Narrating the Nile: Politics, Identities, Cultures 9781588269898

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Narrating the Nile

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Essays in honor of Haggai Erlich

_ A tribute to Professor Erlich on the occasion of his retirement from Tel Aviv University

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Narrating the Nile POLITICS, CULTURES, IDENTITIES

EDITED BY

Israel Gershoni Meir Hatina

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

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Published in the United States of America in 2008 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2008 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Narrating the Nile : politics, cultures, identities / edited by Israel Gershoni, Meir Hatina. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-58826-591-3 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Nile River Valley. 2. Egypt—Politics and government. 3. Egypt—Civilization. 4. Ethiopia—Politics and government. 5. Ethiopia—Civilization. I. Gershoni, I. II. Hatina, Meir. DT117.N37 2008 962.0009'04—dc22 2008002567 British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5 4 3 2 1

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Contents

Acknowledgments 1

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Introduction, Israel Gershoni and Meir Hatina

1

Part 1 Egypt and Ethiopia: History and Remembering History

2 3 4

The Closest Egyptian-Ethiopian Relationship: The Mamluk Sultanate, Michael Winter

13

Found in Translation: The Egyptian Impact on Ethiopian Christian Literature, Steven Kaplan

29

Politics of Memory: Ahmad ‘Urabi’s Account of the War in Ethiopia, 1876, Meir Hatina

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Part 2 Egypt and Sudan: Unity and National Self-Determination

5 6

Swimming Against the Nationalist Current: The Egyptian Communists and the Unity of the Nile Valley, Rami Ginat

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US Policy Toward the Unity of the Nile Valley, 1945–1952, John Voll

91

v

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Contents

Part 3 The Nile Valley and Collective Identities 7 8 9

At the Banks of the Euphrates and Tigris: Egyptian Intellectuals in Iraq, 1919–1939, Orit Bashkin

115

River Blindness: Black and White Identity in Early Nasserist Cinema, Joel Gordon

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Umm Kulthum at the American University in Cairo: A Study in the Clash of Christianities, Heather J. Sharkey

157

Part 4 Egypt, Ethiopia, and Sudan: Dissonance and Rapprochement

10 11

Managing the Water of the Nile: Basis for Cooperation? Robert Collins

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Ethiopia and Sudan: Conflict and Cooperation in the Nile Valley, David H. Shinn

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Part 5 Conclusion

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Narrating the Nile, Meir Hatina and Israel Gershoni

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Honoring Haggai Erlich, Israel Gershoni

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Publications by Haggai Erlich Bibliography The Contributors Index About the Book

239 245 261 265 275

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Acknowledgments

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HIS VOLUME WAS CONCEIVED AT AN INTERNATIONAL WORKSHOP

held at Tel Aviv University and the Open University of Israel in May 2006 entitled “Narrating the Nile: Cultures, Identities, Memories.” We are indebted to the Israeli Science Foundation of the Israel Academy of Sciences, Tel Aviv University, the Open University of Israel, and the Nehemia Levtzion Center for Islamic Studies at the Hebrew University for sponsoring this unique scholarly event. We extend our sincere thanks to these institutions for their financial support and encouragement. For their distinctive contributions, their insights and critiques, our thanks go to the authors included in the volume and to the other participants in the workshop: Isma‘il Abdalla, Hussein Ahmed, Shiferaw Bekele, Avishai Ben-Dror, Uoldelul Chelati Dirar, William Granara, Paul Henze, Sean O’Fahey, Eve Troutt Powell, Irma Tadia, Yehudit Ronen, Relli Shechter, and Gabriel Warburg. We would like to express our gratitude to Yehudit Ronen for her indispensable assistance in organizing the workshop. The following individuals and institutions generously assisted us in preparing this volume: Dany Leviatan, rector, Tel Aviv University; Shlomo Biderman, dean, Faculty of Humanities, Irene Young Endowment, Tel Aviv University; and Gershon Ben-Shakhar, president of the Open University of Israel. Special gratitude goes to Eyal Zisser, chair of the Department of Middle Eastern and African History, Tel Aviv University, for giving generously of his time and department funds to this volume. We also wish to offer our sincere appreciation for the meticulous work of Avi Mor and Lisa Ratz and for their incessant efforts in seeing this project through from start to finish. We wish to thank Arnon Degani for editing the index. The book has benefited greatly from the professional guidance and help vii

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Acknowledgments

from the editorial staff at Lynne Rienner Publishers, especially Jaime Schwalb and Lesli Athanasoulis. This collection is devoted to the life work of our dear and esteemed colleague and friend, Haggai Erlich. His many works over the years and his outstanding contribution to the corpus of research in Middle Eastern and African studies have served as a source of inspiration for the articles here and to the overall effort to narrate the history of the Nile Valley. We are delighted and proud to dedicate this volume to Haggai. —Israel Gershoni, Meir Hatina

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1 Introduction Israel Gershoni and Meir Hatina

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HE NILE VALLEY, ALTHOUGH A SINGLE WATER SYSTEM, REPRESENTS

neither a homogeneous ecological unit nor a cohesive cultural entity. Due in part to its extensive size and landscape particularities, the valley has allowed for geographic and climatic variation, as well as social, political, religious, and cultural diversities. Never in the region’s long history has any local or foreign force managed to impose one political system, nor to spread one hegemonic civilization. During the twentieth century, the dominance of territorial national states promoted the delineation of fixed borders and reinforced differences by institutionalizing distinctive, imagined, national communities. As a consequence, history tends to be written as national history, culture is often framed as national culture, and polity is reshaped as national politics—all confined within well-defined territorial borders. While such a focus is certainly valid, minimizing or ignoring the broader context of the Nile Valley region is reductionist. In a transnational perspective, it is crucial to find a proper balance between the particularism and locality of the nation-state and the broader setting of the Nile Valley. Territorial national states and their economies, polities, societies, and cultures are not self-sufficient, isolated, separate systems. International relations are an important part of the interconnectedness beyond state borders, but these relations constitute only a single element in the range of interaction on a variety of levels. A broader regional approach is required to better investigate and understand both the particular nation-states and the larger landscape of the Nile Valley.1 A study taking the Nile Valley as its frame of investigation can draw on the examples of regional studies focusing on water systems that produced a geographical environment within which human civilizations and cultures 1

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emerged and developed. Such studies of major river basins in Europe and South America that transcend national borders reveal a close link between physical geography and human history, as well as ongoing conflictual/cooperative relationships among the political entities that comprise these regions. For example, the Danube in central and southeastern Europe has throughout history served as a primary transportation artery in Europe shared in modern times by thirteen countries. The Danube basin has witnessed numerous invasions and population migrations that have molded the multiethnic character of its inhabitants, namely Germans, Czechs, Slovaks, Hungarians, Romanians, Bulgarians, and, at the river’s delta, Turks and Tatars as well. Its geographic location has turned the Danube into an important factor in international, political, and economic relations focusing primarily on struggles over shipping rights, which necessitated negotiations and compromises on the part of the states along its banks.2 South America’s Amazon is also a major transportation conduit, passing through four significant countries—Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, and Brazil. Historically, urban settlements and trade centers developed along its shores, populated mostly by indigenous populations but also by Europeans, especially from the sixteenth century onward, adding to the ethnic mix and influencing the culture of the region. In her book The Amazonia ([1971] 1996) anthropologist Betty Meggers utilizes the concept of cultural ecology to trace the strong influence of land and climate on patterns of settlement, social organization, and interaction with neighboring groups and with the European explorers. Meggers ascribes similarities as well as variations among the Amazonian groups as significantly attributable to the availability and abundance of resources. However, an updated study by Hugh Raffles, In Amazonia: A Natural History (2002), reveals a more complex picture in which human agency also played a prominent role in modifying the Amazonian landscape by intervening in fluvial systems.3 Returning to the Middle East, this complexity is valid for the Euphrates as well. The Euphrates’ central role in the rise and prosperity of Mesopotamia was also the result of human intervention in the river’s waters and its exploitation for the economic and cultural development of the region. During the supremacy of the Eastern Roman Empire, numerous towns and centers of art and literature flourished along its banks. The river also constituted a constant source of dispute and friction, all the more so in modern times, between its riparian countries—Turkey, Syria, and Iraq.4 A similar picture of water systems as complex networks that encompass both unifying and divisive relations is provided by studies of sea landscapes. The Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea are cases in point. In particular, studies such as Neal Ascherson’s Black Sea (1995), as well as Fernand Braudel’s The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II (1972) and S. D. Goitein’s A Mediterranean Society (1973),

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are illuminating. In both cases, the physical environments of bodies of water and their shores provided transport and a means of exchange and intercourse.5 The Black Sea served as a meeting point of civilizations—Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman—generating a proliferation of communities, cultures, and identities along its shores. Contact among these communities was ongoing, despite the ethnic dissonance that was exacerbated by the penetration of notions of nationalism during the nineteenth century and the resulting formation of separate nation-states. These states depended heavily on the Black Sea both for its fishing reserves and also for its ecosystem and maritime transportation to the Mediterranean. This reliance, as well as the growing pollution of the water and shores, mandated multinational deliberations, which became an increasingly effective measure for negotiations with the end of the Cold War in the 1980s.6 The Black Sea, as a melting pot of many peoples and histories, was aptly described by Ascherson thus: “Around the fish-drying screens and the smoke-houses, typical patterns of ethnic and social mingling arose which have still not entirely passed away.” 7 The same is true for the Mediterranean, depicted by Braudel as a region that “speaks with many voices; it is a sum of individual histories.”8 In modern times, while distinctive territorial nations emerged in the region, each with its own national historical experiences and meanings, the nations nevertheless developed within a transnational Mediterranean cultural framework. In these cases, the study of the synchronic interactions among nationstates and the broader geographical cultural systems also included research on diachronic historical processes, which highlight the interrelations between ancient and medieval civilizations and modern civilizations. Building on The Nile—Histories, Cultures, Myths (Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2000), the present volume offers a collection of studies that focus on the major Nile countries—Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia—not only as separate, national entities, but also with a transnational perspective along the Nile Valley. As in our earlier volume, we seek to elaborate and refine a number of questions: What are the relations between land and water and the human experiences that evolved in the Nile region? Is the Nile Valley merely a material unit or is it also a “text” that produces a variety of cultural manifestations, representations, meanings, discourses, and narratives? While responding to these questions, the present volume attempts to explore the diversity within the unity, the uniqueness of the particular within a common Nile Valley framework—the variety of cultures, voices, and narratives. How did one condition the other, how did one negotiate with the other, and vice versa? We will pursue these questions not only in the economic, social, and political spheres, but also with regard to ideological and cultural developments as reflected in literature and the arts.

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The twentieth-century Nile Valley was marked not only by the development of territorial nation-states but also by rapid population growth, urbanization, increasing industrialization, and literacy. In the riparian states, these developments entailed a growing need for Nile water for drinking, irrigation, navigation, and hydroelectric power. In 1995, it was estimated that over half of the people populating the greater Nile basin depended on the river’s waters for survival, hence the paradigm that “wherever there is water, there is life” is more than valid, paving the way for hydropolitics to take the front seat in the interplay of forces among the riparian states.9 Though the conditions of the twentieth century have heightened the awareness of interdependence among national riparian states, it is not entirely a modern phenomenon. As shown by Michael Winter in Chapter 2, the alleged ability of the Ethiopians to divert the Nile water, causing famine in Egypt, was a familiar theme in the relations between the Mamluk Sultanate (1250–1517) and the Solomonian Empire (1270–1529) in Ethiopia. Egyptian-Ethiopian relations were also affected by major religious concerns, namely the reliance of the Ethiopian Church on a Coptic bishop, the pilgrimage of Ethiopians to the Holy Land, and the status of Christian and Muslim minorities in each other’s domain. The two empires managed these issues, Winter argues, through military confrontations as well as through diplomacy. This Egyptian-Ethiopian interdependence impacted Egyptian historiography, which provided ample descriptions of Ethiopian land, marked by deep intellectual curiosity about its cultural and even exotic features. Anteceding intrastate relations, the organization of the church provided a basis for continuous relations between Egypt and Ethiopia. The appointment of the first bishop to Ethiopia in the fourth century initiated a long tradition of appointing a Coptic monk, chosen by the Egyptian archbishop, to head the Ethiopian Church. The Ethiopian bishop, the abun, served not only as a human reservoir of “men of the cloth” for the relatively isolated Ethiopian Church, but also as the direct supplier or mediator of religious literature from Egypt and other lands that was translated from Arabic to Ge‘ez, or Classical Ethiopic. In Chapter 3, Steven Kaplan highlights this thriving translation enterprise between the thirteenth and eighteenth centuries. According to Kaplan, the processes of transmission, whose main sponsors were metropolitans, emperors, and monastic leaders, went beyond incorporating new texts into the Ethiopian Christian literature. These processes also entailed redefining theological issues, cult practices, and other aspects of church life, bearing the footprint of the Alexandrian position. Such cultural transfers added an additional dimension to the EgyptianEthiopian encounter, underlying the existence of a vital Christian community of discourse along the Nile basin and beyond. With the Ottoman conquest of the Mamluk Sultanate (1517), Egypt

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became a province within a vast empire. From the perspective of its center in Istanbul, the territories up the river, beyond Egypt, were of minor importance. They were perceived as difficult to control and costly, not generating any revenues. Ottoman official policy also affected Egyptian historians, who did not express interest in Ethiopia, as their predecessors had in the Mamluk era. Attitudes changed only in the nineteenth century. Egypt conquered Sudan in the early 1820s during Muhammad/Mehmet Ali’s governorship. Khedive Isma‘il pursued further expansion into Africa and along the Red Sea and Somali coasts, prompted by an ambitious vision of establishing an Egyptian empire combining the Nile Valley and the Horn of Africa. This vision was intertwined with and sanctioned by a “civilizing mission” of eradicating the slave trade and establishing law and order. Isma‘il’s African policy, presented in humanistic terms, eventually led to a military confrontation with Ethiopia, and ended in the crushing defeat of the Egyptian army (1876). The military calamity ultimately shattered Egyptian imperial ambitions regarding Ethiopian territory, but this became a contested theme in Egyptian collective memory. In Chapter 4, Meir Hatina places the war in Ethiopia in the broader debate of the historical image of the ‘Urabi movement, which failed to reshape the Egyptian polity and led to British occupation (1881–1882). The movement’s leader, Ahmad ‘Urabi, mainly in his memoirs written after his return from exile in the early twentieth century, narrated the Ethiopian episode as a symptom of the impotence of the project to modernize Egypt under Muhammad Ali’s dynasty. Highlighting the military calamity in Ethiopia as a national trauma was integral to ‘Urabi’s Sisyphean struggle to acquit his movement of accusations of treason, demonstrating that this movement was not the fault of ambitious military officers but rather was deeply rooted in the depressed Egyptian reality. However, the ‘Urabist narrative was on the defensive in light of its systematic demonization by the monarchy using effective organs (the press and the educational system). The counter-royal account’s attempt to erase the ‘Urabists from the Egyptian collective memory also impacted the historiographical treatment of the Ethiopian episode. The Egyptian campaign in Ethiopia was ignored, or alternatively presented both as justified in the face of Ethiopian aggression and militarily well conducted, despite the final defeat. Only after the July 1952 revolution did the Free Officers rehabilitate the ‘Urabist cause as part of the revision of the annals of Egyptian history, so as to produce an appropriate historical record of a continued struggle for national independence. The issue of Egypt and Sudan as a single national unit rather than two separate entities was another contested theme in Egyptian national discourse during the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century. The loss of Egyptian supremacy over Sudan in the wake of the Mahdi’s revolt and his establishing an independent Islamic state (1883–1898), and more so

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with the establishment of the Anglo-Egyptian condominium (1899), turned the question of unity into an issue of national identity. Despite British opposition, successive Egyptian governments argued for the “Unity of the Nile Valley” on geographical, ethnographical, cultural, and economic grounds. Accordingly, Egyptians and Sudanese were said to share the same race, language, and religion and to depend on the same Nile for their very existence. The controversy intensified immediately after World War II, when Egyptian hopes for a complete withdrawal of British troops from Egypt and for the end of British administration in Sudan were not actualized. The positions of the British government and of the Egyptian national leadership are well documented in the literature. This volume presents two additional positions, one from within Egypt (Rami Ginat on the communist movement) and one from without (John Voll from the US State Department). Regarding the former as elaborated by Rami Ginat in Chapter 5, the Egyptian communists were the first to offer the Egyptian public a different solution to the ongoing dispute over the unity of the Nile Valley in the 1940s. They challenged both the colonial policy in Sudan as well as the nationalist claim for unity between Egypt and Sudan. In contrast to the prevailing nationalist conviction that insisted on the “Unity of the Nile Valley,” the communist movement conceived of Egyptians and Sudanese as two separate peoples struggling for self-determination against a common colonial enemy, namely Britain. The communists encouraged Sudanese nationalist awareness by publishing literature and recruiting Sudanese students studying in Egypt to its ranks. The communist dissident attitude, Ginat argues, remained consistent and eventually was endorsed by the July 1952 revolution, which claimed Egypt’s liberation as its first priority. The need to secure international support for their demand for withdrawal of British troops from Egypt led the Free Officers to recognize Sudan’s right to self-determination, thus paving the way for the Anglo-Egyptian agreement over Sudan in 1953. Externally, US foreign policy came to support the nationalist Egyptian position on the Sudan issue from the end of World War II until the early 1950s. In Chapter 6, John Voll points out that in light of the emerging Cold War, US policymakers believed in the strategic importance of British bases in Egypt as part of broader regional defense arrangements, and thought their interests would be better served by recognizing the “Unity of the Nile Valley.” Thus the United States supported Egypt against Britain on the issue of Sudan at the UN Security Council in 1947, although no operative resolutions were passed. The issue of Sudan reflected the growing role of the United States in Middle Eastern affairs. In a broader perspective, this change took place in an era of transition, when the “great powers” were gradually replaced by the “new superpowers” in world affairs. The slogan, “Unity of the Nile Valley,” was a key component in public rhetoric among Egyptian nationalists in the prerevolutionary period. It pro-

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vided an axis of imagined community, based on organic ties, both historical and cultural, already rooted in ancient times. A second axis of imagined community was provided by pan-Arabism, which first appeared in Egyptian public discourse in the 1930s, and eventually became the official ideology of the Nasserist regime. Did these official identity systems, which turned toward Africa or the Mediterranean and Arabia, overshadow indigenous Egyptian identity or blur it? Neither is necessarily true. Both Orit Bashkin and Joel Gordon, in Chapters 7 and 8, expose the theme of distinctiveness within unity, largely driven from the centrality of the territorial context of the Nile Valley. Bashkin’s chapter deals with the experience of Egyptian intellectuals in Iraq during the interwar period. Pan-Arab/supra-Egyptian ideology provided the basis for their presence in Iraq at the time. Their writings show that these intellectuals indeed encountered features of common Arab heritage and recognized the similarity between the formative influence of the Nile River for Egyptian culture and that of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers for Iraq. Nonetheless, the sense of familiarity was ultimately outweighed by the experience of differentness, leading Egyptian intellectuals to imagine themselves as primarily belonging to the Nile-centered community. In Bashkin’s evocative words, “although present in the capital of the ‘Abbasids, they searched for the voice of Umm Kulthum.” A similar delineation of imagined communities can be found in Joel Gordon’s chapter. His investigation of Egyptian popular cinema culture in the early 1950s illustrates that although the cinema medium was highly inclusive, allowing for actors and leading stars of non-Egyptian origin, it underscored cultural differences and social and racial prejudices, with the Nile Valley at the geographic center. This was especially true for the upper Nile, particularly Egyptian Nubia, often presented as a backward and exotic site to be explored, rather than fully integrated into the Egyptian cultural and political landscape. Thus in orienting themselves to the south, or to the Mediterranean or the Arabian Peninsula, Egyptian actors, intellectuals, preachers, and politicians remained rooted in the north-south axis defined by the Nile Valley. Gordon’s findings highlight the shortcomings of the official political culture in determining the self-imagination of the community toward a pan-national, regional whole. Christians, as well as Muslims, shared a strong affinity to the geographic setting of the Nile Valley. This affinity went beyond the Copts—an ancient group who predated the Muslims but did not differ from them in language, culture, and geographic dispersion—to encompass Western Christians who settled in Egypt during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Most prominent were missionaries. A case in point, elaborated in Chapter 9 by Heather J. Sharkey, was the controversy over the decision of the American University in Cairo (AUC) to rent its auditorium to the Egyptian Broadcasting Service for the monthly performance of the

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Egyptian female singer, Umm Kulthum, in 1938. These performances facilitated the rise of Umm Kulthum as the outstanding female figure in Egypt’s national pantheon. The AUC’s decision met with stiff opposition from the Protestant missionary community in Egypt, who argued that Umm Kulthum’s presence defiled the university, a Christian sanctum, by presenting songs with erotic lyrics. In an attempt to rally support, Egyptian Evangelical pastors turned to British and US missionaries and especially to the United Presbyterian Church of North America, whose members founded the Egyptian Evangelical Church in the mid-nineteenth century. The pastors’ failure to win support from the US “mother” church, considered “modern,” heightened the self-consciousness of the Evangelical Church as an indigenous Nile Valley entity. The Umm Kulthum dispute also prompted the AUC to identify itself more strongly as a nonsectarian institution bearing an Egyptian hue. While Egyptians oriented their self-imagination on the Nile, other material aspects of their lives necessitated close interaction with their upper-river neighbors. This brings us back to the Egyptian-SudaneseEthiopian triangle, best reflected in the management of Nile water, owing to the fact that Egypt and Sudan are completely dependent on the waters, 86 percent of which originate in Ethiopia (and Eritrea). Robert Collins focuses on the growing concern of the basin states and the smaller countries of the Lake Plateau in the allocation of the Nile waters in Chapter 10. A rapidly expanding population and the accompanying growing need for hydroelectric power led to the scarcity of this finite resource in the late twentieth century. Water became a national security issue, and leading local and Western observers refer to the Nile River, as well as to the Euphrates and the Jordan rivers, as a potential casus belli and a very likely reason for future war.10 Though each of the riparian states along the Nile, particularly Egypt, has independently been pursuing its own projects, the pending threat of insufficient Nile waters—patently brought to attention in the great drought of the 1980s—has provided a basis for continued dialogue and initial cooperative steps. The creation of basin state organizations for conferences and discussions at all levels of government and the World Bank’s Nile Basin Initiative of 1997 reflect the need for a shared vision and a regional partnership for the cooperative development of the water resources in the Nile bounty. Focusing on the upper regions of the Nile Valley, Chapter 11 deals with the relations between Ethiopia and Sudan and the implications for the formation of an Eritrean collective identity. For most of the twentieth century, Ethiopia and Sudan existed as neighboring countries with an extended common border. Though mutual relations were not marked by direct imperial ambitions, inter alia due to the remoteness of the frontier from the power centers in Khartoum and Addis Ababa, conflicts did develop through prox-

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ies, in Eritrea and southern Sudan. David H. Shinn analyzes the bilateral history to reveal periodic conflicts alongside peaceful economic cooperation, especially regarding Nile water, oil, and trade, and closer political ties toward the end of the century. Thus, illuminating and underscoring the interrelations in the histories of Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia is a major theme of this volume, and enables it to extend beyond conventional historiographic boundaries. The modern history of Ethiopia is usually framed within a Christian tradition in the context of (sub-Saharan) Africa and European intervention. The modern history of Egypt is usually located in the contexts of the Arab-Muslim Near and Middle East. In contrast, this volume aims to demonstrate that the Nile Valley has bound together the histories and cultures of the societies living on the banks of the river. These interrelations cannot simply be ascribed to the river’s role as a transport system. Unlike other large rivers, the Nile does not allow for boat travel along its entire length. Also, water management requirements made cooperation imperative only toward the end of the twentieth century, a fact that makes researching the Nile River unique and challenging among other water systems in the world.11 Nonetheless, the studies included here identify, analyze, and discuss a wide range of interrelations on several levels of state and civil society, experiences and meanings, physical environment, and culture. These encounters fostered cooperation, as well as numerous conflicts and struggles, dialogues, and negotiations. They all had a formative influence on framing and reframing collective identities. As far back as the medieval Mamluk Sultanate and the Solomonian kings, there has been a collective awareness that the political, economic, and cultural worlds of Egypt and Ethiopia were connected by the Nile. This awareness continued well into modern times. Using the Nile Valley as the frame of investigation allows this volume to add an innovative perspective for rethinking and reexamining the dominant national historical narratives.

Notes 1. On the reciprocity between local and regional studies, see Timothy R. Mahoney, River Towns in the Great West (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 1–9. 2. For an inclusive compilation dealing with various aspects of the Danube basin, see Agni Vlavianos-Arvanitis and Jan Morovic (eds.), Biopolitics: Danube River Bonds (Athens: Biopolitics International Organisation, 1998); also, no author, The Danube, European Security and Cooperation at the Beginning of the 21st Century (Bucharest: Enciclopedica Pub. House, 2002). 3. Betty J. Meggers, Amazonia: Man and Culture in a Counterfeit Paradise (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, [1971] 1996); Hugh Raffles, In Amazonia: A Natural History (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002).

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4. See also Arnon Medzini, The Euphrates: A Shared River (London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 2001). For other complex transboundary rivers of the world, see John Waterbury, The Nile Basin: National Determinants of Collective Action (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), pp. 12–14. 5. Neal Ascherson, Black Sea: The Birthplace of Civilization and Barbarism (London: Jonathan Cape, 1995); Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, English ed., 2 vols. (New York: Harper and Row, 1972–1973); S. D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973). 6. Ascherson, Black Sea, pp. 1–11; Tunç Aybak, “Introduction,” in Neal Ascherson (ed.), Politics of the Black Sea: Dynamics of Cooperation and Conflict (London: I. B. Tauris, 2001), pp. 1–13. 7. Ascherson, Black Sea, p. 8. 8. Braudel, The Mediterranean, vol. 1, p. 13. Braudel’s assertion served also as a departure point for historians of the Indian Ocean, an area rooted in four different civilizations: the Irano-Arabic, the Hindu, the Indonesian, and the Chinese. See, for example, K. N. Chaudhuri, Trade and Civilization in the Indian Ocean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); and K. N. Chaudhuri, Asia Before Europe: Economy and Civilisation of the Indian Ocean from the Rise of Islam to 1750 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 9. Waterbury, The Nile Basin, mainly Chapters 1–3; Arun P. Elhance, Hydropolitics in the Third World: Conflict and Cooperation in International River Basins (Washington, DC: United States Institute of Peace Press, 1999); Ashok Swain, “Managing the Nile River: The Role of Sub-Basin Co-operation,” in M. Chatterjee, Saul Arlosoroff, and Gauri Guha (eds.), Conflict Management of Water Resources (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2002), pp. 145–160. Also see Robert Collins, The Waters of the Nile: Hydropolitics and the Jonglei Canal, 1900–1988 (Clarendon: Oxford University Press, 1990); and Robert Collins, The Nile (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002). 10. Nurit Kliot, Water Resources and Conflict in the Middle East (London: Routledge 1994); J. Starr and D. Stoll (eds.), The Politics of Water Scarcity: Water in the Middle East (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988); Berthold Hoffmann, “Hydro Paranoia and Its Myths: The Issue of Water in the Middle East,” Orient 39 (1998): 251–269. 11. The Nile basin collective action problem was aptly observed by Waterbury, who noted that ten sovereign states in the Nile basin share the “common property,” the water resources of the basin, but “have not developed any comprehensive set of rules and understandings that regulate that sharing.” Waterbury, The Nile Basin, pp. 15–34.

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PART 1 Egypt and Ethiopia: History and Remembering History

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2 The Closest Egyptian-Ethiopian Relationship: The Mamluk Sultanate Michael Winter

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HE RELATIONS BETWEEN EGYPT AND ETHIOPIA WERE OF MAJOR

concern to both countries for centuries. During the Mamluk period (1250–1517), these relations assumed special significance for several reasons. The Mamluk Sultanate, whose center was Cairo, was a strong, stable, and active empire, devoted to the defense of Islam and the development of Muslim institutions in its domains. The Mamluks—Turkish, and later Circassian, manumitted military slaves—established a strong, centralized state and maintained a formidable military, a robust, well-developed economy, and a sophisticated bureaucracy. It was also staunchly Sunni. In all these respects it surpassed all other regimes that had ruled Egypt until that period. The Mamluks were active in foreign policy, which they conducted with diplomatic skill, supported by the prestige of their military power. Almost simultaneously with the Mamluk Sultanate, the Solomonian emperors of Christian Ethiopia created a powerful state that was more than a match for the Muslim principalities along the Red Sea littoral and the interior. The Islamic religious culture was inevitably inferior to that of Egypt or Syria, yet the Muslims of Ethiopia were very devout. From time to time, a few scholars would go to study at al-Azhar in Cairo, and upon their return they fulfilled important religious functions. Egyptian-Ethiopian relations were based on several constant factors. The Muslim-Christian rivalry in Ethiopia was one; the oppressed Coptic minority in Egypt was its grim parallel. The two issues were interrelated. During the period, the pattern of each side—making its religious minorities victims or hostages when their coreligionists were being persecuted in the other country—repeated itself. One of the usual threats aimed at the Egyptians was the presumed (but 13

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not proven) ability of the Ethiopians to divert the water of the Nile, thus causing famine in Egypt.1 Another barely concealed threat was the emphasis on the so-called benign treatment Muslims were receiving in Ethiopia (that could be reversed at will). The Mamluks could pressure the Ethiopians by delaying the appointment of a new bishop (mutran, abun) of the Ethiopian Church, who almost always was appointed by the Coptic patriarch of Alexandria. The Ethiopians were also dependent on Cairo’s goodwill in matters concerning pilgrimages to Jerusalem. The Egyptian sources (al-Maqrizi in particular) describe in detail the persecution and riots the Copts suffered, especially during the fourteenth century.2 Coptic officials were dismissed from their positions in the central state offices. The Muslims’ sufferings in Ethiopia were sometimes mentioned as a justification.3 Another tie between the two countries was international trade, in which the Muslim principalities, particularly those situated on the seacoast, played a major role. According to Egyptian sources, the Ethiopians despised trade, and so it became the occupation of the Muslims. The Muslim merchants imported goods from Egypt and Iraq. Since no mint existed in Ethiopia at the time, the only coins in circulation were Egyptian dinars and dirhams. Most domestic trade was conducted by barter anyway.4 In the Muslim principalities payment also was made with small pieces of iron resembling wide needles, called hakunat. A cow could be bought for 7,000 hakuna and a sheep for 3,000.5 Arab historians of the Mamluk period paid much attention to the Egyptian-Ethiopian multifaceted relations, and viewed them as important both for economic and religious reasons. This chapter introduces the main Arabic sources about Ethiopia, and discusses their originality and importance. It shows that the Egyptian historians considered the Ethiopians to be inferior culturally, militarily, and administratively. Nevertheless, surprisingly, they could not help admiring the Ethiopians for their honesty, kindness, and courage, despite their religious hostility to Islam.

The Historians The Mamluk Empire had the richest contemporary historiography of the premodern Middle East. There is a wealth of Arabic chronicles, biographical collections, geographic and topographic works, manuals for the use of a sophisticated and well-trained bureaucracy, handbooks for secretaries in the service of the central government and the chancery, travel accounts, treatises dealing with the economy and the military, treatises about religion, and more. The quantity and quality of what was written during this long period are amazing. The leading historians lived in Cairo, and their interest in the center of the empire overshadowed everything else. Even the best Cairo

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chroniclers paid only slight attention to Damascus, for example, the great provincial capital, unless events there affected Cairo directly. The geographical works have chapters on neighboring countries, and it is not surprising that there are descriptions of Ethiopia as well. Nevertheless, the deep interest and curiosity of Egyptian historiography under the Mamluks about Ethiopia are remarkable. This country was remote, and the way there was far and hard. Yet the two countries felt a mutual dependence on each other, and this is well reflected in the writings of Egyptian historians and geographers. Many historians in the Mamluk period had access to information about the politics and society of the state. Several of them served in the imperial bureaucracy, some as clerks of the royal chancery in charge of diplomatic correspondence. Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, the biographer of Sultan Qalawun, was the head of diwan al-insha’ (the bureau of official correspondence). Ahmad Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari (d. 1349) wrote a manual about writing official letters entitled Kitab al-ta‘rif bi’l-mustalah al-sharif (Teaching the noble [bureaucratic] terminology). Al-Qalqashandi (d. 1418) wrote a fourteen-volume encyclopedia entitled Subh al-a‘sha fi sina‘at al-insha’ (The light for the dim-sighted in the art of correspondence), consisting of all the information a bureaucrat should know about his profession, the Mamluk Empire, and the foreign countries with whom the empire had to deal. He includes a long chapter about Ethiopia, bilad al-Habasha, which he copied verbatim from al-‘Umari’s Masalik al-absar, fully acknowledging his source.6 He also adds some updated information. Al-Maqrizi (d. 1441), the famous historian, also had access to the state offices and read official documents, although he was not a state official. Several among the period’s most important chroniclers quote texts from official correspondence between the Mamluk sultan and the Negus (al-Maqrizi, al-Nuwayri, al-‘Ayni, and alSakhawi). A few distinguished historians, like Abu al-Mahasin ibn Taghri Birdi (d. 1470) and Ibn Iyas (who wrote until 1522), were of the awlad alnas class, namely, sons or grandsons of Mamluk amirs who were familiar with the world of the military and political elites, but they also had been born as civilians and identified with the Arabic-speaking people of Egypt. The writer who contributes most to our knowledge about Ethiopia at the time is Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari. He was a chancery official in Cairo and Damascus who compiled manuals for scribes. He was the author of a monumental geographic encyclopedia, Masalik al-absar fi mamalik alamsar, that consists of geographical, botanical, zoological, and mineralogical surveys of Muslim and non-Muslim countries and regions in Asia and Africa. The chapter about Ethiopia—its Christian empire and its Muslim vassal states—is the best contemporary survey of the land and the people. Al-‘Umari’s principal source for Ethiopia was a faqih named Shaikh ‘Abdallah al-Zayla‘i “and several other people.” The historian met him

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when he arrived in Egypt. Shaikh al-Zayla‘i went to Cairo at the time when the Ethiopian king’s emissary arrived there. Al-Zayla‘i pleaded with the sultan to make the patriarch write a letter to the Ethiopian Negus to stop persecuting the Muslims in his kingdom. The patriarch wrote a strong letter to that effect, condemning such deeds.7 Because al-‘Umari’s Masalik has been published only recently, and that in facsimile form,8 a convenient way to read the chapter about Ethiopia is in al-Qalqashandi’s Subh al-a‘sha. He copied Masalik al-absar verbatim with a few updates and additions. For example: al-Qalqashandi adds to al‘Umari’s text that “after 800/1397” the Ethiopian emperor attacked almost all the Muslim principalities, destroying them and killing many people. He burned Quran books and forced Muslims to convert to Christianity. The only Muslim king who escaped this crusade was Ibn Mismar, whose territory lies opposite to the island of Dahlak. He was forced to pay fixed tribute. Only Sa‘d al-Din, the sultan of Zayla‘ and its dependencies, continued to resist. There were many wars between them, and Sa‘d al-Din was often victorious.9 Al-Qalqashandi also adds that the emperor invited European kings to join him in his wars against the Muslims, but he died before achieving that alliance. The wars continued until a terrible plague killed many Ethiopians, the king among them.10 Other medieval Arab historians used information about Ethiopia from al-‘Umari’s Masalik al-absar. The case of al-Maqrizi is worthy of note. He was an unusually prolific writer and, as students of Egyptian history know, his contribution was immense. His most important work is al-Mawa‘iz wa’l-i‘tibar fi dhikr al-khitat wa’l-athar, known as Khitat al-Maqrizi, a topographic description of Egypt. He also wrote a valuable chronicle of Egyptian history, Kitab al-suluk fi akhbar al-duwal wa’l-muluk, and many shorter works on various interesting historical topics. His work that is most associated with the present topic is Kitab al-ilmam bi-akhbar man bi-ard alHabasha min muluk al-Islam (A survey about the Muslim kings in Ethiopia).11 It is a basic reference work on the subject. Gaston Wiet, the important French historian of medieval Egypt, calls al-Maqrizi “un copiste” who produced interesting texts that otherwise would have been lost. But alMaqrizi writes without acknowledging his sources. Not only did al-Maqrizi copy the Masalik, but he states in his introduction to this work that he learned the information during his stay in Mecca from pious and trustworthy persons. Wiet proved that al-Maqrizi knew the Masalik very well, only he chose to plagiarize it.12 Donald Little, the leading authority on Mamluk historiography, writes: “al-Maqrizi’s significance as a historian will remain as a compiler and preserver of the work of others.”13 Jalal al-Din al-Suyuti (d. 1505) wrote a treatise entitled Raf‘ sha’n alHubshan (The raising of the status of the Ethiopians). In his excellent chap-

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ter about the relations between Egypt and Ethiopia (in The Cross and the River), Haggai Erlich briefly analyzes this work. Erlich says: “Like his predecessors, the great al-Suyuti also concentrates on the Habasha Muslims and hardly mentioned the Christian state of his era.”14 As we have seen, al‘Umari and, following him, al-Qalqashandi and others were intensely interested in Christian Ethiopia. As Erlich correctly says, al-Suyuti’s main concern was to emphasize the equality of blacks in the Islamic nation. Yet Erlich makes too much of the fact that there is nothing negative about (Christian) Ethiopia in the book; al-Suyuti’s praise of the blacks is limited to Muslim blacks. Al-Suyuti was indeed great as a man of adab (belles lettres) and a scholar of the religious sciences, but not as a historian. Al‘Umari’s positive assessment of the Christian Ethiopian characteristics, despite his reporting of the bloody struggle against their Muslims, is more impressive than al-Suyuti’s ignoring them. Al-Suyuti was not a real historian, but his historical views are certainly important, as we can see from his works on the caliphate.15 His Raf‘ sha’n al-Hubshan has no relevance to the Mamluk historians’ views of Ethiopia.

Al-‘Umari’s Description of Ethiopia Masalik al-absar discusses the geography and the administrative divisions, the fauna and flora, the money (or rather its almost total absence), the clothes and weapons, the links with the Coptic patriarchate of Alexandria, and the political system of the monarchy. The Egyptian historian admits he does not know the history of the Ethiopian monarchy. On the other hand, he lists all the patriarchs since St. Mark until his own time. 16 Patriarch Benjamin, a contemporary of al-Nasir Muhammad in the first half of the fourteenth century, is Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari’s main source for the Jacobite Coptic Church.17 Al-‘Umari gives the physiognomic features of the people and their mental and moral characteristics, as well as the languages and the script. A separate part of the chapter is devoted to the seven Muslim principalities that were the Negus’s vassal states. Here too a geographic description is provided, and then descriptions of the seven political divisions, or provinces (qawai‘d, pl. of qa‘ida), each ruled by a “king.” Again, the economy and ways of livelihood are described. Naturally, the religious hostility between the Ethiopian Negus and the Muslim states is emphasized, and the wars are mentioned, although not in detail. Al-‘Umari’s description of Ethiopia and al-Qalqashandi’s copying him with no reservations show the Egyptian writers’ fascination with the people of Habash. The land had the characteristics of a jungle. The woods there were so thick that one had to cut trees in order to clear the way. He recounted that the people are numerous and hardy, so there are no strangers in that

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land. They are the mightiest among the descendants of Ham, and the most courageous in fighting and advancing in battle. Most of the time, they are busy traveling and hunting wild beasts. In battle, they do not protect their bodies and their horses with armor. Despite their poverty, they are generous and hospitable and they like foreigners. The author recalls the hospitality that the Ethiopian ruler extended to the Prophet’s companions who sought shelter in his country, as refugees from the Qurayshi persecution. They are forgiving and give quarter to enemies who lay down their arms. They keep their promises. They are sincere, and do not conceal love or hatred. Most of them are intelligent, and their intuition is accurate. Al-‘Umari concluded: “Had it not been for their infidelity (shirk), they would be in the highest rank of the human race.” Their military is armed with only the basic weapons of the time. Although they are of one race, the people of Ethiopia speak more than fifty languages. They trade by barter, exchanging cattle, small cattle, and cereals. The people wear the same kind of clothes throughout the year. The supreme king is called in Arabic al-Hati. He rules over many petty kings (al-‘Umari says, figuratively, “ninety-nine kings”), the majority of whom are hereditary.18

The Muslim Principalities The lands of the Muslims of the Horn were also called in Egypt and Syria “the lands of Zayla‘,” after the seaport of Ifat. Al-‘Umari writes, “This is a region which is called in Egypt and Syria the land of Zayla‘. This, however, is only one of their coastal towns and one of their islands, whose name has been extended to the whole.”19 Their houses were made of clay, stones, and grass. No magnificent buildings and city walls were in existence there. Its people were devout Muslims. They had several cathedral mosques (jawami‘) where Friday sermons were held, as well as masajid, regular mosques. Yet there were neither madaris (Islamic colleges) nor Sufi institutions, of the type of khanqah, zawiya, or ribat. Yet they had fuqaha’ (jurists), ‘ulama’ (religious scholars), ascetics, and holy men. They were Hanafis, with the exception of Ifat, whose king and people were Shafi‘is. The Muslim kings personally judged the people, even when qadis (judges) or ‘ulama’ were present. Al-Azhar was an important tie between the Muslims in Ethiopia and Egypt. In that greatest institution of high learning in the Sunni world, there was a hostel (riwaq) of Ethiopian Muslims called al-Jabartiyya. ‘Abd alRahman al-Jabarti, the famous Egyptian historian of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, was a scion of a devout family of Ethiopian Azharites. The Muslims of the Horn are described by al-‘Umari as intelligent. In

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their appearance they were different from the people of Mali and its neighboring regions south of Morocco. Unlike the arrangement in the Mamluk Empire, the Ethiopian Muslim soldiers had nothing like iqta‘at (lands the income from which was given to officers for their expenses and for maintaining their soldiers), and no fixed salaries. They owned animals. Anyone could live freely on agriculture, and no one prevented him. The kings were not obligated to give public feasts where food was offered (the customary way in Egypt), but each of the grandees prepared a meal for his dependents. It was customary to grant each amir one cow. There were seven independent principalities, each ruled by an independent king (malik mustaqill).20 By this term the author means that they were independent of each other, but most of the time they were tribute-paying vassals of the Ethiopian Negus. Al-‘Umari writes that the seven Muslim principalities were poor and had to stay under the tutelage of the Christian king. Al-‘Umari notes that the Mamluk chancery did not correspond with the principalities. This means he had to rely entirely on sources in Ethiopia. His principal source, Shaikh ‘Abdallah al-Zayla‘i, believed that if the Muslim states could unite, they would be able to defeat the Ethiopian ruler, the Hati (emperor), or at least be equal to him. Poor as they were, the Muslim kings were obligated each year to give the Hati fabrics, silks, and cotton they received from Egypt, Yemen, and Iraq. The leading principality was Ifat (also called Awfat or Jabara). According to al-‘Umari, it had 15,000 horsemen and 20,000 infantrymen. It was the nearest to Egypt and to the shores of Yemen. It was densely settled with villages. The seaport of Zayla‘ was in the territory of Ifat. Another important principality was Hadya, south of Ifat; it was considered the strongest, with 40,000 horsemen and double that number of infantry.

Eunuchs Washlaw, a town in Hayda, was notorious for being the source of eunuchs. Its inhabitants are described as rabble with no religion. The slaves who were brought there from infidel countries were castrated in Washlow. Some townsmen were reputed to be able to treat the victims of the operation, but most of them did not survive it. The king of Amhara opposed this practice severely.21 The chroniclers and biographers of Mamluk Egypt mention several Habashi eunuchs and slave girls. As David Ayalon has observed, the black eunuchs fared much better than the black slaves who had not been castrated, in terms of achieving positions of power in the Mamluk military and government.22 Al-Maqrizi notes the death at the age of seventy, in 1419, of Amir al-

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tawashi (the eunuch) Safi al-Din Qanqabay, the sultan’s treasurer. He was given as a present to Sultan Barquq by the Hati Dawit, son of Ar‘ad (so much for the Ethiopian emperor’s condemnation of the production of eunuchs, mentioned by al-‘Umari). Since childhood, he was raised in the sultan’s household and received Muslim education. He made an impressive career in the service of several amirs, until Sultan Barsbay made him his personal treasurer. After him, Sultan Jaqmaq used his services, and he became close to him. The amir was buried at his madrasa near the alAzhar.23 Ethiopian slave girls were used as jariya (concubine or maid), and some of the caliphs were born to Ethiopian maids.24

The Ethiopian Church The Ethiopian Church was dependent on the Jacobite Coptic Patriarchate of Alexandria, since the patriarch appointed the bishop who was the spiritual head of Ethiopian Christianity. The bishop conferred religious legitimacy on the Ethiopian emperor and his kingdom. He accompanied him in battle to bring God’s blessing upon him, just as the caliph went with the sultan. The Egyptian sources report that the Ethiopians disliked Christians of other sects, such as the Catholics and the Melkites. This situation made the Ethiopians dependent on the goodwill of the sultan of Egypt, since the patriarch was his subject. Therefore, the Ethiopians used to send the sultan emissaries and costly presents. According to al-‘Umari, the patriarch’s orders were considered in Ethiopia as religious law (sharia). He describes in detail the extreme reverence in which the patriarch’s letter was treated until it arrived in Amhara, to the king’s own hands.25 The emperor in al-‘Umari’s time was ‘Amda Siyon (the Pillar of Zion), the actual founder of the Ethiopian state. Al-‘Umari described him as a brave and just ruler. He says that the king secretly converted to Islam but continued practicing Christianity in order to maintain his rule. Yet the Egyptian historians were not certain about that king’s religion.26

The Patriarch The Egyptian patriarch was frequently a victim or a hostage of the tensions between the Mamluk sultans and the emperors of Ethiopia because of the treatment of religious minorities in both countries. The patriarchs were sometimes beaten or intimidated by the sultans. They were forced to use their religious authority with the Ethiopian Church to ask the Negus to spare the Muslims in Ethiopia. The reigns of Sultan Jaqmaq (1438–1453) and Zar‘a Ya‘aqob (1434–1468) were particularly full of hostility in relations

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between the two states. Both monarchs were of warlike disposition and policy. The historian al-Sakhawi reports that in the year 1448 the patriarch was brought to the sultan’s court. He found himself before a court of the four chief qadis, each representing one of the legal madhhabs. A document was drawn forbidding the patriarch to contact the Negus by himself or through an agent or intermediary, either openly or secretly. He was not allowed to send a cleric of any level to Ethiopia in the future. No correspondence with Ethiopia was allowed without the sultan’s consent and prior knowledge of the contents, and should the patriarch act contrary to these limitations, he would be put to death. The Maliki qadi formulated this document (Maliki qadis were notoriously fond of issuing death sentences), and the other three judges concurred. Four copies of this verdict were made, one for the sultan, and one for each qadi.27 Another text, in more flowery style, was sent by the sultan to the Coptic patriarch about this matter (it is unclear what the specific circumstances were). It appears in al-‘Umari’s manual for bureaucrats: “The Patriarch must beware from whatever comes to him from Ethiopia, even if it is within his reach. He must not smell the whiff of the south, nor should he pay attention to the reign of the Sudan.”28

Diplomatic Correspondence and Delegations Naturally, the relations during this long period greatly fluctuated, depending on the intensity of the religious strife between Egypt and Ethiopia and beyond the region. As usual, the personalities of the sultans and the emperors were an important factor. There were the harsh and determined Baybars and Jaqmaq on one hand, and the more diplomatic Qalawun and Qaytbay on the other. Also on the Ethiopian side there were more and less militant and religiously fanatic emperors. Several historians quote the texts of diplomatic letters from the Ethiopian king to the sultan of Egypt. It is difficult to assess the accuracy of these texts, but they seem credible, and some of them are very interesting. There is no symmetry with information about letters from the sultans to the Ethiopian kings. We possess very few reports of the Mamluk sultans’ replies, and even when there are such reports, they are given in a cursory and indirect manner. The reasons for that could be diplomatic, political, bureaucratic, or personal. The letters from the Ethiopian emperors to the sultans are usually written in a flattering style, referring to the senders as the friends, at times even the slaves of the sultan. The substance of the letters is roughly the same: a humble request that the sultan order the Coptic patriarch to appoint a new bishop to head the Jacobite Church of Ethiopia. Other recurring issues are protesting the persecution of Christians by the

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authorities in Egypt, asking for the reconstruction of churches that had been demolished there, and asking permission to perform the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, a ritual that had become more important since the ruling dynasty in Ethiopia emphasized its Solomonian claims. The Ethiopian emperor promised friendship and brotherhood and more presents, such as male and female slaves and gold. Many of the letters mentioned the benevolent treatment the Muslims of Ethiopia and their kings were supposedly receiving there. The strongest argument in these letters was the reminder that the Ethiopians controlled the Nile, and that they allowed its waters to flow into Egypt and irrigate its lands. They pointed out that they were doing it out of God-fearing sentiments and respect for the sultan. Some of the letters expressly state they could retaliate by making their Muslims suffer, destroying the mosques in Ethiopia, and blocking or diverting the flow of the Nile. One of the most eloquent missives of this kind was sent in 1443 by Zar‘a Ya‘aqob to Sultan Jaqmaq. It says that the Christian subjects of the sultan are few, weak, and poor, fewer in number than the Muslims in just one community of one region in Ethiopia. The Muslims are treated fairly and their kings wear golden crowns and ride fine horses. The Ethiopians are capable of preventing the floods that irrigate Egypt. The missive concludes with the words: “We have presented to you what you need to know, and you should know what you have to do.”29 Such a letter arrived in the court of Sultan Baybars, asking for a bishop who “does not like gold or money.” The Ethiopian emperor mentions the good conditions of Muslims in his country and claims that he has in his army ten thousand Muslim horsemen. For some reason, the letter was sent via the ruler of Yemen. Baybars reportedly said that he had not received an emissary and refused to comply with the request, implying a breach of the diplomatic etiquette. But with Baybars, one can never be sure what his real motive was.30 The king imported a Syriac monk instead. This cleric and his associates were intensely hated by the Ethiopians. Later, during the reign of Sultan Qalawun (1279–1290), Baybars’s successor, the emperor Yigba-Sion petitioned him to send an honest Coptic bishop. The emperor writes that he is not like his father Yenkuno Amlak, and he treats his Muslim subjects kindly. He claimed that the Syriac bishop caused damage and was an enemy to the Muslims. The emperor promised to send presents to Egypt as before.31 The emperor also sent a letter to Patriarch Yohannes VII asking to send him “good people among the Egyptian Copts who would teach us the Christian faith and morality. We do not like these Syriac bishops outside of Egypt.”32 Qalawun agreed to send a bishop, and the former bishops were expelled. This improved relations between the two countries, and the chroniclers were impressed by the costly presents the Ethiopians sent. In the 1380s, both Sultan Barquq and the patriarch of Alexandria wrote

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to the emperor to stop harassing the Muslims in his domains—but to no avail.33 In the diplomatic negotiations, emissaries were carrying presents and letters from their kings with messages that mixed promises with threats. It also happened that the Mamluk envoys were delayed in Ethiopia, as a means of pressure. The historians vividly describe the reception of the Ethiopian delegation at the sultan’s court, with ceremonies and hospitality, but also small, deliberate humiliations. The frequency of the arrivals of Ethiopian delegations to Cairo was uneven. Wiet counted no more than 12 delegations that came to Cairo from Ethiopia, as reported by Egyptian sources. He does not mention Ibn Iyas’s account of the last one, in 1516. So the total stands at 13, a small number for two-and-a-half centuries. The shortest interval between visits was 5 years, and the longest intervals were 43 and 51.34 Ibn Iyas describes the visit in 1481 of a delegation from Ethiopia to the court of Sultan Qayitbay. The reception was respectable, and the sultan gave the emissary a robe of honor and arranged a suitable place for him to stay in Cairo. The emissary brought with him presents from his emperor. As usual, his purpose was to request that the patriarch send a bishop to represent him in Ethiopia.35 In 1516, Ibn Iyas describes in more detail the last visit from Ethiopia to Sultan Qansaw al-Ghawri in 1516, a few months before he was killed fighting the Ottomans in Syria in the battle that led to the fall of the Mamluk Sultanate. Ibn Iyas comments: “For a long time, no emissaries of the Ethiopian king came to Egypt. The last visit was in the year 886/1481 [35 years before]. The visits are so rare, because their country is far away, and they have no business in Egypt.” Here the historian was wrong, as his own description of the visit proves a few pages later. This time the purpose of the visit was not getting a new bishop, but facilitating the Ethiopians to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The sultan gave the emissary a magnificent reception. He was surrounded by the ranking amirs, with the master of ceremonies attending. The emissary was accompanied by five of the most prominent Ethiopian notables. Accompanying the delegation to Cairo were about six hundred common people, wearing sloppy garments, some bareheaded, some with golden earrings and golden bracelets. (To the local observer they must have seemed colorful but strange.) They marched along the road, leading a camel that carried two drums, which they were beating. At the head of the procession was the patriarch himself, wearing his insignia of office. The notables were on horseback, and the rest were walking. Seven Ethiopians were allowed to enter the sultan’s hall. The emperor’s letter, which was carried in a precious case, contained nice phrases and lofty attributes of the sultan. Its essence was asking the sultan’s permission to perform the pilgrimage to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. The sultan arranged tents for the pil-

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grims where they would stay until their departure. He also sent Mamluks to guard them against the rabble that might attack them with stones; past experience taught that this fear was not groundless.36

The Émigrés Egyptian sources tell about several amirs and clerks who emigrated from the Mamluk Sultanate, probably for political or religious reasons, and were welcomed in the Negus’s court. Fakhr al-Dawla, a Coptic bureaucrat, fled during a wave of religious persecutions to the court of the Negus and joined his service. He organized the state administration after the Egyptian model, establishing regulations for tax collection and financial management. AlMaqrizi, one of the historians who reported this development, says that “the Ethiopian king became a real king with offices [diwan, pl. dawawin], while before that he and his ancestors had ruled like barbarians (hamaj) without bureaucracy, order, or law. Now things became orderly. The emperor Yeshaq began to dress royally, to distinguish himself from his subjects. His father Dawit ben Yusuf ben Ar‘ad used to go out without wearing official clothes, with only a green headband.” An eyewitness saw the king riding with his royal insignia, holding a cross decorated with rubies.37 During Yeshaq’s reign (1414–1429), Circassian Mamluks fled to his court and contributed to the improvement of the Ethiopian army. Amir Altunbugha, governor of Upper Egypt, taught the Ethiopians new tactics of using swords and shooting arrows, and introduced new arms that replaced the more primitive ones used until then. He also taught the use of the naphta, or “Greek fire.” A Mamluk armorer (zardkash) established an arsenal with many kinds of new weapons and coats of mail. According to the Mamluk historians, until then the Ethiopians had used only lances (hirab, sing. harba).38 Ethiopia took advantage of Egyptian superior military technology and administrative experience to attack the Muslim principalities, although the extent of the reforms is not clear. It is remarkable that the Egyptian historians seemed to be proud of what Egyptian skills could do in the much less developed Ethiopia. They did not brand as traitors the people who went over to a country that was at war with Muslims, or at least they did not say it in their report.

Escalating the Ethiopian-Mamluk Confrontation The first half of the fifteenth century witnessed renewed persecutions of Copts in Egypt and harsh reprisals against the Muslims of Ethiopia by the

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Ethiopian emperors. These developments were caused at least in part by the Mamluk campaigns against Cyprus and Rhodes (in 1425, 1426, 1440, and 1444) and European aggressive schemes against the Mamluks. The hostilities included the temporary closure of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem and the Ethiopian monastery there, and demolition of mosques in Ethiopia. The Egyptian chroniclers also report massacres of Muslims at the order of the Negus. Al-Sakhawi writes that in 1423 the Negus Yeshaq, angry at the closure of the church in Jerusalem, killed Muslims in Ethiopia. Sultan Barsbay considered killing Egyptian Christians but decided against this measure.39 In 1443, a large delegation arrived in Cairo carrying many presents. They reminded the sultan of the friendship between the two countries during the reign of Barquq, and as always mentioned the Nile. The envoy complained that the Christians in Egypt were treated “like dogs,” while the Muslims in his country lived peacefully. The envoy asked that the sultan reconstruct the Ethiopian holy places in Jerusalem.40 Later, the sultan of Adal, the Muslim protagonist of the struggle against Ethiopia, was executed in the presence of an Egyptian emissary. Sultan Jaqmaq summoned the patriarch and had him beaten. He made him write a letter to Negus Yeshaq demanding the release of his emissary. Despite this letter, the emissary was held in Ethiopia for four years.41 The Negus Yeshaq was angry at Sultan Barsbay’s invasion of Cyprus and taking its king as prisoner. The Negus pursued a policy of war against the Muslim principalities in Ethiopia. He also established contacts with rulers in western Europe in an effort to coordinate an attack on the Mamluk Sultanate. He expressed his will to attack Egypt from the south.42 Ibn Taghri Birdi tells about a Persian merchant, Nur al-Din ‘Ali al-Tabrizi (most probably a Shi‘i), who traded in Ethiopia and gained the king’s confidence by providing him with war materiel. He reached Europe and contacted several Christian kings, but on his way back he was caught in Cairo by Egyptian authorities and was executed.43

Epilogue From late 1516 until early 1517, the Ottomans destroyed the Mamluk Sultanate, and annexed Syria and Egypt to their empire as tax-paying provinces. After the occupation, Egyptian history writing came almost to a standstill that lasted nearly a century. When it resumed, the Egyptian historians did not show interest in Ethiopia. The next Muslim writer who described Ethiopia (Habesh) was Evliyâ Çelebi, the famous Ottoman traveler, who visited the country in the second half of the seventeenth century and recorded his impressions in the tenth volume of his Seyahatname (Travel book). Although Evliyâ was not a scholar like al-‘Umari, but a writer of

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travel accounts and a storyteller, often of questionable accuracy, he was a keen observer and understood cultural differences. Evliyâ Çelebi may be considered in certain ways a follower of Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari as a writer about Ethiopia. In the sixteenth century, the Ottoman Empire held a coastal strip along the Red Sea that they named “Habe¸s Eyaleti,” the Province of Ethiopia. Keeping this territory, like Yemen on the other coast of the Red Sea, was costly and difficult and did not bring the empire any revenues. Istanbul, from where the strategy toward Egypt was now conducted, showed neither the interest nor concern about Ethiopia in a manner the Mamluk rulers of Cairo had consistently pursued in their southern policy. For the Ottomans, Ethiopia was beyond the horizon.

Notes 1. There are indications in the sources that the Mamluk sultans did not take seriously the Ethiopian claim of their ability to divert the Nile water. For example, the historian al-Nuwayri writes that in 1326 the Ethiopian emperor sent a delegation to Sultan al-Nasir Muhammad ibn Qalawun asking him to rebuild the churches that had been demolished and to treat his Christian subjects with respect. The Ethiopian threatened that unless his demands were met, he would destroy the mosques in his country and block the Nile’s water from flowing to Egypt. The sultan mocked the messengers and sent them away. See Shihab al-Din Ahmad al-Qalqashandi, Subh ala‘sha fi sina‘at al-insha’ (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub al-Khidiwiyya, 1913–1919), vol. 5, p. 323; al-Nuwayri, quoted by Sa‘id ‘Abd al-Fattah ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’ ‘ala al-‘alaqat bayna Misr wal-Habasha fi’l-‘usur al-wusta,” al-Majalla al-Ta’rikhiyya al-Misriyya 14 (1968): 26. 2. Donald P. Little, “Coptic Conversion to Islam Under the Bahri Mamluks, 692–755/1293–1354,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 39 (1976): 552–569. 3. For useful historical surveys of the relations between Egypt and Ethiopia under the Mamluk and Solomonian reigns, see Haggai Erlich, The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2002), pp. 35–57; Gaston Wiet, “Les relations Egypto-Abyssines sous les Sultans Mamlouks,” Bulletin de la Société d’Archéologie Copte 4 (1938): 115–140; ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 1–43. 4. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a‘sha, vol. 5, p. 331; ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 5–6. 5. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a’sha, vol. 5, p. 331. 6. Ibid., pp. 303–337. 7. Ibid., p. 333. 8. Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari, Masalik al-absar fi mamalik al-amsar. Facs. ed., 27 vols. (Frankfurt: Ma‘had al-‘Ulum al-‘Arabiyya wa’l-Islamiyya fi itar Jami‘at Frankfurt, 1988–1989); French trans. Gaudefroy-Demombynes (Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1927), vol. 1, pp. 1–39. This early edition was based on several manuscripts and printed sources. 9. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a’sha, vol. 5, pp. 336–337.

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10. Wiet, “Les relations Egypto-Abyssines,” p. 120. 11. Ahmad ibn ‘Ali al-Maqrizi, Kitab al-ilmam bi-akhbar man bi-ard alHabasha min muluk al-Islam (Cairo: Matba‘at al-Ta’lif, 1895). 12. See al-‘Umari, Masalik al-absar, pp. 33–34. 13. Donald P. Little, “Historiography of the Ayyubid and Mamluk Epochs,” in Carl F. Petry (ed.), The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), vol. 1, p. 437. 14. See Erlich, The Cross and the River, pp. 53–54. 15. Jalal al-Din al-Suyuti, Ta’rikh al-khulafa’ (Cairo: Dar al-Fajr li’l-Turath, 1999); Jalal al-Din al-Suyuti, Husn al-muhadara fi ta’rikh Misr wa’l-Qahira, 2 vols. (Cairo: ‘Isa Babi al-Halabi, 1967–1968). 16. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a’sha, vol. 5, pp. 308–331. 17. Ibid., p. 321. 18. Ibid., p. 302. 19. J. Spencer Trimingham, Islam in Ethiopia (London: Frank Cass, 1965), p. 68, quoting al-Maqrizi’s Kitab al-ilmam. 20. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a‘sha, p. 325. 21. Ibid., p. 328; the passage is translated by David Ayalon in Eunuchs, Caliphs and Sultans (Jerusalem: The Magnes Press, 1999), pp. 305–306. 22. Ayalon, Eunuchs, pp. 192–193. 23. Al-Maqrizi, Kitab al-suluk li-ma‘rifat duwal al-muluk, ed. M. M. Ziyada and S. A. ‘Ashur (Cairo: Lajnat al-Ta’lif wa’l-Tarjama wa’l-Nashr, 1934–1972), vol. 4, part 3, p. 1234. 24. Ibn Iyas, Bada’i‘ al-zuhur fi waqa’i‘ al-duhur, ed. Muhammad Mustafa (Cairo: Franz Shtynar, 1960–1992), vol. 3, p. 379. 25. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a‘sha, pp. 308–309. 26. Ibid., p. 322. 27. Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Sakhawi, al-Tibr al-masbuk fi dhayl al-suluk (Cairo: Bulaq, 1896), p. 210. 28. Su’dud al-Sudan. Here, obviously, Ethiopia is meant. ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” p. 13; Ibn Fadl Allah al-‘Umari, al-Ta‘rif bi-’l-mustalah al-sharif (Beirut: Dar al-Kutub al-‘Ilmiyya, 1988), p. 48. 29. Al-Sakhawi, al-Tibr al-masbuk, pp. 67–71, quoted by ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 38–39. The passage is translated by Erlich in The Cross and the River, p. 46. 30. Wiet, “Les relations Egypto-Abyssines,” p. 119. 31. Ibn ‘Abd al-Zahir, Tashrif al-ayyam wa’l-‘usur fi sirat al-Malik al-Mansur (Cairo: Wizarat al-Thaqafa wa‘l-Irshad al-Qawmi, 1961), p. 170. 32. Ibid., pp. 172–173. 33. Al-Qalqashandi, Subh al-a‘sha, p. 333. 34. Wiet, “Les relations Egypto-Abyssines,” p. 134. The dates are: 1274, 1290, 1312, 1325, between 1332 and 1338(?), 1381, 1386, 1437, 1443, 1453, 1481, and 1516. 35. Ibn Iyas, Bada’i‘ al-zuhur, vol. 3, pp. 179–180. 36. Ibn Iyas, Bada’i‘ al-zuhur, vol. 5, pp. 10–12. 37. Al-‘Umari, Masalik al-absar, pp. 36–37, from al-Maqrizi, Kitab al-ilmam, p. 4; Ibn Taghri Birdi, al-Nujum al-zahira, ed. William Popper (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1909–1930), vol. 6, pp. 664–665. 38. Al-Maqrizi, Kitab al-ilmam, p. 4, quoted by ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 32–33. 39. Al-Sakhawi, al-Tibr al-masbuk, pp. 67–72.

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40. Ibid., quoted by Wiet, “Les relations Egypto-Abyssines,” p. 125. 41. ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 39–40, quoting al-Sakhawi, al-Tibr al-masbuk, pp. 68–72. See also Trimingham, Islam in Ethiopia, p. 74. 42. ‘Ashur, “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 32–33. 43. Ibid., pp. 33–34; Ibn Taghri Birdi, al-Nujum, vol. 6, pp. 637–640; “Ba‘d adwa’,” pp. 33–34.

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3 Found in Translation: The Egyptian Impact on Ethiopian Christian Literature Steven Kaplan

G

E‘EZ, OR AS IT IS SOMETIMES KNOWN IN THE WEST, CLASSICAL

Ethiopic, has historically been the primary vehicle of literary expression of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Indeed, although the emergence of Ge‘ez as a written language may have somewhat predated the acceptance of Christianity in Ethiopia, the two processes were intimately linked as the need for Christian literature encouraged the development of the language, and the church’s evolving self-awareness was inevitably recorded in Ge‘ez.1 Moreover, long after it ceased to be a spoken language, Ge‘ez continued to be the language of church education and literary discussion. No history of Christianity in Ethiopia would be complete without a discussion of Ethiopic literature. For the purposes of this volume, it is especially significant that Egyptian influences on Ethiopic literature represent one of the most ancient and enduring examples of cultural interaction between societies inhabiting the Nile basin. In making this statement, it is not my intention to deny the long history of original Ethiopian composition, but rather to note that in virtually every period of literary activity, the works that arrived in Ethiopia came from Egypt. Unfortunately, there has yet to be a comprehensive work documenting this and other features of Ethiopic literature. Despite the publication of numerous individual texts over the past forty years, no scholar has attempted to produce a book-length history of Ethiopic literature since 1968, and even this work is a revision of an earlier work (1956).2 Thus a considerable gap has developed between the state of knowledge regarding individual works in Ethiopic literature and our overall understanding of the development of the corpus as a whole.3 Moreover, even in the existing survey arti29

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cles and monographs the emphasis has been more literary and text-critical than historical. Thus we often know more about the particular manuscripts that have been preserved than we do about the general trends of cultural interaction, transmission, and revision. In this chapter I shall attempt to shift this focus and to discuss not so much the history of the Ethiopian Church’s literature as the history of the church and specifically Ethiopian-Egyptian relations as revealed through that literature. In particular, in keeping with the themes of this volume, I have focused on the translation of texts that arrived from Egypt and their incorporation into the literature of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church.4 I shall attempt to show that a careful analysis of such general terms as “original version,” “borrowed,” or “based upon” often reveals complex processes of creativity in which groups and individuals translated, revised, and retransmitted material in diverse ways. It is my hope that this discussion of a particular case of cultural transfer will not only bring it to the attention of an audience that was not previously familiar with its details, but also raise a number of more general questions regarding the nature of intercultural communication.

Aksumite Period: Greek Sources Any discussion of the transmission of church literature from Egypt to Ethiopia must begin with a few words regarding the unique hierarchical organization of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. When the Egyptian Archbishop Athanasius appointed Frumentius as the first bishop to Ethiopia in the fourth century, he began a tradition that was to continue—albeit with interruptions—until the middle of the twentieth century. According to this arrangement the head of the Ethiopian Church was a Coptic monk, chosen by the head of the Coptic Church and sent to Ethiopia.5 This unusual situation, required to maintain a line of apostolic succession, affected the Ethiopian Orthodox Church in a variety of ways.6 None, however, was as important for the purposes of this chapter as the manner in which the Egyptian Church served as the purveyor of religious literature to a relatively isolated Ethiopian Church. The natural starting point for our discussion of the Egyptian-Ethiopian literary connection is the Bible. In this context several questions would appear to be of special importance. While both Christian and Jewish traditions in Ethiopia agree either explicitly or by assumption that the original translation of the Old Testament was based upon a Hebrew original, scholars are virtually unanimous in supporting the idea of a Greek vorlage for both the Old and New Testaments. Indeed, the discovery and analysis of recently discovered manuscripts has only strengthened the case for this conclusion.7

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Although the Bible was undoubtedly the most important of the works translated from Greek during the Aksumite period, it was not the only project of this kind. Among the other works that were probably translated during the Aksumite period were several with a specifically Egyptian flavor: the monastic rules of the Egyptian monk Pachomius, which played a major role in shaping Ethiopian monasticism; the Life of St. Antony, which is attributed to St. Athanasius8; a version of the Acts of St. Mark, who was martyred in Alexandria9; the Life of St. Paul of Thebes10; and the Qerilos, a collection of theological treatises by various church fathers, including Cyril of Alexandria.11 Unfortunately, we are unable to say with any certainty how long the Ethiopian Church or its Egyptian leadership retained a knowledge of Greek and used it as a source for translation. It appears unlikely that the Greek influence survived for very long after the Muslim conquest of Egypt. The scholarly consensus is that most if not all Ge‘ez works translated directly from the Greek should be dated during or shortly after the Aksumite period.12

The Zagwe Interlude The decline and eventual fall of the Aksumite kingdom appears to have had a major impact on Ethiopian literature. Contact with Egypt appears to have become sporadic and the translation of texts was halted or at least severely limited. Even when a modicum of political stability was restored in the twelfth century, the literary fortunes of the Christian Ethiopian kingdom did not immediately rebound. Despite their architectural achievements, most notably in the construction of the churches at Lalibala, the Zagwe dynasty and the clergy of their period appear to have contributed little to the corpus of Ethiopic literature. Although we possess lives of several of the Zagwe rulers in which they are commemorated as saints of the Ethiopian Church, none of these were composed before the fourteenth century.13 At present there is not a single work that can, with any certainty, be said to have been either composed or translated under their auspices.14 It is difficult to understand how rulers so devoted to the church could have so totally neglected the realm of literature. There may be more than a little truth to Getatchew Haile’s suggestion that “only a systematic destruction of the past on religious grounds can account for such a discontinuity.” 15 In any event it is only in the decades following the “restoration” of “Solomonic” rule in the thirteenth century that we are able to once again offer a meaningful reconstruction of the history of Christian literature. As we noted above, during the Aksumite period numerous works, including the Bible, were translated from Greek into Ge‘ez. Rather surpris-

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ingly, Coptic does not appear to have had a comparable impact. Despite the importance of its ties with the Coptic Church, there are few, if any, literary works that can definitely be said to have been translated directly from Coptic.16 For its part the Coptic Church began to use Arabic as its primary vehicle of religious expression around the thirteenth century. It was from this time and through this language that Egyptian Christianity had its greatest impact on Ethiopic literature.

