On Archaeology of Sainthood and Local Spirituality in Islam: Past and Present Crossroads of Events and Ideas (Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam 5) [1. Aufl.] 9783839401415

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On Archaeology of Sainthood and Local Spirituality in Islam Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam Volume 5

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Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam Edited by Georg Stauth and Armando Salvatore The Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam investigates the making of Islam into an important component of modern society and cultural globalization. Sociology is, by common consent, the most ambitious advocate of modern society. In other words, it undertakes to develop an understanding of modern existence in terms of breakthroughs from ancient cosmological cultures to ordered and plural civic life based on the gradual subsiding of communal life. Thus, within this undertaking, the sociological project of modernity figures as the cultural machine that dislodges the rationale of social being from local, communal, hierarchic contexts into the logic of individualism and social differentiation. The conventional wisdom of sociology has been challenged by post-modern debate, abolishing this dichotomous evolutionism while embracing a more heterogeneous view of coexistence and exchange between local cultures and modern institutions. Islam, however, is often described as a different cultural machine for the holistic reproduction of pre-modern religion, and Muslims are seen as community-bound social actors embodying a powerful potential for the rejection of and opposition to Western modernity. Sociologists insist on looking for social differentiation and cultural differences. However, their concepts remain evolutionist and inherently tied to the cultural machine of modernity. The Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam takes these antinomies and contradictions as a challenge. It aims at no less than an understanding of the ambiguous positioning of Islam in the global construction of society, and thus attempts to combine original research on Islam with conceptual debates in social theory and cultural studies.

Scientific Advisory Board Stefano Allievi, University of Padua Fanny Colonna, University of Marseille Eberhard Kienle, IREMAM, Aix-en-Provence Mark LeVine, University of California, Irvine Khalid M. Masud, ISIM, Leiden Cynthia Nelson, American University of Cairo Sami Zubaida, Birckbeck College, University of London

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Georg Stauth (ed.)

On Archaeology of Sainthood and Local Spirituality in Islam Past and Present Crossroads of Events and Ideas Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam Volume 5

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This volume was prepared with support by Kulturwissenschaftliches Institut NRW, Essen, and Sonderforschungsbereich der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft 295 »Kulturelle und sprachliche Kontakte« an der Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz.

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Bibliothek Die Deutsche Bibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.ddb.de abrufbar. © 2004 transcript Verlag, Bielefeld Typeset by: digitron GmbH, Bielefeld Printed by: Majuskel Medienproduktion, Wetzlar ISBN 3-89942-141-8

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Table of Contents Introduction Muslim Saints and Modernity Georg Stauth

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Chapter 1 Holy Ancestors, Sufi Shaykhs and Founding Myths: Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen

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Chapter 2 Khidr in Istanbul: Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces in Traditional Islam Patrick Franke Chapter 3 Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam. Encounters, Orders, Politics Refika Sariönder

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Chapter 4 From “Total Fullness” to “Emptiness”: Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia Mohand Akli Hadibi Chapter 5 Saba Ishirini: A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality around the South Swahili Coast Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen Chapter 6 Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria Sossie Andezian Chapter 7 Sacred Networks: Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta el-Sayed el-Aswad

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Chapter 8 Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco Emilio Spadola

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Chapter 9 On Snacks and Saints: When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid Samuli Schielke

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Chapter 10 Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism Paulo G. Pinto

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Abstracts

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On the Authors and the Editors of the Yearbook

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 7

Introduction Muslim Saints and Modernity Georg Stauth I. Theory and Islamic sainthood The common theme linking the papers in this fifth volume of the Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam concerns the sources and continuities of the “sacred” in various areas of modern local Islam. Indeed, the saint veneration in contemporary Islam is related to various local – and, in the case of increasing significance, global – dimensions of the modern re-construction of the “social”. More specifically, the invocations of traditions and ideas of “origin” of place, the collective performance of rituals, the vitality and materiality of interface relationships are all issues which are profoundly linked with theories of the importance of local configurations in the process of the global unfolding of modernity. It is my contention, nevertheless, that the sociological classics had a say in this and that a word on classical social theory must be allowed here. To put it clearly, it is the negativity of classical theory with respect to the enchanted world of saints which is significant, and before going any further, we should note that classical sociology approached the ideas and practices associated with “sainthood” in terms of being counter-thematic to modernity, or at least in terms of the necessity of their being transposed into sublime constructions of the modern self. While the sociology of religion states that there is a continuity of religion inherent in modern secularism, cultural critics in both east and west claim that the modern forms of constituting the sacred remain without meaning in being confronted with a world “without God”. We may witness the modern evaporation of the sacred, including “sainthood” and “religion”, in the form in which they are transposed into a hidden agenda of the internal constitution of the modern self: extraordinariness and habitual intellectualization in the world of the modern professional. The traditional religious “virtuoso” would depend no less on “routinization” than modern “bureaucrats”. In describing a period of transition in a zawiya-group in Syria today, Paulo Pinto (Chapter 10) appears to imply that “routinization of charisma” is inherent in both bureaucratization and “original” sainthood. However, he also makes it clear that new bridging concepts are imperative in the global field of sociology to make us understand the similarities and differences. The point is that the transposition of religion into a founding source of psychological order and habitual formation of modern man generates an inherent link

