32 Al-Nadhir, no.  49, September 1982, pp.  29–31. In his poetry Hadid mentioned the motifs of the Islamic flags and the hoped-for victory of Islam reflected by that image, see Diwan al-Qaʾid al-Shahid, p. 15. 33 Al-Nadhir, no. 44, February 1982, p. 20; ibid., no. 66, March 1984, p. 3; al-ʿAhd, March 1, 2013, p. 2; ibid., February 15, 2013, p. 1. 34 http://www.ikhwansyria.com/ar/default.aspx?xyz=U6Qq7k%2bcOd87MDI46m9rUxJEpMO%2bi1s7 fQLxIo4RqSPB%2fEHrYdTZ6LWQZcelZFl54xC9AGIMhR4tgJENoChRRu1U2ZPSpoa9BOshT8HU %2bATJHm39HutHBC83HLDxe2shA7i3geuH%2fWw%3d (accesssed 22 May, 2012). 35 Porat, “Hamah Rebellion,” pp. 141–2. 36 Al-ʿAhd, no. 1, 1 March 2013, p. 12; ibid., no. 2, 15 March 2013, p. 13, 16. 37 Al-ʿAhd, no. 8, 15 March 2013, p. 6. 38 http://www.israeldefense.co.il/?CategoryID=534&ArticleID=548 (7 October 2014). 39 http://www.ikhwansyria.com/ar/default.aspx?xyz=U6Qq7k%2bcOd87MDI46m9rUxJEpMO%2bi1s7 7FBgCoYXByYbZfJ3ELZ%2fIOi3iRnxPK7dVcJH1GQOY1KPJpanQDtELjFsz%2fnnh6pIseKFU4f% 2bV0frIRwpP%2b4zx8Mqlx8AbVphb0jOISvOw9E%3d (accesssed 22 May, 2012) 40 http://www.ikhwansyria.com/ar/default.aspx?xyz=U6Qq7k%2bcOd87MDI46m9rUxJEpMO%2bi1s7 VTEERMVxKXcfVZJB6NjT%2bGb0ICXBrVj6kT6vn7HGrB2cMaFifJKx5xBMko1lUGa7JYxD%2fN %2b%2ffgB6DXuw4Tb2NILTP3IKEG5O%2bmpR6hwaLUk%3d (accsssed 20 July, 2012). 41 Al-ʿAhd, 15 February, 2013, p.1. 42 http://ikhwansyria.com/Portals/Content/?Name=%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%A8%D9%8A%D 8%A7%D9%86%20%D8%A7%D9%84%D8%AE%D8%AA%D8%A7%D9%85%D9%8A%20 %D9%84%D9%85%D8%AC%D9%84%D8%B3%20%D8%B4%D9%88%D8%B1%D9% (accesssed 10 March, 2012). 43 Al-ʿAhd, 15 March 2013, p. 1. Some Brethren leaders did regard Hadid’s incitement to military jihad as disastrous. Yet, none of the senior leaders openly questioned the legitimacy of Hadid’s call for martyrdom.

9: Hamas Suicide Attacks: Sublime Islamic Goal or Merely Another Weapon? 1 On the birth and political history of Hamas, see Shaul Mishal and Avraham Sela, The Palestinian Hamas: Vision, Violence, and Coexistence (New York: Columbia University Press, 2000); Ziyad Abu Amr, Islamic Fundamentalism in the West Bank and Gaza (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994); Zaki Chehab, Inside Hamas: The Untold Story of Militants, Martyrs and Spies (London: I.B.Tauris, 2007); Beverley Milton-Edwards and Stephen Farrell, Hamas: The Islamic Resistance Movement (Cambridge: Polity, 2010); On Islamic jihad, see Meir Hatina, Islam and Salvation in Palestine (Tel-Aviv: The Moshe Dayan Center, 2001). 2 Al-Islam wa-Filastin, 5 June 1988, pp. 1–15. 3 “Wa-yabqa al-shahid ramzan,” Filastin al-Muslima, May 1989, p. 41. 4 Hamas announcement no. 65, 11 October, 1990. 5 Filastin al-Muslima, December 1990. 6 Ibid., September 1991. 7 http://he.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D7%A4%D7%99%D7%92%D7%95%D7%A2%D7%99_%D7%94%D 7%AA%D7%90%D7%91%D7%93%D7%95%D7%AA_%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A9%D7%A8%D7% 90%D7%9C. 8 http://www.shabak.gov.il/publications/decade/decade22/pages/terror1.aspx. 9 http://www.qassam.org/fatawa/1.htm. 10 Hamas Covenant, August 1988 - http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/hamas.asp. 11 Nidaʾ al-Aqsa (January 1989), p. 8. 12 Hamas Charter. 13 Kuthrani quoted in the Jordanian paper al-Shaʿb, 1 May, 1985.

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Notes to pages 164–174 14 ʿAbd al-Fattah Muhammad al-ʿAwisi, Taswir al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin liʾl-qadiyya al-filastiniyya (Cairo: Dar al-Tawzi wa’l-Nashr al-Islamiyya, 1989), pp. 28–9. See also Meir Litvak, “Palestinian Nationalism and Islam: The Case of Hamas,” Nationalism and Ethnic Politics 2/4 (Winter 1996), pp. 500–22. 15 Hamas Charter, article 22; Filastin al-Muslima, January, April 1990. 16 Hasan al-Banna, “Sinaʿat al-mawt,” al-Nadhir, 26 September, 1938. 17 For an elaborate discussion of this debate, see Meir Hatina, “The ʿUlamaʾ and the Cult of Death in Palestine,” Israel Affairs 12/1 (2006), pp. 29–51. 18 For an analysis of these concepts, see David Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007); G. R. Smith, “Shahāda,” EI 9 (1997), p. 201. 19 Rizqa, “Falsafat al-mudafaʿa”. 20 Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove Press, 1966). 21 “Martyr Operations Carried Out by the Palestinians,” http://www.onislam.net/english/ask-the-scholar/ international-relations-and-jihad/jihad-rulings-and-regulations/174723.html. 22 ʿAbd al-ʿAziz al-Rantisi, “Thaqafat al-shahada,” in al-Shahada wa-makanat al-shuhadaʾ fi filastin (n.p., n.d.): available at http://www.palestine-info.net/arabic/spfiles/suhada 2005/makanat/suhada05.htm. 23 Muhammad al-Qaysi, Khumasiyyat al-mawt wa’l-hayat (Beirut: Dar al-ʿAwda, n.d.), p. 24. 24 Cited in Atef Alshaer, “The Poetry of Hamas,” Middle East Journal of Culture and Communication 2 (2009), p. 225. 25 Ibid., pp. 226–7. 26 Abdelwahab M. Elmessiri, “The Palestinian Wedding:  Major Themes of Contemporary Palestinian Resistance Poetry,” Journal of Palestine Studies 10/3 (Spring 1981), pp. 77–99. 27 For this transformation, see Eli Alshech, “Egoistic Martyrdom and H￵amāsʾ Success in the 2005 Municipal Elections: A Study of H￵amās Martyrs’ Ethical Wills, Biographies, and Eulogies,” Die Welt des Islams 48 (2008), pp. 23–49. 28 On the fragmentation of Islamic religious authority in modern times, see Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina, “Introduction,” in Religious Knowledge, Authority and Charisma: Islamic and Jewish Perspectives, eds D. Ephrat and M. Hatina (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2014), pp. 1–23; also ­chapters 8, 9, 10, 12 of the volume. 29 Al-Ahali, June 28, 1995. 30 Émile Durkheim, On Suicide: A Study in Sociology, trans. by John A. Spaulding and George Simpson (new edn, New York: The Free Press, 1966), mainly pp. 152–276. 31 See also N. Johnson, Islam and the Politics of Meaning in Palestinian Nationalism (London: Kegan Paul International, 1982), pp. 65–87.

10: “Keen on Dying”? Martyrdom in Chechnya from Kunta Hajji to Rustam Gelayev 1 Moshe Gammer, “Why didn’t Dagestan Turn into a Second Chechnya?” in The Russia-Chechnya War, ed. Shaul Shai and Yaakov Roi (Tel-Aviv: Tel-Aviv University, 2003, Hebrew), pp. 21–42; Alexandre Bennigsen and S. Enders Wimbush, Mystics and Commmissars: Sufism in the Soviet Union (London: Hurst, 1985), p. 30. 2 Bennigsen and Wimbush, Mystics and Commissars, p. 2. 3 Sheikh Ragip Robert Frager al Jerrahi, “Introduction,” in Essential Sufism, ed. Robert Frager et al. (San Francisco: Harper, 1999), p. 2. 4 The struggle of Imam Shamil is one case. Another is the resistance to the French invasion of Algeria in 1830, which was led by Sufi orders, Martin Evans, Algeria: France’s Undeclared War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 11–14. See also Moshe Gammer, The Lone Wolf and the Bear: Three Centuries of Chechen Defiance of Russian Rule (London: Hurst and Co., 2006), pp. 18–19; and Moshe Gammer, Muslim Resistance to the Tsar: Shamil and the Conquest of Chechnia and Daghestan (London: Frank Cass, 1994). 5 Yavus Z. Akhmadov, “Kunta Hadji and the Kunta Hadjists: The Kunta-Hadji Chechen Religious Movement,” in Religious Brotherhoods in Chechnya: Their Relevance for the Chechen Conflict, eds

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Notes to pages 174–178 Yavus Z. Akhmadov et al. (Lynchburg: Liberty University. 2000); electronic edition: p://web.archive. org/web/20021231211722/http://www.jmu.edu/orgs/wrni/cs-part7.html; Gammer, The Lone Wolf, Chapter 7. 6 Gammer, The Lone Wolf, p. 109. 7 Yaakov Roi, Islam in the Soviet Union: From the Second World War to Gorbachev (London: Hurst and Co., 2000), pp. 374–5. 8 Emil Suleimanov, An Endless War: The Russian-Chechen Conflict in Perspective (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2007), p. 69. 9 Gammer, The Lone Wolf, pp. 75–6. 10 Radical Muslims in the Caucasus, especially if they are of foreign origin, are known as Wahhabis, named after eighteenth-century revivalist Muhammad b. ‘Abd al-Wahhab. The term Salafis is also used (and may even be better fitting). 11 Vakhit Akhaev, “Religious-Political Conflict in the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria,” (n.d., 2000), Central Asia and Central Caucasus Press AB website, http://www.ca-c.org/dataeng/05.akaev.shtml (accessed 30 September 2013); Vakhit Akhaev, “Islam I Politika na Primerye Chechnii,” in Chechnya: Ot Konflikta k Stabilinostii, eds D. D. Gakaeyv and A. D. Yandrov (Russian; Moskva: Rossiiskaya Akademiiya Naook, 2001), p. 335. 12 Julietta Meskhidze and Mikhail Roschin “Islam v Chechnye,” Russian, Bibilioteka Yakova Krotova, 2004, http://www.krotov.info/history/20/tarabuk/chechn.html. 13 ITAR-TASS, January 6, 1995 (English), 1 February 1995. [Russian]. 14 Sebastian Smith, Allah’s Mountains: The Battle for Chechnya (revised edn, London: I.B.Tauris 2006), p. 135. 15 John C. Dunlop, Russia Confronts Chechnya: Roots of a Separatist Conflict (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 149. 16 PRISM 5(1), June 1995; David Remnick, Resurrection: The Struggle for a New Russia (New York: Random House, 1997), p. 272. 17 Valery Tishkov, Chechnya: Life in a War-Torn Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), p. 169. 18 Anatol Lieven, Chechnya:  Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven:  Yale University Press, 1998), p. 67. 19 Ibid., p. 357. 20 Tzur Sheizaf, interviewed by the author, February 4, 2003. 21 Thomas Goltz, Chechnya Diary:  a War Correspondent’s Story of Surviving the War in Chechnya (New York: Thomas Dunne Books, 2003), p. 119. 22 Tishkov, Chechnya, p. 163. 23 Gammer, The Lone Wolf, p. 214. 24 Bryan Glyn Williams, “Allah’s Foot Soldiers: An Assessment of the Role of Foreign Fighters and Al-Qaʿida in the Chechen Insurgency,” in Ethno-Nationalism, Islam and the State in the Caucasus: Post-Soviet Disorder, ed. Moshe Gammer (New York: Routledge, 2008), pp. 157–8; Yagil Henkin, Either We Win or We Perish: The History of the First Chechen War, 1994–1996 (Tel-Aviv: Maarachot, 2007), pp. 438–42 (Hebrew). 25 According to Maskhadov and his ADC, there were some 80 such volunteers (Paul Tumelty, “The Rise and Fall of Foreign Fighters in Chechnya,” Terrorism Monitor 4/2, 31 January, 2006. http://www.jamestown. org/programs/tm/single/?tx_ttnews%5Btt_news%5D=658&tx_ttnews%5BbackPid%5D=181&no_ cache=1#.UexP9I2pXeM (accessed 30 September, 2013). 26 Paul A. Goble, “Islam Matters in Chechnya – but not the Way Many in Moscow Think,” Prism 1/5, June 1995, http://tinyurl.com/o7pjmhu (accessed 30 September, 2013). 27 Robert Bruce Ware and Enver Kisriev, Dagestan: Russian Hegemony and Islamic Resistance in the North Caucasus (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2010), p. 90. 28 Letter from Moshe Gammer, July 2003. 29 Smith, Allah’s Mountains, p. 26. The contradiction may be artificial: some Islamic schools of thought permitted the consumption of alcohol, as long as it was not grape- or date-based, though most Islamic scholars rejected this interpretation. 30 IPV are the initials of Islamskaiia Partiia Vozrojdeniia. See Moshe Gammer (ed.) The Caspian Region, Vol. 2: The Caucasus (London: Routledge, 2004), p. 190.