Translations from Arabic During the period of the thirteenth to the eighteenth century dozens of works were translated from Arabic into Ge‘ez. So numerous are these works that no complete listing of them has yet been compiled. There is, however, no question that translations from Arabic transformed the corpus of Ethiopian Christian literature. Indeed, the impact of Arabic was not limited merely to the introduction of new texts. Theological issues were redefined and the Alexandrian position articulated with ever-greater clarity. In the process of translation, moreover, the Ge‘ez language itself was transformed on both the lexical and syntactical levels through the introduction of changes, including new roots and an enlarged range of meaning of existing roots.17 We would be remiss if we did not comment on the fact that this enormous flourishing of translations began almost a thousand years after the initial acceptance of Christianity in Ethiopia. It is difficult to think of any other church in which so many foreign works have been added to the body of religious literature at so late a date in its history. Here, as elsewhere, the comparative fluidity that characterized Ethiopian Christianity throughout much of its history is worthy of mention.18 The introduction of so many new literary works must be seen alongside similar innovations in the liturgical calendar, cultic practice, and many other aspects of church life. Although a local ruler is credited with the initiative that brought the Solomonic legend, in its full literary form as the Kebra Nagast, to prominence, in most cases translations from Arabic appear to have been instigated from either the political or religious center. Although we cannot rule out individual translations under “private” initiative, in at least one case in Egypt and not in Ethiopia, this must have been the exception rather than the rule. The number of Ethiopian clerics literate in Arabic must have been small, and the number of Copts who resided in Ethiopia long enough to master Ge‘ez perhaps even smaller. Inevitably, the two were clustered around the court or Ethiopia’s major monasteries, where they probably worked in tandem on translations. Moreover, given the size of some of the works translated (see below) and the sheer quantity of these translations as a

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whole, only those who commanded significant resources could afford to undertake a project or projects of this magnitude. Indeed, as we shall see, a relatively small number of metropolitans, emperors, and monastic leaders appear to have been behind a disproportionate number of the translations. Best remembered among these Egyptian clerics is the figure known as Abuna Salama, “the translator”; he was as much a patron of translation as an active translator himself. During his incumbency as head of the Ethiopian Church from 1348–1388, Arabic literature had an enormous influence on Ethiopic literature.19 Abuna Salama is closely associated with one of the major literary projects of this period: the revision of the existing translation of the Bible based on on an Arabic vorlage. In the words of the traditional commemoration of this saint: On this day died Abba Salama, the translator Greetings to you, root of the tree of the faith Upon whom the commandments of the Law and the Gospels have been poured Salama, how your memory has abided with us! By your lips sweeter than the scent of myrrh and aloe Have the Scriptures been translated from Arabic into Ge‘ez.20

Despite the above-cited tradition that the Scriptures were translated from Arabic during this period, most scholars are in agreement that we are not dealing here with a completely new translation, but rather a re-editing of the existing text.21 In contrast to the initial translation of the Bible from Greek, which appears to have been unsystematic and taken place over decades if not centuries, this revised text was better coordinated and took far less time to reach fruition. Many of the texts that reached Ethiopia at this time were not original compositions of the Coptic Church. Indeed, translation from Arabic proved to be a vital conduit of material from diverse traditions into Ethiopic literature. Particularly noteworthy in this context are works of the Syrian Church fathers including Ephrem, James of Sarug, and John Saba. It is also interesting to note that in several cases the process of transmission did not end with the reception of the texts by the Ethiopian Church. The Testaments of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the Homily of Abraham and Sarah in Egypt, the Conversation of Moses with God, and the Homily on the Sabbath by James of Sarug all became part of the literary corpus of the Beta Israel (Falasha).22 Translation was also not the end of the process in the case of works that while originally based upon Arabic originals, were adapted and revised for use in the Ethiopian Church. Of the numerous works translated from Arabic during this period, special mention should be made of two: The Miracles of Mary and the Synkesar, both massive works whose translation was initiated under the patronage of the Emperor Dawit (1382–1413).23 The Synkesar is a collection of short biographies of the saints arranged

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according to the days of the year.24 It is a calendar of the saints, martyrs, and angels in which each is commemorated on a specific day (usually of his/her death) or days.25 The passages from the Synkesar are read in church each day as part of the service (the verses quoted above in honor of Abuna Salama are typical of the entries, although many are in prose rather than poetic form). The Arabic version of the Synkesar was compiled in the thirteenth century and made extensive use of Coptic sources. More than a century later, in the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century, a monk in the Egyptian monastery of St. Antony translated the work into Ge‘ez.26 Although doubtless a welcome addition to the Ge‘ez literature on the saints, as a simple translation the Synkesar was in a sense deeply flawed. “In the eyes of the Abyssinians [the original Synkesar] suffered from a serious lack of substance in that sense that, by simply reproducing the Arabic Synkesar, it omitted any mention of the saints most venerated in Abyssinia.”27 Over the course of time Ethiopian authors worked enthusiastically to remedy this lacuna as they added material that indigenized the text. Indeed, since the editing and revision of the texts took place on an individual basis rather than through any centralized or unified initiative, different manuscripts came to reflect the particular interests of a specific monastery or religious movement.28 The Miracles of Mary or as they are known in Ge‘ez, Ta’ammra Maryam, is yet another example in which translation from Arabic should be viewed as the beginning of a literary process rather than its culmination. The text that reached Ethiopia included miracles that had originated in Spain, France, Palestine, and particularly Egypt. The work was begun under Dawit and was completed in the reign of his son Zar‘a Ya‘aqob. However, as with the Synkesar, Ethiopian Christians did not limit themselves to the passive reception of tales that originated in distant lands. New miracles recording local appearances of the Virgin were soon added to the text. Over the course of time the collection grew to include more than six hundred miracle stories.29 Although it might be tempting to assume that translations were solely the work of the Egyptian abuna and his Ethiopian allies, the testimony of the literature reveals a far more complicated picture. This can best be illustrated by an examination of the career of the outstanding Ethiopian author of the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, the monk known as Giyorgis of Sagla. His activities warn against simplistic distinctions between authors and translators or pro-Alexandrians and their opponents. His prayer of the breaking (of the bread) was a eucharistic prayer or anaphora written at the instigation of the Egyptian Abuna Bartalomewos.30 Although the composition of a text at the instigation of the metropolitan

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might be interpreted as an indication that Giyorgis was pro-Egyptian in his orientation, his position vis-à-vis the Coptic Church appears more complex. Giyorgis was, for example, one of the major supporters of the pro-Sabbath position (bitterly opposed by Bartalomewos), and he composed several prayers and homilies on this theme, including in all probability, the Anaphora of Athanasius.31 He is also remembered, moreover, as the author of the Matshafa Sa’atat (the Hours of Prayer). This work was composed to replace the Coptic schedule of prayers previously in use. To even further complicate the picture, he is also credited in some traditions with the translation of the Athanasian Creed into Ge‘ez.32 Thus a single author can be seen to have opposed the abuna on the subject of the Sabbath, cooperated with him in the composition of a prayer, composed a major liturgical work to replace a Coptic exemplar, and translated a doctrinal document treasured by the Copts. The first half of the sixteenth century is justly remembered as a period of crises for Ge‘ez literature. During the Muslim conquest led by Ahmad bin Ibrahim al-Gazi (Gran), innumerable manuscripts were destroyed. Countless works were burned and lost forever. However, this generally gloomy picture should not blind us to some of the highlights of this period. Undoubtedly, the outstanding author and translator of this period was the fascinating figure of Enbaqom.33 Although not himself an Egyptian (he was born ca. 1470 in either Yemen or Iraq), and hence only peripherally related to our main theme of Egyptian-Ethiopian relations, he arrived in Ethiopia in 1489. Several years later, having been instructed in Christianity at the prestigious monastery of Dabra Libanos, he converted to Christianity and received the name Enbaqom (Habbakuk). Following his novitiate he was consecrated as a monk in 1500. Sometime between 1523 and 1526, he was elected abbot of the monastery, becoming de facto the most important “Ethiopian” cleric in the country, the only foreign-born individual to hold this exalted position. Enbaqom is best remembered as the author of Anqasa Amin (The Gate of Faith), a detailed polemic against Islam that appears to have been originally written in Arabic and addressed to the leader of the Muslims, Ahmad Gran.34 However, it would be a mistake to equate his strongly stated antiMuslim views with an animosity toward Arabic as well. Enbaqom is also credited with translating several works from Arabic to Ge‘ez, in some cases in partnership with clerics residing in Ethiopia. These include a homily of John Chrysostome on Paul’s letters to the Hebrews35; the story of Barlaam and Josaphat36; a commentary on the Apocalypse of St. John37; Aragawi manfasawi by John Saba 38; Mar Yeshaq 39; and the calendric work Abu Shakir.40

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Conclusion It is impossible within the limits of this chapter to offer a comprehensive list of the many works translated from Arabic between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries, or to enumerate all the translators. However, clearly the time has come to move away from the in-depth examination of individual works and manuscripts and begin to formulate generalizations that take us beyond issues of priority and chronology. I have tried to demonstrate here that the study of Ethiopic literature, and in particular works that were translated into Ge‘ez, is important not only in and of itself, but because it is crucial to a broader understanding of Egyptian-Ethiopian relations. Even scholars who have little interest in the content of many of these texts can glean valuable lessons from the processes they reveal. The record of translation warns against simple oppositions of pro-Egyptian/anti-Egyptian and even more so, anti-Muslim/anti-Arabic. It offers a picture of transmission of sources, some of which originated in Egypt and others that originated in distant lands but reached Ethiopia through Egyptian mediation. The record also indicates that the initial reception by the Ethiopian Church may not have been the final stage in the process, as some works (most notably the Bible) were translated from Greek and then transmitted to other religious communities, most notably the Beta Israel. In fact, even the distinction of translated works/original compositions is not a clear one as texts were indigenized through the addition of original material after being translated.

Notes 1. Stefan Weninger, “Ge‘ez,” Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2005), II: 732–735, 5 vols. 2. Enrico Cerulli, Storia della letteraturan etiopica, 3d ed (Milano: Nuova Accademia Editrice, 1968). Cf. also Lanfranco Ricci, “Litterature dell‘ Etiopia,” in Storia delle letterature d’Oriente (Milano: Botto, 1969), pp. 801–911. For an earlier essay see Enno Littmann, “Geschichte der athiopisiche Literaatur,” in Geschichte der christlichen Literaturen des Orients 7 (1907): 197–270. 3. Among the comparatively short attempts at synthesis see Aleksender Ferenc, “Writing and Literature in Classical Ethiopic (Giiz),” in B. W. Andrzejewski, S. Pitaszewicz, and W. Tyloch (eds.), Literatures in African Languages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 255–300; Haile Getatchew, “Highlighting Ethiopian Traditional Literature,” in Taddesse Adera and Ali Jimale Ahmed (eds.), Silence Is Not Golden, A Critical Anthology of Ethiopian Literature (Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1995), pp. 39–60; Haile Getatchew, “Ethiopic Literature,” in Roderick Grierson (ed.), African Zion: The Sacred Art of Ethiopia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), pp. 47–56; Haile Getatchew, “Ge‘ez Literature,” Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2005), II: 736–741; Lanfranco Ricci, “Ethiopian Christian Literature,” The Coptic

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Encyclopedia (New York: Macmillan, ca. 1991), 3: 975–979, 8 vols. On the specific topic of this chapter see Murad Kamil, “Translations from Arabic in Ethiopian Literature,” Bulletin de la Société d’Archéologie Copte 5 (1941): 61–71. 4. For the sake of clarity and brevity I have focused on general principles of transmission and kept citations of Ge’ez titles and specific works to a minimum. 5. It may have taken several centuries until this arrangement was regularized; Ethiopian tradition generally glosses over the uncertainty, disputes, and disruptions to present an unbroken chain of succession. Stuart C. Munro-Hay, Ethiopia and Alexandria: The Metropolitan Episcopacy of Ethiopia, vol. 5 of Bibliotecha Nubica et Aethiopica (Warsaw and Wiesbaden: Zas Pan, 1997). 6. While Haggai Erlich refers to this arrangement as “voluntary dependence,” it must be stressed that the claim to apostolic succession was crucial to the belief in the efficacy of the church’s sacraments. Thus, for a believing Christian, a breaking of this tie without a suitable replacement was unthinkable. Haggai Erlich, The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2002), pp. 20–22. 7. For the most recent discussion of this issue see Michael A. Knibb, Translating the Bible: The Ethiopic Version of the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 1–46. 8. Otto Meinardus and Steven Kaplan, “Antonius,” Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2003), I: 282–283. 9. Haile Getatchew, “A New Ethiopic Version of the Acts of St. Mark,” Analecta Bollandiana 99, no. 1–2 (1981): 117–134; Gianfrancesco Lusini, “Les Actes de Marc en éthiopien: remarques philologiques et histoire de la tradition,” Apocrypha 13 (2002): 123–134. 10. F. M. Esteves Pereira, Vida de S. Paulo de Thebas, primeiro eremita (Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 1904). 11. See most recently, Alessandro Bausi, “La Collezion aksumita caononicaliturgia,” Adamantius 16 (2006): 43–70. 12. Haile, “A New Ethiopic Version,” p. 119; Cerulli, Storia della letteratura etiopica, 2nd ed. (Milano: Nuova Accademia Editrice, 1961), pp. 19–27. 13. See, for example, Paolo Marrassini, Il Gadla Yemrehanna Krestos, introduzione, testo critico, traduzione (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 1995), facs. 4; Jules Perruchon, Vie de Lalibala (Paris: E. Leroux, 1892); Carlo Conti Rossini, “Gli atti di re Na’akueto La’ab,” Annai dell’Istituto Unversitario Orientale di Napoli 2 (1943): 105–232; Stanislas Kur, “Edition d’un manuscrit de la Bibliothèque vaticane,” Memorie della Accademia Nazionale die Lincei, serie 8, 16, 7 (1972): 383–426. Cf. also the unpublished Gadla Yetbarak in Taddesse Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia 1270–1527 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), pp. 63–64. 14. Given this fact, it is difficult to understand on what basis the great Ethiopianist Conti Rossini characterized this as “the dawn of a new period in Ethiopian literature,” Cerulli, Storia, p. 306. Cerulli (Storia, pp. 35–37) notes that the Legend of Abgar must have been translated during or before the Zagwe period. Cf. Haile Getatchew, “The Legend of Abgar in Ethiopic Tradition,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 55, no. 2 (1989): 373–410. The Kebra Nagast may have been composed or translated at the end of this period by opponents of the Zagwe. 15. Haile Getatchew, “The Zagwe Royal Family After Zagwe,” Northeast African Studies 7, no. 3 (1985): 41. The absence of religious literature that may have been composed or even copied during the Zagwe period raises questions concerning their religious affiliation. Cf. also Haile’s review of Yaqob Beyene’s L’unzione di Cristo nella teologia etiopica, in Annali dell’istituto Universitario Orientale 44 (1984): 689.

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16. Cerulli, Storia, pp. 31–33; Getatchew (“A New Ethiopic Version,” p. 122) states: “Literarily speaking, Coptic has no direct impact on Ge‘ez.” Cf. however, Ugo Zanette, “Is the Ethiopian Holy Week Service Translated from Sahidic? Towards a Study of Gebra Hemamat,” in Bahru Zewde, Richard Pankhurst, and Taddese Beyene (eds.), Proceedings of the Eleventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies (Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 1994), I: 765–783, and the case of Enbaqom, n. 38 below. 17. Manfred Kropp, “Arabisch-äthiopische Übersetzungstechnik am Beispiel der Zena Ayhud (Yosippon) und des Tarika Walda-Amid,” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 136 (1986): 314–346. 18. As reflected in the lack of a clearly defined “canon” of sacred texts, the absence of a formal canonization process for saints, wide variances in liturgical formulas, etc. 19. A. van Lantschoot, “Abba Salama, métropolite d’Éthiopie (1348–1388) et son rôle de traducteur,” in Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Etiopici (Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 1960), pp. 397–401. The colophons of many of these works indicate that the contribution of Abuna Salama was not so much in translating them personally as is usually supposed, but rather in supplying Arabic texts for translation. 20. Edward Ullendorff, Ethiopia and the Bible (London: Published for the British Academy by Oxford University Press, 1968), p. 32. 21. Ibid., pp. 36–38, 42–44; Knibb, Translating the Bible, pp. 32–34. For the more general process of revisions of works translated from the Greek on the basis of an Arabic text, see Alessandro Bausi, “The Aksumite Background of the Ethiopic ‘Corpus Canonum,’” in Siegbert Uhlig (ed.), Proceedings of the Fifteenth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2006), pp. 532–541. 22. Steven Kaplan, “The Literature of the Beta Israel (Falasha): A Survey of a Biblical-Hebraic Tradition,” Xristianskij Vostok (n.s.) 1 (1999): 99–123. 23. Steven Kaplan, “Notes Toward a History of A¸s e Dawit (1380–1412),” Aethiopica 5 (2002): 79–82. Ethiopian Manuscript Microfilm Library Manuscript 1942, f. 76a, lists more than a dozen works translated during Dawit’s reign. It is not certain that all of these works were, in fact, translated at this time, and other works not listed may also date from this period. Verena Böll has indicated, for example, that the translation of the Anaphora of Mary by Cyriacus of Behnesa may be dated to Dawit’s reign. Verena BÖll, ‘Unsere Herrin Maria’: Die traditionalle athiopische Exegese der Marienanaphora des Cyriacus von Behnesa (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1998), p. 6. 24. For editions and translations of the Ge’ez Synkesar, see Ernest Wallis, Book of the Saints of the Ethiopian Church, 4 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1928; reprint ed., New York: Hildesheim, 1976); Ignazio Guidi, “Le synaxaire éthiopien I. Mois de sn˙,” Patrologia Orientalis 1 (5) (1907): II; “Mois de haml˙,” Patrologia Orientalis, 7,3 (33), 1911: III; “Mois de nahas˙ et pguem˙n,” Patrologia Orientalis 9/4 (44), 1913; Sylvain Grébaut, “Le synaxaire éthiopien? IV Mois de taschach (1ere partie), 15,5 (76) 1927; (le partie) Patrologia Orientalis 26,1 (125) 1945; Gérard Colin, “Le synaxaire éthiopien,” Patrologia Orientalis, 43,3 (195), 1986; 44,1 (197), 1987; 44,3 (199), 1988; 45,1 (201), 1990; 45,3 (203), 1992; 46,3 (207), 1994; 46,4 (208),1995; 47,3 (211),1997; 48,3 (215), 1999. 25. For a summary of research on the work see Gérard Colin, “Le synaxaire éthiopien: État actuel de la question,” Analecta Bollandiana 106 (1988): 273–317. 26. Cerulli, Storia , pp. 55–56; Colin, “Le synaxaire,” p. 300.

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27. Ignazio Guidi, “The Ethiopic Senkessar,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 43 (1911): 744. 28. Roger Schneider, “Notes sure Filepos de Dabra Bizan et ses successors,” Annales d’Éthiopie 11 (1978): 135. 29. Enrico Cerulli, Il libro etiopico de Miracoli di Maria e le sue fonti nelle letterature del Medio Evo (Roma: G. Bardi, 1943). Yet another work so extensive that its translation could not have been the work of a single author unassisted by the central authorities of either church or state is the Senodos. Ignazio Guidi, Storia della letteratura etiopica (Roma: Inst. per L’oriente, 1932) pp. 37–38; Ignazio Guidi, “Der athiopische ‘Senodos,’” Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenlandischen Gesellschaft 55 (1901): 495–502; Carlo Conti Rossini, “Il ‘Senodos etiopico,’” Rendiconti della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, ser. 7, no. 3 (1941): 43ff.; Alesandro Bausi, “Alcune considerazioni sul Senodos etiopico,” Rassegna di Studi Etiopici 34 (1990): 5–73; Alesandro Bausi, “Heritage and Originality in the Ethiopic Sinodos,” Journal of Ethiopian Studies 25 (1992): 15–33. 30. Haile Getatchew, “On the Writings of Abba Giyorgis Saglawi from Two Unedited Miracles of Mary,” Orientalia Christiana Analecta 48 (1982): 65–91. 31. Haile Getatchew, “Religious Controversies and the Growth of Ethiopic Literature in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” Oriens Christianus 65 (1981): 129. Be this as it may, I am not aware of works translated from Arabic by Ewostatians clerics, who opposed the Alexandrian position of the Sabbath. 32. Ibid., p. 131. 33. Enrico Cerulli, “Gli abatti di Dabra Libanos . . . ,” Orientalia (n.s.) 13 (1944): 150–152; E. J. Van Donzel, Anqasa Amin (La Porte de la foi) (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1969), pp. 17–28. 34. Van Donzel, Anqasa Amin, pp. 35ff. 35. Ernst Hammerschmidt, Aethiopische Hanscriften von Tanasee, vol. 1 (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1973), p. 169. Enbaqom translated this in 1523; he was assisted in this by Mika’el, the Egyptian. 36. E. Wallis Budge, Baralam and Yewasef Being the Ethiopic Version of a Christianized Recension of the Buddhist Legend of the Buddha and the Bodhisattva (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1923) (translated in 1553 at the behest of Galawdewos). 37. Roger W. Cowley, The Traditional Interpretation of the Apocalypse of St. John in the Ethiopian Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 73–74. 38. Ibid., p. 18. This is alleged to be a collection of letters by John of Saba, which reached Ethiopia in the early sixteenth century and was translated by Abuna Marqos, Mika’el the Egyptian, and Enbaqom at the order of Emperor Lebna Dengal. Enzo Lucchesi, “Aragawi Manfasawi,” Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2003), I: 309–310. 39. Dawit Berhanu (ed. and trans.), Das Mashafa Mar Yeshaq von Ninive (Hamburg: Broschiert, 1997). This work became an integral part of the highest stage of traditional church education. According to some traditions, this work was translated by Salik of Dabra Libanos, in the sixteenth century. Cowley, Traditional Interpretation, p. 18. 40. Siegbert Uhlig, “Abusaker,” Encyclopaedia Aethiopica (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2003), I: 56–57.

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4 Politics of Memory: Ahmad ‘Urabi’s Account of the War in Ethiopia, 1876 Meir Hatina

T

HE ‘URABI REVOLT OF 1881–1882 CONSTITUTED THE CLIMAX OF THE

Egyptian protest against the ruling Turco-Circassian elite in a period exacerbated by foreign encroachment in the Nile Valley in the late nineteenth century. The revolt incorporated social, national, and anti-imperialist motifs, and as such has attracted wide discussion in the research literature. The progression of events in the revolt has been studied in detail, and the profile of its spokesmen analyzed carefully. The roots of the uprising were traced primarily to the domestic Egyptian arena, namely a growing social gap, intensified European intervention, and rising frustration in the military, the intelligentsia, and the religious establishment over a lack of professional advancement and meager resources. Less attention, however, has been devoted to events in the regional arena, especially the Egyptian-Abyssinian confrontation over hegemony in the Horn of Africa. Khedive Isma‘il’s imperial vision was ultimately shattered there by a series of military defeats at the hands of Christian Ethiopia in 1875–1876, which reached a climax in the war at Gura in March 1876. Army officers of Egyptian Arab origin, under the leadership of Lieutenant Colonel Ahmad ‘Urabi, were convinced that the causes of the defeat at Gura were the poor leadership and lack of motivation of the TurcoCircassian commanders and the European mercenaries. Moreover, in the view of the native officers, the military downfall represented a microcosm of the ineffectiveness of the modernization project in Egypt, evoking a demand for a change. The humiliation experienced on the plains of Gura was transformed by ‘Urabi and his colleagues into political dissent in protest against placing Egypt’s fate in the hands of foreign elements, under the banner “Egypt for the Egyptians.” 41

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Despite its integral link to the consolidation of the ‘Urabi revolt, the Egyptian war in Ethiopia has been discussed only generally in the research literature. Alexander Schölch’s work, Egypt for the Egyptians (1981), deals briefly and retrospectively with the war in discussing the confrontation that broke out in February 1881 between the Turco-Circassians and their Arab Egyptian subordinates in the army during ‘Uthman Rifqi’s tenure as war minister—a prologue to the political crisis in the country.1 His colleague, Juan R. I. Cole, in his book Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East (1993), limits himself to the laconic observation that in the wake of the disastrous Egyptian showing in its war with Ethiopia, other Egyptian officers joined the clandestine society that coalesced in the army ranks sometime in the 1870s.2 Only a few historians, most prominently Haggai Erlich, insightfully interwove the micro Ethiopian episode into the macro development of the ‘Urabist movement in Egypt, and in so doing, highlighted the social and cultural differences between the two parties to the confrontation—the Egyptian and the Ethiopian.3 How was the military defeat at Gura used in promoting the revolutionary agenda to remake the Egyptian polity? How was it reflected in the ‘Urabist narrative, in declarations, and in memoirs by its military leaders? How was it challenged by the ‘Urabists’ adversaries? These issues constitute the focus of this chapter and provide an additional prism by which to examine the historic evolution of the ‘Urabi revolt and the struggle over its place in Egypt’s collective memory.

The Historical Setting: The Collapse of Egypt’s Imperial Vision Khedive Isma‘il (1863–1879) was an ambitious ruler. His declared intention was to establish Egypt as an integral part of the enlightened European community and to turn its capital, Cairo, into a “Paris along the Nile.”4 This vision was to be realized primarily by two means: modernization and Westernization. However, Isma‘il’s dedication to the European vision did not mean detaching Egypt’s destiny from the African continent. He also shared the ambitious agenda of his grandfather, Muhammad Ali (1805–1848), and his father, Ibrahim (ruled briefly in 1848), to attain regional Egyptian hegemony. While they had focused on the Ottoman Near East, however, he concentrated on Africa, and especially the Nile Valley. Moreover, Isma‘il was anxious to take advantage of a window of opportunity presented by the relatively virgin state of the African continent. Europe had not yet struck roots there, and Isma‘il was in a hurry to establish facts on the ground. Officially, his African policy took on the aura of a crusade with the civilizing mission of eradicating the slave trade, ending anarchy,

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and establishing law and order. As described by the Egyptian historian alYas al-Ayyubi, “The African arena was an arena in need of outside intervention in order to erase ignorance and cruelty and raise the banner of knowledge and modernity.”5 The vision of establishing an Egyptian empire in the heart of Africa was translated into practical terms by gradual territorial annexation with the aim, in the first stage, of entrenching Egypt’s hold over the Red Sea coastal areas, thereby reinforcing its supremacy over Sudan. Isma‘il entrusted this task to a cadre of army officers imported from Europe and mainly the United States—some having held high ranks in their home armies—with the goal of rejuvenating the Egyptian army through technical advice and training of the forces. His right hand was General Charles P. Stone, who was appointed chief of the État Major (General Staff). The reliance on foreign mercenaries was not a new phenomenon, as Muhammad Ali had used this method in the early nineteenth century. However, Isma‘il upgraded and intensified this practice both numerically and structurally. The mercenaries’ mission was to produce concrete military achievements focused on the African arena. A major incentive was provided by the Ottoman edict of 1865 giving Egypt control of the Red Sea ports of Suakin on the Sudanese coast and Massawa on the Eritrean coast. The Egyptians, deviating from traditional Ottoman policy, quickly entrenched this formal sovereignty by building fortifications, enforcing public order, and imposing taxes. The port city of Massawa was perceived as a convenient jumping off point for territorial conquest, exemplified by the occupation of Bogos in 1872 and Harar in 1875. The official pretext for the Egyptian conquests was to repel incursions by rebellious tribes and Ethiopian governmental agents into Egyptian territory. This explanation mollified the European powers, especially England, but aroused suspicion on the part of Emperor Yohannes IV, the new ruler of Ethiopia. Yohannes’s diplomatic efforts to settle the conflict with Egypt and to put pressure on Europe by raising the religious issue of an Islamic threat to Ethiopia’s Christian character were unsuccessful. The European powers were unconvinced by the threat of a religious war, and several of them, including Germany, France, and England, even supported Isma‘il and his commendable intentions to bring progress to Africa. In their view, Egypt, especially after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869, was a more attractive country economically and commercially than Ethiopia, with its peripheral economy vis-à-vis the world market. In light of Europe’s indifference, Egypt proceeded to direct its efforts to the interior of Ethiopia, conquering Hamasen and Saraye. Creeping annexation turned into a large-scale campaign against the Ethiopians. However, the very transition from limited military action to a broader campaign exposed

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the weakness of the Egyptian army. The Egyptian war machine had been more or less functional in limited operations and small skirmishes against Sudanese or Ethiopian warriors, but it was to fail in managing full-fledged warfare against a large and organized enemy with a charismatic leadership personified by Emperor Yohannes and his capable officer, Ras Alula.6 In the first frontal encounter between the armies, at Gundet (November 1875), the Egyptian force of three thousand, under the command of a former Danish officer, Søren Arendrup, suffered a harsh defeat by the Ethiopian army. One of the foreign officers, the American William M. Dye, described it thus: “No cry of quarter, no supplication to the son or the Prophet, could stay the bloody hand. . . . They escaped the bullet only to feel the scimitar, or resisted the club only to be lanced.”7 Even earlier, the handwriting was on the wall, after the failure of a series of small campaigns under the command of a Swiss officer, Werner Munzinger, and a former British Royal Navy captain, Henry McKillop.8 Yet Isma‘il refused to consider these signs, and possibly even ignored them. Rather, the degradation and distress caused by these military failures impelled him toward heightened aggression in the form of a sweeping campaign of retribution and punishment to teach Yohannes a lesson and restore Egypt’s damaged prestige. The option of diplomacy to resolve the conflict with the Ethiopian leader was not a consideration. This decision typified Isma‘il’s impetuousness. “The impatient Europeanizer,” as he was labeled by P. J. Vatikiotis,9 once again displayed impulsiveness, despite warnings from some of his retinue regarding the negative implications of yet another defeat for Egypt’s status in light of ongoing financial distress and growing foreign penetration. A second campaign into Ethiopia was mounted under Sirdar (Commander-in-Chief) Muhammad Ratib Pasha and his second in command, Colonel William Loring of the United States, with the cloud of the recent disastrous defeat at Gundet hanging over the officers and men. The Egyptian force numbered 15,000, equipped with modern weaponry that included canons and rifles, which ostensibly surpassed the poorer military capacity of the Ethiopian army. Nevertheless, the Gundet nightmare was repeated on the plains of Gura, and the Egyptian army was defeated once again (March 1876), with large losses in men, materiel, and financial resources. The estimated fatalities were 8,500 men. Those who escaped the slaughter were captured and imprisoned. Equipment and supplies were taken. The remaining Egyptian forces retreated to Massawa and Keren and concentrated their efforts on reinforcing the Egyptian-Ethiopian border.10 Emperor Yohannes succeeded in preserving Ethiopia’s territorial sovereignty, including over Eritrea, and managed to unify his kingdom under his authority, while Khedive Isma‘il was forced to fight for his political survival. Not only had his imperial vision come to an end, but Egypt’s inde-

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pendent political existence was threatened. As Haggai Erlich observed, “The Gura defeat began the rapid countdown” to the ‘Urabi revolt and the British conquest of 1881–1882.11 The instigator of the revolt, Ahmad ‘Urabi (1841–1911), who experienced the military events in Gura firsthand as the Egyptian army supplies officer, described the conflagration retrospectively as a “miserable war” (harb mash’uma). Those responsible for it, he maintained, were the Western mercenaries, who lacked military understanding and loyalty to the country they served, and the Turco-Circassian commanders, who lacked motivation and were corrupt. In his view, both groups were foreign to the Nile Valley, so that placing the leadership of the war in their hands a priori doomed it to a searing defeat. It also obligated the country’s viceroy to hastily sell the government’s shares in the Suez Canal Company to the British at the minimal price of £4 million. In ‘Urabi’s perception, the sale of the Suez Canal Company was a prelude to the sellout of Egypt itself to foreigners.12

Narrating the Egyptian-Ethiopian Encounter ‘Urabi’s reading of the Egyptian war in Ethiopia in 1876 was largely retrospective, articulated by him in his defense during his trial after the suppression of the revolt; in conversations with his English admirers Wilfrid S. Blunt and Alexander M. Broadley; and especially in his memoirs, which he completed in 1910 just before his death. Thus, his war account was distanced from the actual events by more than a few years, with the full-scale presentation in his memoirs written three decades later. The outcome, to use Samuel Hynes’s analysis of personal narratives of war, is a less pure, more molded, and judgment-valued version of the war.13 Viewed in a broader perceptive, the Ethiopian episode provided a central component in formulating the revolutionary agenda. It also provided counterpolemical ammunition following the suppression of the ‘Urabist movement and its renunciation in Egyptian historiography. ‘Urabi: An Authentic Egyptian Voice

‘Urabi’s historical account is inciting and defamatory. ‘Urabi does not content himself with the role of observer of the war events in Ethiopia. He becomes an integral participant in it by interweaving his personal story in a broader context. Such a personal narrative “asserts the individuality of the experience and imposes private feelings and responses upon events.”14 In providing firsthand testimony from his early military experience, ‘Urabi sought to inject credibility, vitality, and depth into his understanding of the events of the war and its failure. He acts as a social agent, involved in the

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work of creating memory by transmitting his own interpretation of the war to his contemporaries for political motives. Such an autobiographical memory, especially one based on warfare or combat experience, is perceived by Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan as “particularly dense because it is personal and dramatic.”15 ‘Urabi describes his rapid ascent in the ranks, reaching the level of qaimmaqam (lieutenant colonel) at age twenty under Sa‘id Pasha (1854– 1863). Sa‘id involved him in preparations for military maneuvers and attached him to his retinue on an official visit to Medina. Not only did Sa‘id nurture ‘Urabi’s professional career, he also molded his political consciousness. An Arabic translation of a biography of Napoleon, which Sa‘id gave to ‘Urabi as a gift, revealed the attractions of a constitutional regime and the secret of the French success in conquering Egypt with only thirty thousand soldiers. The key was military organization and expertise, which, if adopted by the Egyptians, would enable them to achieve victories rather than defeats, ‘Urabi observes. 16 He also notes the impact on him of a speech delivered by Sa‘id to princes, dignitaries, and army officers at Qasr al-Nil, in which he advocated the advancement of native Egyptians in the army and in the community as a guarantee of guarding the homeland against the lust of foreigners.17 ‘Urabi recounts that the ruling elite in the audience were shocked and angered by Sa‘id’s speech, while the Egyptians were pleased. The speech, ‘Urabi argues, contained the foundation of the principle “Egypt for Egyptians,” later to become the motto of the ‘Urabi movement. It was Sa‘id, he states, who, by virtue of his sense of justice and strong convictions, laid the foundations for the revival of the nation and saved the country from bankruptcy.18 In the same vein, a friend of ‘Urabi’s, the Swede John Ninet (d. 1895), concluded that Sa‘id’s reign was “the last the Egyptians knew of prosperity.”19 ‘Urabi’s sense of optimism under Sa‘id was to be replaced by anger at the discrimination and distress under his successor, Isma‘il, who ascended the throne in 1863. “In his era, everything reverted back to the Turks and the Circassians, and the Egyptians in the army were denied any protection or promotion,” ‘Urabi wrote. This contravened Sa‘id’s last will, which stipulated the continued protection of the status of those native officers.20 Highlighting the contrast between Sa‘id and Isma‘il served as a central motif in the ‘Urabist rhetoric. It aimed not merely to criticize Isma‘il’s regime but to show that the platform of the Egyptian protest movement, which called for social justice and an end to discrimination between subjects, was not a revolutionary notion, as it was portrayed by the khedive’s court and European observers. It was a legitimized platform, adopted and nurtured by Sa‘id Pasha, whereas Isma‘il was trying to turn back the clock. It was, in short, an attempt to project a restorative agenda aimed at correcting a moral and political deviation. Egyptian historians in the 1930s and

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1940s, identifying with the ‘Urabi cause, held that if Isma‘il had continued his predecessor’s policy of promoting Arabic-speaking officers, the ‘Urabi revolt would not have occurred.21 The malice and discrimination aimed at native Egyptians under Isma‘il, ‘Urabi declared, was not a slogan but a living reality that he personally experienced when he remained at the rank of lieutenant colonel for twelve years, while, as a veteran and capable officer he observed how TurcoCircassians who served under him overtook him and were promoted to senior command posts. In his memoirs, he describes the scheming behavior of the senior Turco-Circassian officers, who derided his origins as a fallah, along with his moral decency. His refusal to comply with acts of corruption in the army ultimately resulted in his discharge from the service in 1867 following a court-martial on fictitious charges of refusing an order. Although he was readmitted to the army three years later, he was assigned to technical and administrative tasks only, leaving him and others of his generation “of high morals and quality” in marginal army capacities. These practices had the full backing and support of Khedive Isma‘il, who made no effort to conceal his affinity for the Turco-Circassians and his distaste for ‘Urabi as the protégé of his predecessor, Sa‘id. 22 The systematic effort to label him as belonging to the Sa‘id camp was perceived by ‘Urabi as signifying one of the evils of Egyptian politics, namely sectorialism, patronage, and nepotism. Responding, he posited a national approach, declaring: “I belong to no-one, rather I serve the regime, the homeland and the village of my birth.”23 He thus merged his personal story with the story of Egyptian society. His pain was their pain; his frustration their frustration. ‘Urabi first articulated this message in the wake of the Abyssinian campaign in 1876. The Abyssinian Showcase: A Prism for Egypt’s Predicament

In ‘Urabi’s perception, the Ethiopian episode, with its operational failures compounded by the deep ethnic divide in the ranks of the army, constituted a microcosm of the predicament of Egyptian society, choking under a corrupt regime that had handed over Egypt’s fate to foreigners. The close parallel drawn by ‘Urabi between the suffering of the native officers and soldiers in the army and the suffering of society generally was interwoven throughout the political rhetoric of his movement. ‘Urabi’s aim was to blur the boundaries between army and community and to position his movement as an authentic spokesman of the people, thereby imbuing it with a broad public character. ‘Urabi did not mince words in describing the impact of Isma‘il’s reign of darkness—his impetuousness, greed, and dishonesty—on the Ethiopian arena, ultimately bringing about a catastrophe for the Egyptian people. It was the Egyptian masses, ‘Urabi pointed out, who paid the price, both in

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underwriting and equipping the war expedition with no compensation or reduction of their tax burden, and in bearing the costs after the defeat, inasmuch as Isma‘il kept for himself the monies received from the sale of the Suez Canal Company shares.24 As head of state and supreme commander of the army, Isma‘il was directly responsible for the failed Egyptian management of the operation in Ethiopia. The formation of a dual command structure, divided between Ratib Pasha and William Loring, laid the foundation for disputes and friction between them and hindered the effective management of the campaign. The rivalry was not only personal and professional— it was also sectarian: Ratib represented the Turco-Circassians, a tightly knit caste that shunned collaboration with others, while Loring represented the cadre of foreigners who sought influence and a presence in the Egyptian arena. The contribution of both groups to the military defeat was decisive, according to ‘Urabi.25 The Turco-Circassian officers displayed timidity and helplessness. Fearing a confrontation with the Ethiopians, they kept the forces encamped at Massawa and its environs without tasks or drills, with the malicious intent of imposing such heavy costs on the Egyptian government over time, that an order to return the troops to Egypt without a military confrontation would be inevitable. Following pressure by the khedive, the Egyptian forces finally began moving into the Ethiopian hinterland, but without being equipped with the necessary reserve of pack animals as replacements for exhausted animals loaded with tents, ammunition, and food. This had been ‘Urabi’s professional assessment as the officer in charge of transport between Massawa and the Egyptian forces. Ratib Pasha, however, rejected it, posting two of his Circassian aides at the departure point of the army to ensure that no animals left the base unloaded. As a result, ‘Urabi recounted, the lead forces under the command of ‘Uthman Rifqi Pasha were left with insufficient supplies of fodder and food, as exhausted animals were abandoned, leaving soldiers hungry. ‘Urabi and his men were forced to collect the abandoned animals along the way—a kind of symbol for the movement he would lead five years later, which was compelled to gather the broken remains left by Isma‘il and the Turco-Circassian elite in Egypt as a result of their irresponsibility. ‘Urabi also makes a point of mentioning that Prince Hasan, Isma‘il’s son, when passing the spot where abandoned animals were being collected, simply continued on—a symptom of the indifference of the ruling family. Prince Hasan, ‘Urabi comments cynically, was present as “a boy learning militarism”—another charge leveled against the military sterility of the elite command.26 Turco-Circassian ineffectiveness was evident not only during the advance of the forces but also when they encamped at Khaya Khur and Gura without sufficient fortifications, lookouts, and scouting to map the topographic conditions of the region. Moreover, although Gura had been equipped with large supplies of fodder and food with the aim

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of setting it up as a main supply base, by the time the Egyptian forces reached Adwa, Ratib ordered the purchase of additional fodder from the local markets. This raised costs but did not benefit the rank and file, who were given only half their usual daily food rations, in contravention of regulations. The result was hunger, exhaustion, and illness.27 If the Turco-Circassians displayed cowardice and ineffectiveness, the foreign mercenaries demonstrated outright betrayal. ‘Urabi focuses on the lack of military expertise of the foreigners, especially on the part of Loring, who had served as an officer in the untrained volunteer forces of the American Civil War (1861–1865). Even this aspect, however, was dwarfed by their treachery in the Egyptian case. Loring, Isma‘il’s confidant and second in command, passed on updated information to the Ethiopian emperor, through a French priest, about the movements of the Egyptian army and its rate of progress. Once Yohannes completed his military preparations for the Ethiopian attack, Loring pressed Ratib Pasha to send several of the Egyptian units out of the Gura fortifications and station them in an indefensible area, thereby easing the Ethiopians’ attack. In the clash between the two armies, the US and European officers, in a move prearranged with Yohannes’s men, quickly removed their regimental turbans, donned caps, and tied white scarves around their necks, a signal that they were Christians and not to be harmed. ‘Urabi viewed this treachery as further substantiation of the quranic passage: “And believe no one unless he follows your religion” (Sura 3: 73). The unavoidable result at Gura was the mass slaughter of the Egyptian soldiers who found themselves under siege, with no way out but death or captivity. Those who did manage to retreat were pursued and killed by Ethiopian swords in their backs. The slaughter could have been avoided, ‘Urabi emphasizes, if the rest of the units in the Gura fortification and those encamped at neighboring Khaya Khor had fulfilled their military duty and come to the rescue of their comrades in arms. However, they were explicitly ordered by their Turco-Circassian officers to remain where they were.28 ‘Urabi’s need not only for villains but also for heroes to stir Egyptian emotions is embodied in the native Egyptian officers, who displayed commitment, courage, and self-sacrifice in trying to repel the Ethiopian attack on the Gura fortification. Citing names and military ranks of some of them—especially Colonel Muhammad Jabbar, the only Egyptian among the brigade commanders—was an act of commemoration as well as a political statement that these warriors were the true lords of the country. While these brave men met death, their superiors avoided it by fleeing the battlefield. This was not surprising, ‘Urabi observed, since both groups—the Western mercenaries and the Turco-Circassian commanders—were foreign to the Nile Valley. Placing the leadership of the war in their hands a priori doomed it to a devastating defeat. The sharp dichotomies between the three groups, who lacked any common ground, served ‘Urabi as a lever for heightening

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antagonism toward the unwanted guests in the Nile Valley, and public empathy for the revolutionary cause and its motto, “Egypt for the Egyptians.”29 ‘Urabi does not ignore the other component of the Egyptian defeat— the Ethiopian victory, achieved as a result of advance military preparations and a qualitative, determined, and courageous officer corps. 30 Notably, ‘Urabi’s account of the Ethiopians was straightforward and devoid of the contempt and revulsion over their uncivilized customs and cruelty found in other accounts by officers in Isma‘il’s army, thus also shining a spotlight on the Egyptians’ failed conduct.31 Such qualities of resolve and courage on the battlefield as shown by the Ethiopians, ‘Urabi observed, could not have been expected in officers of ethnic and cultural origins foreign to the Nile Valley—the Turco-Circassians or the Western mercenaries. Yet despite their catastrophic performance, which led to the massive loss of approximately eighty-five hundred Egyptian soldiers, Khedive Isma‘il backed off from his intention to try these officers in court, fearing they would mount a rebellion that would endanger his throne. Instead, he actually awarded them decorations and rewards.32 From Humiliation to Revolution

The devastating defeat at Gura was a formative event in ‘Urabi’s personal history. By his own account, the defeat prompted him to take a greater interest in politics in order to save his people from destruction. An important source of inspiration for him was Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (d. 1898), of whom ‘Urabi learned through contact with several Azharist ‘ulama’ who were disciples of the al-Afghani, especially Muhammad ‘Abduh and Hasan al-Tawil. This development constituted the impetus for organized protest on the part of Egyptian officers, some of whom had also experienced military degradation in Ethiopia and were relieved of their responsibilities unjustly, as was ‘Urabi. Following the war, he was removed from his post as transport officer on the charge of unsuitability for the task, and was replaced by a Circassian. ‘Urabi’s and his colleagues’ bitterness was now channeled into political dissidence.33 In identifying the army with the community as an indivisible whole, ‘Urabi was able to position himself as representing the Egyptian people visà-vis their oppressors—the khedive and the foreign powers—thereby undermining those who opposed the involvement of the military in politics. In his view, the Egyptian officers were “the children and the brothers” of the native subjects, who authorized them to act for the benefit of the homeland. ‘Urabi’s right-hand colleague, and the orator of the protest movement, ‘Abdallah Nadim (d. 1897), defined the nation as the “body” and the soldier as the “soul.”34

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The ‘Urabist account of the war in Ethiopia and its influence on the Egyptian nation’s course as a whole is tainted by exaggerations and sweeping generalizations. The aim of the narrative was to construct a qualitative ideological platform with historic depth for a movement that challenged the status quo and struggled to gain a place in the Egyptian collective memory. Despite exaggerations, however, the narrative contains a factual historic nucleus, thus placing ‘Urabi’s personal memory in a broader social experience, to use Maurice Halbwachs’s conception. It was this social and cultural milieu that provided an underpinning of relevance to ‘Urabi’s account.35 Undoubtedly, ‘Urabi’s accusation of conspiracy and betrayal by the Western mercenaries in Egypt was too sweeping, although problems of spying and dual loyalty did exist. Notably, some of the mercenaries showed devotion and some died in battle, a fact that ‘Urabi does not mention. However, his criticism regarding their poor military performance and their attitude of cultural superiority was justified. The mercenaries brought in from abroad were motivated by monetary considerations or a lust for adventure. They did not display a high level of military expertise, and failed to train a more qualitative officer cadre in the military colleges and training fields. Their influence on the Egyptian army was minimal.36 Isma‘il’s “neo-Mamlukes,” as John P. Dunn termed the foreigners, proved to be more of a liability than an asset in promoting the viceroy’s imperial vision,37 a fact that enabled ‘Urabi to link their military impotence with the disruptive effects of Isma‘il’s modernization project, which ultimately resulted in destruction and ruin. ‘Urabi, with his deep religious convictions and Azharist background, conveyed the lesson to be learned from the harmful effects of Egypt’s “open door” policy to his fellow countrymen, exhorting them to shun “false Western modernity” and obey the prohibitions commanded by Allah. Only religion can ensure morality and solidarity among the people and impel them to rally to the cause of saving their homeland.38 As for the Turco-Circassian sector, the ethnic and social divide between this group and the native Egyptians was less pronounced than in ‘Urabi’s portrayal. This elite had undergone an accelerated process of assimilation under Muhammad ‘Ali’s dynasty and developed a close attachment to the Egyptian milieu through loyalty to the ruling house, intermarriage, and ownership of vast estates. Some intermingling with the Egyptian Arab dignitary class had also taken place. These developments led to a certain blurring of ethnic lines, producing an Ottoman-Egyptian elite, although it did not remove the distinctions between them entirely. These were still evident in the government and the army, where most high ranks were filled by persons of Turco-Circassian origin. Moreover, despite acclimatization in the Nile Valley, they exuded an attitude of superiority, behaving as masters of the country. This social divide, reflected both in the public space and in the military domain, served as a hotbed for the demand for change.39

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Essentially, both nonnative sectors—the Turco-Circassians and the Western officers—represented aspects of the Egyptian dilemma at the end of Isma‘il’s era: corruption and repression domestically, and a growing foreign presence, which by 1881 constituted a population sector of 90,000–100,000. This reality engendered the ‘Urabist protest movement, which was composed of native military officers and several civilian sectors under the banner “Egypt for the Egyptians,” with a unified demand for the formation of a constitutional regime and reduced foreign control over the affairs of the country. ‘Urabi himself, riding a wave of popular support, was transformed from a military to a public leader, admired by the fellahin because of his origins, and courted by the dignitary stratum. ‘Urabi’s new status as defender of the nation and advocate of a constitution was acquired in the wake of the “‘Abdin incident” of September 1881, when he persuaded Khedive Tawfiq (1879–1892) to appoint a representative government led by Muhammad Sharif Pasha; and even more definitively with the formation of a revolutionary government led by Mahmud Sami al-Barudi in February 1882, in which ‘Urabi was appointed minister of war. The slogan “Egypt for the Egyptians” now became official policy sponsored by organs of the state— however, not for long. The ‘Urabi camp was weakened by an unconsolidated political agenda, a fragile coalition of the military and the civilian wings, and, especially, military inferiority vis-à-vis the British, who put an end to the revolutionary wave with the conquest of Egypt in September 1882, a watershed year in the Victorian rush into the African continent.40 The khedival institution survived the events of the ‘Urabi uprising, but at a high price—the loss of power and legitimacy in the shadow of prolonged British rule.

Competing Narratives The British invasion of Egypt brought the ‘Urabi episode, which had begun in a euphoric hope for change, to an end in breakdown and conquest. ‘Urabi and his colleagues, spared execution but exiled to the island of Ceylon, found themselves in a Sisyphean struggle to clear themselves of accusations of treason and rebellion that clung to them under the official imprimatur of the Ottoman sultan. Not only did the British authorities and the khedival court take part in the campaign of delegitimation of the ‘Urabists, 41 but spokesmen for the later wave of Egyptian nationalism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries also joined in. Local and foreign acquaintances and observers underscored ‘Urabi’s bitterness in exile. In an open letter to the newspaper al-Hilal in June 1896, ‘Urabi likened himself and his friends to the “walking dead” due to the sorrow and mental anguish caused by their separation from family and homeland.42

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‘Urabi’s return to Egypt in 1901 after an exile of nineteen years, made possible by a pardon issued by Khedive ‘Abbas Hilmi II (1892–1914), failed to lift his spirits. Most of his colleagues, including ‘Ali al-Rubi, Tulbah ‘Ismat, ‘Abd al-‘Al Hilmi, ‘Ali Fahmi, Yakub Sami, and Mahmud Sami al-Barudi, had died in exile or soon after their return to Egypt. ‘Urabi himself became embroiled in fruitless attempts to retrieve his property and monetary benefits expropriated by the government in the wake of his trial, leaving his large family destitute. No less painful was the abuse and vilification to which he was subjected in the press upon his return. After a long and sorrowful exile, ‘Urabi observed, his own people, whom he had served with dedication, had come to believe that he had sold them out to the English. In Mahmud al-Khafif’s description, ‘Urabi became a “stranger in his homeland” (gharib fi’l al-watan).43 Few came to ‘Urabi’s defense, most prominently the newspaper alHilal, whose editor, Jurji Zaydan (d. 1914), described ‘Urabi’s life history at length and cited the Ethiopian episode as a historic link in the chain that nurtured the protest movement. Zaydan felt compelled to inform the “many Egyptians born after the revolt who know ‘Urabi only by name.” Al-Hilal praised ‘Urabi’s sincere motives in fighting social and political injustice, although he criticized the naiveté and megalomania that overcame him with the advance of the revolt for believing he could stand up to the British and their obsessive imperialist greed. Displeased by such criticism, ‘Urabi nevertheless viewed al-Hilal as a good forum for rehabilitating his name by establishing a firm link between his personal biography and the Egyptian national revival.44 His impetus for rehabilitation reached a peak in his memoirs (1910), which he attributed to the necessity to remove the mantle of lies that surrounded the protest movement he had led for the sake of “the dear people of my homeland, historic truth and service to humanity.”45 However, it was a demanding task carried out by an older man, exhausted both physically and mentally and lacking sufficient resources. Meanwhile, the stage continued to be occupied by his adversaries. The National-Royal Account

One of the leading dailies of the period, al-Ahram, depicted ‘Urabi following his return to Egypt in 1901 as a shadow of himself, a person whom history judged to be a mutineer against a recognized sovereign, his name entrenched in Egyptian consciousness as the cause of their suffering under the occupation. Labeling ‘Urabi as a curse to his country enabled the paper to highlight the desired political lesson then: the need to rally around the khedivate and to enhance Egypt’s ties with the Ottoman Empire and its sultanate. 46 Underlying the paper’s harsh judgment was its own experience during the ‘Urabi revolution when its presses were destroyed in Alexandria by the

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‘Urabists, and its Christian founders—the Taqla brothers—had to flee to Syria. ‘Urabi did not expect sympathy from al-Ahram, but he did hope to get this in Egypt’s emerging national historiography. He was to be disappointed. The moderate wing of Egyptian nationalism, under Ahmad Lutfi alSayyid, leader of the Umma Party, praised the intention of the revolutionaries to formulate a constitution but criticized their radical patterns of activity, which al-Sayyid attributed to the ‘Urabists’ military background, denouncing their rebelliousness against legitimate authority. 47 The more radical wing, headed by Mustafa Kamil, leader of the National Party, went even further in its attacks. Kamil defined the slogan “Egypt for the Egyptians” as a fiction that had evoked societal hostility and venom in the nation, thereby paving the way for foreign intervention. In contrast to ‘Urabi’s perception of a divided society, Kamil posited an integrative and inclusive society that he viewed as a qualitative guarantee for the removal of the British from Egypt. In his perception, “the Circassians had been in Egypt all their lives, settled the land and produced descendants. They are Egyptians in every respect and there is no difference between them and the ancient pharaohs.” He also cast aspersions on ‘Urabi himself, arguing that he did not deserve to return to Egypt in light of the severe damage he had caused the country by the loss of its national sovereignty. Instead of distancing himself from the country, as Egyptian and Ottoman personalities had advised him several times, ‘Urabi played into the hands of the British, who never concealed their aim of taking control of Egypt. Moreover, his name was unworthy of being included in the pantheon of Egypt’s national heroes, for he chose a disgraceful submission rather than an honorable death on the battlefield.48 Presumably, al-Sayyid’s and Kamil’s harsh political judgment exempted them from exploring the roots of the protest movement in depth, including the Ethiopian episode and its central role in the ‘Urabi narrative. Kamil contented himself with the laconic commentary that the military embroilment in Ethiopia heightened Egypt’s financial distress, and that Isma‘il’s despotic rule induced the aspiration within Egypt to establish a constitutional government, preparing the ground for the appearance of ‘Urabi and his group.49 ‘Urabi’s negative image in national-liberal circles, as Thomas Mayer shows, played into the hands of the official, or royalist, historiography, which sought to reinforce the status of the ruling dynasty and besmirch the ‘Urabi movement in the annals of Egyptian history. Isma‘il was portrayed as a generous, wise, reformist ruler who was tireless in his efforts to benefit his country, and his successor Tawfiq was depicted as just, balanced, and patriotic, acting to save Egypt from foreign conquest. ‘Urabi, however, was portrayed as impulsive and treacherous.50 According to Khedive ‘Abbas Hilmi II, ‘Urabi “was undeniably a traitor to his Sovereign, his country, and his brothers. One is assuredly mistaken if one makes of that military despot

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one of the first champions of Egyptian nationalism.”51 The khedive’s protégé, the renowned poet Ahmad Shawqi (d. 1932), often referred to as Amir al-Shu‘ara (Prince of Poets), dismissed ‘Urabi and his colleagues, “who left and returned to Egypt as insignificant people.”52 ‘Urabi’s death in September 1911, extensively covered in the press, did not significantly soften the harsh judgment of him. The ongoing British presence, which meanwhile strengthened its hold over Sudan, thereby undermining the Egyptian vision of the unity of the Nile, did little to enhance the memory of ‘Urabi. He and his movement were accused of placing their own interests before those of the nation and putting an end to Egypt’s regional hegemony as established by Muhammad Ali’s dynasty.53 If not for the political impulsiveness of the ‘Urabists, al-Ahram stated, Egypt could have followed Japan’s path in creating a large Afro-Arab sultanate in that period. The paper noted bitterly that “the ‘Urabists have passed from history, as has ‘Urabi, leaving loss and distress to their nation and a political lesson and a warning sign to other nations.”54 The official campaign and its sympathizers, in erasing ‘Urabi and his colleagues from the Egyptian collective memory, also impacted on the historiographic treatment of the Ethiopian episode itself. Most references to it praised Isma‘il’s policy in Africa, emphasizing the khedive’s contribution to the unification of Egypt and Sudan into “one government and one homeland” and his civilizing mission to uproot slavery and introduce public order and economic development in the areas under Egyptian control, as exemplified by the modernization of the city of Harar.55 These sources also tried to give the military defeat of 1876 a positive spin. The very decision to mount a war campaign in Ethiopia was presented as having been forced on Egypt. Isma‘il had wanted to expand Sudan’s borders as close as possible to the sources of the Blue Nile in order to ensure the Nile Valley lifeline. However, hostile elements in the nearby areas and their Ethiopian patrons, who controlled an “uncivilized country” and lacked any respect for clear frontiers, acted to foil Egypt’s vital interest by means of ambushes and raids across the border. The military forces that set out from Massawa and confronted Yohannes’s “wild forces” at Gundet and Gura in 1875–1876 were defeated, but only after a bitter battle in hostile territory. Ratib Pasha held out for a whole month before surrendering. The depiction of the Ethiopians as wild and cruel, including descriptions of atrocities against Egyptian soldiers and prisoners, revealed not only cultural contempt for Ethiopia but aimed as well at enhancing empathy for the Egyptian army in confronting so brutal an enemy. The portrayal of the war in Ethiopia as justified and well conducted militarily, despite the final defeat, also represented an antithesis to the ‘Urabi narrative, which perceived the war as a disaster from beginning to end.56 Certain official voices, however, were more critical of Egypt’s military

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conduct. One example was Muhammad Rif‘at, a professor of history who held a series of positions in the ministries of instruction and education in the 1930s and 1940s. He pointed out that the military expedition was hastily organized. It failed due to a lack of unity of command, Loring’s lack of experience in leading military campaigns, and Ratib’s lack of the drive required of an invading general. Nevertheless, Rif‘at noted, the Ethiopian enemy suffered heavy losses and was forced to retreat without achieving a decisive victory. Furthermore, he cited other military expeditions in which the Egyptian forces did attain success, as in suppressing the anti-Ottoman revolt in Crete in 1865 and in its performance in the Russo-Ottoman war of 1877.57 Rif‘at’s relatively critical evaluation of the Egyptian defeat in Ethiopia was aimed at the military leadership, not the political authorities. It was a dry military account, eschewing political or economic repercussions. This was not the case with regard to his account of the “shameful defeat” of the ‘Urabi army by the British at Tel al-Kabir in September 1882. Rif‘at summarized the record of the ‘Urabi revolt in emotional terms as “a black spot in Egyptian history,” caused by the militarization of politics and the revolt against a recognized authority.58 Countervoices

Making use of the indoctrinational organs at its disposal (the press and the educational system), the establishment historiography of the ‘Urabi episode continued to set the tone for the Egyptian discourse during the interwar period. Nevertheless, its views were not entirely hegemonic, and other, countervoices, more independent of the palace, provided alternative perspectives. These views reflected a more national, inclusive interpretation of Egyptian history that went beyond the domain of ruler and state institutions (dawla) and developed the concept of the nation (sha‘b) as the driving force of the Nile Valley. They revealed the existence of a vibrant civil society with a well-developed press and a qualitative political discourse. 59 Such dissident views, which challenged the official line, sought to exonerate the reputation of the ‘Urabi movement as a progressive national impetus, and its leaders as embodying courage, determination, and loyalty. The rehabilitation of the ‘Urabi cause ushered in the restoration of the episode of the Egyptian war in Ethiopia to the center stage of Egyptian history. Significantly, al-Yas al-Ayyubi, in his book, Ta’rikh Misr fi’l al-‘ahd al-Khidiwi Isma‘il (The history of Egypt in Khedive Isma‘il’s era, 1923), laid the blame for the military failure squarely on the US and TurcoCircassian officers due to their interpersonal disputes and mutual aversion and hostility, revealing the futility of Isma‘il’s command that they join hands and “act as brothers.” Al-Ayyubi views the refusal of the foreign mercenaries to raise the flag of Islam over Christian Ethiopia as symbolizing

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their negative contribution, while the Turco-Circassian officers’ negative contribution was symbolized by their ignorance of the art of war and their degrading treatment of the Egyptian officers. Moreover, he defines the refusal by some of the Circassian officers to send out military reinforcements to the forces fighting the Ethiopian army on the plains of Gura as a betrayal of the military code, meriting trial and harsh punishment. Al-Ayyubi’s discussion does not level direct criticism at Khedive Isma‘il, yet he also shows no empathy or identification with him. These sentiments are reserved for the Egyptian officers, whom he views as displaying a higher level of military and human qualities of command than those of the Western mercenaries or the Turco-Circassians. Had the campaign been put under their leadership, al-Ayyubi observes, the results of the battle would have been entirely different. In particular, he commends ‘Urabi and al-Rubi for their sober and responsible performance during the campaign, noting that they elicited praise from their US colleagues.60 Military impotence vis-à-vis competence was also the theme in Muhammad Lutfi Jum‘a’s description of the ethnic barrier between the Turco-Circassians and European officers and the native Egyptians. Jum‘a, a lawyer and an advocate of Arabism in Egypt in the late 1930s, stated in a book in 1935 that placing the military campaign in Ethiopia in the hands of strangers doomed it a priori to defeat. He commended Ratib Pasha as brave, but lacking in military or diplomatic skills, and the staff officers as a melange of various nationalities. No wonder, Jum‘a argued, Egypt “shed a warm tear over its many sons who were sacrificed in that deep valley [Gura] because of the ignorance of their foreign commanders.”61 In the same vein, the poet and literary critic Mahmud al-Khafif, writing in the newspaper alRisala in 1939, pointed to the military defeat at Gura as a formative event in the historic emergence of the protest movement, drawing a direct connection between it and the first display of force by the native officers against the government in February 1879.62 Another writer, ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i, devoted a broader discussion to the Egyptian defeat in his book, ‘Asr Isma‘il (Isma‘il’s reign, 1932). The vast detail in al-Rafi‘i’s work about the events of the war, which closely followed the parameters of the ‘Urabi narrative, was aimed at further undermining the royal narrative. Al-Rafi‘i set the tone of his book from the start, terming the war as an “impotent war” (harb ‘aqim) that was neither necessary nor beneficial to Egypt. It broke out as a result of rashness and failed leadership, and ended with defeat and loss. Al-Rafi‘i, a member of the National Party, does not deny the importance of reinforcing Egypt’s status in the Red Sea. However, he argues, Isma‘il could have contented himself with the annexation of the territories between the Red Sea and Ethiopia, including Bogos and Harar, in order to enhance Egypt’s sovereignty. Yet Isma‘il was greedy and was determined to conquer Ethiopia too, without

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properly assessing the difficulty of capturing its mountainous terrain. Moreover, topographical obstacles were only one of the causes of the defeat. Others were insufficient preparation of the forces, the poor quality of the officer level, and the disconnection between Ratib’s army leaders and Stone’s general staff. The military adventure in Ethiopia ended with a massive loss of men and resources, and, no less important, damage to the image of the capability of the Egyptian army, inviting British aggression that reached a climax with the conquest of the country.63 Al-Ayyubi, Jum‘a, al-Khafif, al-Rafi‘i, and others turned Gura into a milestone in the crystallization of the Egyptian protest movement, which was depicted as justified in light of the grave disaster that turned Egypt into easy prey for imperialist forces no longer fearful of its military capability then. Highlighting the calamity at Gura was perceived by these writers as part of a larger aim to restore the ‘Urabi movement to the center of Egyptian national history, thereby making it worthy of study and commemoration.64 At the same time, they aimed to marginalize Muhammad Ali’s dynasty in this narrative. They made no attempt to conceal their antipathy for the khedival court and, later, the monarchy. The sole contribution of these rulers to the Nile Valley population, in al-Rafi‘i’s summation, was a history of maltreatment, cruelty, and failure. He also pointed an accusing finger at the Wafd Party, which claimed a monopoly over the national discourse and posited the 1919 revolution and its leader, Sa‘d Zaghlul, as the cornerstone of Egypt’s national revival. Al-Rafi‘i was both a writer and a politician, serving as secretary of the National Party, whose legendary leader, Mustafa Kamil, was marginalized in the Egyptian collective memory by the systematic indoctrination of the two major political forces in the 1920s and 1930s—the monarchy and the Wafd Party. Ironically, Kamil, who had played an active role in the delegitimation of ‘Urabi, became a victim himself of historical forgetfulness.65 The pro-‘Urabi narrative, which in monarchical Egypt was dissident, became the primary narrative in revolutionary Egypt when the Free Officers took over the government in July 1952. They highlighted ‘Urabi and his movement as part of their effort to show continuity with an appropriate historic past of Egyptian struggle for national independence. The termination of 150 years of dynastic rule meant a revision of the annals of Egyptian history—a pedagogical project in which the ‘Urabi episode now held a place of honor. The signal for this shift was given by Muhammad Naguib in his introduction to a new edition of ‘Urabi’s memoirs issued in 1953, in which he stated that ‘Urabi’s name deserves to be inscribed in the list of Egypt’s national heroes by virtue of his brave stance against tyranny and enslavement.66 Arguably, the catastrophe in Ethiopia in 1876 symbolized for ‘Urabi what the catastrophe in Palestine in 1948 symbolized for Nasser in terms of what was happening in the Egyptian homeland: social inequality, govern-

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mental sterility, chicanery, and a sense of siege.67 A conspiracy theory was also at work: in the Ethiopian campaign it was the treason of the foreign mercenaries, while in the Palestinian campaign it was debased foreign weaponry that the Egyptian government purchased from the West. The Nasserist explanation of the defeat in Palestine seems copied from ‘Urabi’s own explanation for the defeat in Ethiopia seventy-two years earlier. Nasser, in his booklet, The Philosophy of the Revolution (1954), wrote: “Here we are in these foxholes, surrounded, and thrust treacherously into a battle for which we were not ready, our lives the playthings of greed, conspiracy and lust, which have left us here weaponless under fire.” The logical conclusion was that “the biggest battlefield is in Egypt,” and the real enemy was the one at home.68 A formal historic link between the ‘Urabi revolution of 1881–1882 and the 1952 revolution was provided by al-Rafi‘i, who, to a great extent, became the official historian of the Free Officers regime. In his view, both revolutions reflected the growing frustration of the Egyptian people, and both involved a long process that matured over time. The ‘Urabists first considered revolution in 1875 when they began preaching against the tyranny of the Turco-Circassian officers, while the Free Officers did so in 1948 in the wake of the military defeat in Palestine that year. Despite the historic identification between the ‘Urabi parent movement and its Nasserist offspring, however, the dividing line between them was also emphasized: while the former failed and missed the opportunity to achieve national liberation because of insufficient vigilance regarding plots to foil it, the latter learned these lessons and displayed determination and assertiveness.69

Conclusion The Egyptian defeat in Ethiopia in 1876 brought down the curtain on Khedive Isma‘il’s vision of an African empire, but engendered a new arena of domestic contention over the nature of the Egyptian entity. The direction of this struggle was provided by native Egyptian officers seething with personal frustration over the withholding of their professional promotion in the ranks, and was suffused with a sense of national degradation. These officers turned the defeat into a rallying cry for a dissident movement focused on the demand for a political transformation, namely, transferring entitlement from the old elite to the authentic spokesmen of the people. The defeat was perceived as an overdue opportunity for an indigenous leadership to prove its talent and ability to lead the polity where others, lacking deep roots in the Nile Valley, had failed. This demand for power was also bound up with a quest to revise the Egyptian collective memory and adapt it to the ‘Urabist agenda.

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The reciprocity between memory and politics is integral in the Ethiopian chapter of modern Egyptian history. Defeat in war is a loaded and disruptive event. It is a distinctive experience with emotional, dramatic, and traumatic overtones, affecting both individuals and society. Its use for political purposes, therefore, is of major significance. The ‘Urabist focus on the Egyptian defeat in Ethiopia was first and foremost a political statement showing that the protest movement did not spring up in a vacuum and was not a caprice of ambitious military officers. Rather, its roots were deep and its causes multifaceted, integrally related to the depressed Egyptian reality as manifested best by the norms in the army: corruption, discrimination, and a destructive social divide between Westerners, Turco-Circassians and native Egyptians. The intrinsic identification created by the ‘Urabist officers between the defeat in Ethiopia and the collapse of Egypt’s viability served as a basis for turning their personal memory into a collective autobiography of all Egyptians and evoking identification with the national trauma involved. Transforming defeat on the battlefield into a source of legitimation for changing the domestic order was not unique to the ‘Urabi episode. Modern history provides other examples, such as in Europe, Latin America, and, of course, the Middle East. These include the defeat of France by Prussia in 1870–1871, which incited waves of protest and led to the founding of the French Third Republic; or the Bolivian defeat by Paraguay in 1934, which led to the installation of a military regime in Bolivia. Examples in the Middle East include the Ottoman defeat in the first Balkan war in 1913, which led to the establishment of a military regime in Istanbul; the open rebellion of the military officers led by Mustafa Kemal against the sultan and his loyalists in the wake of the Ottoman defeat in World War I; and the Arab defeat by Israel, which facilitated the coups d’état in Syria in 1949 and in Egypt in 1952. In these events, the link between defeat and protest was not necessarily direct or obvious, but it was integral in the patriotic canon of the perpetrators.70 Indeed, it is not the factual historical record that has been the focus here, but rather how that record is projected and molded in the revolutionary narrative. The presumption to speak in the name of the people turned the war experience into a springboard for refashioning the polity, harnessing dissident sentiments that already existed in society. In this transformation, the ‘Urabist account was not exceptional.

Notes 1. Alexander Schölch, Egypt for the Egyptians (London: Ithaca Press, 1981), pp. 136–137.

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2. Juan R. I. Cole, Colonialism and Revolution in the Middle East (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), p. 155. 3. Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and the Middle East (Boulder: Lynne Reinner, 1994), pp. 57–60. 4. Khaled Fahmy, “An Olfactory Tale of Two Cities: Cairo in the Nineteenth Century,” in Jill Edwards (ed.), Historians in Cairo (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2002), pp. 160–163. 5. Al-Yas al-Ayyubi, Ta’rikh Misr fi’l al-‘ahd al-Khidiwi Isma’il, new ed. (Cairo: Matba‘at Dar al-Kutub al-Misriyya, 1994), vol. 2, p. 7; also Husyan Kifafi, al-Khidiwi Isma’il wa-ma‘shuqatuhu Misr (Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Misriyya al-‘Amma li’l-Kitab, 1994), pp. 173–183. 6. John P. Dunn, Khedive Ismail’s Army (London: Routledge, 2005), p. 62. 7. Dye quoted in Bahru Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia 1855–1991, 2nd ed. (Oxford: James Currey, 2001), p. 52. 8. Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia, p. 53; al-Ayyubi, Ta’rikh Misr, pp. 80–86; Dunn, Khedive Ismail’s Army, pp. 113–124. 9. P. J. Vatikiotis, The History of Modern Egypt, 2nd ed. (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980), p. 70. 10. Hostilities along the border came to an end only with the Adwa treaty signed in 1884. Zewde, A History of Modern Ethiopia, pp. 54–55. 11. Haggai Erlich, The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2002), p. 71; Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and Eritrea During the Scramble for Africa: A Political Biography of Ras Alula 1875–1897 (East Lansing: Michigan State University, 1982), pp. 10–12. 12. Ahmad ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat al-za‘im Ahmad ‘Urabi: kashf al-sitar ‘an sirr al-asrar fi’l al-nahda al-Misriyya al-mashhura bi’l-thawra al-‘Urabiyya (Cairo: Dar al-Hilal, 1989), pp. 16–17. 13. Samuel Hynes, “Personal Narratives and Commemoration,” in Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan (eds.), War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 208–209. 14. Ibid., p. 206. 15. Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan, “Setting the Framework,” in Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan (eds.), War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 11–12. 16. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, p. 16. 17. Ibid., p. 17. 18. Ibid., pp. 18–19; ‘Urabi in al-Hilal, 15 October 1901; also ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i, al-Thawra al-‘Urabiyya wa’l-ihtilal al-Injlizi, 2nd ed. (Cairo: Maktabat alNahda al-Misriyya, 1949), pp. 80–83. 19. John Ninet, Lettres d’Egypte 1879–1882 (Paris: CNRS, 1979), pp. 237–238. 20. ‘Urabi in al-Hilal, 15 October 1901; ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 19–20. 21. See, for example, al-Rafi‘i, al-Thawra al-‘Urabiyya, p. 64. 22. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 19–28; W. S. Blunt, Secret History of the English Occupation of Egypt (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1922), pp. 367–368. 23. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, p. 28. 24. Ibid., pp. 17, 45. 25. Ibid., pp. 29–31. 26. Ibid., p. 31. 27. Ibid., pp. 33–34. 28. Ibid., pp. 40–43.

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29. Ibid., pp. 35–36. 30. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 38–40. 31. Erlich, The Cross and the River, pp. 86–87; Isma‘il Sarank, Haqa’iq alakhbar ‘an duwal al-bihar (Cairo: al-Matba‘a al-Amiriyya, 1896), vol. 2, pp. 278–333, 374–375. 32. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 38–40. 33. Blunt, Secret History, p. 368. 34. W. S. Blunt, Egypt: Letters to the Right Hon. W. E Gladstone (London: Kegan Paul, 1882), pp. 80, 90–92. 35. Maurice Halbwachs, On Collective Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), pp. 22, 52–53; Barry Schwartz, “The Social Context of Commemoration: A Study in Collective Memory,” Social Forces 61, no. 2 (December 1982): 396; also Edmund Burke (ed.), Struggle and Survival in the Modern Middle East (London: I. B. Tauris, 1993), pp. 4–7. 36. Dunn, Khedive Ismail’s Army, pp. 47–62. 37. Ibid., pp. 134–150; al-Ayyubi, Ta’rikh Misr, pp. 31–32, 88–92. 38. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 193–194. 39. Schölch, Egypt for the Egyptians, pp. 21–28; Cole, Colonialism and Revolution, pp. 31–33, 35–36; Ehud R. Toledano, State and Society in MidNineteenth Century Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 68–70, 155–156; Donald M. Reid, “The ‘Urabi Revolution and the British Conquest 1879–1882,” in M. W. Daly (ed.), The Cambridge History of Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), vol. 2, p. 220. 40. See, for example, R. Robinson and J. Gallagher, Africa and the Victorians: The Climax of Imperialism (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1961). 41. See also the ‘Urabists’s negative historical treatment by ‘Ali Mubarak, educator and cabinet minister under Tawfiq, in his al-Khitat al-Tawfiqiyya al-jadida li-Misr al-Qahira (Cairo-Bulaq: Matba‘at al-Kubra al-Amiriyya, 1886–1889), vol. 11, pp. 55–58. 42. Al-Hilal, vol. 6 (September 1897–August 1898), pp. 745–746. 43. See, for example, ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 187–189; Blunt, Secret History, pp. 374–375; Trevor Le Gassick (trans. and ed.), The Defense Statement of Ahmad ‘Urabi (Cairo: American University Press, 1982), p. 16; Mahmud al-Khafif, alZa‘im al-muftara ‘alayhi (Cairo: Matba‘at al-Risala, 1947), pp. 549–558; Arthur B. Weigall, A History of Events in Egypt from 1798 to 1914 (Edinburgh: William Balcwood and Sons, 1915), pp. 121–122. 44. Al-Hilal, 1 June and 15 October 1901, also 1 October 1911. Jurji Zaydan included a biography of ‘Urabi and the history of his movement in his book, Ta’rikh Misr al-hadith, new ed. (Cairo: Maktabat Madbuli, 1999), vol. 2, pp. 234–272. 45. ‘Urabi, Mudhakkirat, pp. 11–12. 46. Al-Ahram, 30 September, 1 October 1901. 47. Thomas Mayer, The Changing Past: Egyptian Historiography of the Urabi Revolt 1882–1983 (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1988), pp. 5–9. 48. Mustafa Kamil, al-Mas’ala al-Sharqiyya (Cairo: Matba‘at al-Adab, 1898), pp. 214–125; Yuaqim Rizq Marqz (ed.), Awraq Mustafa Kamil: al-maqalat (Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Misriyya al-‘Amma li’l-Kitab, 1992), vol. 2, pp. 193–200. 49. Kamil, al-Mas’ala al-Sharqiyya, p. 215. 50. See, for example, Mayer, The Changing Past, pp. 16–17; Amira Sonbol (trans. and ed.), The Last Khedive of Egypt: Memoirs of Abbas Hilmi II (London: Ithaca, 1998), pp. 33–52. On the royalist school of Egyptian history, see Anthony Gorman, Historians, State and Politics in Twentieth Century Egypt (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), pp. 15–22. 51. Sonbol, The Last Khedive of Egypt, p. 49.

