Naming the Sacred: Religious Toponymy in History, Theology and Politics [1 ed.] 9783737009737, 9783847109730

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Fscire Research and Papers

Volume 1

Edited by Alberto Melloni

Anna Mambelli / Valentina Marchetto (eds.)

Naming the Sacred Religious Toponymy in History, Theology and Politics

Foreword by Alon Goshen-Gottstein With 2 figures

V&R unipress

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de. © 2019, V&R unipress GmbH, Robert-Bosch-Breite 6, 37079 Göttingen, Germany All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. Cover image: Fabio Nardelli, pulpit of Cappella del Santo Sepolcro, Basilica di Santo Stefano, Bologna, Italy. © fscire.it Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage | www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2627-9355 ISBN 978-3-7370-0973-7

Contents

Foreword Alon Goshen-Gottstein Context and Key Messages

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Paul Morris Contesting “Sacred” Places. The Paradoxes of Supersessionism and the Possibilities of Scholarly Responsibility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Preface

Cases Nikolai Lipatov-Chicherin The Burial of Adam as an Archetypal Case of Sacred Tradition . . . . . .

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Rita Lizzi Testa Christian Empire and Pagan Temples in the Fourth Century CE . . . . . .

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Roberto Regoli Rome and the Questione Romana

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Merav Mack Imagination, Memory and Fantasy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Silvia Ronchey Destroying the Past. Monotheism, Iconoclasm and the Sacred . . . . . . .

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Theology Saverio Campanini ‫ שאלו שלום ירושלם‬Gershom Scholem from Zion to Jerusalem . . . . . . . . 105

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Contents

Robert O. Smith Christian Zionism and Jerusalem Holy Places . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

Law W. Cole Durham, Jr. Non-Traditional Sacred Sites. The Need for Protection . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Peter Petkoff Developing and Implementing Innovative Preventative Mechanisms for the Protection of Religious Heritage Sites Through Soft Law Approaches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Mario Ricca Ubiquitous Sacred Places. The Planetary Interplay of Their Meaning and Legal Protection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

Postface Alberto Melloni A Chronology of the UNESCO Dispute on Jerusalem and Its Holy Places . 201 Name Index

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

Foreword

Alon Goshen-Gottstein

Context and Key Messages

Scholarship may perhaps never be completely neutral, divorced from contemporary needs and realities. Some projects, however, are born of the need to address very specific public concerns. Such is the present volume. Without understanding how it came to be, we will fail to understand the choice of topics covered herein, as well as the message that the volume seeks to deliver. Both Alberto Melloni and I are UNESCO chairs (Chair on Religious Pluralism and Peace at the University of Bologna and Chair in Interfaith Studies at the Elijah Interfaith Institute of Jerusalem, respectively) and we both belong to a network of UNESCO chairs focussing on interreligious and intercultural studies. Due to our UNESCO affiliation, questions related to how UNESCO operates when it comes to religion, and in particular to issues of interreligious debate and tension, are important to us, as well as to other members of the UNITWIN network (its technical name). Over the years, UNESCO issued a series of statements that touched upon Jerusalem and its sacred sites. The statements were deemed one-sided by Israeli authorities, the outcomes of political manipulation within the organisation, that is to say, organised by member states, and therefore easily subject to political manipulation. Within our UNITWIN network similar concerns were raised. Several of us felt that our expertise as scholars in the field of religion and relations between religions was undermined by UNESCO bodies, and many of us think that if the UNITWIN network had been consulted, despite our association with the organisation, we could have contributed to resolutions that would have been more balanced and potentially more helpful to the situation on the ground in the Holy Land. A letter to the Director-General, Irina Bokova, was sent in June 2016, signed by several UNESCO chairholders, in which the following principles were suggested: a. Any representation of a situation of conflict, especially one with deep historical roots, must be faithful to the multiple narratives of all sides. No side must feel that its historical memory is being erased or sacrificed in favor of another;

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b. For any dialogue work to succeed, it must be based on all sides feeling they have been heard and for processes of understanding and healing to emerge out of fair-minded, historically balanced, presentations of all sides to a conflict.1

After a while, Alberto Melloni suggested to me that we should hold a conference as a contribution and as a response to UNESCO processes in the city that is being addressed by these statements – Jerusalem; as UNESCO chairholder, based in Jerusalem, I offered to coordinate the logistics for a programme that was for the most part prearranged by the Fondazione per le scienze religiose Giovanni XXIII, Bologna. The topic suggested is now the title of the present volume, Naming the Sacred. Religious Toponymy in History, Theology and Politics. We were both grateful for the support of the Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, which partnered with us in this project, recognising the timeliness of the discussion and its potential for long-term contributions.2 The conference was thus a clear case of academia seeking to make a sound statement based on historical and legal scholarship within a political context, in relation to a major international body. Indeed, the conference was followed by a press conference that sought to disseminate its message, and its proceedings were shared by Bokova’s successor, the present Director-General, Audrey Azoulay.3 1 A. Goshen-Gottstein, “UNESCO on Jerusalem – A Response from Within”, The Times of Israel, June 19, 2016, available at https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/unesco-on-jerusalem-a-responsefrom-within/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 2 “Naming the Sacred. A Research Conference on Religious Toponymy in History, Theology and Politics”, Tantur, Jerusalem, October 17–18, 2017. 3 The press release summarises much that is relevant for understanding the present volume: “At a time of great turmoil for UNESCO, following the announcement of the US withdrawal and of Israel’s plans to follow suit, and following the new Director-General elect, Audrey Azoulay, who has called for reforms at UNESCO, a group of 15 UNESCO affiliated scholars convened in Jerusalem to analyze what exactly was wrong with UNESCO’s decision on Jerusalem. The group, organized by Prof. Alberto Melloni of the Fondazione per le scienze religiose Giovanni XXIII (Fscire), Bologna, and Dr Alon Goshen-Gottstein of the Elijah Interfaith Institute, Jerusalem, convened in Jerusalem, October 17–18, 2017, for a conference entitled ‘Naming the Sacred’. The 15 UNESCO academic chairs, spanning the entire globe, from New Zealand to Oregon, studied how the history of sites has been preserved and respected through changes in empire and ruling parties, as contrasted with instances in which memory has been obliterated. Based on the study of ancient Roman habits, the tradition of Turkish and British rulers and a broad historical survey, they concluded that UNESCO’s recent Jerusalem decisions resemble most closely Stalinist policies by wiping away Christian holy sites and seeking to replace them with soviet-affiliated content. Such a procedure can be understood when practised by a political power, stated Melloni, but is totally inacceptable when it comes to an international body entrusted with the preservation of historical memory and culture, associated with religious sites: ‘Applying the power of political pressure to holy sites undermines UNESCO’s credibility’. Participating scholars noted that what characterizes Jerusalem is the complexity of its history. ‘To apply a simplistic and one-sided view to a complex historical situation will never allow us to move forward. It will only perpetuate the present stalemate. Only a complex and multi-faceted approach has the chance of making a meaningful contribution to the preservation of holy sites

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For the record, we did receive a response from Azoulay acknowledging the message and pledging to improve procedures within the organisation. However, the urgency of affecting UNESCO’s procedures has become less acute in the intervening time, due to changes on two fronts. On the one hand, UNESCO discussion became less vocal, and, on the other, the Trump administration’s decision to move the US embassy ended up shifting much public attention from the UNESCO discussion to a new political front. When scholars seek to contribute to contemporary reality, they also make a statement of value and teaching that has a longer shelf-life than messages and statements that are closely associated with political processes of the day. The publication of the present volume makes this point: its papers are as relevant now as they were when they were first delivered, and one suspects their relevance will endure for the foreseeable future. The focus of the present volume is not exclusively on issues of what religious and other sites are called in the changes of history and regimes. An overview of the contributions of the present collection suggests three interrelated focuses. The first is the focus on naming. As the summary of the press release suggests, throughout history traditions in reality maintained earlier names. This group includes the contributions by Rita Lizzi Testa (“Christian Empire and Pagan Temples in the Fourth Century CE”), who illustrates how several places consecrated to paganism (and their ancient names) continued to exist in some regions of the Roman Empire in the time of Constantine and for much longer than previously believed, and by Roberto Regoli (“Rome and the Questione Romana”), who shows how certain modern and contemporary political processes have led to changing the names of both sacred and secular places in Rome. The attempt at full erasure finds its clearest expression in Stalinist Russia although the paper by Yuri Stoyanov (“The Soviet Policy of the Holy Places in Russia”), which describes the changes in the naming of Sergiyev Posad, is unfortunately not included in the present collection. A second focal point of the essays concerns destroying the sacred, a much more blatant form of erasing the memory of the past by destroying objects that would bear its memory. Silvia Ronchey’s essay (“Destroying the Past. Monotheism, Iconoclasm and the Sacred”) covers a scope ranging from the Christian destruction of pagan sites to ISIL’s destruction of older cultures and the Talibans’ and to advancing what UNESCO calls a Culture of Peace’, stated Goshen-Gottstein. The UNESCO scholars accordingly issued a call to UNESCO in which they suggested a new methodology for how decisions should be made in situations of religious conflict and disputed memories. UNESCO has the resources, through its scholars, to offer a fair-minded historical description that takes into account the multiple narratives of communities in conflict. Scholarly positions must provide the foundations for UNESCO deliberations if it seeks to rebuild its lost credibility”.

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destruction of the Bamyian statues of Buddha; Ronchey demonstrates that the issues are not theological, but rather military and political. A similar conclusion emerges from W. Cole Durham, Jr.’s discussion of the status of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Russia (“Non-Traditional Sacred Sites. The Need for Protection”). A third focal point relates to the very ability to apply legal tools, such as declarations, to issues of sacred places and religious disputes. Three essays, those by W. Cole Durham, Jr., Peter Petkoff (“Developing and Implementing Innovative Preventative Mechanisms for the Protection of Religious Heritage Sites Through Soft Law Approaches”), and Mario Ricca (“Ubiquitous Sacred Places. The Planetary Interplay of Their Meaning and Legal Protection”), touch on the difficulties encountered in applying legal conventions to situations concerning conflicted sacred spaces. Peter Petkoff devotes a section of his essay to “Coexistence of communities. Mutual respect of values and constructive dialogue in a multicultural context”; his work calls for a means to find a new narrative applying a complex approach in order to determine legal tools for the protection of sacred sites. Mario Ricca’s presentation is a call to develop a translation mechanism that will allow members of one religion to understand the meaning of its sacred places for another religion. The precedent of shared sacred spaces, which exist in various places, offers good reason for hope. The observant reader will note that despite the different areas of discussion there is a common thread that runs through many of the volume’s essays. This thread is in keeping with the vision of the UNESCO scholars who launched the conference and took part in it, and is maintained by many of the other scholars not associated with the UNITWIN network. This common thread is the call for upholding a genuine interdisciplinarity, enhancing critical dialogue and scientific collaboration and advancing mutual knowledge of the other, as well as of our rich common past, as an antidote to one-sided legal or political actions and as a response to the inadequacies of existing legal instruments and the ideology that informs them, which, as Mario Ricca suggests, is too frequently incapable of adequately addressing the challenges of tensions arising from religious identities. We thus note that a significant number of our authors include recommendations of a practical nature, in the spirit of study, respect, dialogue and mutual understanding. Paul Morris’s key opening contribution (“Contesting ‘Sacred’ Places. The Paradoxes of Supersessionism and the Possibilities of Scholarly Responsibility”) makes several practical recommendations. These include developing clearer interreligious identities as scholars; studying history together across religious divides; sharing individual and collective memories; visiting one another’s religious sites; establishing even limited mutual recognition of one another’s association with “our own” sacred space. The issue of sharing memory points us in the direction of Merav Mack’s contribution (“Imagination, Memory and Fantasy”). Mack illustrates to what

Context and Key Messages

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extent early Islamic centuries marshalled shared memory and shared messaging, in contradistinction to processes of erasure of memory, as it is presently practised by Waqf authorities of the Haram al-Sharif. According to Mack, the early recipients of the messages inscribed on the Dome of the Rock were members of other faiths, not Muslims. Sharing memory has been the standard for centuries, and this comes as a refreshing reminder for us today. The issue of faithfulness to memory was the focus of one contribution that was presented at the conference in Jerusalem, but it is not included in this volume;4 it was offered by the Pakistani scholar Muhammad Suheyl Umar, who spoke of how in Pakistan and India a process was undertaken to reclaim what he considers authentic Muslim memory, according to which Muslims are only custodians of the Temple Mount/Haram alSharif and only have that role on a temporary basis, with Jewish rights (and memory) never having been revoked; this, too, is an important counterpoint to prevailing discourse and deserves to be mentioned here. As far as sharing memory is concerned, the paper by Nikolai Lipatov-Chicherin (“The Burial of Adam as an Archetypal Case of Sacred Tradition”) illustrates the special place that all three monotheistic faiths give to the tomb of Adam in their world view, on the one hand, and the fact that they locate it at the most sacred sites of their religion, leading to different traditions, on the other. The present volume was not created in a vacuum. As described above, it was motivated by particular events and framed in a particular context. This, too, finds expression in our volume. Alberto Melloni’s paper (“A Chronology of the UNESCO Dispute on Jerusalem and Its Holy Places”) rebuilds from a historical perspective the last year of the UNESCO Resolution on Jerusalem. The contributions of the present volume offered by Saverio Campanini (“‫ שאלו שלום ירושלם‬Gershom Scholem from Zion to Jerusalem”) and Robert O. Smith (“Christian Zionism and Jerusalem Holy Places”) carefully investigate the Zionist dream of Gershom Scholem and the political ideas and commitments of Christian Zionism, respectively; these discussions remind us of some of the complex dimensions that are associated with the particular political issue that led to the emergence of the present volume. Finally, we should like to thank Steven Shankman of the UNESCO Network on Interreligious and Intercultural Dialogue, who opened the “Naming the Sacred” conference with us. Several other scholars enriched our discussions although their papers are not included in the present collection. These include Raymond Cohen, who spoke of the holy sites under the British Mandate, and Doron Bar, who talked about Nebi Da’ud, David’s proposed tomb and the Cenacle as test cases of historical memory.

4 The essay appears in A. Goshen-Gottstein (ed.), Memory and Hope: Forgiveness, Healing, and Interfaith Relations (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2018) 107–34.

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The lessons included in the present volume are but some of the enduring lessons in our project that will continue to resound as political circumstances shift and as one crisis follows another in Jerusalem and the Middle East. The lessons themselves are broader and apply globally. We hope to have made thereby a lasting contribution to future considerations of religion and contested sacred spaces. At the end of the day, as many of our authors suggest, there is no alternative to mutual knowledge and understanding.

Preface

Paul Morris

Contesting “Sacred” Places. The Paradoxes of Supersessionism and the Possibilities of Scholarly Responsibility Allegories are, in the realm of thoughts, what ruins are in the realm of things. Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama1

This opening essay attempts to contextualise the rationale for the conference “Naming the Sacred”2 – the UNESCO decisions and deliberations on the “sacred” places in Jerusalem –, from which the present volume takes inspiration, within the broader frameworks of the history of religions and the histories of Yerushaláyim/Jerusalem/al-Quds. Dealing with contemporary issues as an historian is always fraught with difficulties since things change: and from starting to write, then following the conference to revision, matters have greatly changed with the new UNESCO leadership in Paris and further politicisation by member states in response to UNESCO pronouncements on sacred sites. There are currently, however, genuine reasons to hope for a more informed and nuanced appreciation on the part of UNESCO and other international organisations of the overlapping religious sacral claims even as the challenges on the ground, as it were, appear to be intensifying.3 This essay begins and ends with UNESCO. I first prepared this before the report that Israel announced that it intends to follow the US and withdraw from UNESCO, completing the process that began in 2011 when the US and Israel ceased to make their full contributions to the UN organisation. The US has had a sort of yoyo relationship since withdrawing under Reagan in 1984, re-joining under George W. Bush in 2002 and now planning to withdraw again on 31 1 W. Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. J. Osborne, intro. G. Steiner (London/New York: Verso, 1998 [German original 1963]), 178. 2 “Naming the Sacred. A Research Conference on Religious Toponymy in History, Theology and Politics”, co-organised by the Fondazione per le scienze religiose Giovanni XXIII (Fscire), Elijah Interfaith Institute and Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung (KAS): Tantur, Jerusalem, October 17–18, 2017. 3 The Trump administration’s decision to relocate the US embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem to coincide with the seventieth anniversary of the State of Israel has served to heighten tensions over competing “national”, religious and communal claims concerning the sacred sites of Jerusalem; see the press release at https://www.state.gov/r/pa/prs/ps/2018/02/278825.htm (accessed January 18, 2019).

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December 2018, albeit remaining a full member until then. The situation continues to be fraught, transitional and as yet unresolved. These decisions by the US and Israel change nothing in relation to my analysis but perhaps everything in terms of future policy, process and politics.4 I intend to concentrate on a number of conceptual and analytical concerns that arise from the challenging of another’s sacred space and having our own sacred places challenged. My title is meant to convey two discrete transgressions. The first refers to the challenging and delegitimising of the sacred space of the other; the second, the challenging of the ideologies that underpin the sacrality of these places. Such contestations are integral to all religious histories, even if there is evidence of a contemporary increase in such incidents. The historical responses to such challenges are instructive, and while most have been brutal destruction or commandeering, they sometimes offer helpful precedents for the present. What is the nature of the perceived offence? What roles do sacred sites play in past and present religious identities? Why are sites contested and by whom? There are a number of discrete academic dimensions to these concerns, including: the typologies of sacred places; the legal protections for sacred sites; adherent access to sacred sites; the management of diverse religious sites in a modern, religiously diverse nation-state; international and transnational recognition of sacred places; and, the mobilising power of sacred places. This essay will focus on the nature of sacred sites from the position of an historian of religions and on the ways in which the entanglements of memory and history create what might be referred to as a “sacral politics of sacred sites”. The contribution ends with a number of recommendations that arise from this analysis. The overarching argument, as reflected in the essay’s subtitle, is that there is an urgent need to create a space, even if initially consciously tentative and heuristic, between the sacral politics of sacred sites and the humanities and social sciences – particularly history and religious studies, and including enlightened academic theologians – that allows for “empirical” agreements between aca4 See G. Harris/S. Erlanger, “US Will Withdraw from UNESCO, Citing Its ‘Anti-Israel Bias’”, New York Times, October 12, 2017, available at https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/12/us/politics/ trump-unesco-withdrawal.html; B. Samuels, “Six Key Moments in Israel’s Tumultuous Relationship with UNESCO”, Haaretz, October 12, 2017, available at https://www.haaretz.com/ israel-news/six-key-moments-in-israel-s-tumultuous-relationship-with-unesco-1.5457338; C. Lynch, “US to Pull Out of UNESCO, Again”, Foreign Policy, October 11, 2017, available at https://foreignpolicy.com/2017/10/11/u-s-to-pull-out-of-unesco-again; and more recently R. Ahren, “Citing ‘new spirit’ at UNESCO, Israeli envoy wants to rethink withdrawal”, The Times of Israel, June 26, 2018, available at https://www.timesofisrael.com/citing-new-spirit-israelienvoy-wants-to-rethink-unesco-withdrawal (accessed January 18, 2019). On the background to UNESCO and Jerusalem, see the informative but partisan M. Dumper/C. Larkin, “The Politics of Heritage and the Limitations of International Agency in Contested Cities. A Study of the Role of UNESCO in Jerusalem’s Old City”, RIS 38/1 (2012) 25–52; and the selective D. Keane/V. Azarov, “UNESCO, Palestine and Archaeology in Conflict”, DJILP 41/2 (2013) 309–43.

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demics and others that can potentially frame discrete but overlapping narratives, based on the transparent interpretation of sources and evidence about sacred places, providing new frameworks for robust, productive, shared understandings, policy and other developments.

1.

The Nature of the Sacred

Historians of religion often subscribe to one of two dominant models of sacred places, with radically different accounts of what makes a place “sacred” in terms of the origins, nature and significance of that sacrality. The first arose out of a movement that came to be known as the phenomenology of religion. Drawing on the Hegelian distinction and dependent relationship between manifestations and essence, scholars like Gerardus van der Leeuw (1890–1950) developed religious categories out of their researches into diverse historical manifestations.5 For example, in relation to place (home, temple, settlement, meeting place and pilgrimage site and their uses as altar, sanctuary or shrine), he sought to go beneath these examples, re-envisaging Edmund Husserl’s (1859–1938) notion of intention, to discern a typology of “sacred space”, of spatial locations of the experience of the underlying “essence” of divine “power”. For van der Leeuw, a politician, Protestant theologian and historian of religion, this underlying power and the foundation of sacred space was god. This phenomenological understanding prioritised “sacred space” at the forefront of comparative studies in religion. In the contemporary academy and beyond, the most familiar phenomenology of sacred space and its “inherent sacrality” is that of the Romanian scholar of religions Mircea Eliade (1907–86). Eliade’s analysis of religion – the sacred and profane – proceeds largely via his understandings of sacred space. He contends that space is just real estate to the non-religious but for homo religiosus, the religious person, space is differentiated between sacred and profane. He contends that sacred places are places of hierophanies, of sacred spiritual encounters and meetings. Such sacred locations imbued with the “real” are often designated as axis mundi, the axis or centre of the world. These places are long recognised as where the barriers between the physical and spiritual worlds are especially thin and particularly permeable.6 Eliade had a fondness for mountains – they play a significant role in many traditions – and examples of such sacred places would include Delphi. Those who have been there, perhaps have an indication of what 5 G. van der Leeuw, Religion in Essence and Manifestation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986 [German original 1933]). 6 M. Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane. The Nature of Religion (San Diego: Harvest, 1957), 26.

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he suggests. These places are enshrined in myth and refracted in rituals linking generations by revivifying and recovering the hierophanies of the past in the present. Many sites have layer upon layer of religious sites, one atop the other linking the Neolithic era to the present.7 Eliade, whilst acknowledging that religious experiences of sacred space are culturally and chronologically different, insists that beneath this diversity there is an underlying commonality that reveals itself to the scholar in the examination of the contrast between these religious experiences and those of the non-religious non-experience of sacred space. Eliade’s phenomenology of sacred space still has academic subscribers, particularly among those with theological dispositions who can readily subscribe to his underlying sacred as god, or who adhere to some form of new-age religious perennialism. Phenomenology dominated the religious studies scene from the 1960s only to be challenged in the 1980s by more evidence-driven social scientific perspectives. The historian of religion Jonathan Z. Smith considered that Eliade’s focus on the centre neglected the import of the peripheries as he deconstructed Eliade’s sacred space into “place” and utopian (“no place”). He asks, “What if space were not the recipient but rather the creation of the human project? What if place were an active product of intellection rather than its passive receptacle?”.8 Smith argues that the sacrality of place is not a response to some externality by humanity but rather that it is creatively constructed by humankind through ritual.9 A place is not already sacred and subsequently recognised as such but a space made sacred by purposive human ritual action.10 The new focus on constructed and contested spatial realities in the history of religions as exemplified by Jonathan Z. Smith can be seen retrospectively as part of a broader “spatial turn” reflected in the theoretical deliberations of scholars such as Michel Foucault (1926–84), Henri Lefebvre (1901–91) and Fredric Jameson.11 While Smith understood sacral space to be formed by ritual, Foucault, 7 Ibid.: “Every sacred space implies a hierophany, and irruption of the sacred that results in detaching a territory from the surrounding cosmic milieu and making it qualitatively different … a point of passage from one mode of being to another”; see also, M. Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religion (New York: New American Library, 1958), 1–37, 367–87. 8 J.Z. Smith, To Take Place. Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987), 26. See also his “The Wobbling Pivot”, in Id., Map Is Not Territory. Studies in the History of Religions (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1978) 88–103; for a constructive critique of Smith’s theory, see R. Grimes, “Jonathan Z. Smith’s Theory of Ritual Space”, Religion 29 (1999) 261–73. 9 Smith, Map Is Not Territory, 28. 10 Ibid., 105. On the spatial location of the sacred in an increasing “secular” context, see K. Knott, The Location of Religion. A Spatial Analysis (London: Equinox, 2005), and Id., “Spatial Theory and Method for the Study of Religion”, Temenos 41/2 (2005) 153–84. 11 H. Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991); M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish. The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage, 1995); Id., Birth of the Clinic (London:

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for example, discerned such “space” to be constructed by specific “discursive practices”. While religious ritual is clearly a discursive practice, these newer theoretical frames highlighting the contestations of power have both the advantage of the stark politicisation of spatial contestations and the disadvantage of often marginalising the theological and religious dimensions of the constructions of that very sacrality. Contestations of sacral space are of course necessarily contestations of power, but their differential sacral constructions can operate with diverse models of sacral power. These different theological resonances undermine the claims for simple political mobilisation, manipulation or use of “religion”. This alternative, the social scientific or “constructivist model”, insists on accounting for sacrality by portraying the often intense and long-lived debates between contesting groups as places that are fought over, and victories marked by sacral designations and supersessions. Examples of this constructionist model would include studies such as that of Jerusalem by Roger Friedland and Richard Hecht.12 Here historical and geographical variety is not subsumed into a monocausal phenomenological account but differences are analysed as the making and contesting of the “sacred”. These are, of course, only models based on selective affinities, while actual religious sites, while still primarily explained in terms of one or other dominant model, often exhibit features of the other. Our Lady of Medjugorje suggests both an inherent sacred site even if the recent appearance of the Virgin Mary took place in a predominantly Muslim area in Bosnia. Case studies illustrate the two models with an emphasis of the nature of the challenges in contested sites. So many sites, as we noted above, witness the building on top of past sites or the transition of churches into mosques on sites that were once Buddhist or animist shrines. These are examples of what I call “spiritual spatial supersessionism”. Supersessionism literally means to sit atop of or to sit on. The histories of religious traditions are histories of spiritual spatial supersessionism: so often sacred space was formerly someone else’s – shrines into temples, churches into mosques, meeting places into gurdwaras. Spiritual spatial supersessionism also Routledge, 2003); F. Jameson, Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1994). 12 R. Friedland/R. Hecht, “The Politics of Sacred Space. Jerusalem’s Temple Mount/Haram alSharif”, in J. Scott/P. Simpson-Housley (ed.), Sacred Places and Profane Spaces. Essays in the Geographics of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (New York: Greenwood Press, 1991) 21–62; Id., To Rule Jerusalem (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Id., “The Bodies of Nations. A Comparative Study of Religious Violence in Jerusalem and Ayodhya”, HR 38/2 (1998) 101–49; Id., “The Symbol and the Stone. Jerusalem and the Millennium”, AAAPSS 558 (1998) 144–62; Id., “Jerusalem’s Sacrality, Urban Sociology and the History of Religions”, in M. Adelman/M.F. Elman (ed.), Jerusalem. Conflict and Cooperation in a Contested City (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2014) 82–113.

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includes the deliberate military destruction, for example, of hundreds of mosques in Bosnia, or Buddhist temples in Afghanistan, or archaeological ruins in Iraq and Syria. It is these rich and contested histories that create the very strata that evidence the history of military and religious triumphs of the past and which in turn create violent conflict and contestation in the present and are most likely to do so in the future.

2.

Between History and Memory

While mindful of the quip attributed to the historian Edward Hallett Carr that “all we can change is the past”, it is important to distinguish between material evidence and its interpretation and the myths that lay so near and interpenetrate the adherents’ “sacred histories”. While we can indeed, at least in principle, test the claims that there was a Ram temple on top of which the Babri Mosque in Ayodhya was erected, we cannot investigate in the same way the claim that this is the birthplace of the Hindu god Ram. Different traditions have different historical methodologies that both overlap and can be distinguished from the historical sciences and the academic study of religion. As Joan E. Taylor has shown with regard to Christian sites in this wonderful city, they have a particular, creative and complex history that undergirds their continuing sanctity.13 Scholars and academics have a singular and significant role to play across traditions in establishing shared or heuristically shared, or rejected, historical benchmarks. These in turn generate a critical distance between history and myth that allows for shared and overlapping and intersecting chronologies that highlight past historical interactions among different and diverse religious traditions. This can be illustrated with reference to Jerusalem and al-Quds and the current debates about the al-Aqsa Mosque compound and the Temple Wall.14 13 J.E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places. The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). 14 For overview histories of contested Jerusalem, see K. Armstrong, Jerusalem. One City, Three Faiths (New York: Ballantine, 1996); J. Carroll, Jerusalem, Jerusalem. How the Ancient City Ignited Our Modern World (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2011); S. Goldhill, Jerusalem. City of Longing (Cambridge, MA/London: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008); M. Benevisti, City of Stone. The Hidden History of Jerusalem (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1996); S.S. Montefiore, Jerusalem. The Biography (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2011); B. Wasserstein, Divided Jerusalem. The Struggle for the Holy City (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002); S. Ricca, Reinventing Jerusalem. Israel’s Reconstruction of the Jewish Quarter after 1967 (London: I.B. Tauris, 2007); F.E. Peters, Jerusalem. The Holy City in the Eyes of Chroniclers, Visitors, Pilgrims, and Prophets from the Days of Abraham to the Beginnings of Modern Times (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985); M. Dumper, The Politics of Sacred Space. The Old City of Jerusalem in the Middle East Conflict (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 2002).

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3.

23

Sacral Politics and Sacred Sites

The history of the holy sites of “Jerusalem” needs to be understood in terms of dynamic and plural models of theological and temporal sacrality inflected in terms of Byzantine, Islamic and Jewish theological models of sovereignty and “ownership”. These in turn were overlaid with a number of Ottoman versions of the “millet system” of religio-communal diversity, and these again subverted and reformulated as the British “mandate millet system” of religious sectarianism.15 While the Ottoman model offered a form of prejudicial pluralism, recognising difference within a given authoritative politico-religious structure, the British model appears as a narrower “politics of imperial minorities” reformulating the sovereignty and effective control of sacred sites. The most recent nationalistic phase has politically restructured claims of sovereignty and ownership as integral to competing, albeit asymmetrical, nation-states, challenging older models of the “toleration” of religious diversity, rendered more complex by transnational religious solidarities. This section includes reference to the UNESCO documents relating to sacred sites, in particular those focussing on Jerusalem. Attention will be paid to the admixture of myth and history and an attempt made to distinguish the two. The contestation of sacred sites is necessarily political and enmeshed in the identity politics of the different religious communities. Communities develop what I call “sacral politics”, political agendas that harness and integrate appeals to sacred traditions, myths and texts. Sacral politics are essential to the contemporary manifestations of religious traditions and intimately related to real estate, that is, concrete sacred spaces and places that in a Durkheimian fashion recreate just such communities of the faithful as they gather in specific “sacred” places. All three religious traditions are heirs to diverse traditions of the imagined deterritorialising and re-territorialising sacred spaces in the translocations of earthly and heavenly Jerusalem. These traditions promoted communal inclusions and exclusions intensified by European colonialism and re-intensified by the role of religion in new nationalistic imaginaries, now set in the context of globalised digital, diasporic, transnational coreligionist communities. While the dominant liberal Rawlsian model calls for a conceptual and metaphorical “common ground”, in the matrix of the competing nation-states of Israel and Palestine, the metaphor collapses since “common ground”, that is sacral space contested by nation-states, actual and nascent, becomes the problem of the same space, not the solution to its conceptual commonality. The space, however, be15 K. Barkey, “Religious Pluralism, Shared Sacred Sites, and the Ottoman Empire”, in E. Barkan/ K. Barkey (ed.), Choreographies of Shared Sacred Sites. Religion, Politics and Conflict Resolution (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015) 33–65.

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tween history and sacral politics is a potential, metaphorical shared space for initiating mutual understanding, discussion and debate. Jerusalem’s sacred sites have fascinating and complicated histories.16 The three religious traditions linked directly to the city – what we now refer to as Judaism, Christianity and Islam – have interwoven histories of peaceful coexistence and murderous conflict. Histories of bloody conquest by Israelites, Assyrians, Persians, Hellenistic Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Muslims, Crusaders, various Muslim empires, the British empire and modern Israel. The diverse population of the city with varying minorities has been dominated, slaughtered, oppressed and more.17 UNESCO, the United Nations Education, Science and Culture Organization, one of the UN family of transnational institutions, has a long history of dealings with Jerusalem variously interpreted both positively and negatively. Jerusalem was the heart of UNESCO’s first venture into interfaith dialogue in 1990 but more recently it has agreed to reports and recommendations that have alienated much of Israel’s population alongside much of the Jewish diaspora and proved to be divisive among its member states. Without entering into the arcane institutional workings of UNESCO, it has voting country representatives, an executive committee, and a professional secretariat. The executive committee’s recommendations are ratified by the vote of the member states. The various draft recommendations, amended versions and a series of resolutions on Jerusalem have been agreed by the 58-member executive committee, 16 See E. O’Donnell, “Theorising Sacred Place in Jerusalem. Identity, Yearning, and the Invention of Tradition”, Journal of Beliefs & Values 38/3 (2017) 276–85; Adelman/Elman (ed.), Jerusalem; M.J. Breger/Y. Reiter/L. Hammer (ed.), Sacred Space in Israel and Palestine. Religion and Politics (New York: Routledge, 2012); M. Cormack (ed.), Muslims and Others in Sacred Space (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013); J. Feldman, “Introduction: Contested Narratives of Storied Places – the Holy Lands”, RelSoc 5/1 (2014) 106–27; Y. Jobani/N. Perez, Women of the Wall. Navigating Religion in Sacred Sites (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017). Two recent studies exemplify the distance between history of religion and sacral political approaches: B. Kedar/R.J. Zwi Werblowsky (ed.), Sacred Space. Shrine, City, Land (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016); W. Pullan/M. Sternberg/L. Kyriacou et al., The Struggle for Jerusalem’s Holy Places (London/New York: Routledge, 2014). 17 T. Norlen, Sacred Stones and Religious Nuts. Managing Territorial Absolutes (PhD thesis; Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University, 2010); M. Smith, Religion, Culture, and Sacred Space (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008); for an evolutionary perspective, see R. Sosis, “Why Sacred Lands Are Not Indivisible. The Cognitive Foundations of Sacralising Land”, Journal of Terrorism Research 2/1 (2011) 17–44; also R. Hassner, “‘To Have and to Hold’. Conflicts over Sacred Space and the Problem of Indivisibility”, Security Studies 12/4 (2003) 1– 33; Id., War on Sacred Grounds (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009), 113–33; W. Pullan, “At the Boundaries of the Sacred. The Reinvention of Everyday Life in Jerusalem’s AlWad Street”, in Barkan/Barkey (ed.), Choreographies, 163–98; G. Bowman, “The Politics of Ownership. State, Governance and the Status Quo in the Church of the Anastasis (Holy Sepulchre)”, in Barkan/Barkey (ed.), Choreographies, 199–234.

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and a number of these have been ratified. These, even in their modified form, have followed a consistent pattern and are part of larger campaigns in support of the Palestinian state recognition project. The most recent resolution is currently in abeyance to this, and the credibility of UNESCO’s premier World Heritage process has been understood to have been compromised. The resolutions of 2015–17, in particular, have consistently referred to the city and the sacred sites by their Arabic names, at times without alternatives, while Christian and Jewish historical claims have been understated, distorted or ignored; most recently, resolutions in 2017 fail to acknowledge Jewish sites and history in Jerusalem and in Hebron. Moreover, despite high level interventions that have insisted on the inclusion of the acknowledgement of the city being sacred to all “three Abrahamic faiths”,18 albeit driven by differently inflected conceptions of sacrality, these issues have not been addressed. The history has been one-sided and highly selective. Historical omissions are legion and the overall impressions extremely historically misleading. The reports and resolutions fail to acknowledge and even draw on the available textual sources or historical documents – the evidence – of the three traditions. The bias has been conscious and deliberate and served to raise tensions among the religious communities concerned rather than improving the relationships among them. A brief look at just one of the documents serves to demonstrate this: the UNESCO Resolution on Occupied Palestine.19 This resolution is a formal condemnation of the Israeli government for allowing alleged aggression against the Palestinian people, as well as sanctions against the Muslim use of the Abrahamic holy site, the Temple Mount and East Jerusalem. The text acknowledged the “importance of the Old City of Jerusalem and its walls for the three monotheistic religions”, but referred to the sacred hilltop compound in Jerusalem’s Old City only by its Muslim name “al-Haram al-Sharif”. The Temple Mount is the only site listed without its non-Islamic titles, as opposed to the Tomb of the Patriarchs and Rachel’s Tomb, which are both listed with their Islamic and English namesakes later in the document. 18 The notion of “Abrahamic faiths” is itself problematic and is used in different ways by diverse scholars polemically and politically for different purposes. So for example, the UNESCO usage differs markedly from that of F.E. Peters, The Children of Abraham. Judaism, Christianity, Islam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010). See G.G. Stroumsa, “From Abraham’s Religion to the Abrahamic Religions”, Historia Religionum 3 (2011) 11–22; C. Bakhos, The Family of Abraham. Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Interpretations (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014); and, more generally, A. Silverstein/G.G. Stroumsa (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of the Abrahamic Religions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). 19 UNESCO 200 EX/25, October 13, 2016, available at http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0024/ 002462/246215e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). Submitted by Algeria, Egypt, Lebanon, Morocco, Oman, Qatar and Sudan, passed 24:6, with 28 abstentions and ratified on October 26, 2016 in Paris; the final count was 23:7.

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The Director-General of UNESCO, Irina Bokova, responded by saying that Judaism, Islam and Christianity have clear historical connections to Jerusalem and “to deny, conceal or erase any of the Jewish, Christian or Muslim traditions undermines the integrity of the site. Al-Aqsa Mosque is also Temple Mount, whose Western Wall is the holiest place in Judaism”.20 On October 26, 2016 UNESCO approved a reviewed version of the resolution, which also criticised Israel for its continuous “refusal to let the body’s experts access Jerusalem’s holy sites to determine their conservation status”.21 These resolutions exhibit sacral politics at the expense of responsible and informed historical research or scholarship. To return to UNESCO, again news moves faster than the historian: the new Director-General of UNESCO has been announced. France’s former Minister of Culture, Audrey Azoulay, was elected by 30 to 28 votes over the Qatari candidate, again reflecting the regional and wider politics. The new Director-General has committed to addressing the concerns raised above and to rebuilding some of the loss of trust in this tarnished institution. The real history of Jerusalem’s sacred sites and its intertwined religious communities is, needless to say, more ramified, complicated and fascinating, and I shall briefly allude to the Kotel, the Western Wall, by way of an example.22 This dates from the refurbishments to the Second Temple in Jerusalem that began at the end of the second decade of this era as part of the encasement of Mount Moriah, or the Temple Mount. The Kotel appears to be part of a retaining wall structure erected to provide foundations for a secure raised platform on which the Temple was built. This Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE and Jews were excluded from the Temple Mount by Emperor Hadrian after 136 CE. Further restrictions followed. An eleventh-century text from the Cairo Geniza reports that Jewish pilgrims frequented the Temple Mount and prayed at the Temple walls and that special taxes were paid to pray there and on the Mount of Olives. Leaving aside the many Jewish reports, Jews were again barred from the Temple Mount by the Mamluks, who ruled Jerusalem from 1250 to 1516. In 1517, the Ottomans conquered Jerusalem. Sultan Suleiman I the Magnificent, who reigned from 1520 to 1566, restored Jerusalem’s city walls and later renovated the 20 “Statement by the Director-General of UNESCO on the Old City of Jerusalem and Its Walls, a UNESCO World Heritage Site”, October 14, 2016, available at http://www.unesco.org/new/en/ media-services/single-view/news/statement_by_the_director_general_of_unesco_on_the_ old_city/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 21 See also http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0024/002456/245634e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 22 F.M. Loewenberg, “Is the Western Wall Judaism’s Holiest Site?”, The Middle East Quarterly 24/ 4 (2017); Bowman, “The Politics of Ownership”; R. Cohen, Saving the Holy Sepulchre. How Rival Christians Came Together to Rescue their Holiest Shrine (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008).

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Dome of the Rock. In 1554, Suleiman issued a firman, or decree, that guaranteed the right of Jews to pray there for ever. This lasted until the nineteenth century and was reissued a number of times. This is very different from the UNESCO version.23

4.

Conclusion and Recommendations

I should like to conclude with five recommendations: 1. We need to define our responsibilities as scholars and adherents in terms that are consistent with our traditions. The recognition of these overlapping interreligious identities as scholars and practitioners creates the possibility of shared scholarly agendas and endeavours. 2. We need to do history together: (a) acknowledging parallel and discordant readings of historical texts; (b) accounting for divergences and contradictions in terms of shared and unshared authoritative traditions and assumptions; (c) beginning a process by which we can agree on what we are able to agree on and name and categorise what we cannot; (d) recognising that a dialogue has now commenced in the newly created shared space. 3. We need to articulate and share memories, both individual and collective, of the experiences arising from journeying, being at and praying at sacred sites by exploring the affirmation and reaffirmation of communal solidarities and the acknowledgement of both the inclusivity and exclusivity of such identities. 4. We need to visit each other’s sacred sites: our traditions have essential teachings of hospitality and peaceful pathways and these can be drawn upon to generate opportunities for mutual visits. These will involve preparatory guidelines and instructions (and of course, required permissions) and postvisit informal debriefings, followed by a more formal gathering to discuss shared and distinct understandings of sacrality and identity. 5. Having created a potentially safe environment for the contesting of one another’s sacred space, guidelines can be entertained, and even formulated, for the foundations of a limited mutual recognition based on the above. This will necessarily entail returning to sacral politics and the broader context, including discussions about rethinking sovereignty but with novel possibilities and hope for future positive entanglements. The alternatives are dire: the shrill repetition of our theologies of sacral places, sanctifying supersessionism, sanctioning violence as we pass each other like ships in the night. 23 Barkey, “Religious Pluralism”.

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I leave the final word to the prophet Isaiah: “Zion will be redeemed by righteousness, and its inhabitants by righteousness” (Isa 1:27). ‫ִציּוֹן ְבִּמ ְשׁ ָפּט ִתּ ָפּ ֶדה ְו ָשֶׁביָה ִבְּצ ָדָקה‬

Cases

Nikolai Lipatov-Chicherin

The Burial of Adam as an Archetypal Case of Sacred Tradition1

It is a singular circumstance that right under the roof of this same great church, and not far away from that illustrious column, Adam himself, the father of the human race, lies buried. There is no question that he is actually buried in the grave which is pointed out as his – there can be none – because it has never yet been proven that that grave is not the grave in which he is buried. The tomb of Adam! How touching it was, here in a land of strangers, far away from home, and friends, and all who cared for me, thus to discover the grave of a blood relation. True, a distant one, but still a relation. The unerring instinct of nature thrilled its recognition.2

In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem Mark Twain reacted to the sacred local tradition with the same mixture of sarcasm and curiosity as he did to the legends of the Knights of the Round Table in Britain.3 The “innocent abroad” paid attention to what his guides were telling him and informed his readers in considerable detail of what he learned throughout his tour of the Mediterranean. His attitude, however, was produced not only by rationalism and a superiority complex towards the pre-industrial age and its beliefs. In addition, Mark Twain was poking fun both at the Romantic image of a Catholic pilgrim to the Holy Land, a spiritual heir to the Crusaders, as presented by Chateaubriand,4 and learned guide-books for the middle-class Protestant explorer, as exemplified by Porter.5 Deeper still, his take on the public reverence towards the twin pillars of 1 I should like to thank my wife Natalia Smelova for her help and support for my work on this project. Translations of sources are by the author, unless otherwise stated. 2 M. Twain, The Innocents Abroad, or, The New Pilgrims’ Progress (Hartford, CT: American Publishing Company, 1869), Chapter 53 “Grave of Adam”, 566–7. Cf. Id., Eve’s Diary. Translated from the Original MS (London/New York: Harper & Brothers Publishers, 1906). 3 Id., A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court (New York: C.L. Webster & Co., 1889). 4 F.-R. de Chateaubriand, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem et de Jérusalem à Paris (3 vol.; Paris: Le Normant, 1811). Cf. E. Champion, Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem par Julien domestique de M. de Chateaubriand (Paris: Honoré Champion Éditeur, 1904). 5 J.L. Porter, A Handbook for Travellers in Syria and Palestine; Including an Account of the Geography, History, Antiquities, and Inhabitants of These Countries, the Peninsula of Sinai, Edom and the Syrian Desert; with Detailed Descriptions of Jerusalem, Petra, Damascus, and Palmyra (2 vol.; London: J. Murray, 1858).

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the previous age, the classical and the biblical traditions, was borne out of the selfawareness as a citizen of the New World, “the promised land” and the land of promise. In this he was not alone but rather conformed to the dominant sense of triumphant supersessionism felt by the “American Adam” towards Europe as the land of the past. As Richard Warrington Baldwin Lewis pointed out, Adam was the first, the archetypal, man. His moral position was prior to experience, and in his very newness he was fundamentally innocent. The world and history lay all before him. And he was the type of creator, the poet par excellence, creating language itself by naming the elements of the scene about him. All this and more were contained in the image of the American as Adam.6

However, much as Twain and his contemporaries wished to stress the fresh start of the new creation in the New World,7 their use of the archetypal image of Adam was continuing a very old tradition. Apostle Paul and Christian exegetes who followed him, Jewish rabbis, Muslim scholars as well as pilgrims and travellers of the three faiths for two millennia have seen in Adam the figure of cosmic significance. In particular, his burial – rival locations of which have been placed at the most sacred sites of each religion – has been illustrating the conviction that the religious tradition connected with the site represents the original faith of humankind. Of all the places connected with the life of a person the burial is usually the last one and has a better chance of identification, thus traditionally being the most common site for remembrance and devotion. Localisation focuses the veneration.8 For this reason, the burial of Adam has a particular significance among the numerous traditions about him and has been chosen for this case study. The vast number of texts over many centuries dealing with the topic makes 6 R.W.B. Lewis, The American Adam. Innocence, Tragedy and Tradition in the Nineteenth Century (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1955), 5. Cf. W.R. Hutchison, Errand to the World: American Protestant Thought and Foreign Missions (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1987), 5. 7 B. Yothers, The Romance of the Holy Land in American Travel Writing, 1790–1876 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007); S.S. Rogers, Inventing the Holy Land. American Protestant Pilgrimage to Palestine 1865–1941 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2011). The American attitude can be compared to perceptions of the Holy Land in England, Russia and continental Western Europe: E. Bar-Yosef, The Holy Land in English Culture 1799–1917. Palestine and the Question of Orientalism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); R. Hummel/T. Hummel, Patterns of the Sacred. English Protestant and Russian Orthodox Pilgrims of the Nineteenth Century (London: Scorpion Cavendish, 1995); N. Rosovsky, “Nineteenth-Century Portraits through Western Eyes”, in Id., City of the Great King. Jerusalem from David to the Present (Cambridge, MA/ London: Harvard University Press, 1996) 218–40. 8 O. Grabar, “Space and Holiness in Medieval Jerusalem”, in L.I. Levine (ed.), Jerusalem. Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity and Islam (New York: Continuum, 1999) 275– 86; J. Davies, Death, Burial and Rebirth in the Religions of Antiquity (London: Routledge, 1999); K. Verdery, The Political Lives of Dead Bodies. Reburial and Postsocialist Change (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999).

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it impossible to consider them all. However, a representative selection has been made to illustrate the main tendencies.9 In the Old Testament the word ’a¯dha¯m is used to indicate both the first man and the man as such, thus providing a close connection between the specific and the generic instance and allowing a considerable interchange.10 The New Testament contains in the Gospels and Pauline epistles different elements which will later be combined to provide both the context and theological explanation for the story of Adam’s burial on Golgotha. They include references to Christ as the head of everything, of the church and of every man;11 his role as the second Adam restoring the fall of the first human;12 an account of rising of ancient saints from the graves at the time of Christ’s resurrection13 and special attention to the skull in the toponym Golgotha.14 The earliest author who explicitly speaks about Adam 9 Surveys of different traditions about Adam (including his burial) in addition to those mentioned below: G. Klameth, Die neutestamentlichen Lokaltraditionen Palästinas in der Zeit vor den Kreuzzügen (2 vol.; Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1914–23), 1.88– 138; W. Lüdtke, “Georgische Adam-Bücher”, Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 38 (1919–20) 155–68, on pp. 159–61; V. Aptowitzer, “Les éléments juifs dans la légende du Golgotha”, Révue des Études Juives 79 (1924) 145–62; J. Jeremias, Golgotha (Leipzig: Eduard Pfeiffer, 1926), 34–68; E.C. Quinn, The Quest of Seth for the Oil of Life (Chicago/ London: The University of Chicago Press, 1962); M.M. Kaspina, Syuzhety ob Adame i Eve v svete istoricheskoj poehtiki. Na materiale drevnej i srednevekovoj evrejskoj i slavyanskoj knizhnosti (PhD thesis; Moskva: RGGU, 2001), 2.3.3, 3.3.3, available at http://www.ruthenia. ru/folklore/caspina1.htm (accessed January 18, 2019); M.E. Stone, Adam and Eve in the Armenian Traditions. Fifth through Seventeenth Centuries (Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013), 82, 125–6, 175, 301, 437, 662; N. Lipatov-Chicherin, “Predanie o pogrebenii Adama na Golgofe v pozdneantichnoj literature (III–V vv.)”, in K.A. Bitner/N. Smelova (ed.), Istochnikovedenie kul’turnyx tradicij Vostoka: gebraistika – ehllinistika – sirologiya – slavistika (Trudy po iudaike. Filologiya i kul’turologiya 4; St Petersburg: Peterburgskij institut iudaiki, 2016) 144–76. 10 F. Maass, “‫’ – אדם‬a¯dha¯m”, in G.J. Botterweck/H. Ringgren/H.-J. Fabry (ed.), Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament (15 vol.; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1974–2006), 1.83–7. 11 Ps 117(118):22: “λίθος ει᾿ς κεφαλὴν γωνίας” in Matt 21:42; Mark 12:10; Luke 20:17; Acts 4:11; 1 Pet 2:7; Eph 2:20; Eph 1:10: “ἀνακεφαλαιώσασθαι τὰ πάντα ἐν τῷ Χριστῷ”; Col 2:10: “ἡ κεφαλὴ πάσης ἀρχῆς καὶ ἐξουσίας”; Eph 5:23: “κεφαλὴ τῆς Ἐκκλησίας”; Col 1:18; 2:19; cf. Eph 1:22, 4:15; 1 Cor 11:3: “παντὸς ἀνδρὸς ἡ κεφαλή”. 12 Rom 5:12–19; 1 Cor 15:21–2, 15:45–9; cf. Eph 5:14. See M. Kister, “Romans 5:12–21 against the Background of Tannaitic Torah-Theology and Hebrew Usage”, Harvard Theological Review 100 (2007) 391–424; Id., “‘In Adam’: 1 Cor 15:21–22; 12:27 in their Jewish Setting”, in A. Hilhorst/E. Puech/E.J.C. Tigchelaar (ed.), Flores Florentino. Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez (JSJS 122; Leiden: Brill, 2007) 685–90; Id., “‘First Adam’ and ‘Second Adam’ in 1 Cor 15:45–49 in the Light of Midrashic Exegesis and Hebrew Usage”, in R. Bieringer (ed.), The New Testament and Rabbinic Literature (Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 2010) 351–65; J. Eadie, A Commentary on the Greek Text of the Epistle of Paul to the Ephesians (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 31883) 387–90. 13 Matt 27:52–3; cf. Ezek 37:1–14. 14 Mark 15:22; Matt 27:33; Luke 23:33; John 19:17. See N. Lipatov-Chicherin, “Early Christian Tradition about Adam’s Burial on Golgotha and Origen”, in B. Bitton-Ashkelony et al. (ed.),

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on Golgotha is Julius Africanus in his Chronography. The fragmentary preservation of the text makes it uncertain whether the author had any additional information about the tradition. Two details, however, stand out: he refers to the tomb, not just a burial, thus presupposing its continuing survival, and refers to a Hebrew rather than Jewish tradition as the source of the story,15 which suggests a Hebrew Christian group as a milieu where it developed. A possible witness to some of the information is the Book of Jubilees, since it also speaks about Adam as the first person to be buried in the earth.16 However, the existing text of it does not contain references to the location of Adam’s burial. The next writer who deals with the topic of Adam on Golgotha is Origen (Comm. in Matt. 27:33). His account has survived in three versions: the shorter and the longer quotes in Greek catenae and a Latin translation.17 The minimal Greek text provides the common Origeniana Duodecima. Origen’s Legacy in the Holy Land – A Tale of Three Cities: Jerusalem, Caesarea and Bethlehem (Jerusalem, June 25–29, 2017) (Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming 2019). 15 Julius Africanus, Chronographiae, ed. M. Wallraff (GCS NF 15; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2007), 42–3, n. 1: “τοῦτον λέγεται πρῶτον ει᾿ς τὴν γῆν, ἐξ ἧς ἐλήφθη, ταφῆναι, καὶ μνῆμα αὐτῷ κατὰ τὴν Ἱεροσολύμων γεγονέναι γῆν, ἑβραϊκή τις ἱστορεῖ παράδοσις”; “It is said that he [Adam] was the first to be buried in the ground, from which he was taken, and a certain Hebrew tradition narrates that his tomb has been in the land of Jerusalem”. On Julius Africanus’s version of this tradition, see H. Gelzer, Sextus Julius Africanus und die byzantinische Chronographie (2 vol.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1880–5), 1.60–1. The passage is preserved in Symeon Logothete and a number of other chronicles: see the edition of Africanus by Wallraff, on pp. XLIV–XLVI, 42. 16 Jubilees 4:29, trans. O.S. Wintermute, in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vol.; Garden City, NY, 1983–5), 1.63: “And at the end of the nineteenth jubilee in the seventh week, in the sixth year, Adam died. And all of his children buried him in the land of his creation. And he was the first who was buried in the earth”. 17 Shorter Greek version: Or. Comm. ser. in Mt., ed. E. Klostermann (GCS 38; Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1933), 265,1–8 = Fragmentum in catenis 551.II (Mt. 27:33); S. 225 (GCS 41; Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs Verlag, 1941): “Περὶ τοῦ Κρανίου τόπου ἦλθεν ει᾿ς ἐμέ, ὅτι Ἑβραῖοι παραδιδόασι τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἀδὰμ ἐκεῖ τετάφθαι, ἵν᾿ ἐπεὶ ἐν τῷ Ἀδὰμ πάντες ἀποθνῄσκομεν, ἀναστῇ μὲν ὁ Ἀδάμ, ἐν Χριστῷ δὲ πάντες ζῳοποιηθῶμεν (1 Cor 15:22)”; “[Information] has reached me about the place of the Skull, that the Hebrews have a tradition that the body of Adam has been buried there, so that, since we all die in Adam, and Adam has risen, we all may be made alive in Christ (1 Cor 15:22)”. Longer Greek version: Or. Fr. in Mt. 551.III (Matt 27:33), ed. E. Klostermann (GCS 41/1; Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1941), 225–6: “περὶ δὲ τοῦ κρανίου τόπου ἦλθεν ει᾿ς ἐμὲ ὅτι Ἑβραῖοι παραδιδόασιν τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἀδὰμ ἐκεῖ τεθάφθαι˙ καὶ ἐπεὶ ἐν τῷ Ἀδὰμ πάντες ἀποθνῄσκομεν, ἀνέστη καὶ Ἀδὰμ διὰ τοῦ θανάτου τοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ ἐν Χριστῷ πάντες ζῳοποιηθήσονται (1 Cor 15:22). πολλῶν δὲ ὄντων θανάτων σταυροῦται ὁ Χριστός, ἵνα ἀπεκδυσάμενος τὰς ἀρχὰς καὶ τὰς ἐξουσίας θριαμβεύσῃ (Col 2:15) ἐν τῷ ξύλῳ καὶ συνεκταθῇ τῷ παντί”; “[Information] has reached me about the place of the Skull, that the Hebrews have a tradition that the body of Adam has been buried there, and, since we all die in Adam, and Adam has risen through the death of Christ, all shall be made alive in Christ (1 Cor 15:22). And as there are many deaths, Christ is crucified, so that having disarmed the powers and authorities He triumphed over them (Col 2:15) on the cross and was joined to everything”. Latin translation: Or. Comm. ser. in Mt. 126, ed. E. Klostermann (GCS 38; Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1933), 264,31–265,14: “… locus autem Calvariae dicitur non qualemcumque dispensationem habere, ut illic, qui pro hominibus moriturus fuerat, moreretur. venit enim

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basis for all three. The first significant point is that the body of Adam was buried on Golgotha (a later alternative explanation will arise that the etymology of Golgotha, “the place of the Skull”, implied that only the head of the first man was buried there). The second was theological interpretation of the significance of the burial in a quote from 1 Cor 15:22: the reason for the coincidence of the place of Adam’s burial and Christ’s passion was to ensure the restoration by the Saviour of the human nature corrupted by the fall of the first man. The source of information is referred to as an oral Hebrew tradition.18 The longer Greek text and the Latin translation supply extra details. It is more likely that they develop further the ideas of the short Greek quote, rather than it being an abbreviation of the longer texts. It is worthy of note that Eusebius of Caesarea, who had direct access to Origen’s library in the city and regarded himself as his follower, chose to omit all reference to Adam even when writing about Constantine’s building project on Golgotha.19 It seems that in this respect he was a more thoroughgoing Origenist than his master himself. The physical and local aspect of the tradition went contrary to the spiritualising tendencies of Origenist teaching.20 Origen’s own acceptance of the report seems to be due to his respect for the Hebrew source of the story.21 A significant testimony to the lack of knowledge of the tradition in

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ad me traditio quaedam talis, quoniam corpus Adae primi hominis ibi sepultum est ubi crucifixus est Christus, ut sicut in Adam omnes moriuntur sic in Christo omnes vivificentur (1 Cor 15:22); ut in loco illo, qui dicitur Calvariae locus, id est locus capitis, caput humani generis resurrectionem inveniat cum populo universo per resurrectionem domini salvatoris, qui ibi passus est et resurrexit. inconveniens enim erat, ut cum multi ex eo nati remissionem acciperent peccatorum et beneficium resurrectionis consequerentur, non magis ipse pater omnium hominum huiusmodi gratiam consequeretur”; “However, it is said that the place of the Skull has not an ordinary dispensation, as there died He, who was going to die for the people. A certain such tradition has reached me that the body of Adam, the first man, has been buried there, where Christ was crucified, in order that just as all die in Adam, so all shall be made alive in Christ (1 Cor 15:22). [It was done], so that in that place, which is called the place of the Skull, that is the place of the head, the head of the human race would find resurrection with the whole people through the resurrection of the Lord saviour, who suffered and rose there. For it would not have been proper that, when many, who had been born from him, were receiving the remission of sins and gaining the benefit of the resurrection, the father of all people himself should not gain even more grace of this kind”. For opinions on the “Hebrews” referred to by Origen see J.E. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places. The Myth of Jewish-Christian Origins (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 124–9; differently, O. Skarsaune, In the Shadow of the Temple. Jewish Influences on Early Christianity (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2002), 361–73. Eus. v.C. III 33.3–34 ed. F. Winkelmann (GCS 7/1; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 21975), 99,19– 100,2. Another, possibly even more powerful reason, was ongoing rivalry between the sees of Caesarea and Jerusalem-Aelia: Z. Rubin, “The Cult of the Holy Places and Christian Politics in Byzantine Jerusalem”, in Levine, Jerusalem, 151–62, on pp. 151–2. N.M.R. De Lange, Origen and the Jews. Studies in Jewish-Christian Relations in Third-Century Palestine (University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 25; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), 50–1, 135.

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the church of Resurrection is presented by catechetical sermons of St Cyril of Jerusalem. He preached to his congregation standing exactly in front of the rock of Golgotha, pointing to the crack as he was narrating the events of the crucifixion.22 In a series of pointed allusions to the etymology of the name Golgotha, Cyril speaks about Christ as the Head, going through a large number of passages of Apostle Paul which are relevant to the topic.23 Yet he does not mention Adam’s grave on Golgotha in any way. Since he had no reason to avoid the topic, this silence can only mean unfamiliarity with the story by the person who would have known it, had it had any circulation in the main Christian congregation in Jerusalem. The most thorough report of the story of Adam’s burial on Golgotha (which confirms testimonies of Africanus and Origen that it was an oral tradition in the church) comes from fourth-century Cappadocia rather than Palestine and is found in the Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah (V 141) by St Basil the Great. He added a number of details to the narrative learnt from his predecessors, but it is not clear whether they originated from his sources or from the logical development of the story by the metropolitan of Caesarea himself. The most significant addition is a statement that the memory of the tomb of Adam was preserved by Noah during the disruption caused by the Flood.24 This detail will be greatly developed later in the Syrian book The Cave of

22 Cyr. H. Catech. XIII 39, in W.K. Reischl/J. Rupp (ed.), Cyrilli Hierosolymarum archiepiscopi opera quae supersunt omnia (2 vol.; München: Sumtibus Librariae Lentnerianae, 1848–60), 2.102. 23 Cyr. H. Catech. XIII 23, 82,4–17: “Golgotha is translated as the Place of the Skull (Mark 15:22; John 19:17). Who were they, who prophetically gave the name of Golgotha to this place, in which the true head – Christ accepted the cross? … The head has suffered in the Place of the Skull. What a great and prophetic name! The name itself almost reminds you, saying: ‘Do not consider the crucified one to be just a man. He is the head of every power and authority’ (Col 2:10). The head of every authority is crucified, having the Father as His head. The head of the man is Christ, and the head of Christ is God”. For Cyril of Jerusalem’s catechetical sermons in front of the rock of Golgotha, which he considered to be the centre of the world (Catech. XIII 27–8), see e. g. D.S. Kalleres, “Cultivating True Sight at the Center of the World. Cyril of Jerusalem and the Lenten Catechumenate”, CH 74/3 (2005) 431–59. 24 Bas. Is. V 141 (PG 30,348C1–349A2): “The following story has been preserved in the Church in an unwritten tradition, claiming that Judaea had Adam as its first inhabitant, and that after being expelled from Paradise he was settled in it as a consolation for what he had lost. Thus it was first to receive a dead man too, since Adam completed his condemnation there. The sight of the bone of the head, as the flesh fell away on all sides, seemed to be novel to the men of that time, and after depositing the skull in that place they named it Place of the Skull. It is probable that Noah, the ancestor of all men, was not unaware of the burial, so that after the flood the story was passed on by him …”. Concerning the authorship of the book see N. LipatovChicherin, “The Problem of the Authorship of the Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah Attributed to St Basil the Great”, in E.A. Livingstone (ed.), Cappadocian Fathers, Greek Authors after Nicaea, Augustine, Donatism and Pelagianism (Studia Patristica 27; Leuven: Peeters, 1993) 42–8; Id., “Vopros ob avtorstve Tolkovaniya na Proroka Isajyu, soxranivshegosya pod

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Treasures (in its present form, this is a sixth-century work),25 and it is not impossible that its author had the idea from the Syriac translation of the passage about Adam’s burial in the Commentary on Isaiah.26 Another witness to the influence of Basil’s account is an extensive, very close rendering of it in the collection of letters by Nilus of Ancyra.27 It is in the last two decades of the fourth century that the story of Adam on Golgotha attracts strong attention in and around Jerusalem and even becomes a focal point of heated polemics. A homily On the Passion and Cross of the Lord, preserved under the name of St Athanasius of Alexandria but not attributable to him, for the first time interprets the mysterious words of Eph 5:14 as addressed to Adam and referring to his being raised by Christ at His own resurrection.28 A contemporary letter written by Jerome, on behalf of his patrons Paula and Eustochium, to their friend Marcella in Rome soon after they arrived in Jerusalem

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imenem svt. Vasiliya Velikogo”, Vestnik PSTGU. Seriya I: Bogoslovie. Filosofiya. Religiovedenie 33 (2011) 69–84. La Caverne des Trésors. Les Deux Recensions Syriaques, ed. R. Su-Min Ri (CSCO 486; Scriptores Syri 207; Leuven: Peeters, 1987), 54–79, 96–101, 120–73; La Caverne des Trésors. Les Deux Recensions Syriaques, trans. R. Su-Min Ri (CSCO 487; Scriptores Syri 208; Leuven: Peeters, 1987), 22–33, 38–41, 46–67; A. Toepel, Die Adam- und Seth-Legenden im Syrischen Buch der Schatzhöhle (CSCO 618; Subsidia 119; Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 179–82; C. Leonhard, “Observations on the Date of the Syriac Cave of Treasures”, in P.M. Daviau (ed.), The World of the Aramaeans III. Studies in Language and Literature in Honour of Paul-Eugène Dion (JSOT Supplement Series 326; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001) 255–93, on pp. 277–80, 282– 4. Ms London, British Library, Syriac 861 (Add.17193), ff. 7v–8r. Nil. ep. I 2 Ptolemaeo syncletico (PG 79,84A2–B10). Ath. pass. 12 (PG 28,208A5–B14): “Because of this He suffers not elsewhere, nor is He crucified in a place other than the Place of the Skull, about which the teachers of the Hebrews say that it is the tomb of Adam. For they definitely state that he was buried there after the curse [of the condemnation]. If this is so, I am amazed at the appropriateness of this place. For the Lord, when He wanted to renew the first Adam, had to suffer in that place, so that absolving his sin … and instead of: ‘You are earth, and you shall go into earth’ (Gen 3:19), He said then: ‘Awake, you who sleep, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall shine upon you’ (Eph 5:14), and again: ‘Rise and come, follow me, so that you are no longer located on earth, but go up into heaven’. For it was necessary that, when the Saviour was woken up, together with Him also be woken up Adam and all those who originated from Adam. And just as, when Adam died, we also were remaining dead through him, so when the body of the Lord woke up, it was necessary for all others to be woken up with Him. This is the meaning [of the words] of Paul, for he writes to the Corinthians saying: For just as all die in Adam, so all shall be made alive in Christ (1 Cor 15:22)”. H.R. Drobner, “Eine pseudo-athanasianische Osterpredigt (CPG II. 2247) uber die Wahrheit Gottes und ihre Erfullung”, in L.R. Wickham/C.P. Bammel (ed.), Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy in Late Antiquity (Leiden: Brill, 1993) 43–51. Syriac translation of the homily: De Cruce et Passione, in R.W. Thomson (ed.), Athanasiana Syriaca part III (CSCO 324; Scriptores Syri 142; Leuven: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1972), 105,19– 106,10. English translation of the Syriac version of De Cruce et Passione in R.W. Thomson (trans.), Athanasiana Syriaca part III (CSCO 325; Scriptores Syri 143; Leuven: Secrétariat du CorpusSCO, 1972), 72,24–73,6.