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8 | Georg Stauth between religion and modernity as a whole, and indeed this is the type of “presence of religion” which is central to sociology and modern self-understanding. Georg Simmel and Max Weber made a crucial contribution to the sociological understanding of this link between religion and modernity. A short account of this background should suffice for the rather restricted purposes of this volume. Simmel, in particular, worked out most clearly what the silent continuity of religion meant for modernity, and that modern men in general would internalize “religion” with respect to their habitual performance in society. Simmel and Weber believed that modern man’s quest for extraordinariness and their habitual qualities would, in fact, resemble the charismatic abilities of the religiously motivated or officially appointed priests, of the virtuosi and prophets of pre-modern times. For Simmel, in this very sense, “modern man has religion” (1911: 220). This is not the correct context in which to describe in detail how in his sociology of religion Max Weber transformed the idea of the “primitive magician” and his charismatic qualities being the Ursprung (origin) of professional man into a genealogy of the human character, office and institutional governance in modernity. The technologies of this creation have developed further today. Beyond any critique of Weber’s rationality, however, quite in line with the continuous religious factuality of “professionalism”, in his contribution, Emilio Spadola (Chapter 8), gives us an account of the social and psychological ambiguities, if not disasters, related to the hyper-modern unfolding of the mediatic technicalities of “professional” healers in the urban contexts of contemporary Fez and Rabat: a rather complex stage of existence in the framework of the interplay between traditional “sainthood”, Islam and modern life. This was not at all within the scope of Weber’s view. Certainly, we are familiar with the critique of Weber’s lopsided institutional focus on rationality which becomes entirely obvious in the light of the world described by Spadola. However, Weber remains important in terms of the issues of genealogy and authentication of the modern global field. The way in which Weber affirmed “religion” in modernity remains largely decisive for all modern self-understanding (Stauth/ Turner 1988: 98-122; Stauth 1993; Stauth 1999). For Weber, rationalization of modern life is to be based on “systematic self-control” and has to lead to the abolition of any “magic form of search for the sacred” (Weber 1966: 1, 3, 111), a condition which remains basic to all subsequent processes of the unfolding machine of modernity. There is no doubt that Max Weber, the theorist of modernity, and Ignaz Goldziher, the first international scholar on Islam, shared an enlightened concept of religion. Indeed, they both represent the times when the global consciousness’s quest for foundational principles of modernity and the modern re-invention of asceticism, rationality and discipline reached its first peak (cf. Stauth 1990). This was the time around the turn of the 20th century when Muslim thinkers began to reformulate Islamic visions and principles into their own terms of discipline, purity and science. In Egypt – which in the second half

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 9 of the 19th century became the very playground of intensive cultural exchanges between Islam and the west – thinkers like Al-Tahtawi, Al-Afghani and
Abduh not only reflected on the need to adopt modern institutions, but also to reformulate the moral standards of individual behaviour for modern Muslims. We are well aware today that Islamic reformism and the techniques of adjustment to modernity without breach with the Islamic heritage – most notably when turned into a political project of critique and rejection of the west as by the Muslim Brotherhood – have led to the conviction that there is no “unified modern civilization, called into existence by Western Europe” (Hourani 1960: XI). Today, the situation still prevails whereby we have little knowledge of the real impact of western understanding of Islam. What happened when “orientalist” scholars like Ignaz Goldziher, the great admirer of the idea of scientific method applied to religion began “to enter the Muslim republic of thought”? In reality, we still know little more than what Albert Hourani recollects: In Cairo too he met scholars, including the reformer Jamal al-Din al-Afghani, and he obtained permission to attend lessons at the Azhar, the great centre of traditional Islamic learning; he was probably the first European scholar to do so (1996: 38).