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52. Shawqi, quoted by ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Ibrahim al-Jami‘i in his introduction to Mudhakkirat al-za‘im Ahmad ‘Urabi, new ed. (Cairo: Dar al-Kutub, 2005), vol. 2, p. 70; also Amir ‘Umar Tusun in the introduction to his book, Yawm 11 Yuliyu 1882 (Alexandria: Matba‘at Salah al-Din, 1934). 53. Al-Ahram, 21 September 1911. 54. Ibid. 55. See also Muhammad Shafiq Ghurbal, “Binna’ al-watan al-Misri al-Sudani fi’l al-qarn al-tasi ‘ashar,” in Muhammad Sahfiq Ghurbal (ed.), Wahdat wadi al-Nil (Cairo: al-Matba‘a al-Amiriyya, 1947), pp. 84–85. 56. Sonbol, The Last Khedive of Egypt, pp. 206–207. The attempt of the royalist narrative to portray the Gura campaign in positive terms regarding the conduct of the Egyptian army did not soften the sense of military humiliation in the officer ranks and continued to nurture animosity toward Ethiopia and unwillingness to normalize relations with it over the years. See, for example, al-Kashkul, 15–16 May 1924. 57. Muhammad Rif‘at, The Awakening of Modern Egypt (Lahore: Premier Book House, 1964), pp. 145–151. The book first appeared in Arabic in 1938. See also Amir ‘Umar Tusun, Butulat al-awrat al-Sudaniyya al-Misriyya fi harb alMiksik (Alexandria: Matba‘at Salah al-Din, 1933). 58. Rif‘at, The Awakening of Modern Egypt, pp. 170–171, 172–173, 213; also Mayer, The Changing Past, pp. 12–16. 59. Gorman, Historians, State and Politics, pp. 79–84. 60. Al-Ayyubi, Ta’rikh Misr, pp. 26–32, 92–99, 108–119. 61. Muhammad Lutfi Jum‘a, Bayna al-asad al-Ifriqi wa’l-nimr al-Itali (Cairo: Matba‘at al-Ma‘arif, 1935), pp. 25–27. 62. Al-Khafif, al-Za‘im, pp. 14–16. 63. ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i, ‘Asr Isma‘il (Cairo: Maktabat al-Nahda alMisriyya, 1948), vol. 1, pp. 143–148, 179–180, 193; ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i, alZa‘im Ahmad ‘Urabi (Cairo: Dar al-Hilal, 1952), pp. 11–12. 64. See also ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i, al-Za‘im al-tha’ir Ahmad ‘Urabi, 3rd ed. (Cairo: Dar wa-Matabi‘ al-Sha‘b, 1968), p. 5. 65. Yoav Di-Capua, “Jabarti of the Twentieth Century: The National Epic of ‘Abd al-Rahman Rafi‘i and Other Egyptian Histories,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 36 (2004): 429–450; Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Commemorating the Nation (Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center, 2004), pp. 174–179. 66. Mudhakkirat ‘Urabi (Cairo: Dar al-Hilal, 1953), vol. 1, pp. 4–6; also Muhammad Nejuib, Egypt’s Destiny (London: V. Gollancz, 1955), p. 98. 67. See also George M. Haddad, “The Arabi Revolt: Comparisons and Comments,” The Muslim World 54 (1964): 257. 68. Gamal Abdul Nasser, Egypt’s Liberation: The Philosophy of the Revolution (Washington, DC: Public Affairs Press, 1956), pp. 22–23. 69. Jack A. Crabbs Jr., “Egyptian Intellectuals and the Revolution: The Case of ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Rafi‘i,” in Shimon Shamir (ed.), Egypt From Monarchy to Republic (Boulder: Westview Press, 1995), pp. 253–257. For a comparative discussion of the two revolutions, see Muhammad al-Murshidi, al-Tawra al-‘Urabiyya waatharaha fi tatawwur al-sha‘b wa-nahadatihi (Cairo: Dar al-Ma‘arif, 1958), pp. 92–127. 70. See also Dankwart A. Rostow, “The Military in Middle Eastern Society and Politics,” in S. N. Fisher (ed.), The Military in the Middle East (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1963), pp. 10–11; Eliezer Beeri, The Officer Class in Politics and Society in the Arab East (in Hebrew; Tel Aviv: Sifriat Poalim, 1966), p. 177.

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PART 2 Egypt and Sudan: Unity and National Self-Determination

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5 Swimming Against the Nationalist Current: The Egyptian Communists and the Unity of the Nile Valley Rami Ginat

I

N AUGUST 1944, MONTHS BEFORE THE CONCLUSION OF WORLD WAR II,

in a report on the internal political situation in Egypt, Lord Killearn portrayed an accurate picture of the political discourse that was being conducted within the various Egyptian political and social groups. He appreciated that Anglo-Egyptian relations would face great challenges in the immediate postwar period, and that the focus of the dispute would be the Egyptian claims over Sudan and the British evacuation of Egypt. Lord Killearn had no doubts that Britain would prevail in that dispute.1 As future events were to demonstrate, Lord Killearn’s prediction proved utterly incorrect; a decade later Britain was subjected to rising Egyptian and Sudanese nationalism and international pressure, and it evacuated fully and speedily its forces from the Nile Valley. The road to the liberation of the Nile Valley, however, was a long one, full of bumps and pitfalls. The immediate post–World War II period witnessed exacerbation of the troubled relationship between Britain and Egypt. Egyptian hopes and expectations that the Anglo-Egyptian treaty of 1936 would eventually pave the way for complete evacuation of British troops from their country and the cessation of British administration in Sudan (a development that would naturally lead to the unity of the Nile Valley and the integrity of Egypt and Sudan), proved to be overly optimistic. True, the 1936 treaty granted Egypt a relatively higher degree of sovereignty, but it also defended major British interests in Egypt and Sudan. The period 1945–1947 witnessed a large-scale propaganda campaign conducted by successive Egyptian governments, which was designed to promote Egypt’s interests in Sudan—a campaign that the British tried to 67

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thwart in every manner possible. The British exploited their substantial advantages as the dominant power in both Egypt and Sudan in order to reduce Egyptian influence in Sudan to a minimum. British maneuvers in Sudan were angrily received by Egyptians. As Israel Gershoni and James Jankowski have shown, there was a consensus among Egyptian nationalists of various schools regarding the unity of the Nile Valley and the integrity of Egypt and Sudan. In their words, “a consistent demand of Egyptian nationalists of all stripes through the first half of the twentieth century was Egyptian sovereignty over the Sudan . . . for territorialists and supra-Egyptianist spokesmen alike, the unity of the Nile Valley was a given.” 2 The two researchers have stressed, however, that each nationalist group approached the issue differently. For instance, Egyptian Islamic nationalists maintained that Sudan, like any other Muslim territory, was an integral part of the umma. Territorial nationalists, on the other hand, asserted that the factors making Egypt and Sudan an inseparable unit were largely geographical and environmental.3 This tendency was reinforced by the Egyptian elite and policymakers in the immediate post–World War II years. Egyptian proponents of this trend, thinkers and academics such as the geographer and historian Sulayman Huzayyin, took pains to reinforce the deeply rooted concept of Egyptian territorial nationalism originating in the early 1920s.4 They analyzed the history of the Nile Valley, including that of Sudan, as an amalgamation of processes that created a single Egyptian and Sudanese people with a distinct national character. Egyptian governmental ministries did all they could to fortify the link between Egypt and Sudan. For instance, they gave Sudanese students generous grants to pursue their studies in Egypt, and Egyptian politicians made great efforts to nurture and support the advocates and proponents of unity within Sudan.5 In fact, all Egyptian political groups were united around the government as far as the future of Sudan was concerned, aside from one stream— the communists. The communists appeared to consolidate and present a divergent view regarding the unity of the Nile Valley. The slogan of the mainstream ran: “The unity of the Nile Valley—one Nile—one people—one king” (wahdat wadi al-Nil—Nil wahid—sha‘b wahid—malik wahid). The communists promoted a very different slogan: “Political and economic independence and a common struggle with the Sudanese people and its right to self-determination” (al-istiqlal al-siyasiyya wa’l-iqtisadi wa’l-kifah almushtarak ma‘a al-sha‘b al-Sudani wahaqhu fi taqrir masirihi).6 This stand was only formulated in the early 1940s, and as this chapter will later show, it was Henry Curiel who was its chief advocate. However, the communist position regarding Sudan until that time had been in line with the nationalist consensus.

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Egyptian Communism: From Internationalism to Nationalism The first Egyptian Communist Party (ECP) became a member of the Communist International (Comintern) in December 1922. By joining the Comintern, the ECP accepted its principles, programs, and patronage. The ECP was preceded by the Egyptian Socialist Party (ESP), which was established in 1920–1921 by a group of Egyptian left-wingers who represented a variety of socialist schools. The political manifesto, which was presented by the ECP in January 1923, indicated a radical anti-British orientation that called, inter alia, “for the nationalization of the Suez Canal, the liberation and unification of Egypt and the Sudan.”7 In February 1924 the party issued its political credo stating that it would struggle for the independence of the Nile Valley—politically, economically, and socially. The first move was to demand the unconditional and immediate withdrawal of British troops from Egypt and Sudan.8 In this regard, the communists, like other Egyptian political groups, displayed similar views on key nationalist issues. The ECP, however, could not constitute a tangible threat or be an equal contender to the Wafd Party, Egypt’s vanguard in the anti-British campaign. Although short-lived, the ECP gained undeniable control and leadership over the General Federation of Trade Unions in its early months. The ECP’s strong control over and success in penetrating the labor movement manifested itself in the period 1923–1924 in waves of labor unrest that were followed by strikes and demonstrations in Alexandria and other industrial centers. The Wafdist government (January–November 1924) headed by Sa‘d Zaghlul rejected the demands of communists and the workers for radical change in the government’s social policy. Zaghlul was determined to exercise his power over them by employing severe measures intended to stamp out their antigovernment activities and destroy their organizations. The strikes were suppressed and the government dissolved the communistoriented General Federation of Trade Unions (formed in 1921 by Joseph Rosenthal) and replaced it with the Wafd-led National Labour Union. In the middle of 1925, the ECP was declared illegal under the government of Ahmad Ziwar and henceforth ceased to exist as an organized unit. Supported by British authorities, the uncompromising campaign of all Egyptian governments against Egyptian communists made the prospects of rebuilding an organized communist movement impossible, although communist activity continued at a marginal level, mainly at the level of individuals and small groups, throughout the 1930s.9 This state of affairs remained relevant until the outset of the 1940s. Until then, the communists focused their struggle on social issues and political survival. As stated earlier, on nationalist issues they accepted the Wafdist-inspired line. The communists’

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overall doctrine, however, was to change their look and content completely in the 1940s. The reemergence of the communist movement in Egypt during World War II was now accompanied by a more radical nationalist sentiment and orientation. The years 1942–1943 witnessed the appearance of new communist groups, the most important of which were the Egyptian Movement for National Liberation (EMNL; al-Haraka al-Misriyya li’l-Tahrir al-Watani), established by Henry Curiel, an Egyptian Jew; and Iskra (al-Sharara), founded in 1942 or 1943 by Hillel Schwartz, also a Jew. These two groups consisted at this early stage of only a few dozen members, all foreigners. In brief, the two opposed one another on tactics: the EMNL called for immediate action among the masses and insisted that the party should embark on a rapid Egyptianization and proletarianization process, whereas Iskra emphasized the need for mobilizing a revolutionary reserve of intellectuals and individuals with progressive Marxist training in order to establish a sound base from which popular activity could follow. The People’s Liberation (Tahrir al-Sha‘b), the third group, was founded in 1940 by Marcel Israel, an Egyptian Jew holding Italian citizenship. Tahrir al-Sha‘b was known for its rigid antireligious approach and insistence that a communist must be an atheist. The group was culturally active in the press and in a variety of clubs. It placed special emphasis on the education of young cadres and in paving their way to communism. Marcel Israel’s group survived for only a brief time following his arrest in 1941. In 1944 he joined Iskra. The fourth group, al-Fajr al-Jadid, was founded in the early 1940s by Ahmad Sadiq Sa‘d, Yusuf Darwish, Raymond Duwayk, and Ahmad Rushdi Salih. The first three were Egyptian Jews. This was a small circle of four intellectuals who acted within lawful frameworks. They issued a weekly paper published under the same name, which was one of the most important leftist and communist-oriented periodicals in Egypt. Yusuf Darwish, a trade union lawyer, was also one of the publishers of the workers’ newspaper al-Damir (The Conscience)—the organ of the Workers’ Committee of National Liberation. The principal mission of the four men was to study Egyptian society and operate within the existing legal organizations of workers, students, and intellectuals. In 1945 and 1946 the group used its influential press organ alFajr al-Jadid as the mouthpiece for disseminating its ideas.10

The Communists’ Stand on Sudan: The Practical Dimension Curiel, Schwartz, and Israel were among the founders and leaders of the Democratic Union (al-Itihad al-Dimuqrati)—a Marxist-oriented organization that was formed in 1939 (they were also among the organizers of the

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Democratic Movement for National Liberation in mid-1947, an amalgamation of EMNL, Iskra, and other small groups). The three, who could not agree on strategy, found themselves embroiled in ideological quarrels and split in the early 1940s.11 The short-lived Democratic Union recruited to its ranks progressive Egyptians and Sudanese such as ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, who was born in Sudan in 1918 and spent a great deal of time in Egypt (1930–1950). Dhahab revealed that the first communist to approach him was Hillel Schwartz, who told him that the communists had been keeping track of him for a long time and introduced him to Marcel Israel and Curiel. Right from the beginning it was Curiel who saw the high potential in recruiting people like Dhahab to their organization. After the disintegration of al-Itihad al-Dimuqrati, Dhahab joined EMNL and later on became a prominent figure in the Sudanese communist movement.12 While active in both the Democratic Union and EMNL, Dhahab established contacts with Sudanese and Nubian students studying in al-Azhar University. He recruited some of them and through them managed to recruit other Sudanese to Curiel’s organization. Curiel believed that giving Marxist education to Sudanese students might prove useful after their graduation and return to Sudan. To encourage Sudanese nationalist awareness, Curiel and his colleagues sponsored and published two legal issues, Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub and Umdurman. Through these papers Curiel disseminated his organizations’ views regarding the future of Sudan.13 Dhahab revealed the story behind the purchase of Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub. According to his account, Curiel, still in the Democratic Union, informed Dhahab of his plan to establish a journal that would disseminate the organization’s ideas. He assigned the mission of renting an established paper to Dhahab, who managed to reach a deal, for a reasonable sum of money, with Rajab Ahmad—a nonpolitical figure who owned Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub. Curiel kept the journal’s name but added the slogan “Egyptian, Sudanese, proletariat and cultural journal” (Majalla Misriyya, Sudaniyya, ‘Umaliyya Thaqafiyya). In September 1941 the journal, which was published in Egypt, became totally Sudanese oriented, and articles by Sudanese such as ‘Abdu Dhahab and Muhyi al-Din Sabir featured prominently. Along with Sudanese writers, there were also Egyptians working for the paper such as Zaki Abu al-Khayr, Sayyid Qindil, and Yusuf Darwish, all recruited by Curiel.14 Their activities found expression on two levels: theoretical and practical. Dhahab disclosed that Curiel enriched their Marxist education by organizing classes and seminars and also encouraged them to recruit new worthy members to the newspaper and organization. Indeed, they managed to recruit progressive figures such as As‘ad Halim, Anwar Kamil, and Mustafa Kamil Munib.15 Curiel, in contrast to the prevailing trend that aspired to see Egypt and Sudan united under one crown, spoke of two separate peoples struggling against a common enemy—the British—for their national independence. He

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raised the banner of “common struggle against a common enemy” (al-kifah al-mushtarak dida al-‘adu al-mushtarak).16 His position on Sudan was consolidated following a conversation he had with “an officer of Sudanese origin, whose name was Muhammad Naguib.” Naguib, Curiel has noted, solicited his opinion on the Sudanese issue. After their conversation, Curiel realized that he needed to study the issue more thoroughly and systematically—a study that led him to oppose the bourgeoisie slogan of unification under one crown.17 Following the disintegration of al-Itihad al-Dimuqrati, Huriyyat alShu‘ub became in 1943 EMNL’s press organ and Dhahab continued his activities along with Curiel, and at a later stage he became a prominent figure in the Sudanese communist movement.18 As an outstanding activist in EMNL, Dhahab continued to maintain close contacts with Sudanese and Nubian students studying in al-Azhar University. He managed to recruit some of them to Curiel’s organization; and through these students he established contacts with other young Sudanese living in Egypt. As noted above, Curiel believed that Marxist education was indispensable for Sudanese students and opened classes to study its tenets and theory, encouraging activists to write and read articles dealing with current social, political, and cultural affairs. Indeed, Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub and, later, Umdurman became the center of such activities.19 Dhahab, Curiel’s confidant, was asked by him to temporarily halt his activities in Egypt and to go on a mission to Sudan in 1943 for the purpose of establishing contacts with a small communist group there. In Khartoum Dhahab met a British officer named Asturi who was among the founders of a communist group there. He learned that the group was weak and marginal and was asked by Asturi to assist him in establishing a more broad-based organization. On his return to Cairo, he informed Curiel and EMNL’s Central Committee about his experience. Curiel refused to allow Dhahab and other Sudanese cadres to move to Khartoum. At this stage, in Curiel’s view, there was an urgent need to form a Sudanese independent branch in preparation for establishing an independent communist organization in Sudan. Indeed, this branch was soon to become a reality. Its underground name was “Salt and Soda Company” and among its members were two of EMNL’s Central Committee members—‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn and ‘Abd al-Majid Abu Hasbu; it also included ‘Abd al-Haliq Mahjub, ‘Abd alWahab Zayn al-‘Abadayn, Muhammad Amin Husayn, ‘Abd al-Rahim Fuda, ‘Izz al-Din ‘Ali ‘Amir, and Hasan Isma‘il. In 1945 EMNL took another step in the formation of a separate communist organization in Sudan. In a meeting in Cairo between two Sudanese communists, Hasan al-Tahir Zarruq and ‘Abd al-Hamid Abu al-Qasim, and the leaders of EMNL—Curiel, ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi, and Tahsin alMisri—the Sudanese presented their request to form a communist organiza-

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tion in Sudan. They argued that since 1943 there had been a marked improvement in the buildup of the underground organizational infrastructure. Curiel and his colleagues were persuaded that the time was ripe for it, and expressed their consent that those Sudanese who were in Egypt would continue their activities in EMNL and, upon their return to Sudan, they would join the movement there and would hold the same rank and position they had in Egypt.20 Indeed, Sudanese students, members of EMNL who returned to Sudan, were among the founders of the Sudanese Movement for National Liberation (al-Haraka al-Sudaniyya li’l-Taharur al-Watani)—SMNL. Among its prominent members were ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn and ‘Abd alKhaliq Mahjub.21 The SMNL, which took its first steps in 1946, was composed of two main groups: students of Khartoum University and students of Cairo University. The newly established Communist Party faced a serious crisis in 1947; it found it difficult to consolidate a united policy regarding the future of Sudan. The party was now divided between “opportunist elements” who infiltrated the Central Committee for the purpose of promoting the policy calling for the “Unity of the Nile Valley” under the Egyptian Crown (these were called Royalist Communists); and those who called for a struggle against imperialism and for the Sudanese right of self-determination. The Royalist Communists were expelled from the party, and members and leaders of trade unions took their place.22 After the purge of 1947, the Sudanese Communist Party was utterly opposed to the idea of the “Unity of the Nile Valley” and regarded it as “clear proof of Egypt’s imperialist designs.”23 The communists’ well-established position in Egyptian universities, stated a British report, served to explain their success among Sudanese students. The Egyptian government had a policy of granting scholarships to Sudanese students. Ironically, it was these government-supported students in Cairo who opposed the Egyptian authorities and drifted into communist clubs and societies. They became, on the whole, strong exponents of communism when they returned to Sudan.24 Many Sudanese students studying in Egypt were attracted to communism in the latter part of the 1940s. Egyptian communist groups, particularly those under Curiel’s leadership, took pains to attract Sudanese students to their ranks, hoping to use their services in spreading communism in Sudan. Sudanese students were indeed drawn to popular slogans and ideas disseminated by the communists stressing anti-imperialism, ideas of freedom, appeals to youth and adventure, utilization of the patriotic ideal, and secular aspects of communism such as association with young women members of the movement. Communism was flourishing among Sudanese students, the British intelligence report assessed, because the “educational authorities have failed signally to establish adequate control, discipline and organization.” Out of 250 students at

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Fu’ad University, at least forty were known to be communists, the report revealed. On their return to Sudan on holiday or on completion of their studies, students had spread communism among their friends. Communism, the report stated, had also made rapid headway in Gordon College—an academic insititution that was reopened in early 1945.25 As stated earlier, the vast majority of Egyptian political institutions adhered to the line of unification expressed by the slogan of “the unification of the Nile Valley under the Egyptian crown” (wahdat wadi al-Nil taht al-taj al-Misri). Many Sudanese studying or living in Egypt supported its message—among them ‘Ali al-Barbar, who became the editor of al-Sudan, a prounion journal that was sponsored by the Egyptian palace. As a counterweight to al-Sudan, ‘Abdu Dhahab, now EMNL’s activist, managed to get a license to publish a new newspaper called Umdurman, which was first issued in March 1945. Umdurman, like its predecessor Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub, dealt with Sudanese and Nubian issues and was sponsored by EMNL. The articles were written by members of the movement, Egyptians but mainly Sudanese, among these Muhammad Amin Husayn, ‘Abdu Dhahab, Hamid Hamday, Salah ‘Urabi, and Zaki Murad Salih. The paper, which was identified as Sudanese, was quite successful in Egypt but was banned for publication in Sudan and therefore had to be smuggled in. Ideologically, the paper concentrated on the question of identification, asking: “Who are we?” The answer was: “We are a group of people who are rich in nationalities and beliefs. . . . We are fighting against imperialism . . . we call to unite and join forces in our war against our [common] great enemy—imperialism.” Despite the fact that the newspaper dealt mainly with Sudanese issues, it also touched peripherally on issues of Arab unity, Palestine, colonialism, and imperialism. The Egyptian as well as the Sudanese authorities persecuted the newspaper’s activists, and the paper was shut down on 12 July 1946.26 A pamphlet distributed on 9 October 1945 among members of EMNL called for total independence of the Nile Valley and evacuation of British troops and other foreign elements from Egypt and Sudan. They did not rule out full unity with Sudan but felt this could come only after the Sudanese people had gained their independence, freedom, and democracy. The program displayed Egyptian nationalist sentiments, advocating the dismissal of all foreigners (especially British) from the Egyptian Armed Forces and police, and the formation of strong armed forces.27 As for the two other main communist groups—Iskra and al-Fajr alJadid, their attitude toward the future of Sudan was not much different from EMNL’s. The former called for a “common struggle [Sudanese and Egyptian] for freedom and democracy.” It did not refer specifically to a possible future union between the two countries. It did, however, adopt EMNL’s stand soon after the amalgamation between the two organizations and the formation of the Democratic Movement for National Liberation—

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DMNL (Haditu).28 Rif‘at al-Sa‘id declared that the second group, al-Fajr alJadid, followed in its official political program the main Egyptian nationalist stream that advocated full unification. Nevertheless, it conditioned its support for unification, declaring that the Sudanese people should enjoy equal rights of democracy and freedom.29 However, this chapter will show that articles published by the magazine al-Fajr al-Jadid in fact refuted alSa‘id’s arguments. Close scrutiny of these articles reveals that they bore a resemblance to EMNL’s separatist approach. It is noteworthy that members of Iskra and EMNL were also among the writers of al-Fajr al-Jadid magazine (May 1945–July 1946).30

The Unity of the Nile Valley: The Communists’ View In December 1945, the Egyptian government officially requested that Britain revise the Anglo-Egyptian treaty signed in August 1936. One of the main issues hampering Anglo-Egyptian relations was the question of Sudan, which according to the Egyptians had not been dealt with satisfactorily by the treaty of 1936. The Egyptian request for revision of the 1936 treaty was therefore based on a demand to unite the Nile Valley and for a complete evacuation of British troops from Egypt.31 In its reply to the Egyptian request, the British government expressed its willingness to enter into discussions with a view toward revision of the treaty. The negotiations between the two countries began in April 1946 and lasted ten months. A British delegation, led by Lord Stansgate, arrived in Egypt in May 1946 for talks.32 Al-Fajr al-Jadid and other Egyptian communist groups saw themselves as the spearhead of the struggle against imperialism, and the only force that would be able to challenge British imperialism. The Egyptian government and the royal court had collaborated with British imperialism, and the communists’ call to establish a full democracy would impart a significant function to the popular strata in Egyptian political life.33 The communists frequently attacked the coalition government of Nuqrashi Pasha (February 1945–February 1946),34 driving home the idea that its compromising and indulgent attitude toward the British was an approach that could not lead the Egyptian people to full independence.35 If records of conversations between Nuqrashi’s government and the British had been checked, declared alDamir, the organ of the Workers’ Committee of National Liberation, all of them would have been found to contain “weak solutions.”36 The communists absolutely rejected a continuation of this particular mode of negotiation with Britain, and called for more militant means. The Sudanese communist organ Umdurman, published by members of SMNL under the auspice of Henry Curiel’s EMNL, harshly criticized

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Nuqrashi’s government for allegedly recognizing the British interests in Sudan. Nuqrashi Pasha was an imperialist who saw Sudan as an Egyptian colony, the newspaper stated, and in this regard there was not much difference between him and the British. As a matter of fact, the paper continued, Nuqrashi accepted and even approved the policy pursued by the British over the last half century and sought to conclude a deal with the British at the expense of both the Sudanese and Egyptian peoples. Sudan was not for sale and it was the property of its own people only. 37 The Sudanese people, emphasized Umdurman, were entitled, out of free choice and after a complete evacuation of the Nile Valley, to make a decision about the type of government that was appropriate. In a direct appeal to Nuqrashi they wrote: “No, Prime Minister! Egypt for the Egyptians and Sudan for the Sudanese; it is not your right to talk or to keep silent; you must receive the people’s permission and accept their guidance,” stated Umdurman.38 The newspaper drew a distinction between the powerful Egyptian people and its weak government.39 The quest for a solution to the problem of the Nile Valley had to be wrested from the hands of Egyptian leaders and politicians by the Sudanese and Egyptian peoples because only they were capable of fulfilling their own nationalist goals. The interests of the Egyptian political elite and those of British imperialism were inextricably bound and contrary to the peoples’ goals.40 Umdurman rejected the slogan of “the evacuation and [thereafter] the unification of the Nile Valley” and replaced it with the slogan “evacuation of the Nile Valley in its entirety” (al-Jala’ ‘an wadi al-Nil bi-akmalihi). The Sudanese communists opposed what they deemed to be a probable threat— an Anglo-Egyptian agreement that would entail the withdrawal of British troops only from Egypt and defer the resolution of the dispute over Sudan to a later stage. “What is the meaning of [British] evacuation of Egypt but not the Sudan?!” they bitterly asked Nuqrashi.41 Muhammad Amin Husayn, who had written most of Umdurman’s editorial articles, accepted as a given that all parts of the Nile Valley were an inseparable economic and political unit. No one in Sudan wished to see a separation within the Nile Valley, stressed Husayn, yet there was a lively debate in Sudan regarding possible forms of unity and its components. Slogans such as “Sudan for the Sudanese” (al-Sudan li’l-Sudaniyyun) and “Sudan first” (Sudan awalan), did not mean a call for separation of Egypt and Sudan since there was much that joined the two peoples; they had a common problem (qadiyya mushtaraka)—British occupation—and a common interest (masalih mushtaraka)—to obliterate imperialism.42 The Egyptian communists seized the opportunity that arose from the fact that Egypt was among the founders of the United Nations in 1945 and, in 1946, was elected a member of the Security Council. They called upon the Egyptian government to use both arenas—the Security Council and the

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General Assembly—to further their struggle for liberation. Umdurman drew a distinction between two types of member states in the Security Council— those, like Britain and the United States, that justified and supported the continuation of imperialism under the pretext that its presence in the occupied territories was essential for the indigenous peoples; and those, like the USSR and its allies, that considered imperialism a threat to world peace and a mode of enslaving and exploiting occupied peoples. The latter group concluded that the imperialist powers had no intention of liberating the occupied peoples.43 In the view of the left, membership in the Security Council allowed Egypt direct access to the great powers—an opportunity they felt Egypt should use to its advantage.44 In this international battle in which left-wing activists were ready to engage, a special place was designated for the Soviet Union. The USSR was described as the main enemy of imperialism and as the friend of those struggling for their independence. The left therefore felt that Egypt should establish friendly relations with the Soviets because the two countries had a common interest in the struggle against British imperialism. They were also convinced that Soviet support in the international arena could assist Egypt in its aspiration to achieve full independence.45 Indeed, the communists’ assessment proved correct. On 5 August 1947, when Nuqrashi submitted the Egyptian case to the UN Security Council, it was the Soviet Union and its satellite Poland that supported the Egyptian demand. However, in line with the Egyptian and Sudanese communists, they both expressed reservations about Nuqrashi’s claims regarding the incorporation of Sudan into Egypt. In his speech before the Security Council on 20 August 1947, Andrei Gromyko, the Soviet representative, said, “We do not know what the Sudanese want and what they are striving for. Without accurate information as to the aims of the Sudanese people, it is difficult for the Security Council to take any decision on this question.”46 When Egypt and the British opened their negotiations on revising the treaty of 1936, there was a Sudanese attempt to establish a unified front composed of all political parties, which would present the stand of the Sudanese people on the question of the future of Sudan. On 19 March 1946, al-Fajr al-Jadid reported that all Sudanese political parties had reached an agreement based on the following demands: (1) Britain and Egypt should issue a joint statement in which they recognize the existence of a democratic Sudanese government that would be united with Egypt (however, the Sudanese government would determine the type of unity with Egypt); and (2) a future alliance with Britain would be dependent on the nature of the Egyptian-Sudanese union. A Sudanese delegation that arrived in April 1946 in Cairo to represent the Sudanese political parties in the opening Anglo-Egyptian negotiation issued a statement on 7 April expressing its belief that the Egyptian govern-

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ment would support their demands because the two countries were struggling for independence from imperialism.47 The British evacuation should be total—politically, militarily, and economically—from all of the Nile Valley. To achieve that goal the Sudanese and Egyptian peoples must join forces. A separate solution for either Egypt or Sudan was to be rejected outright. Only after a complete British evacuation, would Egypt and Sudan come to terms with the “internal organization of the Nile Valley.”48 Al-Fajr al-Jadid’s editorial board analyzed the Sudanese demands and concluded that the primary goal of all Sudanese parties was to liberate Sudan before the nature of their future relations with both Egypt and Britain was determined. The magazine noted there was a Sudanese national movement that was led by a “developed and progressive nationalist capitalist class,” which played a historic role in Sudan’s struggle to maintain a democratic system. It was the duty of the Egyptians to ignite the flames of common struggle against a common enemy. Al-Fajr al-Jadid attacked those in Sudan who supported the British maneuvers aimed at separating Sudan from Egypt before a total British evacuation.49 Under the current circumstances, al-Fajr al-Jadid continued, Egypt should oppose any form of either a separatist or unified state because the focus and efforts should be, first and foremost, the liberation of the Nile Valley. The magazine attacked the Egyptian government for ignoring the Sudanese delegation and for not consolidating a Sudanese-Egyptian united front. The Egyptian reaction (raj‘iyya) and British imperialism were equally enemies of the Sudanese national movement. British imperialism sought to define the nature of the regime in Sudan before its evacuation and by doing so to make a distinction between Sudan and Egypt. The Egyptian reaction wanted, similarly, to determine the type of regime there, seeking the incorporation of Sudan within Egypt. The Egyptian “loyal nationalists” and the Sudanese national movement saw the liberation from imperialism as their main goal. The magazine welcomed the banner raised by the Sudanese delegation, “common struggle against a common enemy,” for the liberation of the Nile Valley. The article concluded by expressing the hope that Egypt and Sudan would live in the future as two independent democratic countries.50 Mounting tension between the groups of al-Fajr al-Jadid and Umdurman occurred in early 1946 following the appearance of an article written by Sa‘d Sadiq, a founding member of al-Fajr al-Jadid, who called for introduction of reform in the personnel structure of the Egyptian army by turning it into a nationalist and democratic force. The fact that there was a class division in which high-ranking officers belonged to the reactionary upper class led to friction between them and the “common soldiers” whose socioeconomic origins were in the lower classes, declared Sadiq. This situation, he noted, weakened the army and turned it into “a pale shadow of its glorious past.” To strengthen his argument Sadiq referred to earlier histori-

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cal periods: “In the past we possessed a large national army that defended our country and raised its flag in the Mashriq and in South Sudan.”51 This statement provoked a flurry of response by the Umdurman group, which condemned Sadiq’s article, charging that it represented reactionary and proimperialist views. The reaction of al-Fajr al-Jadid’s editorial board was apologetic, repeating the magazine’s official view vis-à-vis the future of Sudan. They made it clear that they respected the will of the Sudanese people and would continue to support the emerging Sudanese nationalist movement. The magazine declared, unequivocally, that it opposed all types of imperialism, whether foreign or Egyptian. It appealed once again for a common Sudanese-Egyptian struggle against British imperialism and expressed its desire to see the Sudanese people enjoying democracy and freedom. Sadiq’s article, it was stressed, was an accurate reflection of such views. AlFajr al-Jadid expressed its appreciation to Sadiq, describing him as an “independent intellectual who revealed his [progressive] views in his books and articles.”52 It is noteworthy that al-Fajr al-Jadid’s line of defense was based on solid ground. In an article published by Sadiq in September 1945 he expressed his firm objection to the continuity of Egyptian imperialist maneuvers in Sudan. This may be seen clearly in his reaction to the memorandum by Ahmad Husayn (the leader of Misr al-Fatat) on Egypt’s “national demands,” which was submitted to King Farouk and a copy of which was published on 21 August 1945 in al-Wafd al-Misri. In reference to the future of Sudan, Husayn made a vehement appeal unilaterally to annex Sudan in order to solve one of Egypt’s main problems—the rapid increase of its population, a grave development that was causing an increase in hunger and death in the country. The incorporation of Sudan into Egypt, stated Husayn, would slow down or even prevent the development of this tragedy because many Egyptians would consequently be able to settle in Sudan. Sadiq attacked Husayn’s proposal, referring to it as the “winds of colonialism.” The problems of hunger and poverty in Egypt, declared Sadiq, were a result of socioeconomic gaps and social divisions. The Sudanese people, stressed Sadiq, had made their point clear—they were not interested in seeing the replacement of one mode of imperialism with another or, in other words, they opposed both British and Egyptian imperialism. The Sudanese people wanted to be first fully liberated and only then to determine their future. Egypt and Sudan, concluded Sadiq, would find it more effective to struggle against the British if Egypt declared its abolition of the condominium53 and thereafter evacuated Sudan.54 Al-Fajr al-Jadid’s editorial board thanked the “fighters of Umdurman” for bringing the issue to their attention, and admitted politely that Sadiq’s ideas were misunderstood in the article. Both Umdurman and al-Fajr alJadid shared the view that there was a need to strengthen the Egyptian army “so that it would become a liberating popular force rather than an aggres-

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sive imperialist one.” The interest of the Egyptian people was to live peacefully with all peoples, particularly with neighboring Sudan, concluded alFajr al-Jadid.55 On 7 May 1946, the editorial board of Al-Fajr al-Jadid hosted ‘Amir Hamadi al-Sudani, a Sudanese “freedom fighter” who wrote an article entitled “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘Adu mushtarak.” In reference to the article, the paper’s editorial board stated that it clearly strengthened and proved their argument that “self determination” and not “unification” was the solution for Sudan. “Long live the vanguard of the Sudanese people who fight for freedom and democracy,” al-Fajr al-Jadid proclaimed.56 From the time of the arrival of the Sudanese delegation in Cairo, alSudani’s article began, its head, Isma‘il al-Azhari, has repeated his theory that “negotiation would not resolve the national problem.” According to alSudani, only the Sudanese and Egyptian peoples themselves could solve their problem by engaging in a certain type of struggle—a common popular one. Such struggle would unite “the forces of the oppressed and exploited peoples whose common enemy was residing among them in the same rank and front. This reality [the need for common struggle] was created because the aggressor found it difficult to evacuate those countries that he managed to enslave so easily.”57 In his analysis of the modes and methods required in order to implement the “common struggle of our peoples against a common enemy,” alSudani relied heavily on Marxist theory, arguing that they could be derived from mankind’s historical experience. The struggle against our enemy’s exploitation and suppression would come about as a result of the materialistic evolution within society and would be induced by social and economic forces.58 However, unlike Marxism, which sees the evolution of society in terms of global class conflicts, he also spoke of the development of Sudan in nationalist terms. He argued the existence of one factual and scientific truth in Sudan—“arising nationalism” (qawmiyya nashi’a), the first signs of which were revealed in 1937. This was the date of the al-Kharijin Conference—an event that was the result of a gradual historical process through which Sudanese development had been consolidated. The conference marked the beginning of a legal and illegal Sudanese uprising that was set off by the Anglo-Egyptian treaty of 1936—an agreement signed by the Egyptian bourgeoisie and received by the conference as an act of Egyptian treachery. The treaty guaranteed the perpetuation of the British occupation in the Nile Valley without leaving a ray of hope for the Sudanese.59 In this regard, Muhammad Amin Husayn maintained that the al-Kharijin Conference had laid the foundation for the future political structure in the Nile Valley, that is, “the formation of a democratic Sudanese government united with Egypt under the Egyptian crown.”60 Husayn urged the people of the Nile Valley to understand that the conference had adopted the most

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important decision in the modern history of Sudan. In his view, the suffering and exploitation that were experienced by many peoples in the world came from a similar source—imperialism—and they therefore had a common interest—liberation. All repressed peoples would benefit from the weakening of imperialism. This applied also to the peoples of the Nile Valley. As Husayn explained it: “On this basis, the interests of the peoples of the Nile Valley are one, their pains have been one and there has been no other way for them to achieve their interests other than cooperation.” “Our Egyptian brothers,” stated Husayn, should understand that the Sudanese had the natural right to conduct their own affairs the way they believed was correct. This did not contradict the principle of cooperation between the two parts of the Nile Valley.61 Sudanese self-determination did not mean separation, declared Umdurman categorically. It would lead to union (itihad) and close ties between Egypt and Sudan based on free choice and respect of mutual rights after each country exercised its full sovereignty.62 Al-Sudani stated that the Sudanese delegation presented in Cairo was the best proof that an authentic and solid Sudanese nationalist movement did exist. The political nationalist awareness of the Sudanese people reached maturity in the period 1942–1945—the years of World War II. The positive aspects of such wars, in terms of the political development of young nations, were that they significantly truncated the process and shortened the period of their nationalist graduation, which, in peacetime, dragged on endlessly. Al-Sudani maintained that the popular struggle of Egypt and Sudan against the British would succeed only if they would drop the false slogan of wahdat wadi al-Nil and instead follow the principle of the right of peoples to self-determination: Does the slogan of “the unity of the Nile Valley” link the struggle of the Egyptian and Sudanese peoples or does it divide it? In our opinion it divides the struggle and we have historical proof to support our analysis. As we have seen, nationalism does exist in the Sudan and it has its selfidentity that refuses to be swallowed by another, external form of nationalism. It regards anyone who tries to swallow it as an enemy, and therefore it must fight against him.63

The concept of the unity of the Nile Valley was an invention of British imperialism because it served its colonial interests, but it also served the interests of the small class of great Egyptian capitalists, argued al-Sudani. Al-Sudani concluded his article by attacking Egyptian leaders and politicians for denying the existence of Sudanese nationalism. The right of selfdetermination, he stated, would not split Egyptians and Sudanese after the enemy was defeated. On the contrary, it would increase cooperation between the two peoples based on equality, justice, and freedom.64 In an article submitted by a member of “the local Communist Party,”

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possibly DMNL, to the Central Committee, a few days before Nuqrashi submitted Egypt’s demands before the Security Council of the UN, the author presented his view regarding the future of Sudan. He opened his article by presenting the EMNL’s and now DMNL’s known view on the Sudanese question. The article began with a declaration that Sudanese and Egyptians should fight a united struggle to drive imperialism out of the Nile Valley and thereafter grant the Sudanese people the right to decide their future—they may choose between a form of unity with Egypt or separation from it and the establishment of an independent state. In other words, the Sudanese had the right to self-determination. Although he accepted this scheme in its entirety, he elaborated some of its principles so that it would be presented before member states of the Security Council as a more “practical and bold plan.” The communist writer focused on the concept of self-determination maintaining that the basic factor to exercise the right for self-determination “is the existence of one people.” He described the situation in Sudan and concluded that it was made up not of one people there but several: The Sudanese consist of several peoples or tribes some of which are Negroes and some Arabs . . . each tribe speaks its own special dialect and is not connected with the other tribe. In fact the man from the North of the Sudan is quite cut off from the South, and so on, all of which shows that the Sudan is behind the times and the circumstances in it are not such that we can speak of the existence of one nation there. More correctly we can say that the Sudanese are a people, which is still in the stage of being formed and that the elements of its growth have not become complete, such elements being economic circumstances, one language, similar tradition, etc.65

The author of this article, who held a very patronizing view—one that ran counter to his superiors—concluded that the “present circumstances do not allow the Sudanese to proclaim their right of self determination.” Granting Sudan such a right, he declared, would be irresponsible and an act of betrayal because in case of separation from Egypt, the majority of Sudanese “will not know what to do.” Also, a separation would lead to the takeover of Sudan by the British whose presence there would be utilized to advance the latter’s interests. Objectively, the Sudanese should not be allowed to proclaim their rights or to decide their future. Nevertheless, the Sudanese people should be granted the right to self-determination, but because they were not yet ripe for separation this right should “be reserved for them till their growth and evolution as a country is complete, and then this right will be a definite power in their hands.” In the period of transition Sudan should be under the guardianship of Egypt “because of the geographical and historical links, as well as our unity in the struggle which binds Egypt and the Sudan.” The author believed that Egyptian guardianship would prove to be “a big step in developing Sudanese national spirit and preparing it to use its right

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to self determination.” The choice for the Sudanese was between what the author called “Egyptian reactionarism” and “British monopoly.” He preferred the former because the latter was considerably more dangerous. An Egyptian reactionary government, the author reasoned, would allow the Sudanese a degree of freedom, progress, and evolution much greater than British imperialism would be willing to give. The communists, he noted, were against any form of forced unity as demanded by Egyptian bourgeoisie circles. He promised they would act as the vanguard who led the struggle to crush imperialism on the one hand, and to protect Sudan and the realization of its national and democratic demands, on the other. In any case, the Sudanese would not be forced to join in with Egypt.66 The period 1948–1949 was marked by continual splits within the Egyptian communist movement. The amalgamation between the two main components of DMNL was not successful in the long term. Soon after the fusion, the old rivalry among its members reemerged. There were several reasons for disunity. There was a deep division between those who, from the outset, had believed that the ultimate acceptance of the ideology depended on building up a strong body of intellectuals imbued with communist ideas and the other groups who saw, as the immediate aim, inspiring the working classes with a revolutionary and communist spirit. By May 1948, most of the Iskra members had retired from the DMNL to form new groups. The Palestine War was another cause for disunity. Soviet policy toward Palestine faced them with a dilemma: the vast majority of Arab political and nationalist groups were against partition. For the communist organizations to support the Soviet stand implied swimming against the nationalist current. Officially, most of them supported partition, yet the decision to do so was not universally accepted by all their members. For instance, Curiel’s leadership and his national united-front strategy were challenged by non-Jewish DMNL members. The group of al-Fajr al-Jadid was against partition and regarded the Soviet stand as a tactical matter derived from Soviet state interests. With the outbreak of the war in May 1948, the communist movement was significantly weakened as a result of domestic quarrels and persecution by their respective government.67 Despite their splits and internal quarrels, the communists remained dissidents, continuing to oppose nationalist trends. In the case of the Palestine problem this was a source of rifts and quarrels within the communist camp. It was accompanied by waves of persecution and repression by the authorities. In the case of the Sudan problem the communist organizations were united in their approach to its solution, although this path, once again, ran counter to the main nationalist stream. In this they remained consistent even after the failure of the Egyptian case in the UN Security Council in August 1947. One of the communist organizations newly emerging from the ruins of the united movement was the Egyptian Communist Party, organized in late

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1949 and officially established in January 1950. Two drafts of the program of the new political framework, which were formulated in late 1949, did not incorporate innovative ideas but rather rehashed familiar terrain. As far as the Sudan question was concerned, the program echoed the familiar call for the complete liberation of Egypt from British imperialism and the joint struggle with the Sudanese people for the complete liberation of Sudan. It called for abrogation of any military alliance with imperialism or any association with imperialism in a war against the Soviet Union and the democratic peoples of the world. However, the program introduced some refreshing ideas regarding an appropriate solution to the Sudanese conundrum after British evacuation of the entire Nile Valley. It recommended a federal union between Egypt and Sudan on the basis of equality between the two peoples. A federal union, however, was not a compulsory solution but an option. It would be made clear to the Sudanese people that their right to self-determination was guaranteed. That is, they themselves would determine their future—and the option of secession would also be granted and guaranteed.68 The program drew a distinction between the communists’ solution to the problem of Sudan and that of the Egyptian bourgeoisie. The latter wanted to see the unification of the Nile Valley under the Egyptian Crown. But it is strange that it never mentions a single word about the future of the Sudanese people and their right of secession. Not only does the Egyptian bourgeoisie impose unity with Egypt upon Sudan, but it enslaves Sudan in the expression “under the Egyptian crown.” In other words, it will become an Egyptian colony governed by the same rule as Egypt.69 In contrast, it was stressed that the Communist Party’s attitude regarding Sudan was that of “the Egyptian proletariat”: to defend Sudan and liberate it from tyranny. In addition to earlier insistence on unity as a free choice for the Sudanese people, the communists opted for economic, geographic, and political unity after the abolition of British rule in Sudan and the abolition of the legislative assembly. “We want a Sudanese National government elected by the people. We want the immediate withdrawal of the British army and the handing over of all administrative posts to the Sudanese. We want the evacuation of Egyptian troops and the recall of Egyptian occupying administrative posts [from Sudan].”70 The antiestablishment views and activities of the communist groups were dealt with severely by the Egyptian authorities. The anticommunist measures undertaken by the authorities beginning with the outbreak of the 1948 war in Palestine led to the arrests of many communists and to the discovery of numerous cells throughout the country. This wave of anticommunism reached its pinnacle on 27 July 1950 with the arrest of Henry Curiel, the father and mentor of the communist movement of the 1940s, by the Egyptian police. A month later he was deported from Egypt to Italy. His deportation launched a new era in the history of Egyptian communism. The

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years 1950–1952 witnessed a passage from foreign hegemony to Egyptianization inside the communist movement. Curiel was replaced by Sulaiman al-Rifa‘i as the leader of DMNL.71

Conclusion The pattern of the political and intellectual activities of Curiel and his fellow communists seems to be consistent with the role of the intellectual as suggested by J. P. Nettle.72 According to Nettle, an intellectual—a qualitative dissenter—is one who acts within a dissident framework (that is, from outside the establishment) which has a universal consciousness and produces and diffuses ideas that can be realized for the benefit of the whole society.73 Indeed, Curiel and his associates operated most of the time in illegal dissident organizations that demanded radical sociopolitical changes within both Egypt and Sudan. They wanted to see the end of the condominium regime and the end of both Egyptian and British imperialism. In this context, they challenged and defied an Egyptian consensus that wanted to see unity imposed on Sudan, proclaiming that Egypt and Sudan constituted a historically, geographically, culturally, and ethnographically inseparable entity. The communists, conversely, insisted adamantly upon complete independence of the Nile Valley with rights to self-determination and full independence for Sudan. The Sudanese people, they stressed, should determine their future and decide on their preferred form of government. In social and economic terms, they adhered to a universal socialist system that was in line with Marxist doctrine and sought to impose it upon their society. Their intellectual activities were focused in a variety of newspapers and magazines that served as theoretical platforms for open discussions, ideas, and seminars on nationalist and internationalist sociopolitical issues. In these forums they instilled and bequeathed their ideas—hoping to gain a hegemonic stronghold in their society. The Egyptian communists’ stand on the Sudanese issue remained fundamentally consistent in the last years of the monarchy and in the postrevolutionary period. Although they presented a dissident approach as the solution to the problem, opposing the main nationalist current that was represented by the political establishment—the palace, the parliamentary parties, and ex-parliamentary nationalist and political groups—the communist approach prevailed. The new Free Officers’ regime that took over in July 1952 made Egypt’s liberation its first priority. The Free Officers realized that in order to gain international support for their demand for withdrawal of British troops from Egypt, they needed to make substantial concessions in Sudan. It would appear they embraced some principles of the Nile Valley communist scheme—one of which was the Sudanese right to

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self-determination. Their position of moderation and realpolitik regarding Sudan soon paved the way to an Anglo-Egyptian agreement over Sudan in 1953.74 Although Britain succeeded in its efforts to terminate all schemes advocating the unity of the Nile Valley and it did gain some immediate advantages in Sudan following the agreement, it was soon to realize that the Sudanese people were steadfast and determined to exercise their just right to self-determination and full independence and were averse to seeing any vestiges of either British or Egyptian imperialism.

Notes I wish to express my appreciation to the Israel Science Foundation (ISF) for their generous research grant, which helped me pursue the study presented here. 1. Telegram 162(S) from Lord Killearn, British Ambassador, Cairo, 29 August 1944, FO141/987, 910/3/46. 2. Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Redefining the Egyptian Nation, 1930–1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 110–111. 3. Ibid., pp. 111, 123. 4. On the Nile Valley as shaper of Egyptian personality, as described and analyzed by Egyptian intellectuals in the 1920s, see Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Egypt, Islam and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1930–1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), pp. 130–138. 5. Haggai Erlich, Egypt—The Older Sister (in Hebrew; Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 2003), pp. 40–42; Rami Ginat, “The Reopening of Gordon College: A Layer in the Anglo-Egyptian Struggle for Hegemony in Building the Sudanese Educational System,” in Ami Ayalon and David Wasserstein (eds.), Madrasa: Education, Religion and State in the Middle East (in Hebrew; Tel Aviv: The Moshe Dayan Center, 2004), pp. 217–239. 6. Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat al-yasariyya al-Misriyya 1940–1950 (Cairo: Dar al-Thaqafa al-Jadida, 1976), p. 95. 7. Tareq Y. Ismael and Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, The Communist Movement in Egypt, 1920–1988 (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1990), p. 21; Selma Botman, The Rise of Egyptian Communism, 1939–1970 (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1988), p. 3; Suliman Bashear, Communism in the Arab East 1918–1928 (London: Ithaca Press, 1980), pp. 29–33. See more details on the ECP’s social and political program in Bashear, pp. 54–57; M. S. Agwani, Communism in the Arab East (Bombay and London: Asia Publishing House, 1969), pp. 4–5. For details on the first wave of organized socialism and communism see, Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh alharaka al-ishtirakiyya fi Misr 1900–1925, 5th ed. (Cairo: Dar al-Thaqafa al-Jadida, 1981), pp. 170–296. 8. “Misr wa-al-shuyu’iyya,” al-Ahram (Cairo), 14 February 1924. 9. On the communist activities and the successive Egyptian governments’ battle against communism, see al-Sa‘id, al-Haraka al-ishtirakiyya fi Misr 1900–1925, pp. 287–294; Rif‘at al-Sa‘id, al-Yasar al-Misri 1925–1940 (Beirut: Dar al-Tali‘a li’l-Tab‘ah wa’l-Nashr, 1972), pp. 88–115; Bashear, Communism in the Arab East 1918–1928, pp. 59–63; Botman, Rise of Egyptian Communism, pp. 3–4. On communist and anticommunist activities in the late 1920s and 1930s, see alSa‘id, al-Yasar al-Misri, 1925–1940, pp. 17–87, 117–154. 10. Rami Ginat, The Soviet Union and Egypt 1945–1955 (London: Frank Cass,

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1993), p. 25; Botman, Rise of Egyptian Communism, pp. 35, 54–55; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 290–293. 11. Interview with Hillel Schwartz, Paris, 19 and 21 May 2005; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 175–180; Yosi Amitai, Mitsrayim ve-Israel—Mabat Mismol: hasmol hamitsri ve-hasikhsukh ha-‘Arvi-Israeli—1947–1978 (in Hebrew; Haifa: Haifa University Press, 1999), pp. 32–33. 12. Interview with ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, Khartoum, 18 October 1969, in al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-haraka al-ishtirakiyya, pp. 291–293. See also al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 177. 13. Interview with ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, Khartoum, pp. 292–293; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 195. See also Letter 284 (170/9/46) from British Embassy, Cairo, 25 February 1946, FO371/53250, J1031/24/16. Biographical details of “Henry Curiel” in FO141/1020, file 127. 14. Interview with ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, Khartoum, pp. 292–293; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 212–214. 15. Interview with ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, p. 293. 16. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 195. See also Botman, Rise of Egyptian Communism, p. 44. 17. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 351. See also Tariq al-Bishri, “Qira’a Misriyya fi awraq Henry Curiel,” al-Hilal (April 1988): 25. 18. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 177. 19. Ibid., pp. 195–196. 20. Interview with ‘Abdu Dhahab Hasanayn, Khartoum, pp. 294–296; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 350–353. See also “Sudanese Group,” in FO141/1020, File 127. 21. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 195–196; Botman, Rise of Egyptian Communism, p. 44. 22. Gabriel Warburg, Islam, Nationalism and Communism in a Traditional Society: The Case of Sudan (London: Frank Cass, 1978), pp. 95–96. 23. Ibid., p. 141. 24. Top-secret letter from the Sudan Government, Khartoum, 2 January 1949, FO371/73471, J236/10113/16G. On King Farouk’s grants for Sudanese students and his positive image among Sudanese students and within Sudan, see Muhammad alMahdi Khalifa, “Hawla bait al-Sudan,” Umdurman, 31 March 1945. 25. See a report on communism in Sudan prepared by the Sudan Agency, Cairo, 14 April 1950, attached to Top-secret letter L.O./TSF/13-1 from R. C. Mayall, Sudan Government Agency in London, to Roger Allen, African Department, Foreign Office, FO371/80354, JE10111/7G. 26. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 215–220. 27. See a copy of the pamphlet in FO141/1020, file 127. 28. Al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, p. 323. 29. Ibid., p. 307. 30. Ibid., pp. 135, 149. 31. On Anglo-Egyptian relations before and during these years, and the dispute over Sudan, see W. Travis Hanes III, Imperial Diplomacy in the Era of Decolonization: The Sudan and Anglo-Egyptian Relations, 1945–1956 (Westport, CT, and London: Greenwood Press, 1995), pp. 1–43. See also J. A. Hail, Britain’s Foreign Policy in Egypt and Sudan 1947–1956 (Reading: Ithaca Press, 1996), pp. 1–19. 32. See Note No. 95, “The Egyptian Case Before the Security Council,” February 1948, FO407/226, J4644/12/16, PRO. 33. Rushdi Salih, al-Fajr al-Jadid, no. 16, 11 January 1946, p. 3.

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34. Nuqrashi’s coalition was composed of Saadists, National Party members, and the Kutla of Makram ‘Ubaid. See P. J. Vatikiotis, The History of Modern Egypt, 2nd ed. (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1980), pp. 342–343. 35. ‘Ali Ghazi, “Di‘aya hizbiyya am matalib Qawmiyya,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, no. 8, 1 September 1945, p. 4. 36. Taha Sa‘d ‘Uthman, “al-Amana al-qawmiyya,” al-Damir (Cairo), no. 272, 3 October 1945, p. 1. 37. “Al-Shayu’ bi’l-shayi’ yudhkar,” Umdurman (Cairo), 16 February 1946. 38. Ibid. See also ‘A. Abu Hasbu, “al-Tafsir al-madi lihizb al-uma,” Umdurman, 15 August 1945; Muhammad Amin Husayn, “al-Masir,” Umdurman, 15 September 1945; “Bayan Umdurman,” Umdurman, 15 September 1945. 39. “Al-Sudan baina hukumat Misr wainjiltra,” and “al-Shayu’ bi’l-shayi’ yudhkar,” Umdurman, 16 February 1946. 40. ‘Amir Hamadi al-Sudani, “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 7 May 1946; “al-Mudhakara al-Misriya aqwa’min al-mawt,” Umdurman, 16 February 1946. 41. “Al-Shayu’ bi’l-shayi’ yudhkar,” Umdurman, 16 February 1946. 42. Muhammad Amin Husayn, “Kalimat Umdurman,” Umdurman, 31 March 1945. 43. “Al-siyasa al-kharijiyya fi usbu‘,” Umdurman, 16 February 1946; Muhammad Amin Husayn, “Kalimat Umdurman,” Umdurman, 7 June 1945. 44. Sa‘id Khiyyal, “Ila majlis al-amn,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, no. 19, 30 January 1946, p. 11. 45. Sa‘id Khiyyal, “Innaha ma‘rakat al-wataniyya wa-al-dimuqratiyya,” alFajr al-Jadid, no. 16, 11 January 1946, p. 7. The USSR was also portrayed as a very positive power by al-Haqiqa, another magazine published by Curiel’s group. AlHaqiqa analyzed the differences between the socialist and capitalist systems. The first system, al-Haqiqa determined, “is the world future,” which was represented by Soviet Russia and its allies, and the second system was “the world of the past,” which was represented by Britain, the United States, and their allies. See al-Haqiqa (Cairo), no. 24, 28 August 1945. 46. Ginat, The Soviet Union and Egypt, p. 75. 47. “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 1 May 1946. On disagreements among members of the united Sudanese mission, between those who supported the unity of the Nile Valley and those who opposed it, see Warburg, Islam, Nationalism and Communism, pp. 69–72. 48. “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 1 May 1946. See also Balal, “al-Sh‘ab al-Sudani,” Umdurman, 15 March 1946; Balal, “Hawla alqadiyya al-Sudaniyya,” Umdurman, 1 July 1946. 49. “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 1 May 1946. 50. Ibid. Condemnation of the Egyptian government for its policy toward Sudan was also made by Ibrahim al-Kashif (Raymond Duwaik, who wrote many articles under this alias), “al-Hadaf al-awal min al-mufawadat,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 1 May 1946. 51. Sa‘d Sadiq, “Yajib an nusalih ‘ala asas watani dimuqrati,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 30 January 1946. 52. “Tawdih,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 20 February 1946. 53. The condominium was an agreement signed in 1899 between Egypt and Britain on their joint administration of Sudan. 54. Sa‘d Sadiq, “Wahadha sawt Misr al-fatat,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, no. 9, September 1945.

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55. “Tawdih,” al-Fajr al-Jadid, 20 February 1946. 56. Al-Fajr al-Jadid, 7 May 1946. 57. Al-Sudani, “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak.” 58. Ibid. 59. Ibid. See also “al-Mudhakara al-Misriya aqwa’ min al-mawt,” Umdurman, 16 February 1946. 60. Muhammad Amin Husayn, “Kalimat Umdurman,” Umdurman, 21 June 1945; Muhammad Amin Husayn, “Hawla qarar al-mu’tamar,” Umdurman, 5 July 1945. 61. Muhammad Amin Husayn, “Hawla qarar al-mu’tamar,” Umdurman, 21 July 1945. See also al-Haj Sudan, “Iradat al-sha’b,” Umdurman, 21 July 1945. 62. “Misr wa-al-Sudan—Itihad am wahda,” Umdurman, 1 June 1946. 63. Al-Sudani, “Kifah mushtarak dida ‘adu mushtarak.” 64. Ibid. Words in a similar spirit were repeatedly expressed by Umdurman. See “Misr wa’l-Sudan,” Umdumran, 6 October 1945; Hamid Hamday, “Silat alqadiyya al-Sudaniyya bi’l-misriyya,” Umdurman, 6 October 1945; ‘Abd al-Majid Abu Hasbu, “al-Kifah al-mushtarak,” Umdurman, 1 January 1946. 65. See the full text of the article in Letter DS(E) 200/128 from R. M. Shields, Security Service Representative (SSR), Cairo, to T. C. Ravensdale, British Embassy, Cairo, 9 August 1947, FP141/1158, 66/72/47. 66. Ibid. 67. On the splits and their causes, see Ginat, The Soviet Union and Egypt, pp. 35–36, 83. See also Joel Beinin, Was the Red Flag Flying There? (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), pp. 59–63; Tariq al-Bishri, alHaraka al-siyasiyya fi Misr, 1945–1952 (Cairo: al-Hay’a al-Misriyya, 1972), pp. 417–419, 426–427; Botman, Rise of Egyptian Communism, pp. 86–91; Musa Budeiri, The Palestine Communist Party, 1919–1948 (London: Ithaca Press, 1979), pp. 231–242, 264–267; al-Sa‘id, Ta’rikh al-munathamat, pp. 415–416, 425–426; Amitai, Mitsrayim ve-Israel, pp. 85–88, 113–130. 68. A full text of the draft of the program of the Egyptian Communist Party is attached to dispatch 583 (66/129/49) from British Embassy, Cairo, 12 November 1949, FO371/73476, J9217/10118/16G. In 1949 the leader of the party, Fu’ad Mursi, published his book Tatawwur al-ra’smaliyya wa-kifah al-tabaqat fi-Misr (Alexandria, 1949). In parts of the book Mursi analyzes the ideological tenets of the party and compares it with the ideologies and practices of other Egyptian political frameworks, including other communist organizations. Mursi attacked sharply and openly his rival communist organizations, labeling them as “leftist” and “rightist” opportunists. As far as the future of Sudan was concerned, he argued unconvincingly and incorrectly, the Egyptian Communist Party was the first and in fact the only Egyptian political framework to call for and support, in a very clear and precise manner, the right of the Sudanese people for self-determination. His party, he stressed, attacked both British and Egyptian imperialisms, calling upon the two to evacuate Sudan at once. In this chapter I used the new edition of Mursi’s book (with a new introduction by Da’ud ‘Aziz), Tatawwur al-ra’asmaliyya wa-kifah al-tabaqat fi-Misr, new ed. (Cairo: al-Maktaba al-Ishtirakiyya, 1992), pp. 45–48, 85–86. 69. A full text of the second draft of the program of the Egyptian Communist Party is attached to Letter 1014/3/50 from British Embassy, Cairo, 9 January 1950, FO371/80354, JE1041/1G. See also Mursi, Tatawwur al-ra’smaliyya, p. 113. 70. Letter 1014/3/50 from British Embassy, Cairo, 9 January 1950. 71. Dispatches 600, 518, 638, 716, 154, 336, 503 from Caffery, US ambassador, Cairo, 18 March, 20 March, 3 April, 11 April, 27 July, 11 August, 29 August 1950,

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RG 59, 774.001/3-2950, 774.001/3-2050, 774.001/4-350, 774.001/4-1150, 774.00/72750, 774.001/8-1150, 774.00/8-2950, National Archives, Washington, DC. 72. J. P. Nettle, “Ideas, Intellectuals and Structures of Dissent,” in P. Rieff (ed.), On Intellectuals: Theoretical Studies, Case Studies (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1969), pp. 53–122. For details on his theory see Rami Ginat, Egypt’s Incomplete Revolution (London: Frank Cass, 1997), pp. 199–200. 73. Quoted from Ginat, Egypt’s Incomplete Revolution, p. 200. 74. On Sudan’s road to self-government and independence, see M. W. Daly, Imperial Sudan (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 352–394. See also P. M. Holt and M. W. Daly, A History of the Sudan from the Coming of Islam to the Present Day, 4th ed. (London and New York: Longman, 1988), pp. 159–164; Gabriel Warburg, Islam, Sectarianism and Politics in Sudan Since the Mahdiyya (London: Hurst & Co., 2003), pp. 104–141; P. M. Holt, A Modern History of the Sudan (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1961), pp. 159–168.

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6 US Policy Toward the Unity of the Nile Valley, 1945–1952 John Voll

D

YNAMIC CHANGES IN GLOBAL RELATIONS AND DOMESTIC POLITICS

transformed societies and international relations in the middle of the twentieth century. Imperialisms and nationalisms experienced major transitions when the old “great powers” were replaced by the new “superpowers” as the key agents in world affairs. Important themes in midcentury politics are the end of the old imperialisms and the consequent transformation of nationalisms, along with the rise of the global power politics of the Cold War. In these great transformations there is an interesting moment of transition in which old conceptualizations and new actualities mingled. Some of the important characteristics of this era of transition can be seen in the discussions about the future of Sudan between 1945 and 1952 in the matrix of the relations between the United States, Great Britain, and Egypt. While the decisions regarding Sudan had little impact on world affairs, an examination of the issues involved—and the dilemmas posed by those issues for policymakers in the United States—provides a window into the broader dynamics of power politics in this era. In the short period between the end of World War II and the early 1950s, the nature of the emerging world politics was not yet clear. Old modes of nationalism still seemed to be the order of the day in interacting with the imperial systems of the old great powers. Great Britain and France still maintained an illusion of effective power despite their actual inability to sustain any effective semblance of their former dominant imperial structures. Many imperial policymakers maintained a view expressed in the mid1930s by an experienced British imperial administrator, Sir Harold Macmichael, that the day of possible independence for an imperial possession like Sudan was “infinitely remote.”1 British and French (and Dutch) 91

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imperial administrators attempted to reestablish or consolidate the old order in the years immediately following World War II. For a moment, before the failure to maintain empires in South and Southeast Asia and the Middle East was obvious to all, it was still possible to conceptualize international relations in old, great-power terms. Even policymakers in the United States operated within the old world affairs framework. This brief moment of transition in world affairs tends to be ignored, as people read back into the late 1940s, the power realities of the late 1950s, and the whole second half of the twentieth century. Although the dynamics of successful nationalisms (successful at least in the sense of achieving political independence) and the evolution of superpower tensions in the Cold War justifiably dominate the historiography of the second half of the twentieth century, there was an important era of transition in which the old had a role in shaping the creation of the new world order of the second half of the twentieth century.2 The character of the new era was not yet established in the period between 1945 and 1952. Some of the important characteristics of this era of transition in global politics are visible in the dilemmas posed for US policymakers by the development of Anglo-Egyptian relations in the immediate postwar period. At the core of this situation were two competing goals for US policy. One goal involved security issues in the postwar Middle East. It was assumed that Britain was still the major military power in the region and that it was important for the United States not to undermine that power. However, a second goal was to associate the United States with the growing nationalist feelings of the region, especially as they were reflected in Egyptian attitudes and aspirations. The two major issues were the withdrawal of British forces from Egypt and the future of Sudan. Both issues involved strong nationalist feelings in Egypt since one of the major themes of Egyptian nationalism was “Unity of the Nile Valley.” The problem for US policy was summarized clearly by George McGhee, the assistant secretary of state for Near Eastern, South Asian, and African Affairs, in testimony given to a US congressional committee in 1951. He noted that in the Anglo-Egyptian negotiations, We have basically supported the British because we have been concerned about the importance of keeping those bases in the Suez area. We do not have military forces ourselves in the Middle East. . . . On the other side of the picture, you see the fact of this intense nationalist feeling to get them out has the Egyptians so upset they vote against us in the U.N. and do not settle down and face their own problems.3

His conclusion was, “It poses a great dilemma for us. We are interested in the defense of the Middle East and the British forces there. On the other hand, we would like the cooperation of the Egyptians. They have the capa-

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bility of upsetting the Arab States as long as they are upset. The Arab States are sympathetic where this nationalist issue arises.”4 US policymakers knew very little about the conditions in Sudan in the late 1940s. However, as part of their attempts to resolve the policy dilemmas raised by Anglo-Egyptian relations at the time, US diplomats took positions regarding the future of Sudan. Generally, in the framework of the Anglo-Egyptian negotiations and conflicts, the United States supported the concept of the Unity of the Nile Valley. Policymakers hoped that recognition of Nile Valley unity might involve a compromise that could allow the maintenance of British troops in Egyptian bases as part of broader regional defense arrangements. As late as the end of 1951, less than a year before the overthrow of the Egyptian monarchy, Anthony Eden noted that the British “continued to be urged by the United States Government to recognize King Farouk as King of the Sudan.”5 Recognition of the title of “King of the Sudan” for the Egyptian monarch continued to be an important part of the US program up until the overthrow of Farouk in July 1952. This support for nationalist aspirations fit into the international image of the United States that its policymakers hoped to encourage. These policies also involved some basic assumptions and definitions regarding nationalism. These assumptions reflect understanding by scholars and politicians about the nature of nationalism in the mid-twentieth century.

Conceiving Nationalism and Imperialism in Midcentury The debates and policies involved in the US support for the Unity of the Nile Valley provide an interesting reflection of the dominant conceptualizations of nationalism and imperialism in the years immediately following World War II. It was a period of conceptual as well as political transition. For the brief time of the Anglo-Egyptian debates, many of the older understandings of nationalism and the actual political realities represented continuities from the prewar era rather than indicating what was to come. Egyptian nationalism in the period between 1945 and 1952 was still basically what it had been before the war, and policymakers operated with older assumptions about nationalisms. A new mode of nationalism was to emerge in the 1950s and 1960s, but that was still in the future. Many scholars of Egyptian nationalism portray a bleak picture of the last years of the old-style nationalist politicians who dominated the scene. Jamal Mohammed Ahmed, for example, notes that World War II seemed to give an opportunity for politicians to extort their long-standing demands from Britain and recapture their waning influence, but their

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efforts ended in further humiliation for them and for their country. . . . This decade of the 1940s was dominated by a sense of grief, anger, and recklessness. . . . The old politicians, already tottering before the [Palestine] war [in 1948], sank even lower in the estimate of their countrymen.6

However, there were few indications that this nationalist cohort was on its way out. The Egyptian nationalists who had emerged as leaders following World War I were still the dominant figures at the end of World War II. The old-style nationalism of the Wafd Party and its rivals in Egypt fit into the image of non-European nationalisms that was part of the conceptual foundations of policymakers in the United States (and imperial Western Europe). The “new nationalism” of the 1930s in the non-European world represented a response to modernity and imperialism that was articulately defined by a number of influential scholars of the time. One of the leading scholars of nationalism was Hans Kohn. In the early 1930s, he noted that the “Eastern countries” had always resisted foreign conquerors. However, [what] was new were the forms assumed by that resistance and the ideas lying at its roots. . . . The national liberation movements in Europe in the nineteenth century were taken as a model. Just as in eastern Europe the nations without a history had been roused in the nineteenth century to selfconsciousness and the endeavour to play an active part in history, so now the peoples of the Orient were roused from a period of mediaeval feudalism and religion to one instinct with the watchwords of nationalism and middle class capitalism.7

This description provides the basic themes involved in the way that nationalism in the Middle East was understood. It was seen as a part of the Westernization (and modernization) of the region and as following European rather than indigenous models of social and political institutionalization. In this context, nationalism was a phenomenon of the modern-educated middle class and not a movement that the nonliterate masses could understand (even though these masses might participate in mass demonstrations and activities organized by the educated nationalist leadership). It was also seen as part of the development of a modern capitalist economy, which was the source of the middle-class status of the nationalists. This middle-class nationalism of the 1930s had limitations. In one of the most important studies of Arab thought in that era, Albert Hourani notes that the “essential aim of the nationalists was to win independence, but even this was conceived in a limited way. To be independent, in the language of the time, was to have internal autonomy and be a member of the League of Nations. But it did not exclude (in fact it almost implied) a permanent relationship with the former occupying Power: the maintenance of military bases and economic and cultural links.”8 This form of nationalism concentrated on political symbols and authority and “is not a system of thought; it

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is a single idea which does not suffice by itself to order the whole of society.”9 As an elite nationalism, it worked to mobilize mass support but did not offer programs that would alter significantly the class structures of society. Although things were changing, it was still Egyptian nationalists of this style who engaged in nationalist negotiations with Great Britain following World War II. The negotiations between Egypt and Great Britain in the period from the end of World War II until the early 1950s worked to reshape the postwar Nile Valley but the terms were still from the era of the older nationalism. The major issues involved the withdrawal of British military forces from Egypt, the terms for maintaining some kind of British base in Egypt (in the Suez Canal Zone), and the future of Sudan in relationship to Egypt. Egyptians were united in demanding recognition of the unity of the Nile Valley under the Crown of Egypt, and they also insisted on the withdrawal of British occupation forces. However, there was an acceptance of a continuing British presence in the form of a military base or facility, and also a continuation of the assumption that Great Britain was a major great power in the region. When the United States became involved in these AngloEgyptian relations, it was within this framework.

Sudan and the Diplomatic Bargain British policy at the end of World War II was in the hands of the newly elected Labor government of Clement Attlee and his foreign minister, Ernest Bevin. At that time “there was passionate hope within the Labour government that relations with Egypt could be placed on a new and equal footing.”10 In the first major negotiations for redefining Anglo-Egyptian relations, Bevin and the Egyptian prime minister, Isma‘il Sidqi, came to some provisional understandings. The Bevin-Sidqi Protocol of 1946 made arrangements for the withdrawal of British troops with some provision for their return in time of threat or war. In addition, the 1946 protocol noted that the policy of the contracting parties in Sudan would be “within the framework of unity between the Sudan and Egypt under the common Crown of Egypt.”11 This caused a furor, both among British officials in Sudan and their supporters in London and among many Sudanese themselves. It was the issue of the future of Sudan, not a continuing military relationship, which resulted in the failure of this agreement to be agreed upon and implemented. In these Anglo-Egyptian negotiations, the lines of the old-style nationalism, as described by Hourani, are quite clear. While there is objection to imperialist armies of occupation, there is also some expectation of a continuing military relationship between the imperial great power and the former colonial area. Issues of perceived national unity and sovereignty could,

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however, be a problem. Already in earlier major negotiations, Sudan was an issue. “The Sudan question had caused the breakdown of efforts to forge an Anglo-Egyptian alliance in 1930,”12 and the negotiations leading up to the Anglo-Egyptian treaty of 1936 were successful, at least in part, because the Sudan issue was avoided. However, in the development of relations following World War II, the future of Sudan and its relationship to Egypt could not be ignored and was a continuing source of trouble. “Despite the large public controversy about British troops leaving Egypt, it was the Sudan that proved to be the ‘stone wall’ (Bevin’s repeated phrase) in the AngloEgyptian discussions of the 1940s.”13 The “Unity of the Nile Valley” was in the 1940s one of the most important goals of Egyptian nationalism, at least as it was expressed in international negotiations. In the context of the developing Anglo-Egyptian negotiations in the late 1940s, the issue of Sudan provided an opening for US diplomats, as the United States became increasingly involved in Middle Eastern affairs. US officials believed that the issues of British bases in Egypt and of the future of Sudan could be balanced, and that support for the Egyptian position regarding Sudan could give leverage in securing Egyptian agreement for British bases.