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and were full of admiration for the Holy Land and its wonders, repeats the argument found in the homily and uses similar expressions.29 After this, the reasoning of the homily was also reproduced and commended by Epiphanius of Salamis in his Panarion (XLVI 5).30 Soon, however, Jerome turned against this interpretation and started to attack it. In the Commentary on Ephesians, he relates how he personally heard the words preached and dismisses them as not agreeing with the meaning and context of the passage of Paul (5:14).31 By the time he wrote the Commentary on Matthew, Jerome found arguments to support his denial that Eph 5:14 could be symbolically applied to Adam’s being raised by Christ. First, he claims (without any evidence) that the etymology of Golgotha 29 Hier. epist. XVLI 3.2, ed. I. Hilberg (CSEL 54; Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1996), 331,24–332,9: “They say that in this city [Jerusalem], indeed on this place then Adam lived and died. Hence the place, on which our Lord was crucified is called Calvary [the Skull], namely because there the skull of the ancient man [Adam] has been buried, so that the second Adam and the blood of Christ dripping from the cross might wash off the sins of the first Adam and our forefather lying there, so that then the saying of the Apostle might be fulfilled: ‘Wake up, you who sleep, and rise up from the dead and Christ will shine upon you’ (Eph 5:14)”. 30 Epiph. haer. XLVI 5.1–10, ed. K. Holl (GCS 25; Leipzig, 1922; Berlin, 21980), 208,15–210,4: “And so one should be amazed at someone who knows [this], as we have also found in the books, that our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified on Golgotha. Not in any other place, but where Adam’s body was lying. For having gone out of the Paradise … he later came and in this place … having rendered what was due, he was buried there, on the place of Golgotha. … because of this it was called the Place of the Skull. Having been crucified on it our Lord Jesus Christ enigmatically showed our salvation, through the water and blood that flowed from him through his pierced side. From the beginning of the lump (Rom 11:16) beginning to sprinkle our forefather’s remains, to show us too the sprinkling of His blood … and to show, as an example of the leavening and cleansing of the filth of our sins, the water which was poured out on the one who lay buried beneath Him in that place, for his hope and the hope of us who originated from him. Thus here was fulfilled what was said: ‘Awake, you who sleep and arise from the dead, and Christ shall shine upon you’ (Eph 5:14)”. Also Panarion LXIV 71.19, 521,6– 12. 31 Hier. in Eph. III 5.14 (PL 26,526A4–B10): “I know that I have heard a certain [preacher] arguing in the church about this passage (Eph 5:14), who, in a manner of a theatrical miracle, presented to the people in order to please them a thing never previously seen. He was saying that this [passage] is a testimony and is spoken about Adam, buried in the place of the Skull, where the Lord was crucified. It is called [the Place] of the Skull for the reason because there the head of the ancient man has been buried. Therefore at the time when the crucified Lord was hanging above his burial the prophecy was fulfilled, which says: Rise Adam, you who sleep, and rise up from the dead, and, [further] not as we read: ἐπιφαύσει σοι ὁ Χριστός, that is Christ will shine upon you, but ἐπιψαύσει, that is Christ will touch you (Eph 5:14). Because obviously by the touch of His [Christ’s] blood and the body hanging down he [Adam] is brought to life and rises with Him. … Whether these [statements] are true or not I leave to the judgement of the reader. Then, when [these words] were said to the people, they clearly pleased them and were received with a certain applause and stamping of the feet. I will say one thing which I know: that interpretation [of his] does not agree with the meaning and the context of this passage”. See R.E. Heine, The Commentaries of Origen and Jerome on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 224.

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refers to the decapitation of criminals rather than the skull of Adam, then asserts that the execution of two thieves alongside Christ and their blood dripping on the ground somehow rules out the possibility of Christ’s blood giving life to Adam. Finally, he crowns the whole argument with a mistranslation of Josh 14:15 by turning the generic term ’a¯dha¯m (man) into a personal name Adam and insisting that he found Scriptural evidence for Adam’s burial in Hebron, decisively ruling out Golgotha and Jerusalem.32 Jerome then reproduced his claim for Adam’s tomb in Hebron in the Hebrew Questions on Genesis (Gen 23:2: biblical identification of Hebron and Kiriath-Arba)33 and in Ep. CVIII 1134 (on the life of Paula), although he had to admit that many consider the fourth tomb in Hebron to be that of Caleb rather than Adam.35 In short, upon his arrival in Jerusalem, Jerome endorsed the application of Eph 5:14 to Adam but then changed his opinion. All his texts (one positive and several negative) reproduce the same wording as the preacher’s (the verbal agreement with it is also found in Epiphanius who also visited Jerusalem).36 The preaching apparently took place at the site of Golgotha and was, therefore, likely to have been carried out by the local bishop. Some theological statements in the homily On the Passion and Cross of the Lord correspond to teachings of Bishop John II of Jerusalem (387–417 CE), criticised by Jerome in a special treatise (To 32 Hier. in Matth. IV 27.33, ed. D. Hurst (CCSL 77; Turnhout: Brepols, 1969), 270,1666–85: “I heard a certain person offering an explanation that the place of the Skull [is the place] in which Adam has been buried and called so because there the head of the ancient man has been buried, and that this is what the Apostle says: Rise, you who sleep, and rise up from the dead and Christ will shine upon you (Eph 5:14). A pleasant interpretation and delighting the ear of the people, yet not true. For outside the city and beyond the gate are places, in which heads of the condemned are cut off, and they receive the name of the Skull, that is of the beheaded. … But if someone would wish to argue that [it is called so] because the Lord was crucified there, so that His blood would drip on the tomb of Adam, we shall ask him … From this it becomes clear that [the place] of the Skull indicates not the burial of the first man but a place of the beheaded, so that where sin became abundant, grace would become even more abundant (Rom 5:20). We read in the book of Joshua son of Nun that in truth Adam has been buried near Chebron and Arbe”. 33 Hier. quaest. hebr. in Gen. XXIII 2, ed. P. de Lagarde (CCSL 72; Turnhout: Brepols, 1959), 28,26–30. 34 Hier. epist. CVIII 11, ed. I. Hilberg (CSEL 55; Wien/Leipzig: F. Tempsky/G. Freytag, 1912), 319,8–12. 35 The significance of Caleb is examined in J.L. Wright, David, King of Israel, and Caleb in Biblical Memory (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 212–20. For Jerome’s arguments see P.W. van der Horst, “The Site of Adam’s Tomb”, in Id., Studies in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2014) 1–5; also in M.F.J. Baasten/R. Munk (ed.), Studies in Hebrew Literature and Jewish Culture Presented to Albert van der Heide on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday (Amsterdam Studies in Jewish Thought 12; Dordrecht: Springer, 2007), 251–5. Jerome: Hebrew Questions on Genesis, ed. and trans. C.T.R. Hayward (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 182–3. 36 For analysis of the texts see Lipatov-Chicherin, “Early Christian Tradition”.

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Pammachius Against John of Jerusalem) when he fell out with the bishop some time after initial good relations.37 All this suggests that the homily On the Passion and Cross of the Lord, whilst probably not presenting the very words heard by Jerome and his lady friends in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, reflects the ideas of John of Jerusalem to which Jerome developed an aversion after his relations with the bishop turned sour. John of Jerusalem was known for trying to rebuild relations with the sidelined Christian Hebrew community in Jerusalem.38 Apparently, it was for this purpose that he sponsored the building of the Basilica of Hagia Sion. It is possible that as a part of his attention to Christian Hebrews John could adopt and popularise their marginalised tradition (which had previously been encountered by Africanus and Origen) about Adam’s burial on the most holy place for the Christians.39 This would explain its earlier obscurity and then sudden rise to prominence at the very time when John became bishop of Jerusalem and started his activities. If, indeed, the tradition originated with the Christians of Hebrew background, then it probably represented their adaptation of the Jewish idea of Adam’s burial on or near the most holy site of Judaism – the Temple of Jerusalem (located not very far from the site of Golgotha, therefore considered a nearby area).40 Jewish traditions about the burial place of Adam are of three types. Strong appeal was exercised by the idea that the first man was created at the holiest and purest place in the world – the site of the Temple in Jerusalem or, even more specifically, the place of the altar.41 The inevitable implication was that the same 37 Hier. c. Ioh. 23–32, ed. J.-L. Feiertag (CCSL 79A; Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 37–59. 38 M. van Esbroeck, “Nathanaël dans une homélie géorgienne sur les archanges”, AB 89 (1971) 155–76; Id., “Une homélie sur l’Église attribuée à Jean de Jérusalem”, Le Muséon 86 (1973) 283–304; Id., “Jean II de Jérusalem et les cultes de S. Étienne, de la Sainte-Sion et de la Croix”, AB 102 (1984) 99–133, on pp. 115–25; Id., Les plus anciens homiliaires Géorgiens (Leuven: Peeters, 1975), 314–15; B. Pixner, Paths of the Messiah and Sites of the Early Church from Galilee to Jerusalem (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2010), 348–52. 39 G. Kretschmar, “Festkalender und Memorialstätten Jerusalems in altkirchlicher Zeit”, in H. Busse/G. Kretschmar, Jerusalemer Heiligtumstraditionen in altkirchlicher und frühislamischer Zeit (Abhandlungen des Deutschen Palästinavereinsm 8; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1987) 92–111. 40 Cf. Taylor, Christians and the Holy Places, 128–9. 41 Targum pseudo-Jonathan 2,7, 2,15, 3,23, in The Targums of Onkelos and Jonathan ben Uzziel on the Pentateuch. Genesis and Exodus, trans. J.W. Etheridge (London: Longman, 1862), 162, 163, 168; Bereshit Rabbah 14,8, in Midrash Rabbah (10 vol.; London: The Soncino Press, 1939), I, Genesis, trans. H. Freedman, 1.115–16; Nazir 7,56b, in The Jerusalem Talmud, Third Order: Nasˇim, Tractates Gittin and Nazir, trans. H.W. Guggenheimer (Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, ˙˙ “Hellenistic Jewish Writers and Palestinian Traditions: Early and Late”, 2007), 657; M. Kister, in Id. (ed.), Tradition, Transmission and Transformation from Second Temple Literature through Judaism and Christianity in Late Antiquity (STDJ 113; Leiden: Brill, 2015) 150–78, on pp. 152–6; P.S. Alexander, “Jerusalem as the Omphalos of the World: On the History of a Geographical Concept”, in Levine, Jerusalem, 104–19, on pp. 113–15.

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location was used for the burial of Adam, since he had to “return to the ground out of which he had been taken” (Gen 3:19).42 The second possibility was the cave of Machpelah in Hebron.43 Although the Bible speaks of only three Patriarchs buried there with their wives (Gen 49:29–32), the etymology of the alternative name Kiriath-Arba, “city of the four” (Gen 13:18, 23:2), was interpreted to mean burials of four men. The fourth was assumed to be Adam (see above the mistranslation of Josh 14:15). These two interpretations reflect an ongoing contest between Hebron and Jerusalem for the position of the most sacred site. It had a parallel in attempts to establish Hebron as the seat of power by both David and Absalom, when each of them was challenging the current king of Israel.44 Hebron was older, but Jerusalem acquired pre-eminence through the exceptional role of the Temple. A late rabbinic text, Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer, combines the two versions, describing Adam building a cave for his burial just outside Mount Moriah (identified as the Temple Mount in 2 Chron 3:1) and then immediately proceeding to report that his tomb was in the cave of Machpelah (in Hebron).45 The third possible location for the burial of Adam was Paradise itself.46 As far as the Christian tradition at the end of the fourth century is concerned, it was no coincidence that Jerome initiated several controversies at about the same time. He turned against his previous theological master Origen, broke off relations with his friend Rufinus, accused the bishop of his area, John of Jerusalem, of heresy, declared that Adam was buried in Hebron and rejected the Greek Septuagint version of the Bible in favour of the Hebrew text.47 Together, these 42 The place of Adam’s creation, as well as that of burial, had alternative locations in different traditions: A. Hilhorst, “Ager Damascenus: Views on the Place of Adam’s Creation”, Warszawskie Studia Teologiczne 20/2 (2007) 131–44. 43 Bereshit Rabbah 54:4, 8; Erubin, Babylonian Talmud 53a; Sotah, Babylonian Talmud 13a; Baba Bathra, Babylonian Talmud 58a; Asatir III 2, 3 and 7 in The Asatir. The Samaritan Book of the Secrets of Moses, trans. M. Gaster (London: The Royal Asiatic Society, 1927), 210.212. 44 David’s earlier rule in Hebron whilst Saul was king: 1 Sam 16:13; 2 Sam 2:11; 5:1–5; 1 Kings 2:11; 1 Chron 3:4; 29:27. See J.L. Wright, David, King of Israel, and Caleb in Biblical Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 212–20; K. Bodner, The Rebellion of Absalom (New York/London: Routledge, 2014), 9–20. 45 Pirke de-Rabbi Elieser, ed. and trans. D. Börner-Klein (Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004), Ch. 12, p. 122 [61]; Ch. 20, p. 210 [105], p. 218 [109], p. 220 [110]. For the disparity between the reports regarding Adam’s burial place see A. Kadari, “Interreligious Aspects in the Narrative of the Burial of Adam in Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer”, in A. Houtman/T. Kadari/M. Poorthuis et al. (ed.), Religious Stories in Transformation. Conflict, Revision and Reception (Leiden: Brill, 2016) 82–103; E. Grypeou/H. Spurling, The Book of Genesis in Late Antiquity (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2013), 50–4; H. Spurling/E. Grypeou, “Pirke de-Rabbi Eliezer and Eastern Christian Exegesis”, Collectanea Christiana Orientalia 4 (2007) 217–43, on pp. 232–8. 46 Apocalypse of Moses 40:6–7, Life of Adam and Eve, trans. M.D. Johnson, in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vol.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, 1983–5), 2.293. 47 J.N.D. Kelly, Jerome. His Life, Writings and Controversies (London: Duckworth, 1975), 153–67, 195–209.

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events marked Jerome’s decisive move to assert himself as the leading theological instructor for the Latin West. When he had started to write, in order to distinguish himself in Italy it was sufficient to have a good knowledge of the Greek language, the Septuagint and the works of Origen. Relocation to Bethlehem initially deprived Jerome of his eminent status48 as such abilities were common in the East and did not confer any distinction. Consequently, he acquired a new and genuinely rare expertise in Hebrew on the basis of which he could and did dismiss any opponent as ill-informed.49 It is interesting that, in spite of his own disagreements with John of Jerusalem and strong condemnation of Origen, Epiphanius of Salamis continued to endorse the idea that Adam was buried on Golgotha and did not perform the same volte face as Jerome.50 Moreover, those westerners who either knew Greek, such as Ambrose of Milan, or had access to translations of eastern exegetes, for example, Chromatius of Aquileia, who managed to maintain friendly relations simultaneously with both Jerome and Rufinus, were still presenting the established eastern position and speaking of Adam on Golgotha.51 The same line was taken in the East by John Chrysostom, in the Homilies on John’s Gospel (19:16–18).52 Towards the middle of the fifth century, for the first time, a Greek author, Basil of Seleucia, attributed the tradition of Adam’s burial on Golgotha to the Jews rather than Hebrews.53 However, 48 On the change of Jerome’s attitude to Jerusalem see L. Perrone, “‘The Mystery of Judaea’ (Jerome, Ep. 46). The Holy City of Jerusalem Between History and Symbol in Early Christian Thought”, in Levine, Jerusalem, 221–39, on pp. 230–6. 49 M. Graves, Jerome’s Hebrew Philology. A Study Based on His Commentary on Jeremiah (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae 90; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2007). 50 Epiph. mens. 4, ed. F. Hultsch, Metrologicorum Scriptorum Reliquiae (2 vol.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1864), vol. 1, 86,10.2–4. See B. Govett, “Epiphanius on Golgotha”, Palestine Exploration Fund Quarterly Statement 12/2 (1880) 109–10. 51 Ambr. in Luc. X 114 (PL 15,1925C3–7): “The actual place of the cross is either in the middle [of the earth], as visible to all, or above the grave of Adam, as the Hebrews argue. This makes sense, that the firstfruits of our life were located there, where the sources of death had been”. Cf. epist. V 19.10 (ad Horontianum), ed. O. Fuller (CSEL 82/1; Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1968), 145; Chromat. Serm. XIX 141, ed. R. Étaix/J. Lemarié (CCSL 9A; Turnhout: Brepols, 1977): “Not without a reason was He crucified in this place, where the body of Adam is claimed to be buried. Thus Christ is crucified there, where Adam had been buried, so that life might be acting in location, where first death had acted, so that life might rise out of death”. 52 Chrys. hom. in Jo. LXXXV 1 (PG 59,459): “And He came to the Place of the Skull. Some say that there Adam died and lies [buried], and that in the place, where death had established its kingdom, there Jesus set up His trophy. For He also raised the trophy carrying the cross against the tyranny of death, and, just as the victors, He also in the same way was carrying on His shoulders the sign of victory. For what [does it matter] if the Jews take these [events] in a different sense?”. 53 Bas. Sel. or. XXXVIII 3 Contra Iudaeos de Salvatoris adventu demonstratio (PG 85,409A2–B1): “… a certain place beyond the outer wall, which was called the Place of the Skull, in which a woman gave birth to a child who had horns. Because of this sign some said that a royal house

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the significance of this innovation is minimal, as the context of popularising discussion suggests only a second-hand knowledge and lack of precision. In the following centuries, the Roman Empire underwent transformation into the Greek-speaking Romaic Empire (the familiar term “Byzantine” being a result of politics of naming).54 In a new intellectual atmosphere of codification, fresh theological and exegetical search was gradually replaced by the production of summaries bringing together and harmonising the large body of work created during Christian late antiquity. During this time references to the burial of Adam on Golgotha were mainly made in world chronicles borrowing their information from the Chronography of the third-century polymath Julius Africanus, the first known author among the Christians to refer to the Hebrew tradition concerning Adam’s tomb in the land of Jerusalem.55 In the Latin West, where the Roman state was replaced by barbarian kingdoms of Germanic tribes, intellectual and theological activity continued in monasteries. A steep decline in the knowledge of Greek and in contacts with the Eastern Mediterranean gradually led Latin Christians to rely almost exclusively on resources available to them locally and in Latin. Fortunately for them, a whole reference library in biblical and theological studies had been produced just before the breakdown of the Roman order.56 These were the works of Jerome written in Bethlehem, sent to Rome and Italy and disseminated across the Latin-speaking areas. As a result, idiosyncratic views of the Bethlehem scholar achieved total domination in biblical studies, where he had towering authority. As far as references to the burial of Adam were concerned, works written in the Latin West fell into two categories. Learned monks and bishops relying on their best source were faithfully reproducing statements of Jerome about Adam’s tomb in Hebron, whereas simpler pilgrims who made it to the Holy Land and had personal communications there were speaking of only shall be in the place, which also happened. For there, in the [place] called Golgotha, the Lord deemed worthy to be crucified and buried, and to rise again; there also the holy Church of God was established, giving her name to it, bearing the saving sufferings of the Lord until now; I am talking of the cross and the resurrection. According to the traditions of the Jews, as they say, the skull of Adam was found there, and Solomon discerned this because of his exceeding wisdom. For this reason, they say, that place was called the Place of the Skull”. 54 C.R. Fox, “What, if Anything, is a Byzantine?”, The Celator. Journal of Ancient and Medieval Art and Artifacts 10/3 (1996) 36–41; C. Kafadar, “A Rome of One’s Own: Reflections on Cultural Geography and Identity in the Lands of Rum”, Muqarnas 24/1 (2007) 7–25. 55 H. Gelzer, Sextus Julius Africanus und die byzantinische Chronographie (2 vol.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1880–5); M. Wallraff (ed.), Julius Africanus und die christliche Weltchronistik (Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur 157; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2006). 56 S. Rebenich, “Asceticism, Orthodoxy and Patronage: Jerome in Constantinople”, in E.A. Livingstone (ed.), Augustine and His Opponents, Jerome, Other Latin Fathers after Nicaea, Orientalia, Index Patrum and Table of Contents (Studia Patristica 33; Leuven: Peeters, 1997) 358–77.

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three patriarchs in Hebron, no doubt on the authority of their local guides.57 Thus, Eucherius of Lyons speaks of three patriarchs and Adam buried in Arbe (Hebron), Gregory of Tours reports that Adam’s tomb was in Hebron; Isidore of Seville adds that he was buried with Abraham; Adomnan, following Arculf whose opinion had been shaped by his reading of Jerome, speaks of four pairs of patriarchs and their wives in Hebron, as does the Venerable Bede, who reproduces the words of Adomnan.58 At the same time, the Pilgrim of Bordeaux (writing in 333–4) says that there were only three couples of biblical patriarchs in Hebron;59 A Short Description of Jerusalem, written in about 530, reports that Adam was created (plasmatus est) on the place of the future Golgotha, the centre of the world60 (with the possible implication that he was also buried there); pseudo-Antoninus of Piacenza, the last pilgrim to describe Palestine before the Arab conquest, states in the late sixth century that in Hebron were buried Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarrah and Joseph;61 the Travelogue of Saint Willibald in the eighth century speaks of three traditional patriarchs and their wives.62 A rare 57 Annotated bibliographies of pilgrims’ accounts: R. Röhricht, Bibliotheca Geographica Palaestinae. Chronologisches Verzeichniss der auf die Geographie des Heiligen Landes Bezüglichen Literatur von 333 bis 1878 (Berlin: H. Reuther’s Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1890); T. Tobler, Bibliographia Geographica Palaestinae (Leipzig: Verlag von S. Hirzel, 1867); Id., Bibliographia geographica Palaestinae ab anno CCCXXXIII usque ad annum M (Dresden: Libraria G. Schoenfeldia, 1875). 58 Eucher. instr. II 5, ed. C. Wotke (CSEL 31; Wien: F. Tempsky, 1894), 65–159, on p. 152,6–9; Greg. Tur. Franc. I 4, ed. W. Arndt/B. Krusch (MGH, Scriptores Rerum Merovingicarum t. 1; Hannover: Impensis Bibliopolii Hahniani, 1884), 36; Isid. orig. XV 1.24, in W.M. Lindsay (ed.), Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum libri XX (2 vol.; Oxford: E Typographeo Clarendoniano, 1911); Adamnanus, De Locis Sanctis II 8–10, ed. P. Geyer/O. Cuntz/L. Bieler et al. (CCSL 175; Turnhout: Brepols, 1965), 183–234, on pp. 209–10; Bede, De Locis Sanctis VIII 1 (CCSL 175), 251–80, on p. 266; see Bede, A Biblical Miscellany, trans. W.T. Foley/A.G. Holder (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), 15–16. 59 Itinerarium Burdigalense 599,7–9 (CCSL 175), 1–26, on p. 20. English translation: The Bordeaux Pilgrim, Itinerary from Bordeaux to Jerusalem, trans. A. Stewart, notes C.W. Wilson (PPTS 1; London, 1887), 27. 60 Breviarius de Hierosolyma (CCSL 175), 109–12, on p. 110,54–5. English translation: The Epitome of St. Eucherius, and The Breviary, or Short Description of Jerusalem, trans. A. Stewart, notes C.W. Wilson (PPTS; London, 1890), 13–16, on p. 14. See also M. Montesano, “Adam’s Skull”, in B. Baert/T. Anita/C. Santing, Disembodied Heads in Medieval and Early Modern Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2013) 15–30, on p. 21. 61 Antoninus Placentinus, Itinerarium XXX 1–3 (CCSL 175), 129–53, 157–74, on pp. 144, 168. Cf. C. Milani (ed.), Itinerarium Antonini Placentini. Un viaggio in Terra Santa del 560–570 d.C. (Milano: Vita e Pensiero, 1977), 187. English translation: Of the Holy Places Visited by Antoninus Martyr, trans. A. Stewart, notes C.W. Wilson (PPTS; London, 1887), 24. 62 Sanctimonialis Heydenheimensis, Vita seu Hodoeporicon S. Willibaldi, in T. Tobler/A. Molinier (ed.), Itinera Hierosolymitana et Descriptiones Terrae Sanctae Bellis Sacris Anteriora et Latina Lingua Exarata (Publications de la Société de l’Orient Latin. Série Géographique I– II. Itinera Latina Bellis Sacris Anteriora I; Genève: Typis J.-G. Fick, 1879) 1.243–97, on p. 268. English translation: The Hodoeporicon of St. Willibald, trans. C.H. Talbot, in T.F.X. Noble/T.

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and remarkable example of knowledge of Eastern Christian traditions among the learned westerners is provided by the Poem Against Marcion of the fifth or sixth century, falsely attributed to Tertullian, which describes how the blood of Christ washed the body of Adam lying on Golgotha.63 After the Arab conquest of Palestine in the seventh century, testimonies of Muslim travellers are added to those of Christian pilgrims. Both the travellers and their fellow-Muslims, who replaced the Christians (who had previously replaced the Jews) as guardians of the cave of Machpelah in Hebron, knew that Adam’s tomb was in Mecca64 and so reported that three patriarchal couples were buried in Hebron. Some prominent Arab authors, such as al-Tabari and al-Thalabi, were reporting a variety of opinions that they heard on the subject: that Adam was buried in the cave of Abu Qubais in Mecca (sometimes identified as the “Cave of Treasures” from the Syriac book of the same name); or that Noah buried Adam in Jerusalem after preserving his body in the ark during the Flood (again a topic prominent in the Syriac story); or that he died on Mount Nudh (Adam’s Peak) in Ceylon, was buried in Mecca and his body was returned there after the Flood.65 The twelfth century witnessed a proliferation of anonymous and relatively brief personal reports on the journey to the Holy Land as numbers of pilgrims multiplied Head (ed.), Soldiers of Christ. Saints and Saints’ Lives from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995) 141–64, on p. 157. 63 Ps.-Tert. carm. adv. Marc. II 160–1, 196–203, in K. Pollmann (ed.), Das Carmen adversus Marcionitas. Einleitung, Text, Übersetzung und Kommentar (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 78, 80: “… hic hominem primum suscepimus esse sepultum, hic patitur Christus, pio sanguine terra madescit, pulvis Adae ut possit veteris cum sanguine Christi commixtus stillantis aquae virtute levari”. See K. Holl, “Über Zeit und Heimat des pseudotertullianischen Gedichts adv. Marcionem”, Sitzungsberichte der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 27 (1918) 514–59, on pp. 540–52. 64 L.D. Lybarger, “The Demise of Adam in the Qisas al-Anbiya¯’: The Symbolic Politics of Death ˙ ˙ and Re-Burial in the Islamic ‘Stories of the Prophets’”, Numen 55/5 (2008) 497–535; M.J. ¯ dam: A Study of Some Legends in Tafsı¯r and Hadı¯th Literature”, Israel Oriental Kister, “A Studies 13 (1993) 113–74, on pp. 171–2; S. Minov, “Muslim˙ Parallels to Slavonic Apocryphal Literature: The Case of the Narration of How God Created Adam”, in A. Kulik/C.M. MacRobert/S. Nikolova et al. (ed.), The Bible in Slavic Tradition (Studia Judaeoslavica 9; Leiden: Brill, 2016) 339–72, on pp. 344–5; C. Schlöck, Adam in Islam. Ein Beitrag zur Ideengeschichte der Sunna (Berlin: Klaus Schwartz Verlag, 1993). 65 E. g. al-Tabari, Ta’rı¯kh al-Rusul wa al-Mulu¯k, ed. M.J. de Goeje et al. (15 vol.; Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901), 1.162–4; see also al-Tabari, The History of al-Tabari, ed. E. Yar-Shater (40 vol.; Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1989–2007), I, General Introduction and From the Creation to the Flood, trans. F. Rosenthal, 333–5. Ibn Kathir records the tradition that “Noah, when it was time for the Flood, carried Adam and Eve in the Ark and reburied them in Jerusalem”: I. Ibn Kathir, Stories of the Prophets, trans. R.A. Azami (Riyadh: Darussalam Publications, 22003), 54; see also B.M. Wheeler (ed.), Prophets in the Quran. An Introduction to the Quran and Muslim Exegesis. Comparative Islam Studies (London: Continuum, 2002), 34.

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following the establishment of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and other Crusader states. Most of them report that Adam was buried on Golgotha.66 Many, presumably reflecting the emphasis made by their guides in Jerusalem, speak of the blood of Christ pouring through a crack in the rock of Golgotha and directly touching the head of Adam. Some pilgrims brought back the story of Adam in Hebron, but they were in a minority.67 When in 1119, in two caves under the sacred precinct of Hebron, three bodies identified as Jacob, Isaac and Abraham (the latter had an inscription) were discovered in damaged tombs,68 this must have reinforced the view that three and not four patriarchs were buried in Machpelah. Although this did not completely eliminate the possibility of Adam’s tomb being somewhere in the cave (for example, bodies of wives of the patriarchs were not found but were nevertheless understood to be buried in the area), the absence of relics must have weakened the idea that the ancestor of humanity was there. Thus, by exclusion, the discovery of the three patriarchs in Hebron confirmed that Adam was buried in Jerusalem, which, for the Christians, meant Golgotha. The tradition of Jerusalem was making its mark not only on ordinary pilgrims but even on those who must have carried out some reading before the journey (and the written sources based on Jerome tended to favour Hebron). Such detailed and well-informed writers as Fretellus69 and Theodericus, while endorsing Jerome’s claims about Adam in the cave of Machpelah, try to preserve what they heard in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and speak of the blood of Christ trickling through the rock (but omit Adam from their account). In his discussion of the issue, John of Würzburg makes some observations on the iconography of the Crucifixion70 and even ventures to 66 Anonymous Pilgrims, I–VIII (11th and 12th centuries), trans. A. Stewart (PPTS 6; London, 1894), 2, 7, 22, 70. 67 Anonymous Pilgrims, 20, 31, 37. 68 Canonici Hebronensis Tractatus de Inventione Sanctorum Patriarcharum Abraham, Ysaac et Jacob (27 Jul. 1119), in Recueil des Historiens des Croisades: Historiens Occidentaux (5 vol.; Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 1844–95), 5.302–14, on pp. 312–13. See: B.E. Whalen, “The Discovery of the Holy Patriarchs: Relics, Ecclesiastical Politics and Sacred History in Twelfth-Century Crusader Palestine”, Historical Reflections/Réflexions Historiques 27/1 (2001) 139–76; E.J. Mylod, Latin Christian Pilgrimage in the Holy Land, 1187–1291 (PhD thesis; Leeds: University of Leeds, 2013), 128–30, available at http://etheses.whiterose. ac.uk/5880/1/elizabeth_mylod_thesis_september_2013_institute_for_medieval_studies.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 69 P.C. Boeren, Rorgo Fretellus de Nazareth et sa description de la Terre Sainte. Histoire et édition du texte (Amsterdam/Oxford/New York: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1980), 9. Fetellus, trans. J.R. MacPherson (PPTS 5; London, 1896), 2, 9. 70 For Theodericus and John of Würzburg see Peregrinationes Tres. Saewulf, John of Würzburg, Theodericus, ed. R.B.C. Huygens/J.H. Pryor (CCCM 139; Turnhout: Brepols, 1994); A. Keshman Wasserman, “The Cross and the Tomb: The Crusader Contribution to Crucifixion Iconography”, in R. Bartal (ed.) Between Jerusalem and Europe. Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel (Leiden: Brill, 2015) 13–33, on pp. 28–33. Cf. B. Bagatti, Notes on the Iconography of Adam under Calvary (Essays 17; Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, 2007).

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suggest that the image of Adam’s skull should be understood symbolically rather than literally: As our Lord was thus dying on the cross, … the rock in which the cross was fixed was split through the midst, in the place where it was touched by His blood; through which rent the blood flowed to the lower parts, wherein Adam is said to have been buried, and who was thus baptized in the blood of Christ. It is said to be in commemoration of this that a skull is always represented in paintings at the foot of the Cross; but this baptism of Adam in the blood of Christ means nothing more than that Adam was redeemed by the blood of Christ, since the Scripture tells us that he was buried at Hebron. It is rather Death and destruction which is personified by the hideous human face which is wont to be painted beneath the feet of the crucified One.71

Reports of such international pilgrims as Anglo-Saxon Saewulf, Russian Abbot Daniel and Greek John Phocas, besides the Old French text (Estat de la cité de Iherusalem) written in the early thirteenth century and now known as The Condition of the City of Jerusalem, attributed to Ernoul, also single out the blood of Christ pouring on the head of Adam.72 This strong emphasis must have been reflecting the same developments of contemporary iconography as discussed by John of Würzburg. At the same time, learned Jacques de Vitry, Burchard of Mount Sion, Thietmar and Philip of Savona were holding fast to the Latin written tradition perpetuating Jerome’s version of four patriarchal couples in Hebron.73 71 John of Würzburg, Description of the Holy Land (1160–1170 AD), trans. A. Stewart (PPTS 5/2; London, 1896), 1–72, on p. 32. 72 Saewulf, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land (1102–1103 AD), trans. W.R. Brownlow (PPTS 4; London, 1892), 11; Daniel the Abbot, The Life and Journey of Daniel, Abbot of the Russian Land, trans. W.F. Ryan, in J. Wilkinson/J. Hill/W.F. Ryan (ed.), Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185 (London: The Hakluyt Society, 1988) 120–71, on p. 129; The Pilgrimage of Joannes Phocas in the Holy Land (in the year 1185 AD), trans. A. Stewart (PPTS; London, 1889), 19; Ernoul attempts to combine legends about the Holy Cross, which he heard, with the iconography, which he saw on local crucifixes: Ernoul, “L’Estat de la cité de Iherusalem”, in H. Michelant/G. Raynaud (ed.), Itinéraires à Jérusalem et descriptions de la Terre Sainte rédigés en français aux XIe, XIIe et XIIIe siècles (SOL, SG 3; Genève: Fick, 1882) 29–52, on p. 47; Ernoul’s Chronicle (c. 1231) (extracts), trans. D. Pringle, in D. Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187–1291 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012) 135–63, on p. 160: “… when Jesus Christ was crucified, the head of Adam was inside the Wood [of the Cross]; and when the blood of Jesus Christ flowed from his wounds, the head of Adam came out of the Cross and received the blood. Thus it is still the case that in all the crucifixes made in the land of Jerusalem at the base of the Cross there is a head in memory of that”. 73 Jacques de Vitry, Histoire des Croisades (Paris: J.L.J. Brière, 1825), 99–100; Id., The History of Jerusalem, AD 1180, trans. A. Stewart (PPTS; London, 1896), 35; Burchard of Mount Sion, Descriptio Terrae Sanctae, in J.C.M. Laurent (ed.), Peregrinatores Medii Aevi Quatuor (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs Bibliopola, 21873), 81; Burchard of Mount Sion, “Description of the Holy Land (1274–85)”, in Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, 241–320, on p. 306. See also Thietmar, “Pilgrimage (1217–18)”, in Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, 95–133, on p. 114; Philip of Savona, “Description of the Holy Land (1285–9)”, in Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, 321–59, on p. 342: “The head of Adam is buried inside the wall of the church [in

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The Guide-Book to Palestine of about 1350 preserves both traditions without trying to harmonise them. This suggests an eclectic nature of material culled from various sources. In the section on Jerusalem the guide book preserves a colourful image: The blood issuing from His side penetrated through that dense and hard rock, and left the colour of blood there to this day … For the blood sank in under Mount Calvary, in that part which is called Golgotha, where was found the head of Adam the first man; even up to the mouth of the aforesaid head did it penetrate through the rock.74

At the same time, in the section on Hebron, the book reports that Adam and Eve are buried there alongside the three other Patriarchal couples.75 It was left to the most detailed of all accounts of pilgrimage to the Holy Land to attempt a harmonisation of the two traditions, whose disagreement was presumably causing an embarrassment for the author. After an initial journey to Jerusalem in 1480, a Swiss Dominican theologian, Felix Faber, travelled to the Holy Land in 1483–4 in a large group of German pilgrims, which also included Bernhard von Breydenbach, Paul Walther and Georg von Gumppenberg, each of whom left his own account of the trip. Their pilgrimage represented the high mark of the Medieval tradition just before it was shaken by the storm of the Reformation.76 The solution to the discrepancy between the two traditions proposed by brother Felix was based on distinction between the head of Adam, which was reported by many pilgrims to rest under Golgotha, and the body, authoritatively claimed by Jerome to lie in Hebron. In this same place, Adam, our first parent, according to many authorities, died and was buried. There is no contradiction to this in what is said in the fourteenth chapter of the Book of Joshua, that Adam was buried in Hebron among the children of Anak, that is, among the giants, because it is said in the Supplement to the Chronicles that Adam died and was buried on Mount Calvary, and that afterwards his body, all save the head, was translated to Hebron, to the double cave there. The head of Adam was found a long time afterwards on Mount Calvary. For this reason painters are wont to draw a human skull at the foot of the cross. Wherefore Ambrose and Athanasius, Chrysostom and Jerome in his epistle to Marcella, and in many other places, and the Hebrew doctors declare that Adam sinned here, and was buried here, to the end that Christ might expose his own body in the place where the human race became corrupted, and that incorruption might Hebron] against the altar and there it is greatly honoured by the Saracens and there is written in stone, ‘Here is the head of Adam’”. This apparently represents a somewhat confused transfer of tradition of Adam’s head from Jerusalem to Hebron. See D. Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus (3 vol.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993–2007), 1.223–39. 74 Guide-Book to Palestine (Circ. A.D. 1350), trans. J.H. Bernard (PPTS 6; London, 1894) (Latin Ms in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin [d. 4. 7]), (24) p. 5. 75 Ibid., (131) p. 26. 76 N. Chareyron, Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages, trans. W.D. Wilson (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005).

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arise from the place where corruption was sown. Thus Antonius, Jerome also, often says the same thing: howbeit, in one place he says that to say that Adam was buried there is a smooth saying, and meant to please the ears.77

Just as with John of Würzburg, pictorial images of the Passion exerted considerable influence and had to be accounted for. Medieval Jewish pilgrims, including famous Rabbi Benjamin of Tudela, visiting the cave of Machpelah and reverencing the Patriarchs, shared the opinion of the Muslim guardians of the place that there were only three pairs of tombs: those of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and their wives.78 Apparently, it was their uniform expectation even when setting out for Hebron. Even such a character as an international sixteenth century Jewish adventurer, David Reubeni, fully agreed.79 These pilgrims do not inform us about their views on the resting place of Adam, but it is plausible that, since they did not endorse the tradition of Machpelah, they must have followed the alternative tradition of Jerusalem. On this, Zohar makes a notable departure, as several of its treatises insist that Adam is buried in Hebron. This forms a part of a doctrine, important to the kabbalists, that entrance to the other world is located in the cave of Machpelah because a door to the garden of Eden is there.80 Just as there are two rival Jewish traditions concerning the place of Adam’s burial, there are differences in Muslim opinion too. The popular Sunni version about Mecca coexists with alternative reports about Jerusalem.81 However, Shi‘a Muslims believe that Adam’s tomb, together with that of Noah, is located in their 77 Felix Faber, Evagatorium in Terrae Sanctae, Arabiae et Egypti Peregrinationem, in The Book of Wanderings of Brother Felix Fabri, trans. A. Stewart (PPTS 7–10; 2 vol.; London, 1887–97), I, 2, on pp. 370–1. On Brother Felix see K. Beebe, Pilgrim and Preacher. The Audiences and Observant Spirituality of Friar Felix Fabri (1437/8–1502) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 78 Benjamin of Tudela, “The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela”, in C. Leviant (ed.), Masterpieces of Hebrew Literature. Selections from 2000 Years of Jewish Creativity (Philadelphia: JPS, 2008) 338–57, on pp. 343–4; see also M.N. Adler (ed.), The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela. Critical Text, Translation and Commentary (New York: Philipp Feldheim, Inc., 1907), 42; E.N. Adler (ed.), Jewish Travellers (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1930), Rabbi Petachia of Ratisbon pp. 89–90, Rabbi Jacob ben Nathaniel ha-Cohen p. 98, Isaac ben Joseph ibn Chelo p. 135, Rabbi Meshullam ben R. Menahem of Volterra pp. 185–6, Obadiah Jaré of Bertinoro p. 233, David Reubeni pp. 260–2; A. Oettinger, “Making the Myth Real: The Genre of Hebrew Itineraries to the Holy Land in the 12th–13th century” Folklore 36 (2007) 41–66, available at http://www. folklore.ee/folklore/vol36/oettinger.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 79 D. Reubeni, “The Travel Diary of David Reubeni”, in Leviant (ed.), Masterpieces of Hebrew Literature, 505–20. 80 Zohar 1:38b (Heikh), 57b, 81a (ST), 127a–128b, 219a, 250b; 2:151b; 3:164a; Zohar 21a (MhN), 79d (MhN, Rut). 81 Eve was presumed to be buried in Mecca with Adam, but there was also an alternative site of her burial in Jeddah, possibly on the basis of etymology jaddah (“grandmother”). On the veneration and destruction of her tomb, see L.M. Danforth, Crossing the Kingdom: Portraits of Saudi Arabia (Oakland, CA: University of California Press, 2016), 168–85.

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great shrine at the mosque of Najaf next to the tomb of Imam Ali, who is the focal point of Shi‘a identity.82 In the words of Ibn Battuta: In the centre is a square platform about a man’s height, covered with wood completely hidden under artistically carved plaques of gold fastened with silver nails. On this are three tombs, which they declare are the graves of Adam, Noah and ‘Ali … The inhabitants of the town are all Shi‘ites, and at this mausoleum many miracles are performed, which they regard as substantiating its claim to be the tomb of ‘Ali.83

We can see that all three monotheistic faiths, which trace their origin to Abraham, attribute a special place to the tomb of Adam in their world view.84 They all tend to locate the resting place of the father of humanity at the most sacred site of their religion, thus highlighting its universal role and emphasising that it was the original faith of humankind. At the same time, the issue of the location of Adam’s burial illustrates differences in belief among the three faiths and divisions of opinion within them. Alternative locations are usually connected with variations of the estimate as to which particular site within a given religion best expresses its identity. In Judaism, the choice is between Hebron (with the tombs of Patriarchs and the status of early capital city of David) and Jerusalem (with the great focus on the Temple as the centre of the world).85 In Islam it is between Mecca (where Ka’aba is the centre of the world and the most important shrine) and Jerusalem (as an early direction for prayer and the city where Muhammad ascended into heaven).86 Shi‘a preference for Najaf is based on ‘Ali’s central role for the Shi‘a identity. In Christianity, the exceptional role of Jerome in shaping the self-consciousness of the Latin West gave credence to his preferred option of Hebron as an alternative to Adam’s burial at the centre of the world at the site of Resurrection on Golgotha. For all the differences concerning the exact location, the three faiths agree that the essence of their message is connected to the whole of humanity.87

82 E. Kohlberg, “Some Shı¯‘ı¯ views of the antediluvian world”, Studia Islamica 52 (1980) 41–66, on p. 58. 83 Ibn Battuta, Travels in Asia and Africa (1325–1354), trans. H.A.R. Gibb (Varanasi: Pilgrims Publishing, 2007), 81–2. 84 A.J. Wensinck, The Ideas of the Western Semites Concerning the Navel of the Earth (Amsterdam: Johannes Müller, 1916); W.H. Roscher, Der Omphalosgedanke bei den verschiedenen Völkern, besonders den semitischen (Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1918). 85 Wright, David, King of Israel, 212–20. 86 S.D. Goitein, “The Sanctity of Jerusalem and Palestine in Early Islam”, in Id., Studies in Islamic History and Institutions (Leiden: Brill, 1966) 135–48. 87 C. Böttrich/B. Ego/F. Eißler, Adam und Eva in Judentum, Christentum und Islam (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011); T. Löfstedt, “The Creation and Fall of Adam: A Comparison of the Qur’anic and Biblical Accounts”, Swedish Missiological Themes, 93/4 (2005) 453–77.

Rita Lizzi Testa

Christian Empire and Pagan Temples in the Fourth Century CE

1.

A Brief Introduction

This essay aims to consider which policies the Roman emperors deployed against pagan temples in the fourth century CE. There is no straightforward answer to this question because available sources do not clarify the issue. Christian writers, not unlike some pagan authors, and the editors of imperial laws insist on ideal factors: from the time of Constantine, hostility towards paganism and the pagans is claimed to have manifested itself to the detriment of temples, intervening both by means of concrete acts of hostility, such as the confiscation of cult statues and the violent demolition of buildings, or through legislation, which, by removing public grants to priestly colleges and pagan priests, limiting or nullifying the economic autonomy of the temple systems, and ultimately ordering their closure, or their devolution to the church, gradually liberated the landscape from those ill-fated places of worship. The end of the fourth century, to give credence to this literature, is assumed to have coincided with the end of paganism and temples. A different picture is offered, however, by archaeologists’ research: the end of the temples was slower than was once assumed; although there are many regional variations, the evidence of their survival does not permit us to state that the temples were closed, demolished or converted into churches everywhere, and much less that this was the result of a single process of imperially-sponsored coercion.1 We shall therefore look at the literary documentation, not so much to draw a general picture of the fate of pagan temples in the fourth century, but to find new interpretative data from the contradictions of the sources. By taking different cases into consideration, it is possible to distinguish the following aspects: removal of valuables; demolition of public temples; limiting the economic

1 L. Lavan, “Introduction”, in L. Lavan/M. Mulryan (ed.), The Archaeology of Late Antique “Paganism” (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2011) I–LXV.

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autonomy of temples; eliminating public subsidies of pagan priests; demolition of rural temples. I shall examine them separately.

2.

Removal of Valuables

It is inevitable to start from the Eusebian Life of Constantine (Vita Constantini) – a bizarre literary experiment, halfway between panegyristic production and the future lives of the saints2 –, which also describes some moves that Constantine made against the temples. Because of his deep aversion to the pagan cults, he would first order the systematic spoliation of the temples’ ornaments and statues in all provinces. In particular, “the sacred bronze figures, of which the error of the ancients had for a long time been proud, he displayed to all the public in all the squares of the Emperor’s city … as a contemptible spectacle to the viewers”,3 while “another fate awaited the golden statues”.4 He sent for the operation “one or two only his familiar circle sufficed for the operation”, who “visited populous communities and nations and city by city, country by country”. They ordered the consecrated officials themselves to bring out their gods with much mockery and contempt from their dark recesses into daylight … and they then scraped off the material which seemed to be usable, purifying it by smelting with fire; as much useful material as was deemed to belong to them they collected and stored in a safe place, while conversely what was superfluous and useless they allowed the superstitious to keep as a souvenir of their shame.5

Some scholars have considered it an epochal fact, but Eusebius makes it clear that, once stripped of precious metal, which had been melted down for reuse, the golden statues were relocated within the temples,6 while only the bronze ones 2 On the genre of the Life of Constantine, the debate is still open: T.D. Barnes, “Panegyric, History and Hagiography in Eusebius’ Life of Constantine”, in R. Williams (ed.), The Making of Orthodoxy. Essays in Honour of Henry Chadwick (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989) 94–123; A. Wilson, “Biographical Models. The Constantinian Period and Beyond”, in S.N.C. Lieu/D. Montserrat (ed.), Constantine. History, Historiography and Legend (London/ New York: Yale University Press, 1998) 107–35; A. Cameron, “Form and Meaning. The Vita Constantini and the Vita Antonii”, in T. Hägg/P. Rousseau (ed.), Greek Biography and Panegyrics in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000) 72–88; R. Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 283. 3 Eus. v.C. III 54.2. This and the following quotations are from A. Cameron/S.G. Hall (ed.), Eusebius. Life of Constantine. Translated with Introduction and Commentary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 143–4. 4 Eus. v.C. III 54.3. 5 Eus. v.C. III 54.6; l.C. VIII 3–4. 6 Eus. v.C. III 54.6: “They then scraped off the material which seemed to be usable … what was superfluous and useless they allowed the superstitious”; cf. Eus. l.C. VIII 3.

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were taken to Constantinople. Since the latter will hardly have been an exorbitant number, and Eusebius’s story about the golden statues seems to be very bizarre, we might try to understand the geographic extent of the operation and its true nature. In the Theodosian and Justinian collections we find no trace of edicts that Constantine is assumed to have issued to remove valuables from the temples. Both codes of law are the result of compilation, but their compilers would hardly have eliminated such a constitution if Costantine had indeed issued any. In fact, in the West, the order to remove the statues that were still the object of worship from temples was issued only in 407 by Honorius, and although he proclaimed that the measure was iterated,7 the first previous law containing that order could not be dated before 399, when Emperor Honorius himself had given orders to safeguard ornaments in temples.8 In the East, the first harsh law against sacrifices and places of pagan worship dates back only to 399, and Theodosius I claimed that the temples continued to be rich in precious statues and ornaments.9 Evidently, Constantine had not done exactly what Eusebius attributed to him.10 It would be more appropriate to believe that his order had not involved the whole empire but only a limited area in the East. In point of fact, despite the Eusebian reference to “communities and nations, city by city, and country by country”, no individual place is actually named in the Life of Constantine.11 In addition in this narrative, the imperial messengers took only “the material which seemed to be usable”. This strongly suggests that it was a limited operation and that the imperial officials acted on the basis of a preliminary calculation of the 7 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.19.1 (Curtio Praefecto Praetorio, November 15, 407): “Simulacra, si qua etiamnunc in templis fanisque consistunt et quae alicubi ritum vel acceperunt vel accipiunt paganorum, suis sedibus evellantur, cum hoc repetita sciamus saepius sanctione decretum”, in R. Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses des empereurs romains de Constantin à Théodose II (312–438) (2 vol.; SC 497; 531; Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 2005–9), 1.454. 8 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.15 (Macrobio Vicario Hispaniarum et Procliano Vicario quinque provinciarum, August 29, 399): “Sicut sacrificia prohibemus, ita volumus publicorum operum ornamenta servari”, in Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.450. 9 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.12.2 (Ad Rufinum Praefectum Praetorio, November 8, 392): “Si quis vero mortali opere facta et aevuum passura simulacra imposito ture venerabitur …”, in Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.444. 10 G. Bonamente, “Sulla confisca dei beni mobili dei templi in epoca costantiniana”, in G. Bonamente/F. Fusco (ed.), Costantino il Grande: dall’antichità all’Umanesimo (2 vol.; Macerata: Università degli studi di Macerata, 1992) 1.171–201. Nevertheless, even A. Barbero, Costantino il vincitore (Roma: Salerno Editore, 2016), 196, n. 172, recently believes that Eusebius is trustworthy here (“Costantino, dunque, impoverì e umiliò i templi”) and that this aspect of Constantine’s activity is consistent with what he proclaimed in the Letter to the Provincials of the East (v.C. II 47–61), on whose full authenticity, however, he casts legitimate doubts (ibid., 172–3). 11 Eus. v.C. III 54.6: “Confident in the Emperor’s piety and their own reverence for the Divinity, they visited populous communities and nations, and city by city, country by country, they exposed the long-standing error …”.

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contribution that individual temples, chosen for the operation, might provide.12 An author who is not dependent on Eusebius, the anonymous author of De rebus bellicis, connected it to the reform of the monetary system, which Constantine anchored to the new gold coin (solidus aureus).13 Not surprisingly, a few decades before the Anonymous, Firmicus Maternus “urged” Constantius and Constans to tear up ornaments from the temples and to “cook the gods” to coin money.14 Constantine’s intervention was not an epochal event but a measure partly connected to the dedication of Constantinople and partly to his monetary reform. Since Eusebius proclaimed that it was determined by the Christian faith of Constantine, other ecclesiastic historians repeated his interpretation, amplifying it. Jerome, for instance, claimed that Constantinople was dedicated thanks to the almost total spoliation of the other cities.15 This passage is usually cited in support of Eusebius’s truthfulness. Jerome’s Chronicon, however, reflects the widespread polemic against the great resources that Constantine used to refound Byzantium at the expense of urban resources throughout the East. Socrates and Sozomen do not offer any original information since they depended on that of Eusebius.16 In the late seventh century, the Chronicon Paschale magnified the facts by stating that the gold from temples was donated to churches.17 From Eusebius to the distortions of the Chronicon Paschale, a lasting historiographical tradition has developed so that many scholars believed that Constantine had had all the temples converted into churches. This opinion, already questioned by a critical approach to literary sources,18 is today refuted by the archaeological 12 H.A. Drake, In Praise of Constantine. A Historical Study and New Translation of Eusebius’ Tricennial Orations (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1976). 13 Anon. de mach. bell. II 1–2: “Constantini temporibus profusa largitio aurum pro aere, quod antea magni pretii habebatur, vilibus commerciis assignavit; sed huius avaritiae origo hinc creditur emanasse. Cum enim antiquitus aurum argentumque et lapidum pretiosorum magna vis in templis reposita ad publicum pervenisset, cunctorum dandi habendique cupiditate accendit”. Cf. A. Giardina (ed.), Le cose della guerra (Milano: Fondazione Lorenzo Valla/Arnoldo Mondadori, 31996), 13 (trans.), 51–3 (comm.). 14 Firm. err. XXVIII 6: “tollite securi, sacratissimi imperatores, ornamenta templorum. Deos istos aut monetae ignis aut metallorum coquat flamma, donaria universa ad utilitatem vestram dominiumque transferte”. 15 Hier. Chron. ad a. 2347 (331): “dedicatur Constantinopolis paene urbium nuditate”. 16 Socr. h.e. I 16; Soz. h.e. II 5.3. 17 Chronicon Paschale ad a. 325 (525 Dindorf): “Eodem anno Constantinus, cum solus Romanorum preesset imperio, omnia ubique idola deiecit, eorumque pecuniis omnibus et possessionibus ablatis, universas Christi Ecclesias omnesque Christianos iis donavit”. Cf. Mi. Whitby/Ma. Whitby (ed.), Chronicon Paschale 284–628 AD (Translated Texts for Historians E-Library 7; Liverpool: Liverpool University Press Online, 1989). 18 F.W. Deichmann, “Frühchristliche Kirchen in antiken Heiligtümern”, JDAI 54 (1939) 105–36 was the first systematic essay. It has been reprinted with additions (Nachtrag, 88–94) in Id., Rom, Ravenna, Konstantinopel, Naher Osten. Gesammelte Studien zur spätantiken Architektur, Kunst und Geschichte (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1982) 56–94.

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evidence of temples that survived until the sixth century, as we mentioned above.19 Moreover, there is only a limited echo of Constantine’s removal of valuables from the temples in pagan sources. Libanius related that temples had been robbed but worship was not forbidden:20 we should question whether to worship the gods in shrines would have been possible without their statues. Despite his hostility towards that emperor, Zosimus did not mention his use of the treasures of the temples. We can understand why pagans and Christians had such a different perception of Constantine’s temple-related operation by resorting to another order of factors. The generals of the ancient Roman Republic, and Augustus himself, were accustomed to using money, votive offerings and even the sacred lands of temples when they needed them. Such a practice, considered bad in a time of peace, appeared perfectly lawful in emergencies, particularly if, after having appropriated sacred goods, the same consul or prince returned them with great interest. Be that as it may, the use of temple treasures (including movable and immovable property) had never been a sacrilege.21 The Jewish tradition was different. Rabbinic sources and archaeologists agree on the evidence that, after the fall of the Temple of Jerusalem (70 CE), the synagogue became the sacred centre of community life both in Palestine and in the diaspora.22 Since Jews also considered their centres of worship to be highly symbolic places, the destruction of synagogues coincided metaphorically with the annihilation of the communities themselves. Stories of fires and the destruction of synagogues occur topically (frequently without any confirmation) in all the literary sources, above all in the ancient church histories and in the hagiographic tales.23 Eusebius, like other Christian writers and unlike the pagans, inherited from the Judaic tradition the 19 Temple-conversion can also be treated as a problem of method: R.S. Bagnall, “Models and Evidence in the Study of Religion in Late Roman Egypt”, in J. Hahn/S. Emmel/U. Gotter (ed.), From Temple to Church. Destruction and Renewal of Local Cultic Topography in Late Antiquity (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008) 23–41. 20 Lib. Or. XXX 6–7; LXII 8. 21 G.J. Szemler, The Priests of the Roman Republic. A Study of Interaction between Priesterhoods and Magistracy (Coll. Latomus 114; Bruxelles: Peeters, 1972), 6–18. G. Bodei Giglioni, “Pecunia fanatica. L’incidenza economica dei templi laziali”, RSI 89 (1977) 33–76, on pp. 33–8, discussed a large record of cases of embezzlement of money, votive offerings and even land in the early Republican age until Augustus. The latter restored an enormous number of temples that he had damaged during the civil wars. 22 L.I. Levine, The Ancient Synagogue. The First Thousand Years (New Haven, CT/London: Yale University Press, 2000), 160–93, 232–87; D. Stökl-Ben Ezra, “Templisierung: die Rückkehr des Temples in die jüdische und christliche Liturgie der Spätantike”, in J. Scheid (ed.), Rites et croyances dans les religions du monde romain (Vandoeuvres/Genève: Fondation Hardt, 2007) 231–87. 23 P. Lanfranchi, “Des paroles aux actes. La destruction des synagogues et leur transformation en églises”, in M.-F. Baslez (ed.), Chrétiens persécuteurs. Destructions, exclusions, violences religieuses au IVe siècle (Paris: Albin Michel, 2014) 311–35.

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idea that appropriating the gold of temples or statues of worship meant profaning them. For this reason, he presented the first Christian emperor as the first to begin such a meritorious action against temples in order to glorify his god. Constantine himself was probably amazed to hear Eusebius, who – reciting his discourse In Praise of Constantine (Laus Constantini) in front of the court (on July 25, 336) – attributed to him a very noble religious end, without any mention whatsoever of the need to draw on their resources, according to the traditional attitude of the Roman generals. However, he gladly accepted the bishop’s interpretation, which presented him as a hero in the eyes of Christians. Since the emperor shared it, this way of reading the facts – which the Anonymous and Zosimus had not embraced – became the dominant discourse and, together with more structural factors, gradually contributed in the course of a century to turning history in the direction indicated by Eusebius.

3.

Demolition of Temples in the East

The Constantine of Eusebius did not begin his work of Christianisation by despoiling the temples, but by demolishing them. In describing his great zeal for the Christian faith in the years following the Council of Nicaea, the bishop already says that the emperor issued an order to build a basilica in the place of Christ’s Resurrection. Since the soldiers found a cemetery and a temple of Aphrodite in the site revealed by God to Constantine himself, the latter was immediately destroyed by imperial order.24 The results of the excavations carried out between 1970 and 1980 in the area of the Holy Sepulchre are not conclusive. The former buildings were not identified. The destroyed temple, therefore, may have been a temple to Aphrodite, even if Jerome says that “from the time of Hadrian to the Empire of Constantine … in the place of the Resurrection and on the rock of the Crucifixion a statue of Jupiter and one of Venus were respectively worshipped”, and the coins of Aelia Capitolina show two Tyche temples there.25 Moving on to speak of Constantinople, the bishop proclaims that “he embellished with very many places of worship, very large martyr-shrines, and splendid houses the city which bears his name … Being full of the breath of God’s 24 Eus. v.C. III 26.3, and 6–7. 25 Hier. epist. LXVIII 3. J. Patrich, “The Early Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Light of Excavations and Restoration”, in Y. Tsafir (ed.), Ancient Churches Revealed (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993) 101–17, on pp. 102–5, discusses the results of excavations. M. Biddle, “The Tomb of Christ. Sources, Methods and a New Approach”, in K. Painter (ed.), Churches Built in Ancient Times: Studies in Early Christian Archaelogy (London: Society of Antiquaries of London, 1994) 73–147, on pp. 56–7, is relevant to the Hadrian coins.

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wisdom … he saw fit to purge it of all idol-worship”.26 However, he does not mention a single one of the numerous churches and sanctuaries therein and does not even remember one of the temples that Constantine would have allegedly destroyed in order to purify the city. Indeed, the first Christian emperor seems to have started the construction of very few Christian buildings in his new city.27 The first phase of St Irene (attributed to Constantine by Socrates),28 as well as St Mocius, in the cemetery area outside the city wall (mentioned by Sozomen),29 and St Acacius, outside the ancient Byzantium but included in the new city and referred to as already existing in 359,30 might date back to the Constantinian age. Hagia Sophia, if work on it had already begun, was however dedicated only in 360.31 The Church of the Holy Apostles was probably a circular-shaped mausoleum like that of Galerius in Thessalonica, to which only Constantius II added the cruciform basilica.32 The latter, however, is the only Christian building of worship in Constantinople, which Eusebius does mention.33 As far as the temples are concerned, Byzantine sources recall that the three main shrines of the acropolis (Aphrodite, Artemis and Apollo) remained in use until the time of Theodosius I.34 Since Zosimus seems reliable in attributing to Constantine a temple dedicated to the Fortuna of Rome and the Tyche of Constantinople,35 it is not surprising that the first Christian emperor decided to build in his city a Capitolium as well.36 The place where the Notitia Urbis 26 Eus. v.C. III 48.1–2. 27 C. Mango, Le développement urbain de Constantinople (IVe–VIIe siècles) (Travaux& Mémoires, Monogr. 2; Paris: De Boccard, 1985), 34–6; G. Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale: Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 à 451 (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1974), 388–9. 28 Socr. h.e. I 16. 29 Soz. h.e. VIII 17.5. 30 Socr. h.e. VI 23. 31 R. Krautheimer, “The Ecclesiastical Building Policy of Constantine”, in Bonamente/Fusco, Costantino il Grande, 2.509–52, on p. 548, n. 88. 32 Mango, Le développement urbain, 27, following the Eusebian description. The discussion on basilica/mausoleum has fascinated scholars. Lastly, J. Bardill, Constantine. Divine Emperor of the Christian Golden Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 369–73; C. Barsanti, “Costantinopoli”, in A. Melloni (ed.), Costantino I. Enciclopedia Costantiniana sulla figura e l’immagine dell’imperatore del cosiddetto editto di Milano 313–2013 (3 vol.; Roma: Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana, 2013) 1.471–92, on pp. 483–4. 33 Eus. v.C. IV 58–60. 34 E. La Rocca, “La fondazione di Costantinopoli”, in Bonamente/Fusco, Costantino il Grande, 2.553–84, on pp. 573–9; S. Margutti, “Costantino e i templi”, in Melloni (ed.), Costantino I, 1.303–18, on pp. 310–11. 35 R. Lizzi Testa, “Costantino e la Týche¯: una strana coppia”, in G. Vespignani/S. Acerbi (ed.), Dinamiche politico-ecclesiastiche nel Mediterraneo cristiano tardoantico. Studi per Ramón Teja (Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2017) 149–60. 36 The Vita Constantini of the Codex Angelicus, dated from the ninth to the eleventh century, is the only source that attributed its foundation to the first Christian emperor. Various

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Constantinopolitanae says it was located – in the Regio VIII, on the third hill37 – does confirm its Constantinian origin.38 It was, therefore, Costantine who erected it: a temple to the Capitoline gods.39 Obviously embarrassed to speak of Constantinople in his survey of churchbuilding, Eusebius returns to the more acceptable subject of Palestine. For this region, he can quote (and report in full) the letter in which the emperor warned him, Macarius and the other bishops in Palestine to destroy the altar and the statues of pagan deities, to whom sacrifices were still offered at the oak called Mamre, “where we understand Abraham made his home”.40 On his guard after the scandalous story of his mother-in-law Eutropia (mother of Fausta and Maxentius, wife of Maximian), he gave orders to destroy those statues and their altar in order to build a splendid basilica there.41 Since the building activity in Mamre involved destroying an existing place of worship, the account also serves to connect this section with the following. In a crescendo of praise “for the undertakings the Emperor worked for the glory of the Saviour’s power”, the Life continues with the story of the temples stripped of the bronze and gold statues (III 54.1–7), and then dwells in the description of other temples that the emperor ordered to be destroyed. As when relating the removal of valuables, however, when speaking of this topic, the bishop also provides different details in his In Praise of Constantine and in his later Vita Constantini.42 When he faced with the emperor and the court of

37 38

39 40

41 42

testimonies of the fifth century, however, say that it was in function during that century, however, not as a place of worship but as a university: see Bardill, Constantine, 263. Not. urb. Const. 236, ed. O. Seeck. Following R. Janin, Constantinople Byzantine. Développement urbain et répertoire topographique (Paris: Institut Français d’Études Byzantines, 1950), 172, the Capitolium was between the forum Bovis and the Philadelphion. Since it was outside the ancient Byzantium, it could not date back to before Constantine, as supposed by E. Saglio, “s.v. Capitolium”, in C. Daremberg/E. Saglio (ed.), DAGR (10 vol.; Graz: Akademische Druck-u. Verlagsanstalt, 1969) 1.901–6, on p. 901. Cf. Janin, Constantinople Bizantine, 171. Still under Justinian, it was one of the resting places during triumphal processions: Mango, Le développement urbain, 30, n. 44. Eus. v.C. III 53.1. Mamre was a sacred place where the angels were venerated. On the difference between the statement of Eusebius and Socrates, who connected this veneration to Abraham, and that of Sozomen, distinguished between the Jewish veneration of Abraham and the polytheistic worship of the angels, see V. Drbal, “Pilgrimage and Multi-Religious Worship. Palestinian Mamre in Late Antiquity”, in T.M. Kristensen/W. Friese (ed.), Excavating Pilgrimage. Archeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient World (London/New York: Routdlege, 2017) 245–62, on pp. 249–51. Eus. v.C. III 51–3. Eusebius reviewed his “hagiographic” tale after the emperor’s death (on May 22, 337) and the first months of 339, when he himself died, but it is now generally accepted that he had probably already started to collect materials when the emperor was still alive (in about 335/6) and left v.C. unfinished, as its structure and its many inconsistencies suggest: H.A. Drake, “What Eusebius Knew: The Genesis of the Vita Constantini”, CPh 83 (1988) 20–38; T.D.