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Notes to pages 178–182 31 Ibid., p. 96. 32 Alexei V. Malashenko, “Islam versus Communism,” in Russia’s Muslim Frontiers: New Directions in Cross-Cultural Analysis, ed. Dale F. Eickelman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), pp. 73–5; Malashenko, “Islam and Politics,” pp. 313–14. 33 Khanbabaev, “Islam and Islamic,” pp. 97–8. 34 Ibid., p. 98. 35 Gammer, “Why didn’t Dagestan?,” pp. 31–2. 36 As Moshe Gammer noted, even among the freedom-loving Chechens, many of whom considered accepting Russian rule as “losing one’s manhood and – more important – one’s soul,” most managed to “negotiate their own compromises with reality.” Gammer, The Lone Wolf, pp. 5–7. 37 Barbara Ann J. Riefer-Flanagan, “Religion and Nationalism: Understanding the Consequences of a Complex Relationship,” Ethnicities 3/2 (2003), pp. 225–6. 38 Ibid., p. 229 39 I elaborated on this subject in Henkin, Either We Win, pp. 83–5; Tishkov, Chechnya, p. 79. 40 Goltz, Chechnya Diary, pp. 108–20. 41 Marie Bennigsen-Broxup, Interview with Hussein Iskhanov, 1999, by courtesy of the Small Wars Journal. 42 Smith, Allah’s Mountains, pp. 210–17; Carlota Gall and Thomas de Wall, Chechnya: Calamity in the Caucasus (New York: New York University Press, 1998), pp. 290–302; Henkin, Either we Win, pp. 397–411. 43 Marie Bennigsen-Broxup, Interview with Suliman Bustaev, 1999, by courtesy of the Small Wars Journal. 44 American Islamic Group, 7 June 1995. Available online at http://mashar.free.fr/jihad_mil.htm (accessed 30 September, 2013). 45 Associated Press (AP), 24 April, 1996. 46 Smith, Allah’s Mountains, p. 231. 47 Gall and De Wall, Chechnya, p. 324. 48 Smith, Allah’s Mountains, p. 233. 49 Ibid., p. 236. 50 Vanora Bennet, Crying Wolf: The Return of War to Chechnya (updated edn, London: Pan Macmillan, 2001), p. 531. 51 The vivid memory of the 1944 deportations and other tales of Russian brutality probably played a more important role in the Chechen readiness to fight Russia than religion or nationality per se. Henkin, Either We Win, pp. 206–9. 52 Tishkov, Chechnya, p. 174. 53 On the spread of Wahhabi Islam into the northern Caucasus Chechnya and Dagestan, see Robert B. Ware and Enver Kisriev, Dagestan: Russian Hegemony and Islamic Resistance in the North Caucasus (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 2010), pp. 88–155; and Gammer, The Lone Wolf, pp. 200–18. 54 Timur Muzayev, Chechenskii Krizis – 99: Politiyechkii Protevostoyaniye v Ichkerii – Raddtanovka sil, khronika, fakti (Russian; Moskva: Panorama, 1999), especially Ch. 2 and 3.3. 55 Khattab, “What is Monotheism,” translated and posted on the Chechnya-sl group by Joan Beecher Eichrodt, 1 September 1999, http://groups.yahoo.com/group/chechnya-sl/message/147 (accessed 30 September, 2013). 56 Tishkov, Chechnya, p. 174 57 Vladimir Bobrovnikov, “Mythologizing Sharia Courts in the Post-Soviet North Caucasus,” Leiden University’s International Institute for the Study of Islam in the Modern World (ISIM) Newsletter 5/00, June 2000, p. 25, https://openaccess.leidenuniv.nl/bitstream/handle/1887/11961/newsl_5. pdf?sequence=1 (accessed 30 September, 2013); on Sharʿia courts in the Caucasus, see Walter CominsRichmond, “Legal Pluralism in the Northwest Caucasus: The Role of Sharia Courts,” Religion, State & Society 32/1 (March 2004), pp. 59–73. 58 Muzaev, Chechenskii Krizis, Ch. 1.4.2; and “Chechen President Aslan Maskhadov Fought Wahabi Extremists,” Deadline.Ru, March 3, 2000, trans. Joan Beecher Eichrodt, http://www.naqshbandi.org/ naqshbandi.net/www/haqqani/features/caucasus/news/maskhadov_fought_wahabis.htm (accessed 30 September, 2013).

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Notes to pages 182–185 59 Like Dudayev, Maskhadov condemned the radicals whenever it seemed useful, see: Emil Suleymanov, “Chechnya, Wahhabism and the Invasion of Dagestan,” Middle East Review of International Affairs 9/4 (December 2005), p. 56. 60 JTA, “Around the Jewish World: Chechen Captors Target Jews for Brutal Treatment and Death,” 15 March, 2000, http://www.jta.org/2000/03/15/archive/around-the-jewish-world-chechen-captors-target-jews-for-brutal-treatment-and-death (accessed 30 September 2013). 61 Muzayev, Chechenskii Krizis, Ch. 1.4.1. 62 Suleymanov, “Chechnya,” pp. 48–71. 63 Incidentally, in the first Chechen war the main separatist website, amina.com, had strong national leanings. Its successor, kavkazcenter.com, and its Russian equivalents hold clear radical Islamic views. 64 Yagil Henkin, “From Tactical Terrorism to Holy War: the Evolution of Chechen Terrorism, 1995– 2004,” Central Asian Survey 25/1–2 (2006), pp. 193–203; and Lorenzo Vidino, “The Arab Foreign Fighters and the Sacralization of the Chechen Conflict,” al Nakhala (Spring 2006): http://fletcher. tufts.edu/Al-Nakhlah/Archives/~/media/Fletcher/Microsites/al%20Nakhlah/archives/2006/vidino.ashx (­accessed 30 September, 2013). 65 Tishkov, Chechnya, pp. 97–106 66 Ibid., p. 163. 67 Dennis, Attitudes, pp. 209, 211 (n.55), 216–18. 68 Paul J. Murphy, Allah’s Angels:  Chechen Women in War (Annapolis:  Naval Institute Press, 2010), pp. 10–11. 69 Anne Spekhard and Khapta Akhmedova, “The Making of a Martyr: Chechen Suicide Terrorism,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 29/5 (2006), pp. 1–65. 70 Paris Match, September 1999. 71 Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr.” 72 Faryal Leghari, “Suicide Bombings: The Case in Chechnya,” in Security & Terrorism: Suicide Bombing Operations (Dubai: Gulf Research Center, 2007) pp. 23–4. 73 Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr.” 74 Khava Barayeva was a relative of the infamous Chechen warlord Arbi Barayev. 75 Her alleged words appeared on the radical Islamist Qoqaz.com website, which has since gone offline. An English version can be found at http://www.kavkaz.org.uk/eng/content/2007/03/10/7671.shtml (accessed September 30, 2013). See also Clara Beyler, “Chronology of Suicide Bombings Carried out by Women,” International Institute for Counter-Terrorism (10 February, 2003), http://www.ict.org.il/ Articles/tabid/66/Articlsid/645/Default.aspx (accessed 30 September, 2013). 76 E.g. http://www.answering-christianity.com/sister_hawaa.htm; http://forums.almaghrib.org//show thread.php?t=1903 (accessed September 30, 2013). 77 Quoted in Murphy, Allah’s Angels, p. 9. 78 Zalpa Bersanova, “Sistema tsennosteii Chechentsyev,” 2004, quoted in Francine Banner, “Making Death Visible: Chechen Female Suicide Bombers in an Era of Globalization” (PhD thesis, Arizona State University, 2009), p. 246. 79 Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr.” 80 Murphy, Allah’s Angels, pp. 7–26. In “The Making of a Martyr” Spekhard and Akhmadova paint a more complex picture, in which Chechen women were actually less constrained to traditional roles than generally believed. Moreover, quite a few female suicide bombers were university students, aspiring to become doctors and lawyers; thus, it was women’s role in the fighting that was challenged, and not necessarily their place in society. 81 Available online at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyCDjwpCFdc (accessed 30 September, 2013). 82 Some sources believe the author of the fatwa was Yusuf al-ʿUyayri, a Saudi Al Qaeda ideologue and leader, killed in 2003 (e.g. Alia Brahimi, “Crushed in the Shadows: Why Al Qaeda Will Lose the War of Ideas,” Studies in Conflict and Terrorism 33 (2010), p. 109n50. Others claim the author was Shaykh Abu Omar alSayf (whose full name was Muhammad b. ʿAbdullah b. Sayf al-Tamimi), known as the mufti of the Islamic rebels in Chechnya. This version appeared in some Islamist discussion forums, e.g. http://web.archive. org/web/20110217023817/http://www.ansar1.info/showthread.php?t=19662 (accessed 25 October, 2013); http://alqimmah.info/showthread.php?t=14474&langid=2 (accessed 30 September, 2013). 83 See Philipp Holtmann, Martyrdom, Not Suicide:  The Legality of Hamas’ Bombings in the mid-1990s in Modern Islamic Jurisprudence (Norderstedt:  GRIN Verlag, 2009); also Shmuel Bar, Warrant for

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Terror: The Fatwas of Radical Islam and the Duty to Jihad (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2006), pp. 58–65. Yussuf al Qaradawi, “The Qaradawi Fatwas,” Middle East Quarterly (Summer 2004), pp. 78–80, http://www.meforum.org/646/the-qaradawi-fatwas (accessed 30 September, 2013). “The Islamic Ruling on the Permissibility of Martyrdom Operations: Did Hawa Barayeva Commit Suicide or achieve Martyrdom?” (6 September, 2000). Originally published on Quoqaz.com. An English version is available at http://www.religioscope.com/pdf/martyrdom.pdf (accessed 25 October, 2013); http://alqimmah.info/showthread.php?t=14474&langid=2 (accessed 30 September, 2013). Lebanon’s Shiʿi Hizballah had recruited female suicide bombers some twenty years earlier. See Benjamin T. Acosta, “The Suicide Bomber as Sunni-Shiʿi Hybrid,” Middle East Quarterly (Summer 2010), pp. 13–20, http://www.meforum.org/meq/pdfs/2743.pdf (accessed 7 January, 2014). “Wafa Idris: The Celebration of the First Female Palestinian Suicide Bomber – Part I,” Middle East Media Research Institute (MEMRI) Inquiry & Analysis Series Report, no. 83, 17 February, 2002, http://www.memri.org/report/en/0/0/0/0/0/0/609.htm. Mowaffaq al-Nowaiser, “Khattab, the Man who Died for the Cause of Chechnya,” Arab News, 4 May, 2002. The interview can be found in a number of publications, e.g. in The Voices of the Caucasus Interviews blog, http://thevoiceofthecaucasusinterviews.blogspot.com/2009/01/khattabs-last-interview-2002. html (accessed 5 November, 2013). Khomeini had said, some 20 years earlier: “Either we all become free, or we will go to the greater liberty which is martyrdom … In both cases, victory and success are ours.” Arnon Groiss and Nethanel (Navid) Toobian, The Attitude to the ‘Other’ and to Peace in Iranian School Textbooks and Teachers’ Guides, Center for Monitoring the Impact of Peace (2006), p. 7, http://www.impact-se.org/docs/ reports/Iran/Iran2006.pdf (accessed 5 November, 2013). CNN, “Gunmen release chilling video,” 25 October, 2002, http://archives.cnn.com/2002/WORLD/ europe/10/24/moscow.siege.video/ (accessed 5 November, 2013). Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr.” Ibid.; Anne Spekhard, Talking to Terrorists: Understanding the Psycho-Social Motivations of Militant Jihadi Terrorists, Mass Hostage Takers, Suicide Bombers & Martyrs (Maclean:  Advance Press, 2012), Ch. 3. John Reuter, “Chechnya’s Suicide Bombers: Desperate, Devout, or Deceived?,” American Committee for Peace in Chechnya/Jamestown Foundation, August 2004, http://www.jamestown.org/uploads/ media/Chechen_Report_FULL_01.pdf (accessed 5 November, 2013), pp. 3–4, 24–5. See also Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr”; Henkin, “From Tactical Terrorism to Holy War.” For example, the Dagestanian section of the “Caucasus Emirate” (Imarat Kavkaz), a radical panCaucasian Islamic movement led by Duko Umarov, in Jihadology website, November 2010, http:// jihadology.net/2010/ For another example, dated April 2009, see http://www.watchdog.cz/?show= 000000-000005-000004-000173 (accessed 5 November, 2013). Emil Suleimanov, “Islam as a Uniting and Dividing Force in Chechen Society,” Prague Watchdog, August 13, 2005, http://www.watchdog.cz/?show=000000-000015-000006-000010&lang=1 (accessed 5 November, 2013). Pénélope Larzillière, “Chechnya: Moving toward Islamic Nationalism?,” in The Enigma of Islamic Violence, ed. Amélie Blom, Laetitia Bucaille, and Luis Martinez (New York: Columbia University Press, 2007), p. 100. Spekhard and Ahkmedova, “The Making of a Martyr.” Satista Saidulayev, “Sprositye luchshye, pochemoo ya iitse zhiivaya …” Rossyskaya Gazetta (Russian, 19 September, 2003), http://www.rg.ru/2003/09/19/Sprositeluchshepochemuyaeshejivaya.html. See his obituary on the Ichkeria.info website, “Rustam Gelayev: sin dostoinoyo otsa,” Russian, 1 September, 2012), http://ichkeria.info/index.php/mnenie/10950-rustam-gelaev-syn-dostojnogo-ottsa (accessed 5 November, 2013). Kavkaz Center (Russian), 21 August, 2012, http://www.kavkazcenter.com/russ/content/2012/08/21/ 92613.shtml (accessed 5 November, 2013).

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Notes to pages 187–194 103 Kavkaz Center (Russian), 25 August, 2012, http://www.kavkazcenter.com/russ/content/2012/08/25/ 92687_print.html (accessed 5 November, 2013). 104 Kommersant, 23 August, 2012, http://kommersant.ru/doc/2006638; Georgia Times, 23 August, 2012, http://www.cisnews.org/news/ru/6139-rustam-gelaev-ubiyca-ili-zhertva.html (accessed 5 November, 2013). 105 Gelayev’s mother was Russian.

11: Deobandi Sectarian Militancy and Martyrdom in Pakistan: Appropriation and Transvaluation in Indo-Muslim Traditions of Sacred Sacrifice 1 The organization was originally called Anjuman-e Sipāh-e Sahāba. Because of the unfortunate connotation of the group’s abbreviation in English, the name was changed to Sipāh-e Sahāba Pakistan. All names of persons and parties are spelled following the conventions used by public media in Pakistan. 2 The discussion of suprasectarian identity parallels, as well as builds upon, the analysis presented in Syed Akbar Hyder, Reliving Karbala: Martyrdom in South Asian Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006). The analysis presented here places more emphasis on Panjabi context and on showing the continuity from Panjabi “folk” Islam to Urdu high culture to Indo-Muslim nationalism and later Pakistani national discourse. Accordingly, Akbar’s conclusions about the sociopolitical significance of the appropriation and transvaluation differ from the analysis presented here. 3 Dawn, 29 January, 1991 and 2 February, 1991. 4 Masterfully employing the Sufi concept of self-annihilation, Ghalib’s concluding line can also be interpreted as a statement of self-actualization. The final part of the verse can equally be translated “Should I not exist, so what would I be?”. 5 Quoted in Annemarie Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam (Chapel Hill:  University of North Carolina Press, 1975), p. 76. 6 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 69. 7 The seminal work on Hallaj’s career remains Louis Massignon’s, The Passion of al-Hallaj, trans. Herbert Mason, 4 vols (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982). 8 David Cook, Martyrdom in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 68. 9 William Chittick, The Sufi Path of Love: The Spiritual Teachings of Rumi (Albany: SUNY Press 1983); and Annemarie Schimmel, The Tirumphal Sun: A Study of the Works of Jalaloddin Rumi (Albany: SUNY Press 1993). 10 Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 76. 11 Sajidullah Tafhimi, “Shaykh Sultan Bahu: His Life and Persian Works,” Journal of the Pakistan Historical Society 28/2 (1980), pp. 133–50. 12 Sultan Bahu, Death Before Dying: The Sufi Poems of Sultan Bahu, trans. Jamal J. Elias (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), p. 86. 13 Ibid., p. 94. 14 Quoted in Annemarie Schimmel, “Karbala and the Imam Husayn in Persian and Indo-Muslim Literature,” al-Serat 12 (1986), p.  31. Also accessible through http://www.al-islam.org/al-serat/karbala-schimmel.htm. 15 Muhammad ʿAli Jauhar, Sukhan-e Jauhar, Akhtar Bastavi (Lucknow: Uttar Pradesh Urdu Academy, 1983), p. 31 [Urdu]; The translation is by the present author. For an alternative translation, as well as a discussion of Jauhar’s redefinition of the term Shiʿa, see Hyder, Reliving Karabala, p. 150. 16 On Iqbal’s political and philosophical thought, see in W. C. Smith, Modern Islam in India: A Social Analysis (London: V. Gollancz, 1946). For alternative approaches, see A. Schimmel, Gabriel’s Wing: A Study into the Religious Ideas of Muhammad Iqbal (Leiden: Brill, 1963); and A. Jalal’s Self and Sovereignty: Individual and Community in South Asian Islam since 1850 (London: Routledge, 2000).