Diplomacy in the Old Style US policy discussions regarding Egypt and Sudan in the period from the end of World War II until mid-1952 have a curiously archaic tone. The main themes reflect new realities, but the approaches tend to continue old modes of action. The framework for policy was the general alliance between the United States and Great Britain, with the Egyptian question being only part of the larger structure of relations. The archaic tone is provided by the strong assumption that Great Britain would resume its role as the major great power managing affairs in the Middle East, and that the task of US policymakers was to define the US role in the region as it related to maintaining and strengthening the British position. At the same time, these policymakers worked to maintain longstanding US interests in the region, especially in terms of business and commercial interests and the growing importance of Middle East oil supplies. In this complex new world, US policymakers were attempting to deal with two related developments: the emerging global competition with the Soviet Union and its related threats to the security of Western Europe and North America, and the growing importance of nationalism as a mode of defining policies and aspirations for an increasing number of states and peoples in the world. Both of these developments were involved in how the United States approached the Anglo-Egyptian dispute in the 1940s.

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While the United States had followed with interest the Anglo-Egyptian discussions immediately following World War II, it was the Egyptian submission of the situation to the UN Security Council in 1947 that forced the United States to become more actively involved. Peter Hahn presents a clear summary of the pressures on US policy at that juncture: Egypt carried its grievances against Britain to the United Nations Security Council and sought American sympathy there. Britain, meanwhile, insisted on full American support of its base rights in the Suez Canal. Thus American officials were forced to decide whether to bend to the pressures of Egyptian nationalism or to endorse British guardianship of Western strategic interests.14

US efforts to find compromise positions did not succeed, and the UN discussions ceased with no major resolutions passed or actions taken. From this time until the early 1950s, the US role in the Middle East in general became more important and the United States became a more active participant in Anglo-Egyptian affairs. In this context, US policy with regard to Sudan and its future is an interesting sub-theme in the period from 1947 until mid-1952/1953. Two sets of discussions reflect US attitudes and assumptions at this time. The first is what are called the “Pentagon Talks of 1947.” There were Anglo-American tensions regarding Middle East policies in a number of areas. The British generally believed that the United States had not provided the support they had a right to expect in the Security Council discussions of the Egyptian issue, and they mistrusted US intentions in other areas. Loy Henderson, director of the Bureau of Near Eastern Affairs (NEA) of the US State Department described Bevin’s views in a conversation leading up to the talks: “I shall tell you quite frankly that although I am often told that the American Government desires to cooperate with us in the Near East, I find, unfortunately, that sometimes your Government adds to our difficulties.”15 Bevin initiated the idea of holding comprehensive discussions to coordinate the views and policies of the two countries. The result was a series of discussions during October–November 1947, which prepared a series of position papers on virtually every country and issue relating to Anglo-American interests in the Middle East. The second set of discussions is contained in US diplomatic correspondence in 1952, before the overthrow of the Egyptian monarchy by the Free Officers in July. This correspondence reflects the thinking at the end of this postwar transition period. The coming of the new government and regime in Egypt in mid-1952 dramatically and speedily changed the nature of the issues involved and US attitudes toward them. The Pentagon Talks of 1947 present a remarkable picture of the major policymakers dealing with the Middle East from the United States and

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Great Britain sitting down and discussing fundamental issues. In these major talks, Sudan was only a secondary subject and was always dealt with in relationship to other issues. The major topic was security and the growing sense of an increasingly dangerous competition with the Soviet Union. Issues of military security were constantly in view. Many of the studies of Anglo-American relations note the importance of the Pentagon Talks. Most analyses basically accept the assessment of the results of the talks provided by Michael Wright of the British Foreign Office written in January 1948: “The principal result of the Washington talks is that for the first time American policy has crystallized on the line of supporting British policy. It is not the Americans who have altered our policy, but we who have secured American support for our position.”16 This general coordination of positions is embedded in the genuine Anglo-American agreement on the issue of the danger of Soviet/communist expansion in the Middle East. In a memorandum prepared at the NEA in preparation for the Pentagon Talks, the basic US priorities and understanding of the situation are set forth: Contrasted with traditional British policy in the Middle East, American policy was concerned in the past with little more than extending protection to American philanthropic and missionary activities and the assurance of equality of opportunity for a nominal exchange of goods. . . . Our present thinking regarding the Middle East, however, goes far beyond such limited objectives. We now take full cognizance of the tremendous value of this area as a highway by sea, land and air between the East and the West; of its possession of great mineral wealth; of its potentially rich agricultural resources.17

There was recognition of the “serious consequences which would result if the rising nationalism of the peoples of the Middle East should harden in a mould of hostility to the West,” but the major danger posed was seen as coming from the “clearly demonstrated Soviet expansionist aspirations in the Middle East.”18 The task of stopping Soviet expansionism was viewed within the contexts of the old power realities: “Given our [US] heavy commitments elsewhere and Britain’s already established position in the area, it is our strong feeling that the British should continue to maintain primary responsibility for military security in that area [the Middle East].”19 This framework provided a basis for the Pentagon Talks that resulted in informal agreement by the two governments. Secretary of State Marshall and Foreign Minister Bevin were, however, explicit in the informal nature of the coordination of ideas in the carefully worded secret statement of record: “There was no agreement nor even an understanding between the two Governments on the questions which had been discussed at Washington; it had merely happened that each of the Governments had been presented by their officials with recommendations which substantially coincided.”20

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The formal US statement of these coinciding views was a memorandum submitted by Robert Lovett, the acting secretary of state, to President Truman on 24 November 1947.21 It is noteworthy that “nationalism” and Sudan are not mentioned in this memorandum nor in the remarks at the close of the talks presented by the acting secretary of state, although these elements are mentioned in detailed, country-specific memoranda attached to the general statement. In this general context, it certainly is possible to conclude that in these coinciding views, “American officials fully committed themselves to support British strategic interests in Egypt over the conflicting demands of Egyptian nationalism.” 22 However, given some of the specifics of statements during the talks and in developments in the following years, it is an overstatement to assert that “the United States backed the British unconditionally in their pursuit of strategic interests in Sudan.” 23 The United States during the Security Council discussions already had urged the British to accept the idea of the “Unity of the Nile Valley under the Crown of Egypt,” and it continued to pursue this minor line of policy (much to the annoyance of Anthony Eden, as has been seen) until the overthrow of the Egyptian monarchy. Loy Henderson described the US view of the British position regarding Sudan at the beginning of the talks. His report of a conversation with Bevin presents Bevin as saying, “I made certain extremely generous offers to the Egyptians with respect to Sudan. Those offers have been withdrawn, and we shall not make them again. The Egyptians have therefore by their own actions lost what they might have had in Sudan. . . . If we are to remain in the Near East, we must have free use of the Sudan.”24 In the US memoranda summarizing the issues in preparation for the talks, Sudan is discussed in a significant way only in the memorandum on “Specific Current Questions” in the section on “Political Questions,” which dealt with “The Egyptian Question.” 25 It was noted that Anglo-Egyptian relations had broken down “over the question of the future status of the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan.” While the British and Egyptian positions were described, it was noted that “little discussion took place in the Security Council on the Sudan issue.” The British maintained that existing administrative arrangements should be continued in Sudan to ensure that eventually the Sudanese would be able to exercise self-determination, while the Egyptians argued that continuing British control of Sudan undermined the unity of the two countries and encouraged Sudanese separatism. The position of the United States was presented in an extremely complicated construct: Irrespective of the extremely involved history of the Sudan, both prior to and after 1899; in spite of frequent allegations of the British as to the early maladministration of the Sudan by the Egyptians; in spite of Egyptian

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accusations of maladministration by the British under the Condominium; and notwithstanding inaccurate statements by the Egyptians that the Sudanese and Egyptians are one and the same, racially and culturally, and that virtually all Sudanese wish to remain under the Egyptian Crown, we support the British thesis that the future welfare of the Sudanese is of primary consideration and that for some time in the future, they should have the right to opt for their political status.26

This position straddled the two positions regarding Unity of the Nile Valley, and showed an awareness of the intricacies of the Anglo-Egyptian debates and negotiations. However, the description provided of Sudan itself shows a remarkable absence of information: The Sudan problem is extremely complicated. The juridical situation has been aptly termed ‘a nightmare.’ . . . The main difficulty arises from the lack of ability to assess the preparedness of the Sudanese for independence or even for self-government. The 2,500,000 inhabitants of the Southern Sudan are chiefly pagan negroids, immeasurably less civilized than the Northern Sudanese. Very small numbers even in the Northern Sudan are as yet capable of grasping the elementary principles necessary for responsible government.27

There is no evidence of any knowledge of domestic political development in Sudan, even though the memorandum shows a rather good understanding of domestic politics in a number of other countries in the region. In all of these discussions, Sudan is simply a label for an item of negotiation between Egypt and the United Kingdom. Although the structure of the Pentagon Talks seemed to place the United States on the side of the British with regard to the future of Sudan, US policymakers distinguished between the security issue of maintaining a British base in Egypt and the nationalist issue of the future of Sudan. In the preparatory discussion by the US group participating in the talks, the group agreed that the United States should use its influence to get an agreement that would involve British evacuation from Suez, with agreement on reoccupation in case of an emergency. However, the group affirmed that “Our acceptance of the apparent inevitability of the British evacuation of Suez does not apply to the Sudan.”28 In the major papers reflecting the discussions, the primary emphasis was on security issues. The threat of Soviet/communist expansion was strong. In some of the early memoranda, the possibility of France becoming communist was still an important part of the analysis of the future of French possessions in North Africa. The traditional British military primacy in the region was taken as given, although the old-fashioned terminology of “empire” was avoided. The US position in the talks on the British role was frequently stated:

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It is not intended that the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East should be regarded as a British sphere of influence. What is intended is that the British should continue to maintain primary responsibility for the defense of the Eastern Mediterranean and the Middle East as part of an overall concept of resistance to Soviet aggression, and that, in order to implement that responsibility, the British should have bases from which to operate in time of emergency.29

Sudan receives mention only in the joint statements dealing with specific problems. Despite the impression of a grand consensus, there is an interesting suggestion of some disagreement with regard to dealing with nationalist sensibilities. It is clear that Egypt had a very significant place in any strategic plans for the region as a whole. The problem paper on “Retention of British Military Rights in Egypt” reflects these two levels. There was consensus “that it is extremely important in the interests of the maintenance of the security of the Middle East and of the preservation of world peace that the British have certain strategic facilities in Egypt.”30 However, it was also emphasized that such facilities would require the British, who were reluctant to resume negotiations, to conclude a new agreement with the Egyptians, who would need to be persuaded that such an agreement was in Egyptian national interests. In other words, Egyptian nationalist sensibilities would need to be recognized. This subtle US pressure on the British to pay attention to Egyptian nationalism was also visible in the problem paper on “The Maintenance of the British Position in the Sudan.” Although the US group “expressed sympathy with the general objectives” of the British policy “of encouraging the political evolution of the Sudanese toward self-government,” there was a reminder to the British that they had to work within the framework of the Condominium Agreement of 1899, which gave Egypt a special legal position in Sudan. The British were bluntly told that if the Egyptians decided to submit the issue to the International Court, the United States could not oppose that action.31 In other words, the Americans were telling the British that the Unity of the Nile Valley was not a nationalist goal that could simply be ignored. The Pentagon Talks of 1947 show many of the features of the old-style diplomacy of the world of great powers. The United States was just beginning to emerge as a dominant superpower but did not really know that yet. It was still concerned, in the words of one of the memoranda of the talks, that “it should not follow that we should become a sort of Middle Eastern junior partner of the British, nor that we should be placed in the position of more or less blindly following the British lead,”32 although the “junior partner” status was clearly conceivable to the US negotiators. The distinctive US position was in its sympathy for nationalist sentiments in the Middle East. In concrete terms, this meant that US policymakers believed that

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Unity of the Nile Valley was the crucial part of Egyptian nationalism. If the unity goal could be recognized in some way, it was thought that Egyptian leaders would be more open to the military and strategic goals of the United States and Britain. In contexts ranging from the Security Council to the Pentagon Talks, it seems clear that the British resisted the US proposal to trade EgyptianSudanese unity for the essential military facilities in the eastern Mediterranean. Although this tension was not major or highly visible, it remained a part of Anglo-American discussions until the overthrow of the Egyptian monarchy in 1952. In discussions early in 1952, the US view of the close connection between Nile unity and necessary military facilities was very explicitly expressed by Secretary of State Dean Acheson to British foreign minister Anthony Eden. Acheson’s message began with an ominous evaluation of the situation in Egypt: “I am greatly disturbed by situation in Egypt. . . . I fear that unless the situation is changed substantially in the immediate future, opportunity for negots with moderate elements will have been lost and achievement of Western objectives with respect to Egypt thrown into great doubt.”33 Acheson notes that “Egypt insists on recognition by the West of the King of Egypt’s title as King of the Sudan and the Egypt claim appears to be valid,” and closes with the firm statement: “The Sudan problem is a complicating factor in achieving a settlement of the base issue, but a solution of the Sudan problem involving recognition of the title King of the Sudan and self-determination for the Sudanese is essential to settlement of the base question.”34 The issue of Nile Valley unity was abruptly transformed, along with US policy regarding that unity, by the coup in July 1952, that brought the Free Officers to power in Egypt. Almost immediately US officials recognized that the ground rules for negotiations were changing. In the week following the coup, the acting secretary of state, in a letter to the embassy in the United Kingdom, noted a possible change in Egyptian positions regarding Sudan: Notwithstanding question marks and obscurities re Egypt future, we believe there is a possibility that Egypt mil[itary] may wish to come to understanding with UK on Canal Base. While polit[ical] shibboleths “unity and evacuation” are standard among all groups, there is some reason to believe that Egypt mil[itary] coop[eratio]n with the West involving West mil[itary] assistance w[ou]ld have sufficient appeal so that Sudan problem might be handled separately from Base issue.35

The new prime minister, Muhammad Naguib, soon indicated in conversations with US officials that he and his government would not be emphasizing the unity theme. At an informal dinner with US embassy people, a group of the young officers, including Gamal Abdul Nasser, made this clear. The

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report of the conversation noted that “Naguib and his offs clearly realize that they are departing from policy of past Egypt govts in demanding ‘unity of Nile Valley.’ They aim at real self-determination for the Sudan realizing that this may result in Sudanese independence free of Egyptian suzerainty as well as, of course, (their real objective) free of Brit de facto sovereignty.”36 What might be viewed as the formal end of Egyptian demands for Nile unity “under the Crown of Egypt” came with the release of the text of an agreement between the new government of Egypt and the representatives of Sayyid ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Mahdi, the patron of the major Sudanese political party opposed to union with Egypt. In this agreement (as translated in a diplomatic telegram), the Egyptians stated: “Egyptian Govt firmly believes in right of Sudanese to self-determination and effective exercise thereof in the proper time and with necessary safeguards. . . . Egyptian Govt declares that sovereignty of Sudan shall be reserved for Sudanese, during transition period, until self-determination is achieved.”37 In US diplomatic correspondence in the weeks following that announcement, there was no further mention of the need to recognize the nationalist goal of Nile Valley unity. US diplomats soon became involved in the complexities of Sudanese politics and entered a different conceptual world from that of the Pentagon Talks, in which Sudanese parties and politics were nonexistent.

Conceptions of Nationalism in US Policy When viewed from the vantage point of the early twenty-first century, many of the opinions and assessments of US policymakers dealing with Nile Valley issues in the mid-twentieth century seem archaic and mistaken. However, they reflect important assumptions about a number of historical developments, among the most important of which is the development of nationalism. US policymakers recognized the importance of nationalism as a political force in the years immediately following World War II, but their views were shaped by the prevailing scholarly analyses of that time. Many of the developments that have transformed nationalism and the understanding of nationalism came after this immediate postwar period. US views regarding the future of Sudan were specially influenced by two aspects of the prevailing informed scholarly understandings of nationalism. One aspect is an absence of awareness of the “new nationalism” that emerged later in the Middle East and Africa during the 1950s, and that is now a part of the framework of assumptions about nationalism. In the late 1940s, both the actual nationalism and the theories about nationalism can, from the perspective of the twenty-first century, be termed the “old nation-

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alism.” US policymakers brought a good understanding of the old nationalism with them as they discussed the Unity of the Nile Valley. Similarly, the second aspect also is related to the timing of developments. In the late 1940s, there still was a very limited sense of nationalism as an important element in the political developments of sub-Saharan Africa. Despite the fact that African nationalism had been developing for some time, as a concept it had not yet been significantly integrated into either the scholarship or the policymakers’ awareness regarding the history and current status of nationalism. Until 1952, Sudan appears to have been in this ignored category, African nationalism. US policymakers basically mentioned Sudan only when they were discussing nationalism in Egypt. The understanding of “old nationalism” that provided foundations for the attitudes of US policymakers had sound and respected scholarly roots. Two of the dominant figures in articulating the Western understanding of nationalism were Hans Kohn and Carlton J. H. Hayes, who have been called “‘the twin founding fathers’ of the academic study of nationalism, after World War I.”38 The thinking of scholars in this tradition of scholarship dominated US textbooks of the 1940s and 1950s39 and gives a good sense of how US diplomats approached the issues of Egyptian nationalism. One of the major ideas of the Kohn-Hayes school is that “nationalism” is a modern and Western phenomenon: “Nationalism has been one of the determining forces in modern history. It originated in eighteenth century Western Europe; during the nineteenth century it spread all over Europe; in the twentieth century it has become a world-wide movement, and its importance in Asia and Africa is growing with every year.”40 In this conceptual framework, “nationalists” in a country like Egypt will be part of the group in society who are the most Western-educated and “modern.” In the introductory memorandum presented by the British participants in the Pentagon Talks of 1947, this is emphasized: “The reaction against us in Egypt after the first World War was due partly to the rapid growth of Nationalist feeling, prompted largely by the ideas of European Liberalism which we had ourselves helped to propagate.”41 The basic tone of this “old nationalism” in the Middle East is summarized by Albert Hourani in an article written in the early 1960s, when the emergence of a “new nationalism” was becoming clear. The nationalist movements of the interwar period (and, I argue, up until the early 1950s) had a content derived for the most part from the thought of liberal Europe: to be a nationalist meant to believe in constitutional government, universal education, the rights of women and intellectual freedom. At the heart of the national idea there lay an idea of individual virtue, as the foundation of the strength of states and the final cause of their existence.42

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In addition, the European sensitivities to territorial integrity and sovereignty were a part of this package of nationalist attitudes. This old nationalism was in many ways a socially conservative and middle-class movement. At its core were people who were from the already established political and economic elites. There was a degree of confidence in the Pentagon Talks that the nationalists with whom they were dealing were not radical revolutionaries. This is apparent in comments about the prospects for a communist revolution or coup—if it would happen, it would be the result of outsider activity. In the final memorandum elaborating the US position, for example, it is noted that “since in no country in the Middle East are Communists or Communist sympathizers to be found in large numbers, any coup resulting in a Communist controlled government could not be successful unless instigated and implemented from the Soviet Union or Soviet satellites.”43 This context gave US policymakers a comfort zone in dealing with nationalists, which they were soon to lose. The symbol of the “new nationalism” in the Arab world emerged in the form of Nasser in Egypt. Hourani generally described the new nationalist in the early 1960s: When a man in the Near East says he is a nationalist today he does not necessarily mean, as he would probably have done a generation ago, that he believes in constitutional government and the rights of individuals. Not that he would positively disbelieve in them but his attention has shifted to national aims which he would regard as more urgent. He might well describe them in terms of “socialism,” “neutralism” and “unity.”44

This new nationalism was not characteristic of Egypt until the 1950s and the new political world of Nasser. In the era of Anglo-Egyptian negotiations following World War II, what has been colorfully called “the specter of neutralism” had not yet become a part of the conceptual framework of fighting the Cold War in the Middle East.45 A Central Intelligence Agency report on Egypt in 1947 notes: “Despite frequent cabinet changes, Egypt may be considered politically stable, with government control centered in the hands of the wealthy upper class, while the large majority of the population is politically inarticulate.” 46 At this time, Egyptian nationalism was still, in the minds of US observers and in practice, the “old nationalism.” Dreams of various forms of nationalist unity could be encouraged in this context. It is interesting to note the contrasts between US policies with regard to Egyptian unification with another country in the late 1940s and the late 1950s. In the earlier era, the United States felt free to pressure Great Britain to accept the idea of the formal unity of Egypt and Sudan. In the political mood of the old nationalism in Egypt, this was viewed as an acceptable option and a way of ensuring military positions in the eastern

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Mediterranean. However, by 1958, the unity of Egypt with Syria to form the United Arab Republic was viewed as a major threat to US interests and security in the region. The emergence of the new nationalism transformed the perspectives of US policymakers. In the era of transition, US interests in Sudanese politics were very limited. The United States could encourage support for the Unity of the Nile Valley as a bargaining point, because the future of Sudan had no direct relationship to the emerging US Cold War strategies. The goal was to secure Egyptian cooperation in maintaining some type of British military presence in the eastern Mediterranean and if Unity of the Nile Valley could win that cooperation, it could be supported, with no reference to actual political conditions in Sudan. In the context of the old nationalism of the late 1940s, this was a realistic line of policy. The ability of policymakers to ignore Sudan in their considerations in the late 1940s was strengthened by a second aspect of the understanding of nationalism at that time. Even though nationalism had long been recognized as an important element in the history and politics of the world outside of Europe, little notice was given to nationalism in Africa until the 1950s. In the widely read introduction to nationalism written by Hans Kohn and published in 1955, the concluding section examines “World-wide Nationalism.”47 In this discussion of the “spread of nationalism,” Kohn states that the “twentieth century is the first period in history, in which the whole of mankind has accepted one and the same political attitude, that of nationalism.”48 In this section there are parts discussing nationalism in the Middle East, Asia, India, and the Far East, but no section on Africa. The only mention of Africa speaks of “the promotion under British leadership of new African nations in Nigeria and the Gold Coast to independence,” 49 which implies an absence of activist nationalist movements in those countries. This reflects the post–World War II attitude of the imperial powers (which also shaped US views). Thomas Hodgkin, in his pioneering study of nationalism in Africa published in the late 1950s, noted that the massive study of The Colonial Problem done just before World War II was “based on an implicit assumption—that in some form, European authority over the colonial territories, and particularly colonial Africa, will continue for an indefinite period.”50 The assessment continued after the war with regard to Africa. “The British Colonial Office in 1947 thought that the Gold Coast was ‘the territory where Africans are most advanced politically.’ . . . But the Colonial Office was convinced that ‘internal self-government is unlikely to be achieved in much less than a generation.’”51 Since this is at the same time the British were moving rapidly toward Indian independence and the end of the mandate in Palestine, as well as negotiating the terms for some form of major

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withdrawal from Egypt, Africa was clearly in a different category in terms of assessing its nationalist movements. In the time when the United States was recommending that Britain accept the Unity of the Nile Valley, an important assumption was that nationalism was not an active force in African areas. In the preliminary memorandum prepared by the State Department on “Specific Current Questions,” there was discussion of the advantages and disadvantages of Kenya as a location for sites other than the Suez Canal Zone for military bases. While Kenya was seen as having geographic disadvantages, “it has many advantages as a supporting base. Kenya is a Crown Colony and is, therefore, reasonably secure from political complications such as nationalist disturbances.”52 The implication is that colonies in Africa were not subject to the same kind of nationalist pressures that existed elsewhere. In the diplomatic discussions of the late 1940s, nationalism was still not seen as an important factor in sub-Saharan Africa. As a result, it was not necessary for US policymakers to pay attention to political developments in Sudan when they urged the British to accept the Egyptian claims for Nile Valley unity. Egyptian nationalism was a real and recognized force, but nationalism in Sudan, like nationalism in other parts of sub-Saharan Africa, was not significant in the conceptual schema of nationalism at the time. The end of the Egyptian claim for unity under the Crown of Egypt changed the place of this issue in US policy. The negotiations and agreements among the various parties in 1952–1953 removed the issue of the Unity of the Nile Valley from the negotiating agenda. It was no longer a key to compromise in Anglo-Egyptian discussions and had no more relevance for US policy. When Nile Valley unity ceased to be a critical goal for Egyptian nationalism, it lost its value as a bargaining chip for the United States. In the new circumstances the United States’ main concern remained security in the emerging Cold War context, and it continued to urge the British not to let arrangements in Sudan stand in the way of completing negotiations with Egypt. At the end of 1952, Anglo-Egyptian negotiations again seemed to be stalled over the issue of Sudan. The issue by then was not Nile Valley unity, but the British insistence on maintaining some protection for Southern Sudanese. The US position was relatively clear in its priorities: Anglo-Egyptian negotiations for an agreement on self-government and self-determination for the Sudan are in their final stages. There is danger, however, that they will break down over certain points connected with powers to be retained temporarily by the Governor-General and especially, his power to protect the . . . peoples of the Southern Sudan against possibly harmful actions of the northern Sudanese majority. The United States

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is not directly involved but is deeply concerned lest failure of these negotiations should make impossible a resolution of the over-all Egyptian question. We do not believe that vague fears for the future welfare of a relatively small number of . . . Sudanese should be allowed to stand in the way of a settlement deeply affecting, not only the security and other interests of the Western Powers, but also the security and welfare of many millions of Near Easterners. British rigidity on this issue could be disastrous.53

Local conditions in Sudan had no place in the policy considerations of the United States. African societies were viewed in ways that were different from other regions of the world. “African nationalism” was not yet a force that needed to be considered in policy calculations. The US position on the British attempts to reserve some powers for the governor-general was based on a different line of reasoning than the position on Nile unity had been. The United States argued that the British should be flexible on the Nile unity issue because of Egyptian nationalist sensibilities. However, in the negotiations about the governor-general’s powers and the processes of developing self-government in Sudan, there is little mention of any form of “Sudanese nationalism.”

Conclusion In the late 1940s, the United States took positions with regard to the future status of Sudan, but the policies had virtually no relationship to actual Sudanese historical and political realities. This situation was possible because of the distinctive and sometimes forgotten characteristics of the time of major transitions in world affairs in the years following World War II. The sharp lines of competition between two superpowers were not yet clearly defined and old-style “great-power” politics still seemed operational. This was especially true for policies in the Middle East, where both the United States (the emerging “superpower”) and the United Kingdom (the old “great power”) continued to believe that the British were still the major military power in the region and would continue to be so for the foreseeable future. The belief in continuing British effective power created a dilemma for US policymakers who wanted to maintain Britain as a military bulwark in the Middle East against possible Soviet expansionism and, at the same time, develop constructive relations with the forces of nationalism that were becoming increasingly important throughout the world. This problem is well illustrated by the issues posed for US policy by the Anglo-Egyptian dispute over British bases in Egypt and the Egyptian demand for recognition of the Unity of the Nile Valley. In the case of the Anglo-Egyptian negotiations, the United States could

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advocate a compromise in which the Egyptians would be flexible with regard to military security arrangements in exchange for recognition of the unity of Egypt and Sudan “under the Crown of Egypt.” In the brief period between the end of World War II and the early 1950s, this balancing act was made easier by the nature of nationalism and the perceptions of nationalism at that time. The “new nationalism” of radical social reform programs and revolutions had not yet fully emerged. In the Middle East, this did not take place until the rise of Nasser. The advocates of the “old nationalism,” like the leaders of all major parts of the Egyptian political elite, were socially conservative and their nationalism was still based on the old-style “liberal” European traditions of nationalism. The conceptual framework of US policymakers was shaped by the scholarship of the time that defined nationalism in these terms. The nationalists of this era were seen as being unlikely supporters of communism or Soviet expansion and so compromise with them was possible. The emergence of the “nonaligned” movement and the mistrust of “radical” nationalism were still in the future. In this context, the United States could become a supporter of a major theme of Egyptian nationalism at the time, the Unity of the Nile Valley, and this was not seen as a security risk in terms of Cold War policies. This situation was not unique to US policy with regard to Egypt. In this time before the emergence of the conceptualization of the new radical nationalism that was a potential ally of the Soviet Union, it was possible for the United States to consider recognizing and working with nationalist groups, even if they had some clearly identifiable ties to communism. The informal discussions of US officials with Ho Chi Minh and other leaders of the newly proclaimed Vietnamese state in 1945–1946 show that such ties were conceivable, even if they were not realized.54 A second aspect of the conceptualization of nationalism in the late 1940s made it possible for the United States to support the Unity of the Nile Valley while giving no attention to the situation in Sudan itself. In the late 1940s, the concept of “African nationalism” had not yet become an important part of the perspectives of scholars and diplomats in Western Europe and North America. As a result, when the United States wanted to develop good relations with emerging nationalism, it could work with the recognized nationalism of Egypt and simply ignore the possibility that there might also be some forms of “Sudanese nationalism.” US policies in the late 1940s regarding the future of Sudan and the Unity of the Nile Valley are only a minor part of the emerging new world of global politics in the middle of the twentieth century. However, these policies help to illustrate some of the very significant aspects of the era of transitions in the years immediately following World War II. They are reminders that the world of competing superpowers was only gradually

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defined in the early years of the Cold War, and in that era, the old-style nationalisms were still important in conceptualizing policies of the major powers.

Notes 1. Harold Macmichael, The Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (London: Faber & Faber, 1934), p. 272. 2. The phrase reflects the imagery of the title of the autobiography of an important actor in this era; see Dean Acheson, Present at the Creation (New York: W. W. Norton, 1969). 3. “Briefing on the Situation in the Middle East: Statement of the Hon. George C. McGhee,” Committee on Foreign Affairs, US House of Representatives, 10 April 1951; reprinted in US House of Representatives, Committee on Foreign Affairs, Selected Executive Session Hearings of the Committee, 1951–56, vol. 16. The Middle East, Africa, and Inter-American Affairs (Washington, DC: USGPO, 1980), p. 48. 4. “Briefing . . . McGhee,” 10 April 1951, p. 49. 5. Anthony Eden, The Memoirs of Anthony Eden: Full Circle (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1960), p. 255. 6. Jamal Mohammed Ahmed, The Intellectual Origins of Egyptian Nationalism (London: Oxford University Press, 1960), pp. 122–124. 7. Hans Kohn, Nationalism and Imperialism in the Hither East (London: George Routledge, 1932; reprint ed., New York: Howard Fertig, 1969), p. 18. 8. Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 1798–1939 (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), p. 345. 9. Ibid., p. 343. 10. William Roger Louis, The British Empire in the Middle East 1945–1951 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), p. 125. 11. John Marlowe, A History of Modern Egypt and Anglo-Egyptian Relations, 1800–1956, 2nd ed. (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1965), p. 342. 12. Louis, The British Empire in the Middle East, p. 229. 13. Ibid., p. 231. 14. Peter L. Hahn, The United States, Great Britain, and Egypt, 1945–1956 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1991), p. 38. 15. “Memorandum of Conversation, by the Director of the Office of Near Eastern and African Affairs,” London, 9 September 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 498. 16. Minute by Michael Wright, 20 January 1948, FO 371/68041, quoted by Louis, The British Empire in the Middle East, p. 111. 17. “The British and American Positions,” n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 513. 18. Ibid. 19. “The British and American Positions,” n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 514. 20. “Middle East,” Memorandum of Marshall-Bevin conversation, enclosed in “The First Secretary of Embassy in the United Kingdom (Jones) to the Director of the Office of Near Eastern and African Affairs (Henderson),” London, 8 December 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 625. 21. “The Acting Secretary of State to President Truman,” Washington, DC, 24 November 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 623–624. The text of the memorandum is “The American Paper,” n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 575–576.

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22. Hahn, The United States, Great Britain, and Egypt, p. 56. 23. Ibid., p. 54. 24. “Memorandum of conversation,” 9 September 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 499–500. 25. “Specific Current Questions,” memorandum prepared in the Department of State, n.d., Washington, DC, FRUS 1947, 5: 540–543. 26. Ibid., p. 542. 27. Ibid., p. 543. 28. “Memorandum of conversation, by the Chief of the Division of South Asian Affairs,” Washington, DC, 9 October 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 562. 29. “Considerations in Support of Policy in Respect of the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East Drawn Up After Consultation with the British Group,” memorandum by the Chief of the Division of South Asian Affairs, Washington, DC, 5 November 1947, FRUS 1947, 5: 579. 30. “The Problem: Retention of British Military Rights in Egypt,” statement by the United States and the United Kingdom Groups, Washington, DC, n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 584. 31. “The Problem: The Maintenance of the British Position in the Sudan,” statement by the United States and United Kingdom Groups, Washington, DC, n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 590–591. 32. “Considerations in Support of Policy,” FRUS 1947, 5: 579. 33. “The Secretary of State to the Embassy in the United Kingdom,” Washington, DC, 26 March 1952, FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1778. This contains the personal message to be delivered to Eden. 34. “The Secretary of State to the Embassy in the United Kingdom,” 26 March 1952, FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1781–1782. 35. “The Acting Secretary of State to the Embassy in the United Kingdom,” telegram, Washington, DC, 4 August 1952, FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1847. 36. “The Ambassador in Egypt (Caffery) to the Department of State,” telegram, Cairo, 12 October 1952, FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1869. 37. Rough translation of text contained in “The Ambassador in Egypt (Caffery) to the Department of State,” telegram, Cairo, 30 October 1952, FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1874–1875. 38. E. J. Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism Since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 3. From among their many writings, the following would probably have been “standard sources” for most of the US policymakers: Hans Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, ca. 2005); and Carlton J. H. Hayes, The Historical Evolution of Modern Nationalism (New York: Russell & Russell, 1968). 39. A good example of a widely used textbook in the 1950s is the analysis and anthology by Hans Kohn, Nationalism: Its Meaning and History (New York: Van Nostrand, 1955). 40. Ibid., p. 4. 41. “Introductory Paper on the Middle East Submitted Informally by the United Kingdom Representatives,” Washington, DC, n.d., FRUS 1947, 5: 571. 42. Albert Hourani, “Near Eastern Nationalism Yesterday and Today,” Foreign Affairs 42, no. 1 (October 1963): 131. 43. “Memorandum by the Chief of the Division of South Asian Affairs, Considerations in Support of Policy in Respect of the Eastern Mediterranean and Middle East Drawn Up After Consultation with the British Group,” Washington, DC, 5 November 1947, FRUS 5: 580.

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44. Hourani, “Near Eastern Nationalism Yesterday and Today,” p. 133. 45. See H. W. Brands, The Specter of Neutralism: The United States and the Emergence of the Third World, 1947–1960 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), in which Chapter 6, “Egypt and Nasser: The Neutralist as Radical,” basically begins the discussion with the events leading up to the July coup in 1952. 46. Central Intelligence Agency, “The Current Situation in Egypt,” Office of Reports and Estimates no. 54, 16 October 1947, p. 1. Available at www.foia.cia.gov. 47. Kohn, Nationalism, pp. 81–90. 48. Ibid., p. 89. 49. Ibid. 50. Thomas Hodgkin, Nationalism in Colonial Africa (New York: New York University Press, 1957), p. 9. 51. Frederick Cooper, Africa Since 1940: The Past of the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), p. 49. 52. “Specific Current Questions,” p. 528. 53. “The Assistant Secretary of State for European Affairs (Perkins) to the Secretary of State–designate (Dulles),” Washington, DC, 31 December 1952, Attachment: “Egypt.” FRUS 1952–1954, 9: 1929–1930. 54. See, for example, the analysis in Mark Philip Bradley, Imagining Vietnam and America: The Making of Post-Colonial Vietnam, 1919–1950 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000), Chapter 4.

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PART 3 The Nile Valley and Collective Identities

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7 At the Banks of the Euphrates and Tigris: Egyptian Intellectuals in Iraq, 1919–1939 Orit Bashkin

I

N THE YEARS 1936–1939, EGYPTIAN INTELLECTUAL AND PROFESSOR OF

Arabic literature Zaki Mubarak (1892–1952)1 published his accounts from Baghdad in the form of a novel. The novel’s protagonist, Zaki Mubarak, meets Layla, a member in an Iraqi delegation to Cairo, and immediately falls in love with her. When he is appointed professor of Arabic literature in Iraq, he seizes the opportunity to resume his relationship with her. Layla and Zaki converse about their Egyptian friends—the intellectual ‘Abd alWahhab ‘Azzam (born 1884)2 and the editor of al-Risala, Ahmad Hasan alZayyat (1885–1968):3 Layla went on talking about life in the Nile Valley. She asked me questions about numerous intellectuals. I described all of them to her, in the way they wanted to be remembered in Baghdad. . . . I said: Professor Zayyat sends his regards. She said: I do not want to hear his name. I asked: Why not? She replied: could you believe that he lived for years in Baghdad and did not even ask about me? . . . Do you really think I expected that doctor ‘Azzam would visit me? He is a fine man, but his never-ending obsession with analysis and interpretation leaves no room in his heart for emotions.4

Layla is interested in the Egyptians and familiarizes herself with the particularities of intellectual life in the Nile Valley. She wants the Egyptians to treat her with respect and to behave to her in a courtly, chivalrous manner. The text seems to insinuate that neglect of Layla, and more broadly, of Iraq, is unacceptable. Egyptians should cherish the Iraqi-Egyptian relationship and invest their utmost efforts to cultivate this affiliation based on affection, respect, and a shared intellectual tradition. The interwar period witnessed the arrival of many Egyptians in Iraq. 115

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Mubarak noted the “dozens of Egyptian engineers, doctors, and teachers who work in the country.”5 Iraq welcomed the arrival of Arab professionals from the early 1920s onward and hosted intellectuals from Palestine, Syria, and Lebanon. Iraq also hosted the Egyptians Ahmad Hasan al-Zayyat, Mahmud ‘Azmi, ‘Abd al-Mun‘am Muhammad Khallaf, Muhammad al‘Ashmawi, ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam, and ‘Abd al-Razzaq al-Sanhuri. The Egyptians integrated quickly in the Iraqi space. Receptions were held in their honor, they were given broadcasting time on Iraqi radio, and they contributed articles to the Iraqi press. The Egyptians were likewise invited to participate in official events such as national holidays, funerals, and memorials, and affiliated themselves with organizations in the Iraqi public sphere. The Society of Arab Culture (Jam‘iyyat al-Thaqafa al-‘Arabiyya), for instance, was a joint venture of educator and pan-Arab theorist Sati‘ alHusri (1880–1968), Iraqi educator and theoretician of Arab nationalism,6 and his Egyptian colleagues (Ahmad Amin, Shafiq Ghurbal, Sanhuri, ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam, and Zayyat) to encourage Arab culture. The Arab Medical Congress (al-Mu’atamar al-Tibbi al-‘Arabi) unified Arab doctors, first in Baghdad (1938) and then in Egypt (1939).7 The flow of Arab professionals and intellectuals to Iraq began in the early 1920s mainly because Iraq needed skilled professionals to staff the new country’s bureaucratic and educational institutions. A British intelligence report noted that the local press complained about “the number of foreigners, Persians, Indians and Egyptians who hold office in Iraq.”8 The arrival of Arab professionals acquired ideological meanings since it was understood as strengthening the bonds of pan-Arab nationalism. In the 1930s, many Egyptians were still present in Iraq, although the number of Iraqi professionals had increased. Iraqi policymakers thought highly of the professional expertise of the Egyptians and were interested in maintaining a cordial relationship with Egyptian educational institutions since Iraqi students were trained in Egypt. The Shi‘i intellectual and administrator Fadhil al-Jamali (1902–1997) recommended that the Iraqi government send talented Iraqi youth to be trained in Egypt as specialists in fields like medicine, agricultural, and social work.9 In the 1930s, Iraqi bureaucrats and intellectuals further emphasized that the movement of Egyptian, Syrian, Lebanese, and Palestinian intellectuals to and from Iraq defied colonial boundaries and overcame colonial limitations on obtaining knowledge. From the Egyptian vantage point, visiting Iraq became an almost indispensable pilgrimage for supporters of pan-Arab nationalism. Financially, it made sense for Egyptian intellectuals to work in Iraq since Egyptian publishers or authors made use of the time spent in Iraq to ensure the marketing of their products outside Egypt.10 However, Egyptian intellectuals repeatedly emphasized that their presence in Iraq was of great political importance on behalf of Arab unity and the Arab nation.11

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This chapter examines the activities of, and the texts written by, Egyptian intellectuals living in Iraq, with special emphasis on the works of Zaki Mubarak, Ahmad Hasan al-Zayyat (1885–1968), and ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam (born 1884). I chose these writers because they were influential intellectuals; all were professors of Arabic literature, with an Azhari background as well as degrees from both the Egyptian University and Western universities; all taught in the Baghdadi Teachers Training College; and, most important, all three produced fascinating accounts on the sociopolitical meanings of their experiences in Iraq, which were mediated to Arab publics through their publication in the prominent Egyptian magazine alRisala. Looking at this sociocultural Iraqi context, I study the ways in which Arab-Egyptian subjects viewed another Arab space (Iraq) and explore how the encounter between them differed from the Orient/Occident opposition that had characterized European Orientalist literature. I also examine how the differences between Egyptians and Iraqis were constructed and how the construction of such differences complicates our understanding of pan-Arabism.12 Eve Troutt Powell has recently underscored notions of difference articulated by Egyptians within the Nile Valley and their racial meanings.13 Concepts of Egyptian superiority, based on cultural and intellectual reasoning, also typified the Egyptian-Iraqi discourse even among the most ardent supporters of pan-Arab nationalism. Egyptian texts belonged to a Middle Eastern print market that united educated Arab intellectuals.14 However, the reception of Egyptian works in Iraq reveals the tensions and anxieties created by the reading of the same textual corpus by Arab readers of varying sociopolitical and cultural backgrounds.

The Three Ibn Battuta(s): New Vision of an Imaginary Community The texts produced by Zayyat, Mubarak, and ‘Azzam illuminate the ways in which these intellectuals represented a new, imagined Arab community. They all constructed an Arab past and an Arab space in which Egypt and Iraq shared many cultural features. Their detailed travelogues were meant to provide an ideological explanation for their presence in Iraq, and to convince fellow Egyptians that Iraq was part of their world. Both ‘Azzam and Mubarak utilized the metaphor of travel literature written by medieval Arab travelers like Ibn Battuta (1304–1368) to portray their journeys in Iraq.15 ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam, in particular, named his book on Iraq al-Rihlat, to echo Ibn Battuta’s masterwork. 16 Although ‘Azzam mainly wrote in modern, journalistic Arabic, occasionally his prose mimicked Arab geographers like Abu al-Hasan al-Mas‘udi (d. 956), Yaqut al-Hamawi (1179–1229), or Ibn Battuta himself, intertwining anecdotes and

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poetry as well as citing accounts by other medieval travelers. Moreover, ‘Azzam indicated that the details provided by Yaqut could be authenticated in present-day Iraq. The concoction of geographical accounts and poetry in an adab-like fashion serves to accentuate the similarities between modern and medieval travelers. ‘Azzam thus depicts Iraq as a familiar space whose beauty and glory were depicted by previous generations of medieval Arab travelers. ‘Azzam, Zayyat, and Mubarak all emphasize that an Egyptian can feel very much at home in Iraq. To highlight the resemblance between Egypt and Iraq, they use the metaphor of the Nile. Whereas the Nile was presented in the writings of Egyptian nationalists as the power that molded the unique Egyptian character or the history of the Nile Valley, the modern travelogues indicate that a parallel Nile was also to be found in Iraq. Zaki Mubarak writes that, “Only after I have seen the reflection of the colors of the Nile in the waters of the Tigris and the Euphrates, have I acknowledged the beauty of the Nile.”17 He elaborates this theme, saying that he had imagined the Tigris to be a small river, whose eminence is the outcome of our poetic imagination, yet when he saw it, he “was filled with awe” and wished that the poets of Egypt would come to Iraq to see that another river like the Nile exists in this universe.18 Similarly, Ahmad Hasan al-Zayyat places the Nile in Iraq. He mentions that the meeting of Rusafa and Karkh on the banks of the Tigris reminded him of how Cairo and al-Jazira join on the Nile. Iraq, then, reminded him of “the beloved places where I was raised as a child.”19 Iraq, in other words, allows the writers to rediscover Egypt. It is in the depths of the Tigris that Mubarak comes to appreciate the glory of the Nile. Zayyat, moreover, suggests that the likeness between the Iraqi and Egyptian spaces was connected to memories of childhood. Often, “the un-colonized space lacks familiar objects” against which the colonizer can measure himself.20 Mubarak, ‘Azzam, and Zayyat, in contrast, can identify recognizable objects in every street corner in Iraq. The Nile, in other words, was only one image used to underline the parallels between Iraq and Egypt. ‘Azzam felt that the mosque of al-Mu‘tasim was almost the replica of the mosque of Ibn Tulun in Cairo (built 879), and wondered whether Ibn Tulun himself had attempted to imitate Iraqi architecture.21 Not only sites, but also voices, were familiar to Egyptians residing in Iraq. Mubarak testifies how much he enjoyed listening to the Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum, whose visits to Baghdad caused much excitement.22 He summarizes the feeling of familiarity he experienced in Baghdad: “An Egyptian in Iraq sees the face of Egypt everywhere: in schools, institutions, libraries, cafés, and nightclubs.”23 Iraqi intellectuals responded to these images and often talked about the connections between the two spaces. Many poems, for instance, alluded to the resemblances between the Tigris and the Nile. In a poem dedicated to

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the Egyptian nationalists residing in Iraq, the famous neoclassical Iraqi poet, Ma‘ruf al-Rusafi (1875–1945), praised the Egyptians, and said that the Iraqis imbue the Egyptians with a passionate love for the Tigris that will guide them to the “glorious Nile.” 24 Just as the Egyptian Arabists had appropriated the image of the Nile to depict Iraq, Rusafi employed the metaphor of the Nile and the Tigris to signify his friendship with the Egyptians. The Egyptian travel accounts seem to be purposely antithetical to depictions of the East produced by Westerners, and to descriptions penned by those Arabs who object to Arab unity. Mubarak noted that some simpleminded people who visit Baghdad or Damascus find only faults in what they see because they are looking for such faults, and thus are “absolutely blind” to the beauty of these countries.25 Although he thought Baghdad would be a city that would show the traces of the Turkish and British occupations, he found it to be “an Arab metropolis, in every meaning of the word.”26 Every negative quality the author might have imagined is thus quickly turned into a positive trait. Baghdad, however, was also a mythical space that transcended time and space. Often, Iraqi spaces are depicted as Foucauldian Heterotopias, or places whose own locations can be understood in relation to other sites, whose meanings they invent, invert, and mirror.27 The collapse of time in the Baghdadi space is encapsulated in a depiction provided by ‘Abd alWahhab ‘Azzam: I spent Sunday night falling in love with dreams of history or history of dreams. . . . At times, I felt that I was marching to see a procession of the ‘Abbasid caliphs. . . . At others, I imagined that I was walking in the narrow streets of Baghdad to look for the dwelling of Abu Hanifa or one of his companions. . . . On other occasions, I saw myself asking for dar al-hikma so that I could see its translators and the copiers of manuscripts. . . . My imagination leads me to al-Kindi or one of his friends. I return to the house of one of the imams of kalam, heading to the gatherings of Abu Nuwwas and his companions, the poets. . . . Then I see myself walking to the school of the Nizamiyya so that I can catch a glimpse of al-Ghazali in his classes. 28

The Heterotopia merges past and present. These romantic descriptions speak not of concrete geography but of an imagined spatiality linked to emotion that was beyond reason and intellect. These depictions evoke names of texts, philosophers, and poets familiar to every educated Egyptian, and indeed, to every educated Arab. The texts present Baghdad as a site of contradictions: rationality (Dar al-hikma, al-Kindi, kalam) as well as mysticism (Ghazali); law (Abu Hanifa) as well as poetry (Abu Nuwwas); and as a site in which the Arabic culture itself was formed. Consequently, the ways in which Arab Egyptians relate to their religion, philosophy, and even the words they utter, are to be found outside of Egypt.

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The texts by the three writers effectively create a counternarrative to the narrative of the bewildered Easterner in the West who is ignorant of Western practices and norms (think of ‘Asfur min al-sharq or Qindil Umm Hashim), as well as the bewildered Orientalist in the East (think crusader, pilgrim, and traveler). Egyptians feel at home in Iraq because it reminds them of their own culture. Baghdad, and Iraq more generally, were represented in the writings of these three Egyptians as a representational space, that is, a space directly lived through its associated images. It was the sphere of artists, writers, and philosophers who made symbolic use of the space’s objects and nonverbal symbols and signs.29 Baghdad is a representational space, depicted as situated beyond history and belonging to the romantic realm of dreams. Iraq is described through symbols: a verse from a poem, a grave, or the name of a medieval Arab traveler. Iraq, however, is also represented as a home away from home, in which an Egyptian would never feel lonely or foreign. The ideological implication of this discourse is that an Egyptian must identify with Iraq in order to comprehend the components of his own cultural identity, as well as the history of Arab nationalism.

The Nile Valley, Haykal, Hakim, and the Iraqi Peasant: Markets and Readers The “home away from home” feeling evoked by the Egyptians in Iraq was not simply a matter of a shared medieval culture. In fact, it represented a modern, national culture, supported by pedagogical efforts and print technologies. Print capitalism, in other words, enabled the Egyptians to feel at home in Iraq. Egyptian literary products were known, sold, and reviewed in Iraq. An essay in al-Risala, written by an Iraqi, informed Egyptians that Iraqi readers are interested in Egyptians like Zayyat, Mubarak, Sanhuri, Muhammad ‘Ali ‘Alluba, and Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir Mazini.30 The novels of Jurji Zaydan, printed in Egypt, were highly popular in Iraq. Translated literature originating from Egypt, like the translated works of Doyle, Defoe, Haggard, and Dumas (Sherlock Holmes, Robinson Crusoe, Montezuma’s Daughter, The Three Musketeers, and The Count of Monte Cristo) circulated in the Iraqi market.31 Journals published in Egypt such as al-Manar, al-Hilal, and alMuqtataf were read in Najaf as early as the 1910s.32 Even the opponents of pan-Arab ideology were dependent on Egyptian publications. The social democrats and the communists, who criticized the manipulation of pan-Arab discourse by their nationalist leadership, were highly conversant in Egyptian literature. Members of Iraq’s social democratic party, al-Ahali, took inspiration from the works of Salama Musa and read articles published in the Egyptian journal al-Siyasa.33 When their paper

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called for granting preference to local industries, they recommended the establishment of a national bank following the Egyptian example.34 The biography of Sa‘d Zaghlul appealed to the young law students associated with al-Ahali, who hailed Zaghlul as a leader equal to Lenin.35 The historian of the party, Muzaffar Amin, suggests that even the name of the group might have been inspired by the Egyptian journal edited by ‘Abd al-Qadir Hamza of the same title.36 In its first issues, al-Ahali serialized a long essay on the Arabian Nights by Zayyat37 and its first literary section introduced a poem by ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad.38 Vladimir Ilyich Lenin’s book State and Revolution (al-Dawla wa’lthawra) was published in Egypt in 1922 and was also read in Baghdad.39 The early socialists read works of Farah Antun and Shibli Shumayl that were published in the Egyptian installation of al-Muqtataf.40 Writing on the rights of women to abandon the veil, communists and socialists like Husayn al-Rahhal and Mahmud Ahmad al-Sayyid consulted the works of Qasim Amin.41 In the religious domain, the writings of Muhammad ‘Abduh assumed great significance, in particular the notion that a pious Muslim (Sunni and Shi‘i alike) could be a devoted believer while accepting the premises of scientific knowledge. The Sunni writer Muhammad al-Hashimi, himself a former student in al-Azhar, popularized ‘Abduh’s criticism of the religious establishment.42 ‘Abduh’s positions were transformed into the field culture, and thus Ma‘ruf al-Rusafi, following ‘Abduh’s terminology, argued that mimicking the traditions of previous authorities (taqlid) was most dishonorable in the spheres of religion, literature, and culture (adab).43 In the poetic domain, Iraq was highly influenced by Egyptian debates. Neoclassical poetry was the dominant genre in Iraq during the interwar period and consequently, the works of Egyptian poets like Ahmad Shawqi (1868–1932) and Hafiz Ibrahim (1872–1932) were pivotal to many Iraqi poets.44 The Egyptians were aware of their popularity in Iraq. Zayyat was hired to teach Arabic literature because Iraqis were familiar with his works, especially his translations of Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (1774). Al-Siyasa, in fact, called him “the messenger of Arab culture” and noted that his literary works encouraged the Iraqi government to hire his services. “He goes to Iraq as a messenger of modern Egyptian culture whose impact today is clear in all Arab states,” the paper boasted.45 Mubarak pointedly referred to the fact that the Arabic language unites communities of readers. For him, the age of mechanical reproduction meant the tightening of bonds between different Arab markets. “We live in an age where the dissemination of publications from one place to the other is widespread, and my writings reach locations I did not expect.”46 The meaning of this, said Mubarak, is that Egyptians do not consider only Egyptian youth when they write, but also think of Iraqi, Hijazi, Yemenite, Palestinian, Syrian, and Lebanese

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audiences.47 Therefore, when Arab intellectuals like Mubarak or Zayyat come to Baghdad, they are visiting a community of loyal readers. Not all Iraqis, however, gladly accepted the cultural domination of their Egyptian brethren in the print market. One of Iraq’s most influential cultural magazines was the journal al-Hatif, edited by the Shi‘i intellectual Ja‘far alKhalili. The paper was published first in Najaf and then in Baghdad. AlHatif’s essays on Arabic literature demonstrate the anxieties generated by the Egyptian presence. An essay studying the Iraqi literary nahda (rennaissance), which was published anonymously and stirred much debate, stressed the problematic nature of the Egyptian-Iraqi relationship. Its author underscored the importance of the country in which a literary work is produced, rather than the birthplace of its author. In other words, Syrians or Egyptians writing in Iraq are Iraqis. Echoing the words of Hypolte Taine (1828–1893), so popular in Egypt itself, the author explicated that literature reflects society—its economy, ethics, and practices. Nevertheless, for the same reason, it was a grave mistake to favor Egyptian literature over Iraqi literature simply because it was Egyptian.48 Literature produced in Egypt that focuses solely on Egyptian culture could not, and should not, appeal to Iraqis. The author, however, mentioned that he did value certain Egyptian texts, although they were not situated in Iraq: Adib and Haduth al-arbi‘a’ by Taha Husayn; Zaynab by Muhammad Husayn Haykal; Sara by ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad; and ‘Awdat al-ruh, Dhikrayat na’ib fi’l-aryaf and Scheherazade by Tawfiq al-Hakim.49 Another essay, published two issues later, argued that since Iraqi publishers preferred to import works from Lebanon and Egypt, it was hard for aspiring local Iraqi writers to have their books published and this created a hardship for local talents such as Najafi poets, and writers of narrative prose like Anwar Sha’ul, Yaqub Balbul, Dhu Nun Ayyub, ‘Abd al-Majid Lutfi, or Ja‘far al-Khalili. Iraqi readers, nonetheless, should not simply gather information from Egyptian magazines but rather invest in their own literature.50 Jamal al-Din al-Alusi similarly bemoaned the fact that Egyptians control the print market. Everything that comes from Egypt is sold and many Iraqis eagerly obtain the works of Zayyat, Mubarak, Ahmad Amin, Mazini, ‘Aqqad, and Taha Husayn, while neglecting their own local literature.51 Iraqi socialist Mahmud Ahmad al-Sayyid also reflected on the obsession with Egyptian culture and its effects on Iraq. His short story, sardonically titled “Mujahidun,” depicted a young socialist, Ahmad Mujahid, who is eager to liberate the Iraqi peasant and the Iraqi woman. Ahmad is stationed in a provincial town, dominated by religious conservatism and astonishing ignorance of Arab culture (many in the town still read and speak Turkish). Ahmad’s response, however, is to glance at Egyptian fiction, “trying to evaluate the Egyptian thought,” and “attempting to grasp the psychology of the modern Egyptian intellectual” and the pioneering works of the

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nahda.52 The story ridicules the impotence of an intellectual by accentuating his “Egyptian-ness” in the midst of the Iraqi landscape. These texts clearly reveal resistance to Egyptian dominance in the print market and communicate an unambiguous message: that the Iraqi readership should read and buy Iraqi literature. While the definition of Iraqi literature is broad enough to include any Egyptian or Syrian who dwells in Iraq, the definition of the Iraqi literary milieu is the literature produced within the boundaries of Iraq, not within those of the entire Arab Middle East. Significant here, however, is the fact that the Iraqi authors, although claiming to represent the interests of Iraqi culture, are entirely conversant in the Egyptian literary tradition. The essays, for example, mention “‘Aqqad” and Sara or “Haykal” and Zaynab without providing any details on the biographies of the novelists and the plots of the novels, probably because it was assumed that Iraqi readers would know who ‘Aqqad or Haykal were, and would probably have read or at least heard about their novels. Al-Sayyid’s story likewise confirms his familiarity with the Egyptian discourse. The writings about the psychology of the Egyptian writer and the pioneering Egyptian literary and national nahda were themes current in the Egyptian press. Although they were ironically manipulated to underscore the pathetic state of the Iraqi intellectual, these terms nonetheless reflect the intimate knowledge of Egyptian culture by al-Sayyid himself. Interestingly, Egyptian novels that were embraced by the Iraqis, like Zaynab or ‘Awdat al-Ruh, reflected more on the Egyptian territorial identity. This, however, did not prevent them from being read in Iraq. Although it is tempting to view these essays as mere reflections of sectarian tensions, namely the resentment of al-Hatif’s Shi‘i readership to the Egyptian Sunnis, it is worthy to note that the Iraqi writers al-Hatif aspired to promote were Jewish, Sunni, and Shi‘i. The argument against the dominance of the Egyptians, in other words, had more to do with the obstacles they presented to the emergence of authentic Iraqi fiction. The cultural hegemony of the Egyptians in the print market owed its existence to a number of factors. To begin with, Iraq’s publishing industry was quite humble in the early 1920s, becoming more established only in the 1930s and 1940s. Even when the local market grew, patterns of readership and familiarity with Egypt’s literary works were already established. Interestingly, both al-Sayyid and the readers of al-Hatif noted this phenomenon. Al-Sayyid wrote that the Syrians and the Egyptians were the first Arab nations to take the initial steps on the road toward progress and science by translating as much from Western literature as they could. Iraqis, in contrast, “have remained in the rear.”53 Writers in al-Hatif reaffirmed these notions. “Without Egypt . . . the revival of knowledge in the Arab countries would have been delayed for a long time,” explained one writer as he advised his readers to listen to programs on Egyptian radio.54 A second fac-

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tor contributing to the popularity of Egyptian texts was that Egypt produced the most innovative literary artifacts. The first Iraqi novel was published in 1929, more than a decade after the publication of the first novel in Egypt. Egyptian poets like Mazini and ‘Aqqad challenged poetic conventions, while Iraq was still dominated by traditional neoclassical patterns.55 More Egyptians studied in Europe, and therefore Egypt offered more translations of works produced in Europe, in particular France. Finally, Egyptians wrote about themes familiar to Iraqis. Iraqis were interested in portrayals of the Egyptian peasant. A popular motif in the Iraqi print media was how to reform the peasants and to better their living conditions. Plans for managing the peasants’ lives and ensuring their productivity engaged Iraqi bureaucrats, intellectuals, novelists, and educators in both official circles and the public sphere.56 The theme of corrupt management of the villagers’ lives by the state, brilliantly narrated in Tawfiq al-Hakim’s Yawmiyat na’ib fi’l aryaf, was very familiar to Iraqi writers, and one can detect the influence of Hakim on the works of Dhu Nun Ayyub or Ja‘far al-Khalili.57 Tawfiq alHakim or Taha Husayn might have written for an Egyptian audience and applauded the ways in which the Nile shaped the mentality of the Egyptian character. Yet once such texts penetrated the Arab market, their works acquired new, significant meanings. In the Iraqi-Egyptian context, journals expressed familiarity between an imagined community of readers who saw themselves as a part of an Arab nation. Even those who resented Egyptian influence in Iraq were culturally dependent on Egypt. In Iraq, it was virtually impossible to talk about women’s rights without referring to Qasim Amin or to converse about novels without referencing Hakim or Haykal. The Arab print market, however, had political implications whose significance cannot be overemphasized. It created an atmosphere in which the problems of one Arab nation were perceived to be the problem of other Arab countries. Zayyat’s pluralistic editorial policies in al-Risala exemplify this point. Zayyat opened the journal to many Arab intellectuals. He published articles by Iraqi intellectuals and officials; al-Risala featured Husri’s reflections on education, Anwar Sha’ul’s short stories, and even Taha al-Hashimi’s tedious explorations of Arab military history. The paper also took notice of funerals of great Iraqis, be it great men of letters or politicians58 and covered the activity of institutions that were active in the Iraqi public sphere, like the Muthana Club. The journal’s most important function was to offer Iraqis a noncensored platform to express their opinions, when policing and monitoring of the press market in Iraq grew stronger. Iraqi writer ‘Abd al-Wahhab Amin protested in al-Risala the reactionary atmosphere that prevailed in Iraqi society. The intellectuals, complained Amin, constantly seek political patronage, thus endangering both politics and culture. The Iraqi press stopped publishing noteworthy works of literature, and dailies had betrayed their causes.

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This, professed Amin, was poverty in the true sense of the word.59 The growing meddling of politicians in sociocultural affairs and the sense of intellectual treason that accompanied this intervention were familiar themes in Iraqi print culture. Important, however, is the fact that Amin expressed his complaints in an Egyptian journal because he reasoned that its readership would be partly Iraqi, and moreover, that other non-Iraqi Arab readers would know enough about the Iraqi context to empathize with his ideals. Egyptians often commented on Iraqi internal affairs in al-Risala and critiqued various aspects of Iraqi culture. Zayyat, Mubarak, and Sanhuri were antifascists. Their condemnation of Nazism and fascism was significant to the Iraqi community of readers predominantly because debates about authoritarianism and fascism were also taking place in Iraq as profascist voices became prominent among certain nationalist circles.60 Zayyat wrote about the Iraqi paramilitary organization al-Futuwwa and warned that wearing uniforms to school signaled an undesirable militarization of the pedagogical system.61 ‘Abd al-Mun‘am Khallaf, another Egyptian residing in Baghdad, denounced the notion of “death for the nation’s sake,” and argued that Islam did not advocate ethnicity (‘asabiyya), racism (jinsiyya), blood (damawiyya), or patriotism (wataniyya), but rather underscored mercy and compassion.62 These words contradicted statements of Iraqi bureaucrats like Sami Shawkat, who hailed death for the nation’s sake as the ultimate patriotic commitment to the nation.63 Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Mazini, also a supporter of Arabism, disapproved of the militarization of Iraqi politics, arguing that the 1936 coup symbolized a despicable, violent, and antidemocratic political culture.64 The Arab print market, then, allowed intellectuals to voice their critiques concerning many aspects of Iraqi sociopolitical culture. The political comments of the Egyptians point to the democratic and pluralistic features of the Arab press. Criticism of various nation-states could be published outside of Iraq, and readers could familiarize themselves with different viewpoints. In other words, while it is true that Iraqis read the ultranationalist perspectives of their own policymakers, they belonged to the transregional Arab community of readers that offered constant challenges to the attitudes voiced at home.

Looking for Sa‘d Zaghlul in al-Hilla: Sectarianism and Unity The involvement of Egyptians in Iraqi life far exceeded the realm of the printed word. It has sometimes been argued that the presence of the Egyptians could be understood in sectarian terms, namely that the Sunni Sherrifian leadership of Iraq was interested in importing Egyptian profes-

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sionals and intellectuals, while the Shi‘is were the main opponents to the Egyptian and Syrian guests. Nonetheless, the positions that the Egyptians took with respect to specific Iraqi questions transcended sectarian boundaries. Egyptians were involved in debates concerning Iraq’s education, political culture, and sectarian policies.65 Yet the Egyptians did not act as a unified bloc in any domain, but rather allied themselves with particular Iraqi intellectuals. Thus, Mubarak and Zayyat could disagree as to particular Iraqi policies, one siding with a Shi‘i intellectual, the other with a Sunni. Iraqi education was highly relevant to Egyptian intellectuals. Egyptian teachers and professors were often sponsored by the Ministry of Education, and they formed bonds of friendship with fellow Iraqi educators. In the mid-1930s, the Iraqi education system was divided between the Shi‘i intellectual Fadhil al-Jamali and his camp that championed pragmatist education acquired in vocational schools, and the Sunni Sati al-Husri and his supporters, who advocated elitist higher education.66 Since Egyptians worked as teachers in Iraqi high schools and universities, the debate affected their work. Zayyat supported the approach taken by Husri. He faulted the Shi‘i minister of finance, Rustam Haydar, for showing partiality to the Shi‘i and therefore chose to challenge the aims set by Husri.67 Mubarak’s loyalties represented a more intricate outlook since he befriended Jamali. Mubarak, like Jamali and unlike Zayyat, championed the adoption of uniforms in the school system68 and was impressed with certain educational policies promoted by the Iraqi government, such as its emphasis on cleanliness and athletic activities for its youth. These concepts of healthy masculinity, discipline, and the pedagogical power of the army were highly popular in Iraq, among both Sunnis and Shi‘is. Mubarak, however, differed from Jamali on the question of vocational education, asserting that training intellectuals in a particular field of knowledge promoted narrow-mindedness.69 In this sense, Mubarak took Husri’s, rather than Jamali’s, position. Some Egyptians were termed dukhala’, unwanted visitors or intruders, although this label was attached to a wide range of ethnic groups (Indians, British, non-Arabs). The salafi journal al-Yaqin urged Iraqis to “leave Egypt to the Egyptians,” primarily because Egyptian practices did not fit the Iraqi social milieu (hay’a ijtima‘yiya).70 The Shi‘i intellectual Fahmi al-Mudarris (1873–1944) likewise lamented the fact that Iraqis allowed strangers to occupy official and semiofficial posts, subsequently blocking the promotion of local Iraqis within their own administration. While it was somehow understandable that Iraqis sacrificed their livelihood by letting the British occupy certain positions, “because we lack professionals,” it was entirely unacceptable to give positions to “Easterners like us,” who do not possess more knowledge or ability than Iraqis.71 The anti-dukhala’ discourse continued well into the 1930s. At this point the number of trained and educated Iraqis increased and competition for

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positions in the state’s bureaucratic and educational networks intensified. In June 1938, an Iraqi student opened fire in the law faculty of Baghdad, killing the Egyptian Hasan Sayyif and injuring his Egyptian colleague Mahmud ‘Azmi. The student was later declared mentally ill, and the Egyptians themselves did much to publicize the fact that this was the act of a deranged individual that should not interfere with a harmonious IraqiEgyptian relationship. 72 Nevertheless, the ramifications of this incident were widely felt. One example in the religious domain is the condemnation of the anti-Shi‘i Egyptians, articulated by Sayyid Muhammad al-Sadr.73 The intricate sectarian understanding of Egyptian-Iraqi relations is reflected in a letter published by the mujtahid Muhammad Rida al-Muzaffar in al-Risala. “I am a Shi‘i and I march with Sunnis on the way of reform,” he declared. However, he condemned al-Azhar’s one-dimensional portrayal of the Shi‘is and emphasized the need to abandon the view of the Shi‘i sect as heretical. He concluded the letter by expressing his hopes that al-Risala would pave the path to intrasectarian understanding.74 Commentary on the feuds between al-Azhar and the Shi‘is appeared in many articles in both alHatif and the Lebanese journal al-‘Irfan, as Iraqi Shi‘is resented the fact that al-Azhar spoke in the name of Islam without regarding the specific Shi‘i worldview. Yet, as Rainer Brunner had shown, al-Azhar was engaged in a fruitful dialogue with Shi‘i scholars and documented these conversations in its journals.75 Muzaffar thus hoped that the Egyptian journal would function as a platform for dialogue between sects. He wished, in other words, to integrate into the Arab-Egyptian discourse, believing that his inclusion in the Arab print market opened the way toward changing this discourse from within. The Egyptians residing in Iraq provided ample causes for sectarian anger. The debate over Ahmad Amin’s Fajr al-Islam was important in this respect, since Amin headed the Egyptian delegation to Iraq and taught in the Teachers Training College. Shi‘i intellectuals, like the mujtahid Muhammad al-Husayn al-Kashif al-Ghita’ (1877–1954), felt that Amin’s views on Shi‘ism were unfounded and unfair.76 Zayyat was not much better than Amin. Hailing King Faysal I, Zayyat affirmed that Faysal “entered Iraq as the Imam Husayn did” with neither capital nor military power. “Yet Husayn followed the policies of ‘Ali and was destroyed, whereas Faysal followed the policies of the Mu‘awiyya caliph and ruled.”77 Obviously, this kind of criticism was highly offensive in a Shi‘i context. Both Egyptians and Iraqis used the term shu‘ubiyya to discredit the loyalties of those deemed hostile to pan-Arab nationalism. The shu‘ubiyya was a medieval literary movement that accentuated pre-Islamic Persian literature and history. In Iraq, the term shu‘ubi was often used to doubt the national loyalty of the Shi‘is by alluding to their Iranian inclinations, while in Egypt it was used to query the advocates of the Egyptian pharaonic tradition.