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officials, expounding his discourse on July 25, 336,43 he did not mention the statues that Constantine had reportedly exhibited in Constantinople, in order for Christians to laugh scornfully, and left uncertain the number of men sent to perform a census of the statues to be stripped of gold.44 Similarly, in his In Praise of Constantine, the bishop recalled only the place where the imperial army demolished the temple of Aphrodite,45 while the later Life added two more examples of imperial zeal in shattering places of perversion: the temple of Asclepius at Aigai in Cilicia, and the shrine of Aphrodite at Heliopolis, which were reportedly razed to the ground in succession after that of Aphrodite at Aphaca in Phoenicia.46 For the latter, almost nothing survived there, so that it is impossible to compare the Eusebian story with the archeological material.47 The temple of Asclepius in Cilicia was associated with the pagan sage Apollonius of Tyana, who had been the subject of a recent work by the pagan Hierocles, to which Eusebius himself composed a refutation, the Contra Hieroclem.48 Nevertheless, despite his claims, Aigai continued to function in 352,49 when Libanius blamed Constantius II for its destruction.50 Moreover, even so, the cult of Asclepius, which like that of Apollo had spread in Greece and Asia Minor (in Pergamum and Epidaurus) in the third century CE, while not resisting Christianisation, survived at Aigai in the practice of incubation. One of the miracles performed by Thekla in a church dedicated to her near Aigai, not far from where the famous sanctuary of

43

44

45 46 47 48 49 50

Barnes, “The Two Drafts of Eusebius’ ‘Life of Constantine’”, in Id., From Eusebius to Augustine. Selected Papers 1982–1993 (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994) 1–11; A. Cameron, “Eusebius’ Vita Constantini and the Construction of Constantine”, in S. Swain/M. Edwards (ed.), Portraits. Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997) 145–74; L. Pietri/M.-J. Rondeau (ed.), Eusèbe de Césarée. Vie de Constantin (SC 559; Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 2013), 19–20. The date of the declamation of the Laus Constantini (or Triakontaeterikos for the trecennalia soluta) on July 25, 336, established by H.A. Drake, “When Was the De laudibus Constantini Delivered?”, Historia 24 (1975) 345–56, and Id., In Praise of Constantine, 12–13, is now shared: P. Maraval, La théologie politique de l’Empire chrétien: Louanges de Constantin (triakontaétérikos) (Coll. Sagesses chrétiennes; Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 2001), 20–4. Eus. l.C. VIII 2–4, omits the entire first part of v.C. III 54.2–3, relating to Constantinople; the number of imperial emissaries are different in l.C. VIII 2 (“a few of his own friends sufficed for this service”) and in v.C. III 54.5 (“one or two only of his familiar circle sufficed for the operation”). The shrine at Aphaca was on Mount Lebanon in Fenicia: l.C. VIII 5–6 (without naming the site); v.C. III 55.5: Costantine had personally visited it. Eus. v.C. III 56 (the temple of Asclepius in Cilicia); III 58 (the shrine of Aphrodite at Heliopolis). Drbal, “Pilgrimage and Multi-Religious Worship”, 254–5. According to Philostratus’s Life of Apollonius of Tyana, I 7, Apollonius had turned the temple into a “holy Liceum and Academy”: Cameron/Hall (ed.), Eusebius. Life, 303. Zon. XIII 12, referring to Julian in 352. Lib. Or. XXX 6.37–9; LXII 4.350. It was claimed that the reference in v.C. was a later interpolation.

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Asclepius was located, was to heal the pagan sophist Aretarchos after he had fallen asleep: an obvious Christian version of incubation that had been practised in the old temple.51 Constantine’s moves to abolish the immoral cult of Aphrodite in Heliopolis (Baalbek) were not limited to the demolition of her shrine. To moralise those people, who worshipped unbridled pleasure under the title of Aphrodite, … a fresh and chastening law was issued by the Emperor forbidding as criminal any of the old customs; for these persons also he provided written instructions … hence he did not disdain to communicate even with them through a personal letter, and he urged them to turn earnestly to the knowledge of the Supreme. There also he supported his words with matching actions, setting in their midst also a very large church building for worship … and the pagan city was granted presbyters and deacons of the Church of God, and a bishop consecrated to the God over all was appointed to oversee the people there.52

Although a powerful ecclesiastical hierarchy had been established in Heliopolis (Baalbek), the city long remained a pagan centre with its great temple to Zeus (Baal), the largest there. Malalas (sixth century) and the Chronicon Paschale (seventh century) recorded that Theodosius I destroyed it,53 but the temple apparently was still a place of alleged pagan activity in the late sixth century, when fire from heaven destroyed the sanctuary and all its furnishings, apart from a few stones bearing testimony to the structure’s fate.54 Written sources and material remains, when it is possible to compare them, rarely combine. No trace of any church has been found in the building that has been identified as the Aphrodite temple, while the basilica on the two great altars in the temple’s western forecourt (not on the top of the structure) of the sanctuary to Zeus (Baal) is more likely to date back to the mid-fifth century than to the time of Theodosius I.55 We, therefore, must be cautious when considering the claims that Eusebius made in these chapters. The destruction of temples can be demonstrated with difficulty on a large scale during the fifth century CE, so that the few examples that the bishop recorded – only one (a temple to Aphrodite at Aphaca), when he faced the emperor and the court of officials – should be regarded as isolated cases. In the legislative collections we find no trace of Constantine’s order con51 Bas. Sel. v. Thecl. 39, ed. Dagron 1978, 394: H. Saradi, “The Christianization of Pagan Temples in the Greek Hagiographical Texts”, in Hahn/Emmel/Gotter (ed.), From Temple to Church, 113–34, on p. 125. 52 Eus. v.C. III 58.1–3. 53 Malalas, Chron. XIII 37; Chron. Pasch. ad a. 379. 54 Zach. Mit. h.e. 8.4. 55 S. Emmel/U. Gotter/J. Hahn, “‘From Temple to Church’: Analysing a Late Antique Phenomenon of Transformation”, in Hahn/Emmel/Gotter (ed.), From Temple to Church, 1–22, on pp. 1–2.

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cerning the closure of all the temples, as Orosius attributed to him in the fifth century,56 and a later law by Constantius II, which did order the general closure of all the temples, does not refer to any previous law of the same tenor.57 No disposition Constantine issued concerned their destruction, as Jerome claimed.58 Temple-destruction became a literary motif, whose appearance has now been connected with the “new genre” of church history, since the appropriation of a religious site was a demonstration of power and orthodoxy.59 Even the order to donate the assets of the temples to the churches, which the Chronicle Paschale attributed to Constantine, is a later generalising exaggeration.60 Libanius denounced Emperor Constantius II for giving “the temples as a gift to his courtiers, as if they were slaves or dogs or horses or golden cups”.61 These too were probably isolated cases. The first Christian emperors undoubtedly hastened, with their neglect, the process of decay of those temples that were in need of restoration and more substantial funding, so that Constantius II will have not hesitated to give away the most dilapidated temples (the maintenance of which would have been too expensive) belonging to his own patrimony (patrimonium principis) to his friends and to some churches. Nevertheless, his brother Constans issued a law in 342 to preserve the temples of Rome situated extra muros, that is outside the city walls, since they were places where Roman people could enjoy traditional festivals.62 In the West, shrines were assimilated to works of art and respect for them was required in two laws of 399. The first concerned Spain and Gaul;63 the second, addressing the proconsul of 56 Oros. hist. VII 28.8: “Constantinus … edicto siquidem statuit citra ullam hominum caedem paganorum templa claudi” (“Constantine … ordered to close all the temples, without cruent acts against the pagans”). 57 Cod. Thds. XVI 10. 4 (December 1, 356, or 357, to Taurus, Praetorian Prefect of Italy): “placuit omnibus locis adque urbibus universis claudi protinus templa et accessu vetito omnibus licentiam delinquendi perditis abnegari”; the date of December 1, 346, as reported by the subscription, is certainly incorrect: P.O. Cuneo, La legislazione di Costantino II, Costanzo II e Costante (337–361) (Materiali per una palingenesi delle costituzioni tardo-imperiali, s. II, 2; Milano: Giuffrè Editore, 1997), 152, 309; Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.432. 58 Hier. Chron. ad a. 2347 (331): “edicto Constantini gentilium templa subversa sunt”. 59 U. Gotter, “Rechtgläubige – Pagane – Häretiker. Tempelzerstörungen in der Kirchengeschichtsschreibung und das Bild der christlichen Kaiser”, in Hahn/Emmel/Gotter (ed.), From Temple to Church, 43–89. 60 Ibid., 48, n. 17. For later writers, such as Theophanes and Cedrenus, this was a universal disposition: A. Piganiol, L’Empire chrétien (325–395) (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2 1972), 57. 61 Lib. Or. XXX 38. Constantine had forbidden the petitions on the land of the temples (following what Theodosius II wrote in Cod. Thds. X 10.24, on November 6, 405), but the emperor could give them (Lib. Or. XVII 7; Amm. XXII 4.3; cf. Cod. Thds. XVI 10.20, 11.20.6), or sell them (CI XI 70.4), probably limiting himself to the temples belonging to his patrimony. 62 Cod. Thds. XVI 10. 3: Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.430–1. 63 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.15 (August 29, 399): Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.450–1.

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Africa, demanded that the idols should be removed but the buidings left intact.64 In the East, Theodosius I wanted a temple in Oshroene to remain open for people’s meetings since – he proclaimed – its statues had an artistic value without any connection to divinity.65

4.

Limiting the Financial Autonomy of the Temples

Different interpretative models have also been developed concerning the financial autonomy of the temples, as it is not sure that a single emperor, with a measure that involved the whole empire, decided to remove the administrative autonomy of all the temples, nor that any individual emperor had cut off their maintenance funds. Since the picture that can be reconstructed from ancient sources is inconsistent, scholars’ interpretations correspond to different ways of imagining the economic functioning of the Roman Empire in late antiquity. After Constantius II “had given the temples as gift to his courtiers”, on February 4, 362, Julian ordered from Alexandria that the temples be returned to their priests, along with much of the property that had been confiscated.66 He undoubtedly decided to donate to some of them land and property from the imperial patrimony.67 After his election, Valentinian I hastened to regain possession of what Julian had given to temples: all goods previously belonging to the imperial patrimony, which had been attributed to the temples per arbitrium divae memoriae Iuliani, had to be transferred back to the res privata principis.68 In February of the same year, apparently upon a specific request, Valentinian I had already pointed out to Caesarius, comes rerum privatarum Orientis, that “all parcels of land and all landed estates which are now the property of temples [i. e. subject to iure templorum], and which had been sold or donated by various 64 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.18 (August 29, 399): Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.454–5. 65 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.8 (November 30, 382): Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.436–7. 66 Julian’s law was not preserved, being only quoted by Lib. Or. XVIII 126, Soz. h.e. V 3.1; V 5.5, and Zon. XIII 12.31. 67 Such a disposition is referred to by Valentinian I, when he cancelled it (see note 68). 68 Cod. Thds. V 13.3 ad Mamertinum (PPO Italiae, Illyrici et Africae), on December 23, 364, from Milan: “Universa quae ex patrimonio nostro per arbitrium divae memoriae Iuliani in possessionem sunt translata templorum, sollicitudine sinceritatis tuae cum omni iure ad rem privatam nostram redire mandamus” (“All property which was transferred from Our patrimony and placed in possession of temples by the authority of the Emperor Julian of sainted memory, We order to be restored with full legal title to Our privy purse, through the offices of Your Sincerity”): F. Pergami (ed.), La legislazione di Valentiniano e Valente (364–375) (Materiali per una palingenesi delle costituzioni tardo-imperiali, s. II, 4; Milano: Giuffrè Editore, 1993), 10–11, 123; Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2. Code Théodosien I–XV, Code Justinien, Constitutions Sirmondiennnes (SC 531), 92–5.

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emperors, shall be reclaimed and added to Our private patrimony [under the control of the res privata]”.69 According to Delmaire, starting with Constantine, the temples that no longer served as places of worship were absorbed in the imperial res privata, and some of them were donated or sold. Valentinian I decided that they should be taken back to the advantage of the res privata (often called patrimonium nostrum in the laws). In 382, Emperor Gratian extended this measure to all the goods of the temples throughout the empire: the reference to Gratiani constituta in a law of 415 seems to confirm such a progression.70 I, on the contrary, am of the opinion that these were not universal measures: from Valentinian I’s laws it is clear that only land and praedia which, being previously part of the patrimony of the prince, had ended up in the hands of private individuals through sale or donation had to be returned to the res privata. Needless to say, the patrimony of the prince was spread throughout the empire, and locally the measure could include a certain number of situations, both in the West and the East. The order, however, interfered with the interests of the landowners, as it took an acquired right away from them, and we have evidence (in Maximus of Turin’s and Zeno of Verona’s sermons) that they attempted to resist its enforcement. The constitution of 415, from which the previous disposition of Emperor Gratian had been deduced, had also been issued by Honorius in Ravenna, and in the Justinian version it is addressed to the people of Carthage: it deals with Carthaginian issues, and makes particular reference to that city.71 It was not, therefore, a universal disposition.72 Only rarely did Roman laws have a universal nature or respond to a single project, promoted at the same time throughout the empire. Moreover, a general law on pagan shrines would per se have been impossible due to their great diversity. They could be urban or rural, located in Rome or in the provincial municipalities, linked to collegia or sodalicia or dependent on village communities. It is clear that they could not be governed by a uniform set of rules.73 As 69 Cod. Thds. X 1.8, ad Caesarium Comitem rerum privatarum (February 4, 364). 70 Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2.227, n. 1, with a somewhat different view from his previous hypothesis: R. Delmaire, Largesses sacrées et res privata. L’aerarium impérial et son administration du IVe au VIe siècle (CEFR 121; Roma: École Française de Rome, 1989), 643. 71 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.20 (= Cod. Iust. I 11.5: popolo cartaginiensi). In the Justinian Code, only the first chapter is preserved, and from this the reference to the constituta divi Gratiani was deleted. 72 Discussion on these dispositions, also involving Ambr. epist. LXXIII 16 CSEL (18 Maur.) and other contemporary sources, can be found in R. Lizzi Testa, “L’Eglise, les domini, les païens rustici: quelques stratégies pour la christianisation de l’Occident (IVe–VIe siècle)”, in H. Inglebert/B. Dumézil/S. Destephen (ed.), Le problème de la christianisation du monde antique (Paris: A. et J. Picard, 2010) 77–113, on pp. 87–95. 73 J.E. Stambaugh, “The Functions of Roman Temples”, ANRW II 16/1 (1978) 554–608, gives good examples for the Republican age and the High Empire. For late antiquity, G. Bonamente, “Einziehung und Nutzung von Tempelgut durch Staat und Stadt in der Spätantike”, in J. Hahn

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economic entities, an approximate distinction can be drawn between public and private temples.74 Apart from Rome, the economic situation of public temples in the provinces is not clear, either. Having been once independent, as were the cities on which they depended, it is uncertain whether, and when, they lost their administrative autonomy. Control of cities’ and temples’ finances by the emperor was probably an ongoing process, characterised by strong discontinuities up to and beyond the tetrarchical age. In point of fact, even when they were recorded as part of the res privata, municipal lands were registered as fundi rei publicae (while formally distinct from the imperial domains), and taxes were defined vectigalia publica, i. e. municipal; likewise, the assets of the temples flowed into the res privata but in a section called de iure templorum, which was theoretically inalienable.75 One has the impression that such a distinction was designed to make it easier for the central government to manage a complex and multifaceted economic reality: some temples, in fact, continued to manage their reditus (income from agricultural lands, or fundi assigned to temples) and their vectigalia (general taxes paid by those who frequented the place) independently, while others lost their autonomy completely; furthermore, some could be donated to private individuals by will of the prince. The variety of situations could not be reduced to a coherent framework.76

5.

Pagan Priest and Public Subsidies

Constantine made clear through concrete measures that, despite his personal Christian faith, he would respect the deities of others particularly in the first years after Ponte Milvio but also in the later period, when he chose to live mainly in the East. He granted important privileges to Catholics:77 he returned assets to the

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(ed.), Staat und religiöser Konflikt. Imperiale und lokale Verwaltung und die Gewalt gegen Heiligtümer in der Spätantike. Colloquium Münster (15–17 Jan. 2004) (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011) 55–92. B. Caseau, “The Fate of Rural Temples in Late Antiquity and the Christianisation of the Countryside”, in W. Bowden/L. Lavan/C. Machado (ed.), Recent Research in the Late Antique Countryside (Late Antique Archaeology 2; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2004) 105–44; Id., “Religious Intolerance and Pagan Statuary”, in Lavan/Mulryan (ed.), The Archaeology, 479–502. Delmaire, Largesses sacrées, 641–5. C.J. Goddard, “The Evolution of Pagan Sanctuaries in Late Antique Italy (Fourth–Sixth Centuries A.D.): A New Administrative and Legal Framework. A Paradox”, in M. Ghilardi/C.J. Goddard/P. Porena (ed.), Les cités de l’Italie tardo-antique (IVe–VIe siècle). Institutions, économie, société, culture et religion (CEFR 369; Roma: École Française de Rome, 2006) 281– 308, on pp. 282–8. A detailed discussion of ancient sources is in R. Lizzi Testa, “Costantino tra fede, economia e politica: privilegi fiscali, costruzioni sacre”, in T. Canella (ed.), L’impero costantiniano e i luoghi sacri (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2016) 147–90.

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Catholic churches,78 made donations in money to the Catholic clergy,79 exempted them from liturgies,80 allowed them to free slaves in the churches81 and to exercise arbitrage and jurisdiction in civil cases;82 he also accorded them immunity from land tax, from munera sordida,83 and from the chrysaryron.84 Nevertheless, Constantine did not touch any of the privileges enjoyed by the priests of the traditional cults, and he created new officers of imperial worship in Rome and in the provinces. Some exemptions had already been granted to the Roman public priests by the oldest municipal laws.85 In the provinces, the priests of the cults that had been sanctioned in the empire also enjoyed special treatment since they were exempted from the tutela(tutelage of young people and some women),86 and other fiscal duties (munera) that would have kept them far from the cities where they performed their rituals.87 Constantine did not remove any of those privileges. Apparently, not even Theodosius I did so. From the constitutions preserved in the Theodosian and Justinian codes, Arcadius and Honorius in 396 were the first to abolish the privileges granted to “priests, ministers, prefects, hierophants of pagan rites”, in a brief, summary law.88 The oldest and most important religious colleges in Rome – whose members were elected or chosen by cooptation from the ranks of the aristocracy – had had exemptions, food and other rewards. It is certain that Constantine preserved them. In actual fact, Emperor Gratian was the first to intervene in this matter. After removing the Altar of Victory from the main hall of the Senate, he is said to have eliminated public subsidies to all the religious colleges in Rome and, according to some scholars, to all the religious colleges throughout the empire. We must, however, be cautious when considering his anti-pagan activities. A careful reading of the famous dossier consisting of two letters by Ambrose and Quintus 78 Eus. h.e. X 5.15–17. 79 Eus. h.e. X 6.4 recalls his donatives to the Catholic clerics of Caecilian of Carthage. 80 Eus. h.e. X 7.1–2 (to the Catholic clerics in Africa); Cod. Thds. XVI 2.1 and 2 extended the exemptions to the Catholic priests in the western part of the empire; in 326 he did enlarge the exemption to the Catholic clerics in the East, but Cod. Thds. 16. 2.6 (in 329) forbade decurions to enrol in the clergy. 81 Cod Iust I 13.1 to Protogenes (June 8, 316); Soz. h.e. I 9.6; Cod. Thds. IV 7.1 to Ossius (April 18, 321). 82 It is the famous audientia episcopalis (Cod. Thds. I 27.1; Sirm. 1). 83 Cod. Thds. XVI 2.10; Soz. h.e. I 9. 5. 84 Cod. Thds. XVI 2.14.1–2. 85 Lex Ursonensis LXI 2. 86 Fragmenta Vaticana 173 a, 179. 87 Dig. L 5.13 (Ulpian); Dig. L 4.18.24. 88 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.14 (to Caesarius, Praetorian Prefect, December 7, 396): “If any privileges have been granted by ancient law to pagan priests, ministers, prefects, or hierophants of the sacred mysteries, whether known by these names or called by any other, such privileges shall be completely abolished. Such persons shall not congratulate themselves that they are protected by any privilege, since their professions is known to be condemned by law”.

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Aurelius Symmachus’s third Relatio suggests that in 382 Gratian cancelled the privileges of the Vestals alone.89 Almost all the dispositions against the pagan cult and priests that scholars still attribute to Gratian, but which are not preserved in the remaining codes of law, are an inappropriate generalisation. His father, Valentinian I, maintained the fundamental privileges of pagan priests. With his brother Valens, in 364, he indeed permitted the municipal priests (sacerdotes in the law) not to be appointed to curial offices, since the latter obliged them to reside outside the confines of their city: it was a much coveted exemption. In addition to this, since the law sent to Byzaceni (inhabitants of a province created in 294/8 in southern Tunisia) ordered that the privileges granted in ancient times to those priests had to be preserved, we must suppose that the emperors maintained the exemption from some liturgies (munera civilia), from the management of post relays and from annonarian services, as well as from the functions of judge and guardian outside their own city.90 Since Sozomen recalls that Julian had increased the privileges of pagan priests, Valentinian I and Valens probably wanted to restrict them, returning to the traditional situation.91 In 371, however, Valentinian I, Valens and Gratian sent a law to the praetorian prefect of Gallia, Viventius, to confirm the privileges of the provincial priests, usually elected among the most eminent members of the citizens (honorati): this meant exemption from compulsory services, other dispensations proper to the honorates and the honorary title of comes (ex comitibus).92

89 Symm. rel. III 11, 13–17; Ambr. epist. LXXIII 3, 15–17: discussion of sources in R. Lizzi Testa, “Christian Emperor, Vestal Virgins, and Priestly Colleges. Reconsidering the End of Roman Paganism”, AnTard 15 (2007) 251–62, on which A. Cameron, The Last Pagans of Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 41–5, but also P. Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle. Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550 AD (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012), 103–9, who agreed with the conclusions of my paper. 90 Cod. Thds. XII 1.60 (ad Byzacenos, September 12, 364): “Civil priests and decurions shall not be ordered to present themselves beyond the boundaries of their own municipality. In the creation of civil priests and in the privileges which are conferred upon them, the ancient custom must be observed”: Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2.304–7. 91 Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2.306, n. 1. 92 Cod. Thds. XII 1.75 (ad Viventium P[raefectum] P[raetorio], June 28, 371): “If any person should attain to the office of civil priest and to the rank of chief decurion … he shall be exempt from compulsory services, he shall enjoy the leisure which he earned by the testimony of continuous labor, and his body shall be free from such outrages as it is not fitting that dignitaries should sustain. We also decree that the honor of ex-count shall be added to him, an honor which is customarily obtained by those persons who have proved their loyalty and diligence by the administration of their municipalities”: Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2.308–11.

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Demolition of Rural Temples in the West

The Roman Empire did not have only public temples. Many of the sacred sites of paganism could be found in rural areas as the private property of great landlords. Domini had fana, aedes, altars and trees that were considered sacred and were often places of pilgrimage for all the inhabitants of the area. Lustral processions, such those of the three Levites in the Val di Non, attempting in 397 to prevent martyrdom, were organised to purify the fields (lustrationes pagi) well into the sixth century, since we know that after about two centuries the Second Council of Braga in 572 still condemned them.93 Nevertheless, they were still the object of reproof in the Carolingian age.94 This picture of pagan persistence shows how imperial laws themselves were ineffective, either because they never concerned all the regions of the empire or because they were not enforced unless by denunciation. In fact, many anti-pagan laws had been passed and they were very strict.95 In 392, Theodosius I issued an order to punish the connivance (coniventia) of landlords (domini), administrators and their peasants if their property was defiled by sacrilegious acts. The list of the rites affected by this order – worshipping a statue with incense, decorating a tree, building an altar of earth – confirms that the countryside was populated mainly by those private temples that the law of 392 threatened to confiscate.96 We believe that some Western bishops (from our testimonies, par-

93 Brac. a. II, c. 71: “Si quis paganorum consuetudinem sequens divinos et sortilegos in domo sua introduxerit, quasi ut malum foras mittant aut maleficia inveniant vel lustrationes paganorum faciat, quinque annis poenitentiam agant”. The disposition recalled that of the c. 24 of the Council of Ancira in 314 CE: D. Harmening, Superstitio. Überlieferungs-und theoriegeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur kirchlich-theologischen Aberglaubensliteratur des Mittelalters (Berlin: Erich Schmidt Verlag, 1979), 101–2. 94 A monk of Noyon (suffragan seat of Reims), who in the Carolingian period used original texts by Bishop Eligius (639–60), admonished the Christians for not celebrating lustrationes, a term that could not signify any ceremonies except the traditional lustral processions on the fields: PL 87: 528: “Nullus praesumat lustrationes facere nec herbas incantare neque pecora per cavam arborem vel per terram foratam transire, quia per haec videtur ea diabolo consecrare”. 95 R. Lizzi Testa, “Legislazione imperiale e reazione pagana. I limiti del conflitto”, CrSt 30/2 (2009) 385–409; Id., “Il terrore delle leggi in difesa dell’insatiabilis honor della Chiesa: la retorica della rappresentazione cristiana dell’Impero”, in M.V. Escribano Paño/R. Lizzi Testa, Política, religión y legislación en el Imperio Romano (ss. IV y V d.C.). Politica, religione e legislazione nell’Impero romano (IV e V secolo d.C.) (Bari: Edipuglia, 2014) 117–38. 96 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.12 (November 8, 392, ad Rufinum, Praetorian Prefect from Constantinople). In the first part, the law concerns the pagan ceremonies that took place in the city; in the second, it lists the rituals that were carried out in the countryside. The constitution has been extensively studied, also because it presents the first use of gentilis in the sense of pagan: L. De Giovanni, Chiesa e Stato nel Codice Teodosiano. Saggio sul libro XVI (Napoli: D’Auria, 52000), 128–30; P. Chuvin, Chronique des derniers païens (Paris: Les Belles Lettres/Fayard, 1990), 75–6; S. Montero, Política y adivinación en el Bajo Imperio Romano:

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ticularly in northern Italy) tried to enforce that law. Maximus of Turin thought that the only way to christianise the countryside was to entrust domnedii (owners of small properties or simply landlords) with the task of eliminating the idolatrous practices directly. They were required to gain awareness (conscientia) of the rites performed on their possessions and not be guilty of connivance (coniventia) by remaining silent or indifferent.97 According to Augustine, only if the nobles became Christians, would no one remain pagan.98 Augustine himself, though aware that idols were hidden everywhere,99 admitted that it would be more appropriate to break them in people’s hearts, rather than in the properties of the pagans, “not having the power to do that”.100 It is possible that Augustine recited that sermon before some other very strict laws came into effect, giving the bishops the power to control and complain.101 In 397, Emperor Arcadius ordered

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emperadores y harúspices (193 d.C.–408 d.C.) (Coll. Latomus 211; Bruxelles: Latomus, 1991), 139–40; Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.442–6. Max Taur. CVII 1 (p. 420): “Quisquis enim intellegit in re sua exerceri sacrilegia nec fieri prohibet, quodammodo ipse praecepit. Tacendo enim et non arguendo, consensum praebuit immolanti. … Dum enim taces, placet tibi quod facit rusticus tuus, quod si non faceret, forsitan displiceret”. On the attitude toward the pagans of the northern bishops, who were contemporary of Ambrose, or his followers: R. Lizzi Testa, “Ambrose’s Contemporaries and the Christianization of Northern Italy”, JRS 80 (1990) 156–73; Id., “Christianization and Conversion in Northern Italy”, in A. Kreider (ed.), The Origins of Christendom in the West, (Edinburgh/New York: T&T Clark, 2001) 47–95; Id., “La conversione dei ‘cives’, la evangelizzazione dei ‘rustici’: alcuni esempi fra IV e VI secolo”, in Città e campagna nei secoli altomedievali. LVI Settimana di Studio (Spoleto 27 marzo–1 aprile 2008) (Spoleto: CISAM, 2009) 115–50. Aug. in psal. LIV 13: “… Ille nobilis si christianus esset, nemo remaneret paganus”. On these “Augustinian” nobiles cf. C. Lepelley, “L’aristocratie lettrée païenne: une menace au yeux d’Augustin”, and Id., “Deux témoignages de saint Augustin sur l’acquisition d’un domaine impérial à bail emphytéotique”, in Id., Aspects de l’Afrique romaine. Les citées, la vie rurale, le christianisme (Bari: Edipuglia, 2001) 397–413, on p. 408; and 233–42, on p. 235. Augustine, however, might also have been referring to the noble citizens, whose influence on the religio of the members of family (i. e. clients and servants) is also remembered by Salv. gub. VIII 14: “… sed cum ditissimae quaeque ac potentissimae domus turbam faciant civitatis, vides per paucorum potentum sacrilegam superstitionem urbem cuncta fuisse pollutam. Nemini autem dubium est omnes dominorum familias aut similes esse dominis aut deteriores”. Aug. serm. Mayence LX 8 (a. 399–405), in F. Dolbeau, Vingt-six sermons au peuple d’Afrique (CEA Série Antiquité 147B; Paris: Institut d’Études Augustiniennes, 1996), 48. Aug. serm. LXII 17 Dolbeau: “Cum acceperitis potestatem, hoc facite. Ubi nobis non est data potestas, non facimus: ubi data est, non praetermittimus. Multi pagani habent istas abominationes in fundis suis: numquid accedimus et confrigimus? Prius enim agimus, ut idola in eorum corde frangamus. Quando Christiani et ipsi facti fuerint, aut invitant nos ad tam bonum opus, aut praeveniunt nos. Modo orandum est pro illis, non irascendum illis”. For Augustine, it was legitimate and also necessary, however, to destroy idols and altars on the lands if the landlords were Christians and particularly if the Church was the owner (Aug. serm. LXII 18). C. Lepelley, “Une forme religieuse du patriotisme municipal: le culte du Génie de la cité dans l’Afrique romaine”, in Id., Aspects de l’Afrique romaine, 49, n. 48.

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the recovery of materials from the demolition of temples for the construction of roads, bridges and aqueducts.102 With a new law in 399, he also ordered the destruction of the rural temples.103 In 407, however, Honorius distinguished the “sacred buildings” of the imperial res privata, which were to be converted ad usus adcommodos, from those of the domini, who were under the obligation to destroy them (domini destruere cogantur): the local bishops were encharged with contrasting ritual banquets and other kinds of pagan ceremonies.104 Even after these laws were enacted, Augustine was probably aware of the difficulty of intervening in a domain where only the will of domini counted. A new law from Constantinople in 435, however, gave the order that all kinds of pagan buildings shrines, temples and chapels should be destroyed and purified with a holy cross.105 The constitutions of the fifth century seem to have been more effective than the previous ones since archeologists have found buildings, portraits of gods or persons marked on the forehead with a cross.106 Even so, some pagan places remained cultually vital until the sixth/seventh centuries. On the other hand, in the West, the Honorian constitution of 407 (Cod. Thds. 16.10.19) was the first and only one to exhort domini to destroy the temples in their possession before Emperor Leo I (July 2 to 11, 472) issued a law, which was later included in the Code of Justinian, ordering the confiscation of places (praedium … vel domus), where the connivance of landowners (scientibus dominis) permitted the inhabitants to celebrate what was often forbidden to men of pagan superstition

102 Cod. Thds. XV 1.36 (November 1, 397, Asterio Comiti Orientis): Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 2.368–70. 103 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.16 (July 10, 399 ad Eutychianum, Praetorian Prefect of the East): “Si qua in agris templa sunt, sine turba ac tumultu diruantur”. 104 Sirm. 12 (November 15, 407): “… Arae locis omnibus destruantur omniaque templa in possessionibus nostris ad usus adcommodos transferantur; domini destruere cogantur …”; Cod. Thds. XVI 10.19 (Nov 15, 407 ad Curtium, Praetorian Prefect of Italy) is an excerpt of Sirm. 12: “Simulacra, si qua etiam nunc in templis fanisque consistunt … suis sedibus evellantur … Aedificia ipsa templorum, quae in civitatibus vel oppidis vel extra oppida sunt ad usum publicum vindicetur. Arae locis … transferantur, domini destruere cogantur. Non liceat omnino in honorem sacrilegi ritus funestioribus locis exercere convivia vel quicquam sollemnitatis agitare. Episcopis quoque locorum haec ipsa prohibendi ecclesiasticae manus tribuimus facultatem; iudices autem viginti librarum auri poena constringimus et pari forma officia eorum, si haec eorum fuerint dissimulatione neglecta”. Cf. Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.454–7. 105 Cod. Thds. XVI 10.25 (November 14, 435, Isidore, Pretorian Prefect of the East): Delmaire (ed.), Les lois religieuses, 1.466–9. 106 C. Marinescu, “Transformations. Classical Objects and their Re-Use during Late Antiquity”, in R.W. Mathisen/H.S. Sivan (ed.), Shifting Frontiers in Late Antiquity (Aldershot: Variorum, 1996) 285–95.

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(“pertemptare quae saepius paganae superstitionis hominibus interdicta sunt”).107

7.

A Brief Conclusion

It is very difficult to find homogeneous and universal models in the imperial provisions against pagans and paganism. Indeed it would have been objectively impossible in an immense empire, spread over three continents, when the emperors had to face many pressures from different groups holding different interests. The dispositions regarding temples, however, were different in the East and in the West, undoubtedly due to the presence in the latter part of the Empire of senatorial aristocrats serving as officials capable of representing a pressure group behind the throne of many emperors. However, the “anti-temples” constitutions have a feature in common: apart from a few isolated cases, they were dictated by rational economic management. Financial mechanisms rarely brought about a net loss to the imperial treasury, therefore places consecrated to paganism and sacrilegious celebrations, when they were part of the patrimony of the prince (res privata principis), continued to exist in some regions and for much longer than was previously believed. With respect to private shrines, reasons of faith gave way here, too, in the face of benefits that the emperor might gain from maintaining solidarity with the richest taxpayers, and the legislative choices did not betray the discrete complicity of domini and rustici.

107 CI I 11.8: cf. S.A. Scarcella, La legislazione di Leone I (Milano: Giuffrè, 1997), 35, 41. This law was enforced in the East and used in various trials against subjects who were denounced for continuing to be pagan: A. Cameron, The Mediterranean World in Late Antiquity (AD 395– 600) (London/New York: Routdlege, 1993), 70–1, 143; cf. R. MacMullen, Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eight Centuries (New Haven, CT/London: Yale University Press, 1997), 66.

Roberto Regoli

Rome and the Questione Romana

The city of Rome lends itself to a case study of religious toponymy. The martyrs’ tombs (with Saints Peter and Paul at the top of the list) caused the pagan city to typify the holy cities of Christianity, and this fame increased after Jerusalem fell into Muslim hands.

1.

The City of Rome in the Modern Period

The papacy of Sixtus V (1585–90) marks the city’s passage from medieval to modern, with a system of networks that was to remain in place for roughly three centuries and with a series of urban and architectural interventions. In fact, the refurbishment of the city had begun with the popes of roughly one hundred and fifty years earlier. If the impulse had initially lain in the spirit of Renaissance humanism, by the end of the sixteenth century it lays in the will to affirm the triumph of Christ and of his church. The restoration of the principal Roman basilicas’ stational functions (solemn penitential celebrations during Lent) meant the addition of new streets by which to access them. Sixtus V’s system of streets hinges on the Basilica of St Mary Major. It is no mere coincidence that the names Sistina and Felice (Peretti’s name until his papacy) grace the road that joins the Marian basilica to the Church of Trinità dei Monti. Yet more to the point, his urban map displays a stellar configuration with its centre at St Mary Major, which held what was venerated as the relic of the crib. The rays of streets that begin at the basilica signify the Star, i. e. Mary, and the Sun the one to whom she gave birth, i. e. Christ. The stellar arrangement embeds a consecration to Mary and to Christ in the very essence of the city. In other interpretations, the basilicas on Sixtus V’s itineraries form the constellation Ursa Major, and the seven major basilicas form the constellation of Ursa Minor. Another image visible on the map is the cross: its vertical beam is the Sistine tract from Trinità dei Monti to Holy Cross in Jerusalem, and its patibulum is the street which, at the time, was called via Pia. Even the placement of the obelisks near the basilicas

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assumes a religious function. As expressions of the Egyptian religion, the obelisks are exorcised, surpassed in height by crosses, and consecrated, as if they were Rome itself in submission to the cross, as if to consecrate the city to Christ. The epigraph of the Vatican obelisk is very significant here: “Christ conquers / Christ reigns / Christ rules / Christ from every harm / his populace / defends”.1 The urban plan has the lineaments of an urban consecration, even in places in which the toponymy is papal rather than religious. Rome says more in symbols than in names. The city in its sacrality was struck, if not scarred, by the Roman Republic at the end of the eighteenth century, with the subsequent dominion of the French Empire. The laicised city was restored to the pope in 1814, as was the remainder of the Papal States (1815), “privileging religious logics rather than the realities of a state whose principles of government and administrative structures were alien to the world as it now was, after the Revolution, and were soon to prove incapable of reform”.2 The city had to be consecrated afresh (at the cost of what Adolfo Omodeo saw as the logics of “religious rigidification”). As Philippe Boutry tells us, the election of Leo XII (1823–9) “was a last attempt to transform Rome back into a ‘holy city’ of religious visibility, intellectual coherence, moral order and social cohesion”.3 Re-sacralisation meant a series of symbolic choices. In the spring of 1824, Leo XII moved from the Quirinal (a political palace) to the Vatican (a religious palace):4 political worldliness was replaced by religious austerity. The Jubilee in 1825 was a fitting, propitious occasion of sacralisation.5 For a year, the city was transformed “into a grand establishment of spiritual exercises”.6 It was a temporary, rather than structural, situation.

1 “Christus vincit / Christus regnat / Christus imperat / Christus ab omni malo / plebem suam / defendat”: C. D’Onofrio, Gli obelischi di Roma (Roma: Cassa di risparmio di Roma, 1965), 102. 2 “… privilegiando logiche religiose in rapporto alle realtà di uno Stato ormai estraneo, nei suoi principi di governo e nelle sue strutture amministrative, al mondo scaturito dalla Rivoluzione, e che si dimostrerà ben presto irriformabile”: P. Boutry, “La restaurazione (1814–1848)”, in G. Ciucci (ed.), Roma moderna (Roma/Bari: Laterza, 2002) 371–413, on p. 378. 3 “… determina un ultimo tentativo di trasformare nuovamente Roma in una ‘città santa’ restituendole visibilità religiosa, coerenza intellettuale, ordine morale e coesione sociale”: Boutry, “La restaurazione (1814–1848)”, on p. 381. On the conclave that elected him pope: I. Fiumi Sermattei/R. Regoli (ed.), Il Conclave del 1823 e l’elezione di Leone XII (Ancona: Assemblea legislativa delle Marche, 2016). 4 Cf. A. Menniti Ippolito, “Il primo conclave del Quirinale”, in Fiumi Sermattei/Regoli (ed.), Il Conclave, 147–54, and the introduction to the same volume, p. 17. 5 Cf. R. Colapietra/I. Fiumi Sermattei (ed.), “Si dirà quel che si dirà: si ha da fare il Giubileo”. Leone XII, la città di Roma e il giubileo del 1825 (Ancona: Assemblea legislativa delle Marche, 2014). 6 “… in un grande stabilimento di esercizi spirituali”: M. D’Azeglio, I miei ricordi (2 vol.; Firenze: Barbèra, 1867), 1.229.

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A significant and substantial urban transition came in the latter years of the papacy of Pius IX (1846–78), in the context of a slow civic transformation in which houses were demolished and rebuilt, ever taller, with new types of apartments and services, new materials and new external appearances.7 New additions were the Termini train station (1863) and the beginnings of a neighbourhood near it (piazza dell’Esedra). The city was modernised. In 1854, it celebrated the installation of gas lamps along the “papal streets” (piazza Venezia and del Gesù, del Corso). In the 1860s came the first horse-drawn, urban transport services. The papacy of Pius IX saw such works as the tobacco factory in piazza Mastai, urban expansion near Termini, restorations of many churches, public housing in the poorest neighbourhoods, the Verano cemetery and the inauguration of the Rome-Frascati railroad. The government fostered industry, from the gilders to the factories of clays and bricks (1864). Towards the end of the 1860s came the beginnings of urban projects directed by Frédéric-François-Xavier de Mérode in the zones of Termini station and of the Prati neighbourhood, near St Peter’s Basilica. Papal Rome was soon to yield to the capital of the Kingdom of Italy, after the breach of Porta Pia (September 20, 1870). After the prelate’s death, the new civic government adopted and completed his urban projects. However, the new political desiderata drew in their train major modifications to the toponymy. The city was in the thick of the Roman Question.

2.

Roman Toponymy in the Risorgimento Period

The new Capitoline administration manifested its new authority in the toponymy of Rome. Proof enough of this can be found in the municipal resolutions on the topic from 1871 to 1887.8 The first such resolution, after the Kingdom of Italy had annexed Rome, was on November 30, 1871.9 The municipal junta proposed “changes and corrections in the nomenclature of the streets of Rome, and new names for the streets in the new neighbourhood near the Baths”.10

7 Cf. R. Regoli, “Fede, opere e attenzione ai ‘marginali’. Il rinascimento voluto dal cognato di Montalembert”, L’Osservatore Romano, October 31, 2009. 8 On the municipal resolutions as to Roman toponymy between 1871 and 1887, see http://www. rerumromanarum.com/2016/09/le-delibere-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma.html (accessed January 18, 2019). 9 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera n. 16, Nomenclatura di nuove Strade e cambiamento di denominazione delle vecchie, November 30, 1871, 1228–37, available at https://www. comune.roma.it/servizi/SITOWPS/getPDFDelibera.do?codiceDelibera=5 (accessed January 18, 2019). 10 “… cambiamenti e correzioni nella nomenclatura delle vie di Roma e di nuove denominazioni di quelle del nuovo quartiere alle Terme”: ibid., 1229.

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The politics in Rome must be seen within the national context. In fact, even “before the capture of Rome in 1870, the first years of the new Kingdom of Italy saw a new repertoire of odonyms … . It was in the 1860s that the template coalesced in its hierarchy: the principal traffic zones were named Italica or Nazionale, or were named after the king Vittorio Emanuele II, the statesman Cavour and other figures of the Risorgimento”.11 Unlike in the past, the new names did not function as orientation (e. g. via Firenze is not the beginning of a road to that city) but as commemoration (via Nazionale obtained its name because it was the largest traffic zone; piazza Dante was named after the poet in a generic celebration of his memory). Streets that for centuries had drawn their names from their buildings (e. g. in Rome the piazza della Rotonda, after the folk name of the Pantheon) and from their inhabitants’ trades (e. g. in Rome the via dei Giubbonari, Sediari, Chiavari, Cappellari, Baullari, etc.) “in modern times began to receive symbolic names. … the ideological function was in how the toponyms were a form of monument, erected by public funds (national, urban) to reflect public interests”.12 In the new capital of the Kingdom of Italy, streets in the “new de Mérode neighbourhood” were named: via Nazionale, via Torino, via Firenze, via Napoli, via Genova, via Modena, via Parma. North and south, the city names had mainly been capitals of the pre-unitarian states. The principal street, which linked the new train station to the centre of the capital, had to be called Nazionale, whence ramified the streets named after the old capitals. Old streets received new names. In a papal city as was Rome, an implicit significance was attached to such changes, for example: via di Porta Pia became via Venti Settembre, via del Giardino Papale became via dei Giardini, vicolo delle Scale was renamed vicolo Ciceruacchio, the nickname of Angelo Brunetti, a Roman blacksmith who had lived in that street, a protagonist of the Roman Republic of 1849, killed by the Austrians as he fled to Venice. The latter name, during a meeting of the Capitoline council, was further modified to vicolo Brunetti. The streets named after Our Lady were adjusted rather than changed (e. g. 11 “… prima della presa di Roma nel 1870, nei primi anni del nuovo Regno d’Italia si è formato un rinnovato repertorio odonimico … . Proprio degli anni ’60 del sec. XIX si forma il modello di attribuzione con una propria gerarchia: le aree di circolazione principali ricevono i nomi Italica e Nazionale o vengono dedicate al re Vittorio Emanuele II, allo statista Cavour e ad altre figure chiave del Risorgimento”: S. Nikitin, “Tra politica e calcio. La concezione toponimica contemporanea e la sua realizzazione nella cultura urbana di Roma (1870–2000)”, in E. Caffarelli/P. Poccetti (ed.), L’onomastica di Roma: ventotto secoli di nomi. Atti del Convegno. Roma, 19–21 aprile 2007 (Roma: Società Editrice Romana, 2009) 187–98, on p. 188. 12 “… nei tempi moderni cominciano a ricevere denominazioni simboliche. … Il valore ideologico si realizza nel fatto che il toponimo s’intende come una forma del monumento, eretto grazie ai fondi pubblici (nazionali, urbani) per riflettere pubblici interessi”: Nikitin, “Tra politica e calcio”, 189.

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via di Santa Maria in Cacaberis became via di Santa Maria dei Calderai, but via di Santa Maria in Campo Marzio became via Metastasio, in order to avoid a homonym in the same neighbourhood). Issue was taken not with religious but with papal names (however, due to a homonym in the Pigna neighbourhood, via del Gesù became via del Plebiscito). Some changes were made for convenience as much as for ideology and propaganda, e. g. via del Giardino Papale flanked and led to the garden of the Quirinal Palace, which had now become the residence of the House of Savoy. On December 30, 1872, the municipal council considered the names to be given the streets of the new Castro Pretorio zone.13 The criterion is clear: the memory of the “glorious deeds in arms that led to the fulfilment of the Unity of Italy”. Hence arose the ipsa loquuntur odonyms, as epitomised in piazza della Indipendenza: via Cernaia, via Castelfidardo, via Palestro, via Goito, via Volturno, via Montebello, via Gaeta, via Curtatone, via San Martino, piazza Indipendenza, via Solferino, via Varese, via dei Mille, via Magenta, via Castro Pretorio, via Marghera, via Milazzo. Included in the list are a few battles in which the Savoyard army fought the Russians in the Crimean War, interpreted here as being a chapter in Risorgimento history. The toponyms form a coherent complex. A similar attitude is apparent in the aftermath of World War II, as “piazza Esedra had its name changed to piazza della Repubblica (council resolution of March 20, 1953)”.14 In the years after the breach of Porta Pia, Roman toponymy drew on “concepts, characters and events in Italian history and on a few foreign figures of great importance to Italy and to the world”.15 First came sovereigns and members of the royal family, next were political and military men and on the next tier men in the realm of culture. A resolution on August 1, 187316 settled the toponymy of the Caelian and Esquiline hills. The streets of the latter hill were named after illustrious men of Italy, with the undisputed primacy of Victor Emmanuel, as per the new history (mythology) of the Kingdom: via Principe Umberto, via Principe Amedeo, via Balbo, via D’Azeglio, via Cavour, via Manin, via Farini, via Gioberti, via Mazzini 13 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera n. 3, December 30, 1872, available at http://www. rerumromanarum.com/2016/09/delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma_61.html (accessed January 18, 2019): “… gloriosi fatti d’arme che si condussero a compimento dell’Unità d’Italia”. 14 “Piazza Esedra subisce un cambiamento di nome in Piazza della Repubblica (Delibera consigliare del 20. 3. 1953)”: Nikitin, “Tra politica e calcio”, 191. 15 “… sono concetti, personaggi ed eventi della storia Italiana, cui si aggiungono alcune figure straniere di grande importanza per l’Italia e per il mondo”: ibid., 190. 16 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera n. 33, August 1, 1873, available at https://www. comune.roma.it/servizi/SITOWPS/getPDFDelibera.do?codiceDelibera=5570 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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(now via Cattaneo), via Carlo Alberto, via Napoleone III, via Rattazzi, piazza Fanti, via Alfredo Cappellini, via Mamiani, via Ricasoli, piazza Guglielmo Pepe, via La Marmora, via Cairoli, via Bixio, via Manzoni, via Galileo, via Tasso, via Ariosto, via Petrarca, via Alfieri, piazza Dante, via Foscolo, via Machiavelli, via Ferruccio, via Giusti, via Buonarroti, via Leopardi, via dello Statuto, via Giovanni Battista Vico, via Principe Eugenio, via Conte Verde, viale Principessa Margherita, piazza Vittorio Emanuele. The names cover three fields: “the King and members of the House of Savoy, living and past, within the orbit of piazza Vittorio Emanuele. Illustrious men of Italian history and letters in the orbit of piazza Dante. Illustrious men in Italy’s recent history within the orbit of piazza Fanti and piazza Guglielmo Pepe”.17 The same papa-phobic, or rather philo-Savoy attitude, continued to erase past references to the pope and to Christianity: a segment of via delle Quattro Fontane became via Savoia, the segment of piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore near the Basilica of St Mary Major became piazza dell’Esquilino, via di Sant’Agata alla Suburra became via dei Goti, piazza dell’Oratorio di San Marcello became piazza dell’Oratorio, via di Santa Lucia al Gonfalone was annexed to the nearby via dei Banchi Vecchi, via del Gesù was split into discontinuous fragments as its segment between Palazzo Venezia and the Church of the Gesù received the name via degli Astalli, via delle Grazie became via del Mascherino, via di San Pellegrino became via della Cancellata, via delle Fornaci (not to be confused with the place which bears that name today) became via Garibaldi. On March 26, 1881, the government of Rome issued a toponomastic resolution18 that dealt with the Castro Pretorio zone. Here too attention was paid to the deeds in arms that had led to the unification of Italy. Thus via Pastrengo and via Vicenza19 were named in memory of how the city had resisted the Austrians’ siege in 1848.20 In the Sallustian neighborhood, the resolution of May 8, 188521 named only one place according to the rhetoric of the Risorgimento:22 via Cadorna. Savoyard 17 “… il Re e membri della famiglia Savoia, viventi e del passato, che gravitano intorno a Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. Uomini illustri della storia e della letteratura d’Italia, che gravitano intorno a Piazza Dante. Uomini illustri della storia più recente d’Italia, che gravitano intorno alle piazze Fanti e Guglielmo Pepe”: see http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/09/ delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma_8.html (accessed January 18, 2019). 18 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera sulla toponomastica, March 26, 1881, available at https://www.comune.roma.it/servizi/SITOWPS/getPDFDelibera.do?codiceDelibera=3493 (accessed January 18, 2019). 19 See http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/09/delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma_24. html (accessed January 18, 2019). 20 See http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/02/via-vicenza.html (accessed January 18, 2019). 21 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera sulla toponomastica, May 8, 1885, available at https:// www.comune.roma.it/servizi/SITOWPS/getPDFDelibera.do?codiceDelibera=5384 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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patriotism in Rome resurfaced soon after, with the toponomastic resolution of May 25, 1886.23 Corso Vittorio Emanuele and the bridge of the same name went to the first king of Italy, and another bridge went to Cavour. In an optics of desacralisation and of homage to artists, via Domenico Fontana replaced vicolo della Scala Santa, near the Lateran Palace, which had been designed by that architect; via Antonio Canova replaced vicolo di San Giacomo, in which the sculptor had had his studio. The resolution on the toponymy of Rome of July 1, 188724 affected various zones in the city.25 Streets in the Gianicolense and San Cosimato neighbourhoods (in Trastevere) were named after characters in the nineteenth-century Roman Republic: via Giacomo Medici, via Andrea il Moro, via Giacomo Masina, via Paolo Narducci, via Gustavo Spada, via Daverio, via Pietramellara, Bastione Leducq, via Pietro Roselli, Bastione Wern, via Ulisse Seni (initially miswritten as via Felice Seni), via Lodovico Calandrelli, Scalea del Tamburino, viale Trenta Aprile, via Luigi Masi, via Gloriosa (now viale Glorioso), via Carlo Armellini, via Oreste Tiburzi, via Gaetano Sacchi, via Goffredo Mameli, via Nicola Fabrizi, via Luigi Tittoni, via Luigi Santini, via Roma libera, via Emilio Morosini, via Agostino Bertani, via Filippo Casini, via dei Dandolo, via Girolamo Induno, via Giuditta Tavani Arquati, via Natale Del Grande, via Pallini, via Tavolacci. Elsewhere, other streets were named after Marco Minghetti and Giovanni Lanza, or received such names as corso d’Italia, piazza Principe di Napoli, viale della Regina. Significant interventions affected the Prati di Castello neighbourhood. The streets that led “to the Vatican – in this period still considered an enemy of the unification – received the names of three papaphobic characters in medieval Rome: Cola di Rienzo (at first it was Cola da Rienzi), Crescenzio, and Stefano Porcari (at the session of May 8, 1885). At the centre of this Risorgimento drift was, and is, piazza Risorgimento, which extends just beyond the walls and palaces of the Vatican”.26 22 See http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/09/delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma_27. html (accessed January 18, 2019). 23 See http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/10/delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma_19. html (accessed January 18, 2019). 24 Consiglio Comunale di Roma, Delibera sulla toponomastica, July 1, 1887, available at https:// www.comune.roma.it/servizi/SITOWPS/getPDFDelibera.do?codiceDelibera=3555 (accessed January 18, 2019). 25 See http://www.rerumromanarum.com/2016/10/delibera-sulla-toponomastica-di-roma. html (accessed January 18, 2019). 26 “… al Vaticano – in questo periodo considerato ancora un nemico dell’Unità – ricevono tre denominazioni che ricordano i personaggi antipapali della Roma medioevale: Cola di Rienzo (originariamente la via si chiama Cola da Rienzi), Crescenzio e Stefano Porcari (seduta dell’8 maggio 1885). Il centro di questo indirizzo risorgimentale era ed è ancora la Piazza Risorgi-

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Symbolic Possession of Urban Space

In the capital, the national toponomastic politics expressed itself in contiguous, correlated and partly coincidental forms, namely the visible possession of large spaces, spaces that religious Rome had always used in its rites and ceremonies. Between the two Romes, the papal-Catholic and the liberal-Italian, was a competition that surpassed the symbolic possession of urban space. The battle with papal power was not political at this point but rather sacral and cultural. The new Rome expressed itself with monuments, some of which were rather provocative, having roots buried in radical anti-clericalism. In 1889, a statue was erected to Giordano Bruno, the heretic and bitter enemy of the Church.27 It was a bold-faced challenge, but it was also “a rupture with the architectural and monument politics held thus far by the new liberal state”.28 One should also recall, in this respect, the inauguration of the monument to Ugo Bassi.29 At the start of the 1880s a new Italian drift began in the government of Rome. The minister of finance, Quintino Sella, wanted a large new building for his ministry in Rome, and the day was won by the theory of “the legitimacy of the new State’s authority to build in Rome”.30 And where was this building to be built? In via Venti Settembre (once via Pia), a place charged with significance, on an axis that joined the royal residence at the Quirinal to Porta Pia. The new monument politics was grandiose, as the state stepped in, for example, with the erection of the monument to the first king of Italy, in piazza Venezia, which assumed a fundamental role in the new capital.31 In 1870, a monument politics in Rome with grand pretensions and scarce finances began, hence achieving meagre results, particularly in the works funded by private contributions.32 The first projected monuments were based on the theme of the unification of Italy, with characters such as Ciceruacchio, Enrico Cairoli (who fought in Garibaldi’s army and was killed by papal troops in 1867 at

27 28 29 30 31 32

mento, che si estende appena sotto le mura e i palazzi del Vaticano”: Nikitin, “Tra politica e calcio”, 190. Cf. M. Bucciantini, Campo dei Fiori. Storia di un monumento maledetto (Torino: Einaudi, 2015). “… atto di rottura rispetto alla politica architettonica e monumentale portata avanti fino a quel momento dal nuovo Stato liberale”: ibid., XX. A. Riccardi, “La vita religiosa”, in V. Vidotto (ed.), Storia di Roma dall’antichità a oggi. Roma capitale (Roma/Bari: Laterza, 2002) 269–321. “… la legittimità per il nuovo Stato di edificare in Roma”: M. Casciato, “Lo sviluppo urbano e il disegno della città”, in Vidotto (ed.), Storia di Roma, 125–72, on p. 139. Cf. C. Brice, Il Vittoriano. Monumentalità pubblica e politica a Roma (Roma: Archivio Guido Izzi, 2005). Cf. L. Berggren/L. Sjöstedt, L’ombra dei grandi: monumenti e politica monumentale a Roma (1870–1895) (Roma: Artemide, 1996).

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Villa Glori), Cavour and Metastasio. The toponymy had anticipated the cultural and political instances manifested here in ambitions of monuments. The monument projects displayed three distinct, often concomitant, intentions: the intention to legitimise the memory of the “patriots” killed in a national war (sepulchre of the bold); the political intention to “leave an Italian mark on the city of popes, Italianise its external aspect”;33 the intention to legitimise Rome qua capital. If the republicans and the irredentists meant to propagate a politics of transformations, the anti-clericals “saw in the monuments dedicated to Risorgimento an instrument of propaganda against the papacy”.34 The majority of the monuments proposed concerned strictly Risorgimento characters, gests or concepts, but “the few initiatives regarding characters of the distant past were legitimised on essentially the same terms. Giordano Bruno, Galileo Galilei, Arnaldo da Brescia, Cola di Rienzo, Nicola Spedalieri and Jesus Christ himself were suggested as precursors of the liberal state and its political ideals”.35 Moreover, since this new vision of the nation and of the city did not have room for markedly Catholic heroes, its Christ was limited to a humanity interpreted as revolutionary, and other characters were excluded. The few Catholic projects proposed (the column of the Vatican Council, the monuments to Secchi and Columbus) “did not do very well: none of them made it to the municipal council”.36 Between 1871 and 1875, financial restraints caused the city government to erect busts and place plaques, not monuments, along the Pincio walk and on the Capitoline Hill. The first plaques were placed on the homes of Ciceruacchio, Stefano Porcari, Michelangelo and Canova. A plaque in memory of Galilei was to have been set on Palazzo Medici, the property of the French State, but the Parisian ambassador said that the French government “does not mean to let plaques be set on its wall that may offend the pope”.37 On October 21, 1871, thirty busts were commissioned to be placed on the Pincian Hill as an addition to its hall of fame. 33 “… porre un’impronta italiana sulla città dei papi, di italianizzare il suo aspetto esterno”: ibid., 20. 34 “… vedevano nei monumenti al risorgimento uno strumento di propaganda contro il papato”: ibid., 257. 35 “… le poche iniziative riguardanti personaggi di un passato più lontano venivano essenzialmente legittimate ricorrendo agli stessi termini. Giordano Bruno, Galileo Galilei, Arnaldo da Brescia, Cola di Rienzo, Nicola Spedalieri e persino Gesù Cristo vennero messi in campo tutti come precursori, sotto un aspetto o l’altro, dello stato liberale e dei suoi ideali politici”: ibid., 260. 36 “… non ebbero un trattamento particolarmente positivo: nessuno di essi arrivò al consiglio comunale”: ibid., 265. 37 “… non intende che sul suo muro siano affisse lapidi, di cui potrebbe offendersi il Papa”: G. Manfroni, Sulla soglia del Vaticano 1870–1901. Dalle memorie di Giuseppe Manfroni, ed. C. Manfroni (2 vol.; Bologna: Zanichelli, 1920), 1.103, cited in Berggren/Sjöstedt, L’ombra dei grandi, 19.

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As Laura Francescangeli observes, “the Pincian busts were to include historical emblems of liberal anti-clericalism (Arnaldo da Brescia, Paolo Sarpi, Giordano Bruno), ‘poet-prophets’ of Italian unification (Machiavelli, Foscolo, Alfieri), saintlets of liberal Catholicism (Pellico, Gioberti), and new lay icons in the ‘fathers of the fatherland’ of the Historical Right (Cavour, D’Azeglio, Cesare Balbo)”.38 From 1870 to 1929, Roman toponymy and monuments had little to do with religion and still less with the papacy. Few spaces remained for the pope, and they were strictly Catholic and parochial. Leo XIII created four new parishes in the wake of the city’s urban development: the Sacro Cuore di Gesù at Castro Pretorio, Sant’Eusebio on the Esquiline Hill, Santa Maria Liberatrice at Monte Testaccio and San Vitale. In the Prati neighbourhood, the pope’s baptismal name lent itself to a new parish, San Gioacchino ai Prati di Castello, conceived in a spirit of Catholic universalism. The Catholics of the world offered the new church to the pope on the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination (1887–8), and he thought it should be a place for the adoration of the Eucharist.39 Catholics from twentyseven nations joined in; fourteen of the said nations each adorned a chapel: Brazil, Portugal, Bavaria, Poland, Canada, England, the United States, Spain, France, Italy, Belgium, Holland, Ireland and Argentina. Catholic universalism was enclosed in chapels, unable to manifest itself on the streets of the city. This Catholic vigour was counterbalanced by the Protestants, who came to Rome and placed their temples in the vicinity of the “Risorgimento” toponymy, on the axes of the new, third Rome. In 1883, the fourth centenary of the birth of Martin Luther, they inaugurated the Waldensian church in via Quattro Novembre. In 1914 “the inauguration of the [Waldensian church] in piazza Cavour, able to hold roughly two thousands people, displayed how Protestantism in Rome had gained in visibility”,40 although it was still unable to make a dent. As the Italian and international political context altered, so did the use of public space in Rome. The first evidence of this came with the election of Pius XI.

38 “… al Pincio avrebbero fatto irruzione oltre ad alcuni emblemi storici dell’anticlericalismo liberale (Arnaldo da Brescia, Paolo Sarpi, Giordano Bruno) e ‘grandi vati’ dell’Unità d’Italia (Machiavelli, Foscolo, Alfieri) i santini del cattolicesimo liberale (Pellico, Gioberti) e le nuove icone laiche dei ‘padri della patria’ della destra storica (Cavour, D’Azeglio, Cesare Balbo)”: L. Francescangeli, “Monumenti onorari e committenza artistica nel Municipio della Terza Roma. Fonti documentarie nell’Archivio Storico Capitolino”, in A. Cremona/S. Gnisci/A. Ponente (ed.), Il giardino della memoria. I busti dei grandi italiani al Pincio (Roma: Artemide, 1999) 27–41, on p. 31. 39 Historical information is available at the parish site, http://www.sangioacchino.org/node/39 (accessed January 18, 2019). 40 “… l’inaugurazione di quella in piazza Cavour, capace di contenere circa 2000 persone, segna una maggiore visibilità del protestantesimo a Roma”: Riccardi, “La vita religiosa”, 284.

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For the first time since September 20, 1870, a pope, during his first benediction, faced the city rather than the interior of St Peter’s Basilica.

4.

A New Papal Presence. After 1929

After the reconciliation on February 11, 1929 had put an end to the Roman Question, Catholic names re-entered the streets of the city. The pope himself set foot in areas in Rome (the Eucharist procession, July 25, 1929).41 Hence via della Conciliazione, a transparent symbolic name, the seal of the Lateran Pacts and the conciliation between the two Romes, and the city began to leave room for characters of a religious calibre. The aftermath of the war fostered Catholic street names. In 1959, the thirtieth anniversary of the Lateran Pacts was “cause to remember in odonyms the event ‘that had ensured religious peace in Italy’: added to the list of Roman toponyms were the names of the jurists Francesco Pacelli and Domenico Barone, who had negotiated the conciliation. The two names were placed ‘in the immediate vicinity of the piazza named after the pontifex of the Conciliation, Pius XI’ (Cons. no. 571, April 7, 1959)”.42 It should not be forgotten that the former jurist was a brother of Pius XII. In the northwest quadrant of the city, after World War II, a series of streets were named after popes and cardinals. A main traffic artery was called via Gregorio VII, just as a minor street was named via Pietro Gasparri after the cardinal and Secretary of State who had signed the Pacts in 1929. Papal Rome had won a long-term victory that still lasts until today. After 1870, the stranger who entered the city at such a symbolic place as the Roma Termini train station had been met with Risorgimento toponymy (via Nazionale, via Venti Settembre, piazza della Repubblica); now, after 2005, the same foreigner comes face to face with a statue of John Paul II, to whose memory the station has been dedicated since December 2006. Public schools have been named after popes (John XXIII at Belsito), and tunnels on the bypass (again named after John XXIII). Popes, cardinals and saints (largo Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer, via Don Orione) traverse the urban toponymy. The Roman Question is past and surpassed. 41 J.M. Ticchi, “Un prisonnier sort du Vatican. La procession eucharistique du 25 juillet 1929”, in L. Pettinaroli (ed.), Le gouvernement pontifical sous Pie XI. Pratiques romaines et gestion de l’universel (CEFR 467; Roma: École Française de Rome, 2013) 673–90. 42 “… il motivo di ricordare sul piano odonimico l’evento ‘che ha assicurato la pace religiosa del popolo italiano’: nella toponimia romana compaiono i nomi dei giuristi Francesco Pacelli e Domenico Barone, negoziatori della Conciliazione. È da notare come i due nomi compaiano ‘nelle immediate adiacenze della Piazza intitolata al Pontefice della Conciliazione Pio XI’ (Cons. N. 571 del 7. 4. 1959)”: Nikitin, “Tra politica e calcio”, 192.

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Conclusion

The toponymy of post-unitarian Rome is similar to that carried out in other Italian cities (in the 1860s, immediately after the proclamation of the Kingdom of Italy): a celebration of the new power (liberal, with its military heroes and victories), the new powerful (e. g. King Victor Emmanuel II and Camillo Benso Count of Cavour), and the ideology that sustained the new (national and Risorgimento) regime. What distinguishes Rome is a minor aspect of odonymy: the insertion of new local heroes like Ciceruacchio, and of past figures in local history (Cola di Rienzo). The toponomastic revisions were political rather than antireligious. The intention, or at least the main intention, was to damage the papacy as territorial sovereignty, not as a religious authority. A minority in the new political body, namely the anti-clerical faction, questioned the spiritual validity of the papacy. The anti-clericals worked mainly from below, but a few politicians were sympathetic to their efforts, and they were able to wage symbolic battles, such as the erection of the statue of Giordano Bruno. The Historical Right did not help them; the Historical Left knew how to use them. If the toponymy was chiefly political, how things altered after the Pacts of 1929 should come as no surprise. Civil Rome and Vatican Rome (the latter re-established in statehood) came to coexist, not in conflict but in agreement. The papal and religious odonymy in the new neighbourhoods testifies to this historical shift.

Merav Mack

Imagination, Memory and Fantasy1

1.

Introduction

The image of the Dome of the Rock symbolises Jerusalem more than any other building, but most of its photographs do not rise above banality, a cliché of piety, power and violence. I sometimes wonder whether this holy site can ever be photographed in a way that would produce more than a trite, boring postcard. This essay takes us to the axis of imagination, memory and fantasy, which I shall attempt to interpret in relationship to history. For this purpose, I have selected a number of photographs stressing the tension between the city, its images and fantasies about it. The first photograph is by Frédéric Brenner, depicting a nineteenth-century model of Jerusalem (fig. 1). It captures an essence that eludes photographs of the “real” city. The image underlines the tension between history and memory, between imagination and reality, between celestial Jerusalem and the temporal city. The modular model, designed in Jerusalem by master carpenter and architect Conrad Schick in the 1870s, reminds us that even Jerusalemites like to reinvent the image of their city. This interactive model encourages the viewer to delve into invisible layers of the city. Schick prepared it for the Vienna World Fair of 1873. He sold this and similar models later, thus fuelling the European imagination of the city. Schick provided mobile parts to replace the mosques with other structures, including models of the historic Jewish temples, which he carved according to descriptions, biblical insinuations and his own imagination. His models remind us that Jerusalem is reshaped by its images, attempting perhaps to match what is already imprinted in our minds. The city you see before you is the object of all our suffering. The Jerusalem before you is the image of celestial Jerusalem.