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Notes to pages 195–207 17 For an Urdu translation For an English translation, see Arthur J. Arberry, Javid-Nama:Versified English Translation (London: Allen & Unwin, 1966). 18 Arberry, Javid-Nama, verses 2167–168. Hayder is transliterated as Haider in Arberry’s translation 19 Urdu original quoted in Muhammad Iqbal in Shikwa and Jawab-i-Shikwa Complaint and Answer Iqbal’s Dialogue with Allah, trans. Khushwant Singh (Delhi: Oxford University Press), p. 80; translation by author of this article. For an alternative translation, see Singh’s translation below the original Urdu. 20 Translation by the author of this article. The original Urdu with an alternative translation is quoted in Hyder, Reliving Karabala, p. 147. See also Hyder’s discussion, pp. 147–8. 21 Sayyid A. S. Pirzada, The Politics of the Jamiat Ulema-i-Islam 1971–1977 (Karachi: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 9–11. 22 Michaʾel M. Tanchum, “The Constitutional Consequences of the Failure of Intra-Religious Accommodation in Pakistan:  Implications for Religious Liberty in a Religious Nationalist State,” Journal of Law, Religion, and State 2/1 (2013), pp. 22–40. 23 In 2010, the North-West Frontier Province was renamed Khyber Pakhtunkhwa to appease the province’s Pakhtun (Pashtun) majority. 24 For an overview, see Afak Haydar, “The Politicization of the Shias and the Development of the Tehrik-e-Nifaz-e-Fiqh-e-Jafaria in Pakistan,” in Pakistan 1992, ed. Charles H.  Kennedy (Boulder: Westview Press, 1993), pp. 75–93. 25 On the Ahmadiyya see, Yohanan Friedman, Prophecy Continuous: Aspects of Ahmadi Religious Thought and its Medieval Background (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989). 26 Tanchum, “The Constitutional Consequences.” 27 Mumtaz Ahmad, “Revivalism, Islamization, Sectarianism, and Violence in Pakistan,” in Pakistan: 1997, ed. C. Baxter and C. H. Kennedy (Boulder: Westview Press, 1998), p. 109. 28 Keramat is a thaumaturgic event associated with religious figures who achieved a high level of proximity or intimacy with the Divine. They were most commonly associated with Sufi masters. See Simon Digby, “To Ride a Tiger or a Wall? Strategies of Prestige in Indian Sufi Legend,” in According to Tradition:  Hagiographical Writing in India, ed. W.  C. Smith and Rupert Snell (Wiesbaden:  Otto Harrassowitz Verlag, 1994), pp. 99–130. See also Meir Hatina’s chapter in this volume. 29 Dawn, 11–13 January, 1991. 30 Ziaur Rehman Farooqi, Khilafat-e Rashida 5/5 (Faisalabad, October 1992), p. 6. 31 On the spread of sectarian conflict to Karachi, see Newsline (September 1994), pp. 24–34. 32 Z. Abbas, “Brothers in Arms,” The Herald (Karachi, March 1995), p. 36b. 33 ʿAzam Tariq would serve in the post of amir until Tariq’s own murder in 2003. 34 Human Rights Watch, Afghanistan: Massacre in Mazar-i Sharif, Human Rights Watch Report (November 1998) http://www.hrw.org/reports98/afghan/ 35 Dawn 8–19 August, 1998, The Taliban at first denied any knowledge of the diplomats’ whereabouts. 36 Pakistan Times, 15 August, 1998; Dawn, 21 August, 1998. 37 Ziaur Rehman Farooqi, Sipāh-e Sahāba kiya hai? Kiya chahti hai?, n.p., n.d., back cover. 38 Ibid.

12: The Other ʿAshuraʾ: The Martyrdom of Fatima in Contemporary Shiʿi Discourse 1 According to the Qum-based “National Center for Answers for Religious Questions” Fatima’s martyrdom should be observed for six days: the first fatimiyya from 13 to 15 of Jumada al-’Uwla (the fifth month in Islamic calendar) and the second fatimiyya from 3–5 of Jumada al-Thaniya (the sixth month in Islamic calendar). Regardless, the fatimiyya is officially celebrated in the Islamic Republic for five days. It is important to note that Shiʿi Iranians tend to pronounce it as fatimiyyeh whereas among Shiʿi Arabs it is known as al-fatimiyya. 2 See, for instance, photos of the exhibition held in Tehran in April 2013 (the exhibition has been held nationwide since 2008)  http://www.abuzariyon.ir/gallery/63 (accessed June 15, 2013); sermonic gatherings of ʿAlevis in Turkey, recounting Fatima’s narrative of death in Kabir Tambar, “Iterations of Lament: Anachronism and Affect in a Shiʿi Islamic Revival in Turkey,” American Ethnologist 38/3

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Notes to pages 207–212 (August 2011), pp. 484–500; a sermon titled “The Tragedy of Sayeda Al-Zahra-Shaikh Humam Nassereddine,” held in Imam Hussein Charitable Foundation, Windsor, Ontario, Canada, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSwQ-b3gIOE; and reports of al-fatimiyya observance in Pakistan, IRIB, 14 April, 2013. 3 Denise Louise Soufi, “The Image of Fatima in Classical Muslim Thought” (PhD Dissertation; Princeton University, 1997), pp. 1–2. 4 Ruth Roded, Women in the Islamic Biographical Collections: From Ibn Saʿd to Who’s Who (London: Lynne Rienner, 1994), p. 23. 5 Ruth E. Rowe, “Lady of the Women of the Worlds: Exploring Shiʿi Piety and Identity Through a Consideration of Fatima Al-Zahra” (MA thesis; Arizona: University of Arizona, 2008), pp. 7, 152. 6 Laura Veccia Vaglieri, “Fatimah,” EI2 2 (1991), pp. 841–50. 7 Matthew Pierce, “Remembering Fatimah:  New Means of Legitimizing Female Authority in Contemporary Shiʿi Discourse,” in Women, Leadership, and Mosques:  Changes in Contemporary Islamic Authority, ed. Masooda Bano and Hilary Kalmbach (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 348, 351. 8 Roxanne L. Euben and Muhammad Qasim Zaman (ed.), Princeton Readings in Islamist Thought: Texts and Contexts from al-Banna to Bin Laden (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), p. 392n1. 9 See for instance a collection of video clips referring to the Shiʿi-Sunni divide over Fatima’s martyrdom: “Omar m’a Tuer: L’histoire d’un homme accusé injustement de meurtre,” http://www.chiite.fr/martyr_­ fatima.html (accessed June 15, 2013); and “Phase the incident of the door and Fatima and ʿUmar b. al-Khattab and ʿAli b. Abi Talib,” part 1–5, http://youtube.com/watch?v=0qeLVseftUw (accessed 15 June, 2013). 10 Lara Vagliery in “Fatima,” notes that among Twelver Shiʿa believers, even in the most fantastic accounts of “the Fatima of legend,” Fatima almost always links with “the Fatima of history,” whereas some Ismaili accounts tend to be far more esoteric. 11 Haggay Ram, “Mythology of Rage: Representations of the ‘Self ’ and the ‘Other’ in Revolutionary Iran,” History and Memory 8/1 (Spring–Summer 1996), p. 69. 12 Rowe, Lady of the Women of the Worlds, pp. 43, 85–6. 13 Soufi, The Image of Fatima, p. 127. 14 Vinay Khetia, “Fatima as a Motif of Contention and Suffering in Islamic Sources” (MA thesis; Montreal, Concordia University, 2013), pp. 60–3. 15 Soufi, The Image of Fatima, pp. 191–2. 16 The Position of Women from the Viewpoint of Imam Khomeini, trans. by Juliana Shaw and Behrooz Arezoo (Tehran: Institute for Compilation of Imam Khomeini’s Works, 2001), p. 10. 17 Firoozeh Kashani-Sabet, “Who is Fatima? Gender, Culture, and Representation in Islam,” Journal of Middle East Women’s Studies 1 /2 (May 2005), p. 4. 18 Kamran Scot Aghaei, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shiʿi Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Seattle: the University of Washington Press, 2004), pp. 118–22. 19 Farhad Khosrokhavar, “Toward an Anthropology of Democratization in Iran,” Critique:  Critical Middle Eastern Studies 9/16 (2000), p. 8. 20 See, for instance, the category of women martyrs on the website of the Iranian department of research and cultural relations of the Foundation of Martyrs and Veterans Affairs: http://www.navideshahed. com/fa (accessed 12 July, 2013). 21 Tabnak News (27 April, 2010) http://www.tabnak.ir/fa/news/95427 (accessed 12 July, 2013) 22 Ziba Mir-Hosseini, “Sexuality, Rights and Islam: Competing Gender Discourses in Post-Revolutionary Iran,” in Women in Iran from 1800 to the Islamic Republic, eds Guity Nashat and Lois Beck (UrbanaChampaign: University of Illinois Press, 2004), p. 204. 23 Valentine M. Moghadam, “Islamic Feminism and Its Discontent: Toward a Resolution of the Debate,” Signs 27/4 (2002), pp. 1139–40. 24 Mehrangiz Kar and Homa Hoodfar, “Women and Personal Status Law in Iran: An Interview with Mehrangiz Kar,” Middle East Report 198 (January–March 1996), pp. 36–7. 25 Rola el-Husseini, “Women, Work, and Political Participation in Lebanese Shiʿa Contemporary Thought: The Writings of Ayatollahs Fadlallah and Shams al-Din,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 28/2 (2008), p. 273. 26 See for instance Liora Hendelman-Baavur, “Iran Bans “Women”: the Shutting Down of Zanan,” Iran Pulse no. 21 (15 April 2008), http://humanities.tau.ac.il/iranian/en/previous-reviews/10-iran-pulse-en/106–21. 27 Ziba Mir-Hosseini, “The Conservative-Reformist Conflict over Women’s Rights,” International Journal of Politics Culture and Society 16/1 (Fall 2002), pp. 37–8.

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Notes to pages 212–217 28 Soufi, The Image of Fatima, p.  199. In his monograph Fadak fi’l-tarikh (“Fadak in History”), first published in 1955, the Iraqi Shiʿi cleric Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr presented Fatima as a revolutionary figure, who overcame her physical weaknesses by the courage with which she confronted the injustice shown to the Prophet’s family after his death. Mohammad Baqir as-Sadr, Fadak in History (Qum: Ansariyan, 2012). 29 Kashani-Sabet, “Who is Fatima?,” pp. 11, 20. 30 For further discussions on Fatima in Shariʿati’s monograph, see Marcia K. Hermansen, “Fatima as a Role Model in the Works of ʿAli Shariʿati,” in Women and Revolution in Iran, ed. Guity Nashat (Boulder: Westview Press, 1983), pp. 78–85; Kashani-Sabet, “Who is Fatima?,” pp. 13–19; Pierce, “Remembering Fatimah,” pp. 353–6. 31 Murtada Mutahhari, “Shahid,” in Jihad and Shahadat: Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam, ed. Mehdi Abedi and Gary Legenhausen (Houston: Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986), pp. 137–8. 32 The Position of Women from the Viewpoint of Imam Khomeini, p. 23. 33 Soufi, The Image of Fatima, p. 152. 34 On Khomeini’s policy toward women and its legal implementations, see for instance Alison E. Graves, “Women in Iran: Obstacles to Human Rights and Possible Solutions”, Journal of Gender and the Law 5 (Fall 1996), pp. 57–92. 35 Suzanne Evans, Mothers of Heroes, Mothers of Martyrs: World War I and the Politics of Grief (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2007), pp. 31–2. 36 Peter J. Chelkowski, “Iconography of the Women of Karbala: Tiles, Murals, Stamps, and Posters,” in The Women of Karbala, ed. Kamran Scot Aghaie (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005), p. 134. 37 Faʾegheh Shirazi, “The Islamic Republic of Iran and Women’s Images: Masters of Exploitation,” in Muslim Women in War and Crisis: Representation and Reality, ed. F. Shirazi (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2010), pp. 134, 113. 38 Rola el-Husseini, “Women, Work, and Political Participation,” p. 275. 39 Lara Deeb, “Living Ashura in Lebanon: Mourning Transformed to Sacrifice,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 25/1 (2005), pp. 122–37. 40 Lara Deeb, “Emulating and/or Embodying the Ideal: The Gendering of Temporal Frameworks and Islamic Role Models in Shiʿi Lebanon,” American Ethnologist 36/2 (May 2009), p. 252. 41 Monir Gorji and Massumeh Ebtekar, “The Life and Status of Fatima Zahra: a Woman’s Image of Excellence,” Farzaneh 3/8 (Winter 1997), pp. 7–19. The journal Farzaneh was published since 1993 until it was banned by the authorities in 2000. 42 Gorji, the sole female member of the postrevolutionary Majlis-e Khobregan (The assembly of experts) and Ebtekar, the editor and license holder of the quarterly, and former vice-president in charge of environmental affairs under the reformist government of Khatami. Kashani-Sabet, “Who is Fatima?,” p. 2. 43 Haideh Moghissi, “Public Life and Women’s Resistance,” in Iran after the Revolution: Crisis of An Islamic State, eds Saeed Rahnema and Sohrab Behdad (London: I.B.Tauris, 1996), pp. 266–7n25;; Roja Fazaeli, “Contemporary Iranian Feminisms: Definitions, Narratives, and Identity,” in Selfdetermination and Women’s Rights in Muslim Societies, eds Chitra Raghavan and James P. Levine (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England, 2012), p. 277. 44 “Iran: Ayatollah Supports Women’s Right to Inheritance and Abortion,” Payvand (18 February 2008), http://payvand.com/news/08/feb/1170.html (accessed 12 July, 2013). 45 Pierce, “Remembering Fatimah, p. 357. 46 Shariʿati, Fatima is Fatima (Tehran: Shariati Foundation, 1983), p. 157. 47 Naser Makarem Shirazi, Hazrat Zahra and the Heart Rending Episode of Fadak (n.p.: Neba Cultural Organization, n.d.), p. 6 in: http://www.al-islam.org/zahra/ (accessed 12 July, 2013). 48 George William Warner, “Tragedy, History, and the Sacred: The Hujjah of Fatimat al-Zahra’,” Journal of Shi’a Islamic Studies 4/2 (Spring 2011), p. 159. 49 Gorji and Ebtekar, “The Life and Status of Fatima Zahra.” 50 Sadr, Fadak in History, p. 25. 51 Shirazi, Hazrat Zahra. 52 Those who assert that the Fadak was a donation indicate Fatima’s representatives were dispelled and the land was confiscated by force, see, for instance Mahdi Jafari, The Life Story and Martyrdom of Hazrate Fatemeh, trans. by Farid Mohammadi (Qum: Ansariyan, 2008), p. 31.