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The perception of the Egyptian intellectuals as sectarian pro-Sunni is deceptive, however, since the Shi‘i community was also represented in a very favorable light in their writings. ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam’s descriptions of the Iraqi Shi‘is were full of genuine admiration, though he expressed some criticism of the Agha Khan and disapproved of the use of chains in the ta‘ziyya processions. ‘Azzam expressed his highest regards to both Husayn and ‘Ali, highlighting the fact that their murders affected all Muslims.78 He eulogized the contribution of “our Sayyid, Husayn, peace be upon him” to Islamic culture and was deeply moved during his visit to Karbala’ because “they say that the blood of al-Husayn, may God be pleased with him, flowed here.” Commenting on his visit to the shrine of ‘Ali, he observed that “as we encircled it, we came under the spell of the grandeur of the place, and the enormity of memory.” His account of his visit to the Arab mujtahid of Najaf, Muhammad al-Husayn al-Kashif al-Ghita’, venerates the discussions between the master and his students, their argumentation, the mujtahid’s erudition, and the great library found in his home.79 The use of the verb t-w-f to mark the visit in the shrine of ‘Ali might semantically echo the word tawwaf that depicts the encircling of the Ka‘ba in Mecca. Furthermore, ‘Azzam’s language accentuates the significance of Husayn to the Sunni audience, by frequently repeating the words, “May the Praise of Allah be upon him.” Similar notions are conveyed when ‘Azzam visits Hilla: We passed by al-Hilla, the city of Safi al-Din al-Hilli. Although we had not originally planned on visiting the city, we found its people anticipating us. We visited the middle school . . . and entered the room of the principal. . . . We saw the photograph of Sa‘d Zaghlul on the wall. Then . . . we questioned the students. We were astounded by their bold answers and their enthusiasm in reciting poetry. . . . Enthusiasm and motion are the signs of all the youth in Iraq.80

‘Azzam utilizes the image of the Shi‘i poet Safi al-Din al-Hilli (1277–1349) to signify the spirituality of the city. The students in the classroom are again depicted with much admiration as emblems of commitment to Arabic literature. Most important, the city is loyal to Egypt since even in Hilla, an Egyptian can still find a photo of Zaghlul. To Zaki Mubarak, the Shi‘i community symbolized an authentic form of Arabism. He defined the people of Najaf as “men of science and literature,”81 cherished the originality of its Shi‘i poets, and regretted their lack of fame in the Arab world.82 Najaf reminded Mubarak of al-Azhar, since both were ancient university towns of the East that preserved the Arabic language.83 A former student in al-Azhar himself, Mubarak was reminded of his own youth in the city.84 When traveling to Kufa, Mubarak acknowledged that “my heart and eyes grew misty, even though I had been a student

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of Mansur Fahmi and Taha Husayn, because I saw the stabbing of ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib and his blood with my own eyes.”85 Mubarak’s emotional experience is conflicted with the ideas of both Taha Husayn and Mansur Fahmi that epitomized rational criticism. Yet the power of the Shi‘i romanticized space acts powerfully against any notions of reason. Mubarak wrote an interesting text during his stay in Baghdad, which revisited the poetry of alSharif al-Radi (970–1016).86 He portrayed the poet as one of the most prominent personas in Arabic culture and insisted that al-Radi was an equal to such acclaimed poets as al-Mutanabbi (915–965) or Abu al-‘Ala’ alMa‘arri (973–1057). Sectarianism, then, was not the only consideration in Egyptian-Iraqi politics. Husri, for example, challenged the views of Mubarak (on the meaning of the term umma), Taha Husayn (on education), and Ahmad Amin (on his notions of Islamic and Eastern identity)—all Sunnis. Jamali, on the other hand, was intent on maintaining good relationships with the Egyptians who taught in the Baghdadi institutions and encouraged the sending of missions to Egypt. Although the Egyptians did participate in the sectarian politics of Iraq, intellectuals like Mubarak and ‘Azzam wanted to open up a space within the new Arab culture in which Sunnis and Shi‘is could collaborate.87 The Egyptians, however, were disliked for other reasons that had nothing to do with their Sunni identity. The social-democratic group al-Ahali criticized Arab intellectuals for producing a false picture of Iraq’s splendid progress. Such pan-Arab intellectuals, they argued, only reported what the Iraqi authorities wanted them to see.88 Al-Ahali’s allegations were not unfounded. Although the Egyptians critiqued some policies of the Iraqi government, they enjoyed the state’s support. They attended parties in which politicians like Taha al-Hashimi, Nuri Sa‘id, Mata ‘Aqrawi, Fadhil Jamali, and Rustam Haydar were present and reported about such interactions with great pride.89 The social democrats thus insinuated that the democratically committed Egyptians were also sponsored by very antidemocratic Iraqi elements like Nuri Sa‘id. An example that corroborates al-Ahali’s criticism of the Egyptians was Zayyat’s portrayal of King Faysal I. Zayyat presented Faysal as a patriot who came to rule Iraq due to popular support, and enjoyed British help only because the British were eager to redeem their betrayal of the Arabs in World War I. One of the most beautiful features of true democracy, wrote Zayyat, was to see Faysal driving his car in Baghdad without the help of a driver. He was overjoyed when seeing Faysal’s face emerging with the morning sunrise.90 These depictions seemed to have been taken, word by word, from Iraqi publications. Sami Shawkat similarly depicted Faysal’s body as encircled with light, and noted that Faysal drove his own car even under hazardous conditions on mountainous roads.91

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Finally, Egyptians intellectuals were occasionally resented because of their arrogant approach to Iraqis. Below are some of Zaki Mubarak’s ruminations on Iraqi life: I anticipated to discover the remains of the ‘Abbasid city. . . . Only ruins survived from the ‘Abbasid era. . . . I assumed that Baghdad would posses the same decorative traditions that the Caliphs once knew, and I came across a city that knows nothing but wood. . . . I imagined Baghdad as a city inspired by modernity . . . but when my eyes first gazed upon it, I saw the ultimate Eastern city. . . . Baghdad remains the same as it was two generations ago, and you observe markets and bazaars like the ones Cairo had in the period of the Mamluks. . . . I even thought I would propose to the Prime Minster to destroy this city and build it from scratch. However, after a few days I did see that progress has taken its course.92

This is an Orientalist depiction. All the ingredients are here: disappointment that the real does not match the textual; distress at the inherent conflict between the glorious nature of the space in the past and its decadent and static state in the present; and the narrator’s assumption of the power to represent and modernize. Other descriptions of sites and objects in Baghdad (the transportation system, the public sphere) were likewise depicted as far inferior to Cairo.93 While Mubarak expressed the view that the contemporary philosophers of Cairo match those of Baghdad in the ‘Abbasid era, and of Paris in the Enlightenment era,94 he felt that Iraqi intellectuals are lacking in merit.95 This bestows upon Egypt, and upon its intellectuals, a civilizing mission to modernize Iraq, since Iraqi intellectuals could not perform the task of modernizing at an adequate pace. Mubarak’s comments may prove, to paraphrase the popular saying, that you can take the Egyptian intellectual out of the Nile Valley, but you cannot take the Nile Valley—or, more specifically, the pride of being an Egyptian—from the Egyptian intellectual. The Egyptians, including the most zealous pan-Arabists, still took great pride in their Egyptian culture. It is not surprising that ‘Azzam stated that “Egypt is the mother of cultures and the carrier of the banner of modern culture” to Iraqis.96 Other Iraqis, nonetheless, accepted the assumption that Egypt represented a more progressive civilization. The neoclassical poet Zahawi asserted that Egypt headed “the body of Arab countries” since its erudite elite enriched the rest of the Arab world. Egypt’s nahda gave hope to Iraq and Syria and to the rest of the Arab world, whose people were still living in the “dark, star-less night of ignorance.” Iraq, conversely, “had not yet enjoyed the sun of knowledge.” The nahda of Egypt was established on the basis of a modern social order that had enabled Egypt to dispose of primitive traditions and outdated beliefs. The key to Iraq’s success was to follow the path of its more enlightened Egyptian sister.97 We can hear Mubarak’s argumentation echoing in Zahawi’s words. Rusafi similarly depicted Egypt as part of

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an awakening East, a land where science, research, and criticism flourish.98 Egypt was the site for revival because of its scientific investigations and comprehensive knowledge. A reader in al-Hatif, reflecting on the meaning of patriotism (wataniyya), advised Iraq to follow the path set by Egypt in order to develop a healthy sense of nationalism. Iraqis, he contended, needed the sort of professional education that Egypt had implemented.99 Tawfiq Fakiki similarly maintained that in order for Iraq to broaden its education of women, raise the literacy rate, and promote local journalism and education, Iraqis ought to follow the constitutional experiences of three regimes: the Turkish, the Iranian, and the Egyptian.100 Fakiki’s comments emphasize the difference in perception between Egypt and Iraq. Despite the fact that Egyptian writers themselves debated the meanings of Kemalism and used religious symbols to depict Iraq, Fakiki equated the Egyptian and Turkish regimes as two secular administrations whose education and reform policies should be emulated in Iraq.

Conclusion Some Iraqis favored “leaving Egypt to the Egyptians.” They resented the cultural dominance of the Egyptians in the print market and wanted local Iraqis to populate the ranks of the bureaucracy. Yet in the sociocultural dynamics that typified the symbiotic relationship between the two nations, neither Egyptians nor Iraqis could leave Egypt for the Egyptians or Iraq for the Iraqis. Most of the texts I explored were intended to disseminate pan-Arab culture. They were read by educated Arabs who could decipher the intertextuality and historical references taken from the realm of medieval Arabic literature, and who appreciated the satirical and self-referential moments in such texts. These texts created a lively conversation among the readers on the nature of Arabic language and literature and shaped the modern Arabic literary canon. “To speak of the canon is to understand this process of cultural centralization,” writes Edward Said, given that “the privilege of the great work is that it sits at the center of the center.”101 The essays published by Iraqi and Egyptian intellectuals, nonetheless, reveal the ambiguities and tensions that accompanied the creation of the modern Arab literary canon. On the one hand, it was obvious to Iraqis that the center was situated in Cairo. On the other hand, both Iraqi and Egyptian writers, for very different reasons, wanted to create a new center, convinced of the fact that texts produced in Iraq were as appealing as those of the Egyptian hub. The debates between Egyptians and Iraqis should not be understood as sectarian, but rather in a socioeconomic context. Some Iraqi intellectuals and young professionals resented the Egyptians because they attempted to

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secure a livelihood for the nascent Iraqi middle classes and carve out space for Iraqi writers, journalists, and poets in a market that was saturated with Egyptian works. The complex representations of Iraq within the Arab print market complicate our strategies of analyzing texts written by pan-Arab nationalists. Each such text mirrors contradictory voices: of Egyptian and Iraqi nationalism(s), of an Arab sense of identity, of Islamic and Eastern identities. Although beyond the scope of this chapter, the descriptions of Iraq also reflect other modes of identity, in particular the Islamic and the Eastern. Iraq’s Islamic sites served as images accentuating Islamic unity, and thus the Arab-national vision was often colored with an Islamic palette.102 The multiplicity of contradictory narratives and metaphors within the texts of the pan-Arabists accentuates the variety of representations of the Arab nation within the pan-Arab discourse. The Arabist discourse of Zayyat was different from that of Mubarak, and both differed greatly from Shawkat’s visions of the nation, although all were classified as pan-Arab. In the final analysis, the story of the Egyptian intellectual community in Iraq is that of a problematic integration. Sometimes they felt superior to the Iraqis, while at other times they viewed the Iraqis as their equals. Yet even in the most Arabized Iraqi spaces, they still looked for Egypt. Although residing in the capital of the ‘Abbasids, they searched for the voice of Umm Kulthum.

Notes 1. A prolific novelist, poet, journalist, and literary critic, Mubarak studied in al-Azhar and earned a doctorate from the Egyptian University in Arabic literature. He later took a second Ph.D. in Arabic literature at the Sorbonne (1932). During his productive career, he wrote more than thirty books, including novels, collections of poetry, and essays on Arabic literature, literary criticism, and the history of Arabic literature. Mubarak wrote three books on Iraq: Layla al-mardia fi’l ‘Iraq: ta’rikh yufassil waqa‘i Layla bayna al-Qahira wa-Baghdad min 1926 ila sanat 1938 (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-‘Asriyya, 1976) (originally published in 1938–1939); Malamih al-mujtama‘ al-‘Iraqi: kitab yusawwiru al-‘Iraq fi madhahibih al-adabiyya wa’l-qawmiyya wa’l-ijtima‘yiya (Cairo: Matba‘at Amin ‘Abd al-Rahman, 1942); and Wahi Baghdad (Beirut: al-Maktaba al-‘Asriyya, 1938). On Mubarak see Anwar al-Jindi, Zaki Mubarak: dirasa tahliliyah li-hayatihi wa-adabihi 1892–1952 (Cairo: al-Dar al-Qawmiyya li’l-Tiba‘a wa’l-Nashr, 1962). 2. ‘Azzam attended al-Azhar and later the Egyptian University where he studied literature, philosophy, and foreign languages. He worked in the Egyptian Embassy in London and received an MA from the University of London, specializing in literature and in Oriental languages. In 1932 ‘Azzam completed his doctorate at the Egyptian University, an institution with which he became affiliated as a professor and a dean. He composed numerous works on Arabic and Eastern literatures, Sufism, poetry (Arabic, Urdu, and Persian), edited medieval manuscripts, and wrote on pan-Arab nationalism and Eastern identity. He traveled to Baghdad in December

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1935, where he remained for seven months. See ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam, Rihlat (Cairo: Matb‘at al-Risala, 1939); Zaki Mahasini, ‘Abd al-Wahhab ‘Azzam fi hayatihi, wa-atharuhu al-adabiyya (Cairo: Jami‘at al-Duwal al-‘Arabiyya, Ma‘had alBuhuth wa’l-Dirasat al-‘Arabiyya, 1968). 3. A literary critic, editor, and essayist. Zayyat was a graduate of al-Azhar and later studied literature and law at the Egyptian University and the Sorbonne. In 1933, he founded the influential cultural magazine al-Risala, which was widely read in the Arab world. Zayyat wrote on a variety of issues including pan-Arab theory, Islamic identity, as well as the history of Arabic literature and Arabic rhetoric. He stayed in Iraq between the years 1929–1933, and visited it during the late 1930s. Denis Walker, Ahmad Hasan Al-Zayyat: An Islamist and Pan-Arabist (Stosius Inc./Advent Books Division, 1985); ‘Ali ‘Abd al-Muttalib, al-Zayyat naqidan (Beirut: Dar al-Jalil, 1994). 4. Mubarak, Layla, p. 14. 5. Ibid., p. 271. 6. On Husri see William L. Cleveland, The Making of an Arab Nationalist; Ottomanism and Arabism in the Life and Thought of Sati‘ al-Husri (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971). 7. ‘Abd al-Jabbar Hasan al-Jabburi, Al-Ahzab wa’l-jam‘iyyat al-siyasiyya fi’l qatar al-Iraqi, 1908-1958 (Baghdad: Dar al-Huriyya, 1977), pp. 136–138. On interwar pan-Arabism see Ernest C. Dawn, “The Formation of Pan-Arab Ideology in the Inter-war Years,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 20, no. 1 (1988): 67–91; Phebe Marr, “The Development of Nationalist Ideology in Iraq, 1921–1941,” Muslim World 75, no. 2 (1985): 85–99; Michael Eppel, “The Elite, the Effendiyya, and the Growth of Nationalism and Pan-Arabism in Hashemite Iraq, 1921–1958,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 30, no. 2 (1998): 227–250. 8. FO 371/6353/5033, Office of the High Commissioner, Intelligence Report No. 21, 13 October 1921. 9. Fadhil al-Jamali, The New Iraq: Its Problem of Bedouin Education (New York: Teachers College, Columbia University, 1934), pp. 117–118. 10. Jamal al-Din al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat fi’l ‘Iraq (Baghdad: Matb‘at alMuthana, 1971), pp. 195–197. 11. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 148. 12. On Egypt and pan-Arabism see Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Egypt, Islam and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986); Israel Gershoni and James P. Jankowski, Redefining the Egyptian Nation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); and Israel Gershoni, The Emergence of Pan-Arabism in Egypt (Tel Aviv: Shiloah Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, ca. 1981). 13. Eve M. Troutt Powell, A Different Shade of Colonialism: Egypt, Great Britain, and the Mastery of the Sudan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003). 14. Albert Hourani, A History of the Arab Peoples (London: Faber and Faber, 1991), pp. 338–339. 15. Mubarak, Wahi Baghdad, p. 273; ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 191. 16. The title of Ibn Battuta’s work is Rihlat Ibn Battuta al-musama Tuhfat alnuzzar fi ghara’ib al-amsar. 17. Mubarak, Layla, p. 6. 18. Ibid. 19. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 26. See also Zayyat’s speech at the law faculty in Egypt, 3 March 1936, ibid., p. 147. 20. John Noyes, Colonial Space: Spatiality in the Discourse of German South

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West Africa 1884–1915 (Philadelphia: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1991), p. 242. 21. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 81. 22. Mubarak, Layla, pp. 82, 105, 120, 140; Mubarak, Malamih, pp. 132– 147. 23. Mubarak, Layla, p. 138. 24. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 87. 25. Mubarak, Malamih, pp. 338–339. 26. Mubarak, Wahi, pp. 22–26. 27. Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” Diacritics (Spring 1986): 22–27. 28. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 41. 29. Henri Lefebuvre, The Production of Space (Oxford and Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1991). 30. Al-Risala, 22 January 1940, p. 156. 31. See the reading practices of the young student in Dhu Nun Ayyub, “Mu’amarat al-aghbiya’,” in al-Athar al-kamila li-athar Dhi al-Nun Ayyub, vol. 1 (Baghdad: Wizarat al-I‘lam, 1978), pp. 39–50; ‘Aziz al-Hajj, Abu Hurayra alMawsili (London: Riyad al-Rayyis, 1990), pp. 50–51. 32. Yitzhak Nakash, Shi‘is of Iraq (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp. 53, 58. 33. ‘Amr Hasan Fayyad, Judhur al-fikr al-ishtiraki wa’l-taqaddumi fi’l ‘Iraq: 1920–1934 (Beirut: Dar Ibn Rushd, 1980), pp. 168–178. See also al-Ahali, 11 April 1932, no. 77, p. 5; ibid., 27 April 1932, no. 85, p. 1; ibid., 8 May 1932, no. 96, p. 4; ibid., 11 June 1932, no. 125, p. 1; and Vernon Egger, A Fabian in Egypt: Salamah Musa and the Rise of the Professional Classes in Egypt (Lahnman, MD: University Press of America, 1986). 34. Muzffar ‘Abd Allah al-Amin, Jama‘at al-Ahali, 1932–1946 (Beirut: alMu’assasa al-‘Arabiyya li’l-Dirasat wa’l-Nashr; Amman: Dar al-faris, 2001), p. 187. 35. Al-Ahali, 11 January 1932, no. 4, p. 1. 36. Amin, Jama‘at al-Ahali, p. 63. 37. Al-Ahali, 17 January 1932, no. 9, p. 1; ibid., 18 January 1932, no. 10, p. 1; ibid., 25 January 1932, no. 15, p. 1. 38. Al-Ahali, 9 March 1932, no. 49, p. 3. 39. ‘Abd al-Latf al-Rawi, Maqalat fi ta’rikh al-‘Iraq al-mu‘asar (Damascus: Dar al-Jalil, 1985), p. 33. 40. Fayyad, Judhur, pp. 186–191; Amin, Jama‘at al-Ahali, p. 262. 41. On early socialists see Hana Batatu, The Old Social Classes and the Revolutionary Movements of Iraq (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), pp. 299–230, 389–403. Mahmud Ahmad al-Sayyid referenced the journals al-Muqtataf and al-Hilal and the works of Qasim Amin. See Mahmud Ahmad al-Sayyid, alA‘mal al-kamila li Mahmud Ahmad al-Sayyid (Baghdad: Dar al-Hurriyya, 1978). 42. Al-Yaqin, 7 August 1923, no. 16, p. 589; ibid., 3 March 1923, no. 18, pp. 526–520; Nakash, Shi‘is of Iraq, p. 58. 43. Ahmad Matlub, al-Naqd al-adabi al-hadith fi’l ‘Iraq (Cairo: Ma‘had alBuhuth wa’l-Dirasat al-‘Arabiyya, 1968), pp. 57, 256–257. 44. Ahmad Matlub, al-Rusafi, ara’uhu al-lughawiyya wa’l-naqdiyya (Cairo: Ma‘had al-Buhuth wa’l-Dirasat al-‘Arabiyya, 1970), pp. 445–451. 45. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, pp. 14–15. 46. Mubarak, Layla, p. 344. 47. Ibid., p. 347. 48. On Taine and the national imagination see David Semah, Four Egyptian

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Literary Critics (Leiden: Brill, 1974); Charles D. Smith, Islam and the Search for Social Order in Modern Egypt: A Biography of Muhammad Husayn Haykal (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1983). 49. Al-Hatif 4, no. 159, 17 March 1939, p. 1. 50. Al-Hatif 4, no. 161, 31 March 1939, p. 1. 51. Al-Hatif 5, no. 187, 4 August 1939, p. 1. 52. Al-Sayyid, al-A‘mal al-kamila, p. 368. 53. Ibid., p. 160. 54. Al-Hatif 1, no. 12, 19 July 1935. 55. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 107. 56. Baqir Jawad al-Zajjaji, al-Riwayh al-‘Iraqiyya wa-qadiyat al-rif (Baghdad: Manshurat Wizarat al-Thaqafa wa’l-I‘lam, 1980). 57. Dhu Nun Ayyub, al-Yad wa’l-ard wa’l-ma’ (Baghdad: Wizarat al-I‘lam, 1978), vol. 3, pp. 223–357; Ja‘far Khalili, Fi qura al-jinn, 2nd ed. (Najaf: Matb‘at al-Ray’, 1948). On peasantry in Egyptian discourse see Samah Selim, The Novel and the Rural Imaginary in Egypt, 1880–1985 (New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2004). 58. For funerals, see the reports dealing with Zahawi’s death in the Iraqi journal al-Hasid, which featured articles by Zayyat, ‘Azzam, Taha Husayn, and Mazini: al-Hasid, 7 April 1937, p. 18. For the participation of Egyptians Mustafa Nakkhkas and ‘Abd al-Rahman ‘Azzam in the funeral of King Ghazi, see al-Risala, no. 1031, 22 May 1939. 59. Al-Risala, 9 March 1936, p. 38. 60. Israel Gershoni, “Beyond Anti-Semitism: Egyptian Responses to German Nazism and Italian Fascism in the 1930s,” EIU Working Papers, Mediterranean Programme Series, RSS, no. 32 (2001), pp. 9–12. See also Israel Gershoni, “Egyptian Liberalism in an Age of ‘Crisis of Orientation’: Al-Risala’s Reaction to Fascism and Nazism, 1933–39,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 31, no. 4 (1999): 551–576. 61. Al-Risala, 28 August 1935. 62. Al-Risala, 27 February 1939, p. 395; ibid., 6 March 1939, p. 443. 63. Sami Shawkat, Hadhihi Ahdafuna (Baghdad: Majjalat al-Mu‘allim alJadid, 1939). 64. Al-Risala, 23 August 1937. 65. On sectarian relations see Marion Farouk-Sluglett and Peter Sluglett, “Some Reflections on the Sunni/Shi‘i Question in Iraq,” Bulletin of the British Society for Middle East Studies 5, no. 2 (1978): 79–87; Sami Zubaida, “The Fragments Imagine the Nation: The Case of Iraq,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 34, no. 2 (2002): 205–215. 66. Nakash, Shi‘is of Iraq, p. 112; Reeva Simon, Iraq Between Two World Wars: The Creation and Implementation of a Nationalist Ideology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), Chapter 4; Sati‘ al-Husri, Ahadith fi’l tarbiyya wa’l-ijtima‘ (Beirut: Dar al-‘Ilm, 1962), pp. 113–115; and Sati‘ al-Husri, Naqd taqrir lajnat Monroe: rasa’il muwajjaha ila al-ustadh Paul Monroe hawla al-taqrir alladhi qaddamahu ila wizarat al-ma‘arif al-‘Iraqiyya (Baghdad: Matba‘at alNajah, 1932). 67. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 141. 68. Mubarak, Malamih, pp. 251–266; ‘Abd al-Razzaq al-Hilali, Zaki Mubarak fi’l ‘Iraq (Sayda: al-Matb‘a al-‘Asriyya, 1969), pp. 387–393. 69. Mubarak, Wahi, pp. 101–106. 70. Al-Yaqin, August 1922, p. 271. 71. Fahmi al-Mudarris, Maqalat Fahmi al-Mudarris (Baghdad: Matba‘at

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As‘ad, 1970), pp. 33–37, originally published in al-‘Alam al-‘Araba, 12 September 1924. 72. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, pp. 159–164. 73. Fu’ad Husayn al-Wakil, Jam‘iyyat al-ahali fi’l-‘Iraq 1932–1937 (Baghdad: al-Jumhuriyya al-‘Iraqiyya, Wizarat al-Thaqafa wa’l-I‘lam, 1980), pp. 259–261. 74. Al-Risala, 7 October 1935. 75. Rainer Brunner, Annaherung und Distanz: Schia, Azhar und die islamische Ökumene im 20. Jahrhundert (Berlin: K. Schwarz, 1996). 76. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 65; Ahmad Amin, Taha Husayn, and ‘Abd al-Hamid al-‘Abbadi, Fajr al-Islam: kitab fi thalathat ajza’ yabhathu ‘an al-hala al-‘aqliyya wa’l-siyasiyya wa’l-adabiyah fi sadr al-Islam ila akhir al-dawla al-Umawiyya (Cairo: Matba‘at al-I‘timad, 1928). 77. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 135. 78. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 55. 79. Ibid., p. 65. 80. Ibid., p. 69. 81. Mubarak, Layla, p. 144. 82. Mubarak, Wahi, p. 300. 83. Mubarak, Malamhim, p. 59; Mubarak, Layla, p. 144. 84. Mubarak, Wahi, p. 374. 85. Mubarak, Layla, p. 148. 86. Zaki Mubarak, ‘Abqariyyat al-Sharif al-Radi (Cairo: Matba‘at ‘Abd alRahman, 1939–1940); on the poet see Moktar Djebli, “al-Sharif al-Radi,” Encyclopedia of Islam, 9 (1991): 340–343. 87. See also Zayyat’s positive positions on Shabibi in al-Alusi, Adab alZayyat, pp. 176–194. 88. Al-Ahali, 24 April 1932, no. 84, p. 1; ibid., 25 April 1932, p. 1; Amin, Jama‘at al-Ahali, p. 182. 89. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 72; Mubarak’s books, Layla, pp. 89–90, 112, 121, 183, 190–192, 218, 235, 274–275; Wahi, p. 122; Malamih, pp. 152–164. 90. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, pp. 132–134. 91. Shawkat, Hadhihi Ahdafuna, pp. 21–22. 92. Mubarak, Wahi, pp. 16–22. 93. Ibid., p. 285. 94. Ibid., p. 169. 95. Ibid., p. 212. 96. ‘Azzam, Rihlat, p. 46. 97. Al-Hilal, 7 April 1923, pp. 699–704. 98. Al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, p. 119. 99. Al-Hatif 4, no. 127, 24 June 1938, p. 3. 100. Ibid., 6, no. 217, 24 May 1940, p. 1. 101. Edward W. Said, Reflections on Exile and Other Essays (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), p. xxx. 102. See the comparison Zayyat draws between the roles of the mosques in Cairo, Damascus, Jerusalem, and Baghdad in al-Alusi, Adab al-Zayyat, pp. 148–149.

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8 River Blindness: Black and White Identity in Early Nasserist Cinema Joel Gordon

T

HE 1950 FARID AL-ATRASH MUSICAL, AKHIR KIZBA (THE LAST LIE),

ends, as do so many of the classics, with an on-stage, all-stops-pulled musical extravaganza in which special effects—including costume and set changes—require a suspension of reality. “Busat al-rih” (Magic Carpet) entails a wistful Arabian Nights–style journey taken by the singer and his co-stars, the belly dancer Samia Gamal and comic Isma‘il Yasin. They touch down in several Arab countries, where they praise the beauty of the landscape and, especially, the charms of the local girls. “Magic Carpet, beautiful, comfortable, safe,” Farid sings, yearning to find “remedy”— presumably for both physical and emotional drifting—in the places he lands.1 The travelers make four stops—if we count several verses with multiple sites. At each, they are joined by a female vocalist and a chorus of dancing girls. Costumes and backdrop change to reflect the very different geographic locales. The women’s outfits are fairly generic takes on the “harem girl,” the belly dancer’s always the most revealing; the male leads change headdress and gowns. In Lebanon and Syria, where “the breeze cures the soul,” Farid sings of “slender girls with pretty eyes and rosy cheeks.” In Baghdad, where “we defend our rights with the sword,” he feminizes the River Tigris, with “eyelashes like arrows aimed at my heart.” Next are Marrakesh and Tunis, “where lips are tasty and eyes bewitching.” The last stop, naturally, is Egypt. Farid entreats the magic carpet to hurry; he is anxious to see “the Nile Valley.” For this abbreviated final verse the performers depart from form, abandoning the solos and singing in chorus:

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I’ve seen many countries, but I like Egypt. I’ve never seen, must come back . . . There’s no beauty like ours, no kindness like ours— Beautiful country, our country.

The backdrop highlights pyramids and a fleet of feluccas. Farid now dons the garb of an Egyptian fallah, a striped cloth galabiyya and woven taqiyya, a variant of an outfit he wore in earlier staged musical numbers, but here less glittery. There are several things worth noting about this magic carpet tour of the Arab world. Akhir kizba is first and foremost an Egyptian film, produced on sound lots on the edge of Cairo, “Hollywood on the Nile.” It is a classic genre film, a romantic “backstage” (or “realist”) musical comedy in which the leads are performers. Contemporary viewers would recognize the familiar stars and supporting actors, all in familiar roles. Fans would know that Farid and Samia, feuding lovers, had played together in three prior films and that they were romantically involved offscreen. And audiences would chuckle at one certain intertextual reference to their most recent collaboration, released earlier the same year: in one comic interchange Samia remarks sarcastically to Farid, “If I’m an ‘afrit [sprite], I’m ‘Afrita Hanum [lady sprite]!”. The Egyptian-ness of the venture is underscored by the ease with which the Syrian-born Farid al-Atrash is able to personify a son of the soil—at least within a musical-comedy context.2 If we are to accept that his closest musical rivals—Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Umm Kulthum, and the soon to emerge ‘Abd al-Halim Hafiz—rooted their musical legitimacy in large part on their rural backgrounds and, in the case of the former two, quranic training that underpinned enunciation and mastery of Arabic3—how so the nephew of a mountain Druze chieftain? This suspension of belief is enhanced by the participation of two foreign-born supporting players, Stefan Rosti (Austria) and ‘Abd al-Salam al-Nabulsi (Lebanon), who are both noteworthy for their exaggerated khawaga (foreign) accents. In essence, what we have here is an immigrant (surrounded by several other immigrants) who, like many others in the industry, had been embraced by Egyptians—underscoring for an Egyptian and Arab audience Egypt’s centrality in the Arab world. The directional axis of the magic carpet ride is, significantly, east-west, with Egypt at the geographic center (the carpet actually travels east, then west, then back east); the décor is purely “Oriental.” At the same time, the textual reference for the sojourners’ homecoming refers to a north-south axis, the Nile Valley. The scenic backdrop highlights the great river and the setting is rural “heartland.” “Beautiful country.” To whatever extent intellectuals, politicians, or preachers tried to orient them toward the Mediterranean or Arabia, Egyptians, especially nationalists, remained rooted in the north-south axis

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defined by the Nile Valley, and never more so than when the country prepared to throw off colonial rule and embark on a new era of independence and self-determination. In 1950 King Farouk was still officially the ruler of Egypt and Sudan. But in the aftermath of the July 1952 Free Officers’ coup, the purging of the old political order, the evacuation of foreign forces, and, not least, the recognition of Sudanese self-determination, how far would— or should—Egypt’s sovereignty over the valley reach? If all “roads” on the magic carpet ride led to home—“our country”—where was home? One place to look for answers (or questions) is the movie house. With rules, as well as rulers, changing and the studios awash in capital, the cinema increasingly became a venue for the propagation of popular sentiment during the first decade of revolutionary rule. Egypt’s new rulers looked to the industry—and medium—to help them reorder, rejuvenate, and transform society. Critics hoped that with changing times the industry might better approximate an art form. Young filmmakers especially, eager to topple old censorship bastions, sought to tell more “Egyptian” tales, which included more honest depictions of social ills. So long as those ills could be placed in historical, old-regime context or mitigated at the conclusion by a forwardlooking new order, Nasser’s censors gave them the green light. The 1950s were an era of great energy in Egypt’s studios, the beginning or the end, depending on one’s politics, but an era nonetheless in which a new cinema emerged.4 So how was the country’s relationship to the Nile expressed in popular film in the years just after Akhir kizba and, shortly thereafter, Gamal Abdul Nasser’s Falsafat al-thawra (Philosophy of the Revolution)? What is Egypt as represented on the canvas of the home industry’s silver screen? To what extent did popular depictions of the Nile Valley attempt to convey, let alone succeed in conveying, the full breadth of the valley, especially its upper, southern reaches? And what of Egypt’s brothers/sisters to the south in Sudan, who were, at least in the emotional rhetoric of the day, linked to what Farid, the Syrian Druze immigrant, calls “our country”? Whose Nile was it, anyway?

Roots: Which Way Does the Nile Flow? To put these questions another way, who or what was an Egyptian and how far did Egypt reach? Such questions cut to the heart of both colonial and anticolonial imaginings. Where should one start—with the British-imposed Anglo-Egyptian Condominium of 1899, described as a “sacred international agreement,” a point that Egypt’s cultural attaché to the United States recalled in a letter to the Washington Post in November 1951, at the height of the “popular struggle” against the British in the Suez Canal Zone?5 To

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Egyptian nationalists like Mustafa Kamil and Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid—figures from rival political camps who are usually posited on opposite poles— the condominium, symbolic unity in name only, represented an affront to Egyptian sovereignty, the theft of a “piece” of Egypt “stripped from her” illegally. Nationalist Egyptians rejected talk of Egyptian colonialism, a sensitive charge to level against them, by insisting that the Egyptians and Sudanese were in fact one people, which went against the grain of European racialist ideology and the manipulation by colonial authorities endeavoring to reify “racial” distinctions. Or, if colonialism it was, it was colonialism of a different stripe, beneficent and brotherly. Sudanese desires for independence, it followed, could then be explained away as the “native fanaticism” of a “rigid and fanatical” south in need of northern guardianship, but manipulated against the Egyptians by the British occupiers.6 By the early 1950s such credos had taken on their own sacred nature, becoming what Hussein Zulficar Sabry, the Egyptian who negotiated Sudanese self-determination on behalf of the Nasser regime, later termed an “immemorial truth”: Claims for the independence of Egypt, and for unity of the Nile Valley fused into a slogan which Egyptian patriots came to consider an immemorial truth. Transmitted from one generation to another, the import of the words sank deep into the socio-political unconscious of the masses. Such slogans die hard.7

Sabry, who in his recollections spoke forthrightly of “Sudan’s subjugation to Egyptian sovereignty,” rejected such “truths.”8 Yet a cursory glance at the Egyptian press or government publications from the early, prerevolutionary 1950s underscores the extent to which the “Unity of the Nile Valley” remained a focal point of public rhetoric, and the degree to which Egypt officially considered Sudan its backyard, a sphere in which Egyptian culture had always predominated. The December 1951 edition of Egypt News, a glossy newsletter produced by the Egyptian Information Bureau in Washington, DC, asserted that the “Nile Valley Is One Country.” The article’s subtitle noted that it was the British who had drawn an “artificial line of separation” between Egypt and Sudan. Highlighting all the ironies of the colonized mindset, to validate its assertion the government publication turned to a “historic statement” from, of all sources, Winston Churchill’s The River War: I can imagine no better illustration of the intimate and sympathetic connection between Egypt and the southern provinces. The water—the life of the Delta—is drawn from the Soudan, and passes along the channel of the Nile, as the sap passes up the stem of the tree, to produce a fine crop of fruit above. . . . The advantages of the connection are mutual; for if the Soudan is thus naturally and geographically an integral part of Egypt,

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Egypt is no less essential to the development of the Soudan. Of what use would the roots and the rich soil be, if the stem were severed, by which alone their vital essence may find expression in the upper air.9

The roots of the tree may lie in the river’s upper reaches, but the article highlights the reverse flow of cultural and civilizational influence, in which the fruits of the northern branches—pharaonic, Arabic, and Islamic cultures and civilizations—enriched the south. “The process of Egyptian penetration in the Sudan,” the article reminds its readers, “was accomplished by peaceful means.”10 The casual, if naive utilization of what today would be regarded as an aggressive sexual metaphor may appear quaint. But what of the equally casual marginalization of Sudan’s “black” population? The next issue of Egypt News contains a letter reprinted from the Washington Post by Frank C. Sakran, presumably Egyptian in origin but identified only as “a Washington attorney who knows the Near East.” In his letter to the editors, Sakran took issue with a recent Post editorial that had questioned a public assertion by the Egyptian ambassador that Egypt’s Sudanese “brothers” wished to be reunited with Egypt.11 The offending editorial, which ran on 4 December 1951, betrayed the metropole’s lingering attachment to racialist categorization: At any rate, the Sudanese are not “brothers” of the Egyptians. They are as separate in their racial stock as the Irish are from the British, and in the past have fought the Egyptians successfully, even when the Egyptians have been allied on the battlefield with the British. Sudan in Arabic means “black,” and, except for the official language, the languages in the Sudan are for the most part African Negro. Egypt, on the contrary, speaks Arabic, and the Egyptians are Egyptians—neither Africans (though that is what King Abdullah of Jordan used to call them) nor Arab.12

Sakran, resorting to a time-worn nationalist cliché, retorted by emphasizing the deep historical and cultural ties that had bound the two countries to one another since antiquity. “Egyptians and other Arabs” had migrated continuously until the British had erected barriers, but the “process of immigration and fusion has completely Arabized the Sudan, with the result that today its people, including some of the Negro tribes in the south, not only speak the Arabic language, but also profess Islam, the religion of the Arab Prophet.” While the Negroes still predominate in the south, “their numbers are not large enough to change the total picture, any more than the presence of 14 million Negroes changes the total picture in the United States.”13 According to Egyptian Information Bureau editors addressing a US audience, the Sakran letter “needs no explanation or comment.” But what was the “total picture” for the Egyptian audience—those who flocked to Egypt’s flourishing movie houses in search of entertainment in an era of

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revolutionary change? There are not many glimpses—and most are fleeting—of either Egypt’s darker citizens or its black southern brothers and sisters. But if we do not blink too quickly, if we look in far corners for diversions from the main action, and especially if we look to fill the gaps in the national (or regional) narrative, those glimpses may prove as revealing as what we do not find on screen. Of course any discussion of Egypt’s Nubian citizens must also be placed in the broader context of sa‘idis, even, one might argue, rural folk in general. Prior to the Free Officers’ coup, the countryside remained an idealized, if somewhat exotic symbolic site—the national heartland of the native sons and daughters. Depictions of dire poverty were taboo. Peasants could, as in Youssef Chahine’s Ibn al-Nil (Nile Boy, 1951), dream of escaping the tedium of agrarian life for the gold-paved streets of the capital. Running away to Cairo fit the modernist paradigm and did not threaten the prevailing exploitive socioeconomic order. And in most cases—Ibn al-Nil as well as Salah Abu Sayf’s later Shabab imra’a (A Woman’s Youth, 1956)—the city turns out to be a corrupting den of iniquity. Landowners were not necessarily paragons of virtue. They produced offspring with their more attractive servants (as did urban elites), but fearing scandal they left them to be scullery maids, ignorant of their lineage. This despite the fact that, as portrayed by light-skinned actresses with clear foreign and/or upper-class features—for example, Shadia in Amal (1952) or Maryam Fakhr al-Din in alArd al-tayyiba (The Good Earth, 1953)—their onscreen origins were eminently obvious. More often than not—and whether or not the misguided pasha lived to see it—the heroine inherited her due. At the same time, to keep the order intact, even if somewhat more humane, she wound up falling for and being courted by a dashing young aristocrat whose skin tone, naturally, matched her own (in the cases cited above the actors were Muhsin Sirhan and Kamal al-Shinawi). The rural narrative would change with the coming of the Nasser revolution. Chahine’s Sira‘ fi’l-wadi (Blazing Sun, 1954) is the mold breaker. Not only does the pasha’s well-bred daughter romance the overseer’s son—a now fully acceptable cross-class affair that would play itself out in numerous films14—but the pasha and his nephew represent an insidious, archaic social class that will stop at nothing to prolong its stranglehold on the virtuous salts of the earth. The problem with such nobly minded films is that the fallahin (workers) are too easily manipulated by their social betters, who play them off against each other with cruel ease. Chahine’s 1955 follow-up, Sira‘ fi’l-mina’ (Dark Waters) tells the same story but on the waterfront. Of course it is also a given that peasants (and urban poor), whether before or after the revolution, were played by trained actors and established film stars who occasionally (although not always) darkened their features

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and always spoke in stylized rural accents. Missing totally from these narratives are the darkest Upper Egyptians. Many such films have a generic sa‘idi look and setting; their stories could be situated anywhere between Luxor and Cairo. But in the 1950s, the penchant for on-site outdoor filming allows us to more precisely situate certain stories. Sira‘ fi’l-wadi, starring Omar Sharif as the overseer’s son (with Fatin Hamama as the pasha’s daughter), was filmed against the scenic backdrop of the Valley of the Kings, with the climactic shoot-out set in a real temple. Chahine’s earlier Ibn al-Nil, with Shukri Sirhan as the peasant hero (opposite Fatin Hamama as his wife) is situated in Nubia, around Philae. So is Niyazi Mustafa’s Dama‘ ‘ala al-Nil (Tears on the Nile, 1961), an action B-movie starring Farid Shawqi as a returning soldier—a modern socialized son of the soil— who cannot avoid being drawn into a traditional, backward vendetta. None of these films feature any characteristic Nubian faces except as distant backdrop. At the end of Dama‘ ‘ala al-Nil, for example, there are some obvious local extras in a long shot of the crowd that gathers to observe the climactic shoot-out, filmed, like the earlier Chahine film, in a local pharaonic temple. Those dark faces that we do see and sometimes recognize when they appear in films from the era, populate upper-class urban dramas and, more often, comedies. They are, of course, the faces of maids, butlers, servants, and boabs (doorkeepers). They are generally comical figures, often bemused by their masters’ antics, sometimes party to plots designed to undermine household authority, and frequently the object of verbal and physical abuse—always in comic context—that is not infrequently marked by obvious visual references to skin color. The most famous of these actors was Muhammad Kamil, the light-skinned, comical Nubian character actor who played in some forty films over a twenty-year span between the early 1940s and early 1960s. With his high-pitched semi-stutter, Kamil is instantly recognizable as the master’s cheeky, flustered butler, always in formal gallabiyya and turban. He generally played in tandem with other nonNubian character actors who specialized in subaltern roles—like Widad Hamdi, the classic brassy maid—and generally had one scene in which he was able to perform his routine.15 With the Nubian role so limited, there was apparently (and thankfully) no need for non-Nubian actors to don blackface to play such parts.16 When non-Nubian artists did paint their faces, it was to perform minstrel routines; these were rare (see Anwar Wagdi, Ismail Yasin, and Fayrouz in Dahab from 1953) and seem to mimic generic rather than local/regional notions of color and race. In earlier years, of course, there was ‘Ali al-Kassar, one of Egypt’s stage and screen comic giants. Kassar played his most infamous character, the Nubian wise-fool, Osman ‘Abd al-Basit, at least half a dozen times (if not more) on the silver screen, between the mid-1930s and 1940s.

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Thereafter, he increasingly played supporting roles in a variety of guises until his last screen appearance in 1954. We might suspect—particularly if we accept Kassar’s Osman as, at least in part, representative of “dignity in the face of British imperialism” and an “emblem of the Nile Valley’s unity”17—that the background and cameo appearances of Nubian servants and the near absence of Sudanese characters represent a decided diminution with regard to their visibility in popular entertainment. There are, as far as I can discern, only a very few feature films from the early Nasser era that are exceptions to the rule. Each in its own way underscores the gap between pop culture and the official national narrative of the “Unity of the Nile Valley.”

On Site: Honeymooning in Nubia Inta habibi (You’re My Lover, 1957) is not one of Youssef Chahine’s most notable, nor favorite films. It is in some respects a throw-away, the unlikely transition between the heavily melodramatic but socially conscious Sira‘ films—Sira‘ fi’l-wadi and Sira‘ fi’l-mina’—and his 1958 masterpiece, Bab al-hadid, in which he first established himself as an auteur. Chahine, for all of his love for the musical genre (celebrated, for example, in his autobiographical Iskandariya lay? [Alexandria, Why? 1979]), did not enjoy working with his star, Farid al-Atrash, nor within the strictures imposed by his producers.18 A comic musical romp starring Farid, Shadia, and Hind Rostam, Inta habibi is a classic formula film that might have been directed by any of the industry’s master craftsmen. Non-kissing cousins Farid (Farid) and Yasmine (Shadia) accept familial pressure and marry for convenience, agreeing to pocket their matrimonial reward, 100,000 Egyptian pounds, then divorce. With Nana (Hind Rostam), Farid’s sexy dancer girlfriend tagging along, they head south to Aswan for their honeymoon, where they actually fall in love. In Chahine’s hands, however, the film becomes something special, and, in certain respects, a trial run for some classic scenes in Bab al-hadid.19 One thing that clearly marks Inta habibi as a Chahine film is the director’s eye for scenery. Chahine was one of several young filmmakers who took their crews out into the streets and fields in attempts to widen the accepted camera gaze. Chahine, in fact, claims to have been the first to film in Upper Egypt, with Ibn al-Nil in 1951.20 In part this reflected the postwar trend in Hollywood—enhanced in the US market by Panavision and Cinemascope—to film on location, especially at sites with striking physical vistas. To a lesser extent it also reflected postwar European neorealism. Chahine’s best films are stuck smack in these intersections. Here he adds a bit of old-fashioned screwball comedy to the mix.

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The Aswan interlude, roughly half the film, provides a backdrop to what is essentially a bedroom (and hotel suite) romp. Here on location at the famed Cataract, most of the help are locals and, essentially, comic foils. The primary figure—and foil—is a middle-aged black hotel attendant, uniformed in gallabiya and turban, who serves as comic sidekick and who is featured in sight and sound gags in several prominent scenes. This character becomes party to the newlyweds’ marital squabbles when he provides room service. In an early scene, when he and another bellhop decide to investigate the source of Yasmine’s screams by unlocking their room and peeking in, he winds up with a face full of cosmetic powder thrown in his direction. Shortly thereafter, in another instance of walking in between feuding guests, he takes a white-frosted birthday cake in the face, this time thrown by Nana. These “whiteface” gags play off an earlier stunt in which a tripod camera flash exploded, leaving the face of Farid’s father (Sirag Munir) covered in black soot. In one of the longest sustained comic scenes, the same character, now a hapless waiter, delivers soup and pasta to Farid and Simsim (‘Abd al-Salam al-Nabulsi), Yasmine’s newly arrived lover, who confound him when they repeatedly switch tables, jockeying between female rivals. Unable to tell the two “white” men apart, the Nubian waiter becomes agitated until taking a comic swoon. The only other servants given face in the film are a young preadolescent boy who works as a bellhop and a girl his age who appears on the scene for a musical number by Yasmine; she is kind to them, albeit in a patronizing way, and sings them a song. When the boy invites Yasmine and her party to a local wedding, she instinctively assumes that he is the groom—despite, or because of, his age. The other locals, who serve throughout purely as background props, are generally befuddled by the antics of the northern, urban hotel guests. The scene during which the honeymooners take a day trip to an oasis to attend the wedding of the young Nubian boy’s sister heightens the complexity of the “racial” depictions in the film. Shot on location in a tent encampment (rather than a more common Nubian village), the setting is overloaded with exotica. Yasmine, wearing tight capris and a form-fitting top with wide vertical stripes, wanders freely through the encampment and sits for a local fortune-teller—a comical, fast-talking Nubian woman who quizzes her on her love life. As the bride arrives in her mahmal, atop a camel, Yasmine sings; Farid joins in and Nana, decked out in a heavily sequined nightclub outfit, dances for male and female guests. “Zayna zayna” (Beauty) begins to the reed pipes and native drums of the local wedding band, but quickly becomes a generic Arabic movie song. Like the setting—semi-Nubian/semiBedouin—the number evokes mixed metaphors, a “disjuncture between filmic image and musical score” in which “true urbanites play out a fantasy of desert Arabness”21—or in this case, Nubianness (see Figure 8.1).

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Figure 8.1 Egyptian urbanites visit a Nubian wedding— Shadia in the film Inta habibi.

For immediate plot purposes, it is here, at the wedding of two simple peasant-nomads, that our urban Egyptian lovers become more conscious of their own true feelings for each other (although there will still be some thirty minutes until ultimate resolution). But the entire scene is really designed to evoke “local color.” And what makes it unique is that the local color is primarily black. Chahine’s camera zooms in on the faces of white-turbaned men and tattooed, black-clad women, all obvious local extras. Several men stick-dance in the background. When Shadia sings she is framed by a local woman and a camel. Several times the camera focuses on the separate faces of the very dark bridegroom, strikingly handsome but with a goofy, toothy smile, and his much lighter bride. But if this color is “local,” is it really Egyptian-local? What happens when the camera’s gaze, as in Inta habibi, heads south of Luxor and the Valley of the Kings? Can the camera gaze be anything but voyeuristic in such a setting? The natives are officially Egyptian. But not in the same way as their sa‘idi conationals to the north, and certainly not in the same way as their visitors— the Druze Farid al-Atrash, the half-Turkish Shadia, Levantine ‘Abd alSalam al-Nabulsi, and the very urban-looking ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Ibrahim, Zaynat Sidqi, and Hind Rustam. The essence of the natives’ “otherness” is the exchange of glances between local bride and groom. The looks are innocent and chaste. They contrast with those more complicated looks of the urbanites who are pretending to share marital quarters while sneaking off to meet their lovers. Deliberately or not, the film reasserts a classic trope of the colonial gaze, “the stage for the deployment of phantasms,”22 wherever the colony. To the viewers’ eyes the Nubian bride and groom could just as well be the celebrated Javanese child newlyweds from the 1893 Columbian Exposition: Their customs are peculiar as their beliefs. . . . Marriage with them is only a convenience, and polygamy is not uncommon. Early marriages are

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encouraged, and the age at which contracts are usually made is when the boy reaches fourteen and the girl twelve. Such a marriage took place between a Javanese couple of those years at their village in the Midway Plaisance, and was celebrated in an imposing manner. The young bride wears an expression of the highest felicity, a feeling which her husband undoubtedly shares, but as he is having his picture taken he considers it more manly to assume an air of indifference, as though getting married were an every-day occurrence with him. . . . The little wife, on the contrary is bubbling over with joy, and doesn’t care who knows it; she is trying her best to take care of the first precious husband she ever had, as she can never love another man in the whole world.23

Chahine may not intend to “other” his subjects to this extent, but he does not leave much room here to establish lines of commonality or communality, except in the broadest “Family of Man” sense. His exotic Nubia might as well be anywhere between Cairo and Capetown. It seemingly could never be a stop on Farid’s earlier magic carpet ride around the Arab world.

On Site: Tarzan and Jane in Sudan If not Nubia, what of Sudan? Egypt’s southern neighbor is featured, in a roundabout way, in one 1950s-era film that might well have been received with mixed reviews in Khartoum. Isma‘il Yasin Tarzan (1958) is the eighth of the fourteen films headlining Egypt’s super-comic at the peak of his thirty-four-year, 206-film career. A comic sidekick since the early 1940s, often for Farid al-Atrash, Yasin had by the 1950s become a star in his own right (although some of his best roles remain in the category of supporting actor).24 Tarzan is not quite typical for the “Isma‘il Yasin” headline films, most of which put the actor in a branch of the military or in some government capacity (police, army, secret police, etc.). In this film he plays the archetypal jungle-reared lost child of aristocracy who is discovered/hunted and brought back to civilization. Here it is his long-lost relatives who search for him so that they might fulfill terms of a will left by a recently departed ‘Ali Assad (‘Ali Lion). Feigning grief before the estate solicitor, the dead man’s brother (Stefan Rosti) and his foppish son (‘Abd al-Salam al-Nabulsi) volunteer to form a search party to track down Lion’s son, Nimr (Tiger), who twenty-five years earlier had been lost in the jungle. No one ever says where they go to seek Tarzan, save that the destination is the “South.” The scenery, after some documentary “wild kingdom” footage of elephants and a puma being devoured by a python, is generic, back-lot studio jungle, the Africa of dime novel and matinée imagination. The soundtrack over the credits—and Tarzan’s theme tune—is a familiar blend of drum beats (almost the US Native American four-beat count) and Arabian Nights pipes. Our heroes, dressed in shorts and pith helmets,

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accompanied by loyal if somewhat timid, dark-skinned native guides, encounter fierce lions on the trail and a venomous snake in their tent. Their cheerful chief guide and native dragoman talks the snake out of the tent and helps them communicate with Nimr/Tarzan, when they encounter him. A cheeky telephone operator at a bush exchange—the irrepressible Muhammad Kamil in a cameo—helps connect them with relatives back in Cairo/civilization (see Figure 8.2). On one level it is all good fun, and much of the comedy is uproarious. The boisterous “great white hunter” act by Rosti and Nabulsi, and the entire ensemble portrayal of the Egyptian leisurely class, poke fun at the presumptions of social stratification and civilization. The same goes for Isma‘il Yasin’s Tarzan, both before and after his acculturation into high society. There are numerous playful jibes at popular mass culture. When their guide informs them that Tarzan might be lured by music, the Cairene hunters suggest Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab or Farid al-Atrash. When Tarzan eats a record off their gramophone, they tell him there are plenty of such “biscuits” in Cairo, naming the leading recording companies: Randophone, Misrophone, and Odeon. Yet the location of this exotic jungle world is never in doubt. After listing the primary players, the opening credits refer to three performers from al-Sudan al-shaqiq, the “brother country,” the phrase that became common parlance once Sudanese independence vanquished the “immemorial dream” of everlasting Nile Valley unity. One is the actor Khalid al-‘Ajbani, presumably the aforementioned dragoman guide. The second is Ibrahim ‘Awad, the Sudanese pop singer, in his mid-twenties at the time, who appears from nowhere—out of the bushes—to call forth the ape-man with a sweet local serenade, and the third is the composer of that song, “Izhar wa ban” (Reveal

Figure 8.2 The irrepressible Nubian, Muhammad Kamil, connects the great white hunter, Stefan Rosti, with civilization in Isma’il Yasin Tarzan.

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Yourself), Bar‘i Muhammad Raf‘ Allah. Listed prior to this, with the Egyptians, is Muhammad Kamil, the Nubian comic, who plays a cheeky, intrusive telephone operator, stationed somewhere in the middle of nowhere, to whom the hunters go early on to report home their initial failure to locate their prey. The satirical set-up for the musical number by Ibrahim ‘Awad speaks directly, if lightly, to those aspects of local culture and taste that distinguish brothers and sisters at the northern and southern edges of the Nile Valley. Relaxing at base camp, the hunters pull out their gramophone and put on a recording by Umm Kulthum. “What’s wrong with his dark complexion? It’s the secret to his beauty,” she sings—lyrics that cannot in this case be accidental. Responding to the music, Tarzan attacks playfully from the treetops by dropping coconuts on them, then swings down to greet them with naughty slaps to cheeks and head. Before he runs off, the Egyptian hunters notice his telltale tattoo. Their guide informs them that Tarzan can be enticed back by music and dancing, but the recording of a clarinet-led jazz combo playing swing fails to produce results. “He doesn’t like this music. We’ll sing him a song he likes.” The foppish son (Nabulsi) takes the needle off the gramophone, and the camera cuts to three native musicians sitting amid other locals. They play drum, wood xylophone, and gourds—but in the background cool saxophones sound. Suddenly, Ibrahim ‘Awad appears, sporting city garb: a long-sleeved, button-down shirt, wide open at the neck, with high-waisted, pleated pants. His straightened, slicked hair brushed back in a pompadour, he looks a dead ringer for any of a number of African-American pop singers of the day— Jackie Wilson, Johnny Mathis, or Nat King Cole. He sings in Arabic but in a Sudanese dialect. His voice is soft, his diction effortless. He sways his hips ever so mildly. Reveal yourself. All is clear. You’ve been missing for a long time. The sun rises in time—the moon comes and goes. And you that have been long gone, you’ve been missed.

The camera cuts away, then back, to find the singer joined by a couple dancing slowly, side by side, their arms around each other’s waist. The man wears the knee-length khaki shorts and white turban of the hunting party’s guides. The woman is cloaked in a white thawb, at least until the Cairene son disrobes her, leaving her in a calf-length, sleeveless, flower-patterned dress. The couple is joined by the singer and the chief guide; they all dance together, the guide occasionally leading the band, until the number ends, after which they disappear from the scene and further action (see Figure 8.3). ‘Awad’s presence, certainly in retrospect but also undoubtedly at the time, speaks volumes to the new Sudan, as well as the changing Sudanese-

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Figure 8.3 Ibrahim ‘Awad and dancers woo the jungle lord in Isma’il Yasin Tarzan.

Egyptian relationship. Widely recognized as “the first Sudanese singer to dance on stage”—and recalled by some as one of the first to straighten his hair—‘Awad is linked to a group of urban musicians who modernized Sudanese music beginning in the late 1940s under the influence of jazz, then into the 1960s when US rhythm-and-blues singers, especially Ray Charles and James Brown, began to impact musical trends.25 ‘Awad’s start, in particular, is linked historically to Sudanese self-rule, with his 1953 breakout song, “Ibsami ya ayyami” (Smile, My Days).26 At the same time, within the context of the screenplay, the Sudanese pop singer plays a crucial role in aiding and abetting the apprehension of Tarzan. The saving grace is that the hunters do not resort to force; rather they persuade their savage relative to accompany them home so that they may reap their inheritance. When chocolate fails, they offer Nimr/Tarzan the vinyl “biscuits” and accede to his demand that his female ape-lover, Cheetah, be allowed to accompany him. The film is only half over at this point, but the Sudanese adventure is complete, at least until the finale. Back “home,” Nimr undergoes reeducation (the solicitor will not turn over the inheritance to an uncivilized beast) and discovers that the will insists upon his marriage to a shrewish old-maid cousin, Hasanat (Zaynat Sidqi). To compound matters, he has fallen for his tutor, Safi (Fayruz, Egypt’s leading child star, now fifteen and very physically mature), a distant, poor Cinderella cousin, who is mistreated by the family. Their only recourse is to flee back to the “South” (Cheetah graciously withdraws). In the wilds, Nimr assures Safi, a lion is always a lion, regardless of financial status, an ant an ant; no wild-beast parents ever looked at their prospective in-laws’ bank account or social status. In the final scene they are back in lion skins—Tarzan/Nimr, Jane/Safi, and their

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toddler son—albeit living a more stable life on the jungle floor, in a hut surrounded by mounds of fruit. The family solicitor, played by comic Hasan Fa’iq, has trekked in to deliver family dividends, but Nimr directs him to donate all to charity. In his primitive Sudanese jungle setting he and his family want for nothing. In the comic finale the solicitor strips off his hunting khakis and follows them into the bush.

River Blindness The 1950s ushered in an era in which Egyptians very much saw themselves as open to the world—Cairo became a major transit center for air travel to Africa and Asia—and they took pride in what they felt to be their country’s civilizing mission. Treatment of foreign and exotic domestic culture in picture magazines, mass-audience publications as well as those targeting specific readership, read and looked much the same as those published for US audiences in the likes of National Geographic—“realistic, yet highly stylized” and “on the boundary between science and entertainment,” their camera gaze “midway between art photography and photojournalism.” 27 Representations of foreign sisters in the Egyptian women’s press, for example, were counterweighted with self-assured relief: “Thank God You’re an Egyptian Woman.”28 Depictions of other women acted as a foil against which Egyptian women could exhibit their role as agents of civilisation and the modernity of Egyptian society, primarily in relation to other colonised or formerly colonised nations of Africa, Asia and the Arab world. “Wherever I go to the region of our Arab brothers and sisters, I find afflicted women,” wrote [Amina] Sa‘id. “They fervently desire to follow our example and would benefit greatly if we took them by the hand in their striving to achieve a better life. . . . If we want, truly to preserve our leadership in our greater nation (the Arab world) it is not right to confine our efforts to ourselves.”29

In a December 1959 article in Hawa (Eve), entitled “Your Sudanese Sister in Her Path to Liberation,” the author “lauds the role of Egyptians who were among the first to establish girls schools,” without noting the link between colonialism and the Egyptian presence.30 One might easily dismiss Isma‘il Yasin Tarzan as the Egyptian remake of, say, Bud Abbott and Lou Costello’s Africa Screams, produced in Hollywood in 1949, a decade earlier. At least here there are no boiling pots for cannibal feasts. And yet this is al-Sudan al-shaqiq, the “brother country.” In the political discourse the emphasis had always been on what made Egypt and Sudan alike—pharaonic culture, Arab culture, and Islamic civilization. Thus the public face of Sudan was represented by the northern

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Muslim elites, the likes of Sayyid ‘Abd al-Rahman al-Mahdi, Sayyid ‘Ali al-Mirighani, and even, very briefly, Egypt’s general-president, Muhammad Nagib, who was half-Sudanese. The black south remained a curiosity, like Nubia in the Egyptian context, an exotic site for exploring foreign manners and customs. Think of the famous photograph of Free Officer representative Salah Salim, the “dancing major,” participating exuberantly—jumping “up and down in his underpants”—in a Dinka ceremony during a goodwill trip to the south in early 1953 (see Figure 8.4).31 Salim, a founding member of Egypt’s revolutionary council and “a man who could charm the wings off birds,” had, according to Life magazine, ignored warnings “that he might be in danger among the wild tribes” of the swamps. Salim’s mission is cast in strikingly positive terms relative to the Washington Post editorial from two years earlier. The Egyptians, “who long claimed” Sudan, “now simply say the Sudanese should have a chance to be independent if they want to be.” The description of his venture, however, directed at a Western audience, is replete with images right out of Rudyard Kipling, H. Rider Haggard, or—naturally—Edgar Rice Burroughs’s Tarzan: Salem went boldly in, passed out trinkets, gave chieftains their first look into mirrors, delivered speeches against the British. But he made his noblest effort while visiting a Nilotic tribe whose long-legged spearmen put on a war dance for their visitor. Leaping into their midst, the major

Figure 8.4 Salah Salim dancing with a native “spearman” in southern Sudan, 1953.

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started to jounce up and down in imitation of his hosts’ high-bounding steps. Athletically Salem’s effort could have been better. But diplomatically it was a huge success with the delighted tribesmen.

In the photograph, which covered half a page, Salim, sporting white briefs that reach his stomach and fisherman sandals on his feet, is in the foreground along with a native dancer in a much skimpier “g-string” (that’s how it would look to general readers, at least) and bare feet. In the background a group of smiling “spearmen” encourage the dancers. Salim, whose skin tone was darker than many of his Free Officer comrades, appears in the photograph, next to the natives, as white as his briefs. To Egyptian readers he surely seemed to be different, northern, civilized, nonexotic. Ironically, to the British he appeared to be just another dark colonial upstart. In a cartoon from the London Daily Express, Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden tells his striped-pants staff, “It is time, gentlemen, to exchange our traditional methods of diplomacy for those that get results.” In the background are three posters with caricatured subaltern troublemakers, each noted for nonconventional diplomatic behavior, what otherwise might be viewed as theatrics: “Gandhi fasts—British leave India”; “Mossadeg weeps—British leave Abadan”; and “Major Salem dances—British. . .”.32 For Egyptians the southward gaze, bifurcated, perhaps even schizophrenic, was enhanced both by indigenous native arrogance and British colonial policy that combined to foster a northern Sudanese Muslim elite that rejected Egypt’s civilizing mission, yet at the same time imagined itself an “ethnically specific nationalist elite” that was decidedly not “Black.”33 This surely plays into the confusion surrounding contemporary crises and atrocities that have confronted Sudan in recent years (Who are the Janjaweed? What constitutes genocide?), as that northern elite based in Khartoum has faced opposition in the “Black non-Muslim south” and “Black” Muslim Darfur.34 The same holds equally true for the Egyptian Nubians. They appeared in the mural art of the newly independent revolutionary state—the mosaic decorations in the Cairo Tower and RadioTelevision Building—but remained absent from the major public spectacles celebrating the nation and its Arabness. To mark the laying of the foundation stone for the Aswan High Dam, Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab penned “Al-Watan al-akbar” (The Greater Nation), his anthem to Arab brotherhood: “Beloved nation, the greater nation—Day after day its glory increases.” The number premiered in Aswan, the Nubian heartland, on 9 January 1960. It was later filmed in gala fashion with a multitude of popular female singers, backed by orchestra and chorus and featuring dancers representing workers, peasants, and soldiers. The singers came from Lebanon (Sabah), Syria (Najat al-Saghira), and Algeria (Warda), in addition to the Egyptian homeland (Fayda Kamil, Huda

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Sultan, Shadia). They were all bookended by the Arab world’s biggest male star, ‘Abd al-Halim Hafiz, a real, not ersatz Druze, son of the Egyptian soil. The soloists’ faces were all “white.” They sang of freedom and revolution, “between Marrakesh and Bahrain, in the Yemen and Damascus and Jidda— the same song to the most beautiful unity. . . . Arab freedom, not an eastern or western echo.” Ibrahim ‘Awad did not sing for the “brother country,” alSudan al-shaqiq. There were no recognizable Sudanese in the background “folk” panoramas—or Nubians, for that matter, even though it was their ancestral lands that were being flooded to make way for progress. “Al-Watan al-akbar,” with its pan-Arab reach, however limited in directional flow, represents a particular phase in Egypt’s revolutionary history. Most of the famous wataniyat (nationalist anthems) of the Nasser era refer to Egypt’s more local, Nile-bound geographic context. They are replete with the imagery of heavy industry and land reclamation, hardy workers, and rugged peasants, of green fields and the great river. But like the classic films that treat peasant life, the scenery, the human and physical geography, is generic—black and white but not really black—color blind, perhaps to a fault.

Notes This essay was presented at a conference in Tel Aviv in May 2006. I want to thank Israel Gershoni, Yehudit Ronen, and Haggai Erlich for drawing my gaze upriver, into new geographic and thematic reaches, and particularly to Israel Gershoni for following through on this volume with remarkable speed. Thanks also to fellow conferees and other attendees who enriched the discussions, during and outside formal sessions, on and off the bus. 1. Lyrics are by Ma’mun al-Shinawi, the music by Farid al-Atrash. 2. For Farid’s background and career, see Sherifa Zuhur, “Musical Stardom and Male Romance: Farid al-Atrash,” in Sherifa Zuhur (ed.), Colors of Enchantment: Theater, Dance, Music, and the Visual Arts in the Middle East (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001), pp. 270–297. 3. Virginia Danielson, The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997). 4. Joel Gordon, Revolutionary Melodrama: Popular Film and Civic Identity in Nasser’s Egypt (Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center, 2002). 5. M. H. El-Zayyat, “Sudan Agreement,” Washington Post, 3 November 1951, p. 6. For the “popular struggle,” see Joel Gordon, Nasser’s Blessed Movement: Egypt’s Free Officers and the July Revolution (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 26–27. 6. Eve Troutt Powell, “Brothers Along the Nile: Egyptian Concepts of Race and Ethnicity, 1895–1910,” in Haggai Erlich and Israel Gershoni (eds.), The Nile: Histories, Cultures, Myths (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2000), pp. 172–174. 7. Hussein Zulfakar Sabry, Sovereignty for Sudan (London: Ithaca Press, 1982), p. 11.

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8. Ibid., p. 10. 9. “Egypt and the Sudan,” Egypt News (Egyptian Information Bureau, Washington, DC), December 1951, p. 1. 10. “Nile Valley Is One Country,” Egypt News, December 1951, p. 4. 11. Sakran’s letter, “Case in the Sudan,” appeared originally in the Washington Post, 15 December 1951, p. 10. 12. “Case in the Sudan,” Washington Post, 4 December 1951, p. 16. 13. “Sakran Letter Explains Egyptian-Sudanese Relationship,” Egypt News, January 1952, p. 6. 14. Joel Gordon, “Class-crossed Lovers: Popular Film and Social Change in Nasser’s Egypt,” Quarterly Review of Film and Video 18, no. 4: 385–396. 15. See the short entry on Kamil in Mahmud Qasim and Ya‘qub Wahbi, Dalil al-mumathil al-‘Arabi (Cairo: Arab Nile Group, 1999), p. 210. 16. For blackface on the Egyptian stage and the particular place of ‘Ali alKassar, see Eve Troutt Powell, “Burnt-cork Nationalism: Race and Identity in the Theater of ‘Ali al-Kassar,” in Sherifa Zuhur (ed.), Colors of Enchantment: Theater, Dance, Music, and the Visual Arts in the Middle East (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2001), pp. 27–38. 17. Eve Troutt Powell, A Different Shade of Colonialism: Egypt, Great Britain, and the Mastery of the Sudan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), p. 194. 18. The film was produced by Atrash. Author conversation with Youssef Chahine, 5 June 2006. 19. Most notably Hind Rostam’s dance scene on the train, although here she is a chic dancer entertaining third-class travelers, whereas in the succeeding film she plays an urban peasant dancing with middle-class youths. 20. Author conversation with Chahine, 5 June 2006. 21. Zuhur, “Musical Stardom and Male Romance,” p. 290. 22. Malek Alloula, The Colonial Harem (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), p. 3. 23. J. W. Buel, The Magic City: A Massive Portfolio of Original Photographic Views of the Great World’s Fair and Its Treasures of Art, Including a Vivid Representation of the Famous Midway Plaisance (St. Louis and Philadelphia: Historical Publishing Company, 1894), pages unnumbered. 24. For a listing of Isma‘il’s film credits, see Qasim and Wahbi, Dalil almumathil al-‘Arabi, pp. 20–22. 25. The one-line description, “the first Sudanese singer to dance on stage,” is the sole description in a web site posted by CAMA, Contemporary African Music and Art Archive (www.cama.org.za). It is also found along with other information on ‘Awad in the chapter on Sudan in Simon Broughton, Mark Ellingham, and Richard Trillo, World Music—Africa, Europe and the Middle East (London: The Rough Guides, 1999), pp. 672–675. 26. This is from an undated web-obituary for ‘Awad, “al-Khartum tushi‘ almutrib Ibrahim ‘Awad alaf wadu‘ fanan al-bilad al-dhurri,” which was forwarded to me by Sean O’Fahey. 27. Catherine A. Lutz and Jane L. Collins, Reading National Geographic (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), pp. 15, 27, 62. 28. Laura Bier, “Modernity and the Other Woman: Gender and National Identity in the Egyptian Women’s Press, 1952–1967,” Gender and History 16, no. 1 (April 2004): 101. 29. Ibid., p. 104.

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30. Ibid., p. 105. 31. Sabry, Sovereignty for Sudan, p. 112 (for background, see pp. 109–112). 32. “A New High in Diplomacy,” Life, 26 January 1953, p. 41. 33. Heather J. Sharkey, Living with Colonialism: Nationalism and Culture in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003); the quote is from p. 9. 34. Hisham D. Aidi, “Slavery, Genocide and the Politics of Outrage: Understanding the New Racial Olympics,” Middle East Report 234 (Spring 2005): 40–56; Mahmood Mamdani, “The Politics of Naming: Genocide, Civil War, Insurgency,” London Review of Books 29, no. 5, 8 March 2007, available at www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n05/print/mamd01 html.

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9 Umm Kulthum at the American University in Cairo: A Study in the Clash of Christianities Heather J. Sharkey

Reading over all that was said on both sides of the question, the Scripture that was uppermost in my mind were the two following: “He eateth with publicans and sinners” and the thirteenth Chapter of I Corinthians. —R. S. McClenahan (dean) to Charles R. Watson (president), American University in Cairo, 6 December 1937 And when the Pharisees saw it, they said unto his disciples, Why eateth your Teacher with the publicans and sinners? —Matthew 9:11 If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am become sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophesy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. —I Corinthians 13:1–2

I

N 1937, THE AMERICAN UNIVERSITY IN CAIRO (AUC) SIGNED A CONTRACT

with the Egyptian Broadcasting Service to rent its auditorium, Ewart Hall, for monthly concerts by the Egyptian woman singer Umm Kulthum. This action led to a bitter dispute within the closed circles of the Protestant community of Egypt and had long-term consequences for AUC and the Egyptian Evangelical Church (al-Kanisa al-injiliyya al-misriyya), which US Presbyterian missionaries had founded in the mid-nineteenth century. The dispute hinged over whether Umm Kulthum’s love songs were morally debasing (by planting lustful thoughts in the minds of listeners) or edifying (by celebrating the love of man and woman in an atmosphere of social propriety), and whether her presence defiled or elevated the university’s social stature in Egypt. The dispute pitted one group of Presbyterians, Egyptian 157

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Evangelical pastors, against another, US educators led by Charles R. Watson, who had founded AUC with the strong support of both the United Presbyterian Church of North America and the American Presbyterian mission in Egypt.1 The dispute ended on a chilly note in 1939, with an agreement to disagree, and confirmed a growing rift between AUC on the one hand, and the American mission and Evangelical Church on the other. This episode sheds light on the intersecting histories of sexuality, religion, and popular culture in Egypt, and serves as a reminder that even for the great Umm Kulthum, suspicions relating to the virtue of female entertainers were hard to shake away. This episode also casts light on the contentious history of Christian missions and non-Western Christianity—a history that has been closely tied to modern patterns of Western expansion.2 Umm Kulthum was a Muslim woman living in a country where some 92 percent of the population was Muslim. Of the 7 or 8 percent of Egyptians who were Christians (i.e., Copts) in the late 1930s, the vast majority were adherents of the Coptic Orthodox Church, while only a very small fraction had turned toward Protestantism and Catholicism under missionary influences.3 Indeed, in 1939, the Evangelical (Presbyterian) Church of Egypt had some 22,000 adult members; were one to count children and foreigners and add the followers of several smaller sects, there were some 66,000 Protestants in Egypt. Nevertheless, few as they were, the presence of an Evangelical Church, led by its own Egyptian pastors who had been trained in a Cairo seminary according to Presbyterian doctrines and practices, attested to the impact that US missionaries were having on Egyptian Christian culture. After 1854, American Presbyterians had developed the largest Protestant mission in Egypt. Moreover, unlike the British Anglicans of the Church Missionary Society (CMS)4 who concentrated after 1882 on evangelizing among Muslims, the Americans worked extensively among Copts in many villages and towns in Upper Egypt, where thriving Evangelical congregations emerged. Thus the Evangelical community is noteworthy as the visible product of a sustained American encounter in Egypt. American Presbyterians and Egyptian Evangelicals shared three important things in common: a creed rooted in the Reformed, Calvinist tradition; a belief that laypeople, and not only clergy, should govern the church within a presbyterial (mashyakhiyya) system; and an evangelical emphasis on the worth of the individual Christian and on his or her Bible reading for personal devotion. 5 But aside from that, the two groups spoke different languages—English and Arabic—and approached church life from different cultural and social positions. The American Presbyterians felt that these differences were especially evident in the sphere of gender roles and relations, and thought that it should be part of their mission to “liberate” Egyptian Coptic and Muslim women from what Watson himself had once described as the degradations of social seclusion and of a “loveless marriage

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system.”6 The AUC–Umm Kulthum controversy of 1937–1939 brought into relief some of these differences in attitudes, and confirmed that the Evangelical Church was not merely a US import but was something markedly Egyptian in culture. The debate that Umm Kulthum’s concerts unleashed among pastors, missionaries, and educators can be interpreted as part of a global clash of Christianities, involving competing visions of what Christian life should mean and what local forms it should take. At stake in this dispute was an argument over how normative Western customs should be among the members of the small Egyptian community that had been inducted into Protestantism through US missionary auspices. This said, it would be wrong to portray the conflict as a binary conflict between US and Egyptian social values, for in fact, interwar Egypt was undergoing far-reaching and internal social changes of its own, particularly in the rapidly growing urban communities. Egyptian women in this era—Umm Kulthum among them—were seizing, creating, or negotiating new opportunities for participation in public political and cultural life, so that Egyptians were also debating among themselves what gender roles and relations should be.7 There is no evidence that Umm Kulthum was aware of the dispute that her concerts at AUC set off, nor any reason to think that she would have cared if she had known. Nor does the musicologist Virginia Danielson mention the incident in her outstanding musical biography entitled The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (1997). In fact, the battle over Umm Kulthum’s concerts at AUC was fought behind closed doors, in confidential letters, and on the pages of al-Huda, the Arabic journal of the Evangelical Church. Nevertheless, for Charles R. Watson, who was not only AUC’s founder and president, but also an ordained Presbyterian pastor, the former secretary of the foreign mission board of the United Presbyterian Church of North America (UPCNA), and the Egypt-born son of US missionaries, this battle struck at the core of the university’s mission as he saw it. For Watson believed that AUC’s mission should be to educate civic-minded Egyptians who would work for the country’s advancement, to enrich Egypt’s cultural life and to develop public service programs that could help Egypt alleviate poverty and avert endemic diseases. He also hoped to demonstrate the value of Christianity to all Egyptians through ethical, humanitarian living. And like most Christian missionaries to the Middle East, who were convinced that females in Islamic societies (including Coptic females) were oppressed and socially thwarted, he expressed a desire to elevate the status of women. 8 In short, Watson refused to cancel the rental contract for Umm Kulthum’s concerts, despite the pleading of the Evangelical pastors, because he believed that AUC could help promote a new kind of woman in Egypt and at the same time establish a higher plane for legitimate social intercourse between the sexes.