Do we know what the effects were when Muslim and more specifically Sufi intellectuals were confronted with Massignon’s “The Passion of al-Hallaj”, and, specifically, with his “Preface to the new edition” written in 1962 in the heat of debates at the Collège de France on existentialism, liberation and anti-colonial culture? Given the global condition of ideological and symbolic simplification, how did they read – and how would they read today – Massignon’s understanding of a Hallajian “conception of history” formulating historical time as being “a progression of pulsations of grace, karrât, oscillating like the swing of a pendulum” (Massignon 1981: lxi)? Which chains of authority would modern Muslims have, or would they still attempt to build on their own modern networks in understanding Hallaj and Massignon? What utopian lines would they draw in imagining Massignon’s development of the principle of “substitute saints (abdâl)” as representing a “heroic act”, an act which “is not only a solitary reaching beyond, but a sublimation not discontinuous with the (wretched) masses”? Thus, Hallaj represents a concept of “transsocial” and at the same time “transhistoric continuity”, the event of disclosing “in the perishable world, the incorruptible presence of a sacred truth” (Massignon 1981: lxii-lxiii). Is this a kind of conceptualized version of Massignon’s Christian Utopianism whereby he explains himself in terms of a strange event in another religion and in doing so evolves it in rather externalized symbolic and technical terms? Was this where the new Islamic Utopianism of the 1970s, 80s and 90s began? It is common knowledge today that the issue of Islamic feast days, saint veneration and, more specifically Sufism on the whole, had been awakened, restructured and reformulated through the interest it had found in the world of orientalism and among the European and western public.

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10 | Georg Stauth In this context, I should come back to Goldziher and his religious theory. He explains the veneration of saints in a monotheistic religion largely in terms of a polytheistic need to fill the enormous gap between men and their god and that it originated on the soil of the old pantheon (cf. Goldziher 1971: 259). Similarly, from the perspective of the founders of modern Islamology, such as Goldziher, C.H. Becker and Snouck Hurgronje, Islamic mysticism was considered as filling the function of closing the gap between law, theology and individual piety. Accordingly, Sufism was labelled as being secondary to the dominant conception of religion. Both the idea and view of the separate and subordinate position of Sufism within Islam has been strongly challenged in recent research. Sufism has come to be understood as an integral part of the cultural heritage of Islam and, as Armando Salvatore reminds me, the fact that the late Fazlur Rahman – who came from a South Asian background – had already challenged the classical orientalist view, clearly showing that Islam would not be what it is today – not least in terms of its diffusion, mobilization and integration of popular classes – without Sufism, is not insignificant. What is more significant in sociological terms, however, is that in recent years Sufism has been virtually transformed into a battlefield of “east-west philosophy” and cultural globalization. Thus, in line with the questions raised by the founders of sociology and Islamwissenschaft (i.e. Islamology) and in terms of the trajectories of the lives of those who practise Islam today, it is, perhaps, time that we became aware that the sociological issue of “sainthood in Islam” transcends the strict boundaries of a compartmentalized field of study. A comprehensive analysis of “Islamic sainthood” and modernity would have to raise the broader issues of “political theology” and the “ascetic costs of rationality” in monotheistic religions and their claim – articulated in many different “global” ways – to update the “truth” in the context of a continuously unfolding secular machine of modernity. The purpose of this volume is not, however, to provide answers to the unresolved questions of social theory as they emerge in the context of the ambivalent process of the re-positioning Islam in the global field of modernity. This problem will receive ongoing consideration in the future issues of the yearbook. Thus, I propose that the papers presented in this volume be seen as discrete and punctual contributions to the stimulation of an awareness of this issue.

II. Saints and modern ideology Despite being viewed hitherto as largely separate fields of disciplinary interest, the development of doctrinal discourse, Sufi methods and ideas and the local traditions of saint veneration are all integral elements of Islam. By emphasizing the balanced and even intermingled co-existence of “high” and “low”, “official” and “popular”, “scholar” and “saint-oriented” visions and practices in Islam, recent evaluations of religious practice would appear to acknowledge this.