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Notes to pages 217–227 53 Baqir Shareef al-Qurashi, The Life of Fatima az-Zahra: the Principal of all Women: Study and Analysis, trans. by Abdullah al-Shahin (Qum: Ansariyan Publications, 2006), pp. 227–36. 54 Sadr, Fadak in History, pp. 46–9. 55 Shirazi, Hazrat Zahra, pp. 9–10. 56 See the Public Library of the Holy Shrine of Imam Husayn, “Ahlul-bait PBUH\ Imam Ali,” http:// imamhussein-lib.com/en/pages/Ahlulbait.php (accessed 24 May, 2013). 57 Khetia, Fatima as a Motif of Contention and Suffering, pp. 69–70. 58 “On the Martyrdom of Fatima al-Zahra” on the website of the World Foundation of Muhammad Shirazi, see http://imamshirazi.com/fatimiyyah.html (accessed 12 July, 2013). 59 Jafari, The Life Story and Martyrdom of Hazrate Fatemeh, pp. 27–8. 60 For different versions of this episode, with references, see for instance al-Qurashi, The Life of Fatima, pp. 217–22; Soufi, The Image of Fatima, pp. 83–6, 88–90. 61 Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah, Fatima Ma‘sumah: A Role Model for Men and Women (London: Al-Bakir Cultural & Social Center, 2012), p. 62. 62 Ja‘far Murtada al-ʻAmili, Tragedy of al-Zahra’: Doubts Cast and Rebuttals, trans. by Yasin T. al-Jibouri (Beirut: Imam Hussein Foundation, n.d.), online at http://almujtaba.com/books/tragedy (accessed 12 July, 2013). 63 For further reading, see Oliver Roy, “The Crisis of Religious Legitimacy in Iran,” The Middle East Journal 53/2 (Spring 1999), pp. 201–16. 64 Stephan Rosiny, “The Tragedy of Fatima Al-Zahra’ in the Debate of Two Shiite Theologians in Lebanon,” in The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History, eds Rainner Brunner and Wener Ende (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 207–19. 65 Roschanack Shaery-Eisenlohr, “Imagining Shiʿite Iran: Transnationalism and Religious Authenticity in the Muslim World,” Iranian Studies 40/1 (2007), pp. 17, 23. 66 El-Husseini, “Women,” pp. 275, 281. 67 Rosiny, “The Tragedy of Fatima Al-Zahra,” pp. 218–19. 68 Baztab-e Emruz (13 April, 2013) http://archive.baztab.net/fa/news/25055 (accessed 12 July, 2013). 69 Al-Fatimiyya, 2 (London: the World Ahlul-Bayt Islamic League, n.d.), p. 4; “Fatimiyyeh ‘Ashuraei digari tabdil shod,” on the official website of Grand Ayatollah Javad Tabrizi, posted online on 4 May, 2011 http://fa.tabrizi.org/1390/02/14/fatemyeh (accessed 12 July, 2013). 70 Soufi, The Image of Fatima, p. 111. 71 Kashani-Sabet, “Who is Fatima?,” p. 3. 72 Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala, p. xi. 73 David I. Kertzer, “The Role of Ritual in State-Formation,” in Religious Regimes and State-Formation: Perspectives from European Ethnology, ed. Eric R. Wolf (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), p. 86. 74 Aghaei asserts that religious symbols and rituals (like the ones associated with Karbalaʼ) deeply influenced the fortunes of the modern Iranian state, whereas the state itself was a less important factor in the evolution of these rituals. Aghaei, The Martyrs of Karbala.

13: Martyrdom, Shiʿa Islam, Taʿziya: Political Symbolism in Shiʿa Islam 1 William O. Beeman, “Iran’s Religious Regime: What Makes it Tick? Will it Ever Run Down?,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 483 (1986) pp. 73–83; and The “Great Satan” vs. the “Mad Mullahs:” How the United States and Iran Demonize Each Other (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008). 2 Ivar J. Lassy, The Moharram Mysteries among the Azerbaijan Turks of Caucasia (Helsingfors: Lilius and Hertzberg, 1916). 3 Jean Calmard, “Le mécénat des représentations de ta’ziyè. 2: Les débuts du règne de Nâseroddin Chah,” Le monde iranian et l’Islam: société et cultures 4 (1976–77), pp. 133–62. See also Peter J. Chelkowski, Taʽziyeh: Ritual and Drama in Iran (New York: New York University Press, 1978); and William O. Beeman, Iranian Performance Traditions (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2011).

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Notes to pages 228–245 4 Thomas Martin Reckford, “Chant in Popular Iranian Shiʿism” (PhD dissertation, University of California at Los Angeles, 1987). 5 Reinhold Loeffler, Islam in Practice (Albany: SUNY Press, 1988). 6 Beeman, “Iran’s Religious Regime,” pp. 73–83. 7 Michael McFaul, Abbas Milani, and Larry Diamond, “A Win-Win U.S. Strategy for Dealing with Iran,” The Washington Quarterly 30/1 (2006), pp. 121–38. 8 See Yitzhak Nakash, The Shiʿis of Iraq (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003); and Juan Ricardo Cole, Sacred Space and Holy War: The Politics, Culture and History of Shiʿite Islam (London: I.B.Tauris, 2002). 9 Michael M. J. Fischer and Mehdi Abedi, Debating Muslims: Cultural Dialogues in Postmodernity and Tradition (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1990). 10 cf. Said Amir Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam: Religion, Political Order, and Societal Change in Shiʿite Iran from the Beginning to 1890 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984); Rudi Mathee, “Safavid Dynasty,” Encyclopedia Iranica Online. http://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/ safavids, 2008; Andrew J. Newman, Safavid Iran: Rebirth of a Persian Empire (London: I.B.Tauris, 2006). 11 Said Amir Arjomand, The Turban for the Crown:  The Islamic Revolution in Iran (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 1989). 12 William O. Beeman, “Elections and Governmental Structure in Iran: Reform Lurks Under the Flaws,” Brown Journal of World Affairs 11/1(Summer/Fall 2004), pp. 55–68. 13 Beeman, The “Great Satan” vs. the “Mad Mullahs”; William O. Beeman, “US-Iran Relations: Mutually Assured Estrangement,” in Iran Foreign Policy since 2001: Alone in the World, eds Thomas Juneau and Sam Razavi (London: Routledge, 2013), pp. 196–207. 14 Beeman, The “Great Satan” vs. the “Mad Mullahs.”

14: Warrior Saints: ʿAbadallah ʿAzzamʾs Reflections on Jihad and Karamat 1 Felice Lifshitz, “Beyond Positivism and Genre: ‘Hagiographical’ Texts as Historical Narrative,” Viator 25 (1994), pp. 95–113; also Thomas Head, Hagiography and the Cult of Saints (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 2 Aviad Kleinberg, Flesh Made Word: Saints’ Stories and the Western Imagination (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008), pp. 1–8; Vincent J. Cornell, Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1998), p. 63; F. D. Barnes, “Charisma and Religious Leadership: An Historical Analysis,” in Magic, Witchcraft, and Religion: An Anthropological Study of the Supernatural, eds C. A. Lehman and M. E. James (Palo Alto and London: Mayfield Publishing Company, 1985), pp. 94–104. 3 Kleinberg, Flesh Made Word; Stephen Wilson, “Introduction,” in Wilson (ed.), Introduction to Saints and their Cults, pp.  1–53; Thomas Head (ed.), Medieval Hagiography:  An Anthology (New  York: Routledge, 2001). 4 On Hasidic hagiography see Ada Rapoport-Albert, “Hagiography with Footnotes: Edifying Tales and the Writing of History in Hasidism,” History and Theory 27 (1988), pp. 119–59; Joseph Dan, The Teachings of Hasidism (New York: Behrman House, 1982), mainly pp. 1–37, 71–100; Gedalyah Nigal, Magic, Mysticism and Hasidism: The Supernatural in Jewish Thought (Northvale, NJ: Jason Aronson, 1994), pp. 1–31. Unlike Christianity (and, to a large extent, Islam), Jewish hagiography of the Middle Ages did not encourage pilgrimages to the graves of holy figures. Esteem for them was expressed mainly in ceremonies.  5 The manaqib hagiographic genre focused in the earliest period of Islam primarily on religious devotion and the spiritual and ethical attributes (such as asceticism) of the holy person. Only later, especially from the eighteenth century onward, were miraculous deeds (karamat) elevated, creating a close relationship between manaqib literature and miracles. On Islamic hagiography, see C. H. Pellat, “Manaqib,” EI 6 (1991), pp. 349–57; Eric Geoffroy, Le Soufisme en Egypte et en Syrie sous les derniers Mamelouks et les premiers Ottomans (Damascus:  Institut français d’études arabes de Damas,

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Notes to pages 245–249 1995), pp. 29–38; John Renard, Friends of God: Islamic Images of Piety, Commitment, and Servanthood (Berkeley:  University of California Press, 2008), mainly pp.  1–9, 240–6; Daphna Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, Leaders in Piety: Sufis and the Dissemination of Islam in Medieval Palestine (Cambridge: Harvard Center for Middle Eastern Studies, 2008), mainly pp. 1–14. 6 See Aviad Kleinberg, Prophets in their Own Country (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1992), mainly ­chapters 1–3; Ephrat, Spiritual Wayfarers, pp. 43–4; 133–6; Daniella Talmon-Heller, “ʿIlm, Shafāʿah and Barakah: The Resources of Authority of Ayyubid and Early Mamluk ʿUlamaʾ,” Mamluk Studies Review 13/2 (2009), pp. 1–23. 7 On the culture of martyrdom in the three monotheistic creeds, see Meir Hatina, Martyrdom in Modern Islam: Piety, Power and Politics (Cambridge, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2014), Chapters 1–2. 8 Samuel Klausner, “Martyrdom,” The Encyclopedia of Religion 9 (1987), pp. 233–8; Eugene Weiner and Anita Weiner, The Martyr’s Conviction: A Sociological Analysis (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1990), mainly pp. 13–24. 9 Hatina, Martyrdom in Modern Islam, Chapter 6. 10 On ʿAzzam’s accounts, see Husni Adham Jarrar, al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam: rajul daʿwa wa-madrasat jihad (Amman: Dar al-Diyaʾ, 1990); Hazim al-Amin, al-Salafi al-yatim: al-wajh al-filastini li’l-jihad al-ʿalami wa’l-qaʿida (Beirut: Dar al-Saqi, 2011), Chapter 2; Sirat ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam (Peshawar: Markaz al-Shahid ʿAzzam, n.d.); Andrew McGregor, “ ‘Jihad and the Rifle Alone’: ʿAbdullah ʿAzzam and the Islamist Revolution,” The Journal of Conflict Studies 33/2 (Fall 2003), pp. 92–113. 11 On the concepts of karamat and baraka, see L. Gardet, “Karama,” EI 4 (1997), p. 616. On the debate it aroused in earlier periods, see Jonathan Brown, “Faithful Dissenters: Sunni Skepticism about the Miracles of Saints,” Journal of Sufi Studies 1 (2012), pp. 123–68. 12 On the Salafi-Sufi encounter in the scholarly literature, see Itzchak Weismann, “Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism,” Der Islam 86 (2011), pp. 142–70. 13 ʿAzzam’s books: Fi’l-Jihad, adab wa-ahkam (n.p.: Matbuʿat al-Jihad, 1987); Iʿlan al-Jihad (Pashawar: Maktab Khidmat al-Mujahidun, 1990); Fi’l-Jihad: fiqh wa-ijtihad (Pashawar: Maktab Khidmat alMujahidun, n.d.). 14 On the modern Shiʿi discourse of martyrdom, see M. Abedi and G. Legenhausen (ed.), Jihad and Shahadat: Struggle and Martyrdom in Islam (Houston: The Institute for Research and Islamic Studies, 1986); Murtaza Mutahhari, Jihad: The Holy War of Islam and its Legitimacy in the Qurʾan, trans. Mohammad S. Tawhidi (Tehran: Department of Translation and Publication, 1998); Assaf Moghadam, “Mayhem, Myths, and Martyrdom: The Shiʿa Conception of Jihad,” Terrorism and Political Violence 19 (2007), pp. 125–43. See also Meir Litvak’s chapter in this volume. 15 Extracts from two lectures delivered by ʿAbdullah ʿAzzam: www.almeshkat.net/vb/archive/index. php/t-16962.html (accessed 24 May, 2010); and www.yzeeed.com/vb/showthread.php?t=1827 (accessed 24 May, 2010). For the English version, titled: “Martyrs: The Building Blocks of Nations,” see www.religioscope.com/info/doc/jihad/azzam_martyrs.htm (accessed 24 May, 2010); also ʿAzzam’s article, “al-Tasmim ʿala al-mawt,” al-Jihad 34 (September 1987), p. 3. 16 ʿAzzam, “Martyrs: The Building Blocks of Nations.” 17 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman fi jihad al-Afghan (Lahur: Ittihad al-Talaba al-Muslimin, 1983); and, ʿUshshaq al-hur, in www.4shared.com/dir/dEglkHus/_online.html (accessed 5 May, 2011). Some of these stories also appeared in video clips in which ʿAzzam explains their essence and importance. See, ʿAzzam, “Miracles in Jihad and the Way are they Growing,” in: http://youtube.com/watch?v=OgRHZdCHTfM (accessed 2 September, 2013). 18 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 69–107; see also ʿAzzam, ʿUshshaq al-hur, pp. 321–2, 344–5 (these and other examples of stories are taken from the online version cited in note 17). 19 On angels as a fundamental element of Islamic belief and thought, see Stephen Burge, Angels in Islam (London: Routledge, 2011). 20 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 78–9; Muhammad b. Ahmad al-Qurtubi, al-Jamiʿ li-ahkam al-quʾran (2nd edn, Cairo: Dar al-Kutub al-Misriyya, 1964), vol. 4, p. 194. 21 Notably, birds were linked to miraculous events in the Qurʾan, as can be seen for example in 105:1–5 as they played a crucial role in repelling the army of the Ethiopian ruler of Yemen, Abraha, who invaded Mecca around 570 (the year of the birth of the Prophet). 22 For these and other stories, see ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 76–95, 104–7. 23 Ibid., pp. 98–9.