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Umm Kulthum: The Making of a National Icon According to the musicologist Virginia Danielson, the story of Umm Kulthum (1904–1975) was “the story of a village girl who grew up to become the cultural symbol of a nation. . . . She helped to constitute Egyptian cultural and social life and to advance an ideology of Egyptianness.” As an Egyptian, Umm Kulthum and her music were “asil”— authentic—and her songs have passed into “al-turath”—the country’s cultural heritage. 9 Israel Gershoni and James Jankowski, in their book Commemorating the Nation (2004), and Walter Armbrust, in his book on Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt (1996), have likewise acknowledged Umm Kulthum’s iconic status. They pointed out that, aside from an image of a stylized peasant everywoman, Umm Kulthum was the only female to feature in the Egyptian Ministry of Culture’s poster entitled “A Hundred Years of Enlightenment,” produced in 1989–1990. Umm Kulthum stood on a pedestal in the center of this collective portrait, surrounded by other Egyptian luminaries such as Naguib Mahfouz, Tawfiq al-Hakim, and Taha Husayn—that is, the artists and intellectuals who constitute, in Armbrust’s words, “the [Egyptian] short list of cultural heroes.” 10 In Revolutionary Melodrama (2002), a study of popular Egyptian film in the Nasser era, Joel Gordon cited an Egyptian filmmaker who had recalled that for a simple man like Gamal Abdul Nasser, “the pleasures of life consisted of olives and cheese, going to the cinema, [and] listening to Umm Kulthum.” Gordon observed that the singer herself was a “child of the countryside”—or bint al-rif (as one of Danielson’s informers called her)—and she “evoked a sense of earthy propriety and modesty.”11 Umm Kulthum certainly acquired a reputation, in the long run, as the voice of Egypt and as the grande dame of twentieth-century Egyptian Arabic popular culture. In retrospect, there were many qualities that added up to make her seem so authentically Egyptian. She came from a humble Delta village, where her father was the village imam, and began her singing career by reciting the Quran at weddings and festivals. She was a family girl, and lived with her parents until they died. Never conventionally beautiful, her looks matured into sturdy grace, while her voice always surpassed whatever glamour she could muster. She guarded her privacy and displayed a striking degree of business acumen (which may have helped to give her a Khadija-like aura). Unlike some of her contemporaries, such as the singer Asmahan (who came from a distinguished Druze family in Syria), Umm Kulthum was never known to drink, gamble, or waste money.12 No doubt many Egyptians also identified with her personal history of rural-to-urban migration, which was such an important feature of twentieth-century Egyptian society; many would have found the story about her mother who, upon arriving in Cairo, did not know how to turn on a lightbulb, understand-

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able and endearing.13 Umm Kulthum also burnished her civic reputation after Egypt’s staggering defeat in the Six-Day War of 1967, by staging concerts throughout the Arab world to raise funds for Arab, including Palestinian, causes.14 One person whom Danielson interviewed said that Egyptians liked Umm Kulthum because she embodied fifty years of Egyptian history. She certainly helped to guide Egyptians through the explosion of mass media in the twentieth century, sailing with her audiences through radio, moving and talking pictures, and television. 15 Toward the end of her career, her music even made the transition in shops, cafes, and households from the phonographic record to the compact cassette tape. By the time she died in 1975, her work had entered the cultural canon of Egypt and the Arab world. It is precisely Umm Kulthum’s canonical status that makes this episode involving the American University in Cairo so fascinating in the context of Egyptian history and culture. The dispute that persisted between AUC and the Evangelical Church from 1937 to 1939 and that ended in détente suggests that Umm Kulthum’s position of respectable attainment was hard won. Karin Van Nieuwkerk, who in “A Trade Like Any Other”: Female Dancers and Singers in Egypt (1995) set out to understand the dishonor that has tainted the public image of Egyptian female performers, mentioned Umm Kulthum on a few occasions in her book, and then only to suggest that her case was unique. Van Nieuwkerk implied that, as a star and resounding success who had made the transition from nightclubs to prestigious public media (radio and film) supported by the Ministry of Culture, Umm Kulthum had escaped from the stigma besetting the Egyptian female singer.16 The episode at AUC in the late 1930s suggests that her escape from stigma (if indeed she ever fully accomplished it) was not a foregone conclusion.

The Dispute According to Missionaries In 1938, Neal McClanahan, an American missionary in Assiut, wrote to the United Presbyterian board of foreign missions in Philadelphia. His letter conveys the feeling of an intelligence report, as if he were trying to warn the home church about trouble on the horizon. McClanahan tried to explain the dispute that had ensnared AUC and the Evangelical pastors. It started, he wrote, when some Evangelical pastors protested AUC’s decision to rent its auditorium for the broadcasting of concerts by “Um Kalthoum, a very popular Mohammedan woman singer . . . This has hurt deeply the feelings of the pastors of the Evangelical Church.” When their protests had no effect, “the Pastors Union of Cairo sent a formal protest to the Synod [of the Nile, the central administration of the Evangelical Church]. After discussion the Synod sent a delegation to the University.” There, Watson explained the

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university’s goal of trying to “uplift the quality of singing in this country.” The pastors found it impossible to believe that Umm Kulthum, a woman who “to their way of thinking is far worse than May West [sic]” could contribute to the uplift of music. Moreover, the pastors felt that “westerners do not get the implications in the songs which are used.”17 Umm Kulthum’s concerts at AUC stopped in mid-1937, leading the pastors to believe that the university had heeded their entreaty. But the concerts had only moved to an outdoor venue for the summer. 18 Thus when they resumed at AUC in the winter of 1937–1938, the Evangelical pastors were aghast. According to McClanahan, the pastors responded by forming a “Christian Front” that drew in clergy from nine organizations, including the Coptic Orthodox Church and other smaller Protestant Evangelical churches (such as the Apostolic Church, also known as the Plymouth Brethren Church, whose Egyptian members engaged in the laying on of hands and the speaking of tongues). The pastors also drew for support from leading members of the Egyptian Women’s Christian Temperance Union, and from a few missionaries and Egyptian Christian laymen who wrote letters to protest.19 Evangelical pastors vowed to take the matter further by calling upon Presbyterian Church leaders in the United States to condemn AUC and to press for cancellation of the contract. Indeed, in April 1939, the pastors sent a letter explaining their grievances to the UPCNA General Assembly, the Board of Foreign Missions, and the Philadelphia-based Board of Trustees for AUC. Strikingly, it appears that the American Presbyterian missionaries as a whole did not register (or could not muster) much moral outrage over these concerts, and the episode earned scant attention in mission reports. This was the case even though there was some history of tension between AUC and the American Mission, or rather, between Watson and some of the missionaries. For although American missionaries had been discussing the idea of opening an American Christian university in Cairo from as early as 1899, Charles R. Watson (as the moving force behind the project) had insisted, upon the university’s debut in 1920, that it be independent from the mission. In fact, Watson was a keen supporter of the Protestant ecumenical movement and wanted AUC to be an interdenominational and not specifically Presbyterian venture. However, one American Presbyterian missionary who did mention the episode—implicitly supporting Watson against the Egyptian pastors—was C. C. Adams, who is best known among Middle East historians for his still-cited study of Muhammad ‘Abduh entitled Islam and Modernism in Egypt (1933).20 Adams, who variously taught at both the Cairo Evangelical seminary and AUC, lamented the Egyptian pastors’ fear of modernism, their “literalistic” tendencies in religious interpretation, and their stiffness toward issues “on which our church at home is accustomed to allow some degree of freedom.” He observed that the Umm Kulthum affair

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at AUC had only confirmed the Egyptian pastors’ mistrust toward those American Presbyterian missionaries who were inclined to be “modern” in outlook.21

The Dispute According to the Egyptian Pastors The Egyptian pastors were very clear in expressing their two main objections to Umm Kulthum’s concerts at AUC. First, her songs were sinful. Second, AUC was a Christian institution. They argued that her performances in Ewart Hall were sullying not only the university’s reputation but by extension, too, the reputation of the Evangelical Church and Christian community in Egypt. A delegation of four pastors articulated these points in an Arabic letter they sent to Watson in January 1938. Umm Kulthum’s singing, they wrote, was “contrary to Christian taste” (munafiya lil-dhuq al-masihi) whereas AUC was “a Christian institution before anything else” (al-ma’had ma’had masihi qabla kull shay’). The pastors pointed out (fairly) that Watson advertised AUC as a Christian institution in the United States and noted “that this is your opinion also, which you have declared and are still declaring in speech and writing.” The university had declared as its mission the goal of reaching all the “best” people of the East, including the Muslims. But the immoral content of Umm Kulthum’s songs undermined that lofty goal. “It suffices to say,” they wrote, “that many young men, who are mainstays of the church and the hope of her future, have fallen into temptation. . . . We [therefore] consider that the singing of Umm Kulthum, in its wording, spirit, and purpose, is not in line with the spirit and morals of Christianity.”22 The Reverend Wahby Boulos, who was general secretary of the Evangelical Church synod, had earlier clarified these concerns about Umm Kulthum’s songs and concerts in a private letter (written in English) to Charles Watson. “[W]e are all partakers and coworkers in the Lord’s work, and we are always thinking of the University, whether right or wrong, as a very dynamic factor in supplementing and completing the work of the Lord in this land. People here still have the idea that the University stands as a Christian institution for Christian culture.” Hence the pastors objected to Umm Kulthum’s performance of “unclean and unholy songs composed of very mean and degenerate expressions” in an AUC auditorium. The reverend added a personal postscript to the letter, commenting on Umm Kulthum’s most recent performance at Ewart Hall. “My pen and ink will be ashamed to write down for you, for your faculty, or for your Board such a verbiage of such degraded love and passionate words.”23 In 1937, on the pages of the Evangelical Church magazine al-Huda, the Reverend Labib Mishriqi (whom Evangelical pastors today cite as one of the

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most progressive of his generation, for having advocated the election of women as church elders in the 1960s24) expressed particular objections to Umm Kulthum’s broadcasts from the AUC venue. “It is true that Ewart Hall is not a church, but devoted for public meetings; however, it is consecrated for higher purposes than common entertainment and amusement. In Europe and America educational buildings are as sacred as places of worship.” He added, “The Evangelicals find that they have a spiritual right to the University. Consequently they demand that singing performances should not be given in the Ewart Hall, unless the University intends to break the traditional, historical, and spiritual bonds existing between her and the Evangelical Church.” Two years later writers in al-Huda were continuing to assert the tripartite bond uniting the Evangelical Church, American Presbyterian mission, and AUC, and to suggest that their protest was not meddling, but a morally justified intervention in an institution they regarded as a beacon of the Protestant cause. Writers in al-Huda again warned in the special Easter issue of 1939 that an Umm Kulthum concert broadcast from AUC “turns morality backward and is an obstacle in the way of Christianity.”25

The Dispute According to Watson Watson responded to the pastors’ delegations, letters of protest, and church journal articles by producing his own flurry of letters in return. These tried to assuage the indignation of Egyptian pastors, reassure church leaders and university trustees in the United States, and explain and justify the concerts. Papers in Cairo and Philadelphia suggest that Watson took the pastors’ complaints very seriously. In February 1938, Watson sent a typed Arabic letter to the Evangelical pastors’ union of Cairo. He acknowledged the pastors’ claim that AUC was “Christian in its origins and upbringing” (masihi al-asl wa’l-nasha’a) but pointed out that “to say that we are Christians in spirit and quality does not mean that our institution is a theological seminary” (qawlana innana masihiyyun ruhan wa-sifatan la-yaqsid bihi anna ma’hadna ma’had lahuti). Rather, AUC was aiming to serve Egypt by raising the level of women and children, promoting moral behavior (for example, by supporting temperance efforts), and cultivating arts and learning. More pointedly for the purpose of the Umm Kulthum controversy, AUC was also trying to provide women with legitimate forums in public life. On this point, Watson suggested that the Americans in Egypt had already helped to encourage progress. “At one time the public appearance of girl students upon the graduation platforms of mission schools was condemned even by Egyptian Christians as an outrage to social proprieties. Today it is viewed as normal and even uplifting.” Watson also suggested that some of the pastors’ objections to Umm

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Kulthum’s concerts may have arisen through the “past associations of all public singing by women with evil surroundings” such as brothels. He argued, in response, that by performing songs in public the pall of sin could be removed. “There are songs in your own Church hymn book whose tunes were once the tunes of love songs and even of drinking songs, but they have been redeemed from their former associations and serve as the channels of holy sentiment.”26 In May 1938, in a letter addressed to the Reverend Moawad Hanna, one of the leading Egyptian Evangelical pastors, Watson expressed hope that he had convinced the pastors of “our effort to cleanse Egyptian songs and music of the evil associations and implications which have unfortunately been attached to all love songs in Egypt.” He added that, A statement once made by Norman P. Grubb, the Secretary of a WorldWide Evangelization Crusade in New York City, represents our feeling. He said, “Let no one slip into the error of trying to repress as an evil thing a God-given instinct or capacity, mental or physical.” We have held that the love of man for a woman is a God-given instinct. Also that music and poetry are God-given instincts. We are therefore trying to give them a field in which their associations and implications will be pure and not defiling.27

In a separate, private letter, Watson emphasized his deep regard for Moawad Hanna, and testified “to the bonds of friendship and affection that bound our two families together in the person of my dear father and in the acquaintance I have had with you, your wife Anisa (a playmate of my boyhood days) and later your son Shafeek who came to Philadelphia to study.” 28 This letter serves as a reminder of how intimately Watson knew many of the leading Egyptian pastors, and therefore how serious was the breach of opinion. In March 1938, Watson addressed the head of AUC’s offices in Philadelphia, who was the university’s liaison with US trustees. Watson wrote that AUC “does not merely repudiate the insinuations of evil influence connected with these concerts, it boldly asserts that it is taking the lead in a positive and constructive way in trying . . . to provide uplifting and enjoyable musical pleasure to the people of Egypt and especially to the rising generation. What if it be true,” he went on to ask, that love songs in the past carried the suggestion of social evil? This same thing was true of every breach of the old code of the seclusion of women. To give up the veil and expose the face, for a young man and woman to be together at all, for girls to speak in public at Commencement times, these all were supposed to add fuel to the flames of sexual imaginations and passion. We count it as a Christian duty to labor for the deliverance of all these free actions of woman from any implications of evil. Public singing by women and the singing of love songs by men or women also call for redemption from all association with evil.29

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In Watson’s view, the pastors, by objecting to the concerts, showed how hopelessly out of date they were. Egypt was changing and Egyptian Christians needed to keep up with the pace. In his February 1939 Arabic letter to the Egyptian pastors’ union, Watson had asserted that AUC was acting in the “service of Egypt” (khidmat Misr) and in the “service of Egyptian life” (khidmat al-hayat alMisriyya). AUC was an educational institution, and not a church, and its auditorium was a public hall and not a chapel. But in the (presumably original) English version of this letter, which used the word “ministry” for what was rendered in the Arabic version as khidma (“service”), Watson sounded much more like the Presbyterian pastor that he was. “If there be anything of value in Christianity or in the Christian lands of the West for any sphere of Egypt’s national life,” he wrote in the English version, “it is our duty to bring it and place it unselfishly, with no corporate or political self interest, at the disposal of this country and its people.” This, he concluded, is “our ministry to the life of Egypt.”30

Investigating the Lady Unbeknownst to the Egyptian pastors, Watson decided to investigate Umm Kulthum’s character, the content of her songs, and the comportment of her audiences almost as soon as the pastors’ charges were leveled. He carried out, in other words, a reconnaissance mission, and then reported his findings to the pastors, the missionaries, and AUC’s office in Philadelphia. This is what he did: First, Watson had Umm Kulthum’s songs translated into English and analyzed their lyrics. He concluded that the lyrics were “no more immoral in statement or suggestive of evil than the overwhelming mass of Western love songs, lyrics, and idylls could be accused of being.”31 To illustrate this point to the pastors, he sent the Reverend Wahby Boulos a translated excerpt of one of Umm Kulthum’s songs that had been performed at Ewart Hall, juxtaposed with an excerpt from “a typical American College Song Book,” “the only one,” he explained, “that I happened to have at hand.” “Absence” (al-Ba’ad), Umm Kulthum The nights of separation have extended And the night lengthens for the lonesome I am bewildered how to console the heart In the absence of the beloved I hear from the bewildered bird The music of love I comfort the tender heart When it yearns.

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“Why Should I Leave Thee,” American College Song Book Why should I leave thee, Queen of my loving heart! Light of my life thou art, Star of my soul. About thee doth entwine, Each tender thought of mine. I would be only Thine in life and death.32

In fact, in a letter to AUC’s Philadelphia office, Watson admitted that one word in Umm Kulthum’s songs—the word for “intercourse”—had generated some controversy.33 Watson explained, “In one of the love songs [of Umm Kulthum], the lover expresses his longing to see his loved one again in order that he may have ‘intercourse’ with her.” Watson polled professors, Arabic instructors, and others at AUC and received conflicting interpretations regarding whether the word suggested social or sexual contact. 34 Intercourse, Watson concluded, was a matter of the imagination. As part of the investigation into the lyrics, Watson’s office also asked the Egyptian Broadcasting Service (EBS) for copies of Umm Kulthum’s songs ahead of each concert, so that the university could screen them; the office also questioned the firmness of the censorship. Apparently a manager at the EBS explained that eminent singers like Umm Kulthum “jealously guard their programs until the last moment,” but that the board of censors, whose members included Taha Husayn, were able to screen them “word for word” in advance. “I was told,” wrote one of Watson’s assistants, “that the censorship of programmes is directed on the lines of suitability for young girls. Whatever passes that test is considered fit for anyone.” Later, in spring 1939, after the Egyptian pastors had sent their letters of protest to the offices of the United Presbyterian Church and of AUC in the United States, Watson sent the same offices a statement explaining the university’s reasons for cooperating with the EBS. Watson stressed the rigor of the censors: “These men are Moslems, to be sure, but that does not invalidate in any way their right to act as judges of public morality and respectability. Their accepted standard for appraisal of what is suitable is what would be appropriate for young girls to listen to.”35 The second step in Watson’s reconnaissance mission entailed having colleagues attend Umm Kulthum’s concerts to gauge their respectability. What Watson’s emissaries found led to a change of policy. Wendell Cleland, the director of AUC’s extension (public outreach) programs, went one evening with two Egyptian Evangelical laymen and Reverend Parry of the CMS. Cleland reported that the behavior of the crowd seemed generally fine. The audience was mostly male but included more than sixty women, many of them wives and daughters with their fathers. There were also sev-

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eral fellaheen, “who sat perfectly rigid as if petrified.” Cleland implied that some inappropriate behavior came from “two or three effendis who were exceedingly enthusiastic, one in particular being inclined to roll his head about and leap to his feet with loud applause, until he succumbed after a protest by the man sitting behind him.” According to Cleland, Reverend Parry commented favorably on the demeanor of Umm Kulthum, and on her dress, which was “ultra-conservative from the European point of view.” But Shakir Effendi, one of the two Evangelical laymen, had critical observations: “His chief objection was to the audience, not that they behaved in any obviously bad way, but he thought that it was not suitable to have the type of audience in Ewart Hall who swayed in their seats, rolled their heads and eyes, and bit their lips. He felt that the audience was not of a high class or dignified one.” Cleland concluded by observing that despite Shakir Effendi’s reservations, the audience’s behavior had improved from the concerts of the year before.36 Watson used this assessment later, when he sent his report to the United Presbyterian Church, mission, and AUC trustees in the United States. “The conduct, appearance, and dress of the singer, Om Kalthum, has never been other than the height of propriety and modesty. There is no exposure of the person. There are no body motions suggestive of evil. She is dressed as modestly as the most proper Quakeress and is evidently an artist of the highest order.” But observations about audience behavior had led to a change. “To exclude a less desirable minority that was appearing in the audience in response to the popular prices of admission first charged, the University urged upon the Egyptian State Broadcasting the fixing of higher prices. The effect has been quite marked in the more uniformly higher social levels represented.”37 Clearly Watson wanted to make the concerts an affair for the higher classes, and thought he saw a link between wealth and decorum, even though the few poor fellahin whom Cleland had observed at a concert were not the ones displaying inappropriate behavior. Watson reported proudly to a colleague in Philadelphia, “Could you see the array of private automobiles that line our streets at such concerts, you would realize that here is no mob of common folk but the respectable levels of life.”38 The third and in many ways most interesting aspect of Watson’s investigation focused on Umm Kulthum herself, and on her reputation or public image among Muslim and Christian men whom Watson regarded as sympathetic to AUC’s goals. He surveyed the opinions of seven Muslim and seventeen Christian men and produced a memorandum that was not only confidential, but “Absolutely Private and Confidential.” It was clearly intended to be seen by very few. The document identified informants by their initials, with Watson having retained the key to the names in his personal papers. The survey suggests that opinions varied considerably among both the Muslim and Christian men.39

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A. A., a Muslim (identified in Watson’s key as Abdallah Effendi Amin, professor and vice principal of the College of Teachers for Shaikhs of the Egyptian Government), reportedly said, “I feel quite confident that the woman Um Kalthoum has a character above reproach” even though the words of her songs pertain to love and passion. The Muslim T. Y. (Tewfik Younes, an AUC graduate and a leading official in the Ministry of Finance), agreed in declaring her “entirely respectable.” Another Muslim who strongly vouched for her high character was S. N., identified in the key as Shaikh Sayyid Nawar, a teacher of Arabic at AUC’s School of Oriental Studies who “has known Umm Kalthoum almost from her childhood, she and he coming from the same community in the Delta.” But another Muslim Arabic teacher at AUC, Mustafa Hussein (described as a “quiet, unassuming man”), said that her songs were “entirely demoralizing” and voiced deep regret that AUC had anything to do with programs that he regarded as “sexual, indecent, degrading, weakening, and effeminate.” A Christian, G. A. (identified as Galal Amin, an AUC staff member in the extension program who had also acted as chief usher at the Umm Kulthum concerts), gave a negative assessment, too. “I have attended practically all the programmes,” he declared, and I am disappointed and indeed disgusted with the results. I feel that the programmes have been going backward instead of producing an uplift whether within Ewart Hall or for the public through hearing the radio. Too many persons in the audience come more or less under the influence of liquor in order to enjoy what they hear of the erotic singing. The audiences are made up of at least 80% from the lower elements of the community.

A. G. (identified as Azer Bey Gobran, a Coptic Orthodox Christian and distinguished lawyer of Assiut and Cairo, who was also a member of parliament) maintained, “The woman is positively bad” and not the kind of woman with whom AUC should have contact. “I have looked at copies of the words which the woman uses and they are certainly bad, evil, definitely intended to produce immoral thought and emotions.” Several of the interviewed men suggested that AUC would be dragging its reputation down by hosting her concerts. One Christian man said that while he enjoyed listening to her concerts on the radio at home, with his wife and children, “Probably not more than 10% of the Coptic and Protestant communities would approve of the programmes, but these are largely very conservative people.” A Muslim observer, identified as Ahmad Naguib Hilaly Bey, a former minister of education, was equally measured. “The woman is not free from reproach, but I believe is quite limited in her questionable conduct to a few men with whom she is willing to consort. Her words are very common, not on a high level at all nor such as AUC should be presenting to the public.” Habib el-Masri Bey, a French-educated Copt

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and high official in the Ministry of Finance (whose daughter Eva graduated from AUC, went on to study for a BA degree at Smith College in Massachusetts, and later became a protégé of the Egyptian feminist, Huda Sha‘rawi40), was equally ambivalent. While he confessed to enjoying Umm Kulthum’s music and did not see her as evil, he explained that “her reputation is not what you would call first class,” so that her concerts would neither be a credit to AUC’s reputation nor a medium for social uplift.41 This fascinating survey shows that in the late 1930s, among highly educated Muslim and Christian men whom AUC officials regarded as allies, there was less to divide Umm Kulthum from other female nightclub singers and women entertainers—in terms of impressions of social propriety—than may now seem to be the case. Like the singers in Karin van Nieuwkerk’s study, Umm Kulthum in the late 1930s appears to have faced her own share of public suspicions assailing her professional honor. More than anything else, this survey of educated male opinion alerted Watson to the gamble that he was taking in bringing Umm Kulthum to sing at AUC, and to the great challenge he was facing in trying to redeem love songs of their bad reputation while harnessing a “God-given instinct” for entertainment and edification.

Conclusion: The Truce In June 1939, AUC’s Philadelphia office sent Watson news of the United Presbyterian Church’s official response to the dispute over the musical concerts. Dr. O. H. Milligan, principal clerk of the UPCNA’s General Assembly (the church’s highest judicatory), wrote: In reference to the Communications received from the Synod of the Nile and the American University at Cairo—we greatly deplore anything that tends to destroy the united front that the Christian forces present to a heathen world. We do not consider the subject of these communications of sufficient moment to cause division, and are sure that respect for each other’s sincerity of purpose together with devotion to a common Master will triumph over all difference.42

The letter showed how out of touch Milligan was, and how ignorant of Egyptian conditions. For the American Presbyterians in Egypt (even from the earliest years of the mission after 1854) had never called the Egyptians “heathen,” because they had always been too keenly aware of what they were up against: the Coptic Orthodox Church’s venerable history traced to the time of St. Mark, and Islam’s powerful monotheism, which had always made it so difficult for missionaries to justify or explain the Trinity to Muslims. In other words, the American Presbyterians in Egypt would never

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have imagined suggesting that Egyptians were godless (as Milligan obliviously did). Far from solving the dispute, therefore, the letter from the “home church” made it clear that Watson and the Egyptian pastors were on their own, not only because church leaders did not wish to intervene, but because church leaders did not begin to understand the issues at stake. Letters preserved among Watson’s papers in Cairo suggest that a distinguished Egyptian Evangelical layman, Alexan Pasha Abiskhayroun, stepped in to negotiate a truce. Through his mediation, which proceeded from Watson’s stipulation that the issue of Umm Kulthum’s AUC concerts remained nonnegotiable, Watson and the Egyptian pastors reached a “Fraternal Agreement.” This document went through multiple drafts before it was signed in July 1939 by Watson, representing AUC, and by the Reverends Moawad Hanna and Ibrahim Sa‘id, representing the Evangelical Church. The document noted the existence of continuing disagreements that “threaten to result in serious cleavages within the Protestant Community in Egypt, and to result in permanent attitudes of hostility or an embittered spirit within the Christian camp in Egypt, unless unchecked.” “Therefore,” it continued, the undersigned do hereby agree to prevent the development of any such attitudes of Christian hostility. To this end they undertake to avoid any attacks, particularly in public and in print, connected with the subject under dispute. They undertake also to study points wherein goodwill may be promoted so that the unity of the Christian forces rather than their differences may be emphasized in the eyes of the non-Christian world and in the mutual relations to these organizations.

The document represented, in sum, an agreement to disagree while recognizing “their higher duty in allegiance to the cause of Christ and the supreme interests of His Kingdom in the Valley of the Nile, to work for peace and concord and the preservation of a united front among the Christian agencies laboring in Egypt.”43 With the signing of this “Fraternal Agreement,” the two files of Watson’s papers labeled “Umm Kulthum’s broadcasts” come to a close. But in a separate set of papers, consisting of Watson’s correspondence with his confidante Robert S. McClenahan (who had left the American Mission to become dean at AUC upon its inception), there are hints of a deeper current running below the Umm Kulthum dispute. Neither Watson nor the Egyptian pastors ever voiced this issue in any of their letters to each other, to US missionaries in Egypt, or to church authorities in the United States, but it had surely been hovering in their dispute. Namely, Evangelicals had been using Ewart Hall at the time the Umm Kulthum concerts commenced; they had been “temporarily and with certain definite understandings” (in

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McClanahan’s words to Watson) holding services in the auditorium. Their use of the hall for worship may explain, better than anything else, the pastors’ visceral reaction to Umm Kulthum’s performances, their sense of outrage, and what one of the missionaries had called their deep hurt. This circumstance may explain, as well, the Reverend Labib Mishriqi’s insistence, on the pages of the church journal al-Huda, that AUC’s auditorium was a Christian building “consecrated for higher purposes than common entertainment and amusement,” and Watson’s repeated insistence to the pastors— which would have otherwise been obvious to the point of superfluity—that Ewart Hall was not a church.44 Willis A. McGill—who was born in Egypt to American Presbyterian missionaries, lived in Egypt through his childhood, and returned to serve as a missionary from 1937 until 1977—was present when the Umm Kulthum controversy erupted. He knew Charles Watson and the Egyptian pastors who were involved. When asked in 2005 about the reasons for objections to the concerts, he remarked that the pastors had regarded the university as having been something “close to a house of God.” He confirmed that the Evangelical congregation of Ibrahim Sa‘id had rented Ewart Hall in the late 1930s after outgrowing temporary quarters in Cairo’s Ezbekiyya district. Yet he also noted that some time after the Umm Kulthum dispute subsided, the story of Ibrahim Sa‘id’s congregation reached a happy conclusion, for the Evangelicals secured a church-building permit for a plot of land in Qasr al-Dubbara (to one side of what is now Cairo’s Tahrir Square, between AUC and the Semiramis Hotel).45 There, the Egyptian Evangelicals built a pretty, steepled church, in an architectural style that American Presbyterians would immediately recognize. (Note that this was a church for Egyptians, with Arabic services, since Americans and other English-speaking Protestants had always worshipped—and to this day still worship—in separate churches.) Located behind—and literally in the shadow of—the Mugama’a building, which is the bastion of the Egyptian state bureaucracy, this Evangelical Church has a congregation that flourishes at Qasr al-Dubbara today. Writing in al-Huda in 1937, the Reverend Labib Mishriqi warned that AUC would “break the traditional, historical and spiritual bonds existing between her and the Evangelical Church” if it continued to host Umm Kulthum’s concerts.46 But in fact, these bonds were already breaking down by the time the dispute erupted. Partly in response to growing Egyptian nationalist pressures (which reflected, in turn, the pressures of Muslim popular sentiment), AUC in the 1930s had begun to abandon the practices— including mandatory chapel attendance for all students—that had been so central to the institution’s original Christian agenda. But the changes that occurred at AUC, which was after all an American university in Egypt, were also following educational currents in the United States, where historically Protestant institutions like Harvard, Princeton, and Yale, as well as many

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state universities and liberal arts colleges, were shedding cultural ties to founding churches. This secularization in US higher education was largely a response to increasingly diverse student bodies, which included growing numbers of Catholics and Jews.47 At AUC, too, diversity was an issue. It had become clear during Watson’s time as president (1920–1948) that Protestants would never be more than a minor fraction of AUC students (just as they were a tiny fraction of the total Egyptian population) and that Muslim students would emerge as the strong majority. And Watson—who liked to describe AUC as a bridge between Egypt and the United States— welcomed this development, which he read as a sign that the “American” university was becoming more securely, and integrally, “Egyptian.”48 From across the distance of the years, in 2005 the retired missionary Willis McGill reflected on Charles Watson and described him as a “very astute person” who “had his hand on the pulse of the Arab Middle East” and who “was doing his very best to fulfill the call of Jesus Christ.” But when asked whether AUC during Watson’s tenure tried to distance itself from the American Presbyterian mission, McGill had just three words to say: “It sure did.”49 Nowadays, when talking to Egyptian Evangelical pastors, one senses that the distance became so great that the Evangelical Church’s historical link to AUC—a link once mediated by the American Presbyterian mission—has been largely forgotten. In time, however, the Egyptian Evangelical Church made its own break, by splitting off from the United Presbyterian Church of North America. This break occurred in 1957 when, responding to the nationalizing mood—and political imperative—of Nasser’s era, the Egyptian Evangelical Church gained “independence” from its American “mother” church even while retaining the doctrines and system of church government that had made it a Presbyterian church (kanisa mashyakhiyya). Addressing the Egyptian Evangelical pastors’ union in 1938, Watson had tried to find some good in the dispute over Umm Kulthum’s performances. He concluded that the episode illustrated “the genius of Protestantism which allows the utmost freedom of individual judgment and holds that ultimately all are responsible to their own individual or corporate consciences.”50 But if the episode illustrated the ideological flexibility and capacity for disagreement within Protestantism, then it also illustrated the potential for Christian visions to clash. As his letters and publications show, Watson clearly had an ideal of Christianity as something modern and open to social change—something, in short, that at its best looked very American. And he thought that Egyptian Christians should be more like Americans. The Egyptian pastors believed otherwise. They saw value in tradition, and while they were proud to be members of a reformed church in the Protestant tradition, they were also integral members of Egyptian society. Like Umm Kulthum, too, many of them were products of village societies and were

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recent migrants to Cairo. Thus they had grave doubts about the social propriety and merit of hearing a woman sing about yearning on stage. Times have changed and so have perceptions of history. The Reverend Emile Zaki, who was serving as the head of the Synod of the Nile in 2005, is an aficionado of Egyptian Evangelical Church history. He expressed surprised delight when told about the records at AUC that covered the Egyptian pastors’ objections to Umm Kulthum’s concerts, and suggested that the topic would be ideal for a church history exposition that was being planned to mark the 150th anniversary of the arrival of American Presbyterians in Egypt. He seemed to regard the episode as a quaint saga of his grandparents’ generation. 51 Emile Zaki had grown up, after all, in an era when Umm Kulthum was already a cultural icon—a reassuringly familiar, matronly figure in Egypt’s twentieth-century historical landscape. The whiff of scandal around her was long gone—the winds of history had carried it off. The distance of time had a different effect on Willis McGill, the retired missionary who knew Watson and the Egyptian pastors quite well. McGill expressed admiration for Watson’s accomplishments at AUC and described himself as a close childhood friend of Watson’s sons and daughters. But reflecting on the Umm Kulthum dispute in 2005, McGill expressed sympathy for the Egyptian pastors who had objected to the concerts in the late 1930s, and suggested that Watson had been the naïve one, insofar as he had lacked sufficient command of Arabic to grasp the sexual innuendo in Umm Kulthum’s songs. McGill suggested that the pastors’ complaints were not as frivolous as they may now appear.52 The Umm Kulthum dispute helped to sharpen the line between AUC, the American Presbyterian mission, and the Egyptian Evangelical Church, but it may have also influenced the course of Egyptian popular culture. In her musical biography of Umm Kulthum, Virginia Danielson observed that the radio concerts that Umm Kulthum gave in the 1930s, which included her appearances at AUC, were ultimately of much more value to Umm Kulthum’s place in Egyptian culture than to her purse: they institutionalized the first Thursday of every month as “Umm Kulthum Night” for the vast majority of Egyptians. They were the activity for which she was probably most famous and which had the greatest impact on musical and social life in the Middle East.

Danielson’s book includes an illustration of Umm Kulthum singing at the university: a photographic montage shows her on the stage of Ewart Hall, smiling and still girlish-looking, with hands demurely clasped, and her white gown brushing the floor.53 (Most US viewers now would say that she looks—as indeed, the Anglican vicar on one of Watson’s surveillance missions reportedly commented at the time—like the very picture of feminine modesty.)

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In retrospect, Watson appears vindicated for having insisted on hosting Umm Kulthum’s concerts, even if the Egyptian pastors had been better placed to gauge the innuendo in her songs. By granting Umm Kulthum space in the university’s auditorium, AUC helped to bolster the singer’s social credibility as a woman on the public stage, and perhaps also made it easier for other women to follow in her footsteps with honor. If Watson (who died in 1948) had lived long enough to see Umm Kulthum placed on a pedestal in the Egyptian Ministry of Culture’s 1989–1990 poster depicting “A Hundred Years of Enlightenment,” then he would have undoubtedly declared her concerts at AUC a victory for the cause of social uplift and artistic redemption, and therefore, too, a victory for AUC’s engagement in Egyptian public life.

Notes The author thanks the American Philosophical Society (Franklin Research Grant), the University of Pennsylvania’s University Research Foundation, and the Carnegie Corporation of New York for supporting this research, and the American University in Cairo for according visitor status in the summer of 2005. She also thanks the staff of the Presbyterian Historical Society in Philadelphia; Ann Lesch and Steve Urgola of AUC; and Vijay Balasubramanian, Robert L. Tignor, Israel Gershoni, and Ursula Wokoeck for feedback on earlier drafts. 1. Lawrence R. Murphy, The American University in Cairo: 1919–1987 (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1987), pp. 1–18. 2. See Lamin Sanneh and Joel A. Carpenter (eds.), The Changing Face of Christianity: Africa, the West, and the World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 3. Maurice Martin, “Statistiques chrétiennes d’Égypte,” Travaux et Jours (Beirut) 24 (1967): 65–75. 4. The best overview of the CMS in Egypt is Matthew Rhodes, “Anglican Mission: Egypt, a Case Study,” paper delivered at the Henry Martyn Centre, Westminster College, Cambridge University, May 2003 (accessed 20 January 2006, at http://www.martynmission.cam.ac.uk/CMRhodes.htm). 5. Heather J. Sharkey, “American Presbyterian Missionaries and the Egyptian Evangelical Church: The Colonial and Postcolonial History of a Christian Community,” Chronos: Revue d’Histoire de l’Université Balamand (Lebanon) 15 (2007): 31–63. 6. Charles R. Watson, Egypt and the Christian Crusade (New York: Young People’s Missionary Movement, 1907), pp. 40–43. 7. See, for example, Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993); and Beth Baron, Egypt as a Woman: Nationalism, Gender, and Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005). 8. Heather J. Sharkey, “The Mission of the American University in Cairo,” in American Evangelicals in Egypt: Missionary Encounters in an Age of Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, forthcoming). For a sample of Charles R. Watson’s published writings, see an early work—In the Valley of the Nile: A Survey of the Missionary Movement in Egypt, 2nd ed. (New York: Fleming H. Revell,

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1908)—and, from the 1930s, Do New World Conditions Challenge Changes in Missionary Method and Policy? (New York: Foreign Missions Conference of North America, 1934), and “The Challenge of the Present Crisis,” Missionary Review of the World 57 (1934): 123–129. 9. Virginia Danielson, The Voice of Egypt: Umm Kulthum, Arabic Song, and Egyptian Society in the Twentieth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), pp. 1–3, 200. 10. Israel Gershoni and James Jankowski, Commemorating the Nation: Collective Memory, Public Commemoration, and National Identity in TwentiethCentury Egypt (Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center, 2004), pp. 29–30; Walter Armbrust, Mass Culture and Modernism in Egypt (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 181, 190–192. 11. Joel Gordon, Revolutionary Melodrama: Popular Film and Civic Identity in Nasser’s Egypt (Chicago: Middle East Documentation Center, 2002), pp. 43, 119; Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, p. 133. 12. Sherifa Zuhur, Asmahan’s Secrets: Woman, War, and Song (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2000), pp. 9, 12, 18, 213. 13. Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, pp. 53–54. 14. Michal Goldman (dir.), “Umm Kulthum: A Voice Like Egypt,” film recording (Waltham: Filmmakers Collaborative, 1996). 15. Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, pp. 4, 13. 16. Karin van Nieuwkerk, “A Trade Like Any Other”: Female Singers and Dancers in Egypt (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1995), pp. 61–62. 17. PHS UPCNA RG 209-4-01: Neal McClanahan Papers, McClanahan to Reid, “In Explanation of the Accompanying Paper,” Assiut College 1938. 18. American University in Cairo, Archives and Special Collections, Charles R. Watson Papers (henceforth AUC), Watson to Lum, 12 March 1938. 19. AUC, Watson to Robert [McClenahan], 28 December 1937; Watson to the Women’s Christian Temperance Society of Egypt in Assiut, 22 December 1937. 20. C. C. Adams, Islam and Modernism in Egypt: A Study of the Modern Reform Movement Inaugurated by Muhammad ‘Abduh (London: Oxford University Press, 1933). 21. PHS UPCNA RG 209-1-22, C. C. Adams Papers, Adams to Reed, 17 March 1939. 22. AUC, Delegation of Evangelical pastors in Cairo (majma’ al-khuddam alinjiliyyin bi’l-Qahira) to Dr. Charles Watson, 19 January 1938, signed by Qasis Ghubriyal al-Dab’, Qasis Butrus Abd al-Malik, Qasis Ibrahim Sa‘id, and [Qasis] Mitry Diwayri. 23. AUC, Wahby Boulus, General Secretary, Synod of the Nile, to Watson, 4 November 1937. 24. Conversations with Rev. Menes Abdel Noor, Cairo, 23 May 2005, and Rev. Tharwat Wahba, Philadelphia, 9 November 2005. 25. AUC, Qasis Labib al-Mishriqi, “Ewart Hall and Miss Umm Kulthum,” alHuda, 15 October 1937 (translation); al-Huda, 18 March 1939 (translation); and alHuda, special issue for Easter, vol. 29, no. 12, 8 April 1939, pp. 194–196. 26. AUC, Watson to Ittihad Hadarat al-Ra’at al-Injiliyyin bi’l-Qahira (the Union of Evangelical Ministers in Cairo), Cairo, 14 February 1938, Arabic and English versions. 27. PHS UPCNA RG 209-4-01: Neal McClanahan Papers, Charles R. Watson to Moawad Hanna, 28 May 1938.

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28. AUC, Watson to Moawad Hanna, 28 May 1938. 29. AUC, Watson to Lum, 12 March 1938. 30. AUC, Watson to Ittihad Hadarat al-Ra’at al-Injiliyyin bi’l-Qahira. 31. AUC, Watson to Lum, 12 March 1938. He made an almost identical assertion to the pastors in an Arabic letter, Watson to the Union of Evangelical Ministers in Cairo, 14 February 1938. 32. AUC, Watson to Wahby Boulos of Sennoures, 11 November 1937. 33. Watson did not identify the Arabic term from which “intercourse” was translated. Professor Sasson Somekh identified the word as wisal during the discussion that followed my presentation of the paper at the Open University of Israel, 31 May 2006. 34. AUC, Watson to Robert [McClenahan], 28 December 1937; Watson to Lum, 1 April 1939. 35. AUC, G. Farrell to Watson, Confidential Memo, 4 April 1939; and Watson to the General Assembly of the United Presbyterian Church of North America, Board of Foreign Missions of the United Presbyterian Church of North America, and Board of Trustees of AUC, 24 April 1939, Paper A (attachment): “Why the American University at Cairo Cooperates with the Egyptian State Broadcasting Company.” 36. AUC, Wendell Cleland, Memo re: Concert of Om Kalsoum on Thursday, 4 May 1939. 37. AUC, Watson to the General Assembly of the UPCNA, Board of Foreign Missions of the UPCNA, and Board of Trustees of AUC, 24 April 1939, Paper A (attachment): “Why the American University at Cairo Cooperates with the Egyptian State Broadcasting Company.” 38. AUC, Watson to Lum, 12 March 1938. 39. AUC, “Absolutely Private and Confidential: Memorandum Concerning the Singing of Um Kalthoum in Ewart Memorial Hall, 15 April 1939.” 40. On Eva Habib el-Masri, see Christine Sproul, The American College for Girls, Cairo, Egypt: Its History and Influence on Egyptian Women—A Study of Selected Graduates (Ph.D. diss., University of Utah, 1982), pp. 110–112; and Murphy, The American University in Cairo, p. 42. 41. AUC, “Absolutely Private and Confidential: Memorandum Concerning the Singing of Um Kalthoum in Ewart Memorial Hall, 15 April 1939.” 42. AUC, Lum to Watson, 20 June 1939. 43. AUC, Watson to Alexan Pasha, 8 June 1939, replying to Arabic letter of Alexan Pasha Abiskhayroun, 3 June 1939; Fraternal Agreement, signed by Watson, Ibrahim Said, and Moawad Hanna, 12 July 1939. 44. AUC, McClenahan to Watson, AUC, 6 December 1937; and Qasis Labib al-Mishriqi, “Ewart Hall and Miss Umm Kulthum,” al-Huda, 15 October 1937; and PHS UPCNA 209-4-01: Neal McClanahan Papers, McClanahan to Reid, “In Explanation of the Accompanying Paper,” Assiut College, 1938. 45. Telephone conversation with Willis A. McGill in New Wilmington, PA, 23 June 2005. 46. AUC, Qasis Labib al-Mishriqi, “Ewart Hall and Miss Umm Kulthum,” alHuda, 15 October 1937. 47. George M. Marsden, The Soul of the University: From Protestant Establishment to Established Nonbelief (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994). 48. Charles R. Watson, The Big Idea (Cairo: American University in Cairo, ca. 1942).

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49. Telephone conversation with Willis A. McGill in New Wilmington, PA, 23 June 2005. 50. AUC, Watson to the Union of Evangelical Ministers in Cairo, 14 February 1938. 51. Conversation with the Rev. Emile Zaki, Cairo, 2 June 2005. 52. Telephone conversation with Willis A. McGill in New Wilmington, PA, 23 June 2005. 53. Danielson, The Voice of Egypt, pp. 86–87, 147.

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PART 4 Egypt, Ethiopia, and Sudan: Dissonance and Rapprochement

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10 Managing the Water of the Nile: Basis for Cooperation? Robert Collins

What we basically need is to deal with the Nile basin as a single region with shared natural resources. If we take this as a basis for dealing with the Nile issue, we will be able to devise better ways to achieve the maximum benefit from its waters. —Meles Zenawi, prime minister of Ethiopia, 7 April 1998 Egypt recognizes that each state has the right to equitable utilization of its waters in accordance with international law. Egypt further recognizes that existing water agreements do not hinder the utilization of the Nile waters by any of the riparian states. —Marawan Badr, Egyptian ambassador to Ethiopia, 7 August 1998

Dams and Plans In September 1970 Gamal Abdul Nasser died, leaving behind his massive monument, the Sadd al-Aali, the Aswan High Dam that officially opened in January 1971. The consummation of this extraordinary engineering achievement released a torrent of condemnation both within and without Egypt. The High Dam represented Egyptian nationalism and independence from an imperial past but had produced a host of environmental problems. Although the Egyptian opposition was somewhat subdued, that of the international community was not. The serious concerns by opponents of the High Dam were formidable and very visible. The sheer weight of water could fracture the porous Nubian sandstone, and although the fears of seismic activity have proven exaggerated, there was a major earthquake on 14 November 1918. More important was the loss of the nutrients of the Ethiopian sediment, historically Egypt’s fertilizer, now impounded behind the High Dam to fill the 181

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reservoir in some five hundred years. The Saharan sands, annually blown into the Nile Valley, are no longer flushed downriver. Productivity has declined in the rich Nile Delta from increased salinity and water logging, and without the Nile flood its coastline suffers irreparable degradation. The 10 billion m3 (10 billion cubic meters) of scarce Nile water that evaporates every year from Lake Nasser is an even greater, irreplaceable loss, yet after some thirty years few critics remain today, resigned to the implacable fact that the High Dam is here to stay. To the Egyptians the High Dam is a symbolic monument to their independence and modernity, the guarantor of their prosperity during years of drought, for the waters of Lake Nasser lie within the sovereign territory of Egypt, which enables the massive expansion of irrigated farming in Sinai and the western Egyptian desert to feed a rapidly growing population. Today, the High Dam remains the bastion in the unfolding saga of Egypt’s unilateral determination to use the Nile waters despite the increasingly vociferous challenge by the upstream riparian states. Throughout the twentieth century British and Egyptian engineers and hydrologists had sought to regulate the historic flows of the Nile waters, “Nile control,” to prevent flood destruction during the years of high Niles, and famine when its waters did not arrive out of Africa. Dam structures to conserve the waters were built at the first cataract in Egypt at Aswan and on the Nile tributaries in Sudan. More elaborate plans were designed to capture and utilize the Nile waters for those who were dependent upon the Nile. Late in the nineteenth century the Nile was in flood. In the twentieth century the Nile waters vacillated with excruciating and unpredictable flows. The great drought in the Nile basin during the 1980s reduced Lake Nasser to its lowest levels since the completion of the Aswan High Dam in 1971 and ended with the Egyptian water crisis of 1988. During this decade no Egyptians perished from lack of water, but the Ethiopian experience was quite different and more devastating. While the Egyptians survived because of the waters stored behind their dam, a million Ethiopians perished from famine and thirst when the rains did not arrive. They had no dam. Unlike the Egyptians who had been measuring Nile flows for five thousand years, the Ethiopians did not begin investigations into the conservation of the Nile until 1956, when Emperor Haile Selassie established the Ministry of Public Works. It was reconstituted in 1971 as the National Water Resources Commission to report directly to the council of ministers on how best to manage and develop the abundant waters of the Ethiopian highlands. The commission had no knowledgeable technical staff and was, in fact, a sinecure for the Ethiopian elite whose personnel were intimidated by the traditional hostility from powerful regional barons suspicious of the central government. In an attempt to bring order out of bureaucratic chaos a new agency, the Valley Agricultural Development Authority, was established in 1977, but it soon became a paper program to coordinate water

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resources. The planning and building of structures of conservation for Ethiopian waters remained the responsibility of the Ethiopian Water Works Construction Authority, a bastion of make-work civil servants. In peace, Ethiopia could hardly afford this plethora of impotent agencies competing for scarce resources. In revolution and war, they became irrelevant, and it was not until the end of his regime that President Mengistu Haile Mariam finally realized that his failed revolution needed an Ethiopian “Master Water Plan.” The Ethiopian Preliminary Water Resources Development Master Plan (PWRD) was prepared and produced in 1990. Its purpose was to determine the best means “for the control, protection, conservation, distribution, and utilization of the waters of Ethiopia to meet present and future needs for all beneficial uses and purposes in all areas of the country to the maximum feasible extent.”1 Unlike the Egyptian Master Water Plan, the Ethiopian PWRD was more speculation than reality, inspired by the sixteen volumes of the United States Bureau of Reclamation study, now twenty-five years old, and limited information obtained thereafter from three hundred water gauges scattered throughout the sprawling highland plateau divided by the great canyon of the Blue Nile, hundreds of deep tributary ravines, and the Simyen Mountain Massif at the source of the Atbara. There was little infrastructure to reach its rivers and few competent personnel within the three principal agencies for planning and developing Ethiopian waters. Despite efforts to expand the number of gauges and organize the collection of readings from them, without a coherent and defined proposal it was impossible to draft a plan or legislation for conserving the abundance of Ethiopian waters. Historically, Ethiopia is a land of small plots tilled by peasants with ancient and parochial loyalties and complex relationships with the feudal landlord nobility. After the overthrow of Emperor Haile Selassie in 1974, Mengistu Haile Mariam and the Derg, the ruling council, launched an ambitious program of collective agrarian reform that destroyed old agricultural practices but failed to replace them with productive cooperative farms. Neither the old nor the new, traditional agriculture or collective communes, could be economically supported by irrigation. Despite revolution and the end to the Derg in 1991, the democratic, federal government of Meles Zenawi could not ignore the question of the Nile waters, particularly when Egypt was inaugurating large projects of reclamation. The dearth of data, skilled civil servants, and financial resources, and the need to establish the stability of a new government made any revision of the 1990 Ethiopian Master Water Plan impossible. The alternative was to turn to foreign consultants, at little cost, to examine specific projects enumerated ironically in the US Bureau of Reclamation Report of 1964. During the next decade the French reported on the Blue Nile, the Italians on the Beles, and the Dutch on the Tekeze. By the end of the millennium the

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Ministry of Water Resources had a plethora of proposals from foreign consultants but no revised master plan to provide for a population reproducing at a rate of 3 percent per year and a per capita demand for food at 6 percent. During the decade after the overthrow of Mengistu, the necessity for Meles Zenawi to consolidate the new regime, contain the Oromo insurgency, continue the historic conflict with Somalia, and wage war on the border of Eritrea consumed the energies and resources available to the Ethiopian government and its leaders. Millions of dollars for arms and the mobilization of its peoples precluded the evolution of a coherent Ethiopian water plan but not Ethiopian claims to an equitable share of the Nile waters. While the Ethiopians struggled at the end of the revolution to regain their Nile patrimony, the Egyptians were frustrated with the upstream states by a combination of suspicion, political instability, and a colonial legacy that did not encourage any Egyptian commitments other than to meet, discuss, and to meet again. In 1961 the Egyptians had accepted with enthusiasm the invitation of the East African states to join Hydromet (Hydrometeorological Survey of the Catchments of Lakes Victoria, Kyoga, and Mobutu Sese Seko). In 1976 they had proposed a Nile basin commission without success. In 1983 Egypt persuaded five of the riparians (Egypt, Sudan, Uganda, Zaïre, and Central African Republic) to join Undugu (Ndugu, Swahili for Brotherhood). During the next ten years the members of Undugu did little except discuss the drought, and they had no plans when the rains returned. The Egyptians, however, with Sudanese assistance persevered, and despite the revolving numbers of personalities representing water in the Nile basin states, there was a growing familiarity among the regulars to their meetings who realized they had some common interests in the Nile. In December 1992 at the sixty-seventh meeting of Undugu in Kampala six ministers for water resources were convinced by the Egyptians to reorganize this convivial group into a more scientific organization to consider those technical matters in which ministers concerned with political affairs had little interest or were ignorant. The Technical Cooperation Committee for the Promotion of the Development and Environmental Protection of the Nile, known in the world of African acronyms as TECCONILE, was a decided improvement over impotent Undugu but hardly an Egyptian diplomatic hydrologic victory. To be sure, Egyptian engineers and hydrologists would dominate its deliberations, but Ethiopia remained an aloof observer. Burundi, Eritrea, and Kenya, marginal contributors to the Nile waters, preferred to join the Ethiopians as observers rather than signatories. TECCONILE was to prove another frustrating experience for the Egyptians. In 1992 they finally prevailed upon five of their upstream neighbors to become more active under the TECCONILE acronym to plan for the use of the abundant Nile waters that had returned to Lake Nasser in the 1990s. The Egyptian policy for Nile control had not changed in thirty years. There was,

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in fact, no alternative but continuous dialogue with hesitant and hostile riparians placated by financial support for their local schemes so long as they would not impede the flow of the Nile to Aswan. The first was accomplished by the International Nile 2002 Conferences beginning in 1993 at Aswan. They have been held annually in late winter, rotating from one basin capital to another. The International Nile 2002 Conferences have been the forum, often held with considerable fanfare, for members from the scientific community to present their lucid and turgid papers. They have been common ground for ministers and civil servants to protect their national interests during formal presentations but also, during the informality of private conversations, to establish mutual respect despite deep differences. In February 1994 at the Second Nile 2002 Conference in Khartoum the participants translated their discussions into practical projects for regional cooperation in the management of Nile waters. During the previous two years the Egyptian engineers and their colleagues of TECCONILE had not been idle. At Khartoum they presented the Nile River Action Plan that included twenty-two projects for water resource management, institution building, training, regional cooperation, and environmental protection among the states of the Lake Plateau. It deliberately contained no proposals for building structures—barrages, canals, and dams—for the conservation and management of Nile waters, which would have reopened the contentious issues of Nile control and who owned the Nile—those with historic or those with equitable rights. The Nile River Action Plan was the practical manifestation of Egyptian Nile policy to support water management and cooperation among the states of the equatorial lakes. Once absorbed in projects to combat their immediate needs, Egypt could pursue its massive projects for desert reclamation without harassment from states on the Lake Plateau. TECCONILE, in which Egypt was the dominant participant, would administer the plan from its headquarters at Entebbe. The Action Plan was unanimously approved in February 1995 by the ministers for water from the Nile basin states—the Council of Ministers—during the Third Nile 2002 Conference at Arusha. Jackson Makwetta, the Tanzania minister for water, energy and minerals, cautiously commented it was not a plan, only an expression of commitment. The Tanzanian prime minister, Cleopa Msuya, declared his government was committed to the principle of “equitable entitlement,” not “historic needs or established rights” to the Nile waters. Their suspicions of the Egyptians were symbolic of the fundamental difference that has historically bedeviled the planning of projects for Nile control. Two years later Egyptian shuttle diplomacy prevailed. The Nile River Basin Action Plan was brought before the Fifth Nile 2002 Conference convened in Addis Ababa in February 1997. There were few representatives who could not support innocuous projects for the collection of data, environmental management, and training for per-

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sonnel in the states of the Lake Plateau. These countries held great quantities of fresh water in the equatorial lakes that they did not immediately need but which could support the expanding population of Egypt. In his opening address to the conference Shiferaw Jaso, the Ethiopian minister for water resources, insisted “as a source and major contribution of the Nile waters, Ethiopia has the right to have an equitable share of the Nile waters and reserves its rights to make use of its water.”2 There was nothing new in this declaration except the passage of half a century. In 1956 the Imperial Ethiopian Government had officially declared it “would reserve for her own use those Nile waters in her territory,” known as equitable shares.3 The dearth of water in Ethiopia and Egypt during the 1980s was a sobering experience that produced a new spirit—clarion calls from Cairo for confidence building and pious pronouncements from Addis Ababa for cooperation—that failed to disguise the incompatibility between “equitable shares” and “historic needs and established rights.” At the end of the millennium it had become more, not less, difficult to reconcile equitable shares and ancient rights by more Egyptians and more Ethiopians requiring ever more water.

Established Rights or Equitable Shares? It should come as no surprise that lawyers are the principal beneficiaries of disputes over the right to use fresh water. For more than a century they have argued that the resolution of contentious claims of river water, historic or equitable rights, should be determined by international law that derives its legitimacy from agreement or by custom. There are some four thousand treaties relating to international lakes and rivers. Most are bilateral, defining the management and sharing of water between two sovereign states. A few are multilateral agreements that embrace a watercourse that runs through several states in its drainage basin. They are not derived from any generally accepted international law, but in each individual case they represent practical compromises that defined an equitable distribution of the waters. By the end of the twentieth century the aggregate, if not the legal weight, of these many individual treaties has created by custom an unwritten principle that equitable utilization is the foundation upon which negotiations should begin for the division of a scare resource. Like most principles, equitable utilization is a body consisting of its parts, for which there was no consensus on the rules that put it together despite those who have tried. In 1961 the Institut de Droit International proposed equity but recognized circumstances and needs. In 1966 the International Law Association was instrumental in adopting at Helsinki rules for the “Uses of the Waters of International Rivers” in which Article IV authorized states “to a reasonable and equitable share in the beneficial uses of

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the waters of an international drainage basin.”4 These were impracticable recommendations rendered unenforceable by piously urging riparians to consider the economic and social needs of each. The International Law Commission of the United Nations endorsed the principle of equitable utilization in 1991, which essentially confirmed existing custom and usage unless new water became available. Equitable utilization consequently remains in the eye of the beholder and not enforceable by law. A powerful downstream state will undoubtedly marshal its influence to persuade or convince by force weaker upstream riparians to desist from claims for equitable use. This legal legerdemain left little leeway for any redistribution of the Nile waters. Egypt and Sudan had established their historic rights in 1959 by an agreement, the “Full Utilization of the Nile Waters,” but if the upstream riparian states “claim a share of the Nile waters,” Egypt and Sudan will, according to Article V of the agreement, consider and reach one unified view regarding the said claims. And if the said consideration results in the acceptance of allotting an amount of the Nile water to one or the other of the said states, the accepted amount shall be deducted from the shares of the two Republics in equal parts, as calculated at Aswan.5

None of the states upstream from Khartoum have ever exploited this article to challenge Egypt and Sudan on their division of 90 percent of the Nile waters. At the Fifth Nile 2002 Conference in February 1997 at Addis Ababa, Ethiopia argued that equitable distribution of the Nile be determined by law, not by demand. Egypt and Sudan are presumably protected by the obligation in the UN International Law Commission report that upstream states should not cause “harm” for those downstream. The upstream states have argued that their later development depends on the principle of equitable utilization, which would be foreclosed if causing “harm” to Egypt and Sudan. There is no statutory law for international watercourses and no international body that could enforce it. Ethiopia cannot conclude that Egypt has exceeded its equitable share when it cannot demonstrate that it has harmed its downstream neighbor. In the nebulous world of international lawyers, where continuing discourse takes precedent to statute, those with historic rights and those with equitable utilization may evolve a shared vision while each vigorously pursues its projects to use the Nile waters for its own needs. Within a month after the Addis Ababa conference the World Bank was asked to review the proposal made in 1995 by the ministers for water of the Nile basin states, the Council of Ministers, to provide funding for the Action Plan. This request created a dilemma. The World Bank had a history of support for river basin development, but the rights to water in any river basin still remained politically controversial, legally obscure, and emotionally volatile, and nowhere more than in the Nile basin. The Bank was customari-

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ly cautious, unwilling to take risks on the Nile without seeking professional advice and partners in the consultative process, the Canadians and the United Nations Development Programme, who had already financed and been involved in the evolution of the Action Plan. In November 1997 a group of international experts on river basins of the world, conveniently known as the International Advisory Group for the Nile Basin (IGA), met at Coolfont outside Washington, DC, to review the Action Plan. Their commentary was critical and their recommendations, subsequently incorporated in the report to the riparian countries in January 1998, significantly revised the shopping list of projects included in the Action Plan. Instead of twenty-two uncoordinated projects the new Nile Basin Initiative was to promote action programs by a “Shared Vision.” Since neither Ethiopia nor the states of the Lake Plateau had ever contemplated sharing anything, let alone their water, this was a radical but unassailable concept. The future development of the Nile would now be determined by policies acceptable to the basin states “to achieve sustainable socio-economic development through the equitable utilization of, and benefit from, the common Nile Basin water resources.”6 In September the Nile Basin Initiative secretariat opened its office at Entebbe in the old TECCONILE building under its executive director, Meraji O. Y. Msuya. The Nile Basin Initiative was indeed a new departure in the management of the Nile, for its objective was equitable utilization that would erode historic rights. Shared visions were not the stuff of imperialists, planners, or dam builders. Economic development could not advance without the grand structures to control, divert, and produce hydroelectric power and water for irrigation from the Nile. Historically, the schemes for Nile control have been designed at the Ministry of Public Works in Cairo or at the Ministry of Irrigation and Hydroelectric Power in Khartoum. “Shared Vision” was now to be realized by the participation of the local people who lived by the river and would absorb the immediate impact of any project to improve drainage, sanitation, fisheries, wetlands, and weed control. There are no dams, no canals, no barrages, and no obstructions to the flow of waters from the equatorial lakes. The Nile Basin Initiative is a peoples program for the people of the Lake Plateau who desperately need it.

Shared Visions vs. Separate Development North of the Lake Plateau the Ethiopians and Egyptians had not been idle. During the decades of long and tortuous discussions by Undugu, TECCONILE, the Council of Ministers, and the Nile 2002 Conferences culminating in the Nile Basin Initiative, the two downstream riparians, Egypt and Sudan, were independently designing schemes for their own conservation

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and utilization of the Nile waters. The evolution of these projects from conception to drafting to pouring concrete was accompanied by continuing dialogue with the upstream riparians. Their political turmoil and dearth of resources presented no threat to the flow of the Nile for Egypt and Sudan, and gravity precluded any challenge from states on the Lake Plateau or Ethiopia to structures downstream for irrigation and hydroelectric power. The constraints for their ambitious conservancy schemes would be international interference or lack of resources to build them, not objections from upstream politicians or the memory of their engineers. Elderly Ethiopians still remember the drought of 1972, an omen predicting the fall of Emperor Haile Selassie two years later, and they will never forget the more devastating droughts of 1984 and 1985 that hastened the collapse of Mengistu and the Derg in 1991. The government of Meles Zenawi was determined to avoid these calamities even if Ethiopia had to carry out its own water plans independent of international assistance or a Nile waters agreement requiring concessions that neither Egypt nor Sudan were prepared to make. The small Finchaa Dam was the only Ethiopian conservancy structure in the Blue Nile basin, but it was built to generate hydroelectric power, not to store water for irrigation. The Ethiopians, however, had ambitious plans for other dams at Lake Tana, Tisisat Falls, on the Beles, and on the Tekeze to generate electricity. The Ethiopian government would benefit from revenues of exported hydropower, but the Ethiopian people needed food more than electricity they could not consume. Planning for the use of their Nile waters, the Ethiopians dramatically shifted from large to small dams. Microdams can be constructed at little cost across the thousands of rivulets, streams, and rivers that lace the Ethiopian highlands, to store water for local irrigation and years of drought. Hydroelectric dams spin turbines but pass the water down the Nile to irrigate the fields of Sudan and Egypt. Small dams in Ethiopia collect water to retain it. They can be constructed by local laborers who need no rhetoric from the central government as an incentive, for every Ethiopian knows the inevitable times of dearth and drought, which have nothing to do with international water agreements, will return. Each of these weirs could contain only a pond compared to the massive imperial dams of the British and the Egyptians for Nile control. In the aggregate they could become, in the future, a great reservoir. While Ethiopia was contemplating building small dams, Egypt was constructing monuments. Rameses II at Abu Simbel would have understood the historic manifestation of the “edifus complex” of Gamal Abdul Nasser for a mighty dam and Nasser’s successors for large schemes of desert reclamation to feed a population that had overwhelmed the fecund soils in Upper and Lower Egypt. Beyond the fertile fringe of the Nile and the deep silt of the delta spread the sands of Sinai to the east and the Egyptian desert to the

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west. Two massive projects were approved to reclaim these wastelands watered by the Nile for agriculture, industry, and tourists—one east of Suez in the Sinai along the Mediterranean shore, the other a thousand miles up the Nile in the Toshka Depression in the western desert 150 miles southwest of Aswan. In 1976 Egypt began constructing the Salam (Peace) Canal from the Damietta branch of the Nile under the Suez Canal fifteen miles south of Port Said to emerge on the east bank with Nile water for the Suez Canal Region Development Project. When officially opened by President Hosni Mubarak on 26 October 1997, Ethiopia strongly objected to this diversion of the Nile outside its basin. In the geologic past, northwestern Sinai had been part of the Nile basin. In the historic present it remains a province of Egypt. The Ethiopians were politely rebuffed and thereafter studiously ignored. One of the terms of the Camp David Accords in September 1978 was the return by Israel of 23,622 square miles of the Sinai Peninsula to Egypt. The following year Egypt began to plan for the eastward extension of the Salam Canal to carry 12.5 million m3 of Nile water annually to the Northern Sinai Agricultural Development Program. Fifteen years later in January 1994, the excavation of the second phase of the Salam Canal commenced to irrigate 400,000 acres of the Sinai from Suez to El Arish, near the Israeli border, to accommodate three million Egyptian settlers at a cost of $1.4 billion. The irrigation of the northern Sinai has not been without controversy, however, dwarfed by the much larger and more contentious Southern Egyptian Development Project. The completion of the first Aswan Dam in 1902 had contained the historic fear of flood, and in 1971 the Sadd al-Aali had elevated that protection, but neither dam could determine the height of rising waters behind their great walls. Nature made these decisions. After five thousand years the Egyptians knew that floods were as inevitable as drought. As part of the construction of the Aswan High Dam the Egyptians began in 1966 the excavation of a fourteen-mile canal through Khor Toshka on the western shore of Lake Nasser to spill any abundance of water into the Toshka Depression. It was a safety valve to release excess water whenever the reservoir behind the High Dam rose to dangerous levels that could threaten its integrity. Ironically, the Toshka Overflow Canal was completed in 1978 just in time for the decade of drought when the level of Lake Nasser dropped to precarious lows, leaving the mouth of the canal high and dry. For eighteen years this drainage ditch remained an arid wadi, just another monument in the desiccated land of the pharaohs, but like many monuments it symbolized continuity between the past, the present, and the future. During its excavation as a spillway, it became apparent to Egyptian engineers that the canal could be a potential conduit to fill the Toshka Depression, reclaim vast spaces of the western desert, and supplement the aquifers in its oases by the

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waters of the Nile. The prospect for these pharaonic proposals diminished into obscurity during the great drought of the 1980s, but they were revived with enthusiasm upon the return of the Nile waters in the 1990s. During the last decade of the twentieth century the towering cumulus clouds from the South Atlantic carried quantities of water that had not been received in a hundred years. At the beginning of the twenty-first century this phenomenon remains controversial. Was this another inexplicable aberration of Nature or a pattern of global climate governed by El Niño? In 1988 the Egyptians had agonized over their options when the Nile had too little water. Suddenly, on 4 August the Intertropical Convergence Zone moving north collided with a violent line squall from the southeast just north of Khartoum to drop nine inches of rain in twenty-four hours on a city with an annual average rainfall of seven inches. At the same time, less violent but greater quantities of water fell upon Blue Nile and Atbara watersheds. One hundred and six billion m3, 9 percent above the century average, surged down the Nile to Aswan to break the great drought, flush through the turbines, and water the fields. The waters of the Nile had returned. During the next decade (1988–2001) the average annual mean flow of the Nile was 86.5 billion m3, which almost recovered the century mean, 88 billion m3. At the end of the millennium the Sadd al-Aali dramatically demonstrated it could contain the massive flows of 1994 (91.9 billion m3), 1996 (92.2 billion m3), 1998 (121 billion m 3), and 1999 (95.2 billion m3). By 1996 the Egyptians had to decide what to do with too much water.7 The dams at Aswan in 1902 and 1971 were to eliminate fear of flood forever, but the Nile torrent of 1996, 10 percent greater than the century average, dramatically raised the level of the reservoir. The enormous pressure produced by the weight of 140 billion m3 of heavy water threatened the dam above and the earth below. The maximum level for the reservoir had never reached the opening of the Toshka Overflow Canal above the rising waters of the lake. The crust of the earth at the bottom of the reservoir was a latticework of geologic faults vulnerable to fracture from the increasing weight of Lake Nasser. On 31 July 1996 the reservoir had risen to 567 feet. The tolerable maximum level for the reservoir without damage to the dam was 583 feet (178 meters), at which the waters of Lake Nasser would spill into the overflow canal and the Toshka Depression. Throughout August the level of the lake moved relentlessly upward inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. By midAugust it was rising more than three inches a day to 570 feet. Upstream in Sudan, officials in Khartoum declared a state of emergency when the Blue Nile gauge at Al-Daym on its Ethiopian border registered an unprecedented 43 feet. Hundreds of homes were destroyed along the Nile at the confluence of the Blue and White Niles, and the raging waters surged downstream to destroy the banks of the Nile in Nubia. By the end of August the reservoir

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had reached 574 feet, the highest level since the completion of the High Dam in 1971. On 27 August the Egyptian minister of public works, Muhammad ‘Abdel al-Hadi Radi, declared an emergency in Upper Egypt and established a crisis team at Aswan to monitor the rise of Lake Nasser. They predicted that the reservoir would continue to rise, and it did. On 29 September the lake rose another two inches, to 583 feet, to spill 60 billion m3 into the Toshka Overflow Canal. The minister assured the populace there was nothing to fear from earthquakes. Three months later on 9 January 1997, thirtyseven years to the day after Gamal Abdul Nasser had attended the opening ceremonies for the Aswan High Dam, President Hosni Mubarak presided over the inauguration of the Southern Egypt Development Project, Toshka. The water crisis of 1988, a rapidly expanding population, and the opportunity that Nature provided by the return of the Nile waters in the 1990s convinced the Egyptians to reclaim the wastelands of the western desert and expand the cultivation in the historic oases of Kharga, Dakhla, Farafra, and Bahariya. The popular image of a desert is a vast expanse of uninterrupted sand like the Libyan or the Tenéré in Niger, where even the Tuareg fear to tread. Most deserts, however, are alive with unique fauna and flora amid rock, gravel, and alluvial soils from the geologic past. If the Aswan High Dam created a huge reservoir, the Desert Reclamation Authority of the Egyptian Ministry of Irrigation and Water Resources in 1963 launched a decade of geologic and soil surveys around the Toshka Depression to reclaim the desert from the Nile water trapped in Lake Nasser. In 1971 they concluded that half a million acres from the one-and-a-half million of the Toshka Depression were arable for cultivation if watered. This survey was terminated in 1973 by the mobilization for war against Israel, but Toshka was not forgotten. Optimism that land could be reclaimed in the western desert prevailed despite the beginning of a decade of drought. The New Valley Governate was organized in 1980 to administer this vast, sparsely populated region and prepare it for expansive reclamation. The Egyptian Planners Association proposed to extend the canal carrying Lake Nasser water from the Toshka Depression to the western oases in this New Valley. The following year, 1981, the recommendations in the Master Water Plan were principally concerned to reform water management in the Egyptian Nile and to seek new water from the equatorial lakes and the Upper Nile. The first priority, however, was to expand acreage for cultivation by reclaiming land along the Mediterranean Coast of Sinai. The Toshka Project itself was not mentioned in the Master Water Plan, but the planning for what was to become the Southern Egypt Development Project had begun. During the next ten years, when the levels of the Lake Nasser reservoir plunged to new lows, the General Authority for Rehabilitation Projects and Agricultural Development and its German consultants from

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Aeroconsult-Bisser began a more comprehensive study of the soils of the New Valley region in 1983. In 1984 the respected Egyptian Geological Survey began its extensive investigations that were later complemented by satellite surveys from the Remote Sensing Unit at the Institute of Lands, Water, and Environmental Research. During the next ten years the Egyptian western desert was examined on the ground and from the air to determine within a reasonable prediction which areas contained soils that, when efficiently watered, could produce economically viable crops. Core holes were bored and samples collected, and satellites swept overhead as the research continued in a desultory but determined fashion. Meanwhile, events upstream seemed to confirm the wisdom to build the Aswan High Dam to make Egypt self-sufficient in water. When the decade of drought came to an end in 1988, the following year an Islamist coup d’état unfriendly to Egypt seized control in Khartoum, the same year that Yoweri Museveni was writing a new constitution for Uganda to give himself greater powers. Three years later in 1991 Mengistu Haile Mariam was overthrown by Meles Zenawi, whose nationalism was more outspoken about Ethiopian rights to the Nile waters than either Mengistu, a communist, or Haile Selassie, the former imperial emperor. By 1994 the Nile waters had returned in flood, and the levels of Lake Nasser were rising. The time had come for the Egyptians to build another monument, not to conserve water but to use it for the reclamation of land to employ and feed the expanding population of Egypt—one million new Egyptians every nine months. Massive water projects, once begun, quickly assume a life of their own. Toshka was no exception. The Egyptian Academy for Scientific Research and Technology discovered additional underground water resources in the western oases. By 1996 the Soil and Water Research Institute had found two-and-a-half million acres suitable for agriculture. On 9 January 1997, amid much fanfare, President Mubarak officially opened the Shaikh Zayed Canal to make possible Phase I of Toshka, the New Delta, the “MegaProject” that would secure his place with Muhammad ’Ali and Gamal Abdul Nasser in the hydraulic history of modern Egypt. The canal would carry the Nile waters from Lake Nasser for the desert to bear fruit and add another half-million acres to the fourteen million currently under cultivation in Egypt. The canal was named in honor of Shaikh Zayed Bin Sultan Al Nahayan, president of the United Arab Emirates, who contributed $100 million from the Abu Dhabi Development Fund for its construction. The Shaikh Zayed Canal should not be confused with the Toshka Overflow Canal to drain excessive water from Lake Nasser. Beginning at the Mubarak Pumping Station, the new canal is lined in concrete forty-five miles to the west and then north. At its terminus, the canal divides into two branches to bring life to a half-million acres of desert.