1 This article is a reprint with corrections from A. Barak/N. Hazan, The Mount, The Dome and The Gaze. The Temple Mount in Israeli Visual Culture (Tel Aviv: Pardes/Tel Aviv University, Minerva Humanities Centre, 2017) 339–48.

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Fig. 1: Conrad Schick’s model of the Haram al-Sharif, Christ Church; Jerusalem, 2016. Photo by Frédéric Brenner. Courtesy Howard Greenberg Gallery

These words are taken from a speech by Arnulf of Chocques, a clergyman who took part in the conquest of Jerusalem by the crusaders (1099) and later its first Latin patriarch. Arnulf saw the actual walls of Jerusalem as plainly as his fellow crusaders, but for him temporal Jerusalem was merely a pre-figuration, an image of the more sublime city, the celestial Jerusalem his soul desired.2 Run the recording fast-forward to today, and you will find that every vantage point overlooking Jerusalem, whether from the Mount of Olives or from the Government House promenade in Talpiot, is occupied by tourists observing the city. Their gaze is a bridge between the reality before their eyes, written descriptions (especially the Scriptures) and pure imagination. At times, they imagine Jerusalem through visions of the apocalypse yet to come. When they descend from their vantage point and walk around the city streets, they tend to ignore the asphalt roads, the pavements and the sewage pipes installed by the Jerusalem municipality after 1967, but focus their minds instead on the streets as they imagined they had been at the time of the Second Temple and Jesus, rendering the city a kind of biblical Disneyland. As they walk in the footsteps of texts written thousands of years ago, tourists search for the exact places where the events described might have taken place. Where, precisely, did David observe Bathsheba (Bat 2 S. Biddlecombe (ed.), The Historia Ierosolimitana of Baldric of Bourgueil (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2014), 108.

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Sheva) bathe? And where did he pray for forgiveness? Muslim historians in the Middle Ages devoted considerable efforts to identifying this exact spot so that they could pray there, too. Jerusalem is laden with an enormous bulk of texts and traditions. The history of the city is tangled up beyond repair with legends, some entirely fanciful, some with only the most tenuous, associative grip on reality. Pilgrims and tourists search for anchor points in sites where mythical events took place: the Tower of David, Mount Moria, the site of the Binding of Isaac and later of the Temple; the place of Christ’s Crucifixion and Muhammad’s Ascension, the place of Last Judgement. On Mount Zion, tourists and Jewish and Muslim pilgrims pray at David’s Tomb. The attribution of the tomb to David can be credited to Byzantine Christians, but Jews and Muslims adopted and made it their own. Fanciful legends mixed with archaeological residue satisfy most visitors. Like sediments in archaeological mounds, or layers of writings in a palimpsest, history infuses order into madness. But there are deep, irreconcilable contradictions between historical testimonies and popular beliefs, cherished legends and scientific evidence. The seekers of proof are often frustrated, but must these contradictions always be solved? Does it matter that, despite all the hard work of dedicated archaeologists such as Eilat Mazar or Gabriel Barkay, the Arc of the Covenant and the Seal of the House of David were never unearthed?

2.

Political Fantasies

When Gali Tibbon photographed the placing of a scale model of the Temple in front of the Dome of the Rock (fig. 2), she captured a dangerous political fantasy that aims to guide the imagination of the passersby on their way to the Western Wall, who are meant to imagine that the tiny model will someday rise to the top of the mountain opposite and replace the actual building they see before them. In the Talmud, sages deliberated on a verse in the Canticle of Canticles, “Daughters of Jerusalem … Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires” (Cant 2:7). Jewish sages, past and present, have interpreted these wise words as a prohibition of a Jewish return to Jerusalem and specifically the restoration of the Temple before the return of the Messiah. But there is no rabbinical prohibition of imagination. Toy shops throughout Jerusalem sell models of the Third (future) Temple. The photograph of the placing of the model is a contemporary testimony to the messianic dreams of Jews in our times, but historical sources tell us that imagining the temple replacing the Dome of the Rock is nothing new. For example, the crusader knights who conquered Jerusalem in 1099 called the Dome of the Rock “Templum Domini” (“Lord’s Temple”), and the al-Aqsa Mosque “Templum Salomonis” (“Solomon’s Temple”). When crusader chronicler Ralph

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of Caen arrived in Jerusalem with his lord, the famous Norman knight Tancred, he described the latter standing high up on the Mount of Olives. From there, Tancred looked onto the city: He watched the scurrying people, the fortified towers, the roused garrison, the men rushing to arms, the women to tears, the priests turned to their prayers, the streets ringing with cries, crashing, clanging and neighing. He was amazed by the bronze dome of the temples of the Lord, at the unusual length of Solomon’s temple.3

And when the crusaders marched into what they perceived as the Temple, they saw the mihrab inside the southern mosque and in the Dome of the Rock. They must have seen the Qur’anic texts decorating the walls too. Yet in their minds, they were the new Maccabees called to purge the Temple. They set about eradicating Muslim (and Jewish) presence from Jerusalem and removing all signs of the Islamic faith. They purged the city with blood, and the horror was documented by chroniclers of the time. One of them, Raymond of Aguilers, wrote: What happened there [in the Temple of Solomon]? If I tell the truth, it will exceed your powers of belief. So let it suffice to say this much, at least, that in the Temple and porch of Solomon, men rode in blood up to their knees and bridle reins. Indeed, it was a just and splendid judgment of God that this place should be filled with the blood of the unbelievers, since it had suffered so long from their blasphemies. The city was filled with corpses and blood.4

The Muslim answer to the crusaders’ Holy War was “Jihad al-Quds”, a holy war for the holy city. At the court of the pious Muslim ruler Nu¯r al-Dı¯n, a poet named Muhammad Ibn al-Qaysara¯nı¯ (from Caesarea) composed a book entitled Afranjiat (Poems about the Franks) mainly castigating the Frankish Christians and praising those who took up arms against them. One poem of praise for Nu¯r al-Dı¯n is written in the form of Ra¯ ’iyyah (where every line ends with R) and with puns, vowels and a tone that amplifies the message of holy war. Its message is clear: al-Aqsa is the goal and the city will be purified only with blood.5 Nu¯r al-Dı¯n resided in Aleppo and did not live to see Jerusalem liberated. He nonetheless dedicated an exquisite minbar, a pulpit to the al-Aqsa Mosque, which Saladin later delivered to Jerusalem in 1187. It stood inside the al-Aqsa

3 Ralph of Caen, The “Gesta Tancredi”. A History of the Normans on the First Crusade, trans. B.S. Bachrach/D.S. Bachrach (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 129. 4 Raymond of Aguilers, The History of the Franks Who Captured Jerusalem (= Historia Francorum qui ceperint Jerusalem), in A.C. Krey (ed.), The First Crusade. The Accounts of EyeWitnesses and Participants (Merchantville, NJ: Evolution, 2012 [1921]), 317. 5 I am grateful to Nizar F. Hermes for his help seeking and translating al-Qaysara¯nı¯ and sharing his forthcoming article “The Poet(ry) of Frankish Enchantment. The Ifranjiyya¯t of Ibn Qaysara¯nı¯”, now published in Middle Eastern Literatures 20/3 (2017) 267–87.

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Fig. 2: A crane lowers a model of the second Jewish Temple on to a rooftop in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem’s Old City overlooking the Western Wall and the al-Aqsa Mosque compound also known as the Temple Mount or al-Haram al-Sharif; Jerusalem, 2009. Photo by Gali Tibbon. “The future Temple, that we anticipate, / Will descend from Heaven, / As alluded to by the verse” (Exod 15:17). / “The sanctuary, my Lord, that Your hand Established” (Rashi, on Tractate Sukkah, Talmud Bavli).

Mosque until destroyed through arson in 1969, with only a few beams of this masterpiece remaining in the adjacent museum.

3.

Layers of Memory. Transformations of Jerusalem Traditions Through Language and Place Names

Not many people know that the memory of the Temple was also kept in Muslim traditions for centuries. Jerusalem always had many names, but its most common name in the seventh century was Bayt al-Maqdis, “House of the Holy”, similar to, and derived from, the Hebrew Beit ha-Mikdash. For many centuries, Muslim lovers of Jerusalem spoke of memories from the days of the Temple. A literary genre known as Fada¯’il al-Quds (or “In Praise of Jerusalem”) expounded on ˙ biblical tales of the prophets and of King David and King Solomon, the mythical 6 kings of Jerusalem. The Arabic name we know today, “al-Quds” (“the Holy”), is 6 See O. Livne-Kafri, “The Muslim Traditions ‘in Praise of Jerusalem’ (Fada¯’il al-Quds). Di˙ versity and Complexity”, AION 58 (1998) 165–92.

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also old and has been in use since the tenth century in parallel to “Bayt alMaqdis”; not anymore. Visitors to the Haram al-Sharif today are handed explanatory pamphlets by the Waqf authorities, which provide information about the numerous sites but focus exclusively on the city’s Islamic history. The Jewish history of the temple is not mentioned anywhere. In a similar manner, Zionist textbooks overlook the Islamic history of the city. Such omission of historical eras reveals how much politics influence local memory. Jerusalem’s religious communities deny one another’s history and the legitimacy of the other’s claim to the city by telling only their own stories. However, this modern trend stands in stark contrast to the multi-religious, multi-cultural richness we find in medieval descriptions of the holy sites. Examples can be found in descriptions of the mosque by medieval Muslim geographers and historians, who included objects of Christian pilgrimage, such as Jesus’s cradle (today located in Marwan Mosque, the area known since crusader days as Solomon’s Stables), or sites of Jewish pilgrimage, for example the Gate of Mercy. The Persian traveler and poet Na¯sir-i Khusraw (1004–88), visiting the vaults of ˙ the Gate of Mercy in the year 1047, elaborates the importance of this location as a site of prayer and repentance: Going through these two doors, and facing east, you find to your right two doors, one called Gate of Mercy and the other Gate of Repentance. It is said that it was at these very doors that God accepted David’s repentance. On this spot is a beautiful mosque that was once a hall but has now been made into a mosque and decorated with all sorts of carpets … Men often go there to pray and seek communion with God. For the very reason that David’s repentance was accepted in that place all people are hopeful to be forgiven their sins as well.7

Above the Gate of Mercy was once a zawiyya lodge for Sufi pilgrims, named Ghaziliyyah after its most famous guest, Imam Abu¯ Ha¯mid al-Ghaza¯lı¯ (1058– ˙ 1111), mystic, philosopher and a leading theologian of Sunni Islam. In his memoirs, he recorded his moment of crisis: his tongue fell suddenly silent and he could no longer teach or preach, so he distributed his wealth, abandoned his comfortable life in Baghdad and travelled to Mecca, Damascus, Hebron and Jerusalem, where he would spend each day ensconced beneath the holy rock, purifying his soul.8 To free himself from the fetters of philosophy, al-Ghaza¯lı¯ would practise ascetic spiritual exercises in solitude: “I busied myself purifying my soul, improving my character and cleansing my heart for the constant

7 Na¯sir-i Khusraw, Book of Travels. Safarnamah, ed. and trans. W.M. Thackston (Costa Mesa, CA:˙ Mazda, 2001), 32–3. 8 Al-Ghaza¯lı¯, Deliverance from Error and the Beginning of Guidance, trans. W.M. Watt (Kuala Lumpur: Islamic Book Trust, 2005), 50.

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recollection of God most high, as I had learnt from my study of mysticism”.9 Repentance and mercy have been craved by pilgrims past and present. The names of the gates leading to the esplanade also testify to shared memory of the sites. The Arabic names preserve ancient Hebrew and Aramaic words, and with them popular traditions and tales of the Day of Judgement. The abovementioned gates are known in Arabic as Bab al-Rahmah (Hebrew “Rahamim”), and Bab al-Tawbah (Hebrew “Tshuva”), “Gates of Mercy” and “Repentance”. Bab al-Mutahhara (Hebrew “Taharah”) is the Gate of Purity and once led to the public baths. Bab al-Sakina, in Hebrew “Gate of Shekhinah”, is the Gate of the Glory of the Divine Presence. Readers of Arabic and Hebrew will identify the linguistic proximity of the gates’ names in Hebrew and Arabic: mercy, repentance and purity. Jerusalem, with its rich and diverse history, was a city of cultural exchange where traditions migrated from one community to another, were translated, evolved and were passed on to another community. This cultural wealth today stands at risk from purists and their apocalyptic visions of destruction.

4.

The Messages of the Dome of the Rock

In a short, beautifully written book about the Dome of the Rock, historian Oleg Grabar reminds us that “nearly everything one sees in this marvellous building, both inside and outside, was put there in the second half of the twentieth century”.10 Due to earthquakes, ageing materials and fading paint, the magnificent 1,300-year-old monuments known as the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque need repair. Grabar also advises us to look beyond the stunning decorations and artistic calligraphy and read the verses inscribed upon the walls. Along the octagonal building’s inner arcade, a seventh-century inscription runs for 240 meters in beautiful gold-lettered Kufic script against a dark blue background. The bismillah invocation to merciful Allah is repeated six times, opening each section. The long inscription proclaims that God is one, that He did not beget and was not begotten, and that Muhammad, like Jesus before him, is His messenger. These verses can also be found in the Qur’an. However, the inscriptions inside the Dome of the Rock predate the canonisation of the Qur’an. They “precede by over two centuries”, Oleg Grabar notes, “any other dated or datable quotation of any length from the Holy Book”.11 They make a remarkable 9 Ibid., 52. 10 O. Grabar, The Dome of the Rock (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 1. 11 Id., The Shape of the Holy. Early Islamic Jerusalem (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996), 62–4.

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proclamation in what, in the seventh century, was still a predominantly Christian city: O ye People of the Book, overstep not bounds in your religion; and of God speak only truth. The Messiah, Jesus, son of Mary, is only an apostle of God, and His Word which he conveyed into Mary, and a Spirit proceeding from Him. Believe therefore in God and his apostles, and say not “Three”. It will be better for you. God is only one God. Far be it from His glory that He should have a son.12

Other verses recount the Exodus from Egypt and the giving of the Torah. Others evoke Mariam (Mary), mother of Jesus, the only woman mentioned by name in the Qur’an. These verses were not intended for Muslim believers alone but also, and perhaps in particular, for Christians, and perhaps Jews, who lived in Jerusalem when the monuments were built. At the time of its construction, the Dome of the Rock played an important part in the intercultural debate and theological deliberations concerning the use of images and icons. Despite the Second Commandment’s injunction against making “any graven image”, Jerusalem’s churches were heavily decorated with icons. The question of what can and what cannot be represented visually and materially is part of a visual conflict among the three religions and within each one. Several decades after Muhammad’s introduction of Islam, the court of Byzantine Emperor Leo III debated the role of icons in Christian worship, which ended when the so-called iconoclastic emperor ordered the destruction of all icons in his empire. A ferocious storm of hatred for visual art wreaked havoc throughout churches. Icons were ripped out and desecrated or destroyed. In that period, Jerusalem was not part of the Byzantine Empire, and in the nearby desert of Sinai icons escaped destruction at St Catherine’s Monastery. Meanwhile, at the Laura of Mar Saba near Jerusalem, John of Damascus composed a defence of icon worship. Comparing icons to books, he wrote: “What the book does for those who understand letters, the image does for the illiterate, the word appeals to hearing, the image appeals to sight”.13

12 Surah 4:171. 13 St John of Damascus, Three Treatises on the Divine Images, trans. A. Louth (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2003), 31; Greek original: Jo. D. imag. I 17 (PG 94:1248).

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Conclusion

I sometimes think that the true “Jerusalem syndrome” is imagination itself. Not only are pilgrims afflicted by it, but so is everyone visiting and living in the city, including myself. As I walk the streets, texts and sight blur into each other. Before the days of the cinema, television and other media, imagination was largely based on literature. Hence, when others think of Jerusalem as a city of stone, for me it is city of the book, a city built on texts, poems, essays and prophecies; writings engraved in it, erased from it, rewritten in it, translated and travelling from one community to another, spilling from one religion into its rival, and from the city to the wider world. From this bibliophile world, I should like to draw an image of Jerusalem as a palimpsest – a city in the image of a book whose ink has faded and has been erased in order to make room for a new layer of text written on the same pages. The oldest libraries in Jerusalem hold many such palimpsests, reminding us of just how much Jerusalem rewrites itself. What would Jerusalem be without its books? Mahmoud Darwish once wrote: “In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls, I walk from one epoch to another without a memory to guide me”,14 as if he wished to remind us that imagination, fantasy and memory are the true foundation stones upon which the city is still standing.

14 M. Darwish, The Butterfly’s Burden. Poems, trans. F. Joudah (Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon, 2007), 211.

Silvia Ronchey

Destroying the Past. Monotheism, Iconoclasm and the Sacred

They run to the temples, bringing with them wood, and stones, and iron, and when they have not these, they use hands and feet. … The roofs are uncovered, walls are pulled down, statues are carried off, and altars are overturned. The priests must be silent upon pain of death. When they have destroyed one temple they run to another, and a third … . Those black-garbed people, who eat more than elephants … and hide their luxury by their pale artificial countenances … , they waste the countries together with the temples: for wherever they demolish the temple of a country, at the same time the country itself is blinded, declines, and dies. For the temples were the soul of the country, they have been the first original of the buildings in the country, and they have subsisted for many ages to this time. Wherever any country has lost its temples, that country is lost.

Words of Libanius, Oration 30 for the Temples (Pro templis), addressed to Emperor Theodosius in the fourth century.1 It all occurred as in the myths of the poets, when the Giants dominated the Earth: the religion of the temples of Alexandria and the sanctuary of Serapis itself were both dispersed on the winds, and not only the ceremonies, but the buildings themselves, under the reign of Theodosius”, when Theophilus, the bishop of the Christians, “reigned over these abominable beings like a sort of Eurymedon over the proud Giants. And those beings, raging against our sacred places like masons on rugged stone …, demolished the temple of Serapis … and made war on its treasures and its statues, shattering them like adversaries unable to defend themselves.

Words of Eunapius, Lives of the Sophists (Vitae sophistarum), on the destruction of the Serapeum of Alessandria in 392.2 In view of the fatwa of prominent Afghan scholars and the verdict of the Afghan Supreme Court, it has been decided to break down all statues and idols present in different parts of the country. This is because these statues have remained as a shrine of infidels and they are worshipping these statues still and perhaps they may be turned into 1 Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. A.F. Norman (Loeb Classical Library 451–2; 2 vol.; Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press/W. Heinemann, 1977), 2.91–152. 2 Life of Eustathius VI 11.3–5: Eunapius, Eunapii vitae sophistarum, ed. I. Giangrande (Scriptores Graeci et Latini 4; Roma: Typis Publicae Officinae Polygraphicae, 1956), 38–9.

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gods again. God Almighty is the real shrine, and all other false shrines should be smashed.

Words of the edict issued by Mullah Muhammad Omar on February 26, 2001,3 a few days before the beginning of the destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan, on March 1, 2001.4 The archicidium, the destruction of statues and temples that we are witnessing, is not new to history. It was already seen seventeen centuries ago when Christianity began to establish itself as a state religion. In some areas of the globe, curiously close to those in which the so-called Islamic State is rampaging at present, the young Christian Church attacked the symbols of the widespread Hellenic cult that had preceded it. You have heard the voices of the ancient witnesses. The voice of Libanius, a great Syrian intellectual from the fourth century, raised at the time when, in the reign of Theodosius, several pagan temples, some of them truly magnificent, were pulled down and destroyed by Christian monks both in the cities and in country places, with the consent and connivance, as Libanius stresses, of the local bishops.5 The voice of Eunapius, the biographer of the last pagans, described the destruction of the Serapeum of Alexandria in Egypt,6 the symbol of the pagan religious tradition, carried out – at the same time as the Theodosian decrees that

3 The text is published in F. Francioni/F. Lenzerini, “The Destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan and International Law”, EJIL 14/4 (2003) 619–51; see also P. Centlivres, Les Bouddhas d’Afghanistan (Lausanne: Favre, 2001), 14. 4 According to the press agencies, on Thursday, March 1, 2001, the demolition of the two ancient Buddha’s statues of Bamiyan began. The two statues – 53 and 36 meters high – had been standing in Bamiyan (about 90 miles west of Kabul) since they were carved in sandstone cliffs in the third and fifth century CE. As announced by Taliban Ambassador to Pakistan Abdul Salam Zaeef, the demolition of the statues was completed on March 6, 2001, despite the difficulties in demolishing the rock-hard statues faced by the Afghan troops. The minister announced that the destruction of the statues had been ordered after consultation with religious leaders such as the Taliban Islamic Supreme Court: Francioni/Lenzerini, “The Destruction of the Buddhas of Bamiyan”, 627; see D.C. Ahir, Bamiyan Buddhas. Senseless Destruction by Taliban (New Delhi: Blumoon Books, 2001), 38. 5 R. Van Loy, “Le ‘Pro Templis’ de Libanius”, Byzantion 8/1 (1933) 7–39; H.G. Nesselrath (ed.), Für Religionsfreiheit, Recht und Toleranz: Libanios’ Rede für den Erhalt der heidnischen Tempel (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011). 6 On the destruction of the Serapeum see also the version of Sozomenus, Historia ecclesiastica VII 15: Sozomenus, Kirchengeschichte, ed. G.C. Hansen/J. Bidez (GCS NF 4; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1960), 320–1; Rufinus, Historia ecclesiastica XI 23–9: E. Schwartz/T. Mommsen/F. Winkelmann (ed.), Eusebius Werke (9 vol.; Berlin/Boston: de Gruyter, 22011–15), II.2.1028–9 (see also on pp. II.2.1034–5); Socrates Scholasticus, Historia ecclesiastica V 16–17: Socrates Scholasticus, Kirchengeschichte, ed. G.C. Hansen (GCS NF 1; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995), 289–91.

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proclaimed Christianity the state religion7 – by the monks led by the patriarch Theophilus.8 These fundamentalist militants were called parabalans – a kind of Taliban, in a way.9 The Christian patriarch had ordered that the monumental statue of Serapis, the work of the ancient sculptor Bryaxis, should be decapitated with an axe.10 The escalation of violence would lead shortly afterwards, once more in the city of Alexandria, to the “terroristic” assassination of the famous philosopher Hypatia.11 The third text dates from fifteen centuries later, and I imagine that today’s readers know it well. The widespread opinion on the “iconoclastic” matrix of the destructions being carried out by ISIL today derives from the edict of Mullah Omar and from the subsequent proclamations issued to the media by the Afghan Taliban, suggesting that those destructions originate from the theological hostility of Islam towards images. Moreover, the mention of “false shrines” extends the iconoclastic matrix from what can be specifically described as “idols”, that is figurative expressions of the divinity, to entire sacred architectures, such as

7 The constitutions of Theodosius against the pagan cults of February and June 391 and November 392, that is the so-called Theodosian decrees, can be read in the Codex Theodosianus XVI 10.10 and XVI 10.11: Theodosiani libri XVI cum Constitutionibus Sirmondianis, ed. T. Mommsen/P.M. Meyer (2 vol.; Berlin: Weidmann, 1905), 1.899–900. That it was Theophilus who personally ordered the Theodosian decrees is reported by Socrates’s Historia ecclesiastica (ed. Hansen, 289–91) in his account of the destruction of the Serapeum. 8 The portrait of Theophilus is drawn by Edward Gibbon in Decline and Fall and occurs in the third volume (1781), Ch. XXVIII (see E. Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. D. Womersley [3 vol.; London: Penguin Classics, 1995], 3.82). It is anticipated by a Christian source, and from the monastic environment, like Palladius, who speaks reprovingly and disdainfully of him in The Dialogue on the Life of St John Chrysostom: Palladius, Dialogus de vita beati Ioannis Chrysostomi, ed. A.M. Malingrey/P. Leclerq (SC 341; Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 1988). 9 The origin of the term parabalaneus (παραβαλανεύς) is linked to the Greek βαλανεῖον, equivalent to the Latin balneum, “bath”. In the classical era, the balaneus (βαλανεύς) was the attendant who worked in the public baths, and was therefore already a kind of nurse. That in the fifth century the Alexandrian parabalani (παραβαλανεῖς) had the status of clergy is witnessed by the law that concerned them in Codex Theodosianus XVI 2.42 (September 416), De clericis, I (ed. Mommsen/Meyer, 850); see J. Rougé, “Les débuts de l’épiscopat de Cyrille d’Alexandrie et le code Théodosien”, in C. Mondésert (ed.), Alexandrina: héllénisme, judaïsme et christianisme à Alexandrie. Mélanges offerts au P. Claude Mondésert (Paris: Les éditions du Cerf, 1987) 341–9. 10 On the destruction of the statue, see Theodoret of Cyrus, Historia ecclesiastica V 22: Theodoret, Kirchengeschichte, ed. L. Parmentier/F. Scheidweiler (GCS NF 5; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1954), 321. 11 On Hypatia and her assassination, see S. Ronchey, Ipazia. La vera storia (Milano: Rizzoli, 2010); M. Dzielska, Hypatia of Alexandria (Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 1995); E.J. Watts, Hypatia. The Life and Legend of an Ancient Philosopher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017).

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Christian churches and monasteries or archaeological sites like Palmyra, whose tragic destruction began in the summer of 2015. To speak, on the other hand, of statues, an almost didactic illustration of the Taliban fatwa is the equally well-known destruction of more or less ancient statues that took place in February 2015 at the museum of Mosul, the ancient Nineveh. Are we really sure that the attack on the global cultural heritage that ISIL is carrying out today can be attributed to an iconoclastic matrix, that is, a fundamental hostility to the image intrinsic to the Islamic religion and theology? It might seem obvious. I shall briefly try to argue why it is not. What does the so-called religious iconoclasm really mean on historical, philosophical and theological grounds?12 Iconoclasm. Ει᾿κόνες, “images”; κλάω, “I break”: “breaking the image”, or “with the image”. Since the time of Greek thought, since Plato, the function of the image, of the ει᾿κών, was, in the sensible world that supported it, to give an approximate projection of the purely intelligible, of the world of ideas. In the myth of the cavern, at the end of the seventh book of the Republic, Plato explains that the sensible world is an ephemeral and imperfect image of the world of ideas, which is instead the true world. The only relationship between the two levels is that of the μίμησις, imitation.13 Plato therefore condemns figurative or “imitative” art because it detracts from ideas: it produces copies of copies, images of images, and for this reason possesses the lowest cognitive value. In the Christianisation of Platonic and Neoplatonic thinking14 there is an immediate awareness that the overworld – Plato’s hyperuranion, the heavenly 12 On religious iconoclasm, see H. Belting, Bild und Kult. Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst (München: Beck, 1990); A. Besançon, L’image interdite: une histoire intellectuelle de l’iconoclasme, (Paris: Fayard, 1994); M. Bettetini, Contro le immagini. Le radici dell’iconoclastia (Roma/Bari: Laterza, 2006), especially pp. 92–128; G. Lingua, L’icona, l’idolo e la guerra delle immagini. Questioni di teoria ed etica dell’immagine nel cristianesimo (Milano: Medusa, 2006); D. Freedberg, The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago/London: The University of Chicago Press, 1991), 378–428. 13 Plato, Res Publica VII 514b–520a: Plato, Œuvres complètes VI–VII/2. La République, ed. E. Chambry (3 vol.; Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1966), VII.1.145–53. 14 According to Plotinus, artists, while creating the art image, the “icon”, shall not “gaze upon any sensible model, but they should picture in their mind the divinity as it would appear if it were to show in front of our eyes [namely the artist should work according to the inner truth, which is a reflection of the intelligible reality]”: see Plotinus, Enneades V 8.1, cited in G. Dagron, Décrire et peindre. Essai sur le portrait iconique (Paris: Gallimard, 2007), 25; see also 244, n. 23. “Still the arts are not to be slighted on the ground that they create by imitation of natural objects; for, to begin with, these natural objects are themselves imitations; then, we must recognise that they give no bare reproduction of the thing seen but go back to the Ideas from which Nature itself derives, and, furthermore, that much of their work is all their own; they are holders of beauty and add where nature is lacking. Thus Pheidias wrought the Zeus upon no model among things of sense but by apprehending what form Zeus must take if he

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kingdom of Christ – cannot appear to the psyche nor, therefore, represent itself except as an approximation. There emerges a problem of irrepresentability: of the divine as of the idea. Apart from the Greek philosophical summits, aniconism was, needless to say, already part of Judaism. (It is not necessary to insist on this point here and now, since I expect that we are all sufficiently informed on the Bible and its polemic regarding idolatry.) From Judaism it passed to the “Judaic heresy” that grew during its first two centuries in the shadow of the synagogues: Christianity.15 The primitive Christian symbols are typically aniconic: the geometric figure of the fish, the even more abstract form of the cross.16 The primitive Christian literature and the action of the nascent church were dominated by the battle against idols. The apologists and later, from the second half of the third century, some of the best-known and most authoritative Fathers of the Church – such as Origen, but also Eusebius of Caesarea17 or Clement of Alexandria18 – deplored the cult of the ει᾿κόνες, generally standing to indicate statues. In Islam, the “question of the image” has never been as central as in Christianity.19 It has rather been Islamic tolerance towards images that has preserved masterpieces of Christian figurative art, for example the pre-icono-

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16 17 18 19

chose to become manifest to sight”: trans. S. MacKenna/B.S. Page, available at http://www. sacred-texts.com/cla/plotenn/enn478.htm (accessed January 18, 2019). For an overview of the studies on the worship of images in early Christianity see L. Brubaker, “Icons before Iconoclasm?”, in Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo (ed.), Morfologie sociali e culturali in Europa fra tarda antichità e alto medioevo (Settimane di Studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 45; Spoleto: CISAM, 1998) 1215–54. For an outline of the primitive Christian symbols see among others J. Danielou, Les symboles chrétiens primitifs (Paris: Seuil, 1961). See L. Canetti, “Costantino e l’immagine del Salvatore. Una prospettiva mnemostorica sull’aniconismo cristiano antico”, Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 13 (2009) 233–62, on p. 244. See A. Grabar, L’iconoclasme byzantin (Paris: Flammarion, 21998), 21. As the complex problem of Islamic aniconism has already been treated extensively by scholars in the fields of Islamic thought, culture, religion and art, it will not be necessary here to discuss the scientific literature on the topic. A recent, synthetic, well-documented and balanced overview with updated bibliographical references can be found in S. Naef, Y a-t-il une “question de l’image” en Islam? (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2015). On the relationship between primitive Jewish and Islamic aniconism and the distinction, in the two religions, between actual aniconism – namely the absence of representations of the divinity spread among western Semitic populations, like pre-Islamic Arabs – and programmatic Iconoclasm – namely the ideological superfetation of that cultural substratum that developed independently within the two religious traditions – see T. Mettingen, No Graven Image? Israelite Aniconism in its Ancient Near Eastern Context (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International, 1995). Mettingen’s work substantiates the thesis of von Grunebaum, an orientalist who rightly postulated the independence of Byzantine iconoclasm from any Islamic influence: G.E. von Grunebaum, Modern Islam. The Search for Cultural Identity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1962), 9–10.

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clastic icons in St Catherine’s Monastery of Mount Sinai. If it had not been for the Arab occupation, they would have been destroyed long ago.20 Moreover, it is well known that sacred images, according to certain rules, have been present throughout Islamic history, as witnessed for example by the rutilant portrayals of Muhammad’s nocturnal journey towards Jerusalem, of his ascension to heaven and his visit to paradise and to hell.21 The iconographic tradition of the Prophet has existed for eight centuries, as Oleg Grabar has shown,22 and in the literature of the hadith there is no prohibition to portraying either Muhammad or the other prophets,23 despite what was said at the start of 2006, during the so-called crisis of the caricatures.24 The experts had already at that time emphasised the prevalently social and political, not theological, nature of the problem: the caricatures of Muhammad affected less the sphere of representability and more that of blasphemy; and they came from countries, such as Denmark and France, with problematic Muslim immigration situations.25 The results were, unfortunately, evident at the start of 2015, with the martyrdom of Charlie Hebdo. However, let us return to the Byzantine world. The two traditions that we have mentioned – the Greek philosophical condemnation of the image and the JudeoChristian religious condemnation of the idol – converge when, from the fourth century, Christian theology is constructed within a substantially Platonic structure. From the primitive iconoclasm inherited from Judaism and motivated by

20 On the relationship, however controversial, between Islam and Christian doctrine see G.R.D. King, “Islam, Iconoclasm and the Declaration of Doctrine”, BSOAS 48/2 (1985) 267–77. 21 Naef, Y a-t-il une “question de l’image”, 52, 74. 22 See O. Grabar, The Formation of Islamic Art (New Haven, CT/London: Yale University Press, 1973), 84; an extraordinary exemplar of Muhammad’s nocturnal journey’s iconography is found in the Timurid manuscript (BNF Sup. Turc. 190: Anonymus, Mi‘rajnama) studied by C.J. Gruber, The Timurid Book of Ascension (Mi‘rajnama). A Study of Text and Image in a Pan-Asiatic Context (Valencia: Patrimonio Ediciones, 2008); see also C.J. Gruber/F. Colby (ed.), The Prophet’s Ascension. Cross-Cultural Encounters with the Islamic Mi‛ra¯j Tales (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2009); C.J. Gruber, The Ilkhanid Book of Ascension. A Persian-Sunni Devotional Tale (London/New York: I.B. Tauris Publishers, 2010). 23 For the position of the two theologians al-Farisi and al-Qurtubi on this matter see B. Farès, “Philosophie et jurisprudence illustrées par les Arabes. Appendice: La querelle des images en Islam”, in Mélanges Louis Massignon (2 vol.; Damascus: Institut Français de Damas, 1957), 2.77–109, especially on p. 100. 24 See Naef, Y a-t-il une “question de l’image”, 98–9. 25 Ibid., 99. On this see also F. Boespflug, Caricaturer Dieu? Pouvoirs et dangers de l’image (Paris: Bayard, 2006). Boespflug has shown how among the three monotheistic religions only Christianity, and only recently (since the nineteenth century), contemplates an ironic representation of God and the saints. Even more recent is the aetiology that claims that the crisis of caricatures goes back to Wahhabite righteousness, as this schismatic, peripheral and circumscribed religious tradition rejects every kind of image (including pictures).

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the battle against pagan cults – which was also common to Islam – we move on to a philosophical iconoclasm that derives from Plato. Christianity’s philosophy of reference was, and remained, Platonic until the so-called iconoclasm, the lengthy, complex and refined theological duel that would give rise in Byzantium, in the ninth century, to a new status of the image.26 The icon would no longer be comparable to the idol only if it was not intended to “describe” naturalistically the sacred figure but rather to represent it theologically27 and to create a system of spiritual correspondences with its super-substantial essence.28 Byzantine iconoclasm marked a turning point. Images were neither forbidden nor permitted. They changed. The icon became something else, which brings us straight into the twentieth century. The debate in the Byzantine eighth and ninth centuries opened the way for twentieth-century abstract art.29

26 For a historical approach to Byzantine iconoclasm see above all: Grabar, L’iconoclasme byzantin; P. Schreiner, “Der byzantinische Bilderstreit: kritische Analyse der zeitgenössischen Meinungen und das Urteil der Nachwelt bis heute”, in A. Guillou (ed.), Bisanzio, Roma e l’Italia nell’Alto Medioevo (Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 34; Spoleto: CISAM, 1988) 319–407, repr. in P. Schreiner, Byzantinische Kultur: eine Aufsatzsammlung (4 vol.; Roma: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2006–13), I. Die Macht, ed. S. Ronchey/E. Velkovska, 319–407; M.F. Auzépy, L’iconoclasme (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2006); L. Brubaker, Inventing Byzantine Iconoclasm (London: Bristol Classical Press, 2012); L. Brubaker/J. Haldon, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era, c. 680–850. A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015); C. Dupeux/P. Jezler/J. Wirth (ed.), Iconoclasme. Vie et mort de l’image médiévale. Catalogue de l’exposition (Musée d’Histoire de Berne; Musée de l’Oeuvre Notre-Dame, Musées de Strasbourg) (Paris: Somogy, 2001). 27 In the “hypostasis in which it is inscribed”, ἐγγραφομένου: Council of Nicaea II, Definitio de sacris imaginibus, DS 601; Greek text, with Italian translation, in E. Fogliadini, L’invenzione dell’immagine sacra. La legittimazione ecclesiale dell’icona al secondo concilio di Nicea (Milano: Jaca Book, 2015), 26. 28 According to John of Damascus, nor men, nor Celestial Virtues, nor the Cherubim, nor the Seraphim, can know God, for He is by nature beyond being and consequently beyond knowledge. His essence can be described only apophatically, by negations (ἀποφατικῶς), and what we say positively about God (καταφατικῶς) does not indicate his nature but “his attributes, what is around his nature” (τὰ περὶ τὴν φύσιν); see John of Damascus, Expositio fidei I 4, especially 32–5; Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos, ed. B. Kotter, (Patristische Texte und Studien 12; 2 vol.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1973), 2.13: “Ει᾿ γὰρ τῶν ὄντων αἱ γνώσεις, τὸ ὑπὲρ γνῶσιν πάντως καὶ ὑπὲρ οὐσίαν ἔσται, καὶ τὸ ἀνάπαλιν τὸ ὑπὲρ οὐσίαν καὶ ὑπὲρ γνῶσιν ἔσται. Ἄπειρον οὖν τὸ θεῖον καὶ ἀκατάληπτον, καὶ τοῦτο μόνον αὐτοῦ καταληπτόν, ἡ ἀπειρία καὶ ἡ ἀκαταληψία. Ὅσα δὲ λέγομεν ἐπὶ θεοῦ καταφατικῶς, οὐ τὴν φύσιν ἀλλὰ τὰ περὶ τὴν φύσιν δηλοῖ. Κἂν ἀγαθόν, κἂν δίκαιον, κἂν σοφόν, κἂν ὅ τι ἂν εἴπῃς, οὐ φύσιν λέγεις θεοῦ, ἀλλὰ τὰ περὶ τὴν φύσιν. Ει᾿σὶ δὲ καί τινα καταφατικῶς ἐπὶ θεοῦ λεγόμενα δύναμιν ὑπεροχικῆς ἀποφάσεως ἔχοντα, οἷον σκότος λέγοντες ἐπὶ θεοῦ οὐ σκότος νοοῦμεν, ἀλλ’ὅτι οὐκ ἔστι φῶς ἀλλ’ὑπὲρ τὸ φῶς”. 29 An original and interesting approach to the history of the aesthetic debate on the prohibition of images from Plato to Malevich can be found in Besançon, L’image interdite; see also M.-J. Mondzain, Image, icône, économie. Les sources byzantines de l’imaginaire contemporain (Paris: Seuil, 1996).

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The Russian theoreticians (Florensky, Troubetzkoy)30 would openly refer to the theology of the icon formulated at that time, on the basis of which abstract art, in Russia and later in France, would avowedly base itself “on the model of the icon painters” (Matisse).31 We can see this process particularly in the works of the Russian avant-garde painters, such as Kliment Redko,32 and, even more strikingly, in those of Kandinsky.33 Not only are the three monotheistic religions that have marked history and the thinking of the civilisation in which we have been immersed for more than two thousand years linked by the same aniconic imprint, but this aniconism has been the landfall of our aesthetic since the start of the Short Century: of contemporary art, of abstract art. Iconoclasm, the break with the image, has permeated a wide swath of our art: it has nothing to do with the war we are witnessing, which, instead, destroys art. The belligerent actions of the radical Islamic terrorists do not derive from an immanent doctrine of the Islamic religion but from the “political iconoclasm” which is proper to revolutionary actions, directed at the destruction of the symbols of the order they oppose – either bluntly political or political-ecclesiastic, as in the case of the Protestant reformers of sixteenth-century and seventeenth-century Europe. 30 P. Florensky, Ikonostas (1922), Bogoslovskie Trudy 1902–1909, IX (Moskva: Izdanie Moskovskoj Patriarchii, 1972) = Id., Le porte regali. Saggio sull’icona (1922), ed. E. Zolla (Milano: Adelphi, 1977); E.N. Troubetzkoy, Tri ocˇerka o russkoj ikone (1916) (Umozrenie v kraskach [1915], Dva mira v drevnerusskoj ikonopisi [1916] i Rossija v eë ikone [1917]) (Moskva: InfoArt 1991) = Id., Contemplazione nel colore. Tre studi sull’icona russa (1916), ed. P. Cazzola (Milano: La Casa di Matriona, 1977); see also L. Ouspensky/W. Lossky, Der Sinn der Ikonen (Bern: Urs Graf-Verlag, 1952). 31 As Georges Duthuit, the great connoisseur of Matisse, wrote, “On ne peut comprendre Matisse sans avoir abordé et assimilé l’art byzantin”: G. Duthuit, Le Feu des signes (Genève: Skira, 1962). Beside the fundamental references to recent critical texts mentioned by Dagron, Décrire et peindre, 252, n. 49, see also A. Chastel, L’Italie et Byzance, ed. C. Lorgues-Lapouge (Paris: Éditions de Fallois, 1999), 10–12, 15; see also D.S. Likhachov, Bozniknovenie russkoj literatury (Moskva/Leningrad: Izdatel’stvo Akademii Nauk, 1952) = D.S. Likhachov, Le radici dell’arte russa. Dal medioevo alle avanguardie, ed. E. Kostjukovicˇ (Milano: Bompiani, 2005). 32 Russian avant-garde focussed its research on the aesthetics and the idea of the icon. At the beginning of the second decade of the twentieth century, the icon became a trend in Russian intellectual circles as it was considered “an unveiled masterpiece, the expression of the greatest importance, a superior work of art, the most modern product of western art”: I. Foletti, “Tra classicismi e avanguardie: la ricezione dell’estetica bizantina in Francia e in Russia tra Otto e Novecento”, in V. Cantone/S. Pedone (ed.), Phantazontes. Visioni dell’arte bizantina (Padova: CLEUP, 2013) 175–255, especially on pp. 230–7; for the citation see 237, n. 136; see also Id., Da Bisanzio alla Santa Russia. Nikodim Kondakov (1844–1925) e la nascita della storia dell’arte in Russia (Roma: Viella, 2011), 121–4. 33 W. Kandinsky, Über das Geistige in der Kunst, insbesondere in der Malerei (München: Reinhard Piper, 1912); Id., Punkt und Linie zu Fläche, Beitrag zur Analyse der malerischen Elemente (München: Albert Langen, 1926).

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Endorsing the ideological claims of ISIL, which trace to Islamic iconoclasm their vandalism in destroying the “sacred” monuments of the past, is not only bad theology, it is also bad history: it is as historically dangerous as speaking of the “Middle Ages” when referring to the fundamentalist barbarities of the extreme fringes of contemporary Islam. Indeed, our dominant clichés feed on a “medieval” definition of the Islamic world, which means, alternatively, the civil, social and economic backwardness of its postcolonial history, or the brutality of the wars that we start in it. However, the medieval metaphor does not only come from the West. In 2001, a few days after 9/11, Osama bin Laden launched his historical appeal on Al Jazeera “against the American crusaders”, calling President George W. Bush “the biggest crusader under the flag of the Cross”. Since 2001, just as it has become a western stereotype to see Islam as “iconoclastic”, so it has become an Islamic stereotype to see the West as “crusaders”. Thus today it is the troops of ISIL who undertake in the eastern world the devastations that the Latin crusaders once carried out. I should like to add to the voices of the ancient witnesses you have heard – Libanius and Eunapius – a third voice: that of a Byzantine intellectual of the thirteenth century. The most massive and vandalising destruction of statues in the history of religious conflicts in Mediterranean civilisation cannot be attributed to Islam or to the Arabs, the Turks, the Wahhabi purists or even to the Protestant reformers of sixteenth-century and seventeenth-century Europe. It is due to the Catholic knights of the Fourth Crusade, who conquered Constantinople in 1204.34 A list of the statues destroyed during the crusaders’ occupation is provided by Nicetas Choniates, one of the many Byzantine intellectuals who saw the events first hand before fleeing from the barbarities of the “Latins”, saving their own cargo of culture. Nicetas gives a poignant description of the fall of Constantinople and in particular of the many ancient bronze statues on the Forum of Constantine and the Hippodrome, systematically destroyed, broken into pieces and melted down by the crusaders.35 What do the crusaders have to do with iconoclasm? Nothing at all. It was precisely the papal authority in Rome who was the first and greatest enemy of the iconoclastic doctrinal position of the Byzantines. In the same way, the archicidium about which we are so concerned has nothing to do with iconoclasm, but 34 On the Fourth Crusade see S. Runciman, A History of the Crusades (3 vol.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1951–4), 3.107–31; T.F. Madden/E.Q. Donald, The Fourth Crusade. The Conquest of Constantinople (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); J. Harris, Byzantium and the Crusades (London/New York: Hambledon Continuum, 2006), 145–62. 35 Nicetas Choniates, Nicetae Choniatae historia, ed. J.L. van Dieten (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975), 648–55.

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with the vandalising, brutal intention to eliminate not only archaeology but, quite literally, the past – for a military and political purpose, because, as George Orwell wrote in his novel Nineteen Eighty-Four, “Who controls the past … controls the future; who controls the present controls the past”.

Theology

Saverio Campanini 1

‫שאלו שלום ירושלם‬ Gershom Scholem from Zion to Jerusalem Das ist ja keine Lustreise, sondern ein Abschied vom Leben. T. Herzl, Altneuland

It might seem easy, at first sight, to follow the linear path which Gershom Scholem traced from Berlin, where he was born, to Jerusalem, as found in several documents and testimonies now in the public domain. From Berlin to Jerusalem is the title Scholem chose for his semi-autobiography, published in German (Von Berlin nach Jerusalem) in 1977,2 significantly enlarged in the Hebrew version (MiBerlin li-Yrushalayim), which appeared posthumously in 1982, edited by Abraham Shapira.3 In recent years, one witnesses a vast flow of new publications that, with unequal but convergent results, have tried to deconstruct the linear image of a path with no hesitation, no repentance and no deviation, which Scholem considered particularly congenial. In recent months, three monographs on this topic have appeared, from the appealing narrative of George Prochnik4 and the more classic account of David Biale5 to the reflection, in a rather philosophical vein, of Amir Engel,6 but many other very important essays have been published by Daniel Weidner,7 Jay Howard Geller,8 Gerold Necker, Elke Morlok and Martin

1 “Sha’alu Shelom Yerushalayim” (Ps 122:6). 2 G. Scholem, Von Berlin nach Jerusalem (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1977); English translation: From Berlin to Jerusalem. Memories of my Youth (New York: Schocken Books, 1980). 3 Id., Mi-Berlin li-Yrushalayim. Zikronot ne‘urim (Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 1982); Italian translation: Da Berlino a Gerusalemme. Ricordi giovanili (new expanded edn; Torino: Einaudi, 2004; reprint 2018). 4 G. Prochnik, Stranger in a Strange Land. Searching for Gershom Scholem and Jerusalem (New York: Other Press, 2017). 5 D. Biale, Gershom Scholem. Master of the Kabbalah (New Haven, CT/London: Yale University Press, 2018); cf. earlier Id., Gershom Scholem. Kabbalah and Counter-History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982). 6 A. Engel, Gershom Scholem. An Intellectual Biography (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2017). 7 D. Weidner, “Berlin und Jerusalem. Gershom Scholem, ‘Zion’ und Europa”, in Id. (ed.), Figuren des Europäischen. Kulturgeschichtliche Perspektiven (München: Fink, 2006) 57–78. 8 J.H. Geller, “From Berlin and Jerusalem. On the Germanness of Gershom Scholem”, JRH 35/2 (2011) 211–32.

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Morgenstern,9 and especially Noam Zadoff,10 who, recurring to a formula used for the first time by Yoram Bronowski, has reversed the itinerary Scholem chose, reducing the line to the circle, the other simple geometrical figure emerging from Scholem’s thought. The risk is, of course, the reductio ad circulum vitiosum, going back and forth from Berlin to Jerusalem, or, following Zadoff ’s (and Bronowski’s) original title, Mi-Berlin li-Yrushalayim u-ve-chazarah. As I have shown elsewhere,11 Scholem was fascinated by both the straight line and the circle. Not only in From Berlin to Jerusalem, but also in many other autobiographical statements, most of them dating from his mature years, such as “Mein Weg zur Kabbala” of 1974,12 Scholem the mathematician preferred the straight, simple line, but, at a closer look, this figure is often undermined, or enriched, by the concurrent figure of the circle. For instance, the aforementioned article “Mein Weg zur Kabbala” claims to be the description of an original path, but at the same time it contains an obvious allusion to the autobiographic booklet, penned in 1918 by Martin Buber, bearing the title Mein Weg zum Chassidismus.13 The straight line is combined with the circle in Scholem’s extraordinary passion for birthdays, anniversaries, especially the round ones, as I was able to show concerning his Sabbatian studies,14 so that one can say that his fascination for circle and line are found even in his scholarly work, for example in the essay, presented at the Eranos conference, “Tradition und Neuschöpfung im Ritus der Kabbalisten” (“Tradition and New Creation in the Rite of the Kabbalists”),15 concerning the solution of the apparent contradiction between the linear symbol of the chain and the concentric, therefore circular, symbol of the nut.16 The suggested solution, as was to be expected, assumes the form of a spiral, thus combining reiteration and progress. There is, nevertheless, yet another type of 9 G. Necker/E. Morlok/M. Morgenstern (ed.), Gershom Scholem in Deutschland. Zwischen Seelenverwandtschaft und Sprachlosigkeit (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). 10 N. Zadoff, Mi-Berlin li-Yrushalayim u-ve-chazarah. Gershom Scholem ben Yisrael we-Germania (Jerusalem: Carmel, 2015); cf. now the English abbreviated version Gershom Scholem. From Berlin to Jerusalem and Back (Waltham, MA: Brandeis University Press, 2017). 11 S. Campanini, “Da Giacobbe ai giacobini”, in G. Scholem, Le tre vite di Moses Dobrushka, ed. S. Campanini (Milano: Adelphi, 2014) 159–231. 12 G. Scholem, “Mein Weg zur Kabbala”, Süddeutsche Zeitung, July 22–23, 1974, 7, and Id., “Mein Weg zur Kabbala”, Mitteilungsblatt. Wochenzeitung des Irgun Olej Merkas Europa 42/36–7 (1974) 12–13; English translation: “How I came to the Kabbalah”, Commentary 69/5 (1980) 39–53. 13 M. Buber, Mein Weg zum Chassidismus. Erinnerungen (Frankfurt a.M.: Rütten und Loening, 1918). 14 Campanini, “Da Giacobbe ai giacobini”. 15 G. Scholem, “Tradition und Neuschöpfung im Ritus der Kabbalisten”, ErJb 19 (1951) 121–80; reprinted in Id., Zur Kabbala und ihrer Symbolik (Zürich: Rhein Verlag, 1960), 159–208. 16 See S. Campanini, “Haophan betoc haophan. Sulla struttura simbolica del De harmonia mundi di Francesco Zorzi”, Materia Giudaica 3 (1997) 13–17.

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line which fascinated Scholem and is placed at the core of many of his most productive intuitions, making it possible to overcome the impasse between circle and line or rather to exalt their dialectic productivity. I am referring to the boundary line17 or, to put it geometrically, the tangent to the circle, the infinitesimal point where the straight and the circle touch or coincide. What I should like to show here is that it would be far from difficult, upon examining Scholem’s relationship with Jerusalem, to find the traces of the straight line, as he himself has suggested, or to travel in the reverse direction, as Zadoff has brilliantly shown, since it would be easy to find the figure of the circle in the constant cycles of delusion-disillusion which characterised Scholem’s relationship with Jerusalem no less than that of many other major exponents of the Zionist movement. I shall briefly offer some examples of each of these figures, but focus in greater detail on the tangent to the circle in order to offer, one hopes, a fresh approach to the topic of Scholem and Jerusalem. For the young Scholem, as for many Zionists of his generation, Jerusalem is defined as “new”, yet not always identified with the mythical Zion, the ideal goal of the journey of regeneration at the core of the Zionist project; in very first pages of his diaries, Gerhard Scholem, at the age of sixteen, already depicts in elated words the vision of the “new Jerusalem” contemplated “from the hills of nostalgia”.18 Scholem has no doubts: a new people will inhabit it, and a new God will be found there. From these juvenile dreams almost ten years would pass, during which the Great War and his academic training took place, before Scholem effected the journey to Jerusalem, in September 1923. These were years spent maturing, but the mythical image, the pole in opposition to everything Scholem rejected of the world in which he was born and grew up, the assimilated Judaism, the doubtful values of the European bourgeoisie still accompanied him as the symbol of the Orient, the exact contrary to the world he was ideally and physically abandoning. Jerusalem is a perfect symbol, as long as it is transfigured by Sehnsucht, romantic nostalgia. The diaries proclaim that nothing compares to the biblical passages concerning Jerusalem, measured according to the Sehnsucht they contain. The Bible offers him the slogans for his Zionist dream. On November 17, 1914, he notes that, although he could read and briefly review one book a day, he always goes back to the Bible, particularly to certain passages, 17 On the topic of the boundary in Scholem, see I. Wohlfahrt, “‘Haarscharf an der Grenze zwischen Religion und Nihilismus’. Zum Begriff des Zimzum bei Gershom Scholem”, in P. Schäfer/G. Smith (ed.), Gershom Scholem. Zwischen den Disziplinen (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1995) 176–256; S. Campanini, “Lo scudo di Scholem e altre costellazioni”, in G. Scholem, La stella di David. Storia di un simbolo, ed. S. Campanini/E. Zevi (Firenze: La Giuntina, 2013) 5–61. 18 G. Scholem, Tagebücher nebst Aufsätzen und Entwürfen bis 1923, ed. K. Gründer/F. Niewöhner (2 vol.; Frankfurt a.M.: Jüdischer Verlag, 1995–2000), 1.63.

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citing one of them in extenso, also as an exercise in Hebrew, from the DeuteroIsaiah (a designation influenced by his reading of Wellhausen and Dalman, which he considered “dangerous”), showing the pure traits of subjective religiosity still completely under the spell of Martin Buber: ‫ִכי ִה ְנ ִני בו ֵרא ָשַמ ִִים ַח ָדִשים ָוָא ֶרץ ֲח ָדָשה ְוׄלא ִת ְזַכ ְר ָנה ָה ִראשונות ְולא ַתַעֶלי ָנה ַעל ֵלב ִכי ִאם ִשישו ו ִגילו‬ 19 ‫ֲע ֵדי ַעד ֲאֶשר ֲא ִני בו ֵרא ִכי ִה ְנ ִני בו ֵרא ֶאת ְירוָשַלִם ִגיָלה ְוַעָמה ָמשוֹש‬

It is curious to note that in 1914 Scholem is willing to name other books along the Bible as crucial to his ideal library: one might be surprised to learn that these are the Chinese classic Tao Te Ching and, even more surprising, Nietzsche’s Zarathustra.20 If one were searching for a confirmation of Scholem’s juvenile Buberianism, one would find in this “chart” one of its clearest testimonies. The maturing process I was referring to should be seen as a long process of liberation from Buberian influence, a certain floreal and inconsistent Zionism, towards the realisation of the hardship involved in reconstructing a Jewish identity seriously compromised by modernity and mortally endangered by the sirens of chauvinistic nationalism. It was also, but here I can only allude to that process, a long farewell ceremony to messianism, first of the naive dream of being himself the Messiah and then in the growing persuasion, which also becomes a construction, of a possible Zionism without messianic overtones. In 1916, while he was studying mathematics, he started thinking about other symbolic cities: Athens, capital of the philosophers, seemed to him small and insignificant when compared to Göttingen, the Mecca of mathematics, and on July 24 he notes, in a playful mood, that he will establish in Jaffa (not in Jerusalem since, as he writes, everything pales when compared to Zion) a temple dedicated to the cult of his personal demi-gods: every day there will be alternate sacrifices in honor of Plato and Gauss, once a month to Pascal, Newton, Leibniz and Kepler, whereas Husserl will receive his hommage every ten days. Everyone else will have to make do with a simple mention in a book, still to be written, bearing the title Jerusalem der denkenden Menschheit oder der Größenmaßstab in der Westentasche (Jerusalem of thinking humankind or the tape-measure in one’s jacket pocket).21 In actual fact, the only book Scholem wrote with the name Jerusalem in the title was to be his autobiography, whereas its Hebrew version was being prepared for print when Scholem, who was in Berlin, fell ill and in order to avert 19 Isa 65:17–18: “For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind. But be ye glad and rejoice for ever in that which I create: for, behold, I create Jerusalem a rejoicing, and her people a joy”. Cf. Scholem, Tagebücher, 1.51. 20 Cf. B. Lazier, “Writing the Judenzarathustra. Gershom Scholem’s Response to Modernity, 1913–1917”, NGC 85 (2002) 33–65. 21 Scholem, Tagebücher, 1.340–1.

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the risk of passing away in the town of his birth – a bitter irony for somebody who had chosen the path of departing from Berlin as his motto – hurriedly flew back to Jerusalem, hoping that precisely “Yerushalayim” would be his last word. Bearing in mind that he did not live to see his autobiography printed in Hebrew, one can say that his last title was rather “between” Berlin and Jerusalem, in a dialectic tension which forms the exact diagram of his intellectual and material life. What frightened the young Scholem most was precisely the perspective of “dying in the desert”, already out of Egypt but not yet in the promised land. In a moment of enthusiasm, the diarist becomes prophet22 recalling the testamentary disposition of Theodor Herzl (already voiced during the Zionist Congress held in London in 1900, although Herzl referred to the Carmel cemetery), the engagement of the Zionist movement to transfer the mortal remains of the founder, who died in 1904, from the Döbling cemetery in Vienna to Zion, as eventually happened, thirty-five years later, in 1949, when Herzl’s body was placed to rest on the mount that bears his name. I recall here the mention of Herzl’s grave since, as Barbara Honigmann has recalled,23 Scholem also has a double grave (doppeltes Grab), one in Weissensee, Berlin, where his parents are buried – which is actually a cenotaphium, as it is for his brother Werner, murdered in Buchenwald in 1941 –, and the real one, in the cemetery of Sanhedria, beside his second wife, Fania. Shortly before his expatriation, as he recalled many years later, his mother accompanied him to a shop specialising in colonial ware, tropical clothing and equipment for exotic trips24 in order to buy a mosquito net, which proved very useful, an eloquent symbol of the impact with reality, already revealing itself before entering the promised land. The awakening, or rather the shock, provoked by the harsh reality of Jerusalem at the beginning of the British Mandate, where Scholem arrived full of dreams, did not take long to make itself felt. Somehow the idyll gradually faded away and was completely dispelled before 1926. In 1924, Scholem already published in the journal directed by Buber Der Jude,25 under the pseudonym Geshem (meaning “rain” and standing for G. Sch[ol]em), the German translation of a passage from a letter (by Abraham Kalisker) found at the end of the Peri ha-aretz by Mendel of Vitebsk, where, among other things, one reads: Not a day nor two and not even a month or a year will suffice, it will take several years before one will enter true life … Whoever comes here and brings his knowledge with 22 23 24 25

Ibid., 1.37. B. Honigmann, Roman von einem Kinde (Darmstadt: Luchterhand, 1986). Scholem, Mi-Berlin li-Yrushalayim, 192. Geshem [= G. Scholem], “R. Mendel von Witebsk: Hachschara”, Der Jude 8 (1924) 147–8. Cf. S. Campanini, “Den Quatsch Lesen. Gershom Scholem’s Kabbalistic Library in 1923”, Kabbalah 40 (2018) 267–86. In 1936 Scholem published the passage once again, this time attributing it correctly to Abraham Kalisker and not to Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk.

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him will drown … What was is no more, and whoever wants to come to the Holy Land should examine himself lest he might lose the little he has.26

The doubts Scholem was already nourishing found full expression in the famous letter he wrote to Franz Rosenzweig, one of the most respectable critics of the Zionist enterprise since, in Scholem’s words, he had recognised that the Zionists wanted to “be happy”. First and foremost, and even more radically than in the political sphere, his doubts found the form of a confession which was also a prophecy on the Hebrew language and the risks connected to its secularisation. Slogans, such as “the Land is a Volcano”, “Woe to our children” or the Hebrew language defined as a “ghostly Volapück”, characterise this unsettling text, rediscovered by Stéphane Mosès27 and on which even Jacques Derrida commented.28 The short, ineffective period of political engagement with the Berith Shalom club and its journal She‘ifotenu (“our efforts”), in favour of a bi-national solution to the Arab question, is a sign of a political consciousness which was largely missing in the talkative and mystical Zionism he knew from Germany and denotes the awareness of the consequences that were to be expected for the moral constitution of the Yishuv in the absence of a solution. The darkest period in Scholem’s Palestinian years coincides with the 1930s: on a personal level, with the divorce from Escha, as well as on the political scene, with the increasing destabilisation of the climate, the tragic Arab riots and the publication of the White Paper. In these years Scholem voices, albeit only in private documents,29 his bitter disappointment at the utter failure of the Zionist project as he had imagined it. All he could do was to formulate, as he did in a well-known letter to Walter Benjamin, a programme of resistance to an impossible life: My life here is only possible … because I feel devoted to this cause even if in the face of despair and ruination. Otherwise, the suspect nature of a renewal that tends to manifest itself mostly as hubris and linguistic decay would have torn me apart long ago.30

In 1939, Scholem wrote to Benjamin that, whereas socialism would perhaps be able to recover after the terrible defeat it was experiencing at the time, the future of Judaism was doomed because the human, somatic substance, in his words, 26 Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk, Peri ha-aretz (Königsberg 1857), 34r–v. 27 G. Scholem, “Une lettre inédite à Franz Rosenzweig. À propos de notre langue. Une confession”, ed. S. Mosès, ASSR 60/1 (1985) 83–4. 28 J. Derrida, Les yeux de la langue (Paris: L’Herne, 2005). Cf. also E. Lucca, “‘Sull’orlo dell’abisso’: Scholem e Rosenzweig sulla lingua ebraica”, Rivista di storia della filosofia 2 (2013) 305–20. 29 F. Niewöhner, “Im Brennpunkt der Historie. Selbstkritik des Zionismus. Gershom Scholems esoterische Aufzeichnungen der Jahre 1930–31”, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, October 29, 1997. 30 G. Scholem (ed.), The Correspondence of Walter Benjamin and Gershom Scholem 1932–1940, trans. G. Smith/A. LeFevere (New York: Schocken Books, 1989), 66.

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would cease to exist, precluding any possible reconstruction, and, as for Palestine, the revisionists with their nationalist dreams and their inclination to violence “are too numerous to continue to be considered simply crazy”. “I am ashamed” – he notes – and therefore “I can only keep silent”.31 After his darkest nightmares had become reality, Scholem was entrusted with the inventory of immense deposits of ghost Jewish libraries, after their owner had been murdered, in order to try to save the written words of the violently silenced European Jews. After the State of Israel had been proclaimed and during the war that immediately ensued, Scholem wrote a poem, bearing the title Jerusalem, inhabited by a paradoxical “desperate hope”: after the first armistice the town appeared to him impoverished, exiled from its throne, desolate and naked (“Arm entthront und kahl in ihrer Blöße”). These words evoke, of course, the topos of Lamentations, but precisely because of this desolation, the fact that the glory of the city is offuscated, its vigour bled, its beauty dissipated, Jerusalem becomes once again a mystical city (where the bells of the Christian monasteries toll, appropriate and extraneous at the same time), since it is in the process of freeing itself from the present (“beginnt / von der Gegenwart sich abzulösen”), and can return to its past condition: mere remembrance of a long-lost greatness, pure expectation of the last day (“nur Erinnerung an alte Größe / und ein Warten auf den letzten Tag”).32 As has been remarked, the fundamental tone of Scholem the poet is melancholy, the bitter irony that he deduces as a necessity not only from defeat but also from untimely victory, as the apparent triumphs of early Zionism before the war seemed to him. To be a Zionist in Zion, as he learnt at his own expense, means to keep utopia alive exactly where its realisation negates it radically. It is not only about the “price of Messianism”, which Scholem taught others to calculate, but also the price of the “messianic sacrifice”, which induced Rosenzweig to define the young Scholem a “Jewish ascete”, fascinated by the impossible, and elicited the sympathy of Franz Kafka (in a letter to Felice Bauer) for his juvenile radicalism, raising the stakes in order to keep utopia alive. Now, if the realisation of the utopian dream ends in a bitter awakening, how could one preserve hope, how would it be possible to inhabit the tangent to the circle? In Scholem’s life there are, I am persuaded, several traces of this exercise of metaphysical acrobatics. Here consists the most ethereal but also the most certain legacy of his dwelling of Jerusalem. I shall try in the following to draw a sketch of its most salient traits. 31 Id., A Life in Letters, 1914–1982, ed. and trans. A.D. Skinner (Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 2002), 302. 32 Id., Greetings from Angelus. Poems, trans. R. Sieburth (New York: Archipelago Books, 2017), 88–9.

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In recent years, especially in the studies concerning Walter Benjamin,33 in the field of urban studies in particular,34 one witnesses a blossoming of researches aimed at tracing on the map the peregrinations of a nomadic figure such as Benjamin all over Europe, or just within the walls of Paris, where he lived, changing his address almost a dozen times in six years, almost trying to divine from the nervous diagram of his moves some kind of fatal constellation. Scholem’s case is rather different: he lived in Jerusalem for almost sixty years and changed his address only four times. From September to November 1923, Scholem lived in Ha-Solel Road (later renamed Ha-Chavatzelet), at Shemuel Hugo Bergman’s house, paying his rent to Dr Abu-Jedid. On December 5, 1923, Scholem married his fiancée Escha Burchhardt and moved to 139 Abyssinia Road (Rechov Ha-Chabashim, now renamed Ethiopia), to a house owned by the Arab family Budeiri, not far from the building of B’nay B’rith, then holding the Jewish National Library, close to the Meah She‘arim neighbourhood. Recalling this early accomodation, Scholem wrote: “My place of work was up there, my playground was down here”, alluding to the many antiquarian bookshops in the religious neighbourhood. In 1933, together with Bergman, he built a house consisting of two units in Rechov Ramban 51, in the heart of Rechavia. His stay there was shortlived since in 1937, after his divorce from Escha, who eventually married none other than Bergman, he moved to the Cohen pension, in Rechov Abravanel 29. He lived there, with his second wife, Fania, even after the pension was closed and the apartment sold, to his very last day. If one looks at these four locations on a map of Jerusalem, one can see that they are all fairly close to one another and also to Scholem’s two places of work, the aforementioned Jewish National Library and the university, then (from 1948 to 1967) in the building known as Terra Santa. If one inquiries about the meaning of the expression “to dwell” in a town like Jerusalem, the dwelling place of God’s presence, one has to pay special attention to the details, since God, according to a dictum attributed by Scholem to Aby Warburg, dwells (wohnt) in them.35 There is indeed a detail which has escaped, if I am not mistaken, detection: on numerous occasions, in documents produced by Scholem himself or stemming from his intimate circle, the roofs are mentioned or play an important role. Sometimes they are evoked in an indirect way: upon 33 Cf. W. van Reijen/H. van Doorn, Aufenthalte und Passagen. Leben und Werk Walter Benjamins. Eine Chronik (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 2001); W. Benjamin, “…Wie überall hin die Leute verstreut sind…”. Das Adressbuch des Exils 1933–1940, ed. C. Fischer-Defoy (Leipzig: Koehler & Amelang, 2006), for a critical review of which see S. Campanini, “Parva Scholemiana III”, Materia Giudaica 13 (2008) 355–75; W. Benjamin, Über Städte und Architekturen, ed. D. Schöttker (Berlin: DOM Publishers, 2017). 34 A.C. Gaeta, “Walter Benjamin’s Dwellings”, IJHSS 3/19 (2013) 51–9. 35 S. Campanini, “Parva Scholemiana I. Rassegna di bibliografia”, Materia Giudaica 10/2 (2005) 395–412.