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Notes to pages 250–256 Ibid., pp. 95–100; ʿAzzam, ʿUshshaq al-hur, pp. 5, 77 Suzanne Evans, “The Scent of a Martyr,” Numen 49/2 (2002), pp. 199–211. ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 84–5. ʿAzzam, “Miracles in Jihad.” Scott Kugle, Sufis and Saints’ Bodies:  Mysticism, Corporeality and Sacred Power in Islam (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2007), mainly pp. 1–42. 29 Meir Hatina, “Martyrs as Preachers: Altruistic Death and Moral Authority,” in Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma: Islamic and Jewish Perspectives, eds Daphna Ephrat and Meir Hatina (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2014), pp. 184–5; Eli Alshech, “The Rise of a Charismatic Mujahid: The Salafi-Jihadi Quest for Authority,” ibid., pp. 162–5. 30 ʿAzzam, ʿUshshaq al-hur. 31 See also Renard, Friends of God, Chapters 6, 7; Ephrat, Spritual Wayfarers, pp. 8–11. 32 For examples of the piety of the martyrs, see ʿAzzam, ʿUshshaq al-hur, pp. 7–9, 13, 18–20, 23–4, 30–3, 85–6, 285–91, 294–6, 299–300, 397–9, 464–7, 521–5. 33 Ibid., pp. 5, 20–3, 58–9, 311–15. 34 On the concept of wilaya, awliyaʾ, see Renard, Friends of God; Bernd Radtke, “Wali,” EI 11 (2002), pp. 109–12; The Concept of Sainthood in Early Islamic Mysticism: Two Works by al-Hakim al-Tirmidhi, annotated translation with introduction by Bernd Radtke and John O’Kane (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1996). 35 On the concept of tawhid and its prominence in Wahhabi and Salafi-Jihadi discourse, see Esther Peskes, “The Wahhabiyya and Sufism in the Eighteenth Century,” in Islamic Mysticism Contested, eds F. De Jong and Bernd Radtke (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 145–61; Mustafa Kabha and Haggai Erlich, “alAhbash and the Wahhabiyya – Interpretations of Islam,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 38 (2006), pp. 519–38; ʿAbd Allah Salih al-ʿUthaymin, Muhammad ibn ʿAbd al-Wahhab: The Man and His Works (London: I.B.Tauris, 2009), pp. 114–20; Joas Wagemakers, A Quietist Jihadi: The Ideology and Influence of Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 4–5, 61–2, 66–8, 169–74. 36 Later editions of Ayat al-Rahman are the fifth edition al-Jamiʿa, 1985, pp. 5–7; online version http:// www.4shared.com/get/7r3AnVow/_.html, pp. 1–3 (accessed 7 July, 2012). 37 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 3–4, 15–20, 71. 38 Ibid., p. 71. 39 Ibid., pp. 17–18; also see later online edition in: http://www.4shared.com/get/7r3AnVow/_.html, p. 3; ʿAzzam, Jihad shaʿb muslim (n.p., n.d.), pp. 28, 36–7; ʿAzzam, Fi’l-Jihad, adab wa-ahkam, pp. 93–5. 40 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, pp. 25–30. 41 Ibid., pp. 4, 20–1, 71. 42 Ibid., pp. 4–5, 6–14. 43 Ibid., pp. 20–4, 45–67; also later online edition at: http://www.4shared.com/get/7r3AnVow/_.html., pp. 2–3. 44 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, p. 21; Ibn Taymiyya, al-Furqan byna awliyaʾ al-rahman wa-awliyaʾ al-shaytan (Damascus: Maktabat Dar al-Bayan, 1985), p. 166. Ibn Taymiyya’s opinion on karamat, as well as on the Sufi concept of walaya or sainthood, reveals an increasingly complex attitude than previously assumed in the literature. See, for instance, George Maqdisi, “Ibn Taymiyya: A Sufi of the Qadiriyya Order,” American Journal of Arabic Studies 1 (1974), pp. 118–29; A. H. Ansari, “Ibn Taymiyah’s Criticism of Sufism,” Islam and the Modern Age 15/3 (1984), pp. 147–56; Diego R. Sarrio, “Spiritual Anti-Elitism: Ibn Taymiyya’s Doctrine of Sainthood (walaya),” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 22/3 (July 2011), pp. 275–91. 45 ʿAzzam, Ayat al-Rahman, p. 68. 46 Ibid., p. 4. 47 Jarar, al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, pp. 136, 193–231. 48 ʿAzzam’s will was published in al-Mujtamaʿ (Kuwait), 16 July 1989, pp. 16–19, and reprinted in Jarrar, al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, pp. 137–44. 49 Jarar, al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, pp. 281–3. 50 Ibid., p. 284. 51 Ibid., pp. 284, 286. 52 Ibid., pp. 284–6. 24 25 26 27 28

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Notes to pages 256–259 53 On contested religious authority in modern Islam, see Olivier Roy, Globalised Islam: The Search for a New Ummah (London: Hurst and Co., 2004), pp. 158–71; Patrick D. Gaffney, The Prophet’s Pulpit: Islamic Preaching in Contemporary Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke, “Introduction,” in Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies, ed. G. Krämer and S. Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2006), pp. 1–14; Ephrat and Hatina (ed.), Religious Knowledge, Authority, and Charisma, Part 3, which also includes the Jewish perspective. For the martyr as cultural agent, see Hatina, “Martyrs as Preachers.” 54 See note 14 above; also Kamran S. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shii Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Washington, D.C.:  University of Washington Press, 2004), Chapters  6, 7, 8; Roxanne Varzi, Warring Souls: Youth, Media, and Martyrdom in Post-revolutionary Iran (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006), Chapters 2, 3. 55 Hala Jaber, Hizballah: Born with a Vengeance (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), pp. 75–88; Martin Kramer, “The Moral Logic of Hizballah,” in Origins of Terrorism, ed. W. Reich (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 143–47; Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah, Kitab al-jihad (Beirut: Dar al-Malak, 1996), pp. 185–210; Naʿim Qasim, Hizbullah: The Story from Within (London: Dar alSaqi, 2005), pp. 34–69. 56 See also David Cook’s chapter in this volume. 57 See Litvak’s chapter in this volume; also Nader Nazemi, “Sacrifice and Authorship: A Compendium of the Wills of Iranian War Martyrs,” Iranian Studies 30 (1997), pp. 263–71. 58 Moreover, in Shiʿi discourse the mujahidun did not acquire a status equal to that of the jurists (fuqahaʾ). Rather, they were essentially subordinate to the authority of these scholars, based on Khomeini’s concept of the rule of the jurist. Hamid Algar, Islam and Revolution: Writings and Declarations of Imam Khomeini (Berkeley: Mizan Press, 1981), pp. 40–54. 59 Alshech, “The Rise of a Charismatic Mujahid”; Hatina, Martyrdom in Modern Islam, Chapter 7. 60 Weismann, “Modernity from Within”; Kabha and Erlich, “al-Ahbash and the Wahhabiyya,” pp. 519–38; Hakan Yavuz, “The Matrix of Modern Turkish Islamic Movements: The Naqshbandi Sufi Order,” in Naqshbandis in Western and Central Asia: Change and Continuity, ed. E. Özdalga (Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, 1999), pp. 129–46; Marc Sedgwick, “In Search of a Counter-Reformation: Anti-Sufi Stereotypes and the Budshishiyya’s Response,” in An Islamic Reformation, eds M. Browers and C. Kurzman (Lanham, MD.: Lexington Books, 2004), pp. 133–41; R. Geaves, M. Dressler and G. Klinkhammer (eds), Sufis in Western Society: Global Network and Locality (London: Routledge, 2009).

15: Tales from the Crypt: Jihadi Martyr Narratives for Online Recruitment 1 For an introduction to the jihadist presence on Twitter and the social media strategy deployed since the outbreak of violence in Syria, see Ali Fisher and Nico Prucha, “Jihadi Twitter Activism: Introduction,” Jihadica (2013), http://www.jihadica.com/jihadi-twitter-activism-introduction/; Ali Fisher and Nico Prucha, “Tweeting for the Caliphate: Twitter as the New Frontier for Jihadist Propaganda,” CTC Sentinel, June 2013, West Point. 2 Cori E. Dauber, “YouTube War: Fighting in a World of Cameras in Every Cell Phone and Photoshop on Every Computer,” Strategic Studies Institute, U.S. Army War College (2009), http://www.strategicstudiesinstitute.army.mil/pubs/display.cfm?pubID=951 (accessed 5 May, 2013). 3 Dale Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson (eds), New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999); Naomi Sakr (ed.), Arab Media and Political Renewal (London: I.B.Tauris, 2007). 4 As outlined in the text of Abu Yahya al-Libi, “Risala ila al-ikhwa fi thaghr al-iʿlam al-jihadi,” Nukhbat al-Iʽlam al-Jihadi, 11 August, 2013, http://justpaste.it/3djs (accessed 5 May, 2013). Translation by author. 5 Jihadi success on Twitter has had a profound impact on leading jihadi writers, such as Abu Saʿd al-ʿAmili, who lamented the general decline in participation in jihadi online forums. 6 For an overview of jihadi forums, see Aaron Y. Zelin, “The State of Global Jihad Online – A Qualitative, Quantitative, and Cross-Lingual Analysis,” New America Foundation (2013), http://www.newamerica. net/sites/newamerica.net/files/policydocs/Zelin_Global%20Jihad%20Online_NAF.pdf.

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Notes to pages 260–272 7 Al-Manhajiyya fi tahsil al-khibra al-iʾlamiya, first part, p. 18. This ideological handbook is part of a lengthy series sanctioning the media work in general, published by the media groups Markaz Al Qaeda and al-Furqan in May 2011. Translation by author. 8 Abu ʿUmar – istishhadi al-iʿlam al-jihadi, al-Qadisiyya, 26 January, 2012, http://shamikh1.info/vb/ showthread.php?t=159657 (accessed 9 June, 2012). Translation by author. 9 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YcNzNVamrM (accessed 31 December, 2013). 10 GIMF, General Command, “Bayyan bi khussus istishhad ahad qadatiha wa-faris min fursaniha al-akh Abu ʿUmar.” Translation by author. 11 “Pakistani Police: Key Leader of TTP Arrested,” CNN-Arabic, 6 January, 2012, http://arabic.cnn. com/2012/world/1/6/Pakistan.Taliban/ (accessed 28 May, 2013). Translation by author. 12 http://hanein.info/vb/showthread.php?t=267382 (accessed 16 December, 2011). 13 GIMF, General Command, “Bayyan bi khussus istishhad ahad qadatiha.” 14 Sayeed Rahman, “A Note on Usama bin Ladin’s 1998 Declaration of War: al-Kisaʾi vs. al-Kasani,” Jihadica 24 February, 2011, http://www.jihadica.com/a-note-on-usama-bin-ladin%E2%80%99s-1998declaration-of-war-al-kisai-vs-al-kasani/ (accessed 24 February, 2011); GIMF, General Command, “Bayyan bi khussus istishhad ahad qadatiha.” 15 See a similar idea by Gudrun Ensslin, German cofounder of the Red Army Faction, in Christiane and Gottfried Ennslin (eds), Zieht den Trennungsstrich, jede Minute. Briefe an ihre Schwester Christiane und ihren Bruder Gottfried aus dem Gefängnis 1972–1973 (Hamburg: Konkret Literatur Verlag, 2005). 16 GIMF, General Command, “Bayyan bi khussus istishhad ahad qadatiha." 17 Ibid. 18 Ibid. 19 Abu Khabab al-Muhajir, https://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread.php?t=159657&page=4, 28 January, 2012 (accessed 28 January, 2012). Translation by author. See also the chapter by Meir Hatina in this volume. 20 “Bushra sara: istishhad munshid al-shumakh al-akh Khalid al-Farisi,” http://shamikh1.info/vb/ showthread.php?p=1059006469 (accessed 18 April, 2012). Translation by author. 21 Ibid. 22 As coined by Brynjar Lia, “Jihadis Debate Egypt,” part 3, Jihadica, 7 February, 2011, http://www. jihadica.com/jihadis-debate-egypt-3/ (accessed 7 February, 2011) 23 Abu Saʿd al-ʿAmili, “Nidaʾ ila junud al-iʿlami al-jihadi – ilzamu amakanakum wa-a’udu ila thughurikum,” Fursan al-Balagh li’l-Iʿlam, March 2013, http://as-ansar.com/vb/showthread.php?t=85483 (accessed 1 April, 2013). 24 “Bushra sara.” 25 Ibid.; For an analysis of the concept of ribat and its implication, see Nico Prucha, “Jihadists’ Use of Qurʾan’s Ribat Concept,” Jane’s Islamic Affairs Analyst, August 2009. 26 Mural-Qaʿidaib 2, “Special / a picture of the shahid of Jabhat al-Nusra – as we reckon him to be – Abu Qasura al-Gharib, 4 January, 2012,” muntadiyyat al-nusra li jabhat al-nusra, http://jalnosra.com/vb/ showthread.php?t=313 (accessed 20 March, 2013). 27 See also Nico Prucha, “Die Vermittlung arabischer Jihadisten-Ideologie:  Zur Rolle deutscher Aktivisten,” in Jihadismus und Internet: Eine deutsche Perspektive, ed. Guido Steinberg (Berlin: Stiftung Wissenschaft und Politik, October 2012), pp. 45–56. 28 The date and identity are confirmed by a website loyal to the Syrian Army, http://syrianow.sy/index. php?d=26&id=69126 (accessed 31 May, 2013). Translation by author. 29 The link in the picture is defunct. JN has, however, opened a new Facebook group with the title “gazaanow.” It has over 20,000 “likes” as of 22 May, 2013, https://www.facebook.com/gazaanow. 30 Published and accessed 4 March, 2013, https://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread.php?t=193834. Translation by author. 31 Ibid. 32 Abu Walid al-Maqdisi’s writings, rulings, decrees, and articles can be accessed on the website dedicated to Abu Muhammad al-Maqdisi (ʿIsam al-Barqawi) Minbar al-Tawhid wa’l-Jihad, http://tawhed. ws/a?a=abuwalid (accessed 27 May, 2013). 33 David Barnett and Bill Roggio, “Israeli Air Force Kills Leader of the Tawhid and Jihad Group in Gaza Airstrike,” The Long War Journal, 13 October, 2012. http://www.longwarjournal.org/archives/2012/10/ israeli_air_force_ki.php#ixzz2UuZROkjB (accessed 31 May, 2013).

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Notes to pages 272–279 34 Rithaʾ al-Shaykh Hisham al-Saʿidani (Abu al-Walid al-Maqdisi), as-Sahab Media, November 2012, http://www.jarchive.net/details.php?item_id=7808 (accessed 27 May, 2013). 35 Nico Prucha, Die Stimme des Dschihad “Sawt al-Gihad”: al-Qaʿidas erstes Online-Magazin (Hamburg: Verlag Dr. Kovac, 2010), p. 65. 36 Published and accessed 4 March, 2013, https://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread.php?t=193834. Translation by author. 37 http://www.flickr.com/photos/93647787@N07/8518363744/in/photostream/ 38 As promoted, for example, by the Twitter user @7AZ1M, https://twitter.com/7AZ1M/status/ 305800644848152577. 39 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RelWqgxf9H0, published 7 January, 2013 (accessed 20 May, 2013). 40 http://syrianarmyfree.com/vb/showthread.php?t=37269, 4 March, 2013 (accessed 31 May, 2013). 41 Ibid. For the reference of the hadith, see Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, Musnad al-Imam Ahmad Ibn Hanbal (Beirut: Muʾassasat al-Risala, 2001), vol. 35, pp. 483–4. 42 Nico Prucha, “Kangaroo Trials. Justice in the Name of God,” in Jihadism:  Online Discourses and Representations,” ed. Rüdiger Lohlker (Göttingen: Vienna University Press, 2013), vol. 2, pp. 141–207. 43 For example such a nafir, see Ali Fisher and Nico Prucha, “Jihadi Twitter Activism, part 2: Jabhat al-Nusra on the Twittersphere,” Jihadica, 13 May, 2013, http://www.jihadica.com/jihadi-twitter-activism-part-2jabhat-al-nusra-on-the-twittersphere. 44 See also Meir Hatina’s chapter in this volume. ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam conveyed lengthy accounts of martyrs in Afghanistan of the 1980s, see ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, ʿUshshaq al al-hur, available online: http://tawhed. ws/dl?i=pwtico4g (accessed 14 May, 2013). 45 Nico Prucha, “Notes on the Jihadists’ Motivation for Suicide-Operations,” Journal for Intelligence Propaganda, and Security Studies 4/1 (2010), pp. 57–68. 46 For example, a training video by the Liwaʾ al-Islam Brigade (Syria), entitled “Mashruʿ takhrij dawrat al-maham al-khassa” shows the powerful functioning of the nashid and, in a later part of the video, of the hudaʾ, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l6wm6ErJhHE (accessed 14 April, 2013). 47 See also Philipp Holtmann’s chapter in this volume, for whose precise translation of both terms I am very grateful. 48 For a typology of the classical earworm, see Ira Hyman et al., “Going Gaga: Investigating, Creating, and Manipulating the Song Stuck in My Head,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 27 (2013), pp. 204–15. 49 Facebook page of the Kataʾib al-Muhajirin bi Ard al-Sham, published in https://www.facebook.com/ permalink.php?story_fbid=473426306061452&id=443758765694873 (accessed 5 May, 2013).