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 11 Others would denounce such distinctions as the obscure inventions of western orientalists. However, the distinction itself appears to correspond to conventional self-understanding among Muslims. Ibn Khaldun, for example, expresses no preference with respect to either type of religious exercise. Here, it is worth noting that he argues that “Arabs can only obtain royal authority by making use of some religious colouring (sigha diniyya) such as prophecy (nabwa), sainthood (wilaya) or some great religious event in general” (Ibn Khaldun 1958: 305, English transl. Franz Rosenthal1). This is not the place for a detailed discussion of Ibn Khaldun’s concept of religion, sainthood and Sufism with respect to civilizational re-construction and power formation. However, what is most interesting is that Ibn Khaldun’s perspective does not include the slightest “value-oriented” view that diminishes sainthood as against prophecy with respect to power consolidation or supplements any one of these categories with respect to an ideological dispute concerning diverse or competing forms of religious experience. As Goldziher puts it: Even the Arab philosopher of history who is by no means credulous about the graves of saints, speaks in favour of the miracles performed by saints. Ibn Khaldun favours this belief in several passages of his Muqaddima and calls the stories about the pretended miracles of the adepts of Sufism, their prophesies and revelations and their power over nature a true and undeniable fact. He […] declares that saints work miracles not because of their desire to perform them; this power of theirs is due to a divine gift of which the saints are compelled to make use against their own will. He firmly rejects the explanation of these miracles as ordinary witchcraft (Goldziher 1971: 339-40).

Obviously, where – as Massignon shows – a type of supremacy of Sufi ritual practices was claimed, as was the case with early Sufism, the “primacy of the saints over the prophets” was denied, as with Ghazzali, although not really reversed to the contrary (cf. Massignon 1981). In short – and apart from individual calls for and cases of obvious suppression – if this was the state of affairs in the classical Islamic period, an overall strengthening of positions of rejection can be observed in modern times. We may argue that there are two reasons for this. Firstly, while in classical times the discussion of arguments against and dissent to conventional Shari
a-based knowledge was largely expressed through scholarly dialogue and much of the mystical literature remained hidden in largely difficult and esoteric manuscripts, modern studies on Sufism and the publication of Sufi texts contributed to the growing interest of both government bodies and groups of intellectuals in dealing with the heritage of Islamic mysticism in the context of the broader terms of social regulation, such as spirituality, rationality and social order. Secondly, contrary to orthodox legal practice, the implementation of modern forms of governance would rely on a totalized con1 Arabic terms included on basis of the Cairo/Beirut edition by G.S.

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12 | Georg Stauth cept of social integration and compliance of popular ritual practice with stated perceptions of public order and symbolic expression: “popular religion” became a problem of the modern state and its premises of equal behaviour and social treatment. The point is that the modern study of religious experience in Islam is strongly fragmented. The investigation of doctrinal development, Islamic law and theology is largely treated as a monolithic field of study in its own right and juxtaposed or even opposed to the study of Sufism and the veneration of local saints. This has not fundamentally changed in recent years, mainly, because Islamwissenschaft (i.e. Islamology) largely dissociated itself from any social and civilizational analysis. However, the influx of textual and ethnographic analysis – carried out within or inspired by disciplines outside of Islamwissenschaft – contributed significantly to the demonstration of the inherent connection between Sufism and local traditions of sainthood and mainstream Islam. Most of the essential recent writings on Sufi texts and practices and on ethnographic analysis of sainthood in Islam are referred to in the papers collected in this volume. Thus, I will refrain from providing a summary of this literature in this short introduction. The specific interest of this volume does not lie with texts or with the – sometimes obvious – problem of the authenticity of individual saints and the written or oral traditions concerning their miracles. It is concerned with the very different and important issue of the actual practice of sainthood and with the discovery that Islamic sainthood is resistant to the classical sociology of religion and cannot be systematized into a perspective of differentiation between “extra-worldly” – mystical, orgiastic, ecstatic – experience and everyday practice governed by rational instrumental action. Whether this universalistic perspective of Max Weber, which contributes significantly to the self-definition of the everyday economic ethic of modern professionals, was ever really justified, may well be questioned. It is clear, however, that the spread of a modern professional class all over the Muslim world has contributed little to any demise of either Sufi ideas and practices or sainthood. While the increasing hostility of the Wahhabis, modern Salafi reformists and the Muslim Brotherhood to traditional Sufism and local traditions of sainthood are contributing to the control and transformation of certain traditional practices, it is also clear that none of the recent ideological movements have actually succeeded in achieving the abolition of the ideas or practices surrounding saint veneration and Sufism. However, as clearly analyzed in many of the papers presented here, the struggle concerning “disenchantment” – to use Max Weber’s term – or sublimation of practice with respect to controlled symbolic and spiritual forms is well under way. The articles by Schielke, Andezian and Hadibi are the most significant in this context and thus deserve more detailed attention. Samuli Schielke’s paper (Chapter 9) concerns the issue of modern control and ideological impingement on local rites with respect to the dimension of the