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describing his first house in Abyssinia Road, Scholem shows his surprise in observing that the walls were 1.20 metres thick.36 The reason for this particular building technique resides not only in isolating the interior from the cold in winter and from the scorching heat in summer, but is to be sought in the roof: traditional Jerusalemite houses did not have sloping roofs, but the typical cupoles, which Mark Twain in The Innocents Abroad described as a “inverted saucers”.37 This shape is due to the chronic lack of timber for construction and, in order to sustain these cuspidated, accessible roofs, it was necessary to strongly reinforce the walls.38 The first explicit mention of the roofs of Jerusalem is found in a letter from Scholem’s mother Betty who, after the Jericho earthquake of July 1927, answered her son’s report on the aftershocks of the earthquake, which were felt particularly on February 22, 1928.39 Betty wrote, on the following March 9: “These endless quakes scare me deeply. It must be terrible, some day the roof will fall on your heads”.40 This is, of course, nothing but a joke, suitable for illustrating the lively style of Scholem’s mother. The passages concerning the walkable roofs of Jerusalem are of a different nature and, if my impression is correct, they are all charged with a powerful symbolic energy. We have referred to Scholem’s first wedding, celebrated on December 5, 1923 (Scholem’s birthday). As Scholem recalls, the chuppah was installed “on the roof of the school for teachers of the Mizrachi movement”,41 built only two years earlier and now called Lifschitz College. By examining texts carefully, it is not difficult to detect many occurrences of the roofs, always strategically placed, in other passages from Scholem’s pen. In a letter to Benjamin in June 1936, at the height of the Arab riots, he writes: Almost all people, that is especially students, are drafted, so to speak privately, for the defence from open attacks which are possible (and have been attempted) at any time. If the situation remains the same I will have to adapt myself and mount watch, looking at the landscape from the top of a roof for some hours at night. I write this in order to explain to you the bitter atmosphere we are breathing at present.42

36 Scholem, From Berlin to Jerusalem, 167. 37 M. Twain, The Innocents Abroad (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1872), 399. 38 A.E. Millgram, Jerusalem Curiosities (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1990), 76–8. 39 Cf. N. Shalem, “Il recente terremoto in Palestina (luglio 1927)”, Bollettino della Società Sismologica Italiana 27 (1927) 3–17. 40 “… diese ewigen Erdbeben erschrecken mich sehr. Das muß doch furchtbar sein, eines Tages fällt Euch noch das Dach auf ’n Kopp!”: B. Scholem/G. Scholem, Mutter und Sohn im Briefwechsel 1917–1946, ed. I. Shedletzky/T. Sparr (München: Beck, 1989), 158. 41 Scholem, Mi-Berlin li-Yrushalayim, 202. 42 W. Benjamin/G. Scholem, Briefwechsel 1933–1940, ed. G. Scholem (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1980), 220.

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On August 26, the perspective has become real and again Scholem writes to Benjamin, who is in Denmark at Brecht’s house: For three months we have been living in a beleaguered Jerusalem, every evening we hear more or less intense shootings and from time to time we have to spend some hours mounting watch on some “strategic” roof at the edge of the neighbourhood. Meanwhile we wait patiently for the latest news.43

Again twelve years later, during the war of independence, Scholem, by then over fifty years old, was once more on the roofs, as he writes to his former pupil Morton Smith,44 in order to defend the Catholic Dormition Abbey, occupied at that time by the Jews (it would later belong to the sector occupied by the Jordanians until the Six-Day War, whereas the Israelis were in control of the site of the so-called Tomb of David; on the roof of that building, also containing what the Christians venerate as the Cenacle, Israelis queued up in order to see the roofs of the Old City of Jerusalem and the Temple Mount). Even the roof of Scholem’s house became an inhabited space, both by human beings and by literary ghosts. In 1949, Scholem stayed for a year in the United States of America and let his house to the future Nobel Prize winner, Shmuel Yosef Agnon. In a letter from Chicago, Scholem asked Agnon how he was feeling in his home. Agnon, in his unmistakable style, answered that he was doing fine. At first he had chosen Fania’s room, since the rest of the house was flooded (probably meaning damp), with the exception of the library, showing some humanity in his ferocious irony. As a consequence he caught a cold, but what preoccupied him most were the great noises which he could hear at night and did not permit him to sleep, scaring him to death. He had even thought that the roof was haunted by a demon, God forbid, but in the end it turned out that a noisy girl was there, living just under the roof. He writes: My fears were unjustified, but I have abandoned any hope of being able to sleep. As soon as the rain ceased, I moved to the kitchen. If one excludes the conversations of the neighbours and the nightmares stealing all my sleep, everything is just fine.45

43 Ibid., 224. 44 G. Scholem, Briefe 1914–1982, ed. I. Shedletzky/T. Sparr (3 vol.; München: Beck, 1994–9), 2.9. The letter has been printed also in G. Scholem/M. Smith, Correspondence 1945–1982, ed. G.G. Stroumsa (Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008), 10; on the latter, see S. Campanini, “A proposito di un carteggio recente. Saggio bibliografico”, Materia Giudaica 13 (2008) 397–405. 45 ,‫ חות מחדר הספרים‬,‫ ששאר כל החדרים‬,'‫ בתחילה דרתי בחדרה של פניה תחי‬.‫אני דר בדירתכם ונחנה ושמח‬ ‫ ובלילה היו רשעים גדולים למעלה מראשי עד שמתייראתי ונפחדתי שמא‬.‫ ואני מצונן הייתי‬.‫היו שותתים מים‬ ‫ אלא צריך אני‬,‫ לאחר ימים נתגלה שבחורה רשענית שרויה שם ואין לי להתיירא‬.‫ח''ו שד שרוי למעלה‬ .‫ משפסקו הגשמים והתחילו החדרים מתייבשים קבעתי את משכבי בחדר האוכל‬.‫להתייאש מן השינה‬ ‫מלבדשיחות שכנים וחלומות רעים שמערבבים שנתי הכל טוב ויפה‬ Cf. D. Laor, Chayye ‘Agnon (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1998), 422.

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The funny episode would non deserve to be mentioned here if it had not also extended its effects, besides to the quality of the sleep of the great writer, to his literary fantasy, as Dan Laor has noted in his biography of Agnon. It is not by chance that in the moving and mysterious short story that Agnon wrote during these tormented days, Ido and Inam,46 in which critics have always identified the character of Prof. Ginat, living as a guest of Gerhard Greiffenbach, in Gershom Scholem, the tragic epilogue sees the enigmatic girl named Gemulah (“reward”) sleepwalking and climbing the roof only to fall off, together with Ginat, to a terrible death on the ground. The idea of searching the roof as a living space, as the privileged dimension for Scholem’s relationship with Jerusalem, had been the object of the intuition, through ways that are inaccessible to me, by one of Scholem’s most controversial friends, Mircea Eliade. On the occasion of his seventieth birthday, his colleagues and pupils Ephraim Urbach, Chaim Wirszubski and Raphael Zwi Werblowsky, edited a Festschrift in his honor and asked Eliade to contribute. The latter prepared his homage by seeking in his past an old idea, which had already been suggested to him in 1938 by Ananda Coomaraswamy, who had written on the symbolism of the house in Indian Buddhism.47 Eliade had already reviewed the key concepts and the symbolic interpretation of that vision in two books of his, The Sacred and the Prophane and Myths, Dreams, Mysteries, both published, the first in German48 and the second in French,49 in 1957. Nevertheless, it was only in 1967 that Eliade wrote, to honour Scholem, an entire article on the symbolism, often mentioned in Buddhist classics and attributed to the arhats, venerable illuminated, of the gesture of breaking the roof of the house, providing the title of his contribution50 and, later on, in 1986, the title of a fortunate collection of essays.51 According to Eliade’s reading, to break the roof of the house means annihilating the cosmos in which one has chosen to live in order to reach heaven’s door. What can be, therefore, the meaning of inhabiting the roof of the house (where sometimes the reward wanders at night)? What is the meaning of the roof in Jewish tradition? The roof is, of course, the summit and the fulfillment, as 46 S.Y. Agnon, Iddo we-‘Inam (Jerusalem: Schocken, 1950). 47 A.K. Coomaraswamy, “Symbolism of the Dome”, IHQ 14 (1938) 1–56. 48 M. Eliade, Das Heilige und das Prophane. Vom Wesen des Religiösen (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1957); English translation: The Sacred and the Profane (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1959). 49 Id., Mythes, rêves et mystères (Paris: Gallimard, 1957); English translation: Myths, Dreams, Mysteries (New York: Harper & Row, 1967). 50 Id., “‘Briser le toit de la maison’. Symbolisme architectonique et physiologie subtile”, in E.E. Urbach/R.J. Zwi Werblowsky/C. Wirszubski (ed.), Studies in Mysticism and Religion. Festschrift in Honour of G. Scholem (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1967) 131–9. 51 Id., Briser le toit de la maison (Paris: Gallimard, 1986); Italian translation: Spezzare il tetto della casa (Milano: Jaca Book, 1988).

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Scholem wrote in his poem Mit einem Exemplar von Kafkas “Prozess” (With a Copy of Kafka’s “Trial”), “The great deceit of the world / is now consummated”,52 whereas the expression in the original German (“vollendet bis zum Dache”) sounds “perfected to the roof”. Yet if this is so, why should one dwell on it, why inhabit it physically or in thought? A possible answer can be sought in the midrashic tradition: redemption will come, according to the Pesiqta rabbati (15:21),53 when the Messiah is standing on the summit of the Temple (that is: on the roof of the Beit HaMikdash). Whoever is looking for the signs of the coming redemption should pay attention to the roofs of Jerusalem. If one asks about the nature of the roof, sacred or profane, signalled by the tension between the coming of the Messiah and the deceit of the world, between redempion and the tragic death of the girl Gemulah, between the angelic choirs and the incomprehensible ghostly speech of the Ido language, it is again the Rabbinic tradition that offers a possible answer: in the Talmud Yerushalmi, tractate Pesachim, with parallels in the Babylonian Talmud,54 one reads of a lively discussion among Rabbis concerning precisely this point: is the roof sacred or profane? Several voices argue in favour of the sacredness of the roof, stating that it is part of the house and holy, one of the Rabbis recalls the proverbial sentence mentioned by Rabbi Hiyya the Elder, according to which at Passover the power of the singing of the Hallel prayer was capable of breaking the roof.55 Nevertheless, as is frequently the case in the Talmud, the question is not settled, in a seemingly endless series of dialectical reversals. The roof is the boundary between sacred and profane. Therefore the answer lies precisely in the indefinite protraction of the discussion. In the Zohar, one of the books Scholem never ceased reading, together with the Bible and the collected works of Kafka, one finds a passage (1:202a–b) in which, upon quoting Isaiah 22:1 (“Oracle [or burden] of the valley of vision: What aileth thee now, that thou art wholly gone up to the housetops?”), it is stated: “It has been taught that when the temple was destroyed, the priests climbed on the rooftop with the keys of the Temple and said: ‘We have been your custodians, now take what is yours’”. It was then on the rooftop that the Shekinah passed in order to abandon the Temple (as one reads in Lamentations Rabba) and Jerusalem: from the roof, the exile starts and, on the very same roof, on the border of profanity, it will have to come to an end.

52 “Schier vollendet bis zum Dache / ist der große Weltbetrug”. First published in W. Benjamin, Briefe, ed. G. Scholem/T.W. Adorno (2 vol.; Frankfurt a.M: Suhrkamp, 1966), 2.611; then in Benjamin/Scholem, Briefwechsel, 155; moreover in G. Scholem, The Fullness of Time. Poems, trans. R. Sieburth (Jerusalem: Ibis, 2003). 53 See also 36:8. 54 Talmud Bavli, Pesachim 85b. 55 Talmud Yerushalmi, Pesachim 7:12.

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One of Scholem’s pupils, the writer Aharon Appelfeld, managed to capture, in a short portrayal, his master’s elusive essence. Once he saw him, tall and bent, “a man who was all eyes and ears”, measuring with long steps a street in Rechavia. If one reads the passage without paying due attention, one may run the risk of overlooking what Saul Bellow once called the “bulbous roofs” of Jerusalem,56 but the illustrations of Appelfeld’s memoir57 remind the hasty reader of them with a series of paintings by Appelfeld’s son Meir, which bear the simple title Jerusalem’s Roofs (gaggot Yerushalayim): ‫פעם ראיתי את גרשום שלום עולה לבית־הקפה "רחביה" בצערים נמרצים ונדמה היה לי שהוא הולך‬ ‫ קורא‬,‫ יושב לבד‬,‫ להפתעתי‬,‫ כשנכנסתי מצאתי אותו‬.‫ הוא היה נסער כולו‬.‫לנוף באחד היושבים שם‬ ‫ לוגם קפה כאחד האדם‬,‫עיתון‬ Once I saw Gershom Scholem striding determinedly into Café Rehavia. Totally enraged, he looked as if he were about to give someone there a piece of his mind. But when I came in, I found him sitting alone, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee.58

Of course, there is no way of knowing what was on his mind, or which event he was seeking in the newspaper, but the expression ke-echad ha-adam (“as any other man”) employed by Appelfeld in the original Hebrew derives from a biblical passage: it is used by Samson in order to deceive Delilah (Judg 16:7: “If anyone would tie me with seven fresh thongs that have not been dried, I will be as weak as any other man”). He managed, once more, to preserve the well-kept secret of his strength.

56 S. Bellow, To Jerusalem and Back. A Personal Account (London: Penguin, 1976), 10. 57 A. Appelfeld, ‘Od ha-Yom Gadol. Yerushalayim: ha-zikkaron we-ha-or (Jerusalem: Keter, 2001); English translation: A Table for One. Under the Light of Jerusalem (London: Toby, 2007). 58 Appelfeld, A Table for One, 37.

Robert O. Smith

Christian Zionism and Jerusalem Holy Places

In March 2012, while leading a ten-day evangelical pilgrimage to Israel, Pastor John Hagee ascended to the rooftop of the Aish HaTorah building in the Old City of Jerusalem, a platform overlooking the Kotel (Western Wall) and Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif. Hagee, who six years before had founded the Christians United for Israel alliance, then delivered a videotaped message to his millions of followers. He pointed out across the valley at the golden dome, saying, “There is no question that this is where the Temple of the Lord Jesus Christ will be when he rules and reigns over the earth from the city of Jerusalem for a thousand years of perfect peace”, the place where “every knee shall bow and every tongue shall confess” that Jesus is Lord and King.1 Given assumptions of an exclusively Jewish attachment to the Holy Site and the Aish HaTorah mission of strengthening Jewish identity throughout the world, the video sparked a lively intra-Jewish debate on the relationship between the State of Israel and its Christian supporters many of whom, like Hagee, are known as Christian Zionists. These exchanges in internet chat rooms centred around a basic question: just what kind of friend do we have in Christian Zionism?2 Commentator Nurit Greenger suggested that Hagee’s comments reflected “Christian replacement theology, where Jews are no longer the people with whom God made a Covenant and the people He chose as His Chosen. The Jews were replaced by the Christians. With these words, Pastor Hagee is no different than

1 Video archived at “John Hagee exposes all on Aish HaTorah’s Old City rooftop overlooking Temple Mount”, Jewish Israel, March 25, 2012, available at https://jewishisrael.ning.com/video/ pastor-john-hagee-at-the-wailing-wall-on-aish-hatorah-s-rooftop (accessed January 18, 2019). 2 For Jewish attempts to comprehend this phenomenon, though to varying degrees of appreciation for the alliance, see F.L. Shapiro, Christian Zionism. Navigating the Jewish-Christian Border (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2015); Y. Ariel, An Unusual Relationship. Evangelical Christians and Jews (New York: New York University Press, 2013); and Z. Chafets, A Match Made in Heaven. American Jews, Christian Zionists, and One Man’s Exploration of the Weird and Wonderful Judeo-Evangelical Alliance (New York: HarperCollins, 2007).

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the Moslems who want Temple Mount as their own and claim Jews have no right to this site”.3 To be clear, this comparison was most certainly not a compliment. This incident provides a window onto comprehending how Christian Zionism affects interreligious dynamics around the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif. The aim of this paper is to place Anglo-American Christian Zionism in a comprehensible historical context while discussing the movement’s relationship to western Christian colonialism and its approach to Holy Sites in Jerusalem, including the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Temple Mount/Haram alSharif. What is meant by Christian Zionism? It is not a self-evident phrase, particularly if one assumes Zionism as an exclusively Jewish category. In naming this phenomenon, I follow not only contemporary self-identified Christian Zionists but also Nahum Sokolow, whose History of Zionism, published in 1919, contains the first use of the term “Christian Zionist” in English literature.4 I have long sought a precise definition of the term. My 2013 book on the topic offers this definition as a starting point: “Christian Zionism is political action, informed by specifically Christian commitments, to promote or preserve Jewish control over the geographic area now comprising Israel and Palestine”.5 Nimrod Novik, who served as foreign policy adviser to Shimon Peres, wrote in 1986 that the strong Israeli relationship with the United States depends on “the idea of the two-dimensional link between the US and Israel: first, the culturalideological-moral affinity; second, Israel’s potential and actual contribution to American interests”.6 In this strategic context, the Israeli Knesset’s Christian Allies Caucus makes sense. The strategy is especially important when relationships between Israeli and American Jews come under pressure. Popular American affinity for the State of Israel is often associated with fundamentalist televangelists. However, the roots of Christian Zionism go back further than the rapture theology developed in the late nineteenth century by John Nelson Darby and Cyrus Scofield. The tradition reaches back to the beginning of the Reformation era but is strongly established in both England and particularly in New England – with the development of Puritan Protestantism in

3 N. Greenger, “Pastor John C. Hagee’s Statement on Israel Stirs Controversy”, Newsblaze, May 30, 2012, available at https://newsblaze.com/world/israel/pastor-john-c-hagees-statement-onisrael-stirs-controversy_26407/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 4 N. Sokolow, History of Zionism, 1600–1918 (2 vol.; London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1919), 1.162; 1.174; 2.410. 5 R.O. Smith, More Desired than Our Owne Salvation. The Roots of Christian Zionism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 2. 6 N. Novik, The United States and Israel. Domestic Determinants of a Changing US Commitment (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1986), 71.

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the mid-seventeenth century. I date the first example of Christian Zionism to January 1649, prior to the rise of Oliver Cromwell. Given the context of the Reformation foundations, Anglo-American Christian Zionism is an anti-Catholic, anti-Islamic movement that construes Jews as imaginary allies for its own theo-political purposes. Hence, if it is anti-Catholic, how much more hostile is it towards Orthodox and Oriental Christian traditions? Since its Judeo-centric commitments developed in a context of Jews being banished from England, Anglo-American Christian Zionism has very little to do with philo-Semitism; later forms of Christian Zionism existed side-by-side with explicit anti-Semitism. These cultural characteristics have implications for how contemporary Christian Zionists view Palestine, or Israel, or the Holy Land, with all of the peoples and sites that geographic area contains. Christian Zionism flourished in the nineteenth century, a colonial era that shaped Anglo-American perceptions of the Holy Land. In his 1865 inaugural address for the Palestine Exploration Fund, William Thompson, the archbishop of York, told his audience that “The country of Palestine belongs to you and me; it is essentially ours. … It is the land to which we look with as true a patriotism as we do this dear old England”.7 Both British and American pilgrims to Palestine, including Mark Twain, comprehended Palestinians (all understood to be Bedouin) as savages, akin to the half-wild Indians of North America. Thus, European knowledge produced through settler-colonial expansion in the Americas was imported into Palestine alongside Christian Zionist theo-political commitments. These trends come together in the “discovery” (and, eventually, the capitalist promotion) of Jerusalem’s Garden Tomb. Long-term Protestant disdain for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the local Eastern Churches combined with positive assertions of scientific knowledge to fuel interest in a replacement. As Palestine Exploration Fund’s Charles Conder said of the Sepulchre in 1878: “There are those who would willingly look upon it as the real place of the Saviour’s Tomb, but I … should be loath to think that the Sacred Tomb had been a witness for so many years of so much human ignorance, folly, and crime”.8 Simon Goldhill recounts the story of how British major general Charles Gordon, while lounging in a deckchair on the roof of the American Colony, saw an outcropping of rock he thought looked like a skull. There, outside Suleiman’s walls, he located a tomb, which he confidently identified as the tomb of Christ. Noting that “Gordon’s arguments were bizarre in the extreme”, Goldhill shares how “he decided that Jerusalem itself looked like a body, a skeleton, and that 7 Cited in K. Armstrong, Jerusalem. One City, Three Faiths (New York: Ballantine, 2005 [1996]), 361. 8 C.R. Conder, Tent Work in Palestine. A Record of Discovery and Adventure (2 vol.; London: Bentley & Son, 1879), 1.327.

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when this skeleton was superimposed back onto the map, lo and behold, his new site for Golgotha was exactly where the skull was (and the Dome of the Rock is in the skeleton’s arse!)”.9 In the case of the Garden Tomb, a blend of colonial confidence, Protestant triumphalism and disdain for the local communities in Jerusalem led to the creation of an artificial Christian site debunked only through the development of scientific archaeological methods proving that the tombs in the garden date to the eighth/seventh centuries BCE.10 The devotional commitment persists nevertheless, with Christian Zionists such as John Hagee and Mike Huckabee regularly visiting together with busloads of evangelical pilgrims. These same dynamics shape how contemporary Christian Zionists view the sacred status of Jerusalem and the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif, the location, tellingly, of Conder’s skeletal orifice. Indeed, Christian Zionists in the United States continue to grapple with the implications of a debate among their Puritan forebears regarding the location of Zion. Judge Samuel Sewall, a contemporary of both Increase Mather and Cotton Mather, wrote about America in 1697: “Why may not that be the place of New Jerusalem?”. Indeed, he argued, America “stands fair for being made the Seat of the Divine Metropolis”. Such a view provides insight into questions of national destiny and mission leading to a rather confused typology. If, as John Winthrop asserted, the Massachusetts Bay Colony could be assumed to be the “city built on a hill” that “cannot be hid”, where did this leave historic Jerusalem?11 That tension was resolved by history itself, the supreme arbiter of prophetic accuracy. The emergence of Jewish political Zionism and subsequent Jewish migration to Palestine, for instance, altered the traditional prophetic expectation that Jews would convert en masse before their return to Jerusalem. The importance of the State of Israel within prophetic expectation was established by its 1948 founding and, particularly by its capture of Jerusalem in 1967. These events provided a focal point for Christian Zionists who adhere to John Nelson Darby’s interpretive system of pre-millennial dispensationalism. Darby’s system asserts that following the Rapture of Christian believers, those left behind 9 S. Goldhill, Jerusalem. City of Longing (Cambridge, MA/London: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008), 21. 10 G. Barkay, “The Garden Tomb. Was Jesus Buried Here?”, BAR 12/2 (1986) 40–57. The caretakers of the Garden Tomb no longer claim archaeological validation of the site as having anything at all to do with Jesus. Furthermore, German archaeological excavations in the Old City have all but proven the veracity of the Sepulchre as the site where (at least) the Christian narrative of Jesus’s death and resurrection is set. 11 Smith, More Desired, 130, 117–18. One contemporary Christian Zionist author demonstrates a compromise between these positions by describing the United States and the State of Israel as “two nations under God”: see T. Doyle, Two Nations Under God. Why You Should Care About Israel (Nashville, TN: B&H, 2008).

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will experience a seven-year period of tribulation, intended to inflict punishment on Jews for killing the Son of God. The Antichrist’s desecration of the Temple in Jerusalem (prophesied through a joint reading of Revelation and Daniel) will be a singular mark of his reign. Following a final battle between the Antichrist and Jesus, a New Jerusalem will be established, with Jewish believers relegated to the earthly city while Gentile Christians reign from the celestial city above. This brings us back to John Hagee standing on that Old City rooftop. Hagee’s popularised pre-millennial dispensationalism exemplifies the broad undercurrent of popular American evangelical affinity for the State of Israel. In that video, Hagee explains the Temple Mount (he would never call it the Haram alSharif) as an Israeli space. This is very different from understanding it as a Jewish space. It is an Israeli space because of the role the nation-state plays in God’s eschatological plans. The Temple will be rebuilt, and the sacrificial system reinstituted, only in order for it to be desecrated. This is what motivates certain apocalyptic Christian Zionists to support efforts to breed a perfect red heifer or prepare for the Temple’s construction. For them, as Hagee shows, it is ultimately a Christian space, from where Jesus will conduct his one-thousand-year (millennial) earthly reign. As a theological ethicist, I see at least two interlocking implications of this Christian Zionist conception of the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif as an Israeli space. The first is political, with implications for several communities; the other is interreligious. On the political front, this conception preserves the present diplomatic status quo; polling data in the US indicate Christian Zionist support for imbalanced US policy favouring Israeli interests over and against Palestinian interests.12 This, in turn, perpetuates what Hebrew University law professor Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian has called “security theology” according to which the biopower and necropolitics of Israeli control over Palestinian lives is left unquestioned.13 In a more active mode, Christian Zionists can become impatient with the apparent lack of apocalyptic progress. Most do not engage in actions such as those of Australian Christian Zionist Denis Michael Rohan, who in 1969 set fire to the minbar (pulpit) in al-Aqsa Mosque. Nevertheless, efforts to forge relationships with Jewish activists focussed on building a Third Temple further stokes conflict with Muslims and Islam while encouraging what Israeli lawyer Daniel Seidemann

12 Smith, More Desired, 30–1. While periodic surveys help read the public mood, foreign policy ideology is tracked over much longer periods. See, for instance, M.H. Hunt, Ideology and US Foreign Policy (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987). 13 N. Shalhoub-Kevorkian, Security Theology, Surveillance and the Politics of Fear (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). On Achille Mbembe’s expansion of Foucault’s concept of “biopower”, see his “Necropolitics”, trans. L. Meintjes, Public Culture 15/1 (2003) 11–40.

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calls “pyromania” in the Jerusalem context. The resulting political polarisation has policy implications, and not just in the United States. This brings us to the interfaith implications of Christian Zionist conceptions of the Temple Mount/Haram al-Sharif as an Israeli site. Given the tradition’s antiIslamic Protestant heritage, it is perhaps not surprising that Christian Zionists regularly dismiss Jordanian and Waqf challenges to Israeli sovereignty, effectively erasing Islam as a legitimate presence. On the other hand, one notices that Christian Zionist collaboration with Jews focussed on erecting some sort of Temple there produces, at the very least, strange bedfellows. When one community theologically constructs the existence of another solely for its own purposes, the arrangement is ethically problematic in the extreme. As Nurit Greenger noticed, John Hagee, like John Darby before him, holds to a supersessionist replacement theology, if only in ultimate things. Each community, it seems, wants this same sacred geography for itself alone, either secretly or openly, either in this world or in the next. As televangelist Larry Huch of the Israel Allies Foundation – a group supporting the Knesset Christian Allies Caucus – said in 2014, “If we lose Jerusalem, we will delay the coming of the Messiah. … Because whether you think he’s coming for the first time or the second time, what everybody knows is he’s coming to Jerusalem”. And “without a shadow of a doubt”, he added, Jews will recognise Jesus as the Messiah when he returns. That is why, he said, “we devote all of our energy and all of our strength to preserving Jerusalem as one city”. Muslims did not come up in the conversation.14

14 S. Posner, “Advocacy groups woo US lawmakers amid fervor over prayer at Temple Mount”, Al Jazeera America, June 12, 2014, available at http://america.aljazeera.com/articles/2014/6/ 12/politicians-jerusalemprayer.html (accessed January 18, 2019).

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Non-Traditional Sacred Sites. The Need for Protection

1.

Introduction

At the international level, substantial attention has been focussed in recent years on the need for the protection of heritage sites that hold both historical and religious significance. Such sites can become linked to controversial issues of national identity or internal religious disputes over ownership of property. Tensions may arise between those interested in a site for use as a location of worship and those with a primarily historical or cultural interest. Problems may also arise due to shortfalls in funding for the maintenance of historical structures. Particularly where a structure has continued significance for worship and other religious uses, rights concerning freedom of religion or belief will almost certainly be involved. The international community may share any or all of these interests and, like public authorities at the local and national levels, will in addition have an overriding interest in promoting a just and peaceful solution to conflicts. This paper addresses the core issue that arises in cases of sacred sites from the perspective of the relevant dimension of freedom of religion or belief (FoRB): the right to establish and maintain places of worship. The focus is not on the sites of dominant religions, which have typically played a major role in shaping national and cultural traditions, but on the sites of minority and non-traditional religions, and their struggle to establish, maintain and protect the sites that become sacred for their believers. The article first addresses the international norms that constitute the international framework for protecting such rights and then discusses examples of the all too frequent cases, with an in-depth look at a set of cases from Russia, where the right to establish and maintain places of worship is violated and ignored. For most religious communities this right, as it has been elaborated in international standard-setting processes, is critical for manifesting their religion. If this dimension of religious life is forgotten at the relatively mundane level of

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places of worship,1 sacred heritage sites risk becoming little more than hollow museums of a dimly remembered past, rather than monuments of a still vibrant present. Care must be taken to ensure that this critical dimension of freedom of religion or belief is not ignored. This is true both with respect to the rights of nontraditional religious communities, whose sacred space often goes unprotected, and with respect to the rights of more dominant religions, which are at risk of being prejudiced by well-intended efforts that place protection of heritage ahead of protecting core religious freedom rights.

2.

The International Legal Framework for Protecting of the Right to Establish and Maintain Places of Worship

The right to establish and maintain places of worship is grounded in the broad protections of freedom of religion and belief provided by Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR)2 and Article 18 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR).3 This right did not receive explicit mention, however, until adoption of the 1981 UN Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and of Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief (1981 Declaration).4 Article 6 of the 1981 Declaration provides in the relevant section: “The right to freedom of thought, conscience, religion or belief shall include, inter alia, the following freedoms: … (a) To worship or assemble in connection with a religion or belief and to establish and maintain places for these purposes”.5 In general, Article 6 of the 1981 Declaration is of particular significance because, whereas most of the Declaration’s other articles simply repeat (almost verbatim) the binding but abstract treaty language of the ICCPR, Article 6 goes further and adds concreteness. Where the UDHR and the ICCPR define the entire range of manifestations of religion in terms of “teaching, practice, worship and observance”,6 Article 6 adds specificity to this condensed formula. In the 1 For a discussion of reasons to choose between the terminology of “places of worship” and “sacred or holy sites”, see P. Petkoff, “Finding a Grammar of Consent for ‘Soft Law’ Guidelines on Sacred Places. The Legal Protection of Sacred Places within the Existing Public International Law Instruments and Grass-Root Approaches”, in S. Ferrari/A. Benzo (ed.), Between Cultural Diversity and Common Heritage. Legal and Religious Perspectives on the Sacred Places of the Mediteranean (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014) 57–71, on p. 58. 2 Universal Declaration on Human Rights (1948), GA Res. 217 A(III), UN Doc. A/3/810 (1949). 3 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (1966), 999 UNTS 171. 4 Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and of Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief (1981), GA Res. 36/55, UN Doc. A/36/51 (1982). 5 1981 Declaration, Article 6(a). Emphasis added. 6 P.M. Taylor, Freedom of Religion. UN and European Human Rights Law and Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 22.

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words of Natan Lerner, a major expert on freedom of religion or belief, the concrete list of freedoms spelled out in Article 6 of the 1981 Declaration constitutes “a detailed enunciation of rights belonging to the accepted minimum standard”.7 Further protection for religious sites has been vouchsafed by UN General Assembly Resolution 55/254, which called upon all states “to exert their utmost efforts to ensure that religious sites are fully respected and protected” and “to adopt adequate measures aimed at preventing such acts or threats of violence”.8 The link between the UDHR and ICCPR formulations of the right to freedom of religion or belief and the more concrete right to establish and maintain places of worship has been further attested by the UN Human Rights Committee, the body created pursuant to the ICCPR and formally charged with administering its provisions. In General Comment No. 22 to the ICCPR, the Committee stated: The freedom to manifest religion or belief in worship, observance, practice and teaching encompasses a broad range of acts. The concept of worship extends to ritual and ceremonial acts giving direct expression to belief, as well as various practices integral to such acts, including the building of places of worship, the use of ritual formulae and objects, the display of symbols and the observance of holidays and days of rest.9

This connection is further affirmed by Human Rights Council Resolution 6/37: The Human Rights Council … [u]rges States … (e) [t]o exert the utmost efforts, in accordance with their national legislation and in conformity with international human rights and humanitarian law, to ensure that religious places, sites, shrines and symbols are fully respected and protected and to take additional measures in cases where they are vulnerable to desecration or destruction; … (g) [t]o ensure, in particular, the right of all persons to worship or assemble in connection with a religion or belief and to establish and maintain places for these purposes … .10

As noted by a leading elaborator of this right, “[t]he right to establish and maintain places of worship has since been unambiguously entrenched as a constituent element of the right to freedom or belief …”.11 7 N. Lerner, Group Rights and Discrimination in International Law (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff, 22002), 118. 8 UN Doc. A/RES/55/254 (2001). 9 UN Human Rights Committee, CCPR General Comment No. 22: Article 18 (Freedom of Thought, Conscience, or Religion), July 30, 1993, CCPR/C/21/Rev.1/Add.4, paragraph 4 (General Comment 22). Emphasis added. 10 Human Rights Council, Resolution 6/37, paras. 9(e) and 9(g) (December 14, 2007), available at http://ap.ohchr.org/documents/E/HRC/resolutions/A_HRC_RES_6_37.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 11 N.G. Villaroman, “The Right to Establish and Maintain Places of Worship. The Developments of Its Normative Content under International Human Rights Law”, in S. Ferrari/S. Pastorelli (ed.), Religion in Public Spaces. A European Perspective (London/New York: Routledge, 2016) 295–322, on p. 297.

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This right has received further concretisation in the broader process of international human rights standard-setting.12 This has yielded over time a detailed set of interpretations of the right to establish and maintain places of worship, which include the following points: 1. the right to acquire ownership or lawful possession of real property for the purpose of building a place of worship; 2. the right to build a place of worship and to make necessary repairs, subject only to reasonable local planning regulations; 3. the right to solicit and receive voluntary financial and other contributions for the purpose of building a place of worship; 4. the right to the unhampered use and enjoyment of a place of worship; 5. the right of protection for places of worship against interference by the state and non-state actors; and 6. the right against discrimination in applications to build a place of worship.13 The foregoing points have emerged as vital clarifying aspects of the right to establish and maintain places of worship.14 Suffice it to say that the various points mentioned here are supported by views of the UN Human Rights Committee, by assessments of the UN Human Rights Commission and Council, by reports of successive UN Special Rapporteurs for Freedom of Religion or Belief and by other developments within the UN system. Moreover, they are supported by the ordinary meaning and the sheer logic of what is significant and important if the right to freedom of religion or belief under the UDHR, the ICCPR, and the 1981 Declaration is to be meaningful and effective. The right to establish and maintain places of worship, as thus elaborated, is further vindicated by interpretations of the right to freedom of religion or belief provided by regional human rights bodies. Several of the elements of this right presuppose in critical ways the right to acquire legal entity status. Thus, the first element noted above – the right to acquire ownership or lawful possession of real property for the purpose of building a place of worship – presupposes having a legal entity capable of owning property.15 Similarly, in many jurisdictions it is 12 See, e. g., UN General Assembly Resolution, Setting International Standards in the Field of Human Rights, A/RES/41/120, December 4, 1986; M. Mutua, “Standard Setting in Human Rights. Critique and Prognosis”, Human Rights Quarterly 29/3 (2007) 547–630. For a thorough treatment of the right to places of worship, see H. Bielefeldt/N. Ghanea/M. Wiener, Freedom of Religion or Belief. An International Law Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 117–43, § 1.3.2. 13 These elements are set forth in Villaroman, “The Right”, 301. 14 The support for the various elements of the right to establish and maintain places of worship is described in detail in Villaroman, “The Right”, 301–20. It is also evident in Bielefeldt/ Ghanea/Wiener, Freedom of Religion, 117–43, § 1.3.2. 15 Villaroman, “The Right”, 301–3.

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impossible to apply for zoning, building permits or other land use approvals without legal entity status.16 In fact, acquisition of legal entity status is critical in one way or another to virtually all of the more detailed elements of the right to establish and maintain places of worship mentioned above. This right has long been settled in the United States17 and has become firmly entrenched in recent years in the decisions of the European Court of Human Rights.18 Further support for various aspects of the right to establish and maintain places of worship is evident in work of the Office of Democratic Institutions and Human Rights (ODIHR) of the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE). In 2014, in Cooperation with the Venice Commission of the Council of Europe, ODIHR published its Guidelines on the Legal Personality of Religious or Belief Communities (2014 Guidelines).19 These Guidelines are the culmination of nearly thirty-five years of development within the Helsinki process.20 They are based on experience garnered in many of the world’s leading democracies, and also on experience in countries peopled by all of the world’s 16 See W.C. Durham, Jr., “Facilitating Freedom of Religion or Belief through Religious Association Laws”, in T. Lindholm/W.C. Durham, Jr./B.G. Tahzib-Lie (ed.), Facilitating Freedom of Religion or Belief. A Deskbook (Koninklijke; Brill, 2004) 321–406, on pp. 322–5. For an overview of the types of legal entities available in different legal systems, see W.C. Durham, Jr., “Legal Status of Religious Organizations. A Comparative Overview”, The Review of Faith & International Affairs 8/2 (2010) 3–14, available at http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10. 1080/15570274.2010.487986?journalCode=rfia20&quickLinkVolume=8&quickLinkIssue=2 &quickLinkPage=3&selectedTab=citation&volume=8 (accessed January 18, 2019). 17 There is no significant case law on this issue in the United States since access to legal entity status for religious organisations has been easily available through non-profit corporations or other vehicles for over a century. See Durham, “Legal Status”, 3–5. 18 Canea Catholic Church v. Greece, 27 EHRR 521 (1999) (ECtHR, App. No. 25528/94, December 16, 1997) (legal personality of the Roman Catholic Church protected); United Communist Party of Turkey v. Turkey (ECtHR, App. No. 19392/92, January 30, 1998); Sidiropoulos & Others v. Greece (ECtHR, App. No. 26695/95, July 10, 1998); Freedom and Democracy Party (ÖZDEP) v. Turkey (ECtHR, App. No. 23885/94, December 8, 1999); Hasan and Chaush v. Bulgaria (ECtHR, App. No. 30985/96, October 26, 2000); Metropolitan Church of Bessarabia v. Moldova (ECtHR, App. No. 45701/99, December 13, 2001); Moscow Branch of the Salvation Army v. Russia, (ECtHR, App. No. 72881/01, October 5, 2006); Church of Scientology Moscow v. Russia (ECtHR, App. No. 18147/02, April 5, 2007); Svyato-Mykhaylivska Parafiya v. Ukraine (ECtHR, App. No. 77703/01, September 14, 2007); Kimlya v. Russia (ECtHR, App. Nos. 76836/ 01, 32782/03, October 1, 2009); Magyar Keresztény Mennonita Egyház and Others v. Hungary (ECtHR, App. No. 70945/11 and 8 others, April 8, 2014). Full text of all cited decisions of the European Court of Human Rights is available at https://hudoc.echr.coe.int/eng (accessed January 18, 2019). 19 OSCE Office for Democratic Institutions and Human Rights, Guidelines on the Legal Personality of Religious or Belief Communities (Warsaw, 2014), available at http://www.osce.org/ odihr/139046 (accessed January 18, 2019). 20 The Helsinki process, now institutionalised as the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, which comprises the countries of Western Europe, the former Soviet bloc, the United States and Canada (a total of fifty-seven countries “from Vancouver to Vladivostok moving east”).

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major religions. They represent an up-to-date distillation of the existing international human rights norms and the best thinking and practices regarding the rights of religious and belief communities to acquire legal entity status. They describe the applicable norms from international human rights law and draw together the expertise and experience of the ODIHR’s Advisory Council on Freedom of Religion or Belief, the rich legal expertise of the Venice Commission and input from numerous experts and NGOs from all corners of the OSCE. They also benefitted greatly from developments in the United Nations, its human rights institutions and the work of successive UN Special Rapporteurs on Freedom of Religion or Belief. The Guidelines again confirm the right to acquire legal entity status – the necessary foundation for the right to establish and maintain places of worship. They also set the pattern for non-discriminatory treatment in public trials regarding religious communities. They provide, for example, that such procedures should be “quick, transparent, fair, inclusive and nondiscriminatory”.21 While the 2014 Guidelines ultimately focus on the right of religion and belief communities to acquire legal personality, they are grounded on a thorough explication of the right to freedom of religion or belief set forth in the opening pages of the document. In that sense, they help lay the foundation for better implementation of FoRB in countless other practical settings. The 2014 Guidelines reaffirm the continuing validity of an earlier and broader set of Guidelines promulgated in 2004,22 which concede soft law validity to several of the other detailed elements of the right to establish and maintain places of worship. The 2004 Guidelines affirm the right of religious organisations to solicit funds;23 to fair and neutral treatment; to equality and non-discrimination;24 to neutral treatment in land use25 and historical preservation matters26 and in property disputes involving religious property;27 in general, to non-arbitrary and non-discriminatory treatment of religious communities.

21 Guidelines on the Legal Personality, 26, § 24. 22 Guidelines for Review of Legislation Pertaining to Religion or Belief, prepared by the OSCE/ ODIHR Advisory Panel of Experts on Freedom of Religion or Belief in Consultation with the European Commission for Democracy Through Law (Venice Commission), adopted by the Venice Commission (Venice, June 18–19, 2004), welcomed by the OSCE Parliamentary Assembly (Edinburgh, July 5–9, 2004), available at http://www.osce.org/odihr/13993 (English) and http://www.osce.org/node/13994 (Russian) (accessed January 18, 2019). 23 Ibid., 20, § II.J.1. 24 Ibid., 10, § II.B.3. 25 Ibid., 25, § III.C; 28, § III.I. 26 Ibid., 25, § III.C. 27 Ibid., 25, § III.D.

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3.

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Recurring Problems in the Protection of Places of Worship

Despite the clarity of the right to establish and maintain places of worship under international law, cases of violation of this right abound. In recent years, accounts of numerous types of interference with this right are all too common: from bulldozing places of worship to refusing to allow them to be built in the first place. Discrimination against unpopular religious groups is a recurrent problem at the local level practically everywhere. Countless such problems fill the pages of institutional reports on religious freedom compliance,28 scholarly commentary on the relevant issues29 and the case law of international courts.30 Instead of attempting a comprehensive review of such cases from around the world, this article provides a more in-depth account of representative cases from Russia. As is generally the case with such violations, Russia has accepted a broad panoply of international and regional commitments on which expectations with regard to places of worship and numerous other human rights were based. These commitments gave rise to particularly high hopes at the time Russia became a member of the Council of Europe in 1996. Prominent among the commitments made and reaffirmed then were its commitment to implement decisions of the European Court of Human Rights, to bring the law on freedom of religion in line with the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (ECHR) and to participate in “political dialogue” with the Council’s Committee of Ministers – the body that ultimately seeks to ensure compliance with the Convention and the decisions of the European Court of Human Rights implementing the Convention. Even more significantly, by the mid-1990s, Russia had embraced the processes of glasnost and perestroika, and had adopted a new constitution which was committed to the protection of human rights, the rule of law and widely accepted international norms, including freedom of religion or belief, freedom of expression and non-discrimination. Among other things, the 1993 Russian Constitution provided for the direct application of international norms. Specifically, Article 15.4 provides that:

28 See, e.g., annual reports of the United States Department of State, available at https://www.state. gov/j/drl/rls/irf/, and the United States Commission on International Religious Freedom, available at https://www.uscirf.gov/reports-briefs/annual-report. Reports of similar bodies in other countries are becoming more common. See, e. g., Annual Report of the European Parliament Intergroup for Religious Freedom and Tolerance, available at http://www.religiousfree dom.eu/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/RS_report_v6_digital.pdf and its Annex, available at http://www.religiousfreedom.eu/wp-content/uploads/2018/09/RS_Annex_v1_forprint_with bleed.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 29 See, e. g., Villaroman, “The Right”; Bielefeldt/Ghanea/Wiener, Freedom of Religion. 30 Manousssakis v. Greece (ECtHR, App. No. 18748/91, August 29, 1996).

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The universally-recognized norms of international law and international treaties and agreements of the Russian Federation shall be a component part of its legal system. If an international treaty or agreement of the Russian Federation establishes other rules than those envisaged by law, the rules of the international agreement shall be applied.31

This understanding is even clearer with respect to “basic rights and liberties”. As declared by Article 17.1, The basic rights and liberties in conformity with the commonly recognized principles and norms of the international law shall be recognized and guaranteed in the Russian Federation and under this Constitution.32

Thus, the Russian Constitution explicitly recognises that basic rights and liberties, such as freedom of religion, freedom of expression and non-discrimination, “shall be recognized and guaranteed”. A further assurance of Russia’s intention to be bound by Council of Europe principles is apparent in Article 46.3 of the Russian Constitution, which ensures that Russians can turn to international tribunals, such as the European Court of Human Rights, for vindication of their rights if national relief is not available: In conformity with the international treaties of the Russian Federation, everyone shall have the right to turn to interstate organs concerned with the protection of human rights and liberties when all the means of legal protection available within the state have been exhausted.33

The provision recognises, as do the rules of the European Court, that individuals must first seek to “exhaustion of remedies” at home before seeking international relief but leaves no doubt that Russians should be able to seek and obtain such relief. Unfortunately, Russia has fulfilled neither the hope expressed at the time of its admission to the Council of Europe nor the promises embodied in its constitution. The Russian government’s protection of freedom of religion or belief has not only failed to improve; it has steadily deteriorated. This deterioration has been particularly striking in the case of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. In April 2017 Russia’s Constitutional Court affirmed a finding that Jehovah’s Witnesses are an extremist group,34 and sustained liquidation of the church’s legal entity, ordering closure of its headquarters and 395 local chapters besides the seizure of the

31 32 33 34

Russian Constitution, Art. 15.4. Emphasis added. Ibid., Art. 17.1. Emphasis added. Ibid., Art. 46.3. Supreme Court of the Russian Federation, Case No. AKPI17–238 (2017). An unofficial English translation by Dmytro Vovk is available at https://www.iclrs.org/content/blurb/files/ Supreme%20Court%20of%20the%20Russian%20Federation%20-%20Case%20AKPI17-238 %20(2017)%20-%20Vovk%20English%20Translation.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019).

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organisation’s property. After this decision, other religious groups are, needless to say, also at risk.35 The United States Commission on International Religious Freedom has noted this deterioration in successive annual reports, summarising the situation as follows in its 2017 Report: Russia represents a unique case among the countries in this report – it is the sole state to have not only continually intensified its repression of religious freedom since USCIRF commenced monitoring it [in 1998], but also to have expanded its repressive policies to the territory of a neighboring state, by means of military invasion and occupation. Those policies, ranging from administrative harassment to arbitrary imprisonment to extrajudicial killing, are implemented in a fashion that is systematic, ongoing, and egregious.36

In the sphere of sacred sites, the problems arise primarily for critics of the Russian Orthodox Church and for minority religions. With this in mind, it will be helpful to focus on three representative situations in Russia: protecting sacred places from sacrilege; restitution of previously expropriated property; the closing of sacred places. The first type of situation is represented by the Russian government’s handling of the Pussy Riot case. The Pussy Riot rock group staged an unauthorised and provocative “guerilla performance” in Moscow’s Christ the Redeemer Cathedral, a major landmark in contemporary Moscow built on the site where an earlier church had been destroyed by the communist regime in the 1930s. The Orthodox Church claimed that the performance constituted sacrilege. Russian President Vladimir Putin claimed that religious organisations should be protected from such attack performances, because “the country has very grave memories of the initial period of Soviet rule, when a huge number of priests suffered. Many churches were destroyed and all our traditional faiths suffered huge damage”. The result was that group leaders were convicted of “hooliganism motivated by hate speech”. Appeals ultimately found their way to the European Court of Human Rights.37 The case was obviously rooted in intentionally offensive and polarising behaviour. While one might have some questions about the harshness of the punishment imposed on group members, this is a case when 35 See V. Arnold, “Russia: Jehovah’s Witnesses now banned”, Forum 18, July 18, 2017, available at http://www.forum18.org/archive.php?article_id=2297 (accessed January 18, 2019). 36 US Commission on International Religious Freedom, 2017 Report, Russia Chapter. 37 In its decision in Mariya Alekhina and Others v. Russia (ECtHR, App. No. 38004/12, July 17, 2018), the Court found violations of European Convention prohibitions of inhuman or degrading treatment, and of the performers’ right to liberty and security, fair trial, legal assistance and freedom of expression. The Court accepted that some reaction by the Russian government to the performers’ breaching the rules of conduct in a place of worship may have been warranted but judged that the reaction was exceptionally severe.

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the state did, in fact, defend a sacred place, albeit the space of the prevailing religion. A second case involves the restitution of St Isaac’s Cathedral – the goldendomed symbol of St Petersburg. The current building was completed in 1858. The original church built on the site dates back to the time of Peter the Great. It was converted into the Museum of the History of Religion and Atheism in the early years of the Soviet Union. Recently, the mayor of St Petersburg has agreed to give the building back to the Orthodox Church. Protestors contend that it has become a monument first and a church second. The issues surrounding the return of St Isaac’s resemble those frequently encountered in connection to sacred sites. The opponents of returning the church contend that it is an example of Orthodox believers receiving preferential treatment. Why, they argue, shouldn’t the feelings of non-believers or those in other confessions be respected? For them, the structure has become a symbol of St Petersburg, and it seems unfair for that symbol to be returned to the Orthodox. Others invoke historical memories, sometimes asserting less than tolerant views. Thus, some criticised those opposed to the transfer in anti-Semitic terms as “the grandchildren and greatgrandchildren of those who destroyed our churches, who jumped out of the Pale of Settlement with revolvers in 1917”. The head of the Hermitage Museum warned that turning the museum back into a church would make Leningrad more provincial. The Church claimed that its regaining ownership of St Isaac’s would return the cathedral to its original purpose and use: as a church, not a museum. The Church also wanted to prove that it was capable of making a symbolic statement – solidifying its position as one of the most influential institutions in Russia. It goes without saying that the Church also had a financial interest. St Isaac’s has been one of the most lucrative museums in Russia, attracting annually 2.4 million tourists. Finally, there were symbolic issues. Patriarch Kirill maintained that return of the church would be a symbol of reconciliation on the celebration of one hundred years since the 1917 Revolution. The situation is further complicated by the actual history of the building. St Isaac’s had, in fact, never been owned by the Church because it was too expensive to maintain and was originally managed by the Imperial Ministry. The St Isaac’s case suggests the complexity of the issues that often arise in restitution cases with buildings that have become significant historical and cultural symbols as well as places of worship. In this case, returning the site to church control highlights the importance of protecting the religious interest in the site, but other factors cloud the analysis. In the foregoing two cases, partly because of the influence of the dominant religion, the religious claims prevailed under Russian law. This stands in sharp contrast to the treatment received by the Jehovah’s Witnesses, where the issue is not one of the protection of sacred space, or returning it to a religious claimant,

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but the dramatic closing of religious areas. Jehovah’s Witnesses are known for a variety of religious views, including strong commitment to sharing their religious testimony with others, opposition to blood transfusions and conscientious objection to participating in the military and other types of civic engagement. Significantly, however, they are also known for being peaceful and non-violent. Given that reality, it came as a considerable shock when the Russian Supreme Court affirmed the dissolution of their central religious organisation and its 395 local chapters.38 In many countries throughout the world, constitutional cases brought by Jehovah’s Witnesses have helped shape the constitutional contours of FoRB.39 Victimising this group by depriving it of legal entity status on the basis of misguided findings of “extremism” represents a blatant violation of the right to freedom of religion or belief. However, this anticipates the story of the series of prosecutions that ultimately culminated in the shutting down of the Jehovah’s Witness sacred areas. A first step was to exploit an overly broad anti-extremism law. The Jehovah’s Witnesses’ New World Translation of the Holy Scriptures was banned as extremist despite a law prohibiting banning copies or quotations from the Bible as extremist. A local court held that the New World translation of the Bible was not a Bible and thus was not protected by the law.40 A variety of other standard publications of the Jehovah’s Witnesses have been deemed extremist. Similar treatment has been extended to the works of Islamic theologian Said Nursi, and at one point to the version of the Bhagavad Gita used by the ISKCON (Hare Krishna) movement. Once literature was deemed “extremist”, it could be confiscated, and dissemination of extremist materials became a criminal offence. One major factor for identifying Jehovah’s Witnesses as extremists is that they make exclusive claims to truth. Russian expert witnesses relied on by Russian courts in making “extremism” findings noted that they claim to be preaching the only true religion, and that all other religions (including Christianity as taught by the Russian Orthodox Church) are false. But of course, many mainline groups are “guilty” of making such claims. Needless to say, findings of extremism predicated on these criteria are highly problematic, and certainly not unbiased. Another element in the legal arsenal invoked against the Jehovah’s Witnesses are the so-called Yarovaya laws, named after Irina Yarovaya, chairperson of the 38 See again Supreme Court of the Russian Federation, Case No. AKPI17–238 (2017). 39 For example, leading freedom of religion cases in both the United States and the European Court of Human Rights involved vindication of the rights of Jehovah’s Witnesses to engage in missionary activities. Cantwell v. Connecticut, 310 U.S. 296 (1940); Kokkinakis v. Greece, (ECtHR, App. No. 14307/88, May 25, 1993). 40 See T. Balmforth, “Russia Bans Jehovah’s Witnesses’ Translation of the Bible”, Radio Free Europe, August 18, 2017, available at https://www.rferl.org/a/russia-jehovahs-witnessesbible-translation-banned/28684384.html (accessed January 18, 2019).

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State Duma Committee on Security, who spearheaded passing the laws in 2016. These laws introduced provisions prohibiting, among other things, proselytising outside religious buildings belonging to the missionary’s organisation. Engaging in religious teaching in people’s homes, for example, was banned. Given Jehovah’s Witnesses’ commitment to sharing their beliefs, these laws constituted another legal trap. The Jehovah’s Witnesses were not the only group caught in this net. From June 2016 to July 2017, 193 anti-proselytising cases were prosecuted.41 Of these, 58 were brought against Protestant Evangelicals (excluding Baptists); 40 against Jehovah’s Witnesses; 26 against Baptists; 12 against ISKCON (Hare Krishna); 9 against Muslims; 3 against miscellaneous Jews/Kabbalah groups; 3 against Seventh-Day Adventists; 2 against unidentified Christians; 2 against dissident Orthodox believers; and 1 each against the Salvation Army, the New Apostolic Church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and a Neo-Pagan movement.42 One of the most perturbing concerns is the pattern of prosecutions across Russia that culminated in the dissolution of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It is not clear whether this was a centrally orchestrated pattern of prosecution or merely an indication of systematic biases in local enforcement agencies across Russia. In either case, the pattern is concerning. The pattern is evident on the face of the Russian Supreme Court decision banning the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is notable for citing the numerous lower court cases that ostensibly justified its opinion without providing any real analysis of the bona fides of those lower court decisions. The use of conclusory references to national prosecution patterns obfuscates the systematic repression that is taking place. The pattern consists of a series of seemingly disconnected steps. The first step takes advantage of Russia’s vague anti-extremism law to brand various items in a group’s literature as extremist. The Court noted that 95 Jehovah’s Witness publications were registered in the Federal Registry of Extremist Materials based on final decisions of lower courts. No detailed description is given of these materials, except to note that they include various normal publications of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. There is a generic statement that the documents “incit[e] religious discord, … propagandize exclusivity and … promote the superiority and inferiority of citizens based on their religious affiliation”. However, there was no analysis examining the arguably questionable grounds for these decisions,

41 V. Arnold, “Russia: One year of ‘anti-missionary’ punishments”, Forum 18, August 8, 2017, available at http://www.forum18.org/archive.php?article_id=2305 (accessed January 18, 2019). 42 Id., “Russia: ‘Anti-missionary’ punishments full listing”, Forum 18, August 9, 2017 available at http://www.forum18.org/archive.php?article_id=2306 (accessed January 18, 2019); a paragraph in the text summarises information from an extensive list of cases in the full listing of cases in the 9 August article.

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and there appeared to be no way to challenge such findings in the ultimate dissolution decision. The second step was to dissolve various local church units on the basis of continued use and dissemination of these materials (which are of course routinely used elsewhere as a standard part of the religious practices of Jehovah’s Witnesses). The third step was to issue a warning to the central body of the Jehovah’s Witnesses (or to other religions being pursued by similar trials) to cease supporting, participating in, or otherwise contributing to the dissemination of the “extremist” materials. In the Jehovah’s Witness case, this was in point of fact a warning to the central distribution centre for religious materials to cease fulfilling its basic function of providing needed materials for believers and congregations around the country. One should note that the idea of providing a warning is in principle a good administrative step. Normally, it can help a religious group that is operating in good faith and does not realise that it is stepping across a legal or administrative line to correct problematic conduct without serious sanction. In the Jehovah’s Witness case, however, this administrative process is problematic, because it enjoins the religious group from engaging in conduct that is vital to its mission and ought to be protected by religious freedom and freedom of expression norms. The fourth step follows quickly upon on the running of the warning period that is set in motion by step three. The central organisation can then be accused of failing to take preventative measures aimed at eliminating the reasons for, or the condition of, facilitating extremist activity. The centralised organisation is in effect charged with either complicity or failure to exert adequate controls to bring the local organisations to heel. In effect, the centralised organisation becomes an offender if it fails to support the government in enforcing government policies to which both the centralised organisation and the local congregations object as a matter of conscience. There is of course no effective way to challenge the validity of the underlying state findings of violation, except through a seemingly hopeless battle to contest every local action in courts that appear to be deeply biased against the group’s religious beliefs. The fifth step brings the process to a predictable conclusion. Based on the numerous “violations” that have been accumulated after the warning, state officials bring a case before the court to liquidate (dissolve) the organisation in question and its affiliates. Key steps in the legal trial against Jehovah’s Witnesses are proceeding apace. On April 20, 2017, the Russian Supreme Court dissolved the administrative centre of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and 395 local religious organisations and banned practising the Jehovah’s Witness faith. On July 17, 2017, the April decision was upheld by the appellate chamber of the Russian Supreme Court. On October 9, 2017, the Jehovah’s Witnesses appealed against the Supreme Court decision to the Human Rights Ombudsman, but this does not

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seem to have had any effect. On October 31, 2017, the procedure for the distribution of Jehovah’s Witness property commenced in Krasnoyarsk – a procedure likely to be replicated at local organisations around the country. A special state commission responsible for a full inventory of Jehovah’s Witness property has been established. The result in the Jehovah’s Witness case goes to such extreme lengths that it is hard to grasp what really lies behind it. James Richardson, a noted legal scholar and sociologist, has suggested three possible motivations. First, pressure may be coming from the Russian Orthodox Church, which may be seeking to deter groups that compete for the allegiance of Russian citizens. Second, it is possible that harassment is part of an anti-American campaign that has targeted Jehovah’s Witnesses because of their roots in the United States. A third possibility is that we could be seeing a typical scapegoat manoeuvre that attempts to distract the populace from Russia’s true economic and political problems, both at home and abroad.43 However, total dissolution seems a radically disproportionate response to any such concerns. How have the Jehovah’s Witnesses responded? Not surprisingly, they have pursued all possible appeals in Russia. They are also pursuing remedies with the European Court of Human Rights. They have officially ceased their normal religious activities, trying not to provoke the state in order to avoid further prosecutions of their believers. However, some informal meetings are occurring. It is hard to imagine that groups of friends would totally desist from reading the Bible together. Yet this is dangerous since such meetings are technically illegal, and Orthodox activists have tried to report such events. Arrests of believers, police raids and searches of private houses confirm that such informal activity is occurring. Human rights organisations and Jehovah’s Witness media have reported several cases of discrimination against Jehovah’s Witnesses. Other examples of discrimination include loss of employment due to belonging to the movement. There have been some efforts to mount legal defences to the dissolution measures. From January to April 2017, Jehovah’s Witnesses transferred 74 pieces of real estate, worth about 402 million roubles, to Jehovah’s Witness entities in Sweden, Austria, Spain, and the United States. The reaction in Russia has been to challenge these moves as feigned transactions. As of June 2017, foreign Jehovah’s Witness communities owned 65 per cent of Jehovah’s Witness property in Russia: 11.5 per cent was owned by leaders and relatives of Russian branches; 23.5 per cent belonged directly to Russian legal entities. It will be more difficult to 43 J.T. Richardson, “The Battle over Jehovah’s Witnesses in Russia”, New Eastern European, October 25, 2017, available at http://neweasterneurope.eu/2017/10/25/battle-jehovahswitnesses-russia/ (accessed January 18, 2019).

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confiscate property owned by private individuals although a case could potentially be made that it is property being used for extremist purposes and consequently confiscated. While remedies are being pursued in Strasbourg, as noted above, it is hard to say how permanent the damage will have been by the time the case is heard by the ECtHR. Given Russia’s desultory compliance with European Court decisions, it is difficult to know how effective remedies pronounced in Strasbourg will turn out to be in reality. Needless to say, this pattern of shutting down sacred areas is highly problematic. It flies in the face of protecting places of worship that the Jehovah’s Witnesses have a right to assert, as demonstrated in the second part of this article. A possible saving grace is that the entire process appears to pay at least lip service, and hopefully more than that, to legal constraints. Every step along the way invokes law and legal determinations. Unfortunately, the laws in question seem to be open to abusive manipulation and discrimination. To make matters worse, Russia has formalised a process of permitting objections to rulings of the European Court of Human Rights. In July 2015, the Russian Constitutional Court held that Russia could fail to enforce an ECtHR judgement if that is the only possible way to avoid a violation of the fundamental principles and norms of the Russian Constitution.44 In December 2015, a federal law was passed which in effect incorporated the July decision into federal law.45 Based on these developments, in April 2016, the Russian Constitutional Court ruled, for the first time, that a European Court decision cannot be implemented in Russia.46 This is clearly inconsistent with commitments in the Russian Constitution itself and in commitments that Russia made at the time it became a member of the Council of Europe,47 and it bodes ill for the enforcement of religious freedom rights of unpopular religious groups. It remains to be seen how the entire panoply of remedies from the Council of Europe, including the European Court of Human Rights, will be applied. This should include increasingly effective actions taken by the Council of Europe’s Committee of Ministers, which is entrusted with the ultimate responsibility for 44 45 46 47

Resolution of the Constitutional Court of the Russian Federation No. 21-P of July 14, 2015. Federal Law No. 7-FKZ of December 14, 2015. Anchugov and Gladkov v. Russia (ECtHR, App. nos. 11157/04 and 15162/05, July 4, 2013). There are precedents elsewhere for constitutional courts to retain jurisdiction to monitor decisions of an international juridical body in order to confirm that the international body does not mandate violations of its national constitution. See, e. g., “Solange II”, Federal Constitutional Court of Germany, judgement No. 73, 339 of October 22, 1986. But in those cases, there would at least be an obligation to interpret the local constitution in a way that avoids any collision with international decisions to the extent possible. Given Russia’s constitutional commitments to freedom of religion, it is difficult to see how the Russian Supreme Court could mount a compelling case that a European Court decision in favour of the Jehovah’s Witnesses should not be respected.

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supervising the full enforcement of the judgements of the European Court of Human Rights. In addition to its power to pass resolutions, sponsor conferences and, in general, to foster dialogue on ways to enhance human rights compliance, the Council of Ministers has played an increasingly important role in supervising the execution of Strasbourg Court decisions. Given the extent of Russian violations with respect to freedom of religion or belief, it seems surprising that there are not more cases involving Russia’s violation of Article 9 of the European Convention that have been subjected to the Council of Minister’s “enhanced supervision” procedures. Certainly, what has happened in the Jehovah’s Witness case reveals important structural problems within the Russian system that deserve further attention. As important as international human rights law may be, long experience has shown that such norms are not self-enforcing, and frequently cannot be imposed by intergovernmental pressure. We need to remember that in many situations the most effective progress has been made through persistent efforts to hold government officials to principles that their states have accepted but have all too easily forgotten. It is important to pursue strategies that encourage dialogue designed to identify and remove practical obstacles to compliance while reminding officials of the persuasive reasons that justify commitments already made. A particular legal concern is finding ways to prevent the accumulation of a series of seemingly petty legal distortions being accumulated in order to justify major religious repression, as seems to have occurred first in the Jehovah’s Witness case. The concern is that the pattern visible in the Jehovah’s Witness case may be extended to the detriment of other religious groups in the coming months. More generally, it is important that the efforts of constitutional and human rights institutions be coordinated so that they reinforce one another, rather than competing for priority of position. Failure to protect the right to establish and maintain places of worship in Russia is an important reminder both of the importance of finding ways to achieve better implementation of this now widely accepted right and of the significance of protecting freedom of religion or belief values at the core of protecting religious and cultural heritage.

4.