16: The Use and Genre of Hudaʾ (uplifting battle songs) versus Anashid (hymns of praise) in Jihadi Indoctrination and Death Rites 1 In primordial human groups, examples of detering or battle trance-inducing behavior frequently included the use of body painting, rhythmic stomping, hurling down objects, and collective shouting. Joseph Jordania, Why Do People Sing? Music in Human Evolution (Tbilisi: Logos, 2011). 2 “Countering Violent Extremist Narratives,” Dutch National Coordinator for Counterterrorism (NCTb), July 2010; also Monika Witsch, Die Ästhetik fundamentalistischer Agitation im Internet (Stutt gart: Ibidem-Verlag, 2003). 3 “Soldiers Sing and Dance in the Men’s Side [sic] of the Western Wall,” https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=iW9u0LrGcE0 (accessed 29 March, 2013). 4 “The roof is on fire,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEvm6vC_CNQ (accessed 27 March, 2012). See also Jonathan Pieslak, Sound Targets: American Soldiers and Music in the Iraq War (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2009), pp. 58–77. 5 “Ewald Heinrich von Kleist,” The Economist, March 23, 2013, p. 102. See also Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, Kamikaze: Cherry Blossoms and Nationalisms (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002). 6 Bertrand Russel, Philosophie des Abendlandes:  Ihr Zusammenhang mit der politischen und sozialen Entwicklung [original title: A History of Western Philosophy] (Wien: Europaverlag, 1992), 6. Edition 19.

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Notes to pages 279–284 7 Not only World War II kamikaze or contemporary jihadi propaganda portray death in battle as commendable, or even as erotic, themes in poetic verse and song. The same trait can be found in classical Spartan, in Samurai or in pagan Nordic poetry. 8 Such musical soundtrack can be found in the war movie Act of Valor (2012), in which a soldier throws himself on a grenade to save his comrades. The whole scene is played in slow motion and accompanied by music. 9 “Extremization” in the sense of a readiness to use violence for political means and suppress deviant opinions. 10 Behnam Said lists the above contributions to research on the topic of jihadi anashid in that order. Behnam Said, “Hymns (Nasheeds): A Contribution to the Study of the Jihadist Culture,” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism 35 (2012), pp. 863–79. 11 Jamaʿat al-Tawhid wa’l-jihad, “Riyah al-Nasr [Winds of victory],” 2004, 22:48 min ff. 12 Heinrichs, “Radjaz,” EI2 8 (1995), pp. 378–9. 13 The “recitation of pre-Islamic poetry was strangely reminiscent of a ritual; the officiating poet, who did not create poetry for himself, but for others, encouraged active participation on the part of his public,” which could join in at any time. A. Arazi, “Shiʿr,” EI2 9 (1997), pp. 450–1. 14 Classical qasida poets generally applied a meter with two equal hemistiches, oftentimes the ramal meter or the kamil meter, whereas neoclassical and modern Arab poets and songwriters – including jihadis – frequently mixed both (shiʿr mursal), starting the first hemistich in ramal and the second in kamil. S. Moreh, Modern Arabic Poetry 1800–1970 (Leiden: Brill, 1976), p. 165; R.C. Ostle, “The Romantic Poets,” in The Cambridge History of Arabic Literature: Modern Arabic Literature, ed. Muhammad Mustafa Badawi (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 87; Behnam Said, “Hymns (Nasheeds),” p. 873. 15 Henry G. Farmer, “Ghināʾ,” EI2 2 (1991), pp. 1072–5; Heinrichs, “Radjaz”; A. Shiloah, “Nashīd,” EI2 7 (1993), pp. 975–6. 16 Jarret Brachman, “Abu Yahya al-Libi’s Poem on Muammar Qaddafi from 2009,” The Jarret Brachman Blog, http://jarretbrachman.net/?p=1753 (accessed 25 June, 2012). 17 “The poetic ritual.” Any poet who wanted to gain success had to abide by the fixed rules of the poetic narrative discourse and its sound aesthetics. This means: waiving hermetic, ambiguous, or alluding statements that might break the continuity of the known poetic style; recourse to a specialized language, using a multiplicity of synonyms and comparisons; forcing oneself to be predictable in order not to upset the audience. 18 Ignaz Goldziher quoted in G. E. von Grunebaum, “Growth and structure of Arabic poetry A.D. 500– 1000,” in The Arab Heritage, ed. Nabih Amin Faris (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1944), p. 123. 19 On karamat, see Meir Hatina’s chapter in this volume; on the Sufi-Salafi encounters, see Itzchak Weismann, “Modernity from Within: Islamic Fundamentalism and Sufism,” Der Islam 86 (2011), pp. 142–70. 20 “Tawassul [Resorting to Intermediation], Death and Shafaʿah [Intercession] According to the Shiʿa and the Wahhabis,” http://www.al-islam.org/new-analysis-wahhabi-doctrines/6.htm (accessed 5 October, 2013). 21 Ch. Pellat, “Kās�s �,” EI2 4 (1997), pp. 733–5. Al-Libi’s poem, “Fala al-tahdid yathnina” [The threat does not bend us], is but one example of this use of the quasi-prophesying curse theme. Abu Yahya al-Libi, “Fala al-tahdid yathnina.” http://www.tawhed.ws/r?i=t8v4m2ac (accessed 14 July, 2012) 22 James L. Hoban, “Rhetorical Rituals of Rebirth,” The Quarterly Journal of Speech 66 (1980), p. 281. 23 Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960). 24 Ibid., p. 13. 25 “It is as though there were two major ‘models’ of human interrelatedness, juxtaposed and alternating. The first is of society as a structured, differentiated, and often-hierarchical system of politicallegal-economic positions with different systems of evaluation of the individual, all of them separating men in terms of ‘more’ and ‘less.’ The second, which is clearly recognizable in the liminal period, is of society as an unstructured or rudimentarily structured, and relatively undifferentiated, comitatus, community, or even a communion of equal individuals who submit together to the general authority of the ritual elders. I prefer the Latin term ‘communitas’ to that of ‘community,’ to distinguish this

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Notes to pages 284–292 modality of social relationships from an ‘area of common living.’ See Victor W. Turner, The Ritual Process (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1969), pp. 96–7. 26 For the concept of “battle trance,” see Jordania, Why Do People Sing? Music in Human Evolution. 27 These are by the IMU, “Al-Mukalla: Die to Live,” and by Al Qaeda, “Diary of a Mujahid – part 3.” 28 “Al-Mukalla, “Sterben um zu leben Nasheed – Die to Live – Yasmak Icin Ölmek.” https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=Tj-Gb-beo6U (accessed 22 March, 2013). 29 From al-Sahab, “Yaumiyat Mujahid – 3.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wPeenYkE7Jw (accessed 22 March, 2013). 30 Susan Love Brown, “Introduction,” in Intentional Community: An Anthropological Perspective, ed. S. L. Brown (New York: State University of New York Press, 2002), p. 5. 31 Certain fixed codes of communication and written rituals in jihadi online discussions serve the same purpose. They manifest the fact that members have already changed their status within online groups and thus have become ritual elders. Moreover, they serve to signify that neophytes are in the transitional process of acquiring an elder position. 32 Islamic legal expression, meaning “One who sacrifices himself for the sake of his religion.” 33 “Casualties of Suicide Bombings in Iraq, 2003–2010”: http://www.iraqbodycount.org/analysis/ numbers/lancet-2011/ (accessed 4 April, 2012). 34 Sean Langan, Mission Accomplished, BBC documentary, 2004. This is the attack that is mentioned above. 35 Jamaʿat al-Tawhid wa’l-jihad, Riyah al-Nasr (“Winds of Victory”), 2004. The propaganda video was released by the media department of Abu Musʿab al-Zarqawi’s (1966–2006) “Monotheism and Jihad Group,” which has been called “al-Qaʿida in Iraq” since its 2004 merger with the central Al Qaeda organization. In January 2006, a coalition of Al Qaeda–affiliated groups in Iraq under the leadership of al-Zarqawi’s organization was named “Shura Council of Mujahidun.” In October 2006, the Council was renamed as the “Islamic State of Iraq,” and in 2012 it assumed the name the Islamic State in Iraq and Sham (ISIS). 36 Victor Adam, “Week 8: Victor Turner: Liminality, Communitas, Anti-Structure,” http://www.academia. edu/5023346/Victor_Turner (accessed 1 July, 2014). On the concept of liminality, see Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre (Michigan: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1982), p. 44; Turner, The Ritual Process (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1969), p. 95. 37 “Aqwa ʿamaliyya ʿala al-ihtilal al-amriki fi’l-ramadi,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dznXbG7g5So. (accessed 22 March, 2013). See also this post, http://www.hanein.info/vb/showthread.php?t=127784 (accessed 22 March, 2013). 38 Similarly, the reader may find the battle song compilation Hudaʿizza (“uplifting battle songs,” parts 1 and 2), produced by AQIP, interesting. 39 The framing concept is borrowed from social movement theory. See David A. Snow and Rodert D. Benford, “Clarifying the Relationship between Framing and Ideology in the Study of Social Movements: A Comment on Oliver and Johnston,” http://www.ssc.wisc.edu/~oliver/PROTESTS/ ArticleCopies/SNOW_BED.PDF, 3 (accessed 12 April, 2011); David A. Snow and Robert D. Benford, “Master Frames and Cycles of Protest,” in Frontiers in Social Movement Theory, ed. Eldon D. Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller (Yale: University Press, 1992), pp. 133–55; Rüdiger Lohlker, “Religion, Weapons, and Jihadism. Emblematic Discourses,” in Jihadism: Online Discourses and Representations, eds Rüdiger Lohlker (Göttingen: Vienna University Press, 2013), pp. 69–72; Quintan Wiktorowicz, “Introduction: Islamic Activism and Social Movement Theory,” in Islamic Activism: a Social Movement Theory Approach, ed. Q. Wiktorowicz (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005), pp. 1–34. 40 “_Badr Mashal al-Harbi_ra__.AVI,” www.mediafire.com, http://www.mediafire.com/?jeqa216ayjme2ne (accessed 13 February, 2012). 41 Clifford Geertz, “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture,” in The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973), pp. 3–30. 42 See, for example, the German jihadi version: “Anashid Qadimun al-Muslimun – Die Armee aus Khorasan werden [sic] mit Tauhid Flaggen kommen” [The army from Khorasan will come with tawhid (monotheism) standards], http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3QIggLxjOU (accessed 17 January, 2012).

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Notes to pages 292–293 43 “Nashid raʾiʿa: hur al-ʿin tunadini – bi sawt Muhammad al-Salman,” http://archive.org/details/andaralanashed (accessed 2 October, 2012). This specific song is the work of a grassroots supporter from the jihadi propaganda and discussion forum “Shumukh al-Islam.” The theological song stems from the popular nashid-interpreter (munashshid) Muhammad al-Salman and can be found on several jihadi websites. Al-Salman is a well-known singer, who with his interpretations of Muslim elite-centered theological hymns, such as ghurabaʾ triggers both Muslim and jihadi emotions. 44 The jihadi website is named after the “lovers of the paradise maidens” (shabakat ʿushshaq al-hur), and the eulogies of slain jihadi fighters steadily refer to “marriages with the paradise maidens.” For further reading on the topic, see Philipp Holtmann, “Virtual Leadership: A Study of Communicative Guidance Patterns in Online-Jihad” (PhD dissertation, University of Vienna, 2013), ­chapter 5.d, “Discursive Ritualism on Jihadi Forums.” 45 Jihadi music is the product of the activities of high-risk activists who share strong ties, whereas the viral distribution of the propaganda and its marketing depend on decentralized and mutually guided online actors with weak ties. Neville Bolt, The Violent Image:  Insurgent Propaganda and the New Revolutionaries (London: Hurst & Company, 2012), p. 211.

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Bibliography

Newspapers and Periodicals Baqiyatollah (Tehran) Filastin al-Muslima (London) Al-Mustaqbal (Beirut) Sawt al-Jihad (Peshawar)

Books and Articles in Arabic and Persian Al-Amin, Hazim. al-Salafi al-yatim: al-wajh al-Filastini li’l-jihad al-ʿalami wa’l-qaʿida. Beirut: Dar al-Saqi, 2011. Anas, Malik b. al-Muwattaʾ (electronic ed., www.al-eman.com) vol. 1. Al-ʿAsayli, Bassam (ed.). Jihad shaʿb al-jazaʾir. 13 vols. Beirut: Dar al-Nafaʾis, 1982. Al-ʿAwisi, Abd al-Fattah Muhammad. Taswir al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin liʾl-qadiyya al-filastiniyya. Cairo: Dar al-Tawzi wa’l-Nashr al-Islamiyya, 1989. ʿAzzam, ʿAbdallah. Ayat al-Rahman fi jihad al-Afghan. Lahur:  Ittihad al-Talaba al-Muslimin, 1983. ———Fi’l-Jihad, adab wa-ahkam. n.p.: Matbuʿat al-Jihad, 1987. ———“Al-Tasmim ʿala al-mawt,” al-Jihad 34 (September 1987). ———Fi’l-Jihad: fiqh wa-ijtihad. Pashawar: Maktab Khidmat al-Mujahidun, n.d. ———Iʿlan al-Jihad. Pashawar: Maktab Khidmat al-Mujahidun, 1990. ———Ithaf al-ʿibad fada’il al-jihad. Peshawar:  Markaz al-Shahid ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam, 1990. ———ʿUshshaq al-hur, in www.4shared.com/dir/dEglkHus/_online.html (accessed May 5, 2011). Baladhuri, Ahmad b. Yahya. Ansab al-ashraf. IVa. edited by S.D. Goitein with additions and corrections by M. J. Kister. Jerusalem: Max Schloessinger Memorial Fund, 1971. Al-Banna, Hasan. “Sinaʿat al-mawt,” al-Nadhir, September 26, 1938. Al-Barqi, Ahmad b.  Muhammad. Kitab al-Mahasin. Tehran:  Dar al-Kutub al-Islamiyya, 1951.