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Like dams, large reclamation projects for irrigation produce concrete and critics. Toshka was no exception. Egyptian and international experts deplored the environmental degradation of a fragile desert. They cannot accept the loss of precious water from evaporation in exposed canals excavated through hundreds of miles of sand, rock, and heat to remote oases. Those who calculate the amount of water in the Nile are the most concerned. They argue there is not enough water for Egypt’s ambitious reclamation projects in Sinai and Toshka, Sudanese dams at Kajbar and Merowe, and a Ugandan dam at Bujagali Falls, not to mention dozens of hydroelectric and irrigation projects in Ethiopia. Tony Allan, professor of geography at the London School of Oriental and African Studies, thinks Toshka “preposterous, a national fantasy . . . , [for Egypt] is going to have less water, not more.”8 Egyptian hydrologists are concerned about evaporative losses and degradation of soils. Toshka has its defenders, led by President Mubarak, his ministers, and his government. The prospect of protecting the sparse fauna and flora of the western desert in return for acres of fruits and vegetables has little appeal to those who make policy or the fellahin who execute it. Egyptian engineers have produced volumes of papers for the interminable technical discussions at innumerable conferences, all of which are dissolved by the reality that the population of Egypt in 2015 will be eighty-five million. In 1996 the Nile produced 92.2 billion m3 that raised the level of Lake Nasser to 583 feet. Two years later the Nile demonstrated once again the historic unpredictability of its flood. In late August 1998 over 121 billion m3 surged down the river. On Sunday, 21 September, over half a billion m3 were released from the High Dam in an attempt to lower the level of the lake, but as in 1996 it was the overflow canal that once again discharged the excess into the Toshka Depression to protect the dam. Despite the spill of 27 September the level of the reservoir continued to rise, reaching 592 feet. On Monday, 12 October 1998, it crested at 593 feet, ten feet above the record level of 1996.9 Mahmoud Abu Zeid, minister of public works and water resources, and his phalanx of engineers anxiously monitored the structure of the dam. Fortunately for their careers, the clay core, impacted sand, and rock fill stood firm against the pressure from 162 billion m3 of Nile water. When President Mubarak, Prime Minister Kamal al-Janzouri, and a bevy of cabinet ministers stood on the bank of the Toshka spillway on 13 October 1998, they did not have the perspective of NASA astronauts who were in space at the time, photographing a large lake estimated at 117 square miles at the bottom of the Toshka Depression, the first in the western Egyptian desert in six thousand years. A year later, in December 1999, satellite imagery discovered that twenty billion m3, 25 percent of the average annual flow of the Nile, had spilled down the Toshka Overflow Canal. Five

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Saharan lakes filled 625 square miles of the Toshka Depression.10 This abundance from the Nile and Lake Nasser may have been the work of God, Allah, or Nature, but it appeared a symbolic confirmation of President Mubarak’s decision to pass more Nile water every year down the Shaikh Zayed Canal. A year after the bulldozers began excavating the canal, an international consortium was awarded $440 million to construct the massive Mubarak Pumping Station five miles north of the spillway. The entrance to the Shaikh Zayed Canal is sixty-three feet above the highest recorded level of Lake Nasser and 178 feet above its lowest. Any hope of reclaiming the western desert would depend on the largest pumping station in the world to raise the water over the height of land into the Toshka Depression and the western desert. The Aswan High Dam would supply the power for the pumps through a unified grid as far south as Abu Simbel and ultimately to the western oases. Kaverner International, an Anglo-Norwegian company, constructed the intake, six miles of tunnels 164 feet deep into the reservoir. Hitchai of Japan built the twenty-two pumps. Arabian International of Egypt installed them to link and send three-and-a-half billion m3 of Nile waters down the Shaikh Zayed Canal.

Toshka and the New Valley Toshka represents a revolutionary departure from the Egyptian past. It is a new frontier in the desert that every Egyptian throughout history has avoided whenever possible. The pressure of population growth may convince the Egyptians to abandon the river for the sand if the government can provide the incentives and its media can promote the prospect of prosperity in a land reclaimed from one of the hottest and driest environments in the world. It is indeed a challenge in a culturally conservative country whose citizens may not respond to the call unless compelled to do so. Toshka has become the great pyramid of Hosni Mubarak, his monument, his high dam. “We are currently going through a shift in Egypt’s history, and I am devoting no less energy to this, than I am to combating terrorism and solving the Mideast problem.”11 Toshka also represents a cultural and political revolution. It is the gravestone of the Egyptian Revolution of 1952 and the Arab socialism of Gamal Abdul Nasser. The monolithic regime of Egypt today and its structured bureaucracy is more reminiscent of Rameses II in the thirteenth century before Christ than the socialists and communists of the twentieth century after him. The central government of Egypt appoints its powerful provincial governors, the mayors of its 4,000 villages, those who preach in the 60,000 mosques, and the presidents of its fifteen universities. They are supported

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by an inflated bureaucracy encrusted through time like a Red Sea coral reef with volumes of regulations that stifle initiative, discourse, and dissent. Entangled in a legal and regulatory cobweb spun by the spiders of Arab, Turkish, French, and British rulers, a third of the Egyptian people are underpaid civil servants with security of employment that often perpetuates their officious and mediocre performance. In order to attract resources to build Toshka and the New Valley, the Egyptian government had to accept, as much by necessity as conviction, the economic rules of the free market, the historic Arab bazaar, the suq, untrammeled by restrictive government regulations. Toshka and the New Valley are being promoted as more than just an agricultural breadbasket, but also as an opportunity for mining, manufacturing, and tourism supported by water, infrastructure, legal, and financial incentives to attract global money. In 1997 Law No. 8 exempted private investors from many of the crushing regulations that had previously inhibited investment. Generous tax benefits are offered. In August 1999 Prince Al-Walid bin Talal bin Abdel Aziz of Saudi Arabia was the first global entrepreneur to make a substantial investment in Toshka. The billionaire owner of Saks Fifth Avenue in New York and the George V Hotel in Paris decided to become an Egyptian farmer, more a landlord, however, than a fellahin. He purchased 120,000 acres of the northern branch of the Shaikh Zayed Canal to grow high-value crops— citrus, grapes, vegetables—for his supermarket chain in Saudi Arabia and outlets in Egypt and the European Common Market. Determined to transform his acreage into the largest farm from reclaimed desert, Cadiz Inc. of Santa Monica, California, and its farming unit, Sun World International, are designing a massive drip irrigation system in tract number one of Toshka. Fruit does not spring instantly from the ground, and its acculturation in a desert will need an elaborate infrastructure that will require another twenty years. The Nile may deny its waters or give them in abundance, but in the end it will be old man river that determines the success of Toshka. The New Valley Canal will be excavated north to the Darb el-Arbain, Baris, the Kharga Oasis, and then northwest to the archipelago of oases— Dakhla, Farafra, and Bahariya—143 miles beyond the terminus of the Shaikh Zayed Canal and 188 from the Mubarak Pumping Station. Thirty pumping stations will push the Nile through the desert. None of these giant reclamation projects can become a reality without an elaborate infrastructure. A network of macadamized roads will need to be built across the sands to bind together the oases with the Nile, lined by the necessary wires and cables of communication. Railways, river ports on Lake Nasser, and the Abu Simbel International Airport will have to be modernized. It is a grand scheme at an incalculable price that will consume the energies of Egypt during the first half of the twenty-first century. The purpose of Toshka and the New Valley is to expand the cultivation

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of Egypt to feed and to employ its exploding population. The western desert is the new frontier for millions of Egyptians to have a productive life in farms and factories rather than a life of urban poverty in Cairo or the provincial cities of Egypt. Some believe that the sophisticated technology required to reclaim the desert will not need substantial numbers of Egyptians, particularly the unskilled, working on schemes that require employees with advanced vocational training. There are those among the young, which Egypt has in abundance, who would prefer the bright lights of poverty in the city to the eternal sun and sand of the desert. The government will undoubtedly use all means at its command to bring seven million Egyptians to the New Valley, for without them Toshka will fail. There is, however, a much deeper, historic reason for Toshka: the unity of Egypt. Five thousand years ago Menes, known as Hor-Aha, the Fighting Horus, was the first king of the first dynasty of the Old Kingdom. In 3,000 B.C.E. he unified Upper and Lower Egypt. During the next five millennia the pharaohs and their successors have found it necessary to use all their political skills and military strength to maintain the unity of the two Egypts. Every ruler of Egypt has employed different measures to retain his authority over a slender green thread running eight hundred miles by the banks of the Nile from the first cataract of the Nile at Aswan to the Mediterranean Sea. Despite the revolution in communications and technology the unity of Egypt, symbolized by the river, remains the challenge for contemporary rulers as it was for Menes five thousand years ago. Today Egypt is dominated by the megalopolis of Cairo, with its fourteen million citizens, and the delta, where 60 percent of Egyptians live. Forgotten and ignored, Upper Egypt has been the perennial backwater of traditional agriculture and rural life where poverty is relieved by religion. Islamic piety is deeply rooted in the fellahin of Upper Egypt without the scholarship of Muslim shaikhs and the ‘ulama’ scholars at al-Azhar, the center of Islamic learning in Cairo for a thousand years. Troubled and impoverished southern Egypt has been the fertile soil for the growth of Islamists and their divisive use of terrorism, which can perhaps be contained by the economic rejuvenation of Upper Egypt. Toshka is no longer a massive reclamation scheme, but a political project to rehabilitate the south and tie the knot of unification. Menes would have approved. The environment, soils, people, and unity will sink into the sands of Toshka without water. Egyptian dependence on the Nile needs no explanation from foreign environmentalists, scientists, demographers, or politicians. After acrimonious negotiations, whose ghosts still haunt the Ministry of Irrigation and Water Resources in Cairo and the Ministry of Irrigation and Hydroelectric Power in Khartoum, Egypt and Sudan agreed on 8 November 1959 to divide the Nile waters between them. Egypt received 55.5 and Sudan 18.5 billion m3 of the Nile, 84 percent of the

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average annual flow of 88 billion m3. The parting of the waters in 1959 made possible the construction of dams, the Sadd al-Aali at Aswan in Egypt and Roseires and Khashm al-Girba in Sudan. Once dams are built they become an accepted reality. The water they contain is not. It fluctuates from one year to the next, from decades of dearth to decades of plenty determined by Nature as the volume behind each dam is relentlessly reduced by the accumulation of dead storage of silt in still waters. The one constant has been the arbitrary intervention by man to divide the resources in perpetuity for his livelihood. In the last half century the historic rights of Egypt, 55.5 billion m3, and Sudan, 18.5 billion m3, have become their nonnegotiable entitlement to the Nile waters. This article of faith was founded on the pragmatic assumption that the upstream riparian states did not need nor have the will, the resources, or the political stability to obstruct the flow of the Nile. These three factors have frustrated Egyptian and Sudanese efforts to find new water that made the entitlement of 1959 all the more sacred and necessary to reclaim one-and-a-half million acres for greater Toshka. When the first phase of Toshka is completed in 2017, it is estimated it will require over 5 billion m3 of water sucked from Lake Nasser by the Mubarak Pump Station. Since there is no prospect in the near future of new water, the Egyptians have no other option but to find the water for Toshka by conserving and managing their historic and acquired rights to the Nile, 55.5 billion m3. This creates two conundrums. In the year 2001, the new millennium, Lake Nasser was filled to the brim. Despite efforts by Egyptian and foreign engineers, hydrologists, mathematicians, even astrologers, they have failed to predict when Nature will provide sufficient water for the needs of Egypt today and Toshka tomorrow. Without the reform of water management in Egypt at a time of increasing demand by more Egyptians, the prospect of conserving five billion cubic meters for Toshka becomes ever more difficult except for the fact that the water arrives at Lake Nasser before Aswan. This fundamental law of gravity has not been lost on the Ethiopians in their highland massif. At the beginning of the twenty-first century the utilization of the waters of the Nile has changed much by symbolism but little in reality. Symbolically, every member of the Nile basin riparian states has declared its commitment to resolve Nile control by cooperation and consultation. Ministers meet, experts discuss. The annual 2002 Nile Conferences have become an international forum for dozens of technical meetings orchestrated by the Nile Basin Initiative promoted and funded by the World Bank. Interminable negotiations over a scarce resource are indeed preferable to water wars. Despite the burden of yet more pretentious acronyms, ENCOM (Eastern Nile Council of Ministers), ENAP (Eastern Nile Subsidiary Action Program), hostile rhetoric or violent conflict will most certainly not create

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new Nile water. Efforts by David Grey of the World Bank in Washington and its Nile Basin Secretariat under Meraji O. Y. Msuya in Entebbe have succeeded in organizing a Nile club of confidence and conviviality among ministers and engineers for “Shared Visions” and a “Win-Win Scenario.” At the end of March 2001 the Council of Ministers for Water Affairs of the Nile basin states meeting in Khartoum enthusiastically approved the projects proposed by the Nile Basin Initiative. The proposals were, in fact, revisions of the Nile River Basin Action Plan submitted to the World Bank in 1995 by the Egyptians under the aegis of the Technical Cooperation Committee for the Promotion of the Development and Environmental Protection of the Nile. Not surprisingly, in 2001 the ministers had to generate yet another committee and acronym, the International Consortium for Cooperation on the Nile (ICCON) in order to continue the dialogue of organizing the Nile waters. Even the Ethiopian minister for water resource development was effusive. “It is only through joint actions that we can meet the challenges and benefit from [the Nile’s] bounties. We are bound by the dictates of modern global economy and the hydrology of the Nile River system to work together for the benefit of our people.”12 The reality was much different. The beguiling beauty of the inscrutable Nile is its mystery. For five thousand years its source was unknown. Its authenticity still eludes us. In August 2001 the rain clouds from the South Atlantic returned to wash away homes and crops in Sudan and raise the Nile to higher levels. The lakes of the Toshka Depression were once again renewed. This new abundance of Nile water confirmed the riparians’ determination to exploit their beneficence for the needs of their own people. In the conference hall, before the media, and in intimate discussions the rhetoric of cooperation and consultation could not compete with the determination of individual leaders to meet their perceived responsibilities to their own citizens or subjects, each taking advantage of the weakness of the other. Egypt continues to fund and support projects of the Nile Basin Initiative, which they first proposed in 1995, that leaves them free to develop their extensive deserts in Sinai and the New Valley. The Egyptians are the immediate beneficiaries of civil war in Sudan and the debilitating conflict between Ethiopia and Eritrea that has rendered these two commanding upstream states impotent to divert the Nile waters. Their disability is not, however, a permanent condition nor are the less ambitious schemes of the Upper Nile basin states. Ethiopia has long sought to develop its phenomenal hydroelectric power by thirteen dams, projects under the “Shared Vision” of the Nile Basin Initiative. These same waters, however, can be used for irrigation. Sudan is beginning preparations for the Kajbar Dam at the third cataract of the Nile and, with loans from the United Arab Emirates, to begin construction of the Merowe hydroelectric dam at the fourth cataract. Not to

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be left out of the race for the Nile waters, Uganda received financial assistance from the World Bank in December 2001 to construct another controversial hydroelectric dam at Bujagali Falls, six miles downstream from the Owen Falls Dam at the outlet of Lake Victoria. Despite abundant water in the last decade of the twentieth century, the fundamental issues of Nile control have not changed in the last hundred years, only the players. Every state in the Nile basin is confronted today by an expanding and younger population. They demand the benefits from the waters of the Nile to quench thirst and satisfy stomachs. These waters rise and fall with exasperating unpredictability. They can certainly be used more efficiently but will remain a finite and scarce resource. The Nile Basin Initiative has sought to create a spirit of cooperation among the traditionally hostile Nile riparians. The fundamental issues, however, remain. There are too many people who drink the Nile waters and too many to be fed from its known cubic meters that breed the hydrologic Nilotic fever—Every man for himself and God for us all.13

Notes 1. Zewdie Abate, Water Resources Development in Ethiopia: An Evaluation of Present Experience and Future Planning Concepts (Reading, UK: Ithaca Press, 1994), p.112; Preliminary Water Resources Development Master Plan for Ethiopia (Addis Ababa: Ethiopian Valley Development Studies Authority and Water Power Consultancy Services, Ltd., 1990). 2. Shiferaw Jarso, quoted in “Ethiopia Stresses Equitable Use of Nile Waters,” 24 February 1997, Xinhua News Agency, no. 0224259. 3. “Statement by the Imperial Ethiopian Government,” Ethiopian Herald, 6 February 1956. 4. For the Harmon Doctrine see United States of America (1898), Official Opinions of the Attorneys General of the United States (Buffalo, NY: Dennis, 1952), vol. 21, pp. 281–282; for Article IV of the “Helsinki Rules,” see Uses of the Waters of International Rivers, International Law Association, 1966, Report of the FiftySecond Conference (London: International Law Association, 1967). 5. Agreement Between the Republic of the Sudan and the United Republic for the Full Utilization of the Nile Waters, in Robert O. Collins, The Waters of the Nile: Hydropolitics and the Jonglei Canal, 1900–1988 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990; and Princeton: Markus Wiener, 1996), Appendix, p. 411. 6. “The Shared Vision,” Policy Guidelines for the Nile River Basin Strategic Action Program (Entebbe, Uganda: The Nile Basin Initiative Secretariat, 1999). 7. Mean annual Nile flows (1988–2001) equaled 86.5 m3 very near the century mean annual flow of 88 m3. In m3 the annual flows were 1988 (106), 1989 (79.5), 1990 (66.4), 1991 (77.5), 1992 (76.2), 1993 (87.9), 1994 (91.9), 1995 (71.6), 1996 (92.2), 1997 (78.3), 1998 (121), 1999 (95.2), 2000 (82), 2001 (85.4). The great flood of 1996 was regularly reported in al-Ahram from July to November 1996 particularly by Ahmad Nasreddine, Mawfiq Abu al-Nil, and Ahmed Nasser al-Din. 8. Quoted in “Massive Nile River Diversions Planned,” World Rivers Review 12, no. 3 (June 1997).

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9. Fahmy T. Dawood, Hassan M. A. Osman, and Omar H. Ahmed, “Geological and Hydrogeological Studies of the High Dam Lake Region and Its Vicinities, South Egypt,” Proceedings, Seventh Nile 2002 Conference, Cairo, 15–19 March 1999, pp. 16.1–16.25, specifically p. 16.10; Xinhua News Agency, “Nile Water Control: Egyptian Minister,” no. 5644, 27 September 1996; “Mubarak Assured of Fastness of Aswan High Dam,” no. 7855, 13 October 1998. 10. Allie K. Thurmond, Hamid Dowidar, R. J. Stern, and Mohamed Abdelsalam, “Applications of Remote Sensing and GIS to the New Valley Project–Toshka, Egypt,” Annual Meeting of the Geological Society of America, Reno, Nevada, 12–16 November 2000; Dr. Ahmed H. Dahab, “Topography of Lake Nasser and Transmission Problems,” Proceedings, Seventh Nile 2002 Conference, pp. 14–27; “Nile Water Under Control,” Xinhua News Agency, no. 5644, 27 September 1998. 11. President Hosni Mubarak, interview in Der Spiegel, 8 December 1997. 12. Quoted in “Eastern Nile Countries Edging Towards Cooperation,” Addis Ababa Tribune, 16 February 2001. 13. John Heywood, Proverbs, Part II, Chap. IX, 1546, ed. with notes and introduction by Julian Sharman (London: G. Bell and Sons, 1874).

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11 Ethiopia and Sudan: Conflict and Cooperation in the Nile Valley David H. Shinn

Establishment of the Sudan-Ethiopia Border Ethiopia shares Sudan’s longest border—1606 kilometers. Relations between peoples living on both sides date back to at least the third millennium B.C.E. Turning to more recent times, there were extensive border discussions between Ethiopia and Great Britain, the leading party in Sudan’s Anglo-Egyptian condominium, in the late nineteenth century. Italy also participated because of its treaty arrangements in the region with Great Britain. Ethiopia, Great Britain, and Italy signed two treaties, one for the SudanEthiopian border and one for the Sudan-Eritrean border, in Addis Ababa on 15 May 1902. The 1902 agreement expanded Ethiopia’s borders in the direction of the Nile Valley. The agreement put Benishangul, several smaller territories, and many important trade routes within Ethiopia. It had the effect, however, of dividing a number of ethnic groups between Ethiopia and Sudan, such as the Bertha, Gumuz, Anuak, and Nuer. Great Britain protected its interests in the Nile Valley and obtained guarantees concerning the Blue Nile and Lake Tana from Ethiopia’s Emperor Menelik.1 Dennis Hickey, in his study of the borderlands, concluded that “the arbitrary nature of the treaty line was a virtual guarantee that serious problems, both practical and legal, would be a matter of common occurrence.”2 He described the Baro Salient that constitutes the southern part of the border as “a masterpiece of illogic.”3 It is true that the Baro Salient has been a frequent source of conflict among Nuer, Anuak, and other tribes that live in the salient and surrounding area. At the same time, the Sudan-Ethiopia border has not been the cause of major conflict between the two countries. The 203

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fact that the border is so isolated from centers of power in Khartoum and Addis Ababa helps explain this relative tranquillity.

Relations from the 1902 Border Agreement Until the Italo-Ethiopian War The period from 1902 until the Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1936 reflected intense efforts by Ethiopia and Sudan, with Great Britain acting on behalf of Sudan, to establish greater influence in the border regions. Sudan’s southern border with Ethiopia was an afterthought of empire. It was, however, strategically important because its lowlands and swamps formed a significant portion of the White Nile watershed. It was a dangerous area that served as a conduit for slave raiders, gunrunners, and insurrectionaries. Following the 1902 agreement, the British tried to govern the border region through armed patrols and scattered district commissioners. Frontier policy consisted of preventing and punishing persons engaged in frequent tribal warfare and interdicting the arms trade. London understood that the boundary was an artificial creation but determined to honor and defend it. Great Britain’s two major goals vis-à-vis Ethiopia were pursuit of a concession for a dam on Lake Tana and maintenance of peace along the frontier.4 Emperor Menelik had a massive stroke in 1909; Ethiopia’s control of its periphery deteriorated as a result. Ras Tafari Mekonnen, who was crowned Emperor Haile Selassie in 1930, became regent and heir apparent in 1916. He began immediately to increase Ethiopian sovereignty over its western borderlands. By the 1920s the situation along the frontier was a central part of the Anglo-Ethiopian relationship. Between 1916 and 1927 there were frequent incursions by Ethiopians into the Sudanese provinces of Funj, Kassala, Upper Nile, and Mongalla. Most of the attacks involved Ethiopian poachers seeking ivory, but occasionally they took cattle, slaves, or demanded tribute. Sudan’s governor said the raids occurred as a result of unsettled conditions in Benishangul, tax-collecting raids into Sudanese districts claimed by local Ethiopian authorities to be within Ethiopian territory, and incursions by poachers.5 Between 1930 and 1935 Haile Selassie had some success in imposing his policies on the southern borderlands with Sudan. The British regarded the Ethiopian borderlands as a chronic source of trouble and expense. As a result, their policy tended to focus on containing the various social, political, and military problems that occurred there. Both the British and the Ethiopians attempted to enlist the indigenous peoples to support their concept of imperial control. When this failed, each side used force. Ethiopia occupied the Boma Plateau in Sudan in 1934 and claimed it as Ethiopian territory. It departed by the end of the year. Ethiopian efforts to control the

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Baro Salient never fully succeeded. Neither party was willing to make a serious investment in the governance of this peripheral area. By 1935, the Italian threat to Ethiopia caused the western borderlands to recede to a minor issue between Ethiopia and Sudan.6 The British established early in the twentieth century a Sudanese Slavery Repression Department that operated along the border. They also created a refuge for Gumuz trying to escape slavery in Ethiopia. After joining the League of Nations in 1923, Ethiopia imposed penalties on the slave trade without actually abolishing slavery. The Ethiopian leadership continued to use slaves for their household staff. The end of slavery in Ethiopia only came with the Italian occupation in 1936.7 Gambela occupied a special place in trade between Ethiopia and Sudan following the 1902 agreement. Menelik leased Gambela to the British as an enclave for the establishment of a commercial post. This permitted the British to collect customs duties, shared equally between Sudan and Ethiopia, and to control the steamer traffic on the journey between Gambela and Khartoum on the Baro, Sobat, and White Nile rivers. This trade largely replaced the older routes with Sudan through Metema/Gallabat and Kurmuk. Gambela was the most important entrepôt for Ethio-Sudanese trade during the first third of the twentieth century. It accounted for 70 percent of the annual value of all trade between Sudan and Ethiopia from the end of World War I until the Italian occupation. In the beginning, Ethiopian ivory and rubber were of interest on the Sudan side. Eventually, coffee became the most important Ethiopian export. Coffee was the only Ethiopian product used by Sudanese; the others were transshipped outside Sudan. Following completion of the Addis Ababa–Djibouti railway, it did not take long for it and the port of Djibouti to replace much of the steamer trade on the Baro and Sobat, particularly since the Baro was navigable only part of the year.8

Italian Occupation of Ethiopia and Relations with Sudan Throughout the Italian occupation of Ethiopia from 1936–1941, the AngloEgyptian condominium ruled Sudan. Great Britain had generally good relations with Italy at the beginning of the Italian occupation of Ethiopia. The 1935 report prepared by Sir John Maffey, a former British governor of Sudan, stated that the only British interests in Ethiopia were Lake Tana waters and the Nile Valley. The Maffey report concluded, however, that an independent Ethiopia was preferable from the standpoint of British security concerns in the region. The British feared that Italy might eventually push into Sudan. Nevertheless, the report argued that no vital interests justified a decision by Great Britain to resist an Italian conquest of Ethiopia. It was

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clear by 1937 that Italy wanted to assert authority over the Baro Salient, control the trade with Sudan, and use it as a base to reconnoiter the river system of Upper Nile Province in Sudan. Italian administration in Gambela decided to destroy British influence in the region by co-opting the Nuer on both sides of the border.9 The 1938 Anglo-Italian Agreement of the Colonial Pact granted Italy de jure recognition of its claim to Ethiopia. This pact contained economic accords that soon led to a dispute over the interpretation of the 1902 agreement that established the Sudan-Ethiopia border. In that agreement, Menelik leased Gambela to the Anglo-Egyptian government so long as it was not used for any political or military purpose. Italy claimed the right to revoke the concession but still wanted to maintain tolerable relations with Great Britain. The British suspected that Italy intended to side with Germany in case of war and were not willing to strengthen Italy’s position in Ethiopia. By 1939 Italy was making secret plans to administer conquered territory in Sudan and for its smooth transition from British to Italian rule.10 After allying with Nazi Germany, Italy declared war against Great Britain on 10 June 1940. A month later, Italy attacked Sudan, with control of Khartoum and the Nile Valley as its objective. Italy seized Kassala in eastern Sudan and attacked the British fort at Gallabat but did not continue toward Khartoum. Italy also crossed the Ethiopian border and captured Kurmuk but did not push deeper into Sudan. The Italians held areas across the Ethiopian border only briefly before Ethiopian patriots and an international force led by Great Britain chased them out of Sudan and defeated them in Ethiopia.11 An important example of cooperation between Ethiopia and Sudan, albeit then under British control, began on 3 July 1940 when Emperor Haile Selassie arrived in Khartoum from exile in London. The British organized a force that included the Sudanese Motorized Machine Gun Companies, the Sudanese Camel Corps, the Equatorial Corps, the Sudan Defence Force, and the Provincial Police of Sudan. The British-led force recaptured Gallabat on the Sudan side of the frontier by November 1940 and easily retook Kassala two months later. The Kings African Rifles (KAR) and the Sudan Frontier Police captured Kurmuk in February. Assosa fell to the Sudan Defence Force and units of the KAR. This column then joined with predominantly Congolese forces and captured Gambela in March. The fighting stopped in the summer of 1941, ending the Italian presence in Sudan and the EthioSudanese borderlands.12 On 20 January 1941 Haile Selassie crossed the frontier from Sudan into Ethiopia near Umm Idla, escorted by a mixed Ethiopian and Sudanese force. Sudan provided thousands of camels and volunteer drivers to aid the war against Italy. Sudanese forces demonstrated repeatedly a high quality of training and natural fighting ability. A force of 70 British, 800 Sudanese,

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and 800 Ethiopians defeated 16 Italian battalions and considerable aircraft in retaking all of Gojam Province. Official British accounts gave high praise to both the Sudanese and Ethiopian fighters and described Haile Selassie’s return to Ethiopia as a remarkable achievement in guerrilla warfare due to the determined organization of transport from Sudan, the skill of the Sudanese Frontier Battalion, the drive of the command, and the patient preparation of the Gojam countryside by the Ethiopians. Elements of the Sudanese Frontier and Ethiopian battalions, together with British armored cars, formed the guard of Haile Selassie when he re-entered Addis Ababa on 5 May 1941.13

End of Italian Rule and Sudanese Independence The defeat of Italy did not resolve the frontier problems between Ethiopia and Sudan. The British briefly administered western Ethiopia as part of the Occupied Enemy Territory Administration. The British renewed efforts to acquire for Sudan the Baro Salient but soon realized its opportunity had passed. British military administration ended in mid-1942, and the salient reverted to Ethiopian administration. Ethiopia strengthened its control over the area in the ensuing years. This coincided with a decrease in its commercial importance as Ethiopian coffee increasingly went by Italian-built roads in western Ethiopia to the railhead in Addis Ababa. Several months after Sudanese independence on 1 January 1956, a Sudanese delegation visited Addis Ababa and agreed to hand over all authority for Gambela to Ethiopia before the end of the year.14 The British remained in control of Sudan and administered Eritrea until 1952. During the early 1940s they considered possible alterations along Sudan’s border. The most important question was Sudan’s border with Eritrea. The British proposed that Sudan take over the northern and western parts of Eritrea, that is, the area inhabited primarily by the Beja and Islamic tribes. The British had in mind the transfer of Nakfa, Agordat, and Barentu districts to Sudan together with Keren and its subdistrict. The rest of Eritrea would go to Ethiopia. 15 This idea met considerable opposition from Ethiopia. Eventually the United Nations agreed to leave Eritrea’s border with Sudan intact and to attach Eritrea to Ethiopia in 1952 as part of a federation. After obtaining independence, Sudan sought to develop cordial relations with both Africa and the Middle East. It devoted less attention, however, to neighbors like Ethiopia than it did to countries in the Middle East. The visit of Sudanese leader ‘Abdallah Khalil to Addis Ababa in 1957 led to talk of a tripartite alliance between Sudan, Egypt, and Ethiopia. Haile Selassie quickly put an end to the idea. Following the 1958 coup by General Ibrahim

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Abboud, Sudan asserted it would give special attention to improving relations with Ethiopia. Sudan’s relations with Ethiopia were constantly impacted, however, by external developments such as the Nile water question and Sudan’s relations with Egypt and more distant Muslim countries. Haile Selassie did visit Sudan several times after the 1959 agreement on Nile waters. In 1960 the Abboud government even allowed the emperor to return to Ethiopia from Khartoum following an attempted coup in Addis Ababa while Haile Selassie was visiting Brazil.16 The internal conflict in southern Sudan that began in 1955 increasingly affected adversely Sudanese-Ethiopian relations. Sudan had long feared that Ethiopia would support the Anya Nya rebels in the south. Although the Anya Nya had been able to bring arms through Ethiopia from early in the struggle, Ethiopia did not actively support Anya Nya forces until about 1964. In the meantime, Sudan opened its border to Eritrean insurgents trying to topple Haile Selassie. Abboud stopped this practice in the early 1960s in exchange for Ethiopia taking similar action against the Anya Nya. This good-neighbor policy ended with Abboud’s overthrow in 1964, which resulted in increased tension on the northern Ethiopian frontier. Although Ethiopia has always been sympathetic toward and eventually supported the southern Sudanese rebels, it did not endorse southern secession for fear that would create an undesirable precedent for Eritrea and possibly other parts of Ethiopia. Sudan had a historical distrust of Christian-led Ethiopia and generally disliked the imperial government. Ethiopia became increasingly concerned about the wider implications of Sudan’s more hostile foreign policy and determined to support actively the Anya Nya in southern Sudan.17 Ethiopian forces violated the border near Kassala early in 1965. Ethiopian farmers, accompanied by police, penetrated forty-five miles into Sudan at Fashaga and began farming under military protection. Fashaga is a triangle on the Eritrean border between the Atbara, Setit, and Salam rivers. The 1902 agreement seemed to confer sovereignty of this area to Sudan, but the actual border had never been properly defined. Khartoum protested but let the matter pass, noting the border is not very well defined.18 Sensing growing problems with Ethiopia, Sudanese prime minister Muhammad Ahmad Mahjub visited Addis Ababa in July 1965. Ethiopia had been complaining that Sudan’s independent government was not party to the 1902 border agreement and pressed for boundary revisions and a new agreement. The movement of Ethiopian farmers into Sudan concerned Mahjub. Israeli aid for Anya Nya, some of which allegedly transited Ethiopia, also irritated the Sudanese. The two countries concluded an agreement that revived the border commission and banned hostile activities against one another’s territory. Nevertheless, both countries continued to support rebel groups operating against the other. Haile Selassie visited Khartoum in February 1967, when several Sudanese political parties

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demonstrated against him. The dispute over Fashaga remained unresolved but both sides agreed to seek a peaceful solution. The following month the border situation veered out of control. Nearly twenty thousand refugees from Eritrea arrived on the Sudan side of the border, fleeing Ethiopian attacks on the Eritrean Liberation Front. Ethiopian forces even attacked Sudanese villages suspected of harboring rebels. Sudan deployed troops along its border to confront Ethiopian forces. Each side charged the other with border violations, although tension quickly subsided and both countries began to repair the damage.19 Following a visit to Khartoum by the Ethiopian foreign minister in July 1967, the two countries reactivated the border commission and reached a temporary agreement on farming in disputed areas. They condemned support for rebel groups operating on each side of the border. As Sudan became preoccupied with mounting tension in the Middle East in the spring of 1967, there were reports of another Ethiopian military build-up in Humera district along the border, which the Sudanese media claimed was an effort to divert Sudanese armed forces from confronting Israel in the Middle East.20 Refugees became increasingly important in Sudanese-Ethiopian relations. In addition to the earlier movement of Eritreans into Sudan, by 1969 there were an estimated twenty thousand southern Sudanese refugees in southwestern Ethiopia. 21 The Ethiopian and Sudanese foreign ministers signed an agreement in March 1971 that committed both governments to “take all necessary measures in order to put an end to all forms of subversive activities directed against the other including such activities as may take place across the common borders.”22 Sudan’s minister of foreign affairs, Mansour Khalid, commented that Sudan embarked in 1971 on a realistic approach to relations with Ethiopia. This included seeking a solution with Ethiopian cooperation to end the war in southern Sudan and a settlement of border problems. Ethiopia’s foreign minister said the emperor was available to help end the war. Negotiations in Addis Ababa were a good choice from the perspective of southern Sudanese, who saw Ethiopia as a friend. Ethiopia wanted a united Sudan and an end to Sudanese support for Eritrean rebel activity.23 Sudanese President Ja‘far al-Numayri and Haile Selassie exchanged visits at the end of 1971 and beginning of 1972. Haile Selassie then played a key role in convincing both sides to sign the Addis Ababa Agreement in February 1972, which ended the war between southern rebels and the government in Khartoum. The Baro Salient remained, however, a sanctuary for members of the Anya Nya who refused to accept the terms of the Addis Ababa Agreement. The two countries reached an understanding several months later on border issues, improvement of a road link between Metema and Gallabat, transit trade, improvement of telecommunications, and utilization by Sudan of the Eritrean port of Massawa. Haile Selassie and

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Numayri also agreed to close their respective borders to insurgents operating from each other’s country. These understandings broke down with the overthrow of Haile Selassie in 1974.24

From Ethiopia’s 1974 Revolution to Sudan’s 1989 Coup Following Ethiopia’s revolution, the new military government and especially Chairman Mengistu Haile Mariam believed that Sudan was aiding Eritrean dissidents. In fact, Numayri soon permitted increased aid to flow to the Eritrean insurgents through Sudanese territory.25 Although Sudan periodically made efforts to improve relations with Ethiopia, Numayri had a tendency to blame many of Sudan’s problems on two of his neighbors— Ethiopia to the east and Libya to the north.26 Sudan implicated Ethiopia in an attempted coup against al-Numayri in July 1976. Sudan then allowed an Ethiopian dissident group to broadcast hostile propaganda against the Derg, as the government had become known in Ethiopia, from a Sudanese radio station. By the end of 1976, Sudanese tanks and artillery supported this dissident group’s offensive in Gondar and Tigray provinces. Ethiopia launched a propaganda offensive against Sudanese involvement in Ethiopia’s internal affairs and pushed the rebel Ethiopians back into Sudan.27 In what has long been a tit-for-tat policy between the two countries, Ethiopia then helped Sudanese opposition elements who carried on a propaganda campaign against Sudan from Ethiopia.28 While lower-level Sudanese officials worked to improve ties with Ethiopia, Numayri made this task almost impossible by personalizing the conflict and referring to Mengistu as the “pirate.” Although Mengistu publicly condemned Sudanese policies, he avoided personal slurs aimed at Numayri and insisted to his Soviet supporters that he was serious about restoring good relations with Sudan. The two leaders exchanged sharp criticisms at an Organization of African Unity meeting in Gabon in 1977. Sudanese foreign minister Mansour Khalid insisted that Mengistu remained serious as late as 1982 in working for better relations with Sudan.29 Mengistu invited Sudan’s first vice president to Ethiopia in March 1980, when the two sides agreed to respect the territorial integrity of each other’s country, end interference in internal affairs, strengthen economic and cultural relations, and reactivate the border commission. Mengistu visited Khartoum in May when the two leaders made essentially the same promises. Al-Numayri then paid a state visit to Addis Ababa in October, when he agreed to stop support for Eritrean rebels and close down their office in Khartoum. In the spring of 1981 the foreign ministers of Ethiopia, Sudan, and Kenya signed documents creating new organizations to broaden cooperation in several areas. During this honeymoon, Ethiopia, unwisely from the

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standpoint of relations with Sudan, signed in 1981 a treaty of friendship, cooperation, and joint defense with Libya and South Yemen. Relatively cordial relations continued until November 1983 when Numayri accused Ethiopia of harboring southern Sudanese rebels in breach of their agreement. Ethiopia denied the charge. Numayri also expressed displeasure at Ethiopia’s new alliance with Libya, a long-time al-Numayri enemy.30 Internal opposition to the Derg spread by the late 1970s. Sudan played a crucial role in the emergence of several Ethiopian dissident groups such as the Gambela People’s Democratic Movement and the Benishangul People’s Liberation Movement.31 With so much conflict occurring in Ethiopia and some residual activity in southern Sudan, refugees became a more important issue. Over a quarter of the Ethiopian refugees in Sudan during the severe famine of the mid-1980s had actually arrived between 1975 and 1978 because of insecurity in Ethiopia. As the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) stepped up its effort to topple Mengistu, the refugee numbers grew. The large Tigrayan refugee presence in Sudan was of special interest to the TPLF because it was a source of funding and fighters. The TPLF did not operate armed camps in Sudan and there is no indication that the Sudanese government provided weapons. But Sudan did allow the TPLF to move freely across the border. The TPLF had a virtual embassy in Khartoum and worked closely with the refugees inside Sudan. The limited support that Sudan gave to the Ethiopian and Eritrean dissident groups was a response to the more substantial aid Ethiopia provided to southern Sudanese dissidents who took up arms against Khartoum. In any event, Sudan did not have the capacity to close down this porous border.32 The rebellion of southern Sudanese resumed in 1983 after eleven years of relative peace in Sudan. A former colonel in the Sudanese army, John Garang, joined mutinous southern troops, led them across the border into Ethiopia, and formed the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A) early in 1984. Ethiopia, increasingly concerned about Khartoum’s support for rebel groups in Eritrea and elsewhere along the border, not only allowed the SPLM/A refuge in the country but eventually permitted it to open offices in Addis Ababa, provided military training and equipment, and arranged for the SPLM to broadcast hostile propaganda from inside Ethiopia. The SPLA grew rapidly from its original 500 to 600 mutineers to about 20,000 by the end of 1985. They captured a number of towns inside Sudan; Ethiopia even provided cross-border artillery fire and air support for attacks within Sudan. Large numbers of southern Sudanese refugees also fled into Ethiopia, especially into the Gambela area.33 Sudan’s Transitional Military Council (TMC), led by General Suwar alDahab from 1985 to 1986, urged Ethiopia to end support for the SPLM/A. Khartoum posted an ambassador in Addis Ababa for the first time since 1983. Sudan hinted that it would restrict Eritrean and Tigrayan operations if

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Mengistu would end support for the SPLM/A. Mengistu denied that Ethiopia interfered in Sudanese internal affairs; the Sudanese initiative failed. In a major policy change, Sudan then turned to Libya for support. During Sadiq al-Mahdi’s three years as Sudanese prime minister, fighting increased in the south. After the SPLA seized two towns in Blue Nile Province and overran Kapoeta in eastern Equatoria, Sudan accused Ethiopia of direct involvement in the fighting. Al-Mahdi became convinced that Ethiopia was the power behind the SPLM/A and that Mengistu would not ease up until Sudan ended support for the Eritrean rebels, which it was not prepared to do.34 According to G. Norman Anderson, the US ambassador to Sudan from 1986 to 1989, al-Mahdi could probably not satisfy Ethiopia because Sudan had limited ability to force the Eritrean rebels to negotiate. While Sudan allowed the Eritreans sanctuary, Sudanese military aid was, Anderson said, minimal if it existed at all. Al-Mahdi believed, on the other hand, that Ethiopia could have put considerable pressure on Garang because of Ethiopia’s significant assistance to the SPLM/A. Al-Mahdi reportedly concluded that Mengistu showed neither an inclination to rein in the SPLM/A nor to relieve pressure on Sudan. A coup ended the al-Mahdi government in 1989. Sudan’s relations with Ethiopia remained poor.35 An important sideshow in the Ethiopia-Sudan relationship was the movement of the Falasha Jews from Ethiopia through Sudan to Israel from 1979–1985. The government of Sudan, the US Embassy in Khartoum, the US Central Intelligence Agency, and, indirectly, Israel’s Mossad collaborated to move the Falasha. Although conducted secretly until word of it leaked to the press at the completion of the operation, al-Numayri’s Islamic government cooperated primarily due to pressure put on it by the United States. The Falasha in Ethiopia numbered about fifty thousand and had lived for centuries between Gondar and the Sudanese border. They are Agau people who adopted Judaism as a religion when it arrived in Ethiopia about the fifth century B.C.E. Israel decided in 1975 that the Falasha had the right to immigrate. The clandestine movement of the Falasha began on a small scale in 1979–1982 and grew to a major operation in 1983–1985. Several thousand passed through Sudan en route to Israel. Ethiopia at that time had limited control over the area where the Falasha lived and was not upset that they left. Numayri just wanted to please the United States and keep the matter quiet.36

From Sudan’s 1989 Coup to the Present In June 1989 General Omar al-Bashir seized power in Sudan with strong backing from Hassan al-Turabi’s National Islamic Front (NIF), which had

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an Islamist agenda. In Ethiopia, a coalition of Ethiopian groups, led by the TPLF and known as the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), and dissident Eritreans toppled the Mengistu government in May 1991. The result was the rise of Meles Zenawi in Ethiopia and independence for Eritrea. The period since 1991 represents a consistency of leadership in Ethiopia and Sudan. It also illustrates sharp swings between cooperation and conflict, sometimes caused by external events. In spite of its Islamist philosophy, the al-Bashir regime supported the Marxist-Leninist EPRDF. In response, the EPRDF made clear that it intended to establish good relations with the new Sudanese government. In October 1991 Ethiopia and Sudan signed a friendship and cooperation agreement. Two months later a joint ministerial consultative commission met in Khartoum to establish principles for cooperation in the economic, political, diplomatic, social, and cultural areas.37 Addis Ababa closed SPLM/A bases in Ethiopia, ended military support, and shut down its radio station. In 1992, together with Sudanese military units, Ethiopia actually drove SPLA forces from several border towns.38 This significantly eroded the SPLA’s military capability. Some 100,000 southern Sudanese refugees who had been living in camps in Ethiopia fled to southeastern Sudan. 39 Significant numbers of southern Sudanese remained, however, in Ethiopia. As of early 1990, there were more than 660,000 Ethiopian refugees in Sudan, the vast majority in the eastern region near the Ethiopian border, Khartoum, and Port Sudan. Refugees continued to be an important aspect of the bilateral relationship.40 Ties between Sudan and Ethiopia seemingly remained strong, but problems were developing below the surface. The NIF created the Popular Arab and Islamic Conference (PAIC) in 1991 with al-Turabi as secretary general. It supported suppressed Islamic communities in the Horn of Africa and throughout the world. It endorsed a revolutionary, Islamic, Oromo organization in Ethiopia and made clear that its goal was to support the expansion of Islam throughout the region. Established as an umbrella group to coordinate regional Islamist factions, the PAIC intended to replace the Arab League and the Organization of the Islamic Conference with a more activist organization. Sudan’s new pan-Islamic policy raised serious concerns in Addis Ababa.41 In 1994 Ethiopia implicated the Sudanese Islamic Aid Organization in a conflict within the Ethiopian Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs and accused Sudan of supporting the Benishangul Liberation Movement (BLM), several rebel Islamic Oromo movements, and a Nuer dissident organization. One faction of the BLM came under the influence of the NIF, which supplied it with arms, training, and bases, and facilitated the entry of Islamist elements into the regional Benishangul government. Sudan’s Radio Omdurman broadcast appeals in support of Islamic fundamentalism and Islamists used mosques and quranic schools in Benishangul to convey their

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message. The Sudanese faction of the BLM encouraged self-determination. Border clashes became more common. Ethiopia warned Sudan to stop exporting Islamic ideology. Ethiopia charged Sudan with interference in its internal affairs and Meles declared that Ethiopia would not hesitate to fight to protect its interests. Ethiopia then authorized a splinter faction of the SPLM/A, the Southern Sudan Independence Movement, to set up training centers and a military base in Gambela. Sudan accused Ethiopia’s army of attacking Sudanese forces and occupying Sudanese border villages.42 Relations between the two countries reached a low point in July 1995 when assassins affiliated with an Egyptian terrorist organization tried to kill Egyptian president Hosni Mubarak as he arrived in Addis Ababa for an Organization of African Unity meeting. The assassins came from Sudan; Ethiopia accused the Sudan government of involvement in the attack and then of harboring three of the conspirators. 43 Ethiopia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs concluded that Sudanese authorities were involved in the plot and Sudanese government security organs helped carry it out.44 Ethiopia took the matter to the UN Security Council, but Sudan took no action against the three Egyptians. In response, Sudan accused Ethiopia in the UN Security Council of launching a cross-border attack, an allegation denied by Ethiopia.45 Ethiopia closed the Sudanese consulate in Gambela, requested the reduction of Sudanese embassy staff in Addis Ababa, ordered Sudanese nongovernmental organizations to leave, imposed travel restrictions on Sudanese nationals, cancelled Sudan Airways’ permission to fly to and from Ethiopia, and discontinued Ethiopian Airlines’ service to Sudan. Ethiopia removed its ambassador from Khartoum but did not break diplomatic relations. Although initially Ethiopia did not allow the SPLM/A to operate militarily from Ethiopia, it did accord it semidiplomatic status and permitted it to carry out logistical operations from Ethiopia.46 Sudan began to realize that its program to export Islamic fundamentalism came with a heavy price in terms of good relations with Ethiopia. It had also allowed a number of terrorist organizations to establish offices in Sudan. Under pressure from the United States and Saudi Arabia, Sudan expelled Osama bin Laden in 1996 and began a slow process of normalizing relations with neighbors. Sudan’s efforts were inconclusive, however, and by late 1996 Ethiopia was calling for the overthrow of al-Bashir.47 In the meantime, the United States convinced Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Uganda to keep up pressure on Sudan as part of a “frontline states” policy by offering them a modest amount of nonlethal military assistance. There was a sharp increase in the propaganda war between Ethiopia and Sudan. Ethiopia stepped up its support for the SPLM/A, while Sudan did the same for several groups dedicated to the overthrow of the EPRDF.48 The SPLA with the active support of the Ethiopian military seized two Sudanese border towns, Kurmuk and Qessan, early in 1997. The Ethiopian

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Ministry of Foreign Affairs condemned Khartoum’s call for a jihad against its neighbors but denied its involvement with the SPLA in taking the two towns.49 The speaker of Sudan’s parliament, al-Turabi, threatened that if Ethiopia did not end its occupation of border towns in eastern Sudan and terminate support for the SPLA, Khartoum would support Ethiopian opposition forces. While this war of words continued, there were behind-thescenes efforts to avert a border crisis. The recent SPLA military successes, aided by Ethiopia, had the effect of ending attacks against Ethiopia from Sudan. The SPLA now controlled a swath of territory along the border from Kurmuk to Qessan, which had served as a base for the BLM.50 Ethiopia’s foreign minister renewed verbal attacks against Sudan in January 1998, calling it a danger to regional stability by fomenting plots against Ethiopia and backing terrorism.51 The unexpected outbreak of conflict between Ethiopia and Eritrea in May 1998 dramatically reshuffled political alliances in the Horn of Africa. Ethiopia concluded that its erstwhile friend Eritrea had become a greater enemy than Sudan. As a result, Ethiopia began to normalize relations with Sudan by the end of 1998. Ethiopia ordered the SPLA out of Gambela in November 1998 as part of an arrangement to improve relations with Sudan. Ethiopian Airlines and Sudan Airways restored regular service between their capitals. Ethiopia began to cut back its support for the SPLM/A and Sudan stopped aiding anti-EPRDF groups.52 Al-Bashir made a fence-mending visit to Addis Ababa in November 1999. This was the first contact between Meles and al-Bashir since the attempt to kill Mubarak in 1995. They discussed ways to reactivate the Ethio-Sudan joint ministerial commission. Al-Bashir said he appreciated the constructive role being played by Ethiopia to find a solution to the conflict in southern Sudan.53 Al-Bashir visited Ethiopia twice in 2001; the two countries took steps to revive the border demarcation commission and signed agreements to speed up improvements on the road between Gondar and Gallabat.54 Meles visited Khartoum in January 2002, when he hailed Sudanese-Ethiopian ties.55 The first meeting of the joint boundary commission took place in Khartoum during March and April. Sudan’s first vice president signed agreements in Addis Ababa in April on preferential trade, youth and sports, federal administration in both countries, and water resources.56 The fourth session of the Ethio-Sudanese Common Border and Development Commission met in Addis Ababa in May. They agreed to strengthen customs stations along the border, thwart terrorists and bandits, conserve natural resources, and protect wildlife.57 By the end of 2002, both Ethiopian and Sudanese officials privately were describing their relations as excellent.58 Ethiopia’s poor relations with Eritrea were a major factor when Ethiopia, Sudan, and Yemen announced at the beginning of 2003 the birth of a new regional group to combat terrorism in the Horn of Africa. As all

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three countries had had problems with Eritrea, the Ethiopian foreign minister’s statement that the trio was not ganging up on Eritrea rang hollow.59 The Ethio-Sudanese Common Border and Development Commission met again in July 2003, when it signed more cooperative agreements. 60 In November 2004 the two countries finalized agreement on a map that established the common border.61 Although trade between Ethiopia and Sudan historically was important, it never recovered from the Italian occupation of Ethiopia and has been insignificant ever since. The severance of all Ethiopian trade and transport ties with Eritrea in 1998 left landlocked Ethiopia largely dependent on Djibouti for movement of its surface commerce. Road transport links with Sudan have always been poor, but the two countries determined to change this so that Ethiopia could use Port Sudan on the Red Sea. Sudan’s export of significant quantities of petroleum expanded the products that Ethiopia wanted to import from Sudan. Ethiopia began importing Sudanese oil in 2002 and made occasional use of Port Sudan, while Sudan purchased small quantities of cereals and cement from Ethiopia. Ethiopia imported from Sudan about 120,000 tons of petroleum annually between 2002 and 2004.62 In December 2005 Sudan’s foreign minister described relations with Ethiopia as excellent at the eighth Ethio-Sudanese joint ministerial meeting in Khartoum. Meles especially looked forward to implementation of new trade agreements. Since the preferential trade agreement in 2002, he complained that the volume of trade fell far short of expectations. 63 Sudan’s exports to Ethiopia, mostly petroleum, did grow from less than a half-million dollars in 1997, when relations were poor, to more than $2.5 million in 2002. They declined to about $1.5 million in 2004 and jumped to $55 million in 2005. Ethiopian exports to Sudan have been dismal for decades. From 1997 to 2004 they never exceeded $400,000 annually. They climbed to $2.15 million in 2005, according to International Monetary Fund (IMF) statistics prepared for Sudan, and $20 million for those prepared for Ethiopia.64 An area of cooperation that has more promise is improved transport and telecommunications links. In 2005 Ethiopia and Sudan began laying a fiberoptic telephone line between Gondar and Gallabat.65 The Ethiopian foreign minister announced in April 2006 that Addis Ababa and Khartoum initiated a preliminary study to link the energy and electric power sectors of the two countries. 66 Ethiopian Airlines, which resumed service to Khartoum in 1998, announced in 2006 that it was ready to begin four flights per week to Juba in southern Sudan.67 When Meles visited Khartoum in December 2005, he affirmed Ethiopia’s full support for the implementation of the comprehensive peace agreement in Sudan and supported Sudan’s efforts to achieve stability. In meetings with Sudan’s first vice president, the two discussed ways to strengthen security along the border. The Sudanese foreign minister noted

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that the joint border demarcation commission had conducted field visits, collected data, and agreed upon a plan to demarcate the border. The previous month, the Ethiopian and Sudanese military commands met in Gondar where they agreed to maintain peace and security along the border.68 Just when all seemed to be going well between Sudan and Ethiopia, revival of an old problem interrupted progress. Early in 2006 a Sudanese group called the Fashaqah (Fashaga) Lands Liberation Organization (FLLO) complained that the December 2005 agreement signed by Sudan and Ethiopia conceded some disputed territory in Gedaref State to Ethiopian farmers who have been cultivating the area. Sudan then deployed its forces in the agricultural area along the border strip to ensure peace during the demarcation process. FLLO called for volunteers to liberate the occupied Fashaga lands. The governor of Gedaref State said the government would not relinquish any Sudanese agricultural land within its borders. 69 The Gedaref state legislature issued a report claiming there was a growing Ethiopian presence on the border and intensified farming and settlement activity inside Sudanese territory by Ethiopians backed by their government. The report called for the Sudanese army to stop this activity. Senior Ethiopian and Sudanese authorities began efforts to defuse the problem.70 In the meantime, an earlier problem in the Gambela area also returned. Ethiopian troops reportedly surrounded a refugee camp near Pochalla inside Sudan where Anuak survivors of violence in Gambela Town during 2003 had taken refuge.71 Cattle raiding by rival herders from Sudan resulted in deaths in April 2006. Some 450 Nuer crossed into Jikaw in Ethiopia, killed a number of Ethiopian Nuer, and stole their cattle. These clashes tend to be seasonal and were aggravated by drought in the region.72 The SudanEthiopia border divides many ethnic groups, while others that are in close proximity have long-standing animosities. Ethnic conflicts in the border region will almost certainly continue to challenge the bilateral relationship.

Sudan, Ethiopia, and Nile Water Ethiopia, an upstream Nile basin riparian, is the origin of about 86 percent of the water that eventually reaches the Aswan High Dam in Egypt. The Blue Nile, Sobat, and Atbara rivers flow from Ethiopia and connect with the White Nile or main Nile in Sudan. All of the water that arrives at Aswan from the White Nile and the rivers in Ethiopia flows through Sudan. Egypt and Sudan have collaborated in dividing Nile water between them, excluding Ethiopia from the negotiations. Irrigated agriculture in Sudan increased dramatically during the twentieth century. Sudan has more than three million acres of land under irrigated cultivation. By contrast, Ethiopia has about a half-million acres of irrigated crops out of a potential nine million acres. The limited availability of capital for financing projects and a finite

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supply of Nile water are the main constraints to the expansion of irrigated agriculture in both countries.73 Great Britain, acting on behalf of Sudan, and Egypt reached an agreement in 1929 that allocated 48 billion cubic meters of Nile water annually to Egypt and 4 billion cubic meters to Sudan. Neither Ethiopia nor any other riparian state was party to the document. Egypt and independent Sudan renegotiated this allocation in 1959; Egypt received 55.5 billion cubic meters and Sudan the remaining 18.5 billion cubic meters. The two signatories did not invite Ethiopia to join the negotiations nor did they consult with Addis Ababa. Ethiopia officially informed Egypt and other riparians in 1956 and 1957 that it reserved its right to use Nile water for the benefit of its people. The 1959 agreement lacked a provision for amendment, duration, and a mechanism for solving differences. Sudan made a significant effort during the negotiations with Egypt and in the years immediately afterward to improve relations with Ethiopia.74 Sudan and Ethiopia reached an agreement in 1972 concerning joint technical discussions on use of Nile water. The agreement provided that whenever claims over Nile waters are formulated by a party other than Sudan and Egypt, those countries should offer a common position in response to the claim of a third riparian. Sudan’s stated goal was to enlarge the Egypt-Sudan bilateral mechanism on the Nile to include other riparian states. Sudan’s foreign minister said this would lay the ground for global management of the Nile by all riparians. Ethiopia and Sudan also agreed on development programs for common rivers other than the Nile such as the Baraka and Gash.75 One potentially divisive Nile water issue concerning Sudan and Ethiopia is the controversial Jonglei Canal. This project would divert back to the White Nile annually up to 4.7 billion cubic meters of water from the world’s largest freshwater swamp known as the Sudd in southern Sudan. Opposition to the canal by the SPLA brought construction to a halt in 1984. Many southern Sudanese believed the canal would benefit only northern Sudan and Egypt. With the end of Sudan’s civil war, Egypt reopened discussion with Sudan on resuming construction. The Jonglei Canal could have significant environmental consequences within Sudan that are not fully understood and might present some surprises for Ethiopia. The canal would reduce by about one-third the size of the Sudd, which undergoes considerable evaporation picked up by winds from the west and carried to the mountains of Ethiopia, where it falls as rain. Although there is no strong scientific evidence that a reduction in the size of the Sudd would result in less rain over Ethiopia, the impact is not known with any certitude. There may also be important environmental implications where the north end of the Jonglei Canal rejoins the White Nile near the entry point of the Sobat-Baro-Pibor

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system and the Machar marshes. The much stronger flow of the White Nile created by the additional water could back up the Sobat and impact the Machar marshes that extend into Ethiopia.76 Ethiopian-Sudanese dialogue on Nile water usage has vacillated in recent decades between conflict and cooperation but recently has tended toward the latter. Following the change of government in Ethiopia in 1991 and a brief improvement in Ethiopian-Sudanese relations, the two countries signed an agreement the following year to cooperate on the use of Nile waters. It focused on watershed management in order to reduce the sediment load from the Blue Nile, Atbara, and their tributaries.77 In 1996, following a sharp downturn in relations with Ethiopia, Sudan presented a paper at a conference on the Nile that said the waters of the Nile should be the exclusive right of Sudan and Egypt.78 In 1998 senior Sudanese officials criticized Ethiopia’s repeated demands for a review of the 1959 agreement.79 Internal conflict in both countries, especially Ethiopia, has distracted them and contributed to their inability to pursue more vigorously Nile water development plans. The outbreak of war in 1998 between Ethiopia and Eritrea led to greater Nile Valley cooperation between Ethiopia and Sudan. Water resources ministers from Ethiopia, Sudan, and Egypt signed a document in 1999 to seek the sustainable development of Nile water through equitable exploitation for the common benefit of all riparian states.80 In 2001 both Sudan and Ethiopia joined the Nile Basin Initiative, which has the goal of sharing the benefits of the Nile and enhancing the level of political and technical cooperation. In 2002 they agreed to exchange water flow information on the Blue Nile and Atbara rivers with the aim of increasing irrigated agriculture in Sudan. Ethiopia, Sudan, and Egypt also announced they intended to implement development projects for the joint use of Nile waters.81 Sudan and Ethiopia are now engaged in a World Bank–financed project for increasing the supply of hydroelectric power in Ethiopia and Sudan.82 There are sound reasons for Sudan and Ethiopia to cooperate on the use of Nile water. Both countries have concerns over the terms of the 1959 water allocation agreement, Ethiopia more so than Sudan. Both countries also fear that huge new irrigation projects in Egypt will require an inordinate amount of additional water. Sudan and Ethiopia can cooperate on sharing hydroelectric power, which has much greater potential in Ethiopia. It is more efficient to store water at higher elevations in Ethiopia, where evaporation is much lower than in Sudan, for future use in Sudan. Dams in Ethiopia can also reduce flooding and minimize silting downstream in Sudan. One of the world’s leading experts on the Nile Valley, John Waterbury, concluded that “Ethio-Sudanese cooperation in the management of their shared basins is compelling.”83

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Conflict or Cooperation? Looking back over the centuries, Sudan and Ethiopia experienced much more conflict than cooperation. There are numerous explanations for this. Authorities on both sides of the border have a long history of authoritarian rule and occasional schemes for territorial expansion. The leaders were not reluctant to order their underlings to cross the border to enhance their imperial or religious goals. The border region was once a significant source of slaves for both countries to use internally or to export. This led to displacement of people and conflict among competing slavers. The lengthy border is artificial and frequently divides ethnic groups that now straddle both sides. Many of the conflicts resulted from and continue to cause local ethnic disputes. Ethiopia has a long history of Christian leadership, but it also has a large Muslim population, including along parts of the border with Sudan. Following the Islamization of Sudan, much of the conflict concerned differences between the Muslim leaders in Sudan and the Christian leaders in Ethiopia, who saw the Ethiopian highlands as a Christian island in a Muslim sea. Outside involvement by the Ottoman Empire, Egypt, Italy, and even Great Britain contributed to some of the conflict. Since Sudan’s independence, differences in political ideology, especially the Marxist-Leninist approach of the Derg regime, raised concerns in Khartoum. One trend that began early in the relationship is the tit-for-tat policy of allowing opposition groups to operate from the territory of one country against the other. In recent decades, this has done more damage to the bilateral relationship than any other single issue. It ended most recently following the outbreak of hostility between Ethiopia and Eritrea in 1998. It is surprising that there has not been more conflict between Sudan and Ethiopia over the centuries. The fact that the frontier is far from the capitals in both countries may offer the best explanation why it has not damaged relations even more. Until relatively recently, neither the leaders of Sudan nor Ethiopia took much interest in what was happening along this border. Transportation links, especially to the southern part of the border, are still exceedingly poor in both countries. The existence of significant oil in Sudan and possibly even inside Ethiopia along the border may change this situation. Occasionally, a common enemy has temporarily caused the two countries to cooperate. There was increased Ethiopian-Sudanese cooperation following the Italian invasion of Ethiopia and after the outbreak of war between Eritrea and Ethiopia. Except for the 1929 and 1959 agreements that allocated all Nile water to Sudan and Egypt, there have been no serious disagreements over Nile water questions. In fact, cooperation on the use of Nile water could lead to joint development projects to the advantage of both countries.

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Notes 1. Abdussamad H. Ahmad, “Trading in Slaves in Bela-Shangul and Gumuz, Ethiopia: Border Enclaves in History, 1897–1938,” Journal of African History 40, no. 3 (1999): 436; Robert Collins, Shadows in the Grass: Britain in the Southern Sudan, 1918–1956 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), pp. 22–23. 2. Dennis Charles Hickey, “Ethiopia and Great Britain: Political Conflict in the Southern Borderlands, 1916–1935” (Ph.D. diss., Northwestern University, 1984), p. 264. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid., pp. 16, 24, 220. 5. C. H. Bentinck, Abyssinia No. 1 (1928) Correspondence Respecting Abyssinian Raids and Incursions into British Territory and the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (London: HMSO, 1928), pp. 1–19. 6. Hickey, “Ethiopia and Great Britain,” pp. 17–18, 25–27, 31–34, 261; Collins, Shadows in the Grass, pp. 374, 380, 387. 7. Ahmad, “Trading in Slaves,” pp. 433–445; Alice Moore-Harell, “Economic and Political Aspects of the Slave Trade in Ethiopia and the Sudan in the Second Half of the Nineteenth Century,” International Journal of African Historical Studies 32, no. 2/3 (1999): 417. 8. Bahru Zewde, “An Overview and Assessment of Gambella Trade (1904–1935),” International Journal of African Historical Studies 20, no. 1 (1987): 77–79, 80–83, 91–93; Hickey, “Ethiopia and Great Britain,” pp. 272–273, 299; Collins, Shadows in the Grass, pp. 270–724; J. A. de C. Hamilton (ed.), The AngloEgyptian Sudan from Within (London: Faber and Faber, 1935), pp. 304, 336. 9. Alberto Sbacchi, Ethiopia Under Mussolini: Fascism and the Colonial Experience (London: Zed Books Ltd., 1985), p. 12; Collins, Shadows in the Grass, pp. 383–386. 10. Alberto Sbacchi, Legacy of Bitterness: Ethiopia and Fascist Italy, 1935–1941 (Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1997), pp. 214, 303–306. 11. Sbacchi, Ethiopia Under Mussolini, p. 224; Robert Norman Thompson, Liberation—The First to Be Freed (Vancouver: Battleline Books, 1987), pp. 38–41; Lord Rennell Rodd, British Military Administration of Occupied Territories in Africa During the Years 1941–1947 (London: HMSO, 1948), pp. 1–2, 12. 12. Thompson, Liberation, pp. 47–51, 64–70; Rodd, British Military Administration, p. 97; Collins, Shadows in the Grass, pp. 399–400; Operations in East Africa, November, 1940–July, 1941, supplement to the London Gazette (9 July 1946), p. 3551. 13. Operations in East Africa, pp. 3351–3356; Rodd, British Military Administration, p. 67. 14. Collins, Shadows in the Grass, pp. 402–405. 15. K. D. D. Henderson, The Making of the Modern Sudan: The Life and Letters of Sir Douglas Newbold (London: Faber and Faber Ltd., 1953), pp. 330–332. 16. Mansour Khalid, The Government They Deserve (London: Kegan Paul International, 1990), pp. 148–149, 185–186; P. M. Holt and M. W. Daly, The History of the Sudan: From the Coming of Islam to the Present Day, 3d ed. (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1979), p. 171. 17. John Howell and M. Beshir Hamid, “Sudan and the Outside World, 1964–1968,” African Affairs 68, no. 273 (October 1969): 301–303; Abel Alier, Southern Sudan: Too Many Agreements Dishonoured (Reading, UK: Ithaca Press,

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1990), pp. 71–72; Dunstan M. Wai, The African-Arab Conflict in the Sudan (New York: Africana Publishing Company, 1981), pp. 136–137. 18. Howell and Hamid, “Sudan and the Outside World,” p. 304. 19. Mohamed Omer Beshir, The Southern Sudan: From Conflict to Peace (Khartoum: The Khartoum Bookshop, 1975), pp. 28–29, 40–41; Howell and Hamid, “Sudan and the Outside World,” pp. 307–310. 20. Howell and Hamid, “Sudan and the Outside World,” p. 310. 21. Beshir, The Southern Sudan, p. 69. 22. Ibid., pp. 83–84. 23. Mansour Khalid, Nimeiri and the Revolution of Dis-May (London: KPI Ltd., 1985), pp. 323–326. 24. Khalid, The Government They Deserve, pp. 286–287, 297; Wai, The African-Arab Conflict in the Sudan, pp. 154–165; Robert Collins, The Nile (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), p. 79; Alier, Southern Sudan, pp. 97–98; Beshir, The Southern Sudan, pp. 126–128. 25. Paul B. Henze, Layers of Time: A History of Ethiopia (London: Hurst and Company, 2000), p. 289. 26. Khalid, Nimeiri and the Revolution of Dis-May, p. 240. 27. Andargachew Tiruneh, The Ethiopian Revolution 1974–1987 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 129, 174, 207–208. 28. Khalid, Nimeiri and the Revolution of Dis-May, p. 326. 29. Ibid., pp. 326, 347–348; M. V. Right, “Peaceful Borders on the Horn of Africa,” in Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies (Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African Studies, 1984), pp. 669–670. 30. Teferra Haile-Selassie, The Ethiopian Revolution 1974–1991 (London: Kegan Paul International, 1997), pp. 242–243; Right, “Peaceful Borders on the Horn of Africa,” p. 670; G. Norman Anderson, Sudan in Crisis: The Failure of Democracy (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1999), p. 209. 31. John Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier: Gambella and Benishangul in Transition,” Journal of Modern African Studies 37, no. 2 (1999): 325–327. 32. John Young, Peasant Revolution in Ethiopia: The Tigray People’s Liberation Front, 1975–1991 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 129–130. 33. Ann Mosely Lesch, “Sudan’s Foreign Policy,” in John O. Voll (ed.), Sudan: State and Society in Crisis (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), p. 50; Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 331; Anderson, Sudan in Crisis, pp. 70-71. 34. Anderson, Sudan in Crisis, pp. 73–74, 103–104; Lesch, “Sudan’s Foreign Policy,” pp. 55–56, 62. 35. Anderson, Sudan in Crisis, pp. 106–107. 36. Ahmed Karadawi, “The Smuggling of the Ethiopian Falasha to Israel Through Sudan,” African Affairs 90, no. 358 (January 1991): 23–25. 37. Amare Tekle, “International Relations in the Horn of Africa (1991–96),” Review of African Political Economy 23, no. 70 (December 1996): 506. 38. Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 331; William Rose and Eliza Van Dusen, “Sudan’s Islamic Revolutions as a Cause of Foreign Intervention in Its Wars: Insights from Balance of Threat Theory,” Civil Wars 5, no. 3 (Autumn 2002): 38; Solomon Hailu, ”Sudan-Ethiopia Relations and Islamization Policy,” Journal of African Policy Studies 9, no. 1 (2003): 50. 39. Oystein H. Rolandsen, Guerrilla Government: Political Changes in the

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Southern Sudan During the 1990s (Uppsala: Nordiska Afrikainstitutet, 2005), pp. 34–35. 40. Mary C. Kilgour, “Refugees and Development: Dissonance in Sudan,” in John O. Voll (ed.), Sudan: State and Society in Crisis (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), pp. 124–125. 41. Tekle, “International Relations in the Horn of Africa,” p. 505; Rose and Van Dusen, “Sudan’s Islamic Revolutions as a Cause of Foreign Intervention in Its Wars,” p. 36. 42. Hailu, “Sudan-Ethiopia Relations,” p. 50; Tekle, “International Relations in the Horn of Africa,” p. 506; Rose and Van Dusen, “Sudan’s Islamic Revolutions,” p. 39; Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 333. 43. Radio Ethiopia in Amharic, 1 September 1995. 44. Ethiopian News Agency, 9 April 1996. 45. Radio Ethiopia in Amharic, 15 January 1996. 46. Donald Petterson, Inside Sudan: Political Islam, Conflict, and Catastrophe (Boulder: Westview Press, 1999), pp. 179, 184; Tekle, “International Relations in the Horn of Africa,” pp. 506–507; Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 332; Hailu, “Sudan-Ethiopia Relations,” p. 31. 47. Rose and Van Dusen, “Sudan’s Islamic Revolutions,” p. 39. 48. David H. Shinn, “Sudan and Her Neighbors,” at www.iss.co.za/AF/ current/Sudan03.html, p. 4; Petterson, Inside Sudan, p. 185. 49. Ethiopian News Agency, 20 January 1997. 50. Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 334. 51. Indian Ocean Newsletter, 17 January 1998. 52. Shinn, “Sudan and Her Neighbors,” p. 4; Young, “Along Ethiopia’s Western Frontier,” p. 332; Xinhua News Agency, 8 December 1998. 53. Panafrican News Agency, 18 November 1999; Ethiopian Ministry of Foreign Affairs statement, 19 November 1999. 54. Shinn, “Sudan and Her Neighbors,” p. 4; Ethiopian News Agency, 28 December 2001. 55. Addis Tribune, 11 January 2002. 56. BBC Monitoring International Reports, 28 April 2002. 57. Ethiopian News Agency, 17 May 2002. 58. Shinn, “Sudan and Her Neighbors,” p. 4. 59. Agence France Presse, 12 January 2003. 60. BBC Monitoring International Reports, 29 July 2003. 61. Sudan Tribune, 15 November 2004. 62. Ethiopian News Agency, 16 July 2003; Addis Fortune, 28 November 2004. 63. Sudan Tribune, 14 and 15 December 2005; BBC Worldwide Monitoring, 16 December 2005. 64. International Monetary Fund, Yearbook 2004, pp. 192, 460; International Monetary Fund, September 2006 Direction of Trade Statistics, pp. 141, 347. 65. Addis Ababa Capital, 11 December 2005; Addis Ababa Daily Monitor, 12 December 2005. 66. Xinhua News Agency, 1 April 2006. 67. Sudan Tribune, 21 March 2006. 68. Ethiopian News Agency, 3 December 2005; Sudan Tribune, 14 and 15 December 2005. 69. Sudan Tribune, 3 and 5 January 2006. 70. Ibid., 20 March and 2 April 2006. 71. Gambela Today, 12 April 2006.