Conclusion

The Russian cases involving Moscow’s Christ the Redeemer Cathedral and St Petersburg’s St Isaac’s Cathedral are in many ways more comparable to typical sacred site/cultural heritage cases than the Jehovah’s Witness dissolution. Jehovah’s Witness Kingdom Halls are unlikely to be selected as UNESCO World Heritage sites, and due to the lower profile of their places of worship, some of the tensions between the general public’s interest in a site and the worship interests of

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individuals at that location disappear. There is no doubt that the outcome in the Jehovah’s Witness case is severe. Yet the public interest in restraining the extremism that lies behind the outcome of dissolving a religion and totally shutting it down is not necessarily different in kind (though it is obviously different in degree) from other public interests that seek to impose limits on worship practices to further historical or cultural concerns that do not take freedom of religion claims sufficiently seriously. In both cases, a major consideration is protecting Russian culture. In any event, the Jehovah’s Witness case in Russia is a reminder that even humble sites deserve strong protection. Seen from the perspective of standard international religious provisions, the result in the Jehovah’s Witness case is clearly erroneous. At the very least, it is difficult to see why a less restrictive outcome could not have been found. It is simply not credible to believe that Jehovah’s Witnesses pose any serious threat to the stability or public order in Russia. This serves as a general reminder of the importance of searching diligently for less restrictive ways of pursuing government policies. More importantly, a government willing to crush a group such as the Jehovah’s Witnesses is all too likely to seek other scapegoats or to sacrifice other groups once the first group is effectively removed from the scene. In the end, if the sacredness of religious sites, even humble sites, is not protected, the structures that remain will at best be hollow (if not whitewashed) sepulchres.

Peter Petkoff

Developing and Implementing Innovative Preventative Mechanisms for the Protection of Religious Heritage Sites Through Soft Law Approaches1

1.

Introduction

Naming has always been a powerful act of bringing things into existence. In relation to places deemed sacred, naming as a normative act has shaped two notions of sacred sovereignty and of the profane and means justifying and enforcing this sacred sovereignty. Law in its different emanations (international, municipal and religious law) has developed a complex normative mosaic of formal and less formal practices in order to capture the paradox of profane and sacred normativity. In completing this task, lawyers have partly succeeded and partly failed in the attempt to deal with the obvious challenge of interdependence between sacred and profane normativities as well as with the less straightforward cases where sacred and profane normativities clash as part of a change in regime, redefining and often renaming the trajectory of sacred sovereignty as a result of this change. Hence, as is frequently the case, lawyers and policymakers tend to look for a universalist blueprint for dealing with such challenges through the lens of international law. Since sacred places have been historically connected to a very strong notion of territoriality and exclusivity, it has been extremely hard to engage with the question as to how such notions could be approached by the existing tools of international law in critical cases where normative regimes have to relate to contested or shared sacred spaces. How can a profane normativity translate across the inevitably exclusive notion of an “orthodox” interpretation of sacred sovereignty through the accommodation of property rights, of state duties to 1 This chapter is based on, and expands, earlier texts published in “Legal Protection of Sacred Places as a Medieval Gloss – Towards Working ‘Soft Law’ Guidelines under Public International Law”, Law and Justice 167 (2011) 27–53, and in “Finding a Grammar of Consent for ‘Soft Law’ Guidelines on Sacred Places. The Legal Protection of Sacred Places within the Existing Public International Law Instruments and Grass-root Approaches”, in S. Ferrari/A. Benzo (ed.), Between Cultural Diversity and Common Heritage. Legal and Religious Perspectives on the Sacred Places of the Mediterranean (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014) 57–71.

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preserve multiple identities in a (very often) multi-layered cultural heritage site and of freedom of religion or belief ? Most recently, UNESCO approaches to cultural heritage sites of religious significance have acutely displayed the shortcomings of the reliance of a single international regime and the possibility for political hijacking of such a regime without seeing it in connection to and through the interdependence of the wider corpus of public international law. In some way, one is inclined to argue that the only way of approaching sacred places is not through the isolation of a single international regime but through soft law approaches which relate contextually to the legal tools of the corpus of international public law as a living document but do not confine approaches to one particular international legal regime or enter into a minefield of standard definitions and special regimes. The current text seeks to develop and implement innovative preventative mechanisms for the protection of religious heritage sites. While the protection of cultural heritage in armed conflict has focussed on the respect of cultural property once a conflict arises, another key element to protection is the safeguarding of cultural heritage in peace-time, i. e. taking appropriate measures against the foreseeable effects of an armed conflict. However, the concept of safeguarding of religious cultural heritage has not yet been fully developed or implemented. I shall argue that in order to do this we need to develop holistic approaches towards reading and using international law as a fluid system of legal tools rather than as a set political philosophy (which certain commentators often claim international law is). I propose that this is effected through developing soft law approaches via the development of hermeneutics for the interpretations of soft law documents such as the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) but also through the development of soft law by way of guidelines and toolkits which offer a holistic approach to international law and take full advantage of the full arsenal of legal tools by identifying the ways they relate and cross over. This is critical: one of the key challenges is not that there are no tools to engage with the question of protection of sacred places. It is the fact that these legal tools are so wide and diverse, hard to find and difficult to interpret and relate. They range from human rights (Private Property, Freedom of Religion or Belief, Freedom of Association), Minority Rights, Humanitarian Law, Transitional justice strategies, ADR strategies through a number of UN platforms and, last but not least, the UNESCO soft and hard law tools. Furthermore, there is a wide range of bilateral treaties negotiated by the Holy See which are also perceived as another international law referring to sacred places. The Fundamental Agreement between the Holy See and Israel has used, for the first time in the history of concordats, the language of human rights via

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the UDHR and has dedicated a substantial part of the treaty to the protection of sacred places through the lens of the right to private property. How are we to read and use these legal tools? Somehow, the only way one can fully engage in developing soft law approaches to religious cultural heritage is by adopting a prevention-driven reading of international law, which is in some way similar to the developing and reading of a medieval canonical/civilian gloss of possible fluid, and by developing soft law tools to be used on the ground by stakeholders and policymakers. We have seen how effective this has been in the development of OSCE toolkits which are widely used not because they are binding but because they are good and work. Similarly, the broad-based discussions at a WIPO level on the future international law on traditional cultural expressions have developed thriving national practices. We can say how we could approach a particular sacred place in more than one way in a specific context, but this does not have to be carried out through a strict application of hard international law. We could, instead, apply a series of prevention-based practices: 1. the identification of common threats to the protection of the cultural heritage of religious interest caused by the foreseeable effects of conflicts; 2. the identification of blind spots within the existing relevant international legal tools with regard to the safeguarding of cultural heritage; 3. the development of innovative approaches to remedy those potential blind spots, including the consideration of complementary soft law approaches; 4. the development of policy recommendations for the safeguarding of heritage sites of religious interest; 5. the provision of support to networks with regard to the adoption of commitments, as well as with regard to the implementation of those commitments on the ground, including through training. One of the most recent developments in the area of the protection of religious sites is the initiative promoting the development of approaches to cultural heritage of religious interest which cuts across existing legal tools of international law and engages with diverse approaches in a creative way rather than focussing exclusively on one particular regime of protection. While these approaches are still in their nascent phase they clearly indicate an emerging scholarly interest and policy commitment. The cultural heritage of religious interest has emerged as an area of particular concern because religious heritage sites are threatened during armed conflicts, but also during peace time and in periods of social and political transition. The destruction or preservation of the cultural heritage of religious interest often shapes the dynamics, determines the outcome of the conflict and defines the legitimacy of state and non-state actors involved in an armed conflict. There are

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strategic benefits for state and non-state actors to protect cultural heritage in general, and religious cultural heritage in particular, as part of wider military, civic and political objectives. Such protection could also be linked to development goals, conflict forecasting, identity politics and social and political engineering, rule of law and building of diverse cohesive societies by emphasising the stakeholders’ role in receiving protection and sharing the benefits. The central premise of this paper is a focus on prevention, rather than on implementation, in the development of innovative complementary approaches to religious heritage protection through furthering a constructive discussion of what may be done in the future, identifying specific problems and projects to be promoted and addressing the problems which have been identified. Prevention-based approaches offer a comprehensive set of legal tools which provides an extensive range of strategies to deal with religious cultural protection through the lens of prevention rather than compliance. Applying such an approach forces the parties to realise the benefits of working together without having to consider the question of compliance. The question of compliance, in the context of monitoring state parties’ commitment to their international obligation, is in every respect difficult as it renders state parties defensive and naturally uncooperative. When everyone shifts the focus from compliance to prevention, one does not have to worry about the consequences of notifying that one of the parties is non-compliant and can, on the contrary, signal that there appears to be a problem and focus on finding ways of working together to solve it, improving the situation rather than arguing about the legal categorisation. Such a preventative approach creates a space for dialogue and exchange, an opportunity to engage with the issues in the way that they can currently be addressed. It creates a different space in an ongoing discussion, guiding ongoing relations, not dwelling on arguments, building networks of engagement through any existing national and international preventive mechanisms, maintaining an existing web of relationships, addressing real problems, delivering real and practical solutions, deploying applied contextual approaches drawing inspiration from international instruments but not tied to them. Religious authorities and other heritage stakeholders are often reluctant, or find it difficult, to engage directly with state authorities, and means of communication that are less confrontational become paramount. Such means of communication based on prevention enable the different parties to work through reasons which are not focussed on persecution but on the misunderstanding of those groups, on building confidence and trust. Such approaches represent a bottom-up, grass-roots approach rather than the top-down implementation of human rights commitments or heritage standards. In such a context, developing new, intensely practical approaches to tackle real problems will identify more effectively what can be done using preventive measures in particular communities. Having developed such

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dynamics, one could then see how international law may be a vehicle for bringing things to a local level, engaging the local communities, stakeholders and governments in a way that traditional approaches driven by compliance have not been able to deliver.

2.

Sacred Places Within and Beyond Places of Worship

Due to the inherent uniqueness of sacred places, developing a taxonomy of them is virtually impossible in the same way as creating an exhaustive list of types of religion or belief or religious symbols is impossible. Sacred places range from those with very clearly defined borders and physical specifications, to geographical areas, national parks, processions, pilgrimages, sacramental places and places where the faithful congregate and their spiritual leaders teach. Whether they are static or dynamic, it appears almost impossible to identify patterns to fit these randomly selected types of sacred places into broader categories. It does not come as a surprise, therefore, that law is generally uncomfortable with developing comprehensive regimes of sacred places. The existing regimes are very specific or relate to specific places and do not attempt to develop comprehensive uniform standards of protection of “the Sacred”. The most prominent form of protection is given to places of worship, that is places where religious communities congregate. I have purposefully departed from the use of “places of worship” as the centre of my enquiry and have chosen a non-legal term “sacred/ holy places”. In this way, I am able to enquire into forms of protection of places which do not necessarily fit, or fall outside, the category of places of worship and/ or of the category of a place and yet may be associated with features which various legal tools often attribute to places of worship. Defining what a holy/sacred place/ space might be is probably the topic of a different article. For the purposes of the present text, I shall be concentrating on places, spaces and events which may be perceived in some way as extensions of the legal category of places of worship but are often approached through the lens of legal tools other than freedom of religion or belief, for example. In order to do so, I have introduced into the discussion a wider concept of “sacred place/space/ event” as an object of worshipful significance for believers and/or non-believers which is sometimes identical or similar to, and sometimes extends beyond, the level of veneration associated with a place of worship and therefore extends beyond the legal category of a place of worship. In doing so, the present text enquires into what extent such objects of worshipful veneration are approached differently from and similarly to places of worship from different perspectives of international law and whether they should be approached primarily through the

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lens of existing legal tools or whether a new form of protection reflecting the existence of a separate object of protection would be necessary instead. For this purpose, the present text provides an overview of the relevant existing international legal instruments and enquires into similarities and differences in the protection of sacred places, such as events – pilgimage routes/processions (which are frequently perceived through the lens of freedom of manifestation of religion or belief), unique sacred shrines (Jerusalem, Mecca, Mount Athos, the Vatican City State et al.), sacred landscape and places more generally perceived as places of worship in the strictest sense (churches, mosques, synagogues, prayer rooms). The author feels that approaches which distinguish sacred places for their uniqueness (Mecca, Jerusalem) and places of worship for their communality (churches, mosques, synagogues, prayer rooms) is a false distinction and is not particularly helpful since every sacred place may be perceived as a place of worship, and some places of worship may also be perceived as sacred places. As a result, the text continuously tries to avoid a definition of sacred place and instead introduces a broader (not necessarily legal) category which absorbs different forms of the legal protection of places and events which could be construed as sacred places in the wider sense, enquires into the ways these different forms of protection relate to one another and to the wider concept of sacred places and asks whether a more transparent picture of these different, yet interconnected, forms might serve as a possible blueprint for a soft law for the protection of sacred places, broadly understood, through existing and perhaps new legal tools. The present exercise does not necessarily present a case for a new category of protection under international law. It is, on the contrary, in the first place, an enquiry into the ways in which different, and sometimes overlapping, legal tools are applied in the protection of different, and sometimes overlapping, objects that could be broadly described as sacred places. Secondly, it enquires into the ways in which these different, yet related, approaches could be made more transparent through a form of soft law for the protection of a broader category of sacred places, which would provide a systematic overview of the existing hard law legal tools and the way they may interconnect in a multi-layered fashion in the field of the legal protection of sacred places. Multiple identities of sacred places and their complex relationships (religious, cultural, civic or even strategic), often triggering conflicting and contested horizontal and vertical sovereignty claims, are not easy to explain as legal entities. Considerations such as whether sacred places should be taxed, audited, dependent on planning laws or insurance laws, included in the register of listed heritage sites, subsidised by the annual budget of the state, are no longer dependent on the law but to a large extent on the commitment the political community chooses to articulate in relation to such places: can it afford to have them tax exempt and to let the communities in charge of such sites develop a considerable level of autonomy

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which will make the general rules about social security, public safety and planning laws non-binding for such communities? The answers to such questions are often the result of security concerns, concern for heritage protection, human rights arguments or arguments of religious autonomy. Very rarely are special cases, such as Jerusalem, the Holy See and Mount Athos, regulated by eclectic legal norms, which reflect the complexities of their legal status. In the effort to reduce the nature of sacred places to one or another aspect of their multiple identities, both international and municipal law conditions their legal status to a specific substantive definition, category of place or area of law. This definition could be shaped by the way in which international or municipal law categorises a particular subject matter or by a particular policy-driven agenda to place such subject matter within or outside the specific concern of the law. There has not been, however, an attempt to develop a non-binding narrative by way of guidelines, which would approach sacred places through their multiple identities and serve as a model for legal reasoning which would see these identities in conjunction and not in isolation. In this paper, I wish to show how many of the available tools under international law, and some of the legal tools tangential, but connected, to international law, may serve to develop such guidelines, which could then generate a model for integrated multi-dimensional perspectives in the policy-making concerning the legal protection of sacred places. There has been no clear and transparent way of integrating the tools of the existing international law. It is not clear how they relate to one another even to international lawyers, and it is not clear whether they could, or should, be applied in conjunction. A soft law could propose a way in which these different, and sometimes competing, approaches could be applied in conjunction. A soft law text, which does not harmonise the different practices, could suggest an intellectual framework within which legal issues relating to sacred places could be approached in a broader and more comprehensive manner, in the first instance as an intellectual tool and only secondarily as a possible future legal framework. Various forms of soft law, by way of guidelines rather than declarations, are more likely to achieve change, transforming legal thinking at the level of the judiciary, executive and legislature. Thus this chapter will present available tools and the ways they relate, or should relate, to one another within a wider soft law narrative. The initial premise will be that it protects any places where freedom of religion or belief is exercised (and what the conditions for this to happen might be) and perhaps shared – from the very obvious sacrificial places to the family home as a sacred place/sacred space.

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3.

Soft Law and Multi-Vectored Lenses. Imagining International Legal Tools as a Means of Protecting Sacred Spaces

3.1

Freedom of religion or belief going places and spaces

The available legal tools under international law which articulate available sacred places protection vocabulary through the lens of freedom of religion or belief as a fundamental right2 can be found in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR),3 the European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR),4 the American Convention on Human Rights (ACHR),5 the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights,6 and in the UDHR,7 as well as the 1981 Declaration on the Elimination of All Forms of Intolerance and Discrimination Based on Religion or Belief (1981 Declaration on Religious Intolerance).8 The right to freedom of religion positively includes the right to manifest one’s faith by worship “alone or in community”. The concept of a protected place of worship appears to be articulated through the legal tools aimed at protecting freedom of association and manifestation in the ICCPR. The General Comment No. 22 on freedom of religion issued by the Human Rights Committee refers to “the concept of worship … including the building of places of worship”.9 Article 4 in the 1981 Declaration includes the right to worship and assemble and “to establish and maintain places for these purposes”. It is, therefore, a first attempt to speak of centres of religious devotion in broader terms avoiding the use of culturally specific terms such as holy, sacred and of worship. The text speaks exclusively of places, thus delineating the intangible dimension of sacred spaces for the purposes of legal protection under international law. UDHR specifically delineates the right to freedom of religion or belief in Article 18. The forum externum aspect of Art. 18 includes “freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance”, a mild concession to group rights. 2 An excellent overview of the evolving approaches to places of worship in the context of public international law, including most recent UN resolutions and the contributions of the UN Special Rapporteurs on Freedom of Religion or Belief, is provided by Wiener in H. Bielefeldt/ N. Ghanea/M. Wiener (ed.), Freedom of Religion or Belief. An International Law Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 117–43. 3 ICCPR 1966 999 UNTS 171 (ICCPR). 4 ECHR 1950 213 UNTS 221 (ECHR). 5 ACHR (n. 10) Art. 12. 6 African Charter (n. 10) Art. 8. 7 UDHR (adopted December 10, 1948) UNGA Res 217 A(III) (UDHR). 8 Declaration 1981, UNGA Res 36/55 (November 25, 1981) UN Doc A/RES/36/55. 9 UNCHR “General Comment 22” (1994) UN Doc HRI/GEN/1/Rev.7 [4].

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Despite the fact that the Declaration has the status of soft law, the widespread acceptance of the UDHR shows that many of its provisions have achieved the status of customary international law. As a further development from UDHR, Article 18(1) of the ICCPR protects the individual and collective manifestations of a religion, placing particular emphasis on four forms: worship, observance, practice and teaching. Similarly to UDHR, active exercise of these rights is usually exercised in “public” in the sense of the outside world and is thus basically subject to limitations. In this context, prevention-driven soft law approaches referencing other relevant international legal regimes, which reflect multiple identities of sacred places, become critical for the effective application of these limitations.

3.2

Protection of sacred places and minority protection

Having taken an international human right as our starting point, one “almost naturally” moves to minority protection as an approach which is next in line to individual human rights protection. The phrase “religious minority” applies to any group adhering to a defined set of religious beliefs.10 Relevant forms of minority protection are outlined in Article 27 of the ICCPR, the General Comment No. 23,11 the Declaration on the Rights of Persons belonging to National or Ethnic, Religious, or Linguistic Minorities (1992 Declaration),12 the Genocide Convention,13 Article 14 ECHR14 and in the European Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities (European Framework Convention).15 The principles those legal tools provide include an obligation for state parties not to deny persons belonging to minorities the common “practice of their religion” because “minority rights enrich the fabric of society as a whole”,16 common “enjoyment of their cultural life”, the common “practice of their religion” and the common “use of their language”, the promotion of minority identity, participatory rights in “cultural, religious, social, economic and public 10 Y. Dinstein, “Freedom of Religion and the Protection of Religious Minorities”, Israel Yearbook on Human Rights 20 (1990) 155–79. 11 UNCHR “General Comment 23” (2004) UN Doc HRI/GEN/1/Rev.7 [1]. 12 UNGA Res 47/135 (December 18, 1992) UN Doc A/Res/47/135. 13 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide 1948 78 UNTS 277 (Genocide Convention). 14 ECHR (n. 10) Art. 14. 15 European Framework Convention for the Protection of National Minorities (signed at Strasbourg, February 1, 1995) ETS No. 157. 16 UNCHR “General Comment 23” (1994) UN Doc HRI/GEN/1/Rev.7.

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life”, the establishment of minorities’ associations and underpins the collective dimension with the encouragement of the communal enjoyment of rights without discrimination. Case law and General Comment on Article 27 require the protection of minority identity and the valuing of diversity as part of the essential “fabric” of communities and states. Nowak argues that Article 27 provides minorities with a lex specialis to practise their religion, publish their own literature and found cultural institutions.17 While minority protection does not necessarily provide effective answers for the legal protection of sacred places, it does present a blueprint of a number of challenges which may emerge in connection with sacred places when a particular civic culture asserts itself as a majority culture and illustrates further the important of connecting various distinctive international legal tools and mandates in order to develop coherent soft law approaches to sacred places.

4.

Sacred under Threat and the Threat of the Sacred. Sacred Places, Humanitarian Law, Rules of War and Cultural Heritage Protection

Another prominent approach in connection to the protection of places of worship which focusses specifically on the fabric of sacred sites is the notion that the state preserves sacred sites in order to maintain peace and to prevent religious hatred. Taken in isolation this approach reverses the perspectives of religious freedom and focusses on protection of religion and sacred sites not because religious freedom is good but because people burn each other’s houses due to their religion, and the state has a duty to prevent religious violence.

4.1

Protection of sacred sites as protecting cultural sites

In international humanitarian law, places of worship are included in the protection of cultural properties during armed conflicts. Most recently, an ICC case broke new ground by establishing that attacks against religious and historical monuments violate cultural rights, are war crimes and can cause significant harm to the local and sometimes broader communities.18 17 M. Nowak, UN Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. CCPR Commentary (Kehl: N.P. Engel, 1993), 505. 18 The Prosecutor v. Ahmad Al Faqi Al Mahdi, ICC No.: ICC-01/12–01/15 September 27, 2016 TRIAL CHAMBER VIII Before: Judge Raul C. Pangalangan, Presiding Judge Antoine KesiaMbe Mindua, Judge Bertram Schmitt.

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The 1954 Hague Convention expands upon the norms of the 1907 Hague Conventions, which establish that in bombardments by naval forces all the necessary measures must be taken by the commander to spare, as far as possible, sacred edifices, buildings used for artistic, scientific purposes and historical monuments, by adding several new features to the law of cultural property.19 It defines cultural property as movable or immovable property of great importance to the cultural heritage of every people, such as monuments of architecture, art or history, whether religious or secular. An International Register of Cultural Property under Special Protection20 was created, featuring monuments of particular importance that qualify for special protection. There are three categories of property to which special protection is to be given: a limited number of refuges intended to shelter movable cultural property in the event of armed conflict; centres containing monuments; other immovable cultural property of very great importance. These properties can be placed under special protection if two conditions are fulfilled and respected: the protected property must be situated at an adequate distance21 from any large industrial centre or from any important military objective; the protected property must not be used for military purposes.22 To date, cultural sites in four states, (Vatican City, January 18, 1960; Austria, November 17, 1967; Germany, April 22, 1978; and the Netherlands, May 12, 1969) have been entered in the register at the request of those states, with a total number of eight refuges as well as the whole of the Vatican City State.23 The Geneva Conventions Relative to the Protection of Civilian Persons in Time of War of 1949 (hereafter the Geneva Convention), had a fundamental influence on the drafting of the 1954 Convention and prohibits:24 to commit any acts of hostility directed against the historic monuments, works of art or places of worship which constitute the cultural or spiritual heritage of peoples; to use such objects in support of the military effort; to make such objects the objects of reprisals.25 19 D.A. Meyer, “The 1954 Hague Cultural Property Convention and Its Emergence into Customary International Law”, Boston University International Law Journal 11/2 (1993) 349–90, on p. 352. Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict (adopted May 14, 1954, entered into force August 7, 1956) 249 UNTS 240 (The Hague Convention 1954) Art. 1. 20 The Hague Convention 1954 (n. 237) Art. 8. 21 Ibid., Art. 8(1)a. 22 Ibid., Art. 8(1)b. 23 UNESCO, “International Register of Cultural Property under Special Protection”, available at http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0014/001407/140792E.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 24 Ibid., 21. 25 Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and relating to the Protection of Victims of International Armed Conflicts 1977 UNYB 95.

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Acts of hostility directed at properties which constitute the “cultural or spiritual heritage” of peoples and extend protection to a number of sacred sites are prohibited.26 At the insistence of a large number of states, however, “places of worship” was returned and supplemented with the current language of “cultural or spiritual heritage”. The ICRC noted that spiritual importance may exist even in the absence of cultural importance, and that “spiritual” was written into Protocol I to cover such situations, but not to extend protection to local churches or mosques.27 Protocol II also covers situations of non-international armed conflict and contains a provision for the protection of cultural property. It prohibits “any acts of hostility directed against historic monuments, works of art or places of worship which constitute the cultural or spiritual heritage of peoples, and to use them in support of the military effort”.28 The Second Protocol to the Hague Convention expands the existing legal tools by providing “enhanced protection”, available for immovable and movable cultural property, a regime of criminal sanctions, identifies two categories of war crimes specifically relating to cultural property and introduces a twelve-person intergovernmental Committee for the Protection of Cultural Property in the event of Armed Conflict,29 which is empowered “to establish, maintain, and promote the List of Cultural Property under Enhanced Protection”.30 The Declaration Concerning the International Destruction of Cultural Heritage was adopted by the General Conference of UNESCO in 200331 as a follow up to the resolution entitled “Acts Constituting a Crime against the Common Heritage of Humanity”.32 This declaration advances the cause for framing a convention which specifically sets out the provisions for the protection of sacred sites at all times. Among the most recent initiatives in the work of UNESCO is a new engagement with a category of cultural heritage sites of religious significance, which is a novel approach in the work of UNESCO and reflects the new scale of threats to religious sites, and a number of research studies and analyses of religious 26 Article 53, the Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and relating to the Protection of Victims of International Armed Conflicts (Protocol I), June 8, 1977. 27 International Committee of the Red Cross, Commentary on the Additional Protocols of 8 June 1977 to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949 (Genève: ICRC, 1987), 646. 28 Protocol Additional to the Geneva Conventions of 12 August 1949, and Relating to the Protection of Victims of Non-International Armed Conflicts 1977, 16; see G.M. Mose, “The Destruction of Churches and Mosques in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Seeking a Rights-Based Approach to the Protection of Religious Cultural Property”, The Buffalo Journal of International Law 3/1 (1996) 180–208, on p. 185. 29 Second Hague Protocol 1999, Article 24(1). 30 Ibid., Article 27(1)(b). 31 UNESCO 32nd Session (2003) 32 C/Res 33 Annex. 32 UNESCO 31st Session (2001) 31 C/Res 26.

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heritage and sacred sites were carried out by the Advisory Bodies – ICCROM, ICOMOS and IUCN.33 What is particularly interesting about these documents from soft law perspectives is that they promote several novel perceptions and technical terms concerning religious sites which may acquire new status in an international context. These include new technical terms such as “religious property”, as used in the ICOMOS study Filling the Gaps – an Action Plan for the Future, referring to “any form of property with religious or spiritual associations: churches, monasteries, shrines, sanctuaries, mosques, synagogues, temples, sacred landscapes, sacred groves and other landscape features, etc.”.34 In a similar fashion there is a fairly elaborate term of “sacred site” which is used to designate areas of special spiritual significance to peoples and communities. Another term, “sacred natural site”, is also deployed in connection with the areas of land or water having “special spiritual significance to peoples and communities” and with reference to the Guidelines for the Conservation and Management of Sacred Natural Sites, 2008 proposed by the IUCN/UNESCO.35 According to ICCROM, living religious heritage has characteristics that distinguish it from other forms of heritage. Sacred sites, which, according to the UNESCO MAB Programme, “are indeed the oldest protected areas of the planet”, and “have a vital importance for safeguarding cultural and biological diversity for present and future generations”. Collectively, the religious and sacred properties capture a range of cultural and natural diversity, and each can singularly demonstrate the spirit of a particular place.36

33 See http://whc.unesco.org/en/religious-sacred-heritage (accessed January 18, 2019). A number of conclusions and recommendations drawn from previous meetings and activities on religious and sacred heritage, such as the ICCROM 2003 Forum on the conservation of “Living Religious Heritage”, the 2005 ICOMOS General Assembly Resolution calling for the “establishment of an International Thematic Programme for Religious Heritage”, and 2011 ICOMOS General Assembly Resolution on Protection and enhancement of sacred heritage sites, buildings and landscapes, as well as the UNESCO/IUCN Guidelines for the Conservation and Management of Sacred Natural Sites, the Nara Document on Authenticity adopted at the Nara Conference on Authenticity in relation to the World Heritage Convention held in 1994 and the Québec Declaration on the Preservation of the Spirit of Place, adopted at the 16th General Assembly of ICOMOS in 2008. 34 J. Jokilehto/H. Cleere/S. Denyer et al. (ed.), The World Heritage List. Filling the Gaps – an Action Plan for the Future / La liste du patrimoine mondial. Combler les lacunes – un plan d’action pour le futur (Paris: ICOMOS, 2005), available at http://whc.unesco.org/uploads/ activities/documents/activity-646-3.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 35 R. Wild/C. McLeod (ed.), Sacred Natural Sites. Guidelines for Protected Area Managers (Gland/Paris: IUCN/UNESCO, 2008), available at https://cmsdata.iucn.org/downloads/pa_ guidelines_016_sacred_natural_sites.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 36 See https://whc.unesco.org/en/religious-sacred-heritage (accessed January 18, 2019).

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This is also an opportunity for UNESCO to relate its work to wider international commitments beyond the UNESCO instruments which will inevitably become strategic focal points for engagement with holistic approaches to the protection of heritage with religious significance. The multidisciplinary research initiative which is likely to be championed by the UNESCO chairs has an ambitious objective to engage with the World Heritage Centre/Advisory Bodies Steering Group, the states parties to the World Heritage Convention and to develop series of soft law tools including general guidance regarding the management of cultural and natural heritage of religious interest, requested by the World Heritage Committee. It is envisaged that the initiative may establish an inventory of World Heritage properties of religious interest by categories and sub-categories, define under-represented categories, analyse the concept and definition of heritage of religious interest, develop a working definition of “religious interest”, as well as the meaning of sustainable management for each of these categories. The document takes a fairly fluid approach to religious heritage with reference to existing tools developed within a UNESCO context.37 Since this Committee’s Decision adopted at its 35th session (UNESCO, 2011), the term “Heritage of religious interest” has now been adopted by the UNESCO World Heritage Centre in all its official documents and correspondence with the intention to expand the existing classifications defined by ICOMOS, ICCROM, as well as within the framework of the UNESCO Periodic Reporting exercise, and propose strategies towards protection and management for each category of WH properties of religious interest.38

Since then ICOMOS has revised the broad categories of cultural heritage and adopted a multi-faceted approach to the analysis of the World Heritage List and come to the conclusion that from a “typological framework” point of view, religious monuments are seen to have more occurrences than any other types.39 Another relevant research agenda, the spirit of place, has been launched by UNESCO as an opportunity to study the contexts in which the management of the cultural and natural heritage of religious interest is practised. The initiative was envisaged as a way of developing something which apparently looks like a set of soft law principles for the safeguarding of the living, social and spiritual nature of religious sites and culminated in the drafting of the Nara Document on 37 “The World Heritage Convention recognizes that heritage can be defined as ‘monuments, groups of buildings and sites’. In practice, a broad set of typologies has developed”: extract of the manual Managing Cultural World Heritage (Paris: UNESCO, 2013), 12, available at http://whc. unesco.org/en/managing-cultural-world-heritage (accessed January 18, 2019). 38 UNESCO Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest, Integrated Implementation Strategy Annex 1, available at https://whc.unesco.org/document/137192 (accessed January 18, 2019). 39 See http://whc.unesco.org/archive/2004/whc04-28com-inf13ae.pdf and http://whc.unesco.org/ar chive/2004/whc04-28com-13e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019).

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Authenticity adopted at the Nara Conference on Authenticity in relation to the World Heritage Convention held in 1994 and the Québec Declaration on the Preservation of the Spirit of Place, adopted at the 16th General Assembly of ICOMOS in 2008. The diversity of cultures and heritage in our world is an irreplaceable source of spiritual and intellectual richness for all humankind. The protection and enhancement of cultural and heritage diversity in our world should be actively promoted as an essential aspect of human development. Cultural heritage diversity exists in time and space, and demands respect for other cultures and all aspects of their belief systems. In cases where cultural values appear to be in conflict, respect for cultural diversity demands acknowledgment of the legitimacy of the cultural values of all parties.40

Whatever the perception of the work of UNESCO might be, these initiatives are extremely important for the development of international legal approaches towards the protection of sacred spaces because they represent key efforts to articulate a grammar of sacred places within the context of international law, which is something other international agencies have failed to achieve in such an explicit fashion. Among the novel approaches are principled conclusions that religious and sacred properties represent one of the largest categories of properties to be found in most countries around the world and that living religious heritage has characteristics that distinguish it from other forms of heritage41 because “sacred sites are indeed the oldest protected areas of the planet”, and “have a vital importance for safeguarding cultural and biological diversity for present and future generations”.42 In this regard, it is important to highlight the significance of the role played by religious communities in the creation, maintenance and continual shaping of sacred places that was recognised during the International Seminar on the Role of Religious Communities in the Management of World Heritage properties, in Kiev, Ukraine, in November 2010, with the Statement on the Protection of Religious Properties within the Framework of the World Heritage Convention.43 The Statement “stressed that culturally and environmentally sustainable management of such heritage should be the responsibility of all stakeholders concerned, 40 The Nara Document on Authenticity, available at https://www.icomos.org/en/about-icomos/ committees/national-committees/179-articles-en-francais/ressources/charters-and-stand ards/386-the-nara-document-on-authenticity-1994 (accessed January 18, 2019). 41 UNESCO Cultural Landscapes, available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/culturallandscape (accessed January 18, 2019). 42 UNESCO Man and Biosphere Programme, available at http://www.unesco.org/new/en/naturalsciences/environment/ecological-sciences/man-and-biosphere-programme (accessed January 18, 2019). 43 UNESCO Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest, available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/ religious-sacred-heritage/ (accessed January 18, 2019).

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and that mutual acceptance and respect will bring different and complementary perspectives to shared cultural and spiritual values”.44

4.2

Coexistence of communities. Mutual respect of values and constructive dialogue in a multicultural context

It is necessary to undertake research to define and analyse evidence of common interests and divergences of stakeholders and research the factors and influences that improve or detract from the quality of life of a place or community through a heritage of religious interest mapping. This “heritage mapping” should include “mapping” of religious communities and how they relate to each other; “mapping” of the spirit and memory of a place; “mapping” of cultural attitudes and “mapping” artefacts and their messages. This research should include a study on interactions among different religions/spiritual traditions – site features landscape/surroundings – monument/site – intangible heritage/natural sacred sites – local human religious activities/and tourism, as well as risk and sensitivity analysis. Understanding the continuing nature of religious and sacred heritage, having the capacity to protect its authenticity and integrity, including its particular spiritual significance, and sharing the knowledge of our common history are the three pillars necessary for building mutual respect and dialogue among communities. Approaches should build on and facilitate international co-operation among all those with an interest in conservation of cultural heritage, in order to improve global respect and understanding for the diverse expressions and values of each culture.45

The aforementioned Statement reaffirmed the vital further role of religious communities in conveying, expressing and sustaining spiritual identity, meaning and purpose to human life, considering that these offer significant opportunities in a fast developing and globalizing world, as well as presenting serious challenges.46

It also

44 Ibid. 45 The Nara Document on Authenticity, available at https://www.icomos.org/en/about-icomos/ committees/national-committees/179-articles-en-francais/ressources/charters-and-standards/ 386-the-nara-document-on-authenticity-1994 (accessed January 18, 2019). 46 UNESCO Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest, available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/ religious-sacred-heritage/ (accessed January 18, 2019).

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emphasized that the continuing nature of religious heritage calls for dialogue and mutual understanding between the religious communities concerned and all other stakeholders, who must work together to preserve the significance of cultural, mixed and natural heritage sites associated with the sacred.47

“[To] mobilize culture and mutual understanding to foster peace and reconciliation” is one of the actions proposed by the participants of the UNESCO International Congress “Culture: Key to Sustainable Development” (Hangzhou, May 2013) in order to place culture at the heart of future policies for sustainable development. The Hangzhou Congress provided a global forum to discuss the role of culture in sustainable development in view of the United Nations post-2015 development agenda. It was highlighted that in the context of globalization, and in the face of the identity challenges and tensions it can create, intercultural dialogue and the recognition of and respect for cultural diversity can forge more inclusive, stable and resilient societies.48

4.3

UNESCO approaches to the governance, management and use of World Heritage cultural and natural properties of religious interest

UNESCO considers the elements such as value and levels of interactions as criteria for determining the scope and the nature of the management and protection plan for particular property. In this respect, legal protection is not seen as sufficient for the preservation of living religious and sacred sites and their transmission to future generations. The UNESCO discourses acknowledge that their survival depends on the custodial role played daily by the religious communities in caring for these as a living heritage.49 This implies a presence of holistic approaches which could facilitate understanding complex and often multilayered approaches in connection with sacred places and their complex and frequently multiple identities. In order to achieve this, UNESCO approaches to sacred places promote (at least in theory) the management of living sacred sites as a broad concept which requires the mutual acceptance and respect among stakeholders, as well as adapted operational measures of conservation crucial for enhancing the integrity, sustaining the spiritual identity, associated sacred values and the survival of a site’s outstanding universal 47 Ibid. 48 Final Hangzhou Declaration Placing Culture at the Heart of Sustainable Development Policies, available at http://www.unesco.org/new/fileadmin/MULTIMEDIA/HQ/CLT/pdf/final_ hangzhou_declaration_english.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 49 See UNESCO Initiative on Heritage of Religious Interest, Integrated Implementation Strategy Annex 1 and http://whc.unesco.org/en/religious-sacred-heritage (accessed January 18, 2019).

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value.50 Another interesting aspect in the emerging UNESCO approaches is a theoretical discourse which links values, sacred values in particular, in the context of discussions on the criterion defining a property’s direct or indirect link to events or living traditions, ideas or beliefs.

4.4

Case-study approach to World Heritage properties of religious interest

The large number of data and tools which UNESCO has deployed in the field of cultural heritage does not provide ready answers concerning the possible successful strategies for sustainable management and use of the World Heritage properties of religious interest. There are currently no standards, protocols, indicators or databases within the field of religious heritage to respond effectively to the range of problems that emerge for such inscribed properties. UNESCO has proposed that any future approaches would involve a build-up of case studies on the governance, management and use of World Heritage properties of religious interest that should seek the view of spiritual traditions from elders and indigenous traditions, custodians, religious authorities, local religious communities and/or folk variants, and other relevant stakeholders that retain a close association with the property in order to determine any relevant variables which display different approaches and patterns to the ownership, management and use of cultural heritage properties of religious significance. This is seen as an important aspect of the understanding of hybrid decision-making processes which involve relevant stakeholders’ traditional management systems as well as modern heritage management systems for a more effective management of the World Heritage property.51 The existing UNESCO Online Information System52 could effectively be deployed for an analysis of state of conservation reports and an identification of the main threats and existing management procedures in representative properties of religious interest, in different contexts and under different pressures, by using the existing data collection approaches via “the heritage template for documenting a management system”.53 A heritage management system is a framework, often permanent, made up of three important elements: a legal framework which defines the reasons for its existence, an institution which gives form to its organizational needs and decision-making, and resources (human, financial and intellectual) which are used to make it operative. … Some 50 Ibid. 51 Managing Cultural World Heritage, 58, available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/managingcultural-world-heritage/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 52 See http://whc.unesco.org/en/soc/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 53 Managing Cultural World Heritage, 118–19, tables 12–13, available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/ managing-cultural-world-heritage/ (accessed January 18, 2019).

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heritage management systems are based on time-honoured practices that have never been written down or on practices that have evolved, perhaps as a by-product of religious codes. All the same, the nine components [legal framework, institutional framework and resources, planning, implementation and monitoring, outcomes, outputs and improvements to the management system] identified in the framework will still be distinguishable. For instance, the three elements (legal and institutional framework and resources) might be reflected in the distribution of responsibilities and the social hierarchy within the community. Traditional management systems have so far received little attention within heritage discussions but are now recognized to be an important aspect of managing heritage.54

5.

Acta et Agenda

These remarkable UNESCO initiatives, which can only be described as a “work in progress” stage, in some way also highlight a significant blind spot in the ways the UN agency has handled complex questions about shared and often contested religious heritage sites (as is evident in a number of controversial UNESCO engagements in connection with the status of al-Aqsa,55 the Mosque-Cathedral of Cordoba and the Old City of Hebron);56 the cases display a systemic failure of the organisation to engage with complex cases of religious cultural heritage beyond the narrow politics of the UNESCO World Heritage Committee. In the light of those cases and the imminent departure of the US and Israel from the organisation, the above work-in-progress commitments are certainly a step in the right direction and may provide the set of soft legal tools needed to propel a more robust engagement with the question of the protection of religious heritage sites. How could this paradigm shift in the engagement with religious heritage sites be achieved in the UNESCO context? A number of initial points may at least propel further discussions, with the full awareness that the effectiveness of any such discussions will be limited by challenges such as a complex bureaucratic apparatus of an international agency and the limitations of such an infrastructure to handle effectively emerging holistic approaches that could enrich UNESCO’s own strategies in the field. There are a number of matters which could be auctioned in terms of acta et agenda in an open, long-term reflective and policyoriented project. These include:

54 Ibid., 54–5. 55 Decision: 40 COM 7A.13 Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls (site proposed by Jordan) (C 148 rev), available at http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/6818/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 56 Decision: 41 COM 8B.1 Hebron/Al-Khalil Old Town (Palestine), available at http://whc. unesco.org/en/decisions/6875/ (accessed January 18, 2019).

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1. Transforming the UNESCO chairs into an active and effective advisory board similar to the one which used to operate very effectively in an OSCE context as a Freedom of Religion or Belief Advisory Body. 2. Developing broad soft law tools as a point of reference behind existing public international law commitments and beyond the mandate of UNESCO. These may include working with religious stakeholders in developing good practices in the conservation of religious sites, approaching shared and contested religious heritage sites, joint supervision of religious heritage sites by heritage authorities and religious stakeholders, etc. 3. Relating the UNESCO work in the field of religious cultural heritage to the work of other international mandates. This is certainly a process which has been emerging in the work on the UN Special Rapporteurs. We used to think that these mandates were sacrosanct and did not relate. Now the UN Special Rapporteurs themselves speak of relating different mandates. Relating Cultural Heritage objectives to other international law commitments will certainly broaden the discourse if not deepen the policy commitments. 4. An urgent and radical comprehensive engagement with the question of religious heritage sites having multiple identities, whether shared or contested, and develop examples of good practices. 5. Developing a comprehensive opting-out regime and negotiating platforms in contexts where “protection” and “cultural heritage” are not welcome, and developing alternative approaches to the commitment to successful cultural heritage cases where the role of the state may be considered over-emphasised and an infringement on religious institutional autonomy. 6. Developing stronger interdependence between universality and subsidiarity in heritage protection approaches. This includes multi-centred political perfectionism approaches where the “minimal state” can articulate objectives and participate in emerging dialogical spaces and shape policies. 7. Developing reflective rather than reactive soft law approaches. Law is, on the one hand, naturally reactive about problems which have to be solved. Soft law approaches, on the other hand, are about designing evolving living documents which do not simply solve a particular problem but creatively explore strategies through which existing legal tools could be comprehended and work better. The legal protection of religious heritage sites is not confined to the solving of specific problems. It is an enquiry into how legal cultures (religious and non-religious) engage in conversations and relate, and the fluidity through which this is happening that changes our normative perceptions. Significant work has been carried out in this direction, within the context of comparative canon law and the translation of legal cultures by the late Clarence Gallagher SJ, and in the area of law, relationism and biblical law by Jonathan Burnside. Seeing this project as an extension of the above projects

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rather than as a simple, rapid remedy is urgently needed. It will enrich the UNESCO approaches to religious cultural heritage by being able to capture both the tangible and intangible, besides shared and contested, dimensions of religious cultural heritage sites, in which the physical dimensions of working religious heritage sites are intertwined with stories, memories, pilgrimages and multiple identities.

5.1

Approaching holy sites through the lens of property rights

Private property rights play a central part in the assertion of a stable legal status of sacred places. A right to property is stated as a fundamental right only under the UDHR57 and has failed to find a place in the international human rights covenants such as the ICCPR and the ICESCR.58 This is partly due to the failure among the state parties to reach any agreement on an acceptable text.59 Article 17(2) points out that property rights are not absolute and under certain circumstances this right could be withdrawn, though not arbitrarily. However, the regional human rights treaties60 have incorporated the right to property as a fundamental right, without any unjust interference from the state as to its use. Forms of state interference in the free exercise of property rights relevant to sacred places fall within the following categories: 1. curtailing access to sacred sites for adherents of a particular religion: in many states these procedures are used to restrict the constitutive tangible and intangible structural (not necessarily explicitly covered by rights-based mechanisms) aspects of religious practice (these may combine teaching, practice and observance, plus a relationship with a particular place and time, static and dynamic, including processions and pilgrimages); 2. using planning permission; 3. registration procedures to limit the free exercise of religious faith through worship on sacred sites; 4. creating national parks on the site of private religious foundations, which transforms the nature of holy places/places of worship.61

57 58 59 60

UDHR (n. 23) Art. 17. ICESCR 1966 993 UNTS 3 (ICESCR). UNGA “Report of the Secretary-General” 2929 (1955) UN Doc A/2929, 65–7. Article 1 of the First Protocol to the ECHR, Article 21 ACHR and Article 14 AFCHPR cover the protection of rights to property. 61 P.M. Taylor, Freedom of Religion. UN and European Human Rights Law and Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 242.

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Many conventions and declarations have mentioned the right to property of various groups.62 European, Inter-American, and African Charters contain provisions on the right to property.63 Article 1 in Protocol I to the ECHR guarantees the right to property by providing for:64 the principle of peaceful enjoyment of property; the prohibition of the deprivation of possessions except in the public interest, and subject to “the conditions provided by law and by the general principles of international law”; recognition that the state is entitled to control the use of property in accordance with the “general interest”. Article 21 of the ACHR states that everyone has the right to the use and enjoyment of their property but these can be deprived for reasons of public utility or social interests and “according to the forms established by law”.65 Both the Inter-American Court on Human Rights and the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights have ensured the rights of indigenous people to claim their property rights over sacred lands.66

5.2

Eclectic approaches

In addition to approaches which stem from the use of specific instruments from within public international law, there are also more idiosyncratic, eclectic forms of regulation of the legal status of sacred places which stem from the specific cultural, historical and legal background. The obvious case studies which come to mind are spiritual centres of particular significance for one particular religion, several religions or several divided branches of the same religion. In the Mediterranean, the obvious case studies are the Vatican and the Holy See, Mount 62 International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination 1965 660 UNTS 195 Art. 5; Declaration on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women 1967 UNGA Resolution 2263 (XXII) Art. 6; Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women 1979 1249 UNTS 13 Art. 15 and 16; ILO Convention (No. 107) Concerning the Protection and Integration of Indigenous and Other Tribal and Semi-Tribal Populations in Independent Countries 1957 328 UNTS 247; ILO Convention (No. 169) Concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries 72 ILO Bulletin 59 1989. 63 Protocol I ECHR Art. 1, ACHR Art. 21 and AFCHPR Art. 14. 64 Marckx v. Belgium (App. No. 6833/74) (1979) 2 ECHR 330. 65 ACHR Art. 21(1). 66 Mayagna (Sumo) Indigenous Community of Awas Tingni v. Nicaragua Judgement of August 31, 2001 Inter-Am Ct HR (Ser C) No. 79 (2001); Maya Indigenous Communities of the Toledo District v. Belize Case No. 12.053 Report No. 40/04, Inter-Am CHR (October 12, 2004) OEA/ Ser.L/V/II.122 Doc 5 Rev 1; P.W. Edge, Religion and Law. An Introduction (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 129. Edge brings out the nature of the sacred sites of indigenous people as these sites are not fenced in, and the religious community does not stand in the traditional relationship with the land of an owner.

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Athos, Jerusalem and Mecca. Apart from the familiar international law instruments, these places are governed by domestic law and by Jewish, Islamic and canon law as well as by bilateral treaties. In a similar fashion, Islamic law and public law operate in Mecca. International law, Italian public and civil law, canon law and public ecclesiastical law cover the status of the Holy See, while canon law and Greek public and civil law shape the status of Mount Athos. This overlap between international law, constitutional law and religious law is not uncontroversial but provides, in some cases, an important perspective on the protection of places of worship. A careful study of the strengths and weaknesses of these regimes is a good initial premise in order to study the different legal systems. Parallel claims of sovereignty, different legal mechanisms and different rights are perceived from different, coexisting, and often competing, positions. These regimes seem to share a perception of the protection of sacred places as a multilayered, often multi-jurisdictional, legal phenomenon, which has been achieved through the effort and concession of all parties involved. While international law is equipped for this purpose, it has failed to achieve such a multi-layered approach in relation to sacred places.

5.3

Grass-root approaches

Another approach regarding the protection of places of worship is that of grassroots transitional justice (Rwanda, Sri Lanka, Northern Ireland, South Africa, Mozambique, Guatemala, East Timor), which seeks to develop a grammar of consent which each party could accept. New approaches of the grass-roots/traditional justice have identified the relationship between religious language, the language of religious freedom and the language of reconciliation in cases in which traditional concepts are used to develop a grammar of consent where international law or constitutional law have failed (in the case of colonialism and totalitarian or authoritarian domestic regimes with otherwise fully functioning legal systems). Traditional “religious” laws and traditional “religious” normativity shape the transition, the new legislation and influence other actors within the reconciliation process. A grass-roots/traditional approach to dispute solution was introduced based on traditional religious beliefs and the authority of the lisan in East Timor. The Community of Sant’Egidio helped the peace talks and the promotion of an amnesty which would foster forgiveness and reconciliation following conflict in Mozambique and Guatemala. In Guatemala, the Catholic Church participated actively in the peace talks. In South Africa, the traditional African concept of ubuntu was recalled in the provisional constitution as an ethical concept which transcends established and failed political categories. Magamba spirits and

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ceremonies in Mozambique and the Acholi rituals in northern Uganda played a central role in the processes of reconciliation.67 The grass-roots approach has its potential and limitations because it depends largely on the consent of the parties involved, but so does international law. While such an approach can be implemented mainly in communities that already have a common wealth/culture, this is no less the case for the implementation of international law. These unconventional legal tools seem to be very effective in establishing a normative common ground. While this is not necessarily a solution, they create a common environment and connections in areas where international or constitutional law needs to regain a lost legitimacy. These grass-roots approaches did not undermine international law but added a new dimension to it in transitional societies, for example, by promoting justice and peace and international human rights standards. Such approaches marked a departure from the application of international law as a due diligence check and developed a grammar of consent, which did not abolish the reception of international law or a concept of constitutional law but was able to embrace them more confidently. From religious perspectives, soft law tends to be controversial and treated with suspicion and yet at the same time would seem to be familiar territory. What we consider today to be soft law is what shaped the early history of canon law, as well as Jewish and Islamic jurisprudence, and is the format within which major religious legal traditions still operate. Soft laws tend to propose practices but do not necessarily introduce monolithic legal structures. Moreover, such soft law presents legal tools with which religious groups are likely to be more familiar, a non-codified variety of legal strategies ranging from techniques for legal reasoning to manuals for litigation.

6.

Conclusions

The legal tools I have discussed so far have not brought us any closer to defining sacred places as a legal category. Each of the legal tools has been shown to have its own potential and limitations when dealing with this category. This only reinforces the need for multiple legal tools and strategies for deploying them in a holistic fashion in order to deal with the question of the legal protection of places of worship. It is imperative to find a new narrative promoting a complex approach in order to determine the appropriate legal tools for the protection of sacred places – 67 See R. Cristofori, Il fattore religioso nella giustizia di transizione (PhD thesis; Milano: Università degli Studi di Milano, 2010).

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whether this particular sacred place should be viewed through the lens of beliefmanifestation (as a place of worship) or whether it would be more appropriate to view it as a more complex entity which may have legal existence beyond the belief-expression perspectives of freedom of religion or belief and may include other relevant areas of law. If the private property dimension is emphasised, could restrictions be imposed through standard private property derogations – through planning law, health and safety, environmental law, etc.? Would a freedom of religion or belief claim, plus manifestation, plus private property, plus minority protection argument be more likely to address the complexity of a particular legal challenge? In an attempt to effect all this, a soft law approach seems to be in a stronger position to articulate comprehensive, versatile and inclusive applications of the existing legal instruments. This could assume several forms – a comprehensive commentary on existing international and other relevant legal tools, taking into account what believers have to say about places of worship (theological statements or evidence of a genuine belief that a place is sacred), expert witness reports on whether a place is sacred, judicial activism, etc. However, there is always a potential challenge to perceptions that one place is more sacred than another – a temple vis-à-vis a chapel, a religious building where sacramental worship takes place vs. a building where the congregation merely prays and the preacher teaches (synagogue, mosque), a place versus an event (festival, pilgrimage), a building versus a space (sacred world, sacred landscape). Despite the inherent suspicion of religious communities in relation to any form of legal protection and potential interference on behalf of the state, pending the solution to uneasy questions such as why a secular state should provide special accommodation for sacred places or how far such accommodation should extend, considering that sacred places could in some circumstances be considered as specific as the private family home, a soft law approach would at least begin to contemplate obvious and less obvious difficulties in articulating such possible tensions and project obvious and less obvious solutions. We are unlikely to develop a universal taxonomy of the legal protection of holy places due to the unique nature of the subject matter. In this respect, any exercise will be an effort to present a train of thought about possible approaches in the context of the legal protection of sacred places. It may show the ways in which a problem could be approached but will not necessarily tell us a specific way of solving the problem. It does, however, outline the ways certain things could, or could not, be approached. What it does, and should, not do is to simplify and generalise the meaning of a religious community in order to leave the doors open for other and new forms of the sacred to enter and to be protected. It is unlikely that our notions, intuitions and concepts of the sacred will meet with existing legal frameworks. However, there is no point in waiting for this to happen, either. This is why a soft law in a narrative form of a general comprehensive commentary

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of existing legal tools is an important step towards changing perceptions and forms of political and judicial reasoning, without which any future hard law for the protection of sacred places is likely to fail in precisely the same way it failed in the past. In facing these challenges, prevention-based approaches offer a comprehensive set of legal tools that provides an extensive range of strategies to deal with the legal protection of sacred places through the lens of prevention rather than compliance and creates a space for dialogue and exchange, an opportunity to engage with the issues in the way that they can currently be addressed, deploying international law as a vehicle for string subsidiarity, in order to bring things to a local level and engage the local communities, stakeholders and governments in a way that traditional approaches driven by compliance have not been able to deliver, a bottom-up, grass-roots approach rather than top-down implementation of human rights commitments or heritage standards.

Mario Ricca

Ubiquitous Sacred Places. The Planetary Interplay of Their Meaning and Legal Protection

1.

The Spatialised Word

This essay orbits around the idea that the sacred place/site “is” in both its noetic and pragmatic implications. Sacred places symbolise, as epitomes, past sacred experiences, but as signs they project toward the future and trace the threads with which to weave and intertwine people’s behavioural habits and relationships. This means that the implications of sacred places are necessarily spatialised and extend toward every “where” in which believers dwell and act. Conversely, they function as a semantic point of confluence for all the pragmatic threads that believers interweave through their actions, inspired by the rites that sacred places dynamically host and embody. The legal protection of sacred sites and places, therefore, is to be gauged according to their actual and semantic coordinates and involves the overall indexical landscape underlying their power of signification. Accordingly, that legal protection, if genuine, cannot be other than trans-national and planetary, the only way to include in scope the range of many “elsewheres” and “alterities” coextensive with the actual signification of sacred places. In the following pages, I address from an interdisciplinary perspective (by combining legal, semiotic, geographical and anthropological approaches) the theoretical and pragmatic requirements for such a task to be accomplished and outline the ensuing challenges that must then be adequately faced. Any analysis of the legal protection of sacred places/sites requires a prior understanding of these symbolic and spatial entities in their phenomenal signification.1 The experience orbiting around these spatial entities, and revolving 1 I shall rigorously avoid any definition of sacred place. This choice is prompted not only by the inherent difficulty of such a task but also because of the manifold connotations of the sites and places considered sacred by world religions: see P. Petkoff, “Finding a Grammar of Consent for ‘Soft Law’ Guidelines on Sacred Places. The Legal Protection of Sacred Places within the Existing Public International Law Instruments and Grass-Root Approaches”, in S. Ferrari/A. Benzo (ed.), Between Cultural Diversity and Common Heritage. Legal and Religious Perspectives on the Sacred Places of the Mediterranean (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014) 57–71, on pp. 58–

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on their ritual dynamic axis, shows us that sacred place and sacred word are two sides of the same signical coin.2 Just as the sacred word is to be interpreted, the sacred place is to be acted/lived, and vice versa. This parallel comes from the inherent embodying of the sacred word in the world, at the moment of its expression.3 Logos, as such, is immediately, even if often invisibly, spatialised. It fills space even when human eyes are unable to see this incarnation. Rite and/or liturgy are, precisely, the spatialisation and dynamic process of embodiment through which the sacred word acquires its transient and fleeting visibility. In a sense, liturgy is a metaphorical reiteration of Creation or – depending on the differing faith perspectives – the generation of the Cosmos. All things and humans participating in rites or liturgies change, even if they appear to remain the same. They are renewed in their own inner significance. Isomorphically, the place of the rite transmutes into another kind of space because it is resignified, and then respatialised, as a consequence of the filling and regenerative action of the sacred word in-action.

60. My decision to eschew any definition of sacred places is due to a refusal to engage in any reification of them and, consequentially, of the target of their legal protection. The materiality of sacred places is not devoid of signical implications. On the contrary, in my view, that materiality is an epitome of the signical fluxes that the semiotic relatedness of each sacred place and/or site to the world and believers’ action inspires wherever it happens. I only assume a distinction between sacred places and memorial sites, at least until a specific memorial site is transformed into a ritual or ceremonial place. This is only because the spatial-semantic expansiveness of ritual/ceremonial practices is highly particular. My perspective includes the assumption of a wide and elastic categorisation of ritual/ceremonial activities so as to include to the greatest extent the varieties of sacred experiences, including those of native peoples. As for the definition and protection of indigenous peoples’ sacred sites, see the recent overview proffered by D. Newman/E. Ruozzi/S. Kirchner, “Legal Protection of Sacred Natural Sites Within Human Rights Jurisprudence. Sápmi and Beyond”, in L. Heinämäki/T.M. Herrmann (ed.), Experiencing and Protecting Sacred Natural Sites of Sámi and Other Indigenous Peoples. The Sacred Arctic (Cham: Springer, 2017) 11–26. For an analysis of the different approaches to sacred space see V. Della Dora, “Engaging Sacred Space. Experiments in the Field”, Journal of Geography in High Education 35/2 (2011) 163–84. 2 Provided that the “sacred word” might also be a “mute word”, that is to say a signifying gesture, or event, which breaks the extant (normal) semantic structures of objects, events, living beings, places, and enframes them into an unprecedented indexical context. Hierophany is always an act of re-signification with respect to the current (profane or mundane) cultural categories. 3 The symbolic dimension revitalises and resemanticises the material world in any hierophany. In this way the sacred unfolds itself through the space and the spatial entities which substantiate it. The symbolic signification of the sacred coalesces with the spatialised matter and renews its nature. Regarding the renewing implications of hierophany on the world’s matter and spaces, see M. Eliade, Patterns in Comparative Religions (London/New York: Sheed & Ward, 1958), 367ff; Id., The Sacred and the Profane. The Nature of Religion (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1959), 21ff.

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On the other hand, chthonic beliefs,4 which do not appear to orbit around the theology of the word in the same way as monotheisms, give shape to sacred places, and identify them through acts of signification. They select specific areas, and the entities they contain, from space or spatial fluxes thereby forging the geographical features of sacred places. Such a process of sacralisation occurs when these areas and the items they include are able to host something other than their visible and touchable materiality.5 Nonetheless, the sacred dimension does not erase that materiality but instead renews it from within; in a sense, the sacred indwells in space. In this way, space becomes a specific sacred place through an act of semantisation that coincides with the manifestation or expression of sacredness. Also in the case of chthonic beliefs, therefore, space and word, word and space, are somehow marked by coextensiveness. However, this should be understood in an even more deeply pragmatic sense. In all religious experiences, regardless of their transcendent or immanent inclination, words and spaces are transmuted into signs of Otherness: a kind of Otherness that, however, indwells the world and the entities it comprises. The signical substance of belief consists in an invitation to humans to recognise and understand these signs of divine Otherness and discover their significance by grasping them in the mirror of worldly experience. Although divided from the world because of their Otherness, holy words and holy places can produce sense only through communication. They are like doors to be passed through; otherwise, in the absence of such passing, the taking shape of sacred words and spaces – their irruption into history and human experience – would remain bereft of any sense or function. In short, they would be doomed to remain silenced and eternally enclosed in their unbridgeable Otherness from the world.6 Conversely, 4 I intend the term “chthonic” in the same sense it is used by P. Glenn, Legal Traditions of the World. Sustainable Diversity in Law (Oxford/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011). 5 This does not mean that the materiality of things is completely annihilated. Rather it is transfigured by a semiotic motor – precisely the manifestation of the sacred – that reshapes the connotative projections which the pre-existing material “object” epitomised. See W. Keane, “The Evidence of the Senses and the Materiality of Religion”, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14/1 (2008) 110–27, available at https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9655.2008. 00496.x (accessed January 18, 2019). 6 As is well-known, this kind of separatedness was deemed inherent in the concept and experience of sacred places by Mircea Eliade, relying upon Durkheim’s vision of sacred/mundane relationships. However, this assumption was somehow emphasised by subsequent readings of Eliade’s work. See, for example, J.Z. Smith, Map Is Not Territory (Leiden: Brill, 1978), especially pp. 88ff; D. Chidester/E.T. Linenthal, “Introduction”, in Id. (ed.), American Sacred Space (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995) 1–42, on pp. 16ff; J. Holloway, “Make-Believe Spiritual Practice, Embodiment and Sacred Space”, Environment and Planning A 35 (2003) 1961–74, on p. 1962. To relativise such reading, on the other hand, it is enough to consider Eliade’s description of the erection of the Vedic altar for sacrifice and its twofold, simultaneously cosmogonic/spatial and chronological, symbolism: Eliade, Patterns, 372. More broadly, see his referral to the orientation and the underlying cosmology in the consecration of

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holy words and holy places are inherently open to mediation. And such mediation is precisely the “passing through”, namely a work of translation of their significance in the world and, vice versa, of the world’s signs in them. Interpretation and rites constitute the Thirdness by, and in which, that mediation happens. Human beings, through their understanding and action, function as interfaces; when they cross the morphological threshold of sacred words and sacred places, they renew the space of experience, allowing the sacred origin to become contingently visible. Such a renewal involves acts of creativity, in the specific sense that it acts as a kind of continuation of the creation or generation of the cosmos. In the same vein, human beings can grasp the signification of holy words and places only via the interpenetration between them and the world, namely the sacred signs and the worldling action. The eternal dimension of sacredness goes through a process of presentification and contextualisation within the worldly time stream. Human beings can participate in this process by using their memory and symbolic imagination, harmonising the worlds’ signs and the flow of their actions, respectively, in the sacred words and places, and vice versa. Sacred words and sacred places become, from this perspective, living and regenerative mirrors of the cosmos. Through recitation, interpretation and ritual action, words and sacred places achieve a culmination of their interpenetration although, ephemerally, all creation finds synthesis.7 sacred space: ibid., 369. Sacred space is separated and at the same time genetically continuous to the cosmos, namely not divorced from it. A more nuanced reading of Eliade’s sacred/ profane divide can be found in S. Hamilton/A. Spicer, “Defining the Holy. The Delineation of Sacred Space”, in Id. (ed.), Defining the Holy. Sacred Space in Medieval and Early Modern Europe (New York: Routledge, 2016) 1–25. 7 Something similar can be found in the paths of conversion across all faiths. Conversion is always connoted by projections into the environment through proactive behaviours capable of renewing the believer’s life and her/his action in the world. In conversion studies there are two theoretical strains. The first places the act of conversion in a psychical and self-narrative dimension, namely the hearth; the second casts a holistic, social gaze on it and its causes, tracing its origins and consequences within the social contexts and the actions of its determinants. These two approaches can be respectively dubbed intimist and situationist. For more on this, see M. Ricca, “Spazi di conversione. Una lettura corologica”, Daimon (special issue 2016) 91–144, especially on pp. 95ff: ibid. for further bibliographical references. However, even in the intimist interpretation, the conversion and the evidence of its authenticity are tied to and ensue the assumption of worldly behaviours. Mind and world, soul and body, transcendence and space, sacred and mundane are always co-involved in the phenomenology of participation in the divine dimension and its revelation. From this point of view, the psychological intimist approach and the anthropological/sociological situationist one could be considered two different gazes on complementary aspects of the same phenomenon. Neither the psycho-ontological dimension nor the social/political one can be considered the exclusive source and/or determinant of conversion. Analogically, in my view, the same can be observed regarding the relationships between sacred places and profane/everyday social circuits. In this sense, the traditional “ontological” approach to sacred places and the most recent situationist and

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The Ubiquitous Signification of Sacred Places

Sacred words and sacred places host the world and its Otherness. This means that the Otherness of the sacred meets its Other-than-itself, namely the world and natural experience. The trace of such an encounter is reproduced and amplified through the human mind and conduct, as well as through space and time. At least potentially, this semiotic emanation can involve the whole Earth, if not even the Cosmos, and all of history. It is so because sacred experience is open to being translated into the daily life of believers, merging into their worldviews and actions. In this sense, the meaning of sacred words and places is inherently dynamic, and is readily embodied in rites and, in parallel, all aspects of life, as in the concentric circles of a semiotic propagation wave.8 In turn, this spatial and semantic diffusion engenders a kind of semantic ebb that flows back towards sacred words and places. The real significance and experience of sacred words and places is, in short, ubiquitous. So, with specific regard to sacred places, we could say that they are always (also) elsewhere than their physical earthly location; at the same time, their geo-semantic position is, at least potentially, everywhere. These arguments, however, will be further articulated. Consider for a moment the world, filled with minds dispersed across the planet. Now imagine that within multitudes of these minds, the idea of a famous sacred place may be simultaneously in motion. While one thinks of Jerusalem in one place on earth, elsewhere another is dreaming of the same place. Of course, we could similarly imagine Lourdes, Mecca, or Noahavose (Bear Butte), sacred to the Cheyenne Native Americans. The synthesis of all these peoples’ “wheres”, and the embodiment of the iconic image of their sacred places, are the true wherenarrativist one, based on an analysis of social dynamics, can be considered as two sides of the same psycho-embodied and socially proactively projected human experience of the sacred. From this perspective, Holloway’s proposal (Holloway, “Make-Believe”) should be read against the foil of the theorisation of conversion practices. The same could be said of the situationist/ narrativist approach proposed by the geographer: Chidester/Linenthal, “Introduction”; L. Kong, “Ideological Hegemony and the Political Symbolism of Religious Buildings in Singapore”, Environment and Planning D 11/1 (1993) 23–45; Id., “Mapping ‘New’ Geographies of Religion. Politics and Poetics in Modernity”, Progress in Human Geography 25 (2001) 211–33; Id., “In Search of Permanent Homes. Singapore’s House Churches and the Politics of Space”, Urban Studies 39 (2002) 1573–86. For a chronological, critical overview of geographers’ manifold approaches to the “sacred places” issue, see V. Della Dora, “Sacred Space Unbounded”, Society and Space virtual issue 13 (2015). 8 This metaphorical expansiveness and the pragmatic exceeding of rites, and therefore of the pairing sacred word/sacred place, is powerfully embodied by sacred art and the pedagogical, ethical and political maps it supplies to believers. See, in this regard, A. Walker/A. Luyster, “Mapping the Heavens and Treading the Earth. Negotiating Secular and Sacred in Medieval Art”, in Id. (ed.), Negotiating Secular and Sacred in Medieval Art: Christian, Islamic, and Buddhist (New York: Routledge, 2016) 1–16, and the very insightful essays collected in this book.