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Bibliography Al-Bash, Husayn. al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya. Damascus: Dar Qutayba, 2003. Al-Bukhari, Sahih (ed.). ʿAbdallah b. Baz. 9 vols. Beirut: Dar al-Fikr, 1991. “Bushra sara: istishhad munshid al-shumakh al-akh Khalid al- Farisi,” http://shamikh1.info/vb/showthread.php?p=1059006469 (accessed April 18, 2012). Dehshiri, Mohammad Reza. “Jelveha-ye shahadat va-marg-agahi dar andishe-ye imam-e khomeini,” Huzur 29 (Fall 1378/2000), pp. 230–60. Al-Dumyati, Ibn al-Nahhas. Mashariʿ al-ashwaq. Beirut: Dar al-Basha’ir, 2004. Fadlallah, Muhammad Husayn. al-Islam wa-mantiq al-quwwa. 3rd edn, Beirut: al-Dar al-Islamiyya, 1986. ———Kitab al-jihad. Beirut: Dar al-Malak, 1996. Faraj, ʿAbd al-Salam. al-Farida al-ghaʾiba, edited and annotated by Muhammad ʿImara. Cairo: Nahadat Misr, n.d.. Farooqi, Ziaur Rahman. Khilafat-e Rashida 5/5 (Faisalabad, October 1992). ———Sipāh-e Sahāba kiya hai? Kiya chahti hai? n.p., n.d. Al-Filastini, Abu al-Hasan. Rudud wa-talmihat ʿala munkiri al-ʿamaliyyat. In:  https://ia801007.us.archive.org/16/items/Alhemma_library (accessed January 15, 2015). Al-Ghamidi, Yahya. “Shuhadaʾ al-hijaz ila ridwan al-lah,” Sawt al-jihad (1425: 16), pp. 27–9. Ghayba, Muhammad Saʿid. al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya wa-ara’ al-fuqaha’ fiha. Damascus: Dar al-Maktabi, 2001. Hajji-Abadi, Sayyid ʿAli Akbar Khodaʾi. “Shahadat-talabi az didgah-e imam-e khomeini,” http://www.magiran.com/view.asp?Type=pdf&ID=356241 Haywood, J.A. “Kāmūs,” EI2 4 (1997), pp. 524–5. Al-Hilli, al-ʿAllama. Mukhtalaf al-Shiʿa. 9  vols. Qum:  Muʾassasat al-Nashr al-Islami, 1413/1992–3. Hizbullah: al-Muqawama wa’l-tahrir. Beirut: al-Safir, 2006. Al-Hurr al-ʿAmili, Wasaʾil al-Shiʿa. 30  vols. Qum:  Muʾassasat ʾAl al-Bayt, 1414/1993–4. Husayn, Ghazi. al-Irhab al-Isra’ili wa-shariʿiyyat al-muqawama wa’l-ʿamaliyyat al-istishhadiyya. Damascus: Matbaʿa al-Zaraʿi, 2004. Intifadat al-Aqsa. Amman: Dar al-Jalil li’l-Nashr, 2001–5. Jarrar, Husni Adham. al-Shahidʾ ʿAbdallah ʿAzzam:  rajul daʿwa wa-madrasat jihad. Amman: Dar al-Diyaʾ, 1990. Jubayr, Hani’ b. al-ʿAmaliyyat al-istishhadiyya. Riyad: Dar al-Fadila, 2002. Khomeini, Ruhollah. Sahife-ye Nur: majmuʿa-ye rahnemudha-ye imam khomeini. 22 vols. Tehran: Vizarat-e Irshad-e Islami, 1995. Al-Libi, Abu Yahya. “Risala ila al-ikhwa thaghr al-iʾlam al-jihadiyyi,” Nukhbat al-Iʾlam al-Jihadiyyi, August 11, 2013, http://justpaste.it/3djs (accessed May 5, 2013). Al-Maliki, Fadil. Kitab al-ghayba al-sughra wa’l-sufaraʾ al-arbaʿa. Qum:  Markaz al-Abhath al-ʿAqaʾdiyya, 1420/2000.

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Index

Abbasids 28–31, 36–7, 41, 47, 116, 192, 296n12 ʿAbd al-Muttalib, Hamza b. 58, 72, 73, 80, 89, 212, 213, 299 Abdus Salam, Muhammad 198 Abu Qatada al-Filastini 161 ʿAddi b. Hatim 71 al-ʿAdnani, Abu Muhammad 12, 295 Afghan war 8, 16, 80, 81, 87, 246, 248, 253 Afghanistan 2, 8, 81, 133, 185, 191, 197, 200, 265–6, 289, 291 Agha-Soltani, Neda 240 ahl al-bayt 19, 203, 208, 217–18, 222 Ahmadinejad, President Mahmud 230, 239, 240 Ahmadiyya 198 ʿAisha 208, 217 Akhbari school 67, 297, 299 Akhtayev, Ahmed Qadi 177–8 Al al-Shaykh 93 ʿAlawites 147, 150–2 Aleppo 146 Algeria 5, 17, 80, 99–115, 308 ʿAli al-Asghar 74 ʿAli b. al-Husayn Zayn al-ʿAbidin 72 ʿAli b. Ibrahim al-Qumi 72 ʿAli Haydar 140

ʿAli b. Abi Talib. 31–5, 45, 46, 47, 65, 68, 69, 71–3, 84, 119, 125, 142, 143, 193, 195, 196, 201, 203, 204, 215, 217, 218, 225, 227, 233, 234, 256, 296, 299 Abu al-ʿAbbas 55, 58 Alids 16, 28, 29, 30–4, 36–8, 296 ʿAligarh Muslim University 194 Alighieri, Dante 195 All-India Muslim League 194–5 al-ʿAllama al-Hilli 62, 63, 64, 67 America 92, 234, 242, 265 al-ʿAmili, Abu Saʻd 268 al-ʿAmili, Jaʿfar Murtada 219 ʿAmmar b. Yasir 71, 73 ʿAmr b. Khalid 65, 73, 299 Anbar 287 Arab-Israeli wars 80 Arafat, Yasser 163, 168 al-Asad, Bashar 146, 153, 155 al-Asad, Hafez 15–20, 90, 146, 147, 148, 156, 306 ʿAshuraʾ 117, 120, 125, 193, 202, 207–10, 221 al-ʿAttar, ʿIsam 146 al-Awzaʿi, ʿAbd al-Rahman 55, 57, 299 ʿAyyash, Yahya 167 Ayyub, Hasan 93

351

352

Index Azeri 226 ʿAzzam, ʿAbdallah 9, 19, 80, 81, 84, 86, 87, 90, 161, 244–58, 266, 274, 294, 300, 301, 318–21, 323 al-Azhar 14, 246, 283 Badr, battle of 253 Baghdad 40, 41, 192, 226, 299 Bahadur Shah Zafar 191 Bahonar, Muhammad Javad 234 Bahrain 231 Bahu, Sultan 193 Bakr, Abu 209, 216–18, 225, 253, 306 Bali bombings 94, 301 Balochistan 199 al-Banna, Hasan 10, 11, 164, 247, 255, 256, 294 baraka 9, 10, 19, 244, 246, 248, 251, 252 Barayev, Arbi 311 Barayev, Movsar 186 Barayeva, Khava (Hawa) 184–6, 311 al-Barqi, Ahmad b. Muhammad 40 Basayev, Shamil 176, 181 Basra 299n4 al-Basri, al-Hasan 55, 57, 299 Baʿth 9, 18, 146, 147, 150, 152, 294 Al-Bayanuni, ʿAli 152, 155 Beg, Mirza Aslam 190, 191 Beheshti, Muhammad Husayni 235 Beirut 86, 305 Bektashi Sufi order 192 Benghazi 269 Bennabi, Malek 107 Bhutto, Zulfiqar ʿAli 198 bin Laden, Osama 13, 261, 265 Bosnia-Herzegovina 81 Britain, British 9, 11, 103, 194 al-Bukhari, Muhammad 78, 252

al-Buti, Ramadan 93 Buwayhid dynasty 39, 40, 41, 297 Byzantine Empire 135 Cairo 14, 246, 283, 296 Caliphate 30, 32, 194, 197, 198, 202, 217, 226 Catholics 4 Caucasus 173, 174, 177, 181, 182, 186, 309, 310 Chechnya 2, 6, 14, 83, 173–88, 308, 311 Christ 11, 192, 229 Christianity, Christians 2, 3, 4, 10, 14, 24, 27, 28, 85, 132, 135, 152, 163, 174, 181, 235, 245, 250, 264, 295, 318 Clinton, Bill 240 Companions 55, 58, 68, 95, 121, 197, 201, 203, 253, 254, 299 see also sahaba Constitutional Revolution, the 236 Crusades, Crusaders 4, 24, 83, 162, 265, 266, 295 Dagestan 177–9, 182, 310, 312 Damascus 36, 146, 225, 226, 229 daʿwa 132, 145, 260, 263 al-Daylami, Sallar b. ʿAbd al-ʿAziz 65, 299 Deobandi 189, 190, 194, 197, 198, 199, 313 Desert Storm, Operation 191 Dudayev, Dzhokar 175–81, 185, 310 Durkheim, Émile 171 al-Durra, Muhammad 82, 300 Ebadi, Shirin 215 Ebtekar, Massumeh 214, 215 Egypt 9, 93, 146, 164, 169, 187, 299 Europe, Europeans 2, 3, 11, 12, 13, 16, 80, 240, 241, 279, 302

352

353

Index European Council for Fatwa and Research 165 Ethiopia 169 Ezzati, Abu al-Fazl 132 Facebook 13, 207, 259, 260, 261, 270, 274, 275 Fadak 216–18, 316 Fadlallah, Muhammad Husayn 131, 132, 219, 221 Fanon, Frantz 17, 100, 165 Farooqi, Ziaur Rehman 190, 198, 199, 200, 201 Fatah 160–1, 163 Fatima 14, 19, 34, 45, 125, 140, 143, 201, 207–23, 225, 233, 314 Fatima al-Maʿsume (Qum) 221 female suicide bombers 14, 185, 311, 312 Fighting Vanguard, the 147 al-Filastini, Abu al-Hasan 6 FLN (Front de libération nationale) 5, 17, 100–15 France 86, 99–104, 106, 107, 109, 110, 112, 113, 308 Free Syrian Army (FSA) 154, 272 French Revolution 164 Ganji, Sadiq 199 Gaza 161, 172, 272 Geertz, Clifford 290 Gelayev, Rustam 173, 187, 308, 313 Germany 4 Ghalib, Mirza 191, 193, 195, 196, 313 Ghayba, Muhammad Saʿid 92 Global Islamic Front for Jihad against Jews and Crusaders 265 Global Islamic Media Front (GIMF) 263, 264, 266, 280

globalization 20 Goldziher, Ignaz 282 Gorji, Monir 214, 215 Green Movement 230, 234, 240 Grozny 175, 177, 184 al-Hadarmi, Abu Hajir 280 Hadid, Marwan 18, 146–56, 307 hadith (Shiʿi) 16, 39, 40, 42, 43, 54, 68, 70, 137, 209, 291, 296 hadith (Sunni) 26, 91, 202, 203, 252, 273, 299, 323 al-Hallaj, Husayn b. Mansur 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 313 Hamah 146–8, 150, 153, 154, 156 Hamas 5, 6, 9, 11, 13, 14, 18, 157–72, 185, 250, 294, 304, 307, 308 Hamas Charter 164 Hanbalis 9, 55, 299 Hanzala b. al-Rahib 66, 70 al-Harbi, Badr Mashʿal 278, 289 Harbi, Mohammed 109–11 Hasan b. ʿAli 30, 31, 32, 35, 45, 140, 196, 203, 204, 225 Hashim b. ʿUtba 71 Hashimites 32, 35, 296 Hawwa, Saʿid 10, 152, 294 Hijaz 216 Hindu 196, 202 Hitler, Adolf 278 Hizb al-Shaytan 163 Hizballah (Lebanon) 5, 8, 9, 13, 17, 85–8, 131–44, 158, 160, 176, 219, 231, 257, 301, 305 Homs 155 Hoodfar, Homa 221 Hosayniya Ershad 212 Hujr b. ʿAdi 30, 32–4, 297 al-Humayri, ʿAbdallah b. Jaʿfar 73, 299

353

354

Index al-Hurr, al-ʿAmili 67–72 Husayn, bin ʿAli (Imam) 7, 16–19, 30–6, 45, 48, 72, 74, 84, 85, 86, 89, 90, 116, 117, 119–21, 128, 130, 131, 134, 135, 139, 140, 142, 143, 190, 192–6, 201–4, 208, 209, 210, 213, 214, 224–7, 229, 230–4, 240, 243 Ibn Babawayh 64, 68, 299 Ibn Hanbal, Ahmad 9, 57, 252, 299 Ibn Idris, al-Hilli 59, 60, 61, 65, 69, 299 Ibn al-Junayd 63, 64, 66, 67, 75 Ibn al-Musayyib, Saʿid 57, 299 Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya 252 Ibn Surayj, Abu al-ʿAbbas 63, 299 Ibn Taymiyya, Taqi al-Din 252–4, 320n44 Ibn ʿUthaymin 93 IDF 158, 171 Idris, Wafaʾ 14, 15, 300n49 ijazat 235 ijtihad 6 imamate 39, 40–3, 51, 297n3, 298n43 see also Shiʿi(s) Imams (Shiʿi) 9, 39, 40, 43, 53, 54, 60, 63, 67, 74, 84, 85, 89, 116, 125, 130, 133, 135, 137, 138, 142, 190, 197, 201, 203, 213, 226, 230, 234, 256, 257 India 14, 92, 103, 192, 193, 194, 195, 197 Ingush 178, 179 Intifada 82, 83, 157, 158, 163, 167, 169 Intifadat al-Aqsa 82, 92, 160, 161, 168, 169 Iqbal, Muhammad 194, 195, 196, 313

Iran 7, 9, 11, 12, 14, 17, 19, 85, 86, 95, 116–30, 132, 133, 136, 140, 143, 144, 158, 160, 185, 191, 197, 198, 199, 200, 207–16, 219, 221, 222, 223–40, 291, 294, 302, 304, 314, 317 Iran-Iraq War 7, 8, 17, 19, 85, 87, 95, 116–30, 134, 135, 136, 210, 214, 225, 230, 231, 234, 240, 256, 294 Iranian Revolution 17, 19, 117, 134, 225, 232, 236, 238 Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) 130, 241 Iraq 6, 7, 8, 14, 17, 33, 35, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 88, 90, 95, 96, 116–19, 121, 127, 129, 175, 188, 191, 214, 217, 218, 235, 240, 277, 280, 286–9, 299, 302, 325 Isfahan 226 al-Isfahani, Abu al-Faraj 85, 89 Iskhanov, Hussein 179 Islamabad 199 Islamic Jihad of Palestine 14, 157, 158, 160, 165, 168, 170 Islamic Revival Party (IPV) 178 Islamic State of Iraq and the Sham (ISIS) 6, 12, 14, 257, 295n39, 325n35 Israel 5, 8, 11, 14, 18, 82, 85–8, 92, 93–5, 135, 136, 138, 140, 141, 143, 150, 151, 157–60, 162, 163, 164, 167–72, 240, 241, 257, 272, 278 see also Zionism, Zionists Israpilov, Khunkar-Pasha 180 Jabhat al-Nusra 261, 269, 270, 271, 272 Jaʿfar, Mahdi 218 Jahiliyya 282 Jamaʿat al-Tawhid wa’l-Jihad 287, 290