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72. Sudan Tribune, 19 April 2006. 73. Peter Chesworth, “History of Water Use in the Sudan and Egypt,” in P. P. Howell and J. A. Allan (eds.), The Nile: Sharing a Scarce Resource (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 71–77; Ashok Swain, “The Nile River Basin Initiative: Too Many Cooks, Too Little Broth,” SAIS Review 22, no. 2 (2002): 300. 74. Tesfaye Tafesse, The Nile Question (Munster: Lit Verlag, 2001), pp. 74–79; Collins, The Nile, pp. 169, 174–176; Ashok Swain, “Ethiopia, the Sudan, and Egypt: The Nile River Dispute,” Journal of Modern African Studies 35, no. 4 (1997): 676–679. 75. Khalid, Nimeiri and the Revolution of Dis-May, p. 325. 76. Swain, “The Nile River Basin Initiative,” p. 297; Paul Howell, Michael Lock, and Stephen Cobb, The Jonglei Canal: Impact and Opportunity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 377, 460–461. 77. Swain, “Ethiopia, the Sudan, and Egypt,” p. 692; John Waterbury, The Nile Basin: National Determinants of Collective Action (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), p. 138. 78. Swain, “Ethiopia, the Sudan, and Egypt,” p. 683. 79. Agence France Presse, 27 January 1998. 80. Panafrican News Agency, 18 November 1999. 81. Panafrican News Agency, 12 February 2002; Ethiopian TV in Amharic, 7 September 2002. 82. Deutsche Presse-Agentur, 25 November 2005. 83. Waterbury, The Nile Basin, p. 139.

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PART 5 Conclusion

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12 Narrating the Nile Meir Hatina and Israel Gershoni

T

HE NILE, THE LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD (CA. 4,160 MILES), IS

integrally bound to the history of a rich, varied, and vibrant region. Its geographic, economic, and ecological expanse has made an indelible mark on the nature of the local cultures and surrounding identities, creating an environment for interaction. The multifaceted character of the Nile basin that existed in the past endures to the present. Today, some 300 million people of varied socioeconomic levels populate the area, under different governmental models. While preserving their distinctive characters, the various countries of the Nile basin have conducted an uninterrupted discourse. The flow of the Nile waters has been a constant source of friction and conflict, as well as dialogue and negotiation, and diplomatic mediation. Hydropolitics have provided the primary integrative dimension of research on the history of the Nile basin in the twentieth century. Beyond this, most scholars have tended to focus on the individual countries in the basin as the ultimate framework for political development, nation building, cultural definition, and self-identity. Ethnic concepts have also played a role in enhancing the particularist approach, as reflected in the case of two of its main players—Ethiopia and Egypt. Ethiopia was often identified as black and Christian, Egypt as Eastern and Muslim. The emergence of new ideologies in the 1950s and 1960s only sharpened the conceptual divide: panArabism positioned Ethiopia in the black continent sphere; pan-Arabism positioned Egypt in the Middle Eastern Arab sphere. This gap was widened both by politicians and academics. As Egypt under Gamal Abdul Nasser moved away from the concept of the “Unity of the Nile Valley” and turned to lead an Arab nation stretching “from the [Atlantic] Ocean to the [Persian] Gulf,” Ethiopia, under Haile Selassie, became the capital of Africa and 227

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turned its back on the Middle East. Both leaders cemented this separation in 1959 by ending sixteen centuries of Ethio-Egyptian church affiliation. Egypt began work on the Aswan High Dam, aimed at ending its ancient dependence on Ethiopia’s Blue Nile resources. The momentous rise of African studies during that period contributed further to identifying Ethiopia with Africa, while the scholarly study of Egypt went on to further focus on its leading role in an Arab Middle East. The Nilo-African dimensions of Egypt’s history and identity were conceptually marginalized simultaneously with the academic marginalization of the cultural, religious, and historical Middle Eastern roots of Ethiopia. The compilation of articles in this volume has attempted to correct this historiographic distortion and to restore the more inclusive character of the Nile basin in the recording of its history—not ignoring the particular, yet mindful of the broader influences and their implications. Historically, the volume follows the outlines laid down by the pioneering works of Haggai Erlich, to whom the book is dedicated. His research established that Ethiopia was closely integrated in the strategies of the Nile basin as in those of the Red Sea, and through them was linked to the Mediterranean world and thus influenced by important developments in those regions.1 A clear and current example is the permeation of the Islamic resurgence in the Middle East into the Ethiopian entity during the last decade of the twentieth century. This development, together with an altered demographic balance between Christians and Muslims, has already changed the political and cultural fabric of the country. Methodologically, the volume draws a large measure of inspiration from the Braudelian concept of historic time as “a long duration” (la longue durée), in which nature serves as a powerful agent of history, nurturing a rich variety of lifestyles, patterns of migration and integration, modes of economies, and the spread of cultures and religions. 2 The physical infrastructure and how it is utilized also constitutes an important component in defining the power relationships between countries or regions.3 To quote Fernand Braudel, “To discuss civilization is to discuss space, land and its contours, climate, vegetation, animal species, and natural or other advantages.”4 The impact of physical geography as built into the historical logic of the Braudelian school—space, time, and structure—is also provided by Egyptian historiography regarding the Nile River. Noted Egyptian historian Muhammad Shafiq Ghurbal (d. 1961) observed that “the blessed river nurtured civilizations that were among the greatest known in history, but these disappeared one after the other, while it remained intact.”5 This volume in its transnational outlook and its Braudelian rationale is well located in the field of regional studies, which views the region, rather than the state, as a legitimate and vital unit for analysis and research. It

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joins similar studies of other areas such as the American Midwest and Latin America, the Indian Ocean, the Black Sea, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and the Arab world. These studies have emphasized the regional dynamic— a view that goes beyond local history and is weighted by a broader context of rivers and seas and cross-border human networks of migration, commerce, religion, and scholarship, as well as the movement of ideas by means of traditional and modern communication.6 In considering the Nile as a large-scale theater of human life, historical experience, and cultural discourse and memory, this compilation provides interdisciplinary discussions and comparative historical studies. Its aim is to revitalize the academic discussion on the Nile countries—mainly Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia—not only as separate, autonomous entities but also as components of the larger historical entity of the Nile. The contributors explore various themes within this broader perspective. One theme is conflict, coexistence, and cultural interaction. An exploration of medieval and early modern history reveals that although MuslimChristian rivalry was an important component of bilateral relations between the Mamluk Sultanate and the Ethiopian Empire, it nevertheless left room for diplomatic communication and social interaction. Egyptian historians showed great interest in their country’s Christian neighbor and did not conceal their admiration for the openness, generosity, and courage of its inhabitants, despite their hostility toward Islam. Religious literature written in the Coptic Church of Egypt found its way, through extensive translating, to its daughter Ethiopian Church and influenced its religious and ritual content. Ethiopia, for its part, also influenced Egyptian history. Its control of the sources of the Nile waters—the lifeblood of Egypt’s agrarian society—provides one aspect. Still another aspect was Ethiopia’s blocking of Egypt’s territorial inroads into Africa in the nineteenth century. The series of military defeats experienced by Khedive Isma‘il’s army at the hands of the Ethiopians in 1875–1876 fatally undermined the entire Egyptian imperial enterprise in the Nile Valley. Moreover, these defeats served as an important catalyst for the ‘Urabist protest movement that demanded radical change in Egyptian polity. The ‘Urabi revolt was subdued in 1882, making way for an extended British conquest, but the trauma of humiliation at the hands of the Ethiopians became a political tool in the struggle over Egyptian collective memory. Another theme discussed here sheds new light on the “Unity of the Nile Valley,” a conceptual pillar of modern Egyptian nationalism and a bone of contention with the British occupiers in the interwar era. The Egyptian demand to annex Sudan served as a major stumbling block to concluding an independence agreement, with those prepared to waive this demand risking being branded as traitors. However, there were also dissident voices within the Egyptian discourse. The communist movement defended Sudan’s right

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to self-determination and to liberation from any imperialist control, whether British or Egyptian. The Sudanese issue is also examined within a broad international context through an analysis of US foreign policy. The United States, which after World War II held the reins of Western diplomacy, expressed support for Egyptian nationalism and pressured Britain to respond to Egypt’s aspirations regarding Sudan. Washington expressed a pro-Egyptian, anti-British stance, in an effort to win Cairo’s support in the Cold War against the Soviet Union. Ultimately, the vision of Nile Valley unity was not realized, and it was officially abandoned in 1953 by Egypt’s revolutionary regime. A vision of Arab unity was adopted, with Nasser preferring an agreement with the British to remove their forces from Egypt. The two visions—the Unity of the Nile Valley and pan-Arabism—were both part of Cairo’s official policy: the first under the Wafdist and nonWafdist governments and the second under the Nasserist regime. However, they were not entirely assimilated by the community of intellectuals and artists who functioned as cultural agents and opinion shapers. This issue provides the third theme of this compilation, which highlights distinctiveness within unity. For intellectuals and literary critics, as well as film directors and producers, the Nile Valley—centered on Egypt’s north-south axis— provided the primary focus of loyalty, even when some settled in the land of the Tigris and the Euphrates and trumpeted Arab nationalism, or granted cultural and cinematic recognition at home to actors and artists of nonEgyptian origins—Nubian, Sudanese, Syrian, or Lebanese. Ultimately, the broader imagined community, whether Nilotic or Arab, failed to blur Egyptian particularity, pointing to the shortcomings of the indoctrinal agents of the modern state, even in the case of Nasserist Egypt, described by Raymond Hinnebusch as authoritarian-populist.7 The perception of the Nile as the site of self-identity was also integral to the Christian Coptic community, as exemplified by the Evangelical Church, which in the late 1930s and 1940s detached itself from outside patronage and highlighted its indigenous Egyptian character. The famous observation by fifth century B.C.E. Greek historian Herodotus, “Egypt is the gift of the Nile,” was thus given contemporary endorsement. The Egyptian sense of distinctiveness and indeed superiority did not replace the need to confront a given geopolitical reality, in which the country’s lifeline was dependent on the goodwill of its upriver southern neighbors—Sudan and especially Ethiopia. Despite aggressive rhetoric, the construction of dams and lakes, and the promotion of irrigation projects as a means of control over the waters entering its territory, Cairo was forced to rely on diplomatic channels for negotiations and contact with Khartoum and Addis Ababa. This presents the fourth and final theme, linking water and politics, ecology and diplomacy. It brings the reader back to the methodological and historical starting point of this compilation, highlighting the

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macroperspective of the greater Nile area, in which the particularist unit under analysis is woven into the regional perspective. The chapters in this volume neither pretend to be the final word nor to offer any sense of closure on persistent issues concerning the Nile Valley. Rather, they suggest new approaches and new reappraisals on specific Nile basin areas and case studies, in particular times and places. The articles’ findings offer fresh insights into our understanding of chapters in the history of the medieval and modern Nile Valley.

Notes 1. See, e.g., Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and the Middle East (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1994); Haggai Erlich, The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2003); Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and Saudi Arabia—Christianity, Islam, and Politics Entwined (Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2007). 2. Fernand Braudel, A History of Civilizations (New York: Penguin Books, 1995), pp. 3–23. 3. A case in point is Milo Kearney’s study, The Indian Ocean in World History (New York and London: Routledge, 2004). 4. Braudel, A History of Civilizations, p. 9. 5. Muhammad Shafiq Ghurbal (ed.), Wahdat wadi al-Nil (Cairo: al-Matba‘a alAmiriyya, 1948), Preface. 6. See the Introduction to this volume; also K. N. Chaudhuri, Trade and Civilization in the Indian Ocean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Leila Tarazi Fawaz and C. A. Bayly (eds.), Modernity and Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002). 7. Raymond A. Hinnebusch, Egyptian Politics Under Sadat (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988), pp. 11–39.

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Honoring Haggai Erlich Israel Gershoni

I

FIRST MET HAGGAI ERLICH, OR MORE PRECISELY FIRST SAW HIM, AT THE

high-jump pit at the old Maccabi sports fields in north Tel Aviv, sometime toward the beginning of the summer of 1962. His blonde hair blowing in the wind, a warm smile across his open face, and an elegant western roll high jump characterized Haggai as a star athlete. I knew he was one of the leading national high jumpers, and seeing him in action was spectacular. Although Haggai and I did not strike up a friendship from this casual meeting, the scene was set. Our second meeting was even more unexpected. In November 1969, on one of my first ventures into the legendary Oriental Hall of the National Library at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, I found the librarian fondly stroking a freshly submitted MA thesis titled “The Tribes in Yemen and Their Role in the War, 1962–1968,” by Haggai Erlich. My teacher, Dr. Yehoshua Porath, informed me that indeed this was the work of the same athlete I had come across several years earlier. So much has happened since then. After completing his doctorate at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS) in London in the early 1970s, Haggai returned to the Department of Middle Eastern and African History at Tel Aviv University, bursting with energy to embark on his academic career, which more than three decades later has proven vibrant and dynamic. Haggai has flourished—not a year goes by without a new article or book on our shelves. His industrious output is impressive in terms of both quality and quantity. Haggai has researched a variety of significant aspects in the Arab Middle East and in the Egyptian and Sudanese Nile Valley, particularly the Horn of Africa. His work is well received in academic circles thanks both to his pioneering passion and to his consistently innovative, original, thought-provoking, and lucid style. 233

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His book Ras Alula and the Scramble for Africa: A Political Biography: Ethiopia & Eritrea (1982), was followed by The Struggle over Eritrea, 1962–1978 (1983); the collection of articles, Ethiopia and the Challenge of Independence (1986), was followed by his study of Students and University in Twentieth Century Egyptian Politics (1989); his research on the history of Ethiopia and the Middle East (1994) was followed by his work on Youth and Politics in the Middle East—Generations and Identity Crises (1998). This was followed by what I view as the jewel in the crown of Haggai’s academic work—The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile (2002). In this work Haggai documented the complex relationships between Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile over more than a millennium. From the professional journals in the West to al-Ahram in the East, and to Addis Ababa in the south, the book reviews lauded this original and brilliant work. Professor Eve Troutt Powell acclaimed the book in the International Journal of Middle East Studies (vol. 36, no. 1, February 2004, pp. 123– 124), while Gamal Nkrumah lavishly praised its significance in al-Ahram Weekly (vol. 12, no. 24, September 2003) and in the Addis Tribune (24 October 2003), all placing it in the pantheon of Middle Eastern and African studies. These are only a few examples of the enthusiastic reactions to one of Haggai’s recent works, representing how all of Haggai’s work has been accepted in academic and public circles over the years. Haggai has also researched and authored dozens of books published by the Open University of Israel, illuminating the modern history of the Ottoman and Arab Middle East from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries. In these monumental works (in Hebrew, and now being translated into Arabic and Russian), Haggai unfolds a historical drama in words, photos, sketches, and caricatures, presenting readers with a vividly visual account of the Middle East, and contributing immensely to readers’ ability to understand the complexity of the dynamics of the region. And finally, this impressive list of Haggai’s works would not be complete without noting some of his other writing, including his recent works, both those published in Hebrew—Ethiopia: An Empire and a Revolution (1997); Egypt—The Older Sister (2003); and Ethiopia—Christianity, Islam, Judaism (2003; Russian ed., 2006)—as well as collections of articles he has edited such as the Nile collection, books written with other historians, and dozens of articles and reviews published in the most prestigious journals in the field. The wealth of Haggai’s work—the fields and periods he has covered, the events, the historical processes, and the people he has researched and analyzed—make him one of the most versatile scholars in contemporary Middle Eastern and African studies. His ability to combine political history with cultural history, his skill in conducting an intimate dialogue with his subject, his proficiency in the sources, and his talent for presenting concise,

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cogent academic studies illustrate both excellent scholarship and an outstanding accomplishment. Although summarizing Haggai’s life work is a near-impossible task, I shall try. Two major themes have underlined his work over the past forty years. The first theme has to do with the historical theaters he has studied. Having begun his career as a young scholar of Middle Eastern societies and cultures, he also delved into the study of Ethiopia’s history. Haggai was fascinated by the story of this ancient Christian state. His earlier study of Ethiopia’s late nineteenth-century national hero, Ras Alula, analyzed the connection between the country’s sociopolitical culture, the interethnic dynamisms, and the country’s unique ability to maintain independence in the face of European imperialism. His book on Alula has significantly impacted contemporary Ethiopia and is considered by many as one of the most important works on modern Ethiopian history. In the 1960s and 1970s, interest in Ethiopia as a symbol of African independence and pride became the main focus of the emerging field of African studies. I remember Haggai talking about the important contribution of the Africanists’ approach to understanding Ethiopian diversity, but also his lamenting what he saw as their unconscious disconnecting of Ethiopia from her Eastern roots. In retrospect, Haggai has restored the connection between these worlds in his numerous studies. He reinterpreted modern Ethiopian history as also based on her Christian, Islamic, cultural, linguistic, and regional connections to the Arab Middle East. Bridging and integrating these histories, he not only laid the foundation for a new field, but also provided original insights into the modern histories of Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and more generally, the Arab world. In addition, he shed new light on the interactions and mutual perceptions of Muslims and Christians along the Nile and across the Red Sea. The emergence of Islam in the Ethiopia of the 1990s as a factor redefining the country both culturally and politically has reemphasized the relevance and validity of Haggai’s premises and work. The second theme, more methodological and historiographical, is Haggai’s distinctive historical narrative, whose nature I would like to recount and explain. Haggai’s writings exhibit a typical narration. I think it is clear that the historical stories he weaves (his talent as a storyteller is irrefutable), as documented in his works, are channeled to a unified master narrative. This narrative is anchored in E. H. Carr’s dictum that history is “an unending dialogue between the present and the past,” and Lewis Namier’s definition of the historian as one who “imagines the past and remembers the future.” Add to that Søren Kierkegaard’s observation that “man lives towards the future but only understands himself by looking towards the past.” Indeed, Haggai’s work illustrates the unique relationship

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between the past evolving toward the present and the future, and that of the future anchored in the present, which is rooted in the past. Haggai’s writings demonstrate a fascinating negotiation between a past-oriented future and a future-oriented past. Hence his historical research always sheds fresh light on the present; it is an ongoing attempt to explain and to illuminate the present. Haggai begins with the vague marking of a specific issue, conflict, revolution, political struggle, cultural clash, or social change that characterizes the present. He then anchors this present in a well-defined point in the past. The starting point can be anywhere from a thousand to five hundred years ago, or some time toward the end of the nineteenth century or even the beginning of the twentieth century. He then reconstructs the “roots,” “origins,” or “genesis” that shaped this present from events, processes, developments, forces, and heroes over the cumulative past. This is a historical drama that formatively emerged, slowly evolved, and eventually framed the present. The narrative helps Haggai understand present circumstances, and in fact recreates them. Haggai methodically and thoroughly investigates the past and illustrates that it is not the present that determines how we understand the past, but rather the past that determines how we understand the present. More precisely, he not only strives to imbue the past with a sense of the present, but also, and more crucially, he redefines the present in terms meaningful to the past, which he has meticulously and objectively reconstructed. Essentially, the annals of the past are the relevant factor, not the present. For example, the story of the students and university in Egypt begins in 1908, with the seminal founding of Cairo University, and ends in the Anwar al-Sadat era in the 1970s. Haggai identifies and extracts the archetypical patterns of student behavior and activity in Egyptian society and politics, and demonstrates that these patterns shaped and reshaped the student experience until the end of the twentieth century. To give another example, Haggai traces the history of the relations between Ethiopia and the Arab Middle East beginning with the era of the Prophet Muhammad in the seventh century, continuing through the sixteenth century, and from there to the reign of Muhammad Ali in the nineteenth century, to Mussolini in the twentieth century, and then up to the early 1970s. Once again, Haggai distills and isolates fundamental conceptual frameworks and modes of action, and uses these to understand the relationship between Ethiopia and the Middle East today. Haggai seems to search for a sociopolitical and cultural code that, once identified, determines for him the history of a specific society through successive generations. In The Cross and the River, Haggai leads us on a fascinating and longue durée journey from the foundation of Christianity to the late twentieth century. Here also Haggai presents us with a recipe for understanding Ethiopia’s current status in the Nile Valley. In all of these tales, the present and the past conduct intimate reciprocal relations.

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The present approaches the past in an effort to confer on itself a new, more precise identity. Perhaps not all would agree with this distinctive approach to the past as a method of the historian’s craft. There may be points of disagreement on Haggai’s methodology. Most of us do not conclude our historical story at the “end” of our present. We start our investigation at the beginning with a strong sense of commitment to what follows; yet we do not necessarily continue our story to its current finish. This typical narrative clearly distinguishes Haggai as a historian who seeks to deal with current issues, as well as a scholar who believes that only thorough and precise historical study allows one to understand, or at least define, the fundamental issues confronting a contemporary society. Each society and culture, as it were, has its own cultural codes that shape it over generations, and historians can and indeed are impelled to decode them as a way of concretely understanding their contemporary relevance. Haggai does not write a prescription for future recovery—definitely conforming to the Alexis de Tocqueville claim that “the secrets of the future are not revealed to us.” For Haggai, however, history offers solutions to contemporary problems, and it is the historian’s vocation to locate these solutions. Considering Friedrich Nietzsche’s “On the Use and Abuse of History for Life,” Haggai makes use of his understanding of history to offer guidelines for life. During the last three decades, Ethiopia’s ruling elite have read and studied Haggai’s works and have applied his insights to better comprehend their own society and themselves, their experience, and their policies. What greater proof is needed that the “Erlich Project” is neither abstract nor utopian? In my opinion, Haggai’s unique humanistic historical project combines conservative and historicist elements with provocative, subversive, and challenging aspects, and yet it is pragmatic and practical in its diagnostic analysis, imbued with a fervor to proffer remedies for a society in crisis.

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1969 Haggai Erlich, “Students and University in Egypt’s Modern History,” Hamizrah Hehadash 19 (1969): 50–78 [in Hebrew]. 1970 Haggai Erlich, “The Tribes in Yemen and Their Role in the War, 1962–1968,” Hamizrah Hehadash 20 (1970): 1–20, 129–158 [in Hebrew]. 1971 Haggai Erlich and Uriel Dann, “Kuwait and the Persian Gulf,” in D. Dishon (ed.), The Middle East Record 1967. Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1971, pp. 415–422. Haggai Erlich and Haim Shaked, “Yemen,” in D. Dishon (ed.), The Middle East Record 1967. Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1971, pp. 591–612. 1973 Haggai Erlich, “Kuwait,” in D. Dishon (ed.), The Middle East Record 1968. Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1973, pp. 613–617. ———, “Yemen,” in D. Dishon (ed.), The Middle East Record 1968. Jerusalem: Israel Universities Press, 1973, pp. 835–856. 1974 Haggai Erlich, “Alula, the Son of Qubi: A King’s Man in Ethiopia, 1875–1897,” Journal of African History 15 (1974): 261–274. 1975 Haggai Erlich, “1885 in Eritrea: The Year in Which the Dervishes Were Cut Down,” Asian and African Studies 10 (1975): 282–322. 1976 Haggai Erlich, “A Contemporary Biography of Ras Alula: A Ge‘ez Manuscript from

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Manawe, Tamben—Part I,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 39 (1976): 1–46. ———, “A Contemporary Biography of Ras Alula: A Ge‘ez Manuscript from Manawe, Tamben—Part II,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 39 (1976): 287–327. 1977 Haggai Erlich, “Ethiopia and Islam in Post-Revolution Perspective,” Ethiopianist Notes 1 (1977): 9–16. 1979–1980 Haggai Erlich, “The Establishment of the Derg—The Turning of a Protest Movement into a Revolution,” in R. L. Hess (ed.), Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Chicago: University of Illinois, 1979, pp. 783–798. ———, “Politicization of Islam in the Horn and Depoliticization of Ethiopian Christianity,” in J. Tubiana (ed.), Proceedings of the Fifth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Chicago: University of Illinois, 1979, pp. 399–408. ———, “Ethiopia and the Challenge of the West,” Zmanim 4 (1980): 70–80 [in Hebrew]. 1981 Haggai Erlich, “The Eritrean Autonomy 1952–1962: Its Failure and Contribution to Further Escalation,” in Y. Dinstein (ed.), Models of Autonomy. New York: Transaction Books, 1981, pp. 171–182. ———, “Tigrean Nationalism, British Involvement and Haile Selassie’s Emerging Absolutism: 1941–1944 in Northern Ethiopia,” Asian and African Studies 15 (1981): 191–227. 1982 Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and Eritrea During the Scramble for Africa: A Political Biography of Ras Alula, 1875–1897. East Lansing: African Studies Center, Michigan State University; Tel Aviv: Shiloah Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1982 (reprint ed., Lawrenceville, NJ, and Asmara: Red Sea Press, 1997). 1983–1984 Haggai Erlich, “The Ethiopian Army and the Revolution,” Armed Forces and Society 9 (1983): 455–481. ———, “Sadat and the Students—Egyptian Youth and the Challenge of Openness,” in A. Ayalon (ed.), Egypt Under Sadat. Tel Aviv: Hakibbutz Hameuchad, 1983, pp. 51–91 [in Hebrew]. ———, The Struggle over Eritrea, 1962–1978. Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1983. ———, “Yohannes, Ismail and the Ethio-Egyptian Conflict, 1875–1884,” in M. Genoino (ed.), Africa During the Period of Daniele Comboni. Rome: Instituto Italo-Africano, 1983, pp. 285–293. ———, “Tigre in Modern Ethiopian History,” in S. Rubenson (ed.), Proceedings of the Seventh International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies; Uppsala: Scandinavian Institute of African

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Studies; East Lansing: African Studies Center, Michigan State University, 1984, pp. 327–330. 1986 Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and the Challenge of Independence. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1986. ———, “Tigrean Politics 1930–1935 and the Approaching Italo-Ethiopian War,” in G. Goldenberg (ed.), Proceedings of the Sixth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Rotterdam: Balkema, 1986, pp. 101–131. 1987 Haggai Erlich, “The Establishment of Cairo University,” Zmanim 24 (1987): 70–80 [in Hebrew]. 1988 Haggai Erlich, “The Battle of Dogali—Strength and Weakness in Late 19th Century Ethiopia,” in R. Pankhurst and T. Tamrat (eds.), The Centenary of Dogali. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 1988, pp. 113–123. ———, “Mussolini and the Middle East in the 1920s—The Restrained Imperialist,” in U. Dann (ed.), The Great Powers in the Middle East, 1919–1939. New York: Holmes and Meier, 1988, pp. 213–221. ———, “The Soviet Union and Ethiopia,” in D. Bark (ed.), The Red Orchestra: The Case of Africa. Stanford, CA: Hoover Institution Press, 1988, pp. 130–140. 1989 Haggai Erlich, Students and University in Twentieth Century Egyptian Politics. London: Frank Cass Publishers, 1989. 1991 Haggai Erlich, Introduction to Modern History of the Middle East. 5 vols. Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 1987–1991 [in Hebrew]. ———, “Ras Alula, Ras Seyum, and Ethiopia’s Integrity,” in T. Tamrat (ed.), Proceedings of the Eighth Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 1991, pp. 202–209. 1992 Haggai Erlich, “British Internal Security and Egyptian Youth,” in M. Cohen and M. Kolinsky (eds.), Britain and the Middle East in the 1930s. London: Macmillan, in association with King’s College, 1992, pp. 98–113. 1994 Haggai Erlich, “Ethiopia and Egypt in Late 19th Century—Facing the West and Each Other,” in Claude Lepage, Études Éthiopiennes. Paris: Societe Française pour les Études Éthiopiennes, 1994, vol. 1, pp. 577–584. ———, Ethiopia and the Middle East. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 1994. ———, “Ethiopia and the Middle East—Rethinking History,” in H. Marcus (ed.), New Trends in Ethiopian Studies. Lawrenceville, NJ: Red Sea Press, 1994, pp. 631–642. ———, “Haile Selassie and the Arabs,” Northeast African Studies 1, no. 1 (1994): 47-61.

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1997 Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia: An Empire and a Revolution. Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 1997 [in Hebrew]. 1998 Haggai Erlich, “Egypt and Ethiopia—Linkage and Disconnection,” Jama‘a 3 (1998): 62–79 [in Hebrew]. ———, “Egyptian Reactions to the Adwa Victory,” in Abdussamad Ahmad and R. Pankhurst (eds.), Adwa. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 1998, pp. 429–441. ———, “Ethiopia and Egypt, Ras Tafari in Cairo, 1924,” Aethiopica (Hamburg) 1 (1998): 64–84. ———, “The First World War and the 1919 Generation in the Middle East,” Zmanim 65 (1998–1999): 84–94 [in Hebrew]. ———, Youth and Politics in the Middle East—Generations and Identity Crises. Tel Aviv: Misrad Ha-Bitahon, 1998 [in Hebrew]. 1999 Haggai Erlich, “Ahmad Gragn and the Najashi—Ethiopia and Islam,” Hamizrah Hehadash 40 (1999): 52–61 [in Hebrew]. 2000 Haggai Erlich, “Africanization of the Ethiopian-Egyptian Dialogue, 1959–1970,” in Baye Yimam (ed.), Proceedings of the Fourteenth International Conference on Ethiopian Studies. Addis Ababa: Institute of Ethiopian Studies, 6–11 November 2000. ———, “Egypt, Ethiopia, and the ‘Abyssinian Crisis,’ 1935–1936,” in H. Erlich and I. Gershoni (eds.), The Nile: Histories, Cultures, Myths. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2000, pp. 183–198. ———, “Identity and Church: Ethiopian-Egyptian Dialogue, 1924–1959,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 32 (2000): 23–46. ———, coedited with Israel Gershoni, The Nile: Histories, Cultures, Myths. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2000. ———, “Youth and Arab Politics: The Political Generation of 1935–1936,” in Roel Meijer (ed.), Alienation or Integration of Arab Youth. London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2000, pp. 47–69. 2001 Haggai Erlich, “The Arab Youth and the Challenge of Fascism,” in Stein Larsen (ed.), Fascism Overseas. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001, pp. 393–423. 2002 Haggai Erlich, The Cross and the River: Ethiopia, Egypt, and the Nile. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2002. 2003 Haggai Erlich, Egypt—The Older Sister. Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 2003 [in Hebrew]. ———, The Middle East Between the World Wars. 5 vols. Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 1992–2003 [in Hebrew].

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Haggai Erlich, Steven Kaplan, and Hagar Salamon, Ethiopia—Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Tel Aviv: Open University Press, 2003 [in Hebrew]. 2004 Haggai Erlich, “Identities and Education Along the Nile,” in Walter Rauning and Asfa-Wossen Asserate (eds.), Orbis Aethiopicus. Munster: Orbis Aethiopicus, 2004, pp. 117–139. 2005 Haggai Erlich, “Camels for Mussolini—The Saudis and Ethiopia,” Zmanim 92 (2005): 96–105 [in Hebrew]. ———, “The Copts and Ethiopia—‘A Literal-Historical Lecture’ 1895,” in Stefan Brune and Heinrich Scholler (eds.), Auf dem Weg zum modern Athiopien— Festschrift fur Bairu Tafla. Munster: Lit-Verlag, 2005, pp. 80–94. ———, “The Egyptian Teachers of Ethiopia,” in A. Ayalon and David Wasserstein (eds.), Madrasa: Education, Religion and State in the Middle East—Articles in Honor of Michael Winter. Tel Aviv: The Moshe Dayan Center, 2005, pp. 242–262 [in Hebrew]. English version in Walter Raunig and Asfa-Wossen Asserate (eds.), Athiopien zwichen Orient und Okzident. Munster: Lit Verlag, 2005, pp. 117–138. ———, “L’Islam d’Éthiopie et les Saoudiens,” Outre-Terre, Revue Française de Géopolitique 11 (2005): 181–189. 2006 Mustafa Kabha and Haggai Erlich, “The Ahbash and the Wahhabiyya— Interpretations of Islam,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 39 (2006): 519–538. 2007 Haggai Erlich, Ethiopia and Saudi Arabia: Christianity, Islam, and Politics Entwined. Boulder: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2007. 2008 Haggai Erlich, History of a Siege Culture. Tel Aviv: Misrad Habitahon, 2008.

Miscellaneous Haggai Erlich, Thirty-six articles, and general editorial assistance for Siegbert Uhlig (ed.), Encyclopaedia Aethiopica, vol. I (2003), vol. II (2006), vol. III (2008). ———, “Ethiopia,” in Martin Richard (ed.), Encyclopedia of Islam and the Muslim World. New York: Macmillan Reference USA, 2003. ———, Chief editor for the Open University’s series, “The Middle East in Our Times”; Vol. 2: Michael Eppel, Iraq—Monarchy, Revolution, Tyranny (2005); Vol. 3: Joseph Nevo, Jordan—In Search of Identity (2005); Vol. 4: Moshe Maoz, Syria—To the Arab Sphere and Back (forthcoming); Vol. 5: Kais Firro, Lebanon—The Challenge of Diversity (forthcoming); Vol. 6, Mustafa Kabha, The Palestinians— Trapped in Dispersion (forthcoming); Vol. 7: Uzi Rabi, Saudi Arabia—An Oil Kingdom in Religious and Political Labyrinth (2007); Vol. 8: Anat Lapidot, Turkey—Nationalism and Its Contradictions (forthcoming); Vol. 9: Moshe Aharonov and Meir Litvak, Iran—From the Shah’s Empire

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to an Islamic Revolution (forthcoming); Vol. 10: Uzi Rabi, Yemen—State and Tribes (forthcoming). ———, Visiting editor for special issue: “Muslims and Others—Palestine and Africa,” Zmanim 92 (October 2005) [in Hebrew].

Forthcoming Haggai Erlich, “The Saudis and Ethiopia—Which Islam?” in S. Uhlig (ed.), Proceedings of the Fifteenth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. ———, “The Copts and the Nile—The Ethiopian Dimension,” Hamizrah Hehadash [in Hebrew]. ———, “The Grandchildren of Abraha,” in Bird Li (ed.), Proceedings of the Sixteenth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. ———, “Introduction: Egypt and Her Jews,” in Nahem Ilan (ed.), Jewish Communities in the East: Egypt. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi [in Hebrew]. ———, “Introduction: Ethiopia and Her Jews,” Hagar Salamon (ed.), Jewish Communities in the East: Ethiopia. Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi [in Hebrew]. ———, “Ethiopia,” in J. Esposito (ed.), Oxford Encyclopedia of Islam (new ed.).

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The Contributors

Orit Bashkin is associate professor with the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, University of Chicago. Her published work includes articles on the history of Arab-Jews in Iraq, Iraqi history, and Arabic literature. She coedited, with Israel Gershoni and Liat Kozma, Sculpturing Culture in Egypt (1999; in Hebrew). Her forthcoming book, The Other Iraq, Intellectuals, Pluralism and Culture in Hashemite Iraq, 1921–1958, is to be published in 2008. Robert O. Collins was professor emeritus of history at the University of California, Santa Barbara. His recent publications include The Nile (2002), Civil Wars and Revolution in the Sudan: Essays on the Sudan, Southern Sudan, and Darfur, 1962–2004 (2005), Africa: A Short History (2005), Darfur: The Long Road to Disaster (2006), A History of Sub-Saharan Africa (2007), and A History of the Modern Sudan (2007). We are deeply grieved that Professor Collins passed away just prior to publication. Israel Gershoni is a professor with the Department of African and Middle Eastern History at Tel Aviv University. His most recent publications include coauthor with James Jankowski, Commemorating the Nation: Collective Memory, Public Commemoration, and National Identity in TwentiethCentury Egypt (2004), coeditor with Amy Singer and Hakan Erdem, Middle East Historiographies: Narrating the Twentieth Century (2006), and Pyramid for the Nation: Commemoration, Memory and Nationalism in Twentieth-Century Egypt (2006; in Hebrew). Rami Ginat is a lecturer in Middle Eastern studies and international rela261

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tions in the Department of Political Studies at Bar-Ilan University. His works include The Soviet Union and Egypt, 1945–1955 (1993), Egypt’s Incomplete Revolution (1997), Syria and the Doctrine of Arab Neutralism (2006), and, forthcoming in 2008, A History of Egyptian Communism: The Jewish Perspective 1919–1958. Joel Gordon, professor of history with the University of Arkansas, writes on modern Egyptian history and popular culture. His publications include Nasser’s Blessed Movement (1996), Revolutionary Melodrama (2002), and Nasser: Hero of the Arab Nation (2007). Meir Hatina is a lecturer with the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. His publications include Islam and Salvation in Palestine (2001), Politics of Identity in the Middle East: Liberal Thought and Islamic Challenge in Egypt (2007), and, forthcoming in 2009, ‘Ulama,’ Politics and the Public Sphere in the Middle East: An Egyptian Perspective. Steven Kaplan is professor of African studies and comparative religion at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He has written extensively on Orthodox Christianity, missions, and the dynamics of conversion. His publications include The Monastic Holy Man and Christianization of Early Solomonic Ethiopia (1984), The Beta Israel (Falasha) in Ethiopia: From Earliest Times to the Twentieth Century (1992), and Blessed Are the Poor? Religion, Poverty, and Charity (2006). Heather J. Sharkey is assistant professor with the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Pennsylvania. She is the author of Living with Colonialism: Nationalism and Culture in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan (2003), and, forthcoming in 2008, American Evangelicals in Egypt: Missionary Encounters in an Age of Empire. David Shinn is adjunct professor with the Elliott School of International Affairs at George Washington University. He has served as US ambassador to Ethiopia (1996–1999) and Burkina Faso (1987–1990). His publications include coauthor of Historical Dictionary of Ethiopia (2004), “Fighting Terrorism in East Africa and the Horn,” Foreign Service Journal (September 2004), “Ethiopia: Governance and Terrorism,” in Robert I. Rotberg (ed.), Battling Terrorism in the Horn of Africa (2005), “US Support for Democratization in Ethiopia: Diplomatic and Development Tracks,” Journal of Oromo Studies (February/March 2007), and “An Opportunistic Ally: China’s Increasing Involvement in Africa,” Harvard International Review (Summer 2007).

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John O. Voll is professor of Islamic history and associate director of the Prince Alwaleed bin Talal Center for Muslim-Christian Understanding at Georgetown University. He has published numerous works on Sudanese and Islamic history. His publications include Islam: Continuity and Change in the Modern World (1994), coeditor with John L. Esposito, Islam and Democracy (1996), and Makers of Contemporary Islam (2001). Michael Winter is professor emeritus with the Department of African and Middle Eastern History at Tel Aviv University. His publications include Society and Religion in Early Ottoman Egypt (1982), Egyptian Society Under Ottoman Rule 1517–1798 (1992), and coeditor with Amalia Levanoni, The Mamluks in Egyptian and Syrian Politics and Society (2004).

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Abbas Hilmi II, Khedive, 53–54 ‘Abbasid Caliphate, 7, 119, 130, 132 Abboud, Ibrahim, 207–208 ‘Abd al-Wahhab, Muhammad, 138, 148, 153 ‘Abduh, Muhammad, 50, 121, 162 Abdul Nasser, Gamal, 58–59, 102, 105, 139, 160, 181, 189, 192–193, 227, 230; Nasserist regime and ideology, 7, 59, 105, 109, 139–140, 142, 144, 154, 160, 173, 195, 227, 230. See also Arabism ‘Abdullah I, King, 141 Abiskhayroun, Alexan Pasha, 171 Abu al-Qasim, ‘Abd al-Hamid, 72 Abu Dhabi Development Fund, 193 Abu Hanifa, 119 Abu Hasbu, ‘Abd al-Majid, 72 Abu Nuwwas, 119 Abu Sayf, Salah, 142 Abu Simbel, 189, 195; International Airport, 196 Abu Zeid, Mahmoud, 194 Acheson, Dean, 102 Addis Ababa, 8, 185–187, 203–205, 207–211, 213–216, 218, 234; Addis Ababa Agreement (1972), 209 Adwa (northern Ethiopia), 49, 61n. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Al-Afghani, Jamal al-Din, 50 Agau, 212. See also Beta Israel

Al-Ahali (party), 120–121, 129 Al-Ahali (journal), 121 Al-Aharam, 53–55 Ahmad, Rajab, 71 Ahmed, Jamal Mohammed, 93 Al-‘Ajbani, Khalid, 148 Alexandria, 53, 69; as center of Egyptian Coptic Church, 4, 14, 17, 20, 22, 32, 34, 39n ‘Ali ibn abi Talib, 127–129 ‘Alluba, Muhammad ‘Ali, 120 Amazon basin, 2 ‘Amda Siyon, 20 American University in Cairo (AUC): objectives in Egypt, 158, 164–166, 173, 175; Christian character, 8, 158, 162–163, 172–173; Ewart Hall, 157, 163–164, 166, 168–169, 171–172 Amhara, 19–20 Amin, ‘Abd al-Wahhab, 124–125 Amin, ‘Abdallah Effendi, 169 Amin, Ahmad, 116, 122, 127, 129 Amin, Galal, 169 Amin, Muzaffar, 121 Amin, Qasim, 121, 124 ‘Amir, ‘Izz al-Din ‘Ali, 72 Anderson, Norman G., 212 Anglo-Egyptian relations, 43, 67–68, 75, 91, 95–97, 99–100, 107–108, 218; Anglo-Egyptian agreement

265

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(1953), 6, 86; Anglo-Egyptian condominium (1899), 6, 79, 85, 100–101, 139–140, 203, 205; AngloEgyptian treaty (1936), 67, 75, 77, 80, 96 Antun, Farah, 121 Anuak tribe, 203, 217 Anya Nya rebels, 208–209 Al-‘Aqqad, ‘Abbas Mahmud, 121–124 Al-Aqrawi, Mata, 129 Arab League, 213 Arabism (pan-Arabism, pan-Arab nationalism, Arab unity, Arab nationalism), 7, 57, 74, 116–117, 119–120, 125, 128–132, 133n, 157, 227, 230; Arab Medical Congress, 116; Society of Arab Culture, 116; Muthana Club, 124 Arab-Israeli conflict: war of 1948, 58–60, 83–94; war of 1967, 161; war of 1973, 192 Arendrup, Søren, 44 Al-‘Arish, 190 Arusha, 185 Ascherson, Neal, 2–3 Al-‘Ashmawi, Muhammad, 116 Asmahan (Druze singer in Egypt), 160 Assiut, 161, 169 Aswan, 144–124, 153, 185, 190, 197; Aswan High Dam (Sadd al-Aali), 153, 181–182, 185, 187, 190–195, 198, 227–228; environmental implications, 181–182, 185; first Aswan Dam (1902), 190–191; crisis of summer of 1996, 191–192; crisis of October 1998, 194 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal, and Kemalism, 60, 131 Atbara River, 183, 191, 208, 217, 219 Athanasius, Archbishop, 30–31, 35 Al-Atrash, Farid, 137–138, 144, 146–148 Attlee, Clement, 95 AUC. See American University in Cairo Al-Awad, Ibrahim, 148–150, 149, 154, 155n Ayalon, David, 19 Al-‘Ayni, 15 Ayyub, Dhu Nun, 122, 124 Al-Ayyubi, al-Yas, 43, 56–58 Al-Azhar, 50–51, 71–72, 117, 121, 128,

132n, 133n, 197; as link between Egypt and Muslim Ethiopians, 13, 18; and Shi‘a, 127–128 ‘Azmi, Mahmud, 116, 127 ‘Azzam, ‘Abd-al Wahhab, 115–119, 128–130, 132n, 135n, 136n Badr, Marwan, 181 Baghdad, 115–118, 122, 125, 127, 129; Dar al-Hikma, 119; in Egyptian writings, 115, 118–120; in Egyptian cinema, 137; Al-Mu‘tasim mosque, 118; Nizamiyya, 119; Teachers Training College, 117, 127 Balbul, Yaqub, 122 Balkan, 60 Baraka River, 218 Al-Barbar, ‘Ali, 74 Baro River, 205, 219; Baro Salient, 203, 205–207, 209 Barquq (Mamluk sultan), 20, 22, 25 Barsbay (Mamluk sultan), 20, 25 Bartalomewos, Abuna, 34–35 Al-Barudi, Mahmud Sami, 52–53 Al-Bashir, Omar, 212–215 Baybars (Mamluk sultan), 21–22 Beja tribe, 207 Beles River, 183 Benishangul, 203–204, 213; Benishangul Liberation Movement (BLM), 213–214; Benishangul People’s Liberation Movement, 211 Benjamin, Patriarch, 17 Beta Israel (Falasha), 33, 36, 212 Bevin, Ernest, 95–99. See also Great Britain Bevin-Sidqi Protocol (1946), 95 Bin Laden, Osama, 214 Birdi, Abu al-Mahasin ibn Taghri, 15, 25 Black Sea, 2–3, 229 Blacks: in Mamluk Egypt, 17, 19; Nubians 144–147; of Sudan, 141, 152–153 Blue Nile, 55, 183, 191, 203, 217, 219, 228; Blue Nile Gauge, 191; Blue Nile Province, 212 Bogos, 43, 57 Boma Plateau, 204 Braudel, Fernand, 2–3, 10n, 228 Bujagali Falls Dam, 193, 200 Burundi, 184

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Cairo, 151, 160, 174, 197; Cairo Tower, 153; compared to Baghdad, 128, 130; as cultural center, 42, 131, 138, 148; Mamluk era, 14–15; Qasr al-Nil, 46; Radio-Television Building, 153 Calvinism. See Presbyterian and Evangelical organizations Camp David Accords, 190 Canada, 188 Catholics, 20, 158, 173 Central African Republic, 184 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 105, 212. See also United States Chahine, Youssef, 142–147 Church of the Holy Sepulcher, 23, 25 Churchill, Winston, 140 Classical Ethiopic. See Ge‘ez Cleland, Wendell, 167–168. See also American University of Cairo Cold War, 3, 91–92, 105–107, 109–110. See also United States; Soviet Union/Russia Communist International (Comintern), 69 Communist parties and organizations: Democratic Movement for National Liberation, 71, 74, 82–83, 85; Democratic Union (al-Itihad alDimuqrati; Egypt), 71–72; Egyptian Communist Party (ECP), 69, 83, 89n; Egyptian Movement for National Liberation (EMNL), 70–75, 82; Egyptian Socialist Party (ESP), 69; Al-Fajr al-Jadid, 70, 74–75, 77–79, 80, 83; Iskra (al-Shahara), 70–71, 74–75, 83; People’s Liberation (Tahrir al-Sha‘b), 70; Sudanese Movement for National Liberation (SMNL), 73–74; Workers’ Committee of National Liberation, 70, 75 Crete, 56 Curiel, Henry, 68, 70–75, 83–85. See also Communist parties and organizations Cyprus, 25 Al-Dahab, Suwar, 211 Dahlak, 16 Daily Express (newspaper), 153 Damascus, 15, 119, 154

267

Damietta, 190 Al-Damir, 70, 75 Danielson, Virginia, 154, 159–161, 174 Danube, 2 Darwish, Yusuf, 70– 71. See also Communist parties and organizations Dawit I, Emperor, 20–21, 33–34, 38n Derg, 183, 189, 210–211. See also Mengistu Haile Mariam Djibouti, 205, 216 Droughts, 217; of the 1980s, 8, 182, 184, 189, 190–193; of 1972, 189 Duwayk, Raymond, 70. See also Communist parties and organizations Eden, Anthony, 93, 99, 102, 153. See also Great Britain Egypt: Egyptian Broadcasting Service (EBS), 17, 157, 167; Egyptian University (Fu’ad University, Cairo University), 73–74, 117, 142n, 236; Master Water Plan, 183, 192; Ministry of Culture, 161; Ministry of Public Works, 188; Soil and Water Research Institute, 193; Upper Egypt (Sa‘id), 24, 142–143, 146, 158, 192, 197. See also Rural Egypt and Egyptian peasant Egyptian army: Mamluk era, 13, 14, 24; Khedival era, 5, 41–52, 54–60, 63n, 74, 78–79 Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia, 5, 43–52, 54–60, 229 Egyptian desert reclamation projects, 8, 183, 185, 197, 189; Mubarak Pumping Station, 193, 195–196, 198; Northern Sinai Agricultural Development Program, 182, 190, 192, 194, 199; private investments and consulting, 193, 195–196; Salam Canal, 190; Suez Canal Region Development Project, 190; Toshka (New Valley), 190–199 Egyptian renaissance. See Al-Nahda Egyptian-Sudanese water agreements: of 1959, 187–188, 197, 217–218; of 1929, 218 Enbaqom (Habbakuk), 35, 39n Entebbe, 185, 188, 199 EPDRF. See Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front

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Eritrea, 8–9, 43–44, 184, 203–204, 208–209, 213–214, 216; conflict with Ethiopia, 184, 199, 208–202, 215–216, 219–222. See also Refugees Ethiopia: Aksumite kingdom, 30–31; Italian occupation, 204–207, 216, 220; Master Water Plan, 183; National Water Resources Commission (Ministry of Public Works), 182; Nile damming, 182–183, 189, 199, 204, 219; Solomonian Empire, 4, 9, 13, 22, 32; Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs, 213 Ethiopian army: Solomonian era, 18, 24; twentieth century, 206–207, 208–214; Yohannes IV era, 44, 50, 57 Ethiopian Orthodox Church, 21, 29, 33, 36; interaction with Egyptian Coptic Church, 4, 14, 20, 30–32, 35, 228–229 Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), 213–215 Ethiopian-Sudanese agreement (1902; (between Britain and Ethiopia), 203–206, 208 Euphrates and Tigris rivers, 2, 137, 230; equated with the Nile, 7, 118–119 Evliyâ, Çelebi, 25–26 Fa’iq, Hasan, 151 Fahmi, ‘Ali, 53 Fahmi, Mansur, 129 Fakhr al-Din, Maryam, 142 Falasha. See Beta Israel Fallah. See Rural Egypt and Egyptian peasant Farouk, King, 79, 93, 139, 193 Fascism and Nazism, 125 Fashaqah, 208–209, 217; Fashaqah Lands Liberation Organization (FLLO), 217 Fayruz (singer), 150 Faysal I, King, 127, 129 Finchaa Dam, 189. See also Blue Nile France, 34, 43, 60, 91, 100, 124, 183, 196 Free Officers, 5, 58–59, 97, 103,

152–153; and “Unity of the Nile Valley,” 6, 85, 102, 139 Frumentius, Abuna, 30 Fuda, ‘Abd al-Rahim, 72 Al-Futuwwa (Iraq), 125 Gallabat, 205–206, 209, 215–216. See also Trade Gamal, Samia, 137, 138 Gambela, 205–207, 211, 214–215, 217; Gambela People’s Democratic Movement, 21 Al-Ganzouri, Kamal, 194 Garang, John, 211–212 Gash River, 218 Al-Gazi, Ahmed bin Ibrahim (Gran), 35 Ge‘ez (Classical Ethiopic), 4, 32; crises, 31–32, 35–36; translation from Arabic, 32–33; translations from Greek, 30–31 Gedaref, 217 Gender roles and relations, 104; in Egypt, 121, 146–147, 151, 157–170, 174; in Iraq, 122, 131; in Sudan, 73 Germany, 2, 43, 206. See also Prussia Ghandi, Mohandas Karamchand, 153 Al-Ghazali, 119 Al-Ghita’, Muhammad al-Husayn alKashif, 127–128 Ghurbal, Muhammad Shafiq, 116, 228 Giyorgis of Sagala, 34–35 Gobran, Azer Bey, 169 Goitein, S. D., 2 Gondar, 210, 212, 215, 216–217 Gordon College, 74 Great Britain: and Ethiopia, 203–207; and Italy, 205–206; and the United States, 6, 91–105. See also AngloEgyptian relations Grey, David, 199. See also World Bank Gromyko, Andrei, 77 Guerrilla warfare. See Low-intensity warfare Gundet, 44, 55. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Gura, battle of, 41–42, 44, 45, 50; pro‘Urabi historical accounts, 55, 57–58; royalist account, 55, 63n; ‘Urabi’s account, 41, 45, 48–49. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia; ‘Urabi, Ahmad

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Habash. See Ethiopia Habbakuk. See Enbaqom Hafiz, ‘Abd al-Halim, 138, 153 Haile Getatchew, 31 Haile Selassie, Emperor, 182–183, 189, 193, 204, 206–210, 227 Halim, As‘ad, 71, 138, 154 Hamaday, Hamid, 74 Hamama, Fatin, 143 Hamasen, 43. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Al-Hamawi, Yaqut (1179–1229), 117–118 Hamdi, Widad, 143 Hamza, ‘Abd al-Qadir, 121. See also AlAhali Hanna, Reverend Moawad, 165, 171 Al-Haqim, Tawfiq, 122, 124, 160 Harar, 43, 55, 57. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Hasan, Prince, 48 Hasanayn, Abdu Dhabab, 71–73 Al-Hashimi, Muhammad, 121 Al-Hashimi, Taha, 124, 129 Al-Hatif (journal), 122–123, 131 Haydar, Rustam, 126, 129 Haykal, Muhammad Husayn, 120, 122–124 Henderson, Loy, 97, 99 Herodotus, 230 Hijaz, 121 Al-Hilal, 52–53, 120 Hilaly Bey, Ahmad Naguib, 169 Al-Hilli, Safi al-Din, 128 Ho Chi Minh, 109 Holland, 91, 183 Hollywood, 144, 151 Holy Bible: Presbyterian doctrine, 158; translations to Ge‘ez, 30–31, 33, 36 Holy Land. See Palestine Horn of Africa, 5, 18–19, 41, 213, 215, 233; Adal, 25; Hadya, 19; Ifat (Awfat or Jabara),18–19; Muslim principalities in (“the lands of Zayla‘”), 13–19, 24–25 Hourani, Albert, 94–95, 104–105 Al-Huda, 159, 163–164, 172 Huriyyat al-Shu‘ub, 71–72, 74 Husayn, Ahmad, 79 Husayn, Muhammad Amin, 72, 74, 76,

269

80, 80–81. See also Communist parties and organizations Husayn, Taha, 122, 124, 129, 160, 167 Husayn Ibn ‘Ali (Imam Husayn), 127–128 Al-Husri, Sati‘, 116, 124, 126, 129 Hussein, Mustafa, 169 Hydroelectric power, 4, 8, 185, 189, 200; Ethiopia, 189, 194, 199, 214; Sudan, 199, 219. See also Aswan High Dam Ibn Abd al-Zahir, 15 Ibn Battuta, 117 Ibn Iyas, 15, 23 Ibn Mismar, 16 Ibn-Tulun, 118 Ibrahim, Hafiz, 121 Ibrahim Pasha, 42 India, 106, 116, 126, 153 Indian Ocean, 10n, 229 Iran, 127, 131. See also Mossadeg, Mohammed Iraq, 2, 7, 14, 19, 35, 115–132; Mesopotamia, 2 Al-‘Irfan, 127 Islamism, 68, 129, 132, 162, 193, 195, 197, 212–215, 220 Isma‘il (Khedive), 5, 41–44, 52, 59, 299; historiography on, 46–47, 54–57; as portrayed by ‘Urabi, 46–51 Isma‘il, Hasan, 72 ‘Ismat, Tulbah, 53 Israel, 60, 208, 212, 235 Israel, Marcel, 70–71. See also Communist parties and organizations Istanbul, 5, 26, 60. See also Ottoman Empire Italy, 84, 183, 203; occupation of Ethiopia, 204–207, 216, 220 Al-Jabarti, ‘Abd al-Rahman,18 Jabbar, Colonel Muhammad, 49. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Al-Jamali, Fahil, 116, 126, 129 Janjaweed, 153 Japan, 55 Jaqmaq (Mamluk sultan), 20–22, 25 Jaso, Shifraw, 186 Jerusalem, 14, 22–23, 25

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Jesus Christ, 173 Jikaw, 217 Jonglei Canal project, 218–219 Judaism, 30; Jews in Egypt, 70, 83, 173; Jews in Iraq, 123. See also Beta Israel Jum‘a, Muhammad Lutfi, 57 Ka‘ba, 128 Kamil, Anwar, 71 Kamil, Fayda, 153 Kamil, Muhammad, 143, 148–149 Kamil, Mustafa, 54, 58, 140 Kapoeta, 212 Karbala‘, 128 Kassala, 204, 206, 208 Al-Kassar, ‘Ali (Osman ‘Abd al-Basit), 143–144 Kebra Negst, 32, 47n Kenya, 107, 184, 210 Keren, 44, 207 Al-Khafif, Mahmud, 53, 57–58 Khalid, Mansour, 209–210 Khalil, Abdallah, 207 Al-Khalili, Ja‘far, 122, 124 Khallaf, ‘Abd al-Mun‘am Muhammad, 116, 125 Al-Kharijin Conference, 80 Khartoum, 8, 72, 147, 153, 185, 187–188, 191, 193, 197, 199, 204–205, 208– 216, 220; Khartoum University, 73 Khashm al-Girba, 198 Khaya Kur, 48–49. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Al-Khayr, Zaki Abu, 71 Killearn, Lord Miles Lampson, 67 Al-Kindi, 119 Kohn, Hans, 94, 104, 106 Kufa, 128 Kurmuk, 205–206, 214–215 Lake Kyoga, 184 Lake Mobutu Sese Seku, 184 Lake Nasser, 182, 184–185, 190–196, 198. See also Aswan Lake Tana, 189, 203–205 Lake Victoria, 184, 200 League of Nations, 94, 205. See also United Nations Lebanon, 121, 127, 137; Lebanese, 116, 122, 138, 153, 230

Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 121 Libya, 192, 210–212 Life (magazine), 152 Lord Standsgate, 75 Loring, Colonel William, 44, 48–49, 56 Low-intensity warfare: against Egypt, 195, 197, 214; against Ethiopia, 184, 207–217; against Sudan, 207–217 Lutfi, ‘Abd al-Majid, 122 Luxor, 143, 146. See also Nubia Al-Ma‘arri, Abu al-‘Ala’, 129 MacMichael, Sir Harold, 91 Maffey, Sir John, 205 Mahdi revolt, 5 Al-Mahdi, Sadiq, 212 Al-Mahdi, Sayyid ‘Abd al-Rahman, 103, 152 Mahfouz, Naguib, 160 Mahjoub, Mohammad Ahmad, 208 Mahjub, ‘Abd al-Haliq, 72 Makwetta, Jackson, 185 Al-Manar, 120 Al-Maqrizi, 14–16, 19, 24 Marshall, George, 98 Massawa, 43–44, 48, 55, 209 Al-Mas‘udi, Abu al-Hasan, 117 Mazini, Ibrahim ‘Abd al-Qadir, 120, 122, 124–125 McClanahan, Neal, 161–162, 172. See also Presbyterian and Evangelical organizations McGhee, George, 92 McGill, Willis A., 172–174 McKillop, Henry, 44 Mecca, 16, 128 Mediterranean Sea, 2–3, 7, 101–102, 106, 138, 190, 192, 197, 228–229 Meggers, Betty, 2 Mehemet Ali. See Muhammad Ali Melkites, 20 Menelik, Emperor, 203–206 Menes, King, 197 Mengistu Haile Mariam, 183–184, 189, 193, 210–213 Metema, 205, 209 Middle East, 92, 94, 96–98, 101–109 Milligan O. H., 170–171 Miracles of Mary, 33, 33n, 44 Al-Mirighani, Sayyid ‘Ali, 152 Mishriqi, Reverend Labib, 163, 172

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Misr al-Fatat, 79. See also Husayn, Ahmad Al-Misri, Tahsin, 72 Morocco, 19 Mossadeg, Mohammed, 153 Msuya, Cleopa, 185 Msuya, Meraji O. Y., 188, 199 Mu‘awiyya ibn Abu Sufyan, 127 Mubarak, Hosni 190, 194–195; assassination attempt, 214–215 Mubarak, Zaki, 115–126, 128–130, 132, 132n Al-Mudarris, Fahmi, 126 Muhammad Ali, 5, 42–43, 51, 55, 58, 193, 236 Muhammad Ratib Pasha (Sirdar), 44, 48–49, 55–59 Muhammad Sharif Pasha, 52 Munib, Mustafa Kamil, 71 Munzinger, Werner, 44 Al-Muqtataf (newspaper), 120–121 Musa, Salama, 120 Museveni, Yoweri, 193 Muslims in Ethiopia, 13–14, 17, 213, 220, 228, 235; persecution of, 13, 15, 17, 22–25 Mustafa, Niyazi, 143 Al-Mutanabbi, 129 Al-Muzaffar, Muhammad Rida, 127 Al-Nabulsi, ‘Abd al-Salam, 138, 145–149 Nadim, ‘Abdallah, 50 Naguib, General Muhammad, 58, 72, 102–103. See also 1952 Revolution; Free Officers Al-Nahayan, Shaikh Zayed Bin Sultan, 193 Al-Nahda (Egyptian renaissance), 122, 123, 130 Najaf, 120, 122, 128 Najat al-Saghira, 153 Napoleon, 46 Al-Nasir Muhammad ibn Qalawun (Mamluk sultan), 17, 26n National Islamic Front (NIF), 212, 213. See also Islamism; Al-Turabi, Hassan National Party, 54, 57–58, 88n Nazism. See Fascism and Nazism New Valley. See Egyptian desert reclamation projects

271

Nigeria, 106 Nile River/basin/Valley: source of identity, 7, 49–50, 54, 68, 118, 124, 138–141, 197, 228–230; framework for research, 1–3, 9, 227–231, 234–235; international legislation, consultation, and regulation, 186–188; Nile Delta, 140, 160, 169, 182, 189, 197. See also Nile basin organizations, forums, and programs; “Unity of the Nile Valley” Nile basin organizations, forums, and programs: Council of Ministers for Water Affairs of the Nile, 185, 187, 188; ENAP, 198; ENCOM, 198; Hydromet, 184; International Nile 2002 conferences, 185, 187–188, 198; Nile River Action Plan, 185, 187, 188, 199; TECCONILE, 184–185, 188, 199; Undugu (Ndugu), 184, 188 Ninet, John, 46 1919 Revolution, 58 1952 Revolution, 5, 6, 58, 60, 85, 97, 139, 142, 195; and ‘Urabi revolution, 59. See Also Free Officers Nubia, 7, 71–72, 74, 152–154, 181, 191; in Egyptian cinema, 192–199, 230 Nuer peoples, 203, 206, 213, 217 Al-Numayri, Ja‘far, 209–212 Al-Nuqrashi, Mahmud Fahmi Pasha, 75–77, 82, 88n Al-Nuwayri, 15, 26n Oases of southern Egypt, 145, 190, 192–196. See also Egyptian desert reclamation projects Oil and petroleum, 9, 96, 216, 220 Organization of African Unity, 210 Organization of Islamic Conference, 213 Orientalism, 117, 120, 130, 146 Oromo peoples, 184, 213 Ottoman Empire, 3, 25–26, 42–43, 56, 60, 119, 196; and Khedival Egypt, 52–53; and Sudan/Ethiopia, 5, 26, 220. See also Turkey Ottoman-Egyptian elite. See TurcoCircassian Egyptian elite Owen Falls Dam, 200

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Index

PAIC. See Popular Arab Islamic Conference Palestine (Holy Land), 4, 34, 58–59, 83–84, 94, 106, 116, 121, 161 Pan-Arabism. See Arabism Pharaonicism, 54, 127, 141, 151 Philaes, 143 Poland, 77. See also Soviet Union/Russia Popular Arab and Islamic Conference (PAIC), 213. See also Islamism; AlTurabi, Hassan Population growth in Nile basin, 4, 8, 200; in Egypt, 79, 182, 186, 189, 192–197; in Ethiopia, 184, 186 Port Said, 190 Port Sudan, 213, 216 Presbyterian and Evangelical organizations: American Presbyterian mission and missionaries, 157–158, 162–164, 170–174; Church Missionary Society (CMS), 158; Egyptian Evangelical Church, 18, 157–158, 173–174; Pastors Union of Cairo, 161, 164; Synod of the Nile, 152, 161, 163, 170, 174; United Presbyterian Church of North America (UPCNA), 8, 158–159, 162, 170, 173; Women’s Christian Temperance Union, 162. See also American University of Cairo Prussia, 60 Al-Qadi, ‘Abd al-Fattah, 72 Qalawun (Mamluk sultan), 15, 21–22 Al-Qalqashandi, 15–17 Qansaw al-Ghawri (Mamluk sultan), 23 Qaytbay (Mamluk sultan), 21 Qessan, 214 Qindil, Sayyid, 71. See also Huriyyat alShu‘ub Quran, 16, 49, 138, 160, 213 Radi, Muhammad Abdel-Hadi, 192 Al-Radi, al-Sharif, 129 Al-Rafi‘i, ‘Abd al-Rahman, 57–59 Al-Rahal, Husayn, 121 Rameses II, 189, 195 Ras Alula, 44, 235 Red Sea, 5, 13, 26, 43, 59, 196, 216, 228–229, 235

Refugees, 205, 209, 211, 213, 217, 220 Reverend Parry, 167–168 Al-Rifa‘i, Sulaiman, 85 Rifa‘t, Muhammad, 56 Rifqi, ‘Uthman Pasha, 42, 48 Al-Risala, 57, 115, 117, 120, 124, 125, 127 Roseires Dam, 198 Rosenthal, Joseph, 69 Rostam, Hind, 144 Rosti, Stefan, 138, 147–148 Al-Rubi, ‘Ali, 53, 57 Rural Egypt and Egyptian peasant, 197; in Egyptian cinema, 124, 138, 142–143, 146, 154, 155n; as a social signifier in modern Egypt, 160. See also ‘Urabi, Ahmad; Umm Kulthum Al-Rusafi, Ma‘ruf, 119, 121, 130 Sa‘d, Ahmad Sadiq, 70, 78–79 Sa‘d al-Din (Sultan of Zayla‘), 16. See also Horn of Africa Sa‘id, Ibrahim, 171–172 Sa‘id, Nuri, 129 Sa‘id Pasha, 46–47 Al-Sa‘id, Rif‘at, 75 Sabah (Lebanese singer), 153 Sabir, Muhyi al-Din, 71 Sabry, Hussein Zulficar, 140 Sadd al-Aali. See Aswan Al-Sakhawi, 15, 21, 25 Salah, Major Salim, 152 Salam River, 208 Salama, Abuna, 33–34 Salih, Ahmad Rushdi, 70 Salih, Zaki Murad, 74. See also Umdurman Sami, Yakub, 53 Al-Sanhuri, ‘Abd al-Razzaq, 116, 120, 125 Saraye, 43 Al-Sayyid, Ahmad Lutfi, 54, 140 Al-Sayyid, Mahmud Ahmad, 121–123 Schwartz, Hillel, 70–71. See also Communist parties and organizations Setit River, 208 Shadia (Egyptian female singer), 142, 144, 146, 154 Shaikh Zayed Canal, 193, 195–196. See also Egyptian desert reclamation projects

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Sharif, Omar, 143 Sha’ul, Anwar, 122, 124 Shawkat, Sami, 125, 129, 132 Shawqi, Ahmad, 55, 121 Shawqi, Farid, 143 Shumayl, Shibli, 121 Shu‘ubiyya, 127 Sidqi, Isma‘il, 95 Sidqi, Zaynat, 146, 150 Sinai Peninsula, 182, 189, 190, 192, 194, 199 Sirhan, Muhsin, 142 Sirhan, Shukri, 143 Al-Siyasa, 120–121 Slavery in Nile basin, 220; Egyptian mission to end, 5, 42, 55; Ethiopia, 19–22, 204–205; Eunuchs, 19–20; Mamluks, 13; Sudanese Slavery Repression Department, 205 Sobat River, 205, 217–219 Somalia, 5, 184 Southern Sudan conflict, 8, 9, 199, 208–209, 211–215, 218 Soviet Union/Russia, 56; and Egyptian communists, 77, 83–84, 88n; and the United States, 96, 98, 100–101, 105, 108–109, 230 Spain, 34 SPLM/A. See Sudanese People’s Liberation Movement/Army Stone, General Charles P., 43, 58 Suakin, 43. See also Egyptian campaign for Ethiopia Sudan: Islamic Aid Organization, 213; Ministry of Irrigation and Hydroelectric Power, 188, 197; Nile water projects, 193, 198, 199, 218–219; 1958 coup, 206–207; 1989 coup, 210, 212–213, 218; Transitional Military Council (TMC), 211 Sudan People’s Liberation Movement/Army (SPLM/A), 211–215 Sudanese army, 208–217; under British rule, 206 Al-Sudani, Hamadi, 80–81 Suez Canal, 48, 190; and Great Britain, 43, 45, 64, 92, 95, 97, 100, 107, 139. See also Egyptian desert reclamation projects

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Sunni-Shi‘ite relations, 121, 123, 126–129, 131 Al-Suyuti, Jalal al-Din, 16–17 Synkesar, 33–34 Syria, 2, 13, 18, 23, 25, 54, 60, 106, 121, 130, 137; Syrian church, 22, 33; Syrians, 116, 122–123, 126, 138–139, 153, 160, 230 Taine, Hypolte, 122 Tanzania, 185 Taqla brothers, 54. See also Al-Aharam Tawfiq (Khedive), 52, 54 Al-Tawil, Hasan, 50 Ta‘ziyya, 128 Tekeze River, 183, 189 Tel al-Kabir, 56. See also ‘Urabi revolt/movement Terrorism. See Low-intensity warfare Tigray, 210–211; Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF), 211, 213 Tigris River. See Euphrates and Tigris rivers Toshka. See Egyptian desert reclamation projects Trade, 2, 196, 203, 207, 229; EthiopianEgyptian, 14, 18; outside Nile basin, 14, 25, 43; Sudanese-Ethiopian, 9, 205–206, 209, 215–216. See also Gallabat; Gambela Truman, Harry, 99 Al-Turabi, Hassan, 212–213, 215 Turco-Circassian Egyptian elite, 41–42, 45, 47–52, 54, 56–57, 59–60. See also Egyptian army Turkey, 131. See also Ottoman Empire UAR. See United Arab Republic Uganda, 184, 193–194, 200, 214 Al-‘Umari, Ahmad ibn Fadl Allah, 15–21, 25–26 Umdurman, 71–72, 74–81 Umm Kulthum, 138, 149, 158–159, 173; opinions of Egyptian Christians, 8, 161–172; opinions of Muslim teachers at AUC, 169; status in Egypt and Arab world, 7–8, 160–161, 170, 174–175 Umma Party, 54 United Arab Republic (UAR), 106 United Nations and Security Council:

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and Egyptian communists, 76–77, 82; and Ertirean-Ethiopian-Sudanese border, 207; in Ethiopian-Sudanese relations, 214; International Court, 101; International Law Commission, 187; UN Development Programme, 188; UN General Assembly, 77; and “Unity of the Nile Valley,” 6, 77, 82–83, 92, 97, 99, 101–102; and waters of the Nile Valley, 187–188 United States: Bureau of Reclamation Report, 183; cinema and music in, 144, 149–150; involvement in the immigration of Falash Jews, 212; and Sudan, 212, 214 “Unity of the Nile Valley,” 6, 55, 67–68, 73–75, 81, 86, 92–93, 95–96, 99–104, 106–109, 140, 144, 148, 227, 229–230 ‘Urabi, Ahmad, 5, 41, 45, 50, 52–55. See also ‘Urabi revolt/movement ‘Urabi, Salah, 74 ‘Urabi revolt/movement, 5, 41–42, 45–60, 229; in Nasserist historiography, 5, 58–60 Valley of the Kings, 143, 146 Von Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, 121 Al-Wafd al-Misri, 79 Wafd Party, 58, 69, 94, 230 Wagdi, Anwar, 143 Al-Walid bin Talal bin Abdel Aziz, Prince, 196 Washington Post, 152 Watson, Charles R., 157–175; investigation of Umm Kulthum, 166–170. See also American University in Cairo

White Nile, 191, 204–205, 217–219 World Bank, 187–188, 198–200, 219; Nile Basin Initiative, 7, 188, 198–200, 219 World War I, 60, 129; historic watershed, 94, 104, 106, 205 World War II, 70, 93; historic watershed, 6, 67, 81, 91–97, 103, 105–106, 108–109, 230; battle for Ethiopia, 206–207 Yasin, Isma‘il, 137, 143, 147–148, 150–151 Yemen, 19, 22, 26, 35, 121, 154, 215; South Yemen, 211 Yenkuno Amlak, Emperor, 22 Yeshaq, Emperor, 24–25 Yigba-Sion, Emperor, 22 Yohannes IV, Emperor, 43–44, 49, 55 Yohannes VII, Abuna, 22 Young Egypt. See Misr al-Fatat Zaghlul, Sa‘d, 58, 69, 121, 125, 128. See also Al-Wafd al-Misri Zagwe dynasty, 31–32 Zahawi (Iraqi poet), 130 Zaki, Emile (Synod), 174 Zar‘a Ya‘aqob, Emperor, 22, 34 Zarruq, Hasan al-Tahir, 72 Zaydan, Jurji, 53, 62n, 120 Al-Zayla‘i, ‘Abdallah, 15–16, 19 Zayn al-‘Abadayn, ‘Abd al-Wahab, 72 Al-Zayyat, Ahmad Hasan, 115–118, 120–122, 124–127, 129, 132 Zenawi, Meles, 181, 183, 184, 189, 193, 213 Ziwar, Ahmad, 69

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About the Book

T

HE AUTHORS OF NARRATING THE NILE SEEK TO ENCOURAGE THE

study of Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia not only as autonomous entities, but also as part of the Nile region, a shared theater of experiences, national identities, and collective memories. Combining in-depth historical studies and broad interdisciplinary discussions, they provide fresh perspectives on the region’s politics and cultures—and on the role the river has played in shaping them—from early modern history to contemporary times. The book is published in honor of Professor Haggai Erlich on the occasion of his retirement from Tel Aviv University.

Israel Gershoni is professor of Middle Eastern history at Tel Aviv University. His publications include Egypt, Islam and the Arabs: The Search for Egyptian Nationhood, 1900–1930 and Redefining the Egyptian Nation, 1930–1945 (both coauthored with James Jankowski), and Pyramid for the Nation: Commemoration, Memory and Nationalism in TwentiethCentury Egypt. Meir Hatina is lecturer in the Department of Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He is author of Islam and Salvation in Palestine: The Islamic Jihad Movement and Identity Politics in the Middle East: Liberal Discourse and Islamic Challenge in Egypt.

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