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being of each sacred place. This is the cosmic potential signification of all genuine sacred places. In this regard, it could be helpful to think of the chôra (χώρα = dynamic space) projected by the Byzantine icons during their sacred rites; a space that makes visible the invisible presence of a generative God’s action inherent in the world.9 The similar but enlarged concept of chôra can be traced in Plato’s Timaeus, and operatively translated into the blurring of categorical and spatial borders equally traceable in dreams, as well as in the experience of cultural and cognitive turmoil.10 In these situations, the sharpness of the distinctions between categories withers away to the extent that what is remote or dissimilar conflates with what is close or similar; and vice versa. In the same vein, the “placeness” of sacred places is ceaselessly on the verge of transmuting into “space” (that is, a place reopened to infinite interpretation) by means of the scattered semiosis processes at work in all earthlings’ minds (whether they are believers of a specific faith or not).11

9 In this regard it is interesting to consider the concept of “hierotopy”. See A. Lidov, “Hierotopy. Creation of Sacred Spaces as a Form of Creativity and Subject of Cultural History”, in Id. (ed.), Hierotopy. The Creation of Sacred Spaces in Byzantium and Medieval Russia (Moskva: Progresstradition, 2006) 32–58; Id., “The Comparative Hierotopy”, in Id. (ed.), Hierotopy. Comparative Studies of Sacred Spaces (Moskva: Indrik, 2008) 9–12; Id., Hierotopy. Spatial Icons and ImageParadigms in Byzantine Culture (Moskva: Theoria, 2009); Id., “Creating the Sacred Space. Hierotopy as a New Field of Cultural History”, in C. Cremonesi/L. Carnevale (ed.), Spazi e percorsi sacri. I santuari, le vie, i corpi (Padova: Libreriauniversitaria.it Edizioni, 2014) 63–92; Id., “Iconicity as Spatial Notion. A New Vision of Icons in Contemporary Art Theory”, IKON 9 (2016) 17–28, available at http://hierotopy.ru/contents/IconicityRijeka2016lidov.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019); N. Isar, “Chorography (Chôra, Chôros, Chôrós) – A performative Paradigm of Creation of Sacred Space in Byzantium”, in A. Lidov (ed.), Hierotopy. The Creation of Sacred Spaces, 59–90; N. Isar, “Chôra: Tracing the Presence”, Review of European Studies 1/1 (2009) 39– 55; Id., “Chorography – A Space for Choreographic Inscription”, Bulletin of the Transilvania University of Bas¸ov 51/2 (2009) 263–8. 10 See J. Sallis, Chorology. On the Beginning in Plato’s Timaeus (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1997). It is to be pointed out that Sallis’s approach is quite different from that proposed by J. Derrida, Khôra (Paris: Galilée, 1993). 11 In this sense I can agree with Tuan’s idea that the physical places that are very remote for someone can instead be very close to her/him if considered from a humanistic/affective point of view. See Y.-F. Tuan, Space and Place. The Perspective of Experience (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1977). However, I do not share the divide he proposes in the same text between place and space because I think that space is in any case a horizon of semantised (and to be continually resemantised) possibilities. See M. Ricca, “How to Make Space and Law Interplay Horizontally. From Legal Geography to Legal Chorology”, on pp. 1–35, available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=2926651; Id., “Errant Law. Spaces and Subjects”, on pp. 1–54, available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=2802528; Id., “Ghostly Spatialities in Condominiums. Nuisance Law, Legal Geography, and Intercultural Chorology”, on pp. 1–22, available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=3050729; Id., “Cultures in Orbit, or Justi-fying Differences in Cosmic Space: On Categorization, Territorialization and Rights Recognition”, International Journal for the Semiotics of Law 31/4 (2018) 829–75, available at https://doi.org/10.1007/ s11196–018–9578–5 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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In addition, liturgy – if taken in its etymological sense – means “the place to carry out public affairs”. It comes from the Greek leitu¯rgía (λειτουργία), as such derived from leitu¯rgós (λειτουργός), which is composed by le´¯iton (λήϊτον = place of public affairs), in turn connected to laós (λαός = people), and érgon (ἔργον = action, work). Liturgy can thus be assumed as an iconic material metaphor of the way people should live and act in the world.12 Therefore, sacred places cannot be grasped in their real and experiential significance as something existing out there, but must instead relate to the practical embodiments within human actions of the message, the directives for action, and the interpretation of the world that those places enshrine and emanate by virtue of their iconic power of signification. The sacred words of rites and holy liturgies carried out in sacred places supply, in all religions, a metaphorical model to be translated and implemented in human conduct. This is true, for example, for both Vedic texts and rites and Christian holy words and celebrations.13 The meaning that people give to sacred places concretely, even if partly unconsciously, is steeped in these traditions of pragmatic mediation/translation. And believers from the most remote corners of the world presentify sacred places in their experience by means of this semiotic trans-duction of significance, given off by the rites that are performed inside them. These translational and actualising schemas of widespread signification regarding sacred places can also be recognised in the traditional/historical practices of “trans-lation” of relics or even material components of sacred buildings or locations. The relics, or the pieces of a sacred building, serve as sources of meaning that convey the replication of rites, and the related forms of daily conduct. Of course, these spatial transferrals also produce semantic recontextualisations, which could also exert their influence on the process of signification of the original places, along with the many ensuing social, psychological and political implications. 12 In this regard, consider the prototypical example of the Veda and the related texts of Dharmas´a¯stra, which translated Vedic ritual instructions. These were taken as immanent metaphors of the cosmos and were interpreted to determine the sacred activities to be carried out inside the temples, in directives to rule the inter-subjective relationships of the Hindu people. On the metaphorical and pragmatic significance of Vedic rites, see, recently, the interesting essay by S. Einoo, “Rites for Rain in the Vedic and Post-Vedic Literature”, in J.P. Brereton (ed.), The Vedas in Indian Culture and History. Proceedings of the Fourth International Vedic Workshop (Firenze: Società Editrice Fiorentina, 2016) 243–58. More broadly, on the social and pragmatic signification of rituals and its metatheory, see C.M. Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 22009). 13 On the liturgical, hence socio-political, embodiment of Christian rites in Byzantine medieval rites see, most recently, J. Bogdanovic´ (ed.), Perceptions of the Body and Sacred Space in Late Antiquity and Byzantium (New York: Routledge, 2018), and especially its “Introduction. Encounters with the Holy”, 1–7 and “Conclusion. Iconic Perception and Noetic Contemplation of the Sacred”, 190–202.

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The sacred dimension (and its Otherness) – either in personal-transcendent faiths or in immanent ones – always requires a path of knowledge. Its mysterial domains can only be penetrated, however, in the mirror of natural experience, and its transfiguration only in the light of sacred Otherness. In this sense, we can recognise a double movement, whether in monotheisms or polytheistic forms of panpsychism. The further the penetration of sacred mysteries or dogmas proceeds,14 the more its semantic projection in cultural life practices expands. On the other hand, we might note that religious conversions (and their authenticity) are also tied to, and verified through, the practical conduct of the converted. The spiritual/noetic moment of conversion is never detached from the life conduct of the converted, nor can its authenticity be assumed or immune to being tested by evaluating the deeds of the “new” believers. In any case, practice unfolds in and through the world.15 Thus, all conversions and sacred experiences tend to induce cognitive and social upheavals. Previous ways of judging, categorising and assessing are often washed over by the worldly projections of knowledge about the (new) sacred dimension. If we assume that each form of categorisation, even identitarian ones, involves the creation of borders between what is inside the category and what is outside it, and symmetrically between the Self and the Other, then we can conclude that religious experience and the hermeneutics of the sacred dimension include a renewed semantisation of Otherness and thereby some kind of openness toward it. The above remarks may seem to be somewhat peculiar and counterintuitive, particularly if we consider the exclusiveness that is often claimed by the sacred Otherness of each faith or belief. This is particularly true for monotheisms, whose narratives depict the revealed truth as a “jealous privilege”. Nonetheless, the meaning of revelation cannot be known by blinding oneself to the world and adopting exclusionary attitudes. The communicative pith of sacred words and rites – and therefore the spatial semiotic propagative scope of sacred places – passes through a pistic or pistemic (as such distinct from epistemic) disposition endowed with a pragmatic projection towards the world. Only by means of this effort of mediation can a human being embody the sacred dimension and advance her/his understanding of sacred Otherness. It is at the intersection between sacred otherness and world otherness that human beings can dynamically incorporate, like the crucial centre of a chiasma, the presence of the “sacred” in 14 For example, regarding the Catholic conceptualisation of “dogma” as a path to truth, rather than the truth in and of itself, and therefore as a sign, see H. Denzinger, Enchiridion Symbolorum, Definitionum et Declarationum de Rebus Fidei et Morum (Bologna: EDB, 2009); but see also John Paul II, “Ad Tuendam Fidem”, AAS 90 (1998) 457–61, which aimed to amend canons 750 and 1371, n. 1, of current Codex Iuris Canonici, and canons 598 and 1436 of the Codex Canonum Ecclesiarum Orientalium. 15 See Ricca, “Spazi di conversione”.

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creation and improve their understanding of what the holy words and places are signing. The potential semiotic expansiveness (and/or exceedance) of sacred words and places towards Otherness is boundless. Even the most insignificant entities of the world enshrine the cipher of this creational principle and human beings, as believers, are called upon to glean, out of all existence, this cipher.16 This also means that even the most remote element of a category can become close to it in the light of sacred hermeneutics and epistemically inspired praxes. Such semantic mobility between remoteness and closeness concerning categorical borders impacts, however, the spatial coordinates of practice. An event, a thing, an experience (if considered with regard to the double understanding of the sacred dimension and the worldly one) could reveal its semantic closeness to a sacred space in which some faith has its original source, despite its physical remoteness. To put it more synthetically, the semantic closeness of a religious experience (and thereby its actual spatiality) relativises physical geographical distances.17 Consequentially, the “here” or “there” of sacred places are to be understood less as specific topographical locations than as semiotic points of confluence, the meaning and scope of which is produced by peoples’ worldwide, faith-based, actions and interactions.18 Nevertheless – as I shall show below – even secularised conduct and processes of interpretation, together with the related practical consequences, cannot be ignored in the determination of the meaning of sacred places.

16 With regard to the widespread and omni-placed presence of divine creational ciphers, it is very interesting to note the continuity extant between the thought of the Christian Church Fathers and that of the Islamic Mu’tazilit school (for example, al-Jahiz). See, respectively, V. Della Dora, Landscape, Nature, and the Sacred in Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 57ff; J. Miller, More Than the Sum of Its Parts. Animal Categories and Accretive Logic in Volume One of al-Ja¯hiz’s Kita¯b al-Hayawa¯n (PhD thesis; New York: New ˙ Al-Jahiz’s Cosmo-Semiosis and His ˙ ˙ Across Races. York University, 2013); M. Ricca, Signs Trans-Racial Mapping of the “Human” (forthcoming). 17 Such relativisation is to be considered a cultural outcome, the cause of which was the same that spurred the believers’ imagination to place the sacred place at a centre of their mappings of the world. See, for example, Smith, Map Is Not Territory, especially Chapter 4, 6 and 7, and his observation about the sacred geography of diasporic communities; see also V. Della Dora, “Geostrategy and the Persistence of Antiquity. Surveying Mythical Hydrographies in the Eastern Mediterranean, 1784–1869”, Journal of Historical Geography 33/3 (2007) 514–41. In this sense, with specific regard to the Islamic faith, see the beautiful essay by Y. Pallavicini, “‘God has made the earth like a carpet’. The Sacred Places in the Islamic Tradition”, in Ferrari/ Benzo, Between Cultural Diversity, 101–18, on p. 114. As for the co-implicative relationships between category and space, categorisation and spatialised experience, I refer to Ricca, “How to Make Space”, and therein for the related bibliography. 18 On the relationship between sacred word, sacred spaces, landscapes and the whole of nature see the very insightful work by Della Dora, Landscape, 68ff.

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The Earth as an Expanded Ceremonial/Liturgical Space

The actual signification of each sacred place – no matter of which faith or belief – is an extension of the all-inclusive semantic potentialities of the sacred word, taken as the sign of the cosmos’ origin. The entire terrestrial circumference can serve as a liturgical field; the actions of the world’s people unfold in the practical directives that are metaphorically ciphered in the rites performed in sacred places. Thus, any offence or damage to a sanctuary or a consecrated ground/land signifies (is felt as) – at least potentially – an attack on all the practices that in any else “where” replicate the message encapsulated in the rites or liturgies hosted in that sacred place. This is because by means of rites and liturgies, sacred places aspire to host in that “there” simply all the world. This kind of hospitality is also a cognitive one, if only because through its fruition, the “divine” and the “worldly” achieve a condition of immanent visible coexistence in the eyes of believers.19 Precisely this coincidence turns any aggression against the practices replicating and unfolding through rites and liturgies into an attack on the related representative sacred places, and vice versa. It is historical and contemporary experience that illustrates this way of perceiving sacred places. Such spatial-semiotic ubiquity is attested by the reactions, to name only a few, of Catholic, Islamic Ummah, and Hindu communities, as well as some indigenous believers. If one believer is under attack while he is practising rites related to his/her religion, the source of which is spatially traceable to a particular sacred place, the attack is perceived as a strike against the sanctity of the sacred place as well. Any aggression against an individual for her/his own faith is – just to reference the examples above – an attack on the Catholic Church or the indigenous community, on St Peter’s Basilica or sacred land, wherever the offended believer is. In this sense, we could say that the protection of sacred places applies to actions that may embody their signification anywhere in the world. Evidence of the dynamic and action-embodied omnipresence of sacred places can be traced in the historical, as well as contemporary, experience of pilgrimage.20 During the Middle Ages, pilgrims enjoyed a special regime of 19 A very interesting study that gives psycho-bodily evidence of this emotional and experiential ubiquity has been carried out by K. Klingorová, “‘God was with me everywhere’. Women’s Embodied Practices and Everyday Experience of Sacred Space in Czechia”, Gender, Place & Culture. A Journal of Feminist Geography 25/1 (2018) 37–60. More generally, on the overcoming of the sacred/profane divide by the hierophany and the experience of it in the everyday, see Holloway, “Make-Believe”, 1972. 20 An overview of pilgrimage from the past to the present in world religion can be found in S. Coleman/J. Elsner, Pilgrimage. Past and Present in the World Religions (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995). See also N. Chareyron, Pilgrims to Jerusalem in the Middle Ages (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005). On contemporary sacred pilgrimage, in a vast literature, see S. Coleman/J. Eade, “Introduction. Reframing Pilgrimage”, in Id. (ed.),

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protection, traceable to the so-called Lex Peregrinorum.21 These provisions assured the pilgrims the right to a safe journey towards their own sanctuaries. In a sense, pilgrims were viewed as if, through their sacred travel, they were moving along an alternative geographical path. Their sacred destination projected its semiotic threads over the pilgrims’ itineraries so as to spatially recategorise their presence while they traversed the different countries. It was as if the pilgrimage routes uncoiled through a spatial dimension other than the territory under the political sovereignty of the various kingdoms they passed through. This multiplication of spaces was not a fiction, but rather an effect of the pluralities of the semantic layers produced by human action. Pilgrims were actually moving through a parallel space-meaning dimension that carved out its own spatial coordinates amidst the political/geographical ambits of the various kingdoms. Their paths were a means to the sacred end that the sanctuary of destination incorporated. The recognised illegitimacy of harming them or obstructing their journey was a consequence of the spatial plurality branching out from the common source of legitimation that sacred places and earthly political power shared: God’s will. The immanent presence of God, which illuminated the pilgrims’ routes, made sovereign space and pilgrimage paths somehow semantically different. On the other hand, the pilgrims’ journey in itself was a kind of translation. The sacred place of destination radiated its semiotic/pragmatic field of signification toward the various places of the pilgrims’ departure in order to elicit their desire to travel to them. However, a symmetrical effect also applied to the journey back home and the subsequent social positioning of pilgrims there. A successful pilgrimage re-qualified the social role and distinctiveness of those who had undertaken the sacred journey and had come back with the signs (badges) of their Reframing Pilgrimage. Cultures in Motion (London: Routledge, 2004) 1–20, who emphasise, inter alia, the process of the semanticisation of sacred places by virtue of the spatial mobility symbolised by pilgrims and the inner transformative meanings of the journey; R.H. Stoddard/ A. Morinis (ed.), Sacred Places, Sacred Spaces. The Geography of Pilgrimage (Baton Rouge, LA: Geoscience Publications, 1997) – this text features a comparative examination of religious pilgrimages together with a proposal for their classification; but also A. Morinis, “Introduction”, in Id. (ed.), Sacred Journeys. The Anthropology of Pilgrimage (Westport, CT: Greenwood, 1992), on pp. 2, 8–13. An interesting non-western-centred perspective is offered by E. Tagliacozzo, The Longest Journey. Southeast Asians and the Pilgrimage to Mecca (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). On pilgrimages and the related conceptualisation of sacred places and their geographical significance, see K.J. Jacobsen, Pilgrimage in the Hindu Tradition. Salvific Space (New York: Routledge, 2012); R.P.B. Singh, Hindu Tradition of Pilgrimage. Sacred Space and System (New Delhi: Dev Publishers, 2013). 21 See J. Bird, “Canon Law Regarding Pilgrims”, in L.J. Taylor et al. (ed.), Encyclopedia of Medieval Pilgrimage (Leiden: Brill, 2012) 2113–39; D.J. Birch, Pilgrimage to Rome in the Middle Ages. Continuity and Change (Woodbridge: The Boydel Press, 2000); H. Gilles, “Lex Peregrinorum”, in Le pèlerinage (Cahiers de Fanjeaux 15; Toulouse: Privat, 1980) 161–89.

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holy visitation. In a very practical sense, the sanctuary’s presence was ubiquitous: it exerted the power of the semantic and social renewal of space.22 From this perspective, the places of departure and the sacred arrival destination were dialectically conjoined by means of the act of translation substantiated by the pilgrims’ lived paths.23 Place of departure and place of destination somehow functioned as the spatial poles of a liturgical/transfiguring action that enfolded along and through the pilgrimage’s route. God’s presence indwelled this triadic relation and re-generated at the same time the outward space of action and the inner spiritual “spatiality” of the pilgrims. Conceptually, the pilgrimage was a journey to be carried out simultaneously outside and inside pilgrims’ bodies and souls. God’s presence pervaded the lived space of the pilgrims; nonetheless it filled that spatiality without erasing or apparently transforming its physical appearances.24 Through their sacred pilgrimage, people engendered another space and moved inside it. The membrane, the interface of translation and coordination between the political-territorial worldly space and that of the pilgrims was the religion/faith itself. The re-spatialising and, in a sense, immunising effect of the sacred journey often enjoyed an interreligious recognition.25 The spatialisation of the human/ divine relationship produced a trans-religious significance, as such capable of relativising the worldly territorial projections of the political powers which could be legitimated by the different faiths. Local authorities, in other words, perceived the transient presence of pilgrims as if it did not (at least, not fully) occupy their territorial space although it moved exactly through it. This was because in pilgrims’ action, no matter their faith, the presence of the divine was felt as if it were topical (present). Today, the legal spatial regime of pilgrimages cannot leverage the same source of legitimation/signification. In a widely secularised world, the space 22 From a semiotic point of view, the overlapping between remoteness and proximity determined by mobility, both physical and virtual, is to be considered a common trait of the ancient world as much as of the contemporary technologically networked world. On the communicative, and thereby experiential, continuity between the “close” and the “remote” in the contemporary world, see J. Urry, “Mobility and Proximity”, Sociology 36/2 (2002) 255–74; Id., Sociology beyond Societies. Mobilities for the Twenty-First Century (New York: Routledge, 2000). 23 See N. Gregoricˇ Bon, “Rooting Routes. (Non-)Movements in Southern Albania”, in N. Gregoricˇ Bon/J. Repicˇ (ed.), Moving Places. Relations, Returns and Belonging (New York/Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2016) 63–84, on pp. 74–7. 24 In this sense, it could be useful to recall Sallnow’s formula, which termed pilgrimage as “a kinaesthetic mapping of space”. See M.J. Sallnow, Pilgrims of the Andes. Regional Cults in Cusco (Washington: Smithsonian Institution, 1987), 184ff. 25 Nonetheless this recognition was intermittent throughout history and encountered many obstacles due to political struggles. The pilgrimage to Jerusalem (see Chareyron, Pilgrims to Jerusalem) is a clear example of the changing fortunes of the pilgrims’ immunitas.

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that pilgrims trace along their routes has nothing to do with the foundation from which secular political power arises. The spatial plurality engendering their legal protection results – or should result – from the universal recognition of religious freedom. However, the dualism inherent in the secularisation logic, which is also a semantic-spatial dualism,26 tends to objectify the signification of sacred places and the journeys to them. This objectification concurrently produces a kind of alienation of the sacred dimension that makes the political/ legal translation of the invisible web of sense underlying the sacred places and the human experiences that irradiate from them almost impossible.27 But I shall come back to this occurrence and its political/legal consequences more broadly below, with regard to the phenomenology of contemporary desecration and damaging attacks on sacred places. Before going further, however, I should like to examine a little longer the ubiquity of sacred places and its deep connection with the dynamic of liturgy. Consider, in this regard, the modern tradition of staging the Via Crucis, celebrated every year in Rome on the occasion of Catholic Easter, inside the walls of the Coliseum. This monument originally was, and currently is, everything but a sacred sanctuary.28 What contingently transforms it into a holy place is precisely the mere fact that, once a year, the Via Crucis, portraying Jesus’s path to crucifixion, is staged inside it. The choice to celebrate this rite there is replete with historical significance. As is well known, during the Roman Empire the Coliseum was one of the places in which the persecution of Christians reached its final stage: martyrdom. The contemporary celebration of Via Crucis inside the Coliseum presentifies that past but is intended to serve, at the same, as a kind of dialectical subversion of it. Once a year, this place of ancient desecrations contingently becomes consecrated by virtue of the Via Crucis event that fills the Coliseum’s spaces, renewing them through the ritual action. Jesus and other 26 Some interesting cues about the relationship between modern western secularisation, the Reformation and the divide between sacred space/profane space can be found in W. Coster/A. Spicer, “Introduction. The Dimensions of Sacred Space in Reformation Europe”, in Id. (ed.), Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005) 1–16. But see also K. Knott, The Location of Religion. A Spatial Analysis (New York: Routledge, 2005). 27 From this point of view, it is very important to note that the sacredness of places does not coincide with the place in itself but it is a result of the interplay of people’s representations and actions related to that place: including journeys to it and practices of hospitality. See J. Digance, “Pilgrimage at Contested Sites”, Annals of Tourism Research 30/1 (2003) 143–59, on p. 146. 28 I think that it could be considered as a “memorial site” for the martyrdom of so many Christians during the Roman Empire and its persecution against them. It is not a sacred place when it does not host the Via Crucis or other rites. In the same vein, I do not share the idea that Auschwitz can be considered, at least until now, a sacred place as opposed to a “memorial site”.

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ancient martyrs are present there and in some sense are made visible even if they do not occupy the space. The pope himself embodies the painful path of Jesus toward his crucifixion even if the pope is not Christ. The celebration is broadcast around the world. It embodies the sacrifice of Christians that occurred throughout the ages, wherever and whenever it took place and will take place. Just like a geometrical cross, in the Coliseum the Via Crucis projects its significance both vertically and horizontally, that is, respectively through space and time. In this sense, the Coliseum actually assumes both temporal and spatial ubiquity. Remote and nearby sacrifices converge in the rite’s space and hence draw a movement of reciprocal substitution, replacement, sequencing, appearance and disappearance, which makes visible and understandable God’s presence throughout history and space: in short, his omnipresence. Simultaneously, however, the Coliseum also conjures up the conflictive relationships between the Catholic Church and other faiths throughout history. From this perspective, it also embodies the reverse side of Christian martyrdoms, namely the violence that Christians inflicted on people of other faiths and beliefs along the Catholics’ earthly pilgrimage through history. The dynamics of this presence-absence allows for the emergence of a chorological dimension within which remoteness and closeness, at once spatial, temporal and categorical, conflate so as to make forms morph into one another and give human beings the fleeting perception of generative and re-generative cosmic Godly action. As soon as the celebration ends, the Coliseum reverts to its archeological “materiality”, as an ancient Roman amphitheater, an arena. However, as long as the Via Crucis lasts, the Coliseum is – at least potentially – everywhere, and all “wheres” are within its inner space. Its “placeness” transforms contingently into space, or better, into an indeterminate and thereby omni-directionally “semantisable” spatiality, which vanishes as soon as the Via Crucis reaches its endpoint. The circularity of the Coliseum echoes cosmic dimensions and their inclination to contain all things, creatures and events. Mutatis mutandis, the same circularity undergirds the dialectics between whither and whence, arrival and homewards, that joins the pilgrimage to sacred places. Everything that happens within the phenomenal space of the pilgrim’s journey, all actions and thoughts, are potentially categorised as existential inflections stemming from the semiotic radial influx exerted by the liturgical/cosmic signification of the sacred place of destination. In other words, it expands the liturgical immanent and, at same time, representative embodiment of the cosmos towards the cosmos itself, and therefore the space outside the holy borders or walls. This is an effect that is achieved by means of the semiotic incorporation into human action of the divine/human signification that sacred places produce.

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Reification of Sacred Spaces and Secularisation of Social Spaces. Human Rights and Legal Flaws

The above arguments lead to the assertion that the meaning of sacred places is coextensive with, or at least includes, their spatial pragmatic projections. Beyond their topographical coordinates, the real spatial experience that emanates from them can be traced to their praxeological ubiquity, or simply in the actions people undertake while thinking of their dynamic (thereby also liturgical and/or ritual) significance.29 If this is correct, then an apposite legal protection of sacred places should include the actions that embody their signification. This means that legal agencies should focus on the reasons and ends underlying the human behaviours enacted as a consequence/inference of the sacredness of places, which in turn immanently enfolds the sacred words or ways of categorising the world. To put it more explicitly, legal protection cannot be confined to sacred places/sites taken as things alone.30 Their reification would prevent legal agencies from understanding and publicly communicating what the sacred places are trying to make visible and real. If these attempts are ignored, sacred places run the risk of being alienated from the mundane world, caged in their enchanted Otherness, without any possibility of being mediated and traduced according to what people draw from them in terms of significance and pragmatic directives. Insulated in their religiously territorialised materiality, they would remain untranslatable and therefore unintelligible to secular as well as religious Otherness, namely the world Other-than-themselves, and the various universes of faith they incorporate. Any protection of them under the aegis of religious freedom would inevitably wind up being merely formal. Their significance would therefore become destined to remain sealed in a semantic and practical irreducibility to all-that-is-Other-than it. The immediate consequence of this is, however, itself a conflict.31 29 Very insightful remarks are proposed, in this sense, by Pallavicini, “‘God has made the earth like a carpet’”, on p. 114. 30 Unfortunately, this is the almost typical inclination of all legal provisions and activities regarding the understanding and protection of sacred places/sites in terms of property rights protection. See, in this regard, Petkoff, “Finding a Grammar”; but also, as regards international legal provisions, U. Leanza, General Problems of International Law Concerning Sacred Places, in Ferrari/Benzo, Between Cultural Diversity, 37–55. 31 On the difficulties inherent in underpinning a pluralistic and multi-religious regime of coexistence by means of a social reciprocal recognition based on a synchretistic interpretation of religious symbols and sites, see R. Hayden, “Antagonistic Tolerance. Competitive Sharing of Religious Sites in South Asia and the Balkans”, Current Anthropology 43/2 (2002) 205–31; Id. (ed.), Antagonistic Tolerance. Competitive Sharing of Religious Sites and Spaces (London/ New York: Routledge, 2016), 60–5. Similar attempts tend to obscure the social implications of religions and thereby end up excluding them from the (hoped for) dialogue. The result is, rather, an instrumentalisation of religion and its antagonistic use; but precisely such an effect, in turn, fuels the religious intolerance making people blind to the consideration of their social

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Unfortunately, international legal provisions seem inclined to entangle the protection of sacred places in the dualistic oppositional logic idiomatically inherent to modern western secularisation. If, for example, one looks at the UN website under the heading “places of worship”, one will immediately find the following list of provisions: 1981 Declaration of the General Assembly Art. 6 (a): The right to freedom of thought, conscience, religion or belief includes the freedom, “To worship or assemble in connection with a religion or belief, and to establish and maintain places for these purposes”. Human Rights Council resolution 6/37 9 (e): The Human Rights Council urges States, “To exert the utmost efforts, in accordance with their national legislation and in conformity with international human rights and humanitarian law, to ensure that religious places, sites, shrines and symbols are fully respected and protected and to take additional measures in cases where they are vulnerable to desecration or destruction …”. 9 (g): The Human Rights Council urges States, “To ensure, in particular, the right of all persons to worship or assemble in connection with a religion or belief and to establish and maintain places for these purposes …”. Human Rights Committee general comment 22 Para. 4: “The concept of worship extends to … the building of places of worship”.

Reading such a list one can easily grasp the derivative connection that the UN establishes between religious freedom and the protection of sacred places.32 The ideal divide between reason and faith, so axial for modern political thought and epistemology, is replicated in the legal cartography of material spaces. Sacred

habits rooted in religious orthopraxis and the possibility of their translation: in short, a vicious cycle that escalates the conflict among religious and cultural differences. Some indications on the importance of the social “surroundings” and the intersecting narratives of peoples’ practices as an efficacious motor to engender the sharing of sacred places can be found in the collection of essays edited by G. Bowman (ed.), Sharing the Sacra. The Politics and Pragmatics of Inter-Communal Relations around Holy Places (New York/Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2012); but see also the wonderful essays by E. Barkan/K. Barkey, “Introduction”, in Id. (ed.), Choreographies of Shared Sacred Sites. Religion, Politics, and Conflict Resolution (New York: Columbia University Press, 2015) 1–31, as well as all the essays collected in the volume. 32 Of course, the same can be said regarding the UNESCO provisions: The Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage, and the related Guidelines (respectively 1972, 2005). Both these texts have often been used to arrange some protection for cultural places/sites of religious interest. In this regard, see A. Benzo, “Toward a Definition of Sacred Places. Introductory Remarks”, in Ferrari/Benzo, Between Cultural Diversity, 17–23, and the inevitably reifying/cosifying and property-centered pervasive connotation of his attempt to give a list of definitions on sacred places/sites. Things do not change with the Universal Code of Conduct on Holy Sites (2011), available at http://www.kas.de/wf/doc/kas_ 12037-1442-1-30.pdf ?140204080404 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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places are considered primarily – if not exclusively – as things, buildings, monuments, topographically bounded areas, etc. They are to be protected as part of the bounded realm of religion and, hence, religious freedom. It is no coincidence that national states seek to align their legislation to the legal standards arising from international human rights and humanitarian law in order to assure a spatial zone of protection for everything that orbits around worship within their territory. Although such provisions could seem to be almost obvious and utterly reasonable, nonetheless they fail to capture the ubiquitous and dynamic projections of sacred places. On the contrary, they end up strengthening the Otherness and, in a sense, the alienness of their spatiality and significance from the cultural and legal secular fields of nations. Underlying these kinds of provisions there is always a differentiating and exceptionalist logic that eclipses the possibility and the necessity to translate the meaning of sacred places and their pragmatic ubiquitous projections in the social warp and woof of the spaces where people live. Sacred places are protected as special things related to separate areas. As in nesting Chinese boxes, a hierarchical categorical/spatial scale is at play. The biggest container is the global extension/international law, inside this are the regional dimension/regional laws, and inside these we find national territories/ state legal systems; it is within this last “hold” that sacred places should find their differentiated topographic/normative protection. Where – I ask – does this scalar structure make room for the mediation and translation in the common spaces of life of the semio-pragmatic threads moving from the chorological and potentially cosmic significance of what occurs inside the sacred places? The above question is revealed to be inevitable as soon as we consider that protecting sacred places is most relevant when and where their presence (and spatial worldwide projections) faces cultural and religious environments that are largely “foreign” to, or unfamiliar with, their significance. In such cases, however, the hierarchical/pyramidal view of legally protected human rights inevitably endorses an oppositional differentiation between sacred places and the surrounding social/cultural environments. The other side of this oppositional bent is the othering reification/cosification of sacredness, in particular when it coincides with the sacred dimension of a minority group. However, othering/cosifying the spatial areas of people’s sacred symbols and material expressions also entails compartmentalising the pragmatic cultural implications of their belonging. In this way, I fear, the motivational seeds of eventual desecrations will be widely scattered on the field of social coexistence. One need not be a prophet or a visionary to understand the potentiality of ubiquitous expansion gushing up from these polarised spatial/cultural relationships. In this sense, the categorical/ pragmatic chorology of sacred places becomes almost obvious. Jerusalem and its conflictive interreligious/intercultural conflicts prove to be truly everywhere. The inter-sacred polarisations that take place there reiterate, almost pushing their

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way into the biggest box of the above spatial/legal nested Chinese boxes, at a global level and in every context in which sacred places of some faith have come to terms with the different religious/cultural environment in which they find themselves. This applies to mosques or Hindu temples in Christian areas, as well as to Christian churches in Islamic or Hindu areas, and so on. Things do not improve if we shift our focus to multicultural conjugations of religious freedom and the related protection of sacred places. In this respect, I should like to share another excerpt from the UN Human Rights website on religious worship, in this case regarding the Timbuktu mausoleums: In July 2012, the sacred sites and mausoleums of the World Heritage site of Timbuktu in Mali were attacked with axes and shovels by fighters from the Ansar Dine group, an armed Islamist group which controls the northern part of the country. The sites in Timbuktu were included in the UNESCO’s List of World Heritage in 1988. They are reminders of Timbuktu’s past as an intellectual and spiritual capital, and a focal point for spreading Islam in Africa. The UN expert on cultural rights, Farida Shaheed, condemned the violent destruction of “a common heritage of humanity” in a joint press release with the UN expert on freedom of religion or belief, Heiner Bielefeldt. Shaheed further stated that “it is a loss for us all, but for the local population it also means denial of their identity, their beliefs, their history and their dignity”. Under the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, States parties must protect people’s freedom, either individually or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest their religion or belief in worship, observance, practice, and teaching. In addition, in those States parties in which ethnic, religious or linguistic minorities exist, persons belonging to such minorities shall not be denied the right, in community with the other members of their group, to enjoy their own culture, to profess and practice their own religion, or to use their own language. Under the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, everyone has the right to take part in cultural life, which implies, according to the Expert in the field of cultural rights, the right of everyone to access and enjoy cultural heritage.33

The verbal formulas used in this document to emphasise the legal foundations for the protection of Timbuktu and the condemnation of the destruction/desecration acts carried out by the Ansar Dine group are as follows: “intellectual and spiritual capital”, “common heritage of humanity”, “freedom of religion or belief”, “identity”, “beliefs”, “history”, “dignity”, “people’s freedom … to manifest their religion or belief in worship, observance, practice, and teaching”. Moreover, the excerpt relies upon the obligation of national states to recognise the right of ethnic, religious or linguist minorities to enjoy their own culture, profess and

33 “The destruction of cultural and religious sites: a violation of human rights”, OHCHR, September 24, 2012, available at https://www.ohchr.org/EN/NewsEvents/Pages/Destruction Shrines.aspx (accessed January 18, 2019).

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practise their own religion, and use their own language. Finally, there is a strong referral to the right of everyone to take part in cultural life by means of her/his access and enjoyment of cultural heritage. However, despite the incidental reference to the right to take part in cultural life, the above excerpt concludes with an apotheosis of reification embodied by the concept of “cultural heritage”. Reflected in this document we can find the granitic idea that cultures are to be protected as such, as they are, according to an almost compulsive identitarian museumification of global mission. This is nothing but the model of a legal protection rooted in the multiculturalist view (in its most radical versions, no less). I think that this way of considering the relationships between cultures is, in turn, a consequence of secularising reason that causes an othering and reifying understanding of the significance of sacred places and the religious universes they incorporate. In this perspective, the culture and religion of Others are always conceived as something irreducibly “else”. To avert the secluding effects of such an approach to Otherness, however, it is futile to emphasise that in an ideal multicultural social landscape everyone should be considered equally Other to everyone else. A pluralistic insulation cannot mature harmonic interpenetrations; on the other hand, defective accommodations based on the logic of compromise will produce the fatal result of a growing commoditisation between untranslated – and gradually less and less translatable – differences.34 Meanwhile, in all contemporary western multicultural contexts, the logic of secularisation, the normalisation of the invisibility of cultural and above all legal backdrops inherited from the past, silently continues, unquestioned.35 It is as if 34 For these reasons, I do not think that in the long-term perspective the “defective” and procedural approach to the governance of sacred places/sites proposed by Hayden (ed.), Antagonistic Tolerance, proves to be conducive to a peaceful coexistence between peoples with different cultural/religious claims regarding their use and enjoyment. A symptomatic example of the liberal and, at the same time, authoritative legal implications of such an approach can be found in G. Sapir/D. Statman, “The Protection of Holy Places”, Law & Ethics of Human Rights 10/1 (2016) 135–55, where religious freedom or the right to cultural difference, taken as the basis for the public protection of sacred places, are understood without any attempt to cognitively translate/transact the behavioural habits stemming from religion intended as an anthropological agency. 35 Among scholars of Hindu culture, it is possible to find a more nuanced sensibility which, however, is far from able to influence Indian legal policymakers and the legislative measures they adopt. See, for example, R. Bhargava, “Political Secularism. Why It Is Needed and What Can Be Learnt from Its Indian Version”, in G.B. Levey/T. Modood (ed.), Secularism, Religion and Multicultural Citizenship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008) 82–109; Id., “Beyond Moderate Secularism”, The Immanent Frame. Secularism, Religion, and the Public Sphere (2011), available at http://blogs.ssrc.org/tif/2011/09/16/beyond-moderate-secularism (accessed January 18, 2019); J. De Roover/S. Claerhout/S.N. Balagangadhara, “Liberal Political Theory and the Cultural Migration of Ideas. The Case of Secularism in India”, Political Theory 39/5 (2011) 571–99. As for Islamic religion see T. Modood, “Muslims, Religious Equality and Secularism”, in Levey/Modood, Secularism, Religion, 164–84. All these writings

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people and scholars were blind to the cultural influxes of tradition in common life and their pervading presence precisely where their camouflage makes them almost invisible. Cultural “stigmata” are perceived only when their difference is glaring and already conflictive. Almost nothing is pragmatically investigated from a multicultural point of view with regard to ownership, contract law, obligation, general conceptualisation and classifying of crimes, guilt, responsibility, associative forms and corporations, general ideologies of inheritance, and so on. In all these areas of both experience and legal regulation, the dominant paradigms remain and exert their influence nearly unhindered. The worst cases are the legacy of colonisation and post-colonisation, with the result that western legal templates concerning these areas of social experience have been imposed all over the world. The resilience of those past events makes it so that in either Christian or ex-colonial countries, multiculturalism floats across a discursive ocean imbued with the cultural coordinates that western secularisation inherited from pre-modern Christian moral theology and still encapsulates in its legal institutions. What is different becomes visible only insofar as it surfaces contrastively in that cultural/legal ocean, but only to acquire its contours as if it were a newly emerged island. Against the foil of colonial and post-colonial experience and contexts, western secularisation – and specifically, its legal manifestation – displays all its cultural provincialism. The same public/private divide that developed alongside the idea of religious freedom is deeply embedded with such provinciality.36 The possibility to design, in a liberal fashion, a private space within which “to consume” one’s are the result, however, of a gaze cast from without onto everyday practices and the legal categorisations that give shape and rhythm to them. In their arguments, almost exclusively developed on a political plane, there is no reference made to the central categories of sociolegal life, such as contracts, the classification of crimes, corporate and commercial laws, inheritance, and all the legacy of moral theology that is encapsulated in the related institutes. I developed such an analysis of secularisation and its intercultural perspectives in other writings and refer to these for an explanation of my approach, including the bibliographical references. See M. Ricca, “A Modest Proposal. An Overgrown Constitutional Path to Cultural/ Religious Pluralism in Italy”, Calumet. Intercultural Law and Humanities Review (November 9, 2016) 1–46, available at http://www.windogem.it/calumet/upload/pdf2/mat_55.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019); Id., Pantheon. Agenda della laicità interculturale (Palermo: Torri del Vento, 2013); Id., Dike meticcia. Rotte di diritto interculturale (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2008); Id., Oltre Babele. Codici per una democrazia interculturale (Bari: Dedalo, 2008); Id., Culture interdette. Modernità, migrazioni, diritto interculturale (Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 2013). 36 An analytical examination of all the consequence of the modern public/private divide with regard to the legal and political regime of sacred places/sites can be found in C.L. Tan, The Effect of the “Public-Private” Dichotomy on the Concept of Indigenous “Sacred Place” in the Religious Freedom and Heritage Protection Laws of Australia, USA, Canada and New Zealand (PhD thesis; Perth: University of Western Australia, 2007), available at http://researchrepository.uwa.edu.au/files/3228592/Tan_Carolyn_Lian_2010.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019).

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own religious belonging and freedom is strictly tied to the pervasive presence of Christian theological moral vestiges in the discursive apparatuses of public life, particularly in the legal lexicon. In Europe, the secularisation process begun by Grotius removed the theological moral features that Second Scholasticism had superimposed on ancient Roman law from the legal institutes. Theological principles were substituted by rational/natural essences that were equally recognisable, and thus applicable to, people of different faiths. Still, the current common law apparatuses and civil law codifications can be considered the longterm offspring of Grotius’s and his followers’ efforts. Unfortunately, his massive rhetorical and communicative operation was carried out within the culture of a Christian moral-theological and legal tradition, in conjunction with its differentiation from the colonised native people’s cultures and religions. The result was that modern legal secularism passed off its rationalistically winnowed out and dressed up tradition and identity as if it were the expression of an all-encompassing universality. Nonetheless, the resilience of moral theological frameworks within the rational secularised legal grammar constituted the pivotal condition for the public/ private divide – so closely aligned to the modern idea of religious freedom – to succeed. In this regard, it is of the utmost importance to underscore that religion is something different from denomination. If considered in all its anthropological scope, religion goes far beyond the strictly sacramental dimension. Religions, unlike their denominational institutions, forge cognitive and social habits aimed at pervading the social life of people. The alleged absoluteness of the public/private, “public reason/inner individual faith” divides is plausible and pragmatically viable only if the coordinates of the social landscape are aligned with the theological moral projections of the peoples’ different religious universes of sense. Although western modernity has drawn a deep rift between politics and denominational institutions, the resilience of religion within the secular legal and social grammar has remained, and it is still too often passed over in silence. Needless to say, if this was comprehensible within the historical cultural European borders that saw and accompanied the dawn of the modern era, it is unacceptable and almost inconceivable now that the cultural and theological moral homogeneity of national social landscapes is continually challenged. The cultural provinciality of western cultural (and particularly legal) secularisation is also the main cause of its incompleteness and relativeness. Such cultural relativeness is not to be intended, however, only as a cultural connotation related to a geographical-political macro-area, to wit: the West. Its influence is recognisable and produces its effects also within the microcosm of quotidian life spaces. The public/private and reason/faith dualisms, as well as that of morality/ politics, replicate simultaneously in the practical and micro-spatial divides. The

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reification of sacred spaces and the insulation of their presence are also a direct result of such secularising liberal logic.37 This derivation can be easily ascertained as soon as one realises that the temple and the city, liturgy and street life, could be divorced conceptually only because – tacitly – they remained semantically and pragmatically continuous. If we were to view this continuity as culturally and spatially broken, we would immediately see the chorological and ecological extended significance of the sacred place come to the fore.

5.

Spaces of Translation and Human Rights as Metaphorical Intercultural Interfaces

What a semiotic analysis of sacred places illuminates is that their spatiality is constituted by people’s actions, and these draw inspiration from the metaphorical behavioural directives of rites, ceremonies and liturgies. Sacred places are dynamic entities; their meaning is continually made the object of mediation and translation in the semantic fields of common life and social spaces. If law is to protect sacred places appropriately, it has to gauge such protection on their real ubiquitous and pragmatic significations/projections. Thus, an appropriate implementation of human rights cannot engage with sacred places as something existing out there or as a reified inheritance, a “capital” that can be preserved by means of insulation, or some kind of setting apart. In this direction, the hierarchical/pyramidal approach to human rights interpretations and implementations for the protection of sacred places must be 37 The best evidence of this implication can be found in the reifying effects ensuing the adoption of religious freedom as a jurisdictional tool to assess the American indigenous peoples’ claims to enjoy their sacred sites and space. The lack of intercultural translation in the balancing judgements of US courts is plainly displayed in the essay by T.A. Wiseman, “Because the Law on the Restoration of Religious Freedom Cannot Protect Sacred Sites”, American Indian Journal 5/1 (2017) 140–66. The failure to understand the cultural and religious experiential universes at stake, when the balancing test between competing claims is exerted relying on the morphological appearance of cultural habits, is icastically shown by the flaws inherent in the “intermediate proposal” put forward by A.T. Skibine, “Towards a Balanced Approach for the Protection of Native American Sacred Sites”, Michigan Journal of Race and Law 17 (2012) 269–302. But see also the self-critical descent toward a reduction to “property rights” of Indian claims regarding their sacred places traceable in K. Carpenter, “Old Ground and New Directions at Sacred Sites on the Western Landscape”, Denver University Law Review 83/4 (2005/6) 981–1002. At the end of this essay, the author appears to be somehow aware of the multiplicity of spatialities that different peoples project onto an allegedly “unique” out-there space, and therefore the need to grasp such an intertwining in order to provide transactive/ translational patterns of justice. In this sense, see K. Carpenter, “The Interest of ‘Peoples’ in the Cooperative Management of Sacred Sites”, Tulsa Law Review 42 (2006) 37–56.

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promptly surpassed.38 What is needed, conversely, is to use human rights, captured in all their semantic and pragmatic extension, as an interface of translation across the different behavioural implications of sacred places. In other words, to avoid the destruction, desecration and the denial of the enjoyment of sacred places and sites, law should exert its influence on the mutual translation of life spaces and the sacred words and spatial proactive frameworks they forge, and which are forged by them. This is the only way to dismantle the inherent alienness to which liberal secularism has condemned sacred places, which appear twice divorced from public life: first, as religious entities divided from secular spaces and semantics; second, as identitarian symbols of religious and/or cultural minorities that are frozen in a misoneistic portrayal, as a condition of their legal protection. To paraphrase an ancient Chinese saying, I suspect that such a strategy – which inter alia corresponds to the current political mainstream in the implementation of human and cultural rights – is like climbing a tree to catch fish. Its continuing implementation will achieve nothing but an antagonistic and conflictive perception of sacred places in an environment that is not culturally in tune with them as symbols of an untranslatable and untransactable Otherness. As the history of past religious interplay shows, interreligious translation is possible either as a result of a semantic commitment or as the outcome of spatial inter-penetration among different sets of practices.39 With particular regard to 38 The lack of translation and the reification of sacred places/sites under the dome of religious freedom or cultural autonomy inevitably produces defective results. The best evidence of such a consequence and the blindness to the inner sense of sacred places and sites is embodied by the so called “burden test” that US courts apply when they review American indigenous peoples’ claims for the use of their sacred sites. The “burden test” is ordered to assess the occurrence of a “substantial” burden, provided that it exists “only when individuals are forced to choose between following the tenets of their religion and receiving a governmental benefit or coerced to act contrary to their religious beliefs by the threat of civil or criminal sanctions”. In this regard and for the case law referrals to the 2008 Ninth Circuit decision see Wiseman, “Because the Law”, 153. A broader interpretation of the Religious Freedom Restoration Act (RFRA) clashes with the fear that “because Indian religions are perceived as mysterious and because the location of sacred sites can be at times ill-defined, once claims to sacred sites are recognised, the floodgates may open, leaving nothing to stop Indians from claiming vast areas as sacred, thus freezing economic activities over numerous tracts of federal land”: in this sense see Skibine, “Towards a Balanced Approach”, 289. See also, for a comparative analysis of US politics regarding the indigenous peoples’ sacred sites that shows, in the end, the importance of negotiations in order to overcome the implicit stiffening ensuing from the liberal secular approach to the sacred, A.L. McDonald, “Secularizing the Sacrosanct. Defining ‘Sacred’ for Native American Sacred Sites Protection Legislation”, Hofstra Law Review 33 (2004) 751–83; M. Vazquez, “People Moving Water. Religious and Secular Perspectives at Play in Legal Water Management”, Quaderni di diritto e politica ecclesiastica 2 (2018) 437–66. 39 In this sense, it is very interesting to note the existence in Ancient Egypt or the Assyrian Empire of officials charged with the inter-theological translation of treaties, when such were concluded among countries and authorities of different faiths. On this topic see, J. Assmann,

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sacred places, this possibility is proven by the multi-religious uses that many communities make of the same temples, buildings or sacred areas in the shadow of secularisation.40 This practice does not imply any blurring of the theological meaning of these places, nor any kind of conversion. Rather, people meet and share sacred spaces because they are able to translate the different behavioural spaces and quotidian cartographies that each faith draws from these environments. Sacred places become, then, spaces of translation that are capable of projecting their semiotic action beyond their borders and walls, towards and into the social environment. Their destruction and desecration, in such cases, are in some sense automatically neutralised by the social sharing and translation of their extended signification. This is possible because the human mind transforms the environment and the entities that populate it into prostheses enhancing body action and hence includes them in extended and ecologically embodied operational patterns. In the same vein might a widened pragmatic signification of sacred places function as a vehicle to translate these experiences of sharing into the common grammar of social coexistence; and vice versa. Legal action, in turn, should also move precisely along this reverse path. It should start from the translation of the worldwide behavioural consequences of faith directives, going as far as to include a dynamic reconceptualisation of sacred places that are understood in their extensible significance. To achieve this result, it is crucial to acknowledge that space is never something out there but rather a pragmatic and operational projection/transaction between the human activity of categorisation and the environment. If considered from an experiential perspective, categories and spaces are continuous, if only because any categorisation involves actual or imaginative spatialisations while any conception or perception of space includes its categorisation. In both cases the human mind is working with signs.41 From this perspective, the struggle for space is not to be conceptualised as a fight for a single outside objective space, one which each competitor represents differently and tries to occupy exclusively. The true conflict is always between different spaces, some connotations of which can “Translating Gods. Religion as a Factor of Cultural (Un)Traslatability”, in S. Budick/W. Iser (ed.), The Translatability of Cultures. Figurations of the Space Between (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996) 25–36. 40 See, V. Della Dora, “Infrasecular Geographies. Making, Unmaking and Remaking Sacred Space”, Progress in Human Geography 42/1 (2016) 44–71, available at https://doi.org/10.1177/ 0309132516666190 (accessed January 18, 2019). 41 Some interesting insights into the coextensiveness between categories and space can also be found, beyond the semiotic field, in phenomenology. See H. Blumenberg, Theorie der Unbegrifflichkeit (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 2007). But see also G. Bachelard, La poétique de l’espace (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1957), and P. Zumthor, La mesure du monde (Paris: Seuil, 1993).

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be on a collision course. Fetishisation, reification of Otherness and its spatial projections are the semiotic fuel that moves the conflict forward. With dazzling blatancy, they obstruct any channel to possible translation that might otherwise be able to draw out creatively connotative and pragmatic continuities from different ways of spatialising experience, rather than their discontinuities. I refer to this as a creative activity because there is no achievable objective inter-spatiality; the only solution comes from the competitors’ awareness that through the reciprocal translation of their own spaces, they are giving shape to a third dimension of which they are the exclusive authors and guarantors. Translating activity should be anchored to an intercultural use of human rights. Their axiological connotations should be taken as metaphorical interfaces, or as the ground beneath the religious/cultural differences and their related spatialisations.42 As I stressed above, sacred places are the material media of communication and convergence between an openness to God and an openness towards the world, including human Otherness. Cognition rather than violence and exclusion thus emerges as the multi-centered authentic meaning of religious experience. Translation and cognition, on the other hand, are inseparable and mutually inclusive. The awareness of this could give course to the possibility to draw from the different sacred places the semio-pragmatic means to conceive and coorchestrate, through the intercultural use of human rights, patterns affording different universes of sense – and related spatial geographies – to coexist fruitfully on the earth. The protection of sacred places would thus become an epiphenomenon of reciprocal translation among the semio-pragmatic projections of sacred places all over the world. The chorological shrinking and relativisation of distances ensuing from an understanding of the dynamic and trans-spatial significance of sacred places prompts me to imagine the planet as a big city, in which Jerusalem and the Ganges, St Peter’s Basilica and Aboriginal sacred paths, are close and interrelated, just as people of different faiths live, move and breathe side by side in the multicultural megalopolis of the world. However, the space of such an only apparently imaginary city would be nothing but the result of the semantic interrelationships between all these sacred places and their praxeological consequences. 42 As for the intercultural use of human rights I refer to my previous work: see M. Ricca, Oltre Babele; Id., Culture interdette; Id., “Errant Law. Spaces and Subjects”, 1–54, available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=2802528; Id., “The Intercultural Use of Human Rights and Legal Chorology”, 1–14, available at https://ssrn.com/abstract=2807424; Id., “Klee’s Cognitive Legacy and Human Right as Intercultural Transducers. Modern Art, Legal Translation, and Micro-Spaces of Coexistence”, Calumet. Intercultural Law and Humanities Review (2016) 1– 40, available at http://www.windogem.it/calumet/upload/pdf2/mat_51.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019).

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The interreligious respect for the pilgrimages that drew and connoted their particular political ecology in the past proves that a worldwide communicative network among sacred places is possible. In a way, the deterritorialising effect that we attach to the World Wide Web was already a semiotic reality in the Middle Ages (and even before).

6.

Sacred Places and Atheism. A Cyclopean Issue

In the planetary semio-ecological scope of the meaning and legal protection of sacred places, however, there remains a kind of blind spot. It is constituted by the secularised/atheist visions of sacred places and religious universes. No one can ignore the fact that the desecration and destruction of sacred places, at least historically, were also carried out by atheist activists or political authorities. Needless to say, their attitude towards sacred places and religions is further stimulated by the cognitive and spatial alienness produced by semantic/spatial secularisation divides. Nonetheless, I think that the translational functions of a horizontal use of human rights as metaphorical interfaces could also be extended to the relationships between atheists and religious spatialised expressions, including sacred places. Nevertheless, it would remain a hopeless effort to ask atheists to recognise the mediating function between a sacred dimension and the worldly one that sacred words (or frameworks of sacred acts of semantisation) and sacred places inherently represent for believers. However, no atheist could wisely ignore the materiality of the consequences of faith. This would be equivalent to a failure to “know his own enemies”. The risks ensuing from this kind of wilful and othering blindness towards those who invoke the religious sources of their action cannot find any better evidence than Homer’s Odyssey, and the sad story of Polyphemus. Consider, in this regard, the following short passages from the Odyssey. When Ulysses meets the Cyclops in his cave for the first time, the Achaian warrior addresses these words to him (Od. IX 266–71): As for us, chancing to come here we lay ourselves at your feet in entreaty, in the hope you may offer us a stranger’s present, or give us a gift in some other way, as is the proper custom with strangers. Come now, my dear fellow, show respect before the gods: we are the suppliants, you know, and Zeus it is who watches over the rights and wrongs of suppliants and strangers, the stranger’s god, who accompanies strangers deserving of respect.

Despite Ulysses’s invocation of divine protection, Polyphemus gives him the following rebuttal (Od. IX 272–8):

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So I spoke, and he at once replied with a pitiless heart: “You are being silly, stranger, or you have come from far away, telling me either to fear the gods or keep out of their way. The Cyclopes take no notice of Zeus the aegis-carrier, or the other blessed gods, since we are much superior to them. I would not spare you or your comrades to avoid the hostility of Zeus unless my heart told me to”.43

Everyone knows how the story continues… and ends. The intentional cognitive blindness of Polyphemus will transmute into an actual physical one.44 This occurs because he places too much importance on his physical superiority and the imbalance in strength existing between him and human beings. Therefore, he refuses to give course to the ritual of hospitality, which is – as Homer still teaches us – nothing but a strategy for knowing Otherness. Unfortunately (but only for the Cyclops), Ulysses transforms him into a sign, and by means of his power of symbolic representation changes the trunk of an olive tree in a terrible sharp weapon with which he gouges out the eye of the Cyclops. Only at that point does Polyphemus’s lack of hospitality prove to be essentially his true blindness, the cause of his dramatic refusal to know Otherness and, more generally, the world. Yet what does the tragic story of the Cyclops have in common with atheists and sacred places? As we saw above, rites and liturgies transform sacred places into hosting areas where the world and the divine can conflate. This hospitality is immanent to rites, but it also engenders and symbolises a cognitive-practical improvement. As I have already emphasised, when religious rituals/ceremonies permit believers to know the world as a result of its inter-penetration with the divine dimension, they simultaneously urge them to translate this knowledge in their behavioural habits through the same world. Like Polyphemus, no atheist should be so confident in his own superiority as to ignore Otherness and its sources of interpretation of the world; and, vice versa, no religious believer can disregard or refuse to know the atheists’ universe of sense.

7.

In the End

Seen from an anthropological perspective, religion demonstrates its materiality, which deserves, as such, to be considered an element and a force at work in the social environment. Insofar as the semio-practical consequences of religions are spatialised in and beyond sacred places, they can also be translated by using the 43 Roger D. Dawe’s translation from the Greek: R.D. Dawe, The Odyssey. Translation and Analysis (Lewes: The Book Guild, 1993), 371–2. 44 On Polyphemus’s inhospitality as cognitive blindness see M. Ricca, Polifemo. La cecità dello straniero (Palermo: Torri del Vento, 2011).

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human rights semantic and axiological apparatus as a metaphorical interface to shape a grammar of coexistence. No conversion or religious contamination is inherently or inevitably involved in this kind of translation between religious pragmatics and atheist ones. On the contrary, it seems able to outline the possibility to configure a public inter-space of coexistence among different cultural and religious orthopraxes based on an intercultural and multivocal process of secularisation. The only “immense” caveat is that universal human rights must be put into use as immanent tools or operational ends, much like the horizon which provides both an asymptotical arrival point and a stimulus for our endless motion toward it. Human rights’ processive teleology is to make their axiologicalsemantic platform and its inherent vagueness available in order to spur the human attitude towards universalisation, which is nothing more than an ability to engender and ceaselessly renew categorical schemas and their projections in the making of spaces. A polyphonic harmonisation and inter-translation of sacred spaces is the prerequisite for aligning their legal protection with their chorological (namely semantic/spatial) significance. However, this achievement requires that human rights be interpreted and implemented not only at inter- or supranational levels, but also from a planetary perspective. In order to ensure that the human actions that stem from, and interplay with, the semio-practical trans-local consequences of each genuine sacred place be copresent everywhere, and reciprocally attuned, human rights must be used as horizontal interfaces between different behavioural and semiotic ideologies. Jerusalem, St Peter’s Basilica, Aboriginal sacred stones, Meteora, and so on, can stand everywhere on the earth, and maybe even beyond its atmosphere, as perennial icons of the divine/human creational potential.

Postface

Alberto Melloni

A Chronology of the UNESCO Dispute on Jerusalem and Its Holy Places1

1.

Prologue

Three lectures given by Saul Kripke at Princeton in 1970, and collected long afterwards as a book entitled Naming and Necessity, are a milestone in twentiethcentury analytical philosophy to which we owe the theoretical redefinition of the “designator” as a term that includes “names and descriptions” (including a famous page he devoted, strangely enough, to Moses).2 After taking us on a long journey, at the end of his third lecture Kripke arrives at an argument (which is certainly not a summation of his thesis) against “the usual form of materialism”: Materialism, I think, must hold that a physical description of the world is a complete description of it, that any mental facts are “ontologically dependent” on physical facts in the straightforward sense of following from them by necessity. No identity theorist seems to me to have made a convincing argument against the intuitive view that this is not the case.3

Kripke was convinced that a name associates itself with an object by describing it, and that the identity of that object is not a relationship between its names, but between the object and itself – as is also demonstrated by the fact that even if an object is described by two names, and those names are only known a posteriori, it may necessarily have to be true (pace Kant). By pure coincidence, Kripke’s proposition was coeval with the beginnings of a discussion that arose within UNESCO in which the names of holy places in Jerusalem – understood as places of great significance for large human groups – became the field of a diplomatic battle. I should like to follow it step by step. Everybody knows, and I know, that besides this diplomatic battle over naming the sacred places many other events took place: failure of negotiations, episodes 1 Sources: the decisions can be found at the website of the ECU (Executive Council UNESCO), http://www.unesco.org/new/en/executive-board/decisions/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 2 S. Kripke, Naming and Necessity (Oxford: Blackwell, 1980), 58–9. 3 Ibid., 155.

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of bullying, terrorist attacks, violations of rights and infringements of old regulations. However, the purpose of this paper is not to write about the history of Jerusalem within the Arab-Israeli conflict but rather to show how the agency entitled to regulate in a multilateral framework education, science and culture actually worked out one of the most delicate issues on this planet.

2.

“Titus”, or the Prehistory of a Contradiction: 1980–1982

At the beginning of September 1980, the World Heritage Committee, in its 4th Session, considered a number of requests, as was normally the case. One of them was submitted by the Jordanian ambassador, who proposed inscribing “the Old City of Jerusalem and its walls” on the list of UNESCO sites. His request was accepted subject to the normal procedure for assessment. On December 16, 1980, ICOMOS (International Council for Monuments and Sites) adopted the Jordanian request and converted it into a recommendation. As proposed, the recommendation refers to a site within the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and defines it by a double name: “The Old City of Jerusalem (al-Quds) and its walls”. ICOMOS justified its decision to inscribe this site on the UNESCO World Heritage List on the basis of three of its listing criteria. Jerusalem’s merit was based on Criterion VI (“to be directly or tangibly associated with events or living traditions, with ideas, or with beliefs, with artistic and literary works of outstanding universal significance”) thanks to its link to the “three great monotheistic religions of mankind, Judaism, Christianity, and Islamism”. The listing decision was also based on the pertinence of Criterion II (“to exhibit an important interchange of human values, over a span of time or within a cultural area of the world, on developments in architecture or technology, monumental arts, town-planning or landscape design”), and for this reason the decision specified that the monuments at the site “such as the Holy Sepulchre or the Dome of the Rock” had influenced “the development of Muslim and Christian architecture”. Finally, Criterion III (“to bear a unique or at least exceptional testimony to a cultural tradition or to a civilisation which is living or which has disappeared”) was also taken as a reference. In this last paragraph, a brief description of the city was provided. Historical incongruence and political short circuits are evident in these few lines that list one of the eight “lost” living civilisations: The site of Jerusalem, which has been continuously inhabited from prehistory, presents a series of exceptional testimonies to its vanished civilizations: that of the Jebusites (from the third millennium to ca. 1,000 before Christ); also, that of the Hebrews, from David to the siege of Titus in 70 A.D.; that of the Roman Empire, of which Aelia Capitolina, from 135, became one of the most important Eastern colonies; and, of course, that of Byzantium, not to mention the successive medieval civilizations characterized by the

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co-existence of Arabs and Christians from 638 to 1099, by a short western interlude terminated definitively in 1244 and by the Turkish domination which reached its peak under the reign of Sulaiman the Magnificent.4

The delimitation of the civilisation “of the Hebrews” as having been closed by the destruction of the Temple was not noticed at that time, and the same is true for the Byzantine and Arab-Christian “co-existence”: this description entered the records of UNESCO as such, with no reference to the fact the multiple historical meaning and the multiple theological narratives of the city are the heritage to be protected. In point of fact, whereas the historical description of Jerusalem is surprisingly questionable, the ICOMOS physical circumscription of the site was effected in a different way. The reference for such a description may have been found in the decision that added the city of Rome to the World Heritage List: in that case its “historic centre” was delimited in a fairly conventional but straightforward way by assuming it to be the area enclosed by the Aurelian Walls. On the contrary, when it came to naming places in Jerusalem, ICOMOS adopted a linguistic register that was very different from “historic centre” and used biblical references to define the boundaries of Jerusalem, either in the strict sense or in a mediated New Testament version and the traditional Christian devotion, which elected a large room on the Christian Sancta Sion as the Cenacle:5 … to the north, the quarries of Solomon, the so-called tomb of the Kings, an hypogeum from the 1st century A.D.; to the east, the Mount of Olives; to the south, the pool of Siloan, fed by the spring of Gihon via the tunnel of Hezekiah (8th century B.C.), the village of Siloan (Silwân) with the tombs of the Judges, strongly marked by Hellenistic influence, and the site of Gethsemane. Finally, close to the south-west angle of the wall, the Churches of the Holy Saviour and the Dormition, the house of Caiaphas and the Coenaculum, an essential link between three religions, as it is thought to house the tomb of David.6

UNESCO formally adopted the ICOMOS document in 1981, but in 1982, once again at the request of Jordan, Jerusalem and its walls were immediately placed on the List of World Heritage in Danger.7

4 ICOMOS Resolution, December 12, 1980. 5 Bargil Pixner wrote extensively on the subject starting from “An Essene Quarter on Mount Zion”, in B. Bagatti/E. Testa/I. Mancini et al. (ed.), Studia Hierosolymitana in onore di P. Bellarmino Bagatti (3 vol.; Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 1976) 1.245–84, and “Church of the Apostles Found on Mt. Zion”, BAR 16/3 (1990) 16–35, with references to the dispute with Hillel Geva and Jürgen Zangenberg. 6 See http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/148/documents/%20=%201981 (accessed January 18, 2019). 7 Jerusalem is not listed today with other sites in Jordan or Palestine, such as Bethlehem or Hebron: it stands on its own, without any indication of a state but simply as “Jerusalem”.