354

355

Index Jamiat-e Ulama-e Islam (JUI) 197, 198 Jauhar, Muhammad ʿAli 194 Jerusalem 136, 143, 162 Jews, Jewish 4, 5, 9, 11, 13, 24, 27, 86, 135, 136, 140, 143, 157, 158, 159, 162–5, 172, 174, 182, 264, 265, 293, 295 Jhangvi, Maulana Haq Nawaz 198–200 jihad 1, 4–10, 12, 13, 16, 20, 26, 40, 41, 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 77–9, 89, 91, 92, 95, 96, 105, 111, 117–19, 122, 136, 139, 140, 141, 145–7, 151, 156, 157, 158, 160–3, 165, 167, 168, 170, 176, 178, 180, 186, 197, 199, 216, 244, 246, 247, 249, 254, 255, 256, 260, 262, 263, 265, 266, 268, 272, 274 defensive 18, 41, 75, 152, 162, 164 global 13, 83, 84, 160, 161, 183, 249, 261, 291 greater 117, 124, 252 al-Jihad (journal) 80 jihadist 19, 20, 53, 81, 92, 145, 151, 155, 168, 174, 183, 186, 187, 199, 201, 259–76, 277–92, 321, 323–6 Jordan 175, 296 Judaism 2, 3, 4, 10, 162, 163, 172, 245 Junayd 192 Kadyrov, Akhmad 182 Kar, Mehrangiz 211, 215 Karachi 198, 200, 264 karamat 9, 10, 19, 125, 244–58, 266, 267, 274, 283, 289 Karbalaʾ 16, 18, 19, 74, 84, 116, 119, 120, 126, 130, 135, 138, 139, 142, 143, 190, 191, 202, 208–10, 214, 226, 230, 233, 240 Kashani-Sabet, Firoozeh 212 Kashmir 83

Kataʾib al-Muhajirin bi Ard al-Sham 275 Khadija 216 Khalid al-Farisi 267, 268, 275 al-Khalidiyya 281, 287 al-Khalil b. Ahmad 24 Khameneʾi, ʿAli 135, 136, 139, 140, 142, 240 Khatami, Muhammad 211, 221, 316 Khattab (Samir Saleh ʿAbdallah al-Suwaylim) 177, 181, 182, 183, 185, 186, 188 Khaybar 217 Khilafat-e Rashida 197, 199, 200, 201, 203 Khomeini, Ruhallah 9, 17, 85, 87, 117–30, 133, 134, 136, 139, 142, 143, 185, 213, 221, 236, 237, 239, 247, 256, 294 Khorasan 290, 291 Khorasani, Husayn Vahid 221 Kohlberg, Ethan 41, 43 Kramer, Alan 13 Kufa 32, 35, 117, 119, 225, 226, 299 al-Kulayni, Muhammad b. Yaʿqub 70–3, 299 Kunta, Hajji 173, 174, 175, 180, 182, 308 Kuthrani, Wajih 163 Kuwait 83, 278, 289 Lahore 199 Lankarani, Muhammad Fazel Javad 221 league of ʿulamaʾ in Palestine 161 Lebanon 8, 9, 13, 14, 85, 86, 95, 131, 132, 143, 157–9, 163, 170, 171, 214, 219, 231, 257, 308, 312, 316 al-Libi, Abu Yahya 282–3

355

356

Index Libya 131, 269, 271, 282 Loeffler, Rheinhold 229 Magomedov, Bagautdin 178 al-Mahdi 16, 41, 116, 133, 142–4, 218, 233, 234, 236, 237, 291 see also al-Qa’im al-Majlisi, Muhammad Baqir 298 Makarem-Shirazi, Naser 216, 218 Maliki school 55, 299n5 Maqadmah, Ibrahim 167 al-Maqdisi, Abu al-Walid 272 al-Maqdisi, Abu Muhammad 161, 249 Martyrs’ Foundation (bonyad-e shahid) 221 Maryam bint ʿImran 212, 213 Masʿada b. Sadaqa 71 Masada 278 Maskhadov, Aslan 179, 181, 182, 185, 309n26 Mawlawi, Faysal 165 Mazar-e Sharif 200 Mecca 31, 76, 216, 247, 319 Medina 2, 35, 36, 76, 120, 216, 226 Mir ʿAlam, Zubayr 249 Moghadam, Valentine 211 Mosse, George 2 Mousavi, Mir-Hossein 230, 240 Muʿalla b. Khunays 46 Muʿawiya b. Abi Sufyan 30–5, 140, 196, 200, 201, 203, 209, 225, 232, 296, 306 al-Mufid, al-shaykh Muhammad 64 muhajirun (Afghanistan) 274 Muhammad 2, 26, 29, 47, 48, 76, 77, 78, 80, 82, 84, 85, 89, 95, 116, 119, 140, 149, 192, 196, 201, 207, 208, 213, 216, 217, 225, 227, 248, 262, 264, 290

see also Prophet Muhammad, ʿAbd al-Mannan 250 Muhammad ʿAli, Husayn Mahdi 142 Muhammad al-Baqir, Imam 41, 45, 49, 65, 66, 70, 71, 72, 299 Muhaydli, Sanaʾ 14 Mujahedeen-e Khalq (MEK) 234–5 Mujahidun Shura Council (Iraq) 277, 288 al-Murtada, al-Sayyid 61, 62 Musawi, ʿAbbas 86 Muslim Brethren 9, 11, 18, 145–65, 252, 255, 294, 306, 307 Mutahhari, Murtaza 212, 213, 247, 256 Mutsrayev, Timur 184 Muwdudi, Abu al-Aʿla 247 Naʾini, Muhammad Husayn 236 Nahj al-balagha 143 Najaf 218, 235 Najafabadi, Niʿmatollah Salehi 121 Najibullah, Muhammad 80 Naqshbandia Tariqat 174 Naqshbandiyya 182 Nasrallah, Hasan 132, 135, 137–9, 142 al-Nasser, Gamal Abd 9, 147 Nazi(s) 5, 164 North-West Frontier Province (NWFP) 197–9 Nuri, Fazlollah 236 Obama, Barack 240 Oslo Accords 159 Ottoman Empire 5, 194 Pahlavi monarchy 212, 214, 236, 237 Pakistan 8, 14, 18, 19, 83, 86, 88, 95, 96, 189–204, 246, 249, 254, 264, 265, 266, 291, 313, 314

356

357

Index Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) 90 Palestine 9, 11, 13, 94, 136, 138, 157–64, 167, 185, 250, 291 Palestine Arab revolt 11 Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) 5, 159, 163, 168, 187 Palestinian Authority 160, 163, 171 Palestinian territories 14, 160, 165 Palestinians 15, 18, 82, 86, 90, 94, 123, 157–72, 185, 187, 246 Panjab 193, 194, 197–9 Pashtun 191, 197, 199 Peshawar 199, 246, 254 Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) 160 Prophet 7, 14, 16, 19, 27, 28, 29, 31, 35, 36, 37, 45, 53, 54, 58, 70, 72, 73, 77, 78, 118–20, 125, 151, 167, 196, 207, 213, 216, 217, 222, 230, 233, 249, 251, 253, 254, 256, 262, 291 see also Muhammad family of 19, 30, 32, 35, 36, 38, 84, 85, 137, 208, 217 Protestantism 4 al-Qaddafi, Muammar 282, 324 Qadiriyya Sufi Brotherhood 174 al-Qadisiyya Media Department 263–4 Al-Qaeda 5, 13, 14, 80, 83, 84, 86, 160, 249, 250, 257, 259–76, 280, 282, 284, 285, 287, 288, 309, 311, 325 al-Qaʾim 40–2, 48–50 see also al-Mahdi Qajars 227, 229, 236, 302 al-Qaradawi, Yusuf 94, 161, 185, 301 Qasimi, Malauna Easrul 198, 199 al-Qassam, ʿIzz al-Din, 172 Qasura al-Gharib, Abu 261, 269–72

al-Qaysi, Muhammad 166 quʿud 50, 116 Quds Force 136 Qum 127, 207, 215, 221, 222, 235, 297, 299, 305, 314 Qur’an 8, 24, 26–8, 42, 45, 47, 48, 54, 76–8, 91, 118, 122, 132, 133, 136, 151, 159, 167, 175, 196, 212, 233, 247, 248, 262, 264, 288, 289, 296, 299, 300, 319 Quraysh 37, 80 al-Qurtubi, Muhammad 249 Qutb, Sayyid 146, 155, 247, 255, 256 Rafsanjani, Akbar Hashemi 210, 215 al-Rantisi, ʿAbd al-ʿAziz 166–7 Rawalpindi 191, 199 Reagan, Ronald 240 Reza Shah 222, 228 Rizqa, Yusuf 165 Rouhani, Hasan 235, 241, 242 Rumi, Jalaluddin 192, 195 Russia 18, 92, 117, 173–86, 278, 310 al-Sadiq, Jaʿfar 41, 44–8, 50, 65, 66, 70–3, 297, 299 al-Sadr, Muhammad Baqir 85, 217, 218, 316 al-Sadr, Musa 85, 86, 131 al-Saduq see Ibn Babawayh Safavids 209, 226, 229, 236, 237 Safi Golpaygani, Lotfallah 221 sahaba 197, 198, 199, 201, 203, 253, 256 Salafi-jihadis 8, 10, 11, 13, 161, 165 Salafis 6, 9, 18, 19, 20, 53, 165, 244, 245, 247, 249, 252, 253, 257, 258, 283, 294

357

358

Index Salim, Zuhayr 155 Samashki 179 Samudra, Imam 94, 301 Saneʻi, Yousef 215 Saqifa 216 Saudi Arabia 83, 93, 177, 265, 283, 294, 311 Seljuks 41 September 11 attacks 1, 84 Shaery-Eisenlohr, Roschanack 219 Shafiʿi, Muhammad b. Idris 299 Shamil, Imam 174, 308 Shariʿa 147, 155, 176, 178, 183, 211, 215, 235, 236, 273 Shariʿati, ʿAli 212 Sheizaf, Tzur 176 Shiʿa 2, 4, 7, 9, 19, 40, 45, 47, 53, 55, 56, 62, 64, 67, 70, 74, 133, 134, 136, 137, 142–4, 189, 190, 191, 194, 196–8, 200, 201, 202, 207, 213, 216, 219–37, 242, 256 Shiʿi(s) 3, 4, 6–9, 15, 16, 17, 19, 30, 39–51, 52–75, 78, 79, 80, 84–90, 95, 96, 116–30, 131–44, 157, 160, 163, 165, 170, 171, 189–204, 207–23, 224–43, 247, 256, 257, 282 Shimr 36, 226 Shirazi, Faʾegheh 214 Shirazi, Muhammad 218 World Foundation of 218 Shumukh al-Islam 261, 267, 268, 269 Siffin 68, 73 Sipah-e Sahaba Pakistan 19, 189, 190, 197–204 Smith, Sebastian 177 Soufi, Denise 208 Soviet Union 8, 18, 83, 147, 174, 177, 179, 244, 246, 248, 249

Speckhard, Anne 187 Sudan 175 al-Sudani, Abu al-Baraʾ Muhammad b. Salim 267 Sufis, Sufism 4, 10, 18, 19, 81, 87, 89, 95, 173, 174, 177, 178, 181, 182, 188–97, 201, 203, 204, 244, 245, 247, 250, 251, 252, 258, 282, 294, 304, 313, 314, 319, 320, 324 Sunna 2, 8, 225, 247, 256, 294 Sunnis 5–10, 15, 16, 17, 19, 40, 41, 43, 53, 54, 55, 68, 69, 71, 72, 75–96, 116, 118, 132, 133, 136, 142, 143, 147, 152, 185, 189–204, 208, 209, 219, 225, 227, 231, 235, 241, 256, 257, 273, 277, 283, 294, 297, 298, 299, 300, 315 Syria 8, 9, 18, 28, 69, 90, 132, 144–56, 171, 187, 188, 201, 261, 270, 272, 273, 275, 294, 299, 306, 321 Syrian Social Nationalist Party (SSNP/PPS) 14 taʿziya 209, 224, 227–30, 240, 317 al-Tabarsi, al-Fadl b. al-Hasan 73 Tabrizi, Javad Mirza 221 Tafsir al-Jalalayn 136 Taghlub, Aban b. 65, 66, 72, 73, 299n22 taghut 118, 119, 129 Tajikistan 83, 185, 300 al-Takruri, Nawaf 92, 94 Taleqani, Mahmud 117, 247 Taliban 8, 133, 176, 190, 200, 314 Tantawi, Muhammad Sayyid 14, 93 taqiyya 39, 48, 68, 69, 116, 297 Tariq, Azam 190, 199, 200, 314 Al-Tawhid wa’l-Jihad, Jamaʿat 287, 290 Tehrik-e Taliban Pakistan (TTP) 264, 266

358

359

Index al-Thawri 55 Turkey 14, 314 al-Tusi, Muhammad b. al-Hasan 41, 54–73, 299 Twitter 13, 259, 260, 261, 272, 274, 275 Udugov, Movladi 178 Uhud 2, 58, 70, 73, 77, 80, 213, 299 ʿulamaʾ 6, 88, 91, 92, 93, 94, 161, 251, 252, 255–7, 293 ʿUmar, Abu 263–7 ʿUmar b. al-Khatab 209, 218, 225, 253 ʿUmar b. Saʿd 226 Umayyad(s) 16, 29–37, 119, 120, 121, 140, 196, 201, 209 United States, The (US) 2, 86, 191, 241, 242, 264, 265, 278, 280, 286–9 Urdu 191, 192, 195, 196, 264, 266, 313, 314 ʿUthman [Osman] 196 Al-ʿUyayri, Yusuf 83, 84, 300, 311 Uzbekistan 14, 284, 300 velayat-e faqih 134, 140, 236, 237, 238, 242 Verdun 279 virgins, heavenly 14, 123, 138, 167 Wahhabiyya, Wahhabis 175, 181, 182, 183, 184, 187, 188, 309, 310, 320 West 1, 11, 15, 23, 24, 86, 107, 126, 127, 162, 279

West Bank 158, 163, 172, 307 wilayat al-faqih see velayat-e faqih World Conference on Women 211 World War I 4, 11, 12, 13, 103, 164, 194, 279 World War II 103, 164, 324 Yanderbiyev, Zelimkhan 176–8, 180 Yasin, Ahmad 1, 14 Yazid b. Muʿawiya 10, 35, 36, 86, 119, 201, 209, 225, 226, 229, 232 Yazid b. Shajara 79, 300 YouTube 207, 259, 260, 261, 264, 272, 275, 291 Zagazig University 169 Zakariyya, Huda 169 Zaki, Muhammad 180 al-Zarqawi, Abu Musaʿb 83, 84, 325n35 al-Zawahiri, Ayman 13, 91, 272 Zayd b. ʿAli 63, 65, 72, 73, 299 Zaydis 41 Zaynab, b. ʿAli 140, 143, 212, 214, 221 Ziaul Haq 190, 191 Zionism, Zionists 136, 162, 163, 172 al-Zubayri, Musʿab 90 al-Zuhayli, Muhammad 94 al-Zulaytani, Muhammad 269, 272 Zurara b. ʿAyyan 65, 66, 72, 299n22

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