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However, in 1980 – namely after the Camp David Accords which had specifically excluded the question of Jerusalem – the wording of the Jordanian diplomacy offered a fourfold perspective and a fourfold contradiction: 1. in relation to what made Jerusalem a holy city, the wording lists all the faiths of the children of Abraham; 2. but in its chronology of the history of Jerusalem, it made an attempt to remove any Jewish presence in the Holy Land after the destruction of the Temple by the Romans; 3. concerning buildings, as a criterion of their value it identified their exemplariness as “monuments” as a way of excluding and “concealing” the Western Wall, fitting it neatly into a politicisation of the archaeology that made it accessible to everyone; 4. despite all this, the names given to the places made it obligatory to acknowledge the strength of biblical tradition and of the New Testament in Jewish memory. This contradictory wording that attributed a definition to a city which is now described on the UNESCO website as “holy”8 was an effort to circumvent the diplomatic problems deriving from the physical overlap and the theological asymmetries of its various holy places.9 Hence, since the initial UNESCO decision to insert Jerusalem in the World Heritage List, all the attitudes that have marked the political/diplomatic decisions taken on Jerusalem by UNESCO in the second decade of the twenty-first century had already been in play: namely the scarce use of a learned approach and a lack of theological ἀκρίβεια. The historian, working

8 The temporary endpoint can be found in the description of Jerusalem on the UNESCO website of 2017, which adopts a very interesting solution, namely the appeal to the symbolic value of the place and the building as an expression of that value: “As a holy city for Judaism, Christianity and Islam, Jerusalem has always been of great symbolic importance. Among its 220 historic monuments, the Dome of the Rock stands out: built in the 7th Century, it is decorated with beautiful geometric and floral motifs. It is recognized by all three religions as the site of Abraham’s sacrifice. The Wailing Wall delimits the quarters of the different religious communities, while the Resurrection rotunda in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre houses Christ’s tomb”. 9 Theoretically, all Jews and Muslims (particularly if they are not recognisable as such) can visit the Holy Sepulchre; Christians can approach the Western Wall, in fact, and in theory so can Muslims if they are wearing western clothes. For the Christian, it is no longer possible (as it was in 1978) to visit the mosque that contains Mount Moriah, the scene of the Binding of Isaac and the place where Jesus preached. For observant Jews, a decision of the rabbinate confirmed that the impurity of the place makes it impossible for observing Jews to pray on the Temple Mount, see Y. Cohen, “The Political Role of the Israeli Chief Rabbinate in the Temple Mount Question”, Jewish Political Studies Review 11/1–2 (1999) 101–26. Concerning the attempt by Rabbi Shlomo Goren, who prayed on the Temple Mount after the 1967 war and its seamless relationship to Christian fundamentalism, see G. Gorenberg, The End of Days. Fundamentalism and the Struggle for the Temple Mount (New York: Free Press, 2000); for the political meaning of Christian militants mainly in the US, see S. Spector, Evangelicals and Israel. The Story of American Christian Zionism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), and R.O. Smith, More Desired than Our Owne Salvation. The Roots of Christian Zionism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).

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on public sources,10 cannot judge whether these deficits are necessary for diplomatic discourse. Moreover, making speedy decisions on those topics as a retaliation for the military disproportion between the conflicting parts on the ground is not relevant for the historian of UNESCO decisions and reputation. What the historian may detect is that, at the beginning of a discussion that flared up halfway through the second decade of the twenty-first century, there was the need to be accurate and profound in the description of the cohabitation of believers belonging to different faiths, confessions and denominations. It is a cohabitation that time itself has been constructing ever since its Jewish beginnings, through the Babylonian, Hellenistic, Roman, Byzantine, Arab, Crusader, Ottoman, British, Jordanian and, lately, Israeli conquests, within a space that remains politically controversial even in the wake of all those historical phases that are written into its urban fabric.

3.

“Historic Character”. A Diplomatic Tension, 2000–2011

The description of Jerusalem adopted in 1980 remained apparently undisputed for at least the ensuing twenty years, and the subsequent decision never went beyond general recriminations which were part of an essentially standardised diplomatic dialectic mirroring the successive stages in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and negotiations – and the equilibriums that were forming within Palestinian politics, and the results of elections in Israel. One emblematic example of those twenty years was a request that the Israeli delegation submitted on June 30, 2000.11 Following normal UNESCO practice, they presented the standard premise that what they were seeking did not imply any acceptance or judgement in relation to the UN resolutions concerning the Arab-Israeli conflict; nevertheless, the Israeli diplomats requested an extension of the buffer zone around the site of Jerusalem to include the medieval walls of the city and Mount Zion: the description underlines a distinction between the Christian remains, which are described as an alleged site (the so-called “Last Supper Room”), and the Jewish remains (for example, the clearly defined “King David’s Tomb”). The Israeli proposal demands the protection as World Heritage of all the Jewish, Christian and Muslim burial grounds around the city, “unique testimony to the cultural traditions of Judaism, Christianity and Islam”.

10 In actual fact, I am not proposing to reconstruct the genesis of each decision, nor I have requested access to national diplomatic documents or the personal papers of their proposers or negotiators. 11 Ref. 1483.

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Even in the case of resolutions put forward by the Jordanian party, and even after Ariel Sharon’s walk on the Temple Mount in 2000 that set off the bloody Second Intifada, the tone was no less pragmatic and prudent and seemed interested not in names but in the demographic fabric of the old city and in the large-scale construction works initiated within an area that had been protected and conserved on the List of World Heritage in Danger in a deliberation of 2002.12 Typically, a resolution submitted in 2003,13 and passed in Session 28 of the World Heritage Committee in Shenzhou, underlined a request to grant “free access” to restoration specialists and called for an intervention to ensure the upkeep of the sites in order to preserve the “historic character of the Old City”.14 The proposal to design and construct new buildings for the Jewish Orthodox in the area facing the Western Wall only slightly modified the basic approach that had been assumed by the organisational bodies of UNESCO, but in the decision voted through in 2006, a different wording appears for the first time in which religious stratification is no longer mentioned and a venerated Muslim name (“al-Haram ash-Sharîf”) is used tout court as the denomination of a path leading to it: [The World Heritage Committee] … 4. Affirming that nothing, in the present decision, which aims at the safeguarding of the cultural heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem, shall in any way affect the relevant United Nations resolutions and decisions, in particular the relevant Security Council resolutions on the legal status of Jerusalem; 5. Reiterates its concern as to the obstacles and practices, such as archaeological excavations or new constructions, which could alter

12 Deliberated in July 2002, see http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/694. This deliberation continued to be iterated uninterruptedly until 2017; see http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/148/ documents/ (accessed January 18, 2019). 13 Deliberated in July 2003, see http://whc.unesco.org/archive/2003/whc03-27com-24e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 14 The decision regrets “the progressive alteration of its historic urban fabric and visual integrity, the lack of maintenance and inappropriate conservation approaches to some of its historic monuments, due to the difficulties posed by the present situation; 3. Urges the responsible authorities to establish in close consultation and cooperation with, and with the prior approval of all the concerned stakeholders, appropriate regulations, sensitive to the historic character of the Old City, for all rehabilitation and conservation activities within the Old City and to ensure its safeguarding; 4. Further urges the responsible authorities to facilitate the normal progress of rehabilitation and conservation works within the Old City, by allowing the free access of labourers and conservation materials to the property; 5. Encourages the concerned parties to take into account, when undertaking conservation activities, the principles and recommendations of the relevant international Charters, particularly with regard to the need to preserve the authenticity and integrity of the property and requests the concerned parties to ensure that international principles be applied with regard to interventions to the subsurface deposits in the Old City” (emphasis added), see http://whc. unesco.org/en/decisions/172. That same wording was later used by the WHC in 2005; see http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/350 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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the outstanding universal value of the cultural heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem, including its urban and social fabric as well as its visual integrity; 6. Asks the Israeli authorities to provide to the World Heritage Centre all relevant information concerning the new buildings planned in and around the Western Wall Plaza, including the plans for the reconstruction of the access leading to the al-Haram ash-Sharîf; 7. Invites all authorities and institutions to cooperate constructively for the conservation of the cultural heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem and, in particular, the Israeli authorities to facilitate access of materials and technical staff for the restoration of monuments and housing in the Old City, in particular in the al-Haram ash-Sharîf.15

Whilst a disclaimer in the Israeli proposal of 2000 kept the sequence of Security Council resolutions on the status of the city separate from the question of the World Heritage List, in 2006 the Jordanians openly recalled them, particularly when it referred to the Temple Mount, which they identified with its traditional Islamic name, calling it the “sanctuary”, the “noble sanctuary”, or the “noble sanctuary of the Holy City”. The next Session of the WHC in 200716 made a decision whose effect was welcomed, since it no longer mentioned the Haram alSharif and concentrated instead on the Mughrabi Ascent, the access ramp once used by the Maghrebs, as the object of a necessary and important restoration. The start of technical contacts for the Mughrabi Ascent and the excavations, which were initiated and shared by the Jordanian and Israeli parties in January 2008, the WHC’s adoption of the Jordanian proposals, and the expressions of thanks to international donors in 2008–10, along with the request, to Israel, for greater collaboration with the UNESCO authorities en poste,17 led in 2011 to the 15 See http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/1069 (accessed January 18, 2019). Emphasis added. 16 “6. Welcomes the Action Plan for the Safeguarding of the Cultural Heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem developed in the context of the Director-General’s comprehensive initiative for the safeguarding of the cultural heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls and strongly supports its implementation in coordination with the concerned parties; 7. Also welcomes the information provided by the Israel National Commission for UNESCO in its letter dated 8 June 2007, indicating that the archaeological excavations at the Mughrabi ascent have stopped and urges the Israeli authorities to limit on-going activities at the Mughrabi ascent to consolidation and stabilization works; 8. Asks the World Heritage Centre to facilitate the professional encounter at the technical level between Israeli, Jordanian and Waqf experts to discuss the detailed proposals for the proposed final design of the Mughrabi ascent, prior to any final decision; 9. Requests the Israeli authorities, in addition to the above encounter, to provide the World Heritage Centre, as soon as possible, with the proposed final design of the Mughrabi ascent, whose principle aim should be to maintain the authenticity and integrity of the site; 10. Further asks the World Heritage Centre to make technical expertise and assistance available for the future conservation works at the Mughrabi ascent, as needed; 11. Calls on the international donor community to support, through extra-budgetary funding, activities aimed at the safeguarding of the cultural heritage of the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls, in particular in the context of the Action Plan”, see http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/1281 (accessed January 18, 2019). 17 For 2008 see http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/1590; for 2009 see http://whc.unesco.org/en/ decisions/1778; for 2010 see http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/4096; in 2011 a point is

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presentation of a Jordanian restoration project for the Mughrabi Ascent18 and yet another negative mention of the Israeli archaeological excavations. This was approved in 2012.19

4.

“Buraq Plaza”. The Construction of a Crisis, 2013

The initial ambivalence in the UNESCO definition of Jerusalem and the itinerary of contrasts and recriminations that were more or less standard diplomatic practice all shifted into a new register in 2013, also as result of the 2011 admission of Palestine to UNESCO. The new presence of the Palestinian delegation added to the same sentences, namely that the WHC “regrets the Israeli refusal to comply with the World Heritage Centre and UNESCO decisions and requests Israel to timely cooperate and facilitate the implementation of the World Heritage Committee Decision 34 COM7A.20 which requests, inter alia, a joint World Heritage Centre/ICCROM/ICOMOS reactive monitoring mission to the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls”, see http://whc.unesco.org/en/ decisions/4356 (accessed January 18, 2019). 18 “4. Reaffirming the purpose and spirit of the professional encounter at the technical level on 13 January 2008, as well as the follow-up meeting on 24 February 2008; 5. Noting the Sixth, Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth and its Addendum, Tenth and Eleventh Reinforced Monitoring Reports prepared by the World Heritage Centre; 6. Recognizes the concerns raised in this regard about the decision by the Jerusalem District Planning and Construction Commission on the town planning scheme for the Mughrabi Ascent, and the subsequent decision by Israel’s National Council for Planning and Construction to adopt ‘an alternative plan for the Mughrabi Ascent’, approved on 31 October 2010 by the above-mentioned Commission; 7. Requests that, despite the decisions mentioned in paragraph 6, the process for the design of the Mughrabi Ascent be inclusive of all parties concerned, in accordance with obligations and duties of such parties as stipulated in the content of previous World Heritage Committee decisions; 8. Reaffirms in this regard, that no measures, unilateral or otherwise, should be taken which will affect the authenticity and integrity of the site, in accordance with the Convention for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage of 1972 and the relevant provisions on the protection of cultural heritage of the Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict of 1954; 9. Notes the request made by the World Heritage Committee in previous decisions, and requests, in this regard, the Israeli authorities to continue cooperation with all concerned parties, in particular with Jordanian and Waqf experts; 10. Acknowledges receipt of the Jordanian design for the restoration and preservation of the Mughrabi Ascent, submitted to the World Heritage Centre on 27 May 2011, and thanks Jordan for its cooperation in accordance with the relevant provisions of UNESCO conventions for the protection of cultural heritage”, see http://whc. unesco.org/en/decisions/4636 (accessed January 18, 2019). 19 “10. Also regrets the persistence of the Israeli archaeological excavations and works in the Old City of Jerusalem and on both sides of its Walls, and the failure of Israel to provide the World Heritage Centre with adequate and comprehensive information about its archaeological activities thereon, and asks the Israeli authorities to cease such excavations and works in conformity with the UNESCO Conventions for the protection of cultural heritage”, see http:// whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/4635 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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coincided20 (I would put it no higher than that) with a different conceptual framing of the question of the city in whose name – al-Aqsa – the Second Intifada had been fought. Obviously, the diplomacy of the Palestinian National Authority could not fail to make the most of its presence in this multilateral international body. Decision-making on Jerusalem at UNESCO took on a different tone. Whether as part of a new diplomatic strategy, or perhaps due to the new political situation in Israel, Palestine succeeded in activating a cluster of countries that put forward motions to the WHC, then to the Executive Board and eventually to the General Conference which in their very wording marked a change. The problem was not “politicisation”: everything has a political aspect at UNESCO, and states do act according to their own political views. The problem was the “trend” that can be detected. Objectively different from the register previously employed by Jordan (albeit with outcomes that changed after the end of the Olmert administration) from 2013 onwards – and here I am anticipating a conclusion – the UNESCO representatives of the countries formally united with the Palestinian cause voted a series of resolutions escalating from an increasingly unilateral description of places: and the military clash on the ground is more and more related to that of the sacredness embedded in Jerusalem. It was a strategy that sought to have a “propagandistic effect”21 rather than attain a political goal in the cumulative decisions concerning the sites in the Holy Land.22 On closer inspection today, it would seem that the first signs of a metamorphosis in the discussion about Jerusalem began to appear – albeit as yet only to a slight, barely perceptible degree – with the decision taken by the Executive Board in Session 192 from September 23 to October 11, 2013. Even in June of that year the situation of Jerusalem was still being discussed within the well-known syntax, although on the matter of Hebron as a Palestinian site there had been a new emphasis placed on the “Islamic” significance of the tombs of the patriarchs and matriarchs (which were simply relegated to silence

20 In 2011 the General Conference voted with 104 members in favour, 52 abstentions, and 14 against. 21 I take the category from a definition by A.P. Schmid, “The Revised Academic Consensus Definition of Terrorism”, Perspectives on Terrorism 6/2 (2012) 158–9, on p. 158. 22 That strategy achieved maximum visibility in the decisions of the Executive Board: they had a stronger public impact, which was further magnified by an apparently innocuous decision taken at Session 195 in October 2014 – the so-called Omnibus Decision. During previous decades, in fact, the Executive Board had been approving separate documents for the various sites in the Holy Land, including Jerusalem, Hebron and Bethlehem, and the scholastic institutions or reconstructed buildings of Gaza. Now, on the other hand, after the 2014 General Conference, it was decided to make one decision for all of them: combining all the resolutions that had been separate until then gave them greater political weight.

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whilst not denying anything to other faiths).23 But, in October, new arguments were introduced that included discussing Jerusalem, mingled with references to the Executive Board’s decisions using the previous linguistic register.24 In response to a number of requests concerning such topics as the Mughrabi Ascent (No. 5) which, despite being well-established, were nevertheless associated with the dispute on the construction plans for the city,25 an unusual definition of the Western Wall area was introduced: along with its traditional denomination as the Western Wall, it was now also referred to as the “Buraq Plaza”: a reference to the mystical steed on which the Prophet rode into Jerusalem and which he tethered at the very foot of the Wall. In fact, the Resolution states at item 12 that UNESCO deplores the recent construction by Israel of a platform in the Buraq (Western Wall) Plaza, in violation of its obligations under the conventions referred to above, and requests Israel to remove the structure built, immediately restore the site to its original character, and refrain from taking any further unilateral steps which jeopardize the site, and its integrity and authenticity.26

As one can see, new expressions come to the surface. There is a suggested link between the “original character” of the site and the Islamic name for it, and, moreover, mainly the use of the term “authenticity” in order to blame the presence and arbitrary actions of the Israeli army and police, which is further developed in the following item: 13. Expresses its concern regarding the Israeli authorities’ admittance of provocative religious-extremist groups and uniformed forces into the al-Aqsà Mosque compound ˙ (also known as the al-Haram ash-Sharı¯f compound) through the Mughrabi Gate, and ˙ regrets the systematic violations of the sanctity of the compound and the continued interruption of the freedom of worship therein; 14. Affirms in this regard the need to 23 On the other hand, at p. 10 the Resolution indicates “Implementation of 190 EX/Decision 14 on ‘The two Palestinian sites of al-Haram al-Ibra¯hı¯mı¯/Tomb of the Patriarchs in al-Khalı¯l/ ˙ Hebron and the Bila¯l ibn Raba¯h Mosque/Rachel’s Tomb in Bethlehem’ (191 EX/10 and Add.; ˙ 191 EX/47)”, see http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0022/002207/220725E.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 24 Executive Council 180 (2008) uses a very standard wording; the same applies to the Executive Council 189 and the WHC 34, 36, 37. 25 “6. Recognizes the concerns raised, in this regard, about the decision by the Jerusalem District Planning and Construction Commission on the town planning scheme for the Mughrabi Ascent, and the subsequent decision by Israel’s National Council for Planning and Construction to adopt ‘an alternative plan for the Mughrabi Ascent’, approved on 31 October 2010 by the aforementioned Commission; 7. Requests that, despite the decisions mentioned in paragraph 6 of this decision, the process for the design of the Mughrabi Ascent be inclusive of and accepted by all parties, in accordance with the obligations and duties of such parties as stipulated in the content of the conventions mentioned in paragraph 2 of this decision and in previous World Heritage Committee decisions”. 26 Emphasis added.

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protect and safeguard the authenticity, integrity and cultural heritage of the al-Aqsà ˙ Mosque compound.27

This reference was not directed solely at the late twentieth-century theorists of the Third Temple (the Temple Mount and Eretz Yisrael Faithful Movement was established in 1967, and Rabbi Yisrael Ariel’s Temple Institute was founded in 1987), and perhaps not even at the new loud voice of those groups in their closeness to early twenty-first-century evangelical fundamentalism.28 It was also an attempt to turn the presence, or the utopia, of a prayerful Jewish presence on the Temple Mount (which for the rabbinate was inadmissible) into an act of political and religious profanation.

5.

“Authenticity”. The Basis of a New Approach, 2014

That was one small symptom, and it was reflected in the WHC June 2014 Report,29 which extended the perimeter of the dispute by opening up a political case involving a very wide range of issues, from excavations to tramway lighting, elevator access to the Western Wall, freedom of movement for the Waqf experts, the mention of “incursions by Israeli extremist groups” within what was referred to as “the al-Aqsa Mosque Compound”, damage to the ceramics and some of the windows at the Dome of the Rock, and the excavations around the Mughrabi Gate Ascent. The 2014 Report recalled the decisions that had been taken in Brasilia,30 and decided on an action whose linguistic and religious limits were very precisely set out: a) Phase I: the dispatch, as soon as possible, of the joint World Heritage Centre/ICCROM/ICOMOS reactive monitoring mission to the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls to assess, as a first phase, the 18 sites included in the Action Plan as pilot sites, b) Phase II: the dispatch of the joint World Heritage Centre/ICCROM/ICOMOS reactive monitoring mission to the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls, to assess, as second phase, the

27 See again http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0022/002238/223810e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). Emphasis added. 28 See M.J. Berger/O. Ahimeir (ed.), Jerusalem. A City and Its Future (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press 2002); E. Don-Yehiya, “The Book and the Sword. The Nationalist Yeshivot and Political Radicalism in Israel”, in M.E. Marty/R.S. Appleby (ed.), Accounting for Fundamentalism. The Dynamic Character of Movements (The Fundamentalism Project Series 4; Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1994) 264–302; M. Inbari, Jewish Fundamentalism and the Temple Mount. Who Will Build the Third Temple? (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2009). 29 The Session that ended on June 25, 2014 was held in Doha; see http://whc.unesco.org/en/ decisions/5952 (accessed January 18, 2019). 30 Executive Council decisions (191.9; 192.42; 194.5), and WHCT 37Com/7A.23 and 34 COM/ 7A.20.

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major monumental complexes designated in the Action Plan (i. e. the Haram-es-Sharif, the Citadel, the Western Wall, the Holy Sepulchre and the City Walls).31

Whilst the wording remained the same at Session 194 in March 2014,32 at Session 195 in October (an Omnibus Decision) the denominational identity of the site (“Muslim holy site”) was specified along with the status of Israel as an “occupying power”;33 it is no less interesting that one essential instrument like the status quo is adopted simply to identify the status quo ante – where ante means before June 1967: 5. Deplores the failure of Israel, the occupying Power, to cease the persistent excavations and works in East Jerusalem, particularly in and around the Old City, and reiterates its request to Israel, the occupying Power, to prohibit all such works, in conformity with its obligations under the provisions of the relevant UNESCO conventions, resolutions and decisions; 6. Also deplores the continuous Israeli violations, such as: closure and restrictions of access to the Muslim holy site al-Aqsà Mosque (also known as al-Haram ˙ ˙ ash-Sharı¯f); the attempts to change the pre-1967 status quo; the targeting of civilians including religious figures, sheikhs, and priests, as well as all restoration works near and around the Mosque, further deplores the large number of arrests and injuries inside and around al-Aqsà Mosque by the Israeli forces as well as the frequent intrusions of reli˙ gious-extremist groups and uniformed forces into the Mosque and urges Israel, the occupying Power, to end these abuses which inflame the tension on the ground; 7. Reaffirms in this regard the need to protect and safeguard the authenticity, integrity and cultural heritage of al-Aqsà Mosque and to respect the pre-1967 status quo.34 ˙

The idea that pre-1967 corresponds to a more “authentic” situation is another step that deserves to be underlined, along with “integrity”.35 These changes marking the new approach were, needless to say, intertwined with events on the ground: particularly the assassination attempt on Yehuda Glick, which the Israeli police believed they had prevented by killing Mutaz Hijazi on October 30, 2014, and which sparked off days of violence, including clashes in the area of the Mosques.

31 Emphasis added. 32 See http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0022/002266/226615e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 33 It is the first time that this wording describes the Israeli presence and it will remain standard from October 2014 to 2017 included. 34 See http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0023/002306/230601e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). Emphasis added. 35 Later “authenticity” will move to a secondary position.

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“Muslim”. A Theological Escalation, 2015

Nevertheless, that effort led to two political outcomes that were either linked to it or were its objective, as is demonstrated by the repetition of the same wording in April 2015 in Executive Board 19636 and again in WHC Session 39,37 where the part of the decision devoted to Jerusalem included a specific separate section dealing with al-Haram al-Sharif. The point, of course, was not to use a consolidated term, but to use the name al-Haram al-Sharif within a single tradition only and within the framework that identified the site’s “authenticity” as a “Muslim” holy place: 7. Also deplores the continuous Israeli violations, abuses, works and excavations such as: closure and restrictions of access to the Muslim Holy Site Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif, the attempts to change the pre-1967 status quo, the targeting of civilians including religious figures, sheikhs, and priests, as well as all restoration works near and around the Mosque, further deplores the large number of arrests and injuries in and around Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif by the Israeli forces as well as the frequent religious-extremists groups and uniformed forces intrusion into the Mosque and urges Israel, the Occupying Power, to end these violations and abuses which inflame the tension on the ground and between faiths; 8. Reaffirms, in this regard, the necessity to respect the protection and the safeguarding of the authenticity, integrity, and cultural heritage of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif and to respect the pre-1967 status quo and calls on Israel, the Occupying Power, to stop the obstruction of the immediate execution of all the 19 Hashemite restoration projects in and around Al-Aqsa Mosque/ Al-Haram Al-Sharif; 9. Regrets the damage caused by Israeli security forces on 30 October 2014 to the historic gates and windows of the Qibli Mosque inside Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif, which is a Muslim holy site of worship and an integral part of a World Heritage Site; 10. Expresses its deep concern over the Israeli closure and ban of renovation of Al-Rahma Gate building, one of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif gates, and urges Israel to stop obstruction of the necessary restoration works, in order to fix the damage caused by the weather conditions, especially the water leakage into the rooms of the building.38

This wording reached by the Executive Committee had three political objectives that were of some significance: 1. to consolidate, by iteration, a passage from the status quo praxis of the holy places into a status quo ante of the city as it had been before the 1967 war; 2. to identify Israel as the occupying power, which was fully comprehensible at the diplomatic level and in a generic definition of the outcomes of the 1967 and 1973 wars but now, rather than being used merely as a descriptor, was 36 See http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0023/002327/232764e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 37 See http://whc.unesco.org/en/decisions/6243 (accessed January 18, 2019). 38 See http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0023/002327/232764e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). Emphasis added.

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intended to introduce the idea that Israeli control was not to be condemned for what it is brutal or humiliating, but that it was sacrilege to bring a nonMuslim presence too close to Islamic sacred sites – and/or violating an “authenticity” – where Israel was an outsider, i. e. not because those places had previously been under the control of a sovereignty other than that of Israel, but because Israeli control was not Islamic; 3. as though by way of remedial compensation, to limit the nature of those places to this Islamic meaning, particularly at the site of the Mosques, by removing its relationship with the Temple tradition and the Christian tradition associated with the preaching of Jesus.39

7.

“Holy”. Tactical Retreat, 2016–2017

The debate was rekindled in Spring 2016 when, following a proposal by Algeria, Egypt, Lebanon, Morocco, Oman, Qatar and Sudan, a motion with similar wording was approved by 33 countries with 6 against and 17 abstentions. Declarations by heads of states and governments (from Nethanyau to Hollande) noted that the deletion of the “other” names represented not only the adoption of a linguistic code, but a much more profound intervention. Even if the material status quo is apparently there,40 the linguistic turn makes of the status quo a pre-1967 political status: and it loses what the Ottoman age offered to today’s situation. At the time of the UNESCO decision, some countries that had abstained from the motion asked for a revision, and this was passed by Session 200 of the Executive Board on October 4–8, 2016, leading some of those countries to change 39 As Yitzhak Reiter demonstrated in his paper, the attempt to stress the exclusively Muslim character of Al-Haram Al-Sharif had been underway for some time in Arab-Palestinian politics. See Y. Reiter, “Pantheonizing the Jerusalem Haram: from Pan-Islamic to a national Palestinian pantheon”, Middle Eastern Studies 55/1 (2019) 74–91, available at https://doi.org/ 10.1080/00263206.2018.1505613 (accessed March 14, 2019). 40 The thirst for God, the passage of time, and the blood that had been spilt created the impossible equilibria of Jerusalem thanks to which the status quo – a tool of Ottoman power – became the key to stability in the passage of the city from one power to the next: the September 2017 Statement by the Heads of the Churches of Jerusalem concerning the status quo and the crisis that had been opened up by the fraudulent sale of two orthodox patriarchal properties to the Ateret Cohanim organisation, which was contested by Patriarch Theophilos III. See P. Petkoff, “Finding a Grammar of Consent for ‘Soft Law’ Guidelines on Sacred Places. The Legal Protection of Sacred Places within the Existing Public International Law Instruments and Grass-Root Approaches”, in S. Ferrari/A. Benzo (ed.), Between Cultural Diversity and Common Heritage. Legal and Religious Perspectives on the Sacred Places of the Mediterranean (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014) 57–71.

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from abstention to voting against – and not without reason.41 That revision, in fact, brought with it the collapse of the entire paragraph on “Al-Aqsa Mosque/alHaram al-Sharif and its surroundings” and demanded a return to the status quo ante, not taking 1967 as a threshold and attributing this limit to the year 2000.42 However, in the rest of the decision there still remains an abrasive intention that is not entirely imperceptible: at the end of a long series of protestations it returns, in fact, to the definition of a “Muslim” holy place (“their holy sites”) failing to understand that the stratification of its sacredness is not the problem, but the solution. That final destination of all the discussion embodies an underlying climax that is perfectly clear in the first appearance of the issue “freedom of worship”: 7. Calls on Israel, the occupying Power, to allow for the restoration of the historic status quo that prevailed until September 2000, under which the Jordanian Awqaf (Religious Foundation) Department exercised exclusive authority on Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram ˙ ˙ Al-Sharif, and its mandate extended to all affairs relating to the unimpeded administration of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif, including maintenance, restoration ˙ ˙ and regulating access; 8. Strongly condemns the escalating Israeli aggressions and illegal measures against the Awqaf Department and its personnel, and against the freedom of worship and Muslims’ access to their holy site Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif, and ˙ ˙ requests Israel, the occupying Power, to respect the historic status quo and to immediately stop these measures; 9. Firmly deplores the continuous storming of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al˙ Haram Al-Sharif by Israeli right-wing extremists and uniformed forces, and urges ˙ Israel, the occupying Power, to take necessary measures to prevent provocative abuses that violate the sanctity and integrity of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif; 10. ˙ ˙ Deeply decries the continuous Israeli aggressions against civilians including Islamic religious figures and priests, decries the forceful entering into the different Mosques and historic buildings inside Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif by different Israeli ˙ ˙ employees including the so-called “Israeli Antiquities” officials, and arrests and injuries among Muslim worshippers and Jordanian Awqaf guards in Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al˙ Haram Al-Sharif by the Israeli forces, and urges Israel, the occupying Power, to end ˙ these aggressions and abuses which inflame the tension on the ground and between faiths; 11. Disapproves of the Israeli restriction of access to Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram ˙ ˙ Al-Sharif during the 2015 Eid Al-Adha and the subsequent violence, and calls on Israel, the occupying Power, to stop all violations against Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al˙ ˙ Sharif; 12. Deeply regrets the refusal of Israel to grant visas to UNESCO experts in charge of the UNESCO project at the Centre of Islamic Manuscripts in Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al˙ Haram Al-Sharif, and requests Israel to grant visas to UNESCO experts without re˙ strictions; 13. Regrets the damage caused by the Israeli forces, especially since 23 August 2015, to the historic gates and windows of the al-Qibli Mosque inside Al-Aqsa Mosque/ ˙ 41 Italy was one of those countries that asked a revision of the previous wording and in the end it changed its position from an abstention to a vote against the decision. 42 See http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0024/002463/246369e.pdf, on p. 33 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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Al-Haram Al-Sharif, and reaffirms, in this regard, the obligation of Israel to respect the ˙ integrity, authenticity and cultural heritage of Al-Aqsa Mosque/Al-Haram Al-Sharif, as ˙ ˙ reflected in the historic status quo, as a Muslim holy site of worship and as an integral 43 part of a world cultural heritage site.

The difference here from the decision taken (finally?) in Kraków in July 2017 on a Jordanian proposal is clear: even if the “occupying power” is still there, the sole mention of the Islamic tradition has gone: 7. Regrets the failure of the Israeli occupying authorities to cease the persistent excavations, tunnelling, works, projects and other illegal practices in East Jerusalem, particularly in and around the Old City of Jerusalem, which are illegal under international law and reiterates its request to Israel, the occupying Power, to prohibit all violations which are not in conformity with the provisions of the relevant UNESCO conventions, resolutions and decisions; 8. Also regrets the Israeli refusal to implement the UNESCO request to the Director-General to appoint a permanent representative to be stationed in East Jerusalem to report on a regular basis about all aspects covering the fields of competence of UNESCO in East Jerusalem, and reiterates its request to the Director-General to appoint, as soon as possible, the above-mentioned representative; 9. Stresses again the urgent need to implement the UNESCO reactive monitoring mission to the Old City of Jerusalem and its Walls, and invites the Director-General and the World Heritage Centre, to exert all possible efforts, in line with their mandates and in conformity with the provisions of the relevant UNESCO conventions, decisions and resolutions, to ensure the prompt implementation of the mission and, in case of nonimplementation, to propose possible effective measures to ensure its implementation.44

The discrepancy between those two visions remained open until Session 202 of October 2017, when the whole matter simply vanished. With the imminent election of the new Director-General it all seems to have been put aside in the drafting process;45 the looming deadline had already convinced the April 2017 Session to omit any reference to the naming of Jerusalem’s places46 although the August drafts, in fact, still proposed referring back to the previous deliberations, but also suggested postponing all decisions until Session 204.47

43 Ibid. Emphasis added. 44 See http://whc.unesco.org/archive/2017/whc17-41com-18-en.pdf, on pp. 52–3 (accessed January 18, 2019). 45 The drafts at http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0025/002527/252788e.pdf (accessed January 18, 2019). 46 Jerusalem is only discussed in relation to social actions, see https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/ 48223/pf0000256105.xml= (accessed January 18, 2019). Not so for the Hebron sites, for which the Islamic denomination continues to be used. 47 “The Executive Board may wish to adopt a decision along the following lines: The Executive Board, 1. Recalling previous decisions concerning ‘Occupied Palestine’, 2. Having examined document 202 EX/38, 3. Decides to include this item in the agenda of its 204th Session, and invites the Director-General to submit to it a follow-up report thereon”, in https://unesdoc.

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Only prophecy and prejudice could tell us what might happen next, whether or not that postponement results from a reconsideration of the sensitivity of the equilibrium between the denominators of the holy places, or if it is a purely diplomatic tactic within a strategy that is not afraid to politicise the issue, or a pause to enable reconsideration of the delicate historical and theological questions that had been ignored at the beginning of the UNESCO “protection” of Jerusalem (and which returns in the decision to repeat the definition of Hebron as part of the Palestinian cultural heritage).48 However, the work of the historian does not allow for prophecy and prejudice.

8.

Some Lessons

It seems to me that putting the decisions of the Executive Board and the WHC into a sequence does render several things that could, more or less, have been predicted visible.

unesco.org/ark:/48223/pf 0000256701.xml=http://www.unesco.org/ulis/cgi-bin/ulis.pl (accessed January 18, 2019). 48 In Kraków this was the wording: “2. Taking note that on 30 January 2017 the World Heritage Centre received a request by the Permanent Delegation of Palestine to process the nomination of Hebron/Al-Khalil Old Town for inscription on the World Heritage List in compliance with the standard procedure and that by letter dated 9 March 2017 the Permanent Delegation of Palestine requested to process this nomination on an emergency basis, 3. Taking also note of the provisions under Paragraph 161 of the Operational Guidelines concerning nominations to be processed on an emergency basis, which are to ‘constitute an emergency situation for which an immediate decision by the Committee is necessary to ensure their safeguarding’ and to ‘unquestionably justify Outstanding Universal Value’, 4. Acknowledging that in its evaluation report of the nomination, ICOMOS states that ‘the necessary permissions were not forthcoming for travel and access to the Hebron H2 zone, which is under Israel military control, and within which lies the nominated property’ and that ‘in view of the lack of a Field Visit, ICOMOS has not been able to fully evaluate whether the property unquestionably justifies some criteria, conditions of authenticity and integrity and management requirements nor whether recent incidents have drastically increased the level of threats to a degree that the situation may be considered an emergency for which an immediate action by the World Heritage Committee is needed’, 5. Regrets that Israel, the Occupying Power, did not give the necessary permissions for ICOMOS to undertake a Field Visit to the site in order to evaluate the Outstanding Universal Value, the conditions of integrity and authenticity and management requirements of the property; 6. Considers that the nominated property unquestionably justifies criteria (ii), (iv) and (vi) as well as conditions of integrity and authenticity; 7. Also considers that the property is faced with serious threats which could have deleterious effects on its inherent characteristics and for which an immediate action by the World Heritage Committee is needed; 8. Inscribes Hebron/Al-Khalil Old Town on the World Heritage List on the basis of criteria (ii), (iv) and (vi); 9. Also inscribes Hebron/Al-Khalil Old Town on the World Heritage List in Danger”, see http://whc.unesco. org/archive/2017/whc17-41com-18-en.pdf, p. 178 (accessed January 18, 2019).

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Firstly, the politicising trend of the issue of naming the holy places was made possible by an ancient uncertainty, in the face of the characteristic of a city where the children of Abraham have been fighting one another, but whom the God of Abraham has forced to live side by side. The uncertainty took for granted an understanding that was very weak and uncertain. The traditional reticence of UNESCO to measure itself against religious experience for what it is (and not only for the “culture” that incorporates and bears it throughout time) made its decisions vulnerable. Within and without the decisions being taken by the organs of UNESCO at Place de Fontenoy, in fact, the illusion of being able to “demonstrate” a greater entitlement of the one over the others fomented conflicts which are hard to contain. The politicisation of archaeology (the argument “I was here before you came” supports an idea of archaeological research in which “previous” means before otherness came to be part of the landscape); then a politicisation of sacred texts (“my rights belong to the revelations, your rights belong merely to the faktisch”); and finally the politicisation of the name of the holy places – all these undoubtedly have to be critically understood. Yet it can be brought to a halt if theological attention is paid to preserving the ideas leading to coexistence (e. g. the rabbinate’s imposing a halt following the claim to a resumption of Jewish prayer on the Temple Mount). For the time being, the attempt to influence the naming of the holy places that made its appearance in UNESCO has in effect been postponed, but no one can say whether that represents a change in perspective or a tactical playing for time. Certainly, the sequence of the decisions shows that there has been a desire and an attempt to “exact revenge” for Israel’s political control over the holy city, transforming intolerance for the humiliations it generates, or that are attributed to it, into a “theological” catalyst. Making a political flag out of the Islamic name of the holy places was, and is, a very dangerous choice: past centuries have actually taught that everybody can be at one stage in history an actor of exclusiveness, and at another stage a victim of the other’s exclusiveness… It is indeed very easy to activate the political agitation of believers, but that leads to what the Latin canon law called bellum perpetuum. Thus, the work of the historian is capable of showing anyone who may not have been unaware of it that a wording which suddenly becomes a crisis was constructed, knowingly or unknowingly, by decades of the passing of time. It was time that put at a distance the diplomatically experienced tone used by the Jordanians even in moments of the most acute tension and gave way to a provocative attitude that exploited the vagueness of the early decisions – a vagueness of which not even Israel became aware, as was demonstrated by the proposal they put forward in 2000.

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In effect, “claiming” those names for Islamic and Arab-Islamic vocabulary alone was a break in a culture and a theology that are unique, precisely, to that Muslim tradition. The wisdom of the sultan, albeit in a regime of circumscribed tolerance of dhimmitude, had always been distinguished (even at Hagia Sophia!) for its caution in managing the names of the holy places; and in Jerusalem it had never envisaged reducing, to a single tradition and a single revelation, the meaning of places and stories that were shared by all the peoples of the Book. There is still a trace of that wisdom in the Hashemite position on the holy places. On the contrary, the attempt to cancel out the Other by cancelling out the Other’s names for things is reminiscent of the modern ideologies (from the Jacobinism that made Notre-Dame its consecrated place, to the Stalinist Reason that tried to remove the names of the Orthodox tradition) or a national-imperialist praxis, to whose militaristic brutality none of us can turn for a model because, in accordance with a much-loved scholastic axiom of Vatican diplomacy, nihil violentum perpetuum. So, at the end of this journey it appears – in the sense of Kripke’s thesis – that preserving the plurality of the designators is neither a gesture of “tolerance” for nouns of the past nor a pure archaeological concern but is the rejection of that petty violence: it is a political, historical and theological mistrust for the “presumed effectiveness” of every “fear-generating” tactic; a legal and moral selfrestraint based on the awareness that the places where prayer and hatred have been stratified for centuries cannot become tools for propaganda, unless it is part of a logic that thinks hatred can be compounded without generating any sideeffects.

Name Index

Abraham of Kalisk 109 Absalom, son of David 41 Abu-Jedid 112 Acerbi, S. 57 Adelman, M. 21, 24 Adler, E.N. 49 Adler, M.N. 49 Adomnan, saint 44 Adorno, T.W. 116 Agnon, S.Y. 114–15 Ahimeir, O. 211 Ahir, D.C. 94 Ahren, R. 18 Alexander, P.S. 40 al-Farisi 98 Alfieri, V. 80 al-Ghaza¯lı¯, Abu¯ Ha¯mid 88 ˙ Ali, imam 50 al-Qurtubi 98 al-Tabari 45 al-Thalabi 45 Ambrose of Milan 42, 48, 65, 68 Anita, T. 44 Anonymous of De rebus bellicis 54 Antoninus of Piacenza 44 Antonius 49 Apollonius of Tyana 59 Appelfeld, A. 117 Appelfeld, M. 117 Appleby, R.S. 211 Aptowitzer, V. 33 Arcadius, emperor 65, 68 Arculf 44 Aretarchos 60

Ariel, Ya. 119 Ariel, Yi., rabbi 211 Armstrong, K. 22, 121 Arnaldo of Brescia 79–80 Arndt, W. 44 Arnold, V. 135, 138 Arnulf of Chocques 84 Assmann, J. 193 Athanasius of Alexandria 37, 48 Augustine of Hippo 68–9 Augustus, emperor 55 Auzépy, M.F. 99 Azami, R.A. 45 Azarov, V. 18 Azoulay, A. 10–11, 26 Baasten, M.F.J. 39 Bachelard, G. 194 Bachrach, B.S. 86 Bachrach, D.S. 86 Baert, B. 44 Bagatti, B. 46, 203 Bagnall, R.S. 55 Balagangadhara, S.N. 189 Balbo, C. 80 Balmforth, T. 137 Bammel, C.P. 37 Bar, D. 13 Barak, A. 83 Barbero, A. 53 Bardill, J. 57–8 Barkan, E. 23–4, 186 Barkay, G. 85, 122 Barkey, K. 23–4, 27, 186

222 Barnes, T.D. 52, 59 Barone, D. 81 Barsanti, C. 57 Bartal, R. 46 Bar-Yosef, E. 32 Basil of Caesarea 36 Basil of Seleucia 42 Baslez, M.-F. 55 Bassi, U. 78 Bauer, F. 111 Bede the Venerable, saint 44 Beebe, K. 49 Bell, C.M. 177 Bellow, S. 117 Belting, H. 96 Benevisti, M. 22 Benjamin of Tudela 49 Benjamin, W. 17, 110, 112–14, 116 Benzo, A. 128, 145, 171, 179, 185–6, 214 Berger, M.J. 211 Berggren, L. 78–9 Bergman, S.H. 112 Bernard, J.H. 48 Bernhard von Breydenbach 48 Besançon, A. 96, 99 Bettetini, M. 96 Bhargava, R. 189 Biale, D. 105 Biddle, M. 56 Biddlecombe, S. 84 Bidez, J. 94 Bielefeldt, H. 130, 133, 152, 188 Bieler, L. 44 Bieringer, R. 33 bin Laden, O. 101 Birch, D.J. 181 Bird, J. 181 Bitner, K.A. 33 Bitton-Ashkelony, B. 33 Blumenberg, H. 194 Bodei Giglioni, G. 55 Bodner, K. 41 Boeren, P.C. 46 Boespflug, F. 98 Bogdanovic´, J. 177 Bokova, I. 9–10, 26

Name Index

Bonamente, G. 53, 57, 63 Börner-Klein, D. 41 Botterweck, G.J. 33 Böttrich, C. 50 Boutry, P. 72 Bowden, W. 64 Bowman, G. 24, 26, 186 Brecht, B. 114 Breger, M.J. 24 Brenner, F. 83–4 Brereton, J.P. 177 Brice, C. 78 Bronowski, Y. 106 Brown, P. 66 Brownlow, W.R. 47 Brubaker, L. 97, 99 Bruno, G. 78–80, 82 Bryaxis 95 Buber, M. 106, 108–9 Bucciantini, M. 78 Budick, S. 194 Buonarroti, M. [Michelangelo] Burchard of Mount Sion 47 Burchhardt, E. 112 Bush, G.W. 17, 101 Busse, H. 40

79

Caecilian of Carthage 65 Caesarius 62, 65 Caffarelli, E. 74 Caiaphas 203 Cairoli, E. 78 Cameron, A. 52, 59, 66, 70 Campanini, S. 13, 105–7, 109, 112, 114 Canella, T. 64 Canetti, L. 97 Canova, A. 79 Cantone, V. 100 Carnevale, L. 176 Carpenter, K. 192 Carr, E.H. 22 Carroll, J. 22 Casciato, M. 78 Caseau, B. 64 Cavour, [Camillo Benso] Count of 74, 77, 79–80, 82

223

Name Index

Cazzola, P. 100 Cedrenus 61 Centlivres, P. 94 Chafets, Z. 119 Chambry, E. 96 Champion, E. 31 Chareyron, N. 48, 180, 182 Charlesworth, J.H. 34, 41 Chastel, A. 100 Chateaubriand, F.-R. de 31 Chidester, D. 173, 175 Chromatius of Aquileia 42 Chuvin, P. 67 Ciceruacchio [Brunetti, A.] 74, 78–9, 82 Ciucci, G. 72 Claerhout, S. 189 Cleere, H. 157 Clement of Alexandria 97 Cohen, R. 13, 26 Cohen, Y. 204 Cola di Rienzo 77, 79, 82 Colapietra, R. 72 Colby, F. 98 Coleman, S. 180 Columbus, C. 79 Conder, C.R. 121 Constans, emperor 54, 61 Constantine, emperor 11, 35, 51–61, 63–5, 101 Constantius II, emperor 54, 57, 59, 61–2 Coomaraswamy, A.K. 115 Cormack, M. 24 Coster, W. 183 Cremona, A. 80 Cremonesi, C. 176 Crescenzio 77 Cristofori, R. 168 Cromwell, O. 121 Cuneo, P.O. 61 Cuntz, O. 44 Cyril of Jerusalem 36 D’Azeglio, M. 72, 80 D’Onofrio, C. 72 Dagron, G. 57, 60, 96, 100 Dalman, G. 108

Danforth, L.M. 49 Daniel the Abbot 47 Danielou, J. 97 Darby, J.N. 120, 122, 124 Daremberg, C. 58 Darwish, M. 91 Daviau, P.M. 37 David, king of Israel 13, 41, 50, 84–5, 87–8, 114, 202–3, 205 Davies, J. 32 Dawe, R.D. 197 De Giovanni, L. 67 de Lange, N.M.R. 35 De Roover, J. 189 Deichmann, F.W. 54 Della Dora, V. 172, 175, 179, 194 Delmaire, R. 53, 61–4, 66, 68–9 Denyer, S. 157 Denzinger, H. 178 Derrida, J. 110, 176 Destephen, S. 63 Dieten, J.L. van 101 Digance, J. 183 Dinstein, Y. 153 Dolbeau, F. 100 Donald, E.Q. 101 Don-Yehiya, E. 211 Doorn, H. van 112 Doyle, T. 122 Drake, H.A. 54, 58–9 Drbal, V. 58–9 Drobner, H.R. 37 Dumézil, B. 63 Dumper, M. 18, 22 Dupeux, C. 99 Durham, W.C., Jr. 12, 127, 131 Durkheim, É. 173 Duthuit, G. 100 Dzielska, M. 95 Eade, J. 180 Eadie, J. 33 Edge, P.W. 166 Edwards, M. 59 Ego, B. 50 Einoo, S. 177

224 Eißler, F. 50 Eliade, M. 19–20, 115, 172–4 Eligius, saint 67 Elman, M.F. 21, 24 Elsner, J. 180 Emmel, S. 55, 60–1 Engel, A. 105 Epiphanius of Salamis 38–9, 42 Erlanger, S. 18 Ernoul 47 Escribano Paño, M.V. 67 Étaix, R. 42 Etheridge, J.W. 40 Eucherius of Lyons 44 Eunapius 93–4, 101 Eusebius of Caesarea 35, 52–60, 97 Eustochium, saint 37 Eutropia 58 Faber, Felix 48–9 Fabry, H.-J. 33 Farès, B. 98 Fausta, empress 58 Feiertag J.-L. 40 Feldman, J. 24 Ferrari, S. 128–9, 145, 171, 179, 185–6, 214 Firmicus Maternus 54 Fischer-Defoy, C. 112 Fiumi Sermattei, I. 72 Florensky, P.A. 100 Fogliadini, E. 99 Foletti, I. 100 Foley, W.T. 44 Foscolo, U. 80 Foucault, M. 20, 123 Fox, C.R. 43 Francescangeli, L. 80 Francioni, F. 94 Freedberg, D. 96 Freedman, H. 40 Fretellus 46 Freud Scholem, F. 109, 112, 114 Friedland, R. 21 Friese, W. 58 Fuller, O. 42 Fusco, F. 53, 57

Name Index

Gaeta, A.C. 112 Galilei, G. 79 Garibaldi, G. 78 Gaster, M. 41 Gauss, C.F. 108 Geller, J.H. 105 Gelzer, H. 34, 43 Geva, H. 203 Geyer, P. 44 Ghanea, N. 130, 133, 152 Ghilardi, M. 64 Giangrande, I. 93 Giardina, A. 54 Gibb, H.A.R. 50 Gibbon, E. 95 Gilles, H. 181 Gioberti, V. 80 Glenn, P. 173 Glick, Y. 212 Gnisci, S. 80 Goddard, C.J. 64 Goeje, M.J. de 45 Goitein, S.D. 50 Goldhill, S. 22, 121–2 Gordon, C. 121 Goren, S., rabbi 204 Gorenberg, G. 204 Goshen-Gottstein, A. 9–11, 13 Gotter, U. 55, 60–1 Govett, B. 42 Grabar, A. 97, 99 Grabar, O. 32, 89, 98 Gratian, emperor 63, 65–6 Graves, M. 42 Greenger, N. 119–20, 124 Gregoricˇ Bon, N. 182 Gregory of Tours 44 Grimes, R. 20 Grotius, H. 191 Gruber, C.J. 98 Gründer, K. 107 Grunebaum, G.E. von 97 Grypeou, E. 41 Guillou, A. 99 Gumppenberg, Georg von 48

225

Name Index

Hadrian, emperor 26, 56 Hagee, J. 119, 122–4 Hägg, T. 52 Hahn, J. 55, 60–1, 63 Haldon, J. 99 Hall, S.G. 52, 59 Hamilton, S. 174 Hammer, L. 24 Hansen, G.C. 94–5 Harmening, D. 67 Harris, G. 18 Harris, J. 101 Hassner, R. 24 Hayden, R. 185, 189 Hayward, C.T.R. 39 Hazan, N. 83 Head, T. 45 Hecht, R. 21 Heinämäki, L. 172 Heine, R.E. 38 Hermes, N.F. 86 Herrmann, T.M. 172 Herzl, T. 105, 109 Hezekiah, king of Judah 203 Hierocles 59 Hijazi, M. 212 Hilberg, I. 38–9 Hilhorst, A. 33, 41 Hill, J. 47 Hirsch Scholem, B. 113 Hiyya the Elder 116 Holder, A.G. 44 Holl, K. 38, 45 Hollande, F. 214 Holloway, J. 173, 175, 180 Homer 196–7 Honigmann, B. 109 Honorius, emperor 53, 63, 65, 69 Houtman, A. 41 Huch, L. 124 Huckabee, M. 122 Hultsch, F. 42 Hummel, R. 32 Hummel, T. 32 Hunt, M.H. 123 Hurst, D. 39

Husserl, E. 19, 108 Hutchison, W.R. 32 Huygens, R.B.C. 46 Hypatia 95 Ibn al-Qaysara¯nı¯, M. 86 Ibn Battuta 50 Ibn Kathir, I. 45 Inbari, M. 211 Inglebert, H. 63 Isaac ben Joseph Ibn Chelo Isar, N. 176 Iser, W. 194 Isidore of Seville 44

49

Jacob ben Nathaniel ha-Cohen 49 Jacobsen, K.J. 181 Jacques de Vitry 47 Jameson, F. 20–1 Janin, R. 58 Jeremias, J. 33 Jerome, saint 37–44, 46–50, 54, 56, 61 Jezler, P. 99 Jobani, Y. 24 John Chrysostom 42 John II of Jerusalem 39–42 John of Damascus 90, 99 John of Würzburg 46–7, 49 John Paul II, pope 81, 178 John XXIII, pope 81 Johnson, M.D. 41 Jokilehto, J. 157 Joudah, F. 91 Julian, emperor 59, 62, 66 Julius Africanus 34, 43 Justinian, emperor 53, 58, 63, 65, 69 Kadari, A. 41 Kadari, T. 41 Kafadar, C. 43 Kafka, F. 111, 116 Kalleres, D.S. 36 Kandinsky, W.W. 100 Kaspina, M.M. 33 Keane, D. 18 Keane, W. 173

226 Kedar, B. 24 Kelly, J.N.D. 41 Kepler, J. 108 Keshman Wasserman, A. 46 King, G.R.D. 98 Kirchner, S. 172 Kirill, patriarch of Moscow 136 Kister, M. 33, 40 Kister, M.J. 45 Klameth, G. 33 Klingorová, K. 180 Klostermann, E. 34 Knott, K. 20, 183 Kohlberg, E. 50 Kong, L. 175 Kostjukovicˇ, E. 100 Kotter, B. 99 Krautheimer, R. 57 Kreider, A. 68 Kretschmar, G. 40 Krey, A.C. 86 Kripke, S. 201, 219 Kristensen, T.M. 58 Krusch, B. 44 Kulik, A. 45 Kyriacou, L. 24 La Rocca, E. 57 Lagarde, P. de 39 Lanfranchi, P. 55 Lanza, G. 77 Laor, D. 114–15 Larkin, C. 18 Laurent, J.C.M. 47 Lavan, L. 51, 64 Lazier, B. 108 Leanza, U. 185 Leclerq, P. 95 Lefebvre, H. 20 LeFevere, A. 110 Leibniz, G.W. 108 Lemarié, J. 42 Lenzerini, F. 94 Leo I, emperor 69 Leo III, emperor 90 Leo XII, pope 72

Name Index

Leo XIII, pope 80 Leonhard, C. 37 Lepelley, C. 68 Lerner, N. 129 Levey, G.B. 189 Leviant, C. 49 Levine, L.I. 32, 35, 40, 42, 55 Lewis, R.W.B. 32 Libanius 55, 59, 61, 93–4, 101 Lidov, A. 176 Lieu, S.N.C. 52 Likhachov, D.S. 100 Lindholm, T. 131 Lindsay, W.M. 44 Linenthal, E.T. 173, 175 Lingua, G. 96 Lipatov-Chicherin, N. 13, 31, 33, 36, 39 Livingstone, E.A. 36, 43 Livne-Kafri, O. 87 Lizzi Testa, R. 11, 51, 57, 63–4, 66–8 Loewenberg, F.M. 26 Löfstedt, T. 50 Lorgues-Lapouge, C. 100 Lossky, W. 100 Louth, A. 90 Lucca, E. 110 Lüdtke, W. 33 Luther, M. 80 Luyster, A. 175 Lybarger, L.D. 45 Lynch, C. 18 Maass, F. 33 Macarius, bishop of Jerusalem Machado, C. 64 Machiavelli, N. 76, 80 Mack, M. 12–3, 83 MacKenna, S. 97 MacMullen, R. 70 MacPherson, J.R. 46 MacRobert, C.M. 45 Madden, T.F. 101 Malalas 60 Malevich, K.S. 99 Malingrey, A.M. 95 Mancini, I. 203

58

227

Name Index

Manfroni, G. 79 Mango, C. 57–8 Maraval, P. 59 Marcella, saint 37, 48 Margutti, S. 57 Marinescu, C. 69 Marty, M.E. 211 Mather, C. 122 Mather, I. 122 Mathisen, R.W. 69 Matisse, H. 100 Maxentius, emperor 58 Maximian, emperor 58 Maximus of Turin 63, 68 Mazar, E. 85 Mbembe, A. 123 McDonald, A.L. 193 McLeod, C. 157 Meintjes, L. 123 Melloni, A. 9–10, 13, 57, 201 Menahem Mendel of Vitebsk 109–10 Menniti Ippolito, A. 72 Mérode, F.-F.-X. de 73–4 Meshullam ben R. Menahem of Volterra 49 Metastasio, P. 75, 79 Mettingen, T. 97 Meyer, D.A. 155 Meyer, P.M. 95 Michelant, H. 47 Milani, C. 44 Miller, J. 179 Millgram, A.E. 113 Mindua, A.K.-M. 154 Minghetti, M. 77 Minov, S. 45 Modood, T. 189 Molinier, A. 44 Mommsen, T. 94–5 Mondésert, C. 95 Mondzain, M.-J. 99 Montefiore, S.S. 22 Montero, S. 67 Montesano, M. 44 Montserrat, D. 52 Morgenstern, M. 106

Morinis, A. 181 Morlok, E. 105–6 Morris, P. 12, 17 Mose, G.M. 156 Mosès, S. 110 Muhammad, prophet Mulryan, M. 51 Munk, R. 39 Mutua, M. 130 Mylod, E.J. 46

50, 85, 89, 90, 98

Naef, S. 97–8 Na¯sir-i Khusraw 88 ˙ Necker, G. 105–6 Nesselrath, H.G. 94 Nethanyau, B. 214 Newman, D. 172 Newton, I. 108 Nicetas Choniates 101 Nietzsche, F.W. 108 Niewöhner, F. 107, 110 Nikitin, S. 74–5, 78, 81 Nikolova, S. 45 Nilus of Ancyra 37 Noble, T.F.X. 44 Norlen, T. 24 Norman, A. F. 93 Novik, N. 120 Nowak, M. 154 Nu¯r al-Dı¯n 86 Nursi, S. 137 O’Donnell, E. 24 Obadiah Jaré of Bertinoro Oettinger, A. 49 Omar, M., mullah 94–5 Omodeo, A. 72 Origen 34–6, 40–2, 97 Orosius 61 Orwell, G. 102 Osborne, J. 17 Ouspensky, L. 100 Pacelli, F. 81 Page, B.S. 97 Painter, K. 56

49

228 Palladius 95 Pallavicini, Y. 179, 185 Pangalangan, R.C. 154 Parmentier, L. 95 Pascal, B. 108 Pastorelli, S. 129 Patrich, J. 56 Paul Walther 48 Paula of Rome 37, 39 Pedone, S. 100 Pellico, S. 80 Peres, S. 120 Perez, N. 24 Pergami, F. 62 Perrone, L. 42 Petachia of Ratisbon, rabbi 49 Peter the Great, emperor of Russia 136 Peters, F.E. 22, 25 Petkoff, P. 12, 128, 145, 171, 185, 214 Pettinaroli, L. 81 Philip of Savona 47 Philostratus 59 Phocas, J., pilgrim 47 Pietri, L. 59 Piganiol, A. 61 Pilgrim of Bordeaux 44 Pius IX, pope 73 Pius XI, pope 80–1 Pius XII, pope 81 Pixner, B. 40, 203 Plato 96, 98–9, 108, 176 Plotinus 96 Poccetti, P. 74 Pollmann, K. 45 Ponente, A. 80 Poorthuis, M. 41 Porcari, S. 77, 79 Porena, P. 64 Porter, J.L. 31 Posner, S. 124 Pringle, D. 47–8 Prochnik, G. 105 Pryor, J.H. 46 Puech, E. 33 Pullan, W. 24 Putin, V.V. 135

Name Index

Quinn, E.C. 33 Quintus Aurelius Symmachus

66

Ralph of Caen 86 Raymond of Aguilers 86 Raynaud, G. 47 Reagan, R.W. 17 Rebenich, S. 43 Redko, K. 100 Regoli, R. 11, 71–3 Reijen, W. van 112 Reischl, W.K. 36 Reiter, Y. 24, 214 Repicˇ, J. 182 Reubeni, D. 49 Ricca, M. 12, 171, 174, 176, 178–9, 190, 195, 197 Ricca, S. 22 Riccardi, A. 78, 80 Richardson, J.T. 140 Ringgren, H. 33 Rogers, S.S. 32 Rohan, D.M. 123 Röhricht, R. 44 Ronchey, S. 11–2, 93, 95, 99 Rondeau, M.-J. 59 Roscher, W.H. 50 Rosenthal, F. 45 Rosenzweig, F. 110–11 Rosovsky, N. 32 Rougé, J. 95 Rousseau, P. 52 Rubin, Z. 35 Rufinus of Aquileia 41–2, 94 Runciman, S. 101 Ruozzi, E. 172 Rupp, J. 36 Ryan, W.F. 47 Saewulf 47 Saglio, E. 58 Saladin, sultan 86 Sallis, J. 176 Sallnow, M.J. 182 Samuels, B. 18 Santing, C. 44

Name Index

Sapir, G. 189 Saradi, H. 60 Sarpi, P. 80 Scarcella, S.A. 70 Schäfer, P. 107 Scheid, J. 55 Scheidweiler, F. 95 Schick, C. 83–4 Schlöck, C. 45 Schmid, A.P. 209 Schmitt, B. 154 Scholem, G. 13, 105–17 Scholem, W. 109 Schöttker, D. 112 Schreiner, P. 99 Schwartz, E. 94 Scofield, C. 120 Scott, J. 21 Secchi, A. 79 Seeck, O. 58 Seidemann, D. 123 Sella, Q. 78 Sewall, S. 122 Shaheed, F. 188 Shalem, N. 113 Shalhoub-Kevorkian, N. 123 Shankman, S. 13 Shapira, A. 105 Shapiro, F.L. 119 Sharon, A. 206 Shedletzky, I. 113–14 Sieburth, R. 111, 116 Silverstein, A. 25 Simpson-Housley, P. 21 Singh, R.P.B. 181 Sivan, H.S. 69 Sixtus V, pope [Peretti, F.] 71 Sjöstedt, L. 78–9 Skarsaune, O. 35 Skibine, A.T. 192–3 Skinner, A.D. 111 Smelova, N. 31, 33 Smith, G. 107, 110 Smith, J.Z. 20, 173, 179 Smith, Ma. 24 Smith, Mo. 114

229 Smith, R.O. 13, 119–20, 122–3, 204 Socrates of Constantinople 54, 57–8, 94–5 Sokolow, N. 120 Solomon, king of Israel 43, 85–8, 203 Sosis, R. 24 Sozomen 54, 57–8, 66, 94 Sparr, T. 113–14 Spector, S. 204 Spedalieri, N. 79 Spicer, A. 174, 183 Spurling, H. 41 Stambaugh, J.E. 63 Statman, D. 189 Steiner, G. 17 Sternberg, M. 24 Stewart, A. 44, 46–7, 49 Stoddard, R.H. 181 Stökl-Ben Ezra, D. 55 Stone, M. E. 33 Stoyanov, Y. 11 Stroumsa, G.G. 25, 114 Suleiman I the Magnificent 26–7, 121, 203 Su-Min Ri, R. 37 Swain, S. 59 Symeon Logothete 34 Szemler, G.J. 55 Tagliacozzo, E. 181 Tahzib-Lie, B.G. 131 Talbot, C.H. 44 Tan, C.L. 190 Tancred of Hauteville 86 Taylor, J.E. 22, 35, 40 Taylor, L.J. 181 Taylor, P.M. 128, 165 Tertullian 45 Testa, E. 203 Thackston, W.M. 88 Theodericus of Wu¨ rzburg 46 Theodoret of Cyrus 95 Theodosius I, emperor 53, 57, 60, 62, 65, 67, 93–5 Theodosius II, emperor 61 Theophanes 61 Theophilus 93, 95 Thietmar, pilgrim 47

230 Thompson, W. 121 Thomson, R.W. 37 Tibbon, G. 85, 87 Ticchi, J.M. 81 Tigchelaar, E.J.C. 33 Titus, emperor 202 Tobler, T. 44 Toepel, A. 37 Troubetzkoy, E.N. 100 Trump, D. 11, 17 Tsafir, Y. 56 Tuan, Y.-F. 176 Twain, M. 31–2, 113, 121 Umar, M.S. 13 Urbach, E.E. 115 Urry, J. 182 Valens, emperor 66 Valentinian I, emperor 62–3, 66 Van Dam, R. 52 van der Horst, P.W. 39 van der Leeuw, G. 19 van Esbroeck, M. 40 Van Loy, R. 94 Vazquez, M. 193 Velkovska, E. 99 Verdery, K. 32 Vespignani, G. 57 Victor Emmanuel II, king of Italy 74–5, 82 Vidotto, V. 78 Villaroman, N.G. 129–30, 133 Viventius 66 Vovk, D. 134 Walker, A. 175 Wallraff, M. 34, 43 Warburg, A. 112 Wasserstein, B. 22 Watt, W.M. 88 Watts, E.J. 95

Name Index

Weidner, D. 105 Wellhausen, J. 108 Wensinck, A.J. 50 Whalen, B.E. 46 Wheeler, B.M. 45 Whitby, Ma. 54 Whitby, Mi. 54 Wickham, L.R. 37 Wiener, M. 130, 133, 152 Wild, R. 157 Wilkinson, J. 47 Williams, R. 52 Willibald of Eichstätt 44 Wilson, A. 52 Wilson, C.W. 44 Wilson, W.D. 48 Winkelmann, F. 35, 94 Wintermute, O.S. 34 Winthrop, J. 122 Wirszubski, C. 115 Wirth, J. 99 Wiseman, T.A. 192–3 Wohlfahrt, I. 107 Womersley, D. 95 Wotke, C. 44 Wright, J.L. 39, 41, 50 Yarovaya, I. 137 Yar-Shater, E. 45 Yothers, B. 32 Zadoff, N. 106–7 Zaeef, A.S. 94 Zangenberg, J. 203 Zeno of Verona 63 Zevi, E. 107 Zolla, E. 100 Zosimus 55–7 Zumthor, P. 194 Zwi Werblowsky, R.J.

24, 115