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 13 place/space relationship in Islamic sainthood: the modern experience of the sacred as the new local event of staged discipline and order. Schielke deals with the re-ordering of space in the celebration of the saints’ feast, the mawlid, in Egypt. Here, we encounter administrative and ideological pressures in the name of modern Islam and reformism which are dissolving the conventional lines of social interaction in and around the shrines of local saints in Tanta (Sayyid al-Badawi), Disuq (Ibrahim al-Disuqi) in the Central Nil-Delta and in Qena (Sidi
Abd al-Rahim) in Upper Egypt. Schielke also shows the incorporation of modern Sufi ideas in reaction to Wahhabism or “Salafi reformism”, describing the new symbolism of individual spirituality, restraint and organization in the context of Sufi performances, i.e. the hadra, the collective dhikr of orders on feast days. Here, Schielke concentrates on recently established groups, such as the gatherings around a living Shaykh Salah, the Azamiyya (or often referred to as the Abu l-
Azaim in the local vernacular), which was founded in 1933, and the Jazuliyya, which was founded in recent years. Schielke describes the re-ordering of space and of physical behaviour among these groups at famous Egyptian festive locations under the conditions of mass media and state and ideological interventions, and how a purified modern idea of the proper approach to sacred places, which incorporates the tastes of the new professional class, leads to the transformation or suppression of any conception of traditional ecstasies. It is interesting to note that the strategic intervention of both the state administration and reformist ideological groups would gradually lead to the abolition of what once was a carnivalesque event of both religion and joy. In a combined account of socio-political development in Algeria and the people’s worship of saints in the city of Tlemcen and the surrounding towns and villages in the 1980s, Sossie Andezian (Chapter 6) provides a very intrinsic view of the important dimensions of micro-macro relationships in periods of intensive social change. Andezian focuses on the role of the worship of saints in local people’s religious, cultural, social and individual life in periods when radical Islam entered the public arena. She shows the different ways that people related to individual rituals in the context of political, social and religious change. In this framework, it is interesting to see the variations and different modalities of the experience of saint veneration and Sufism as a religious system of reference within a historical scenario which links the local Sufi symbolic system to different stages in its integration into the broader realm of politics and society. Obviously, Sufism played an important role in the shaping of traditional North-African identity in pre-colonial and colonial times. However, as corroborated by the evidence presented in most of the other papers in this volume, from the early 20th century, Sufism was strongly opposed by the reformist Salafiyya movement, known as the al-Islah movement in Algeria, and by more recent brands of political and militant Islam. Despite suppression – even by the colonial administration (closure of the zawiyas and banning of pilgrimages) – the post-First-World-War period witnessed the birth of a new brotherhood, namely the Alawiyya brotherhood in Mostaganem in 1920, a

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14 | Georg Stauth brotherhood which was widely recognized and found followers in Syria, Palestine, Egypt and Europe. Andezian focuses on complementary processes of change in institutional religion and diverse expressions of religiosity related to Sufism and popular practices. Algeria has undergone profound structural transformations and when Islam became concomitantly an issue of state power, the relationship between Sufism and popular rites happened to be the object of strong controversial reinterpretations. Andezian shows how religion takes on multiple manifestations in this context of social change. She argues that its capacity to integrate popular expressions of music and dance and hence lend meaning to new social and political contexts, makes Sufism a source of identity in times of crisis for ordinary people and, specifically, women. Andezian then goes on to explain how this tension was particularly strong towards the end of the 1980s when Algerian Islam underwent radicalization and an attempt was made to annihilate local religious expression. In the course of the past decade the practice of Sufism in its collective forms in the region of Tlemcen has been frozen; thus also occurred at the time of the War of Liberation. However, a few signs of reawakening have been observed. Andezian summarizes these events in a too functional interpretation, believing that politicians have been responsible mainly for the violence and chaos in the country and that this was a condition of people’s new turn to supernatural men. Mohand Akli Hadibi (Chapter 4) gives us a detailed description of the reformist influence on zawiyas in the Kabylia in Algeria and the subsequent Islamist struggle to suppress them. Taking the figure and place of Sidi Ahmad Wedris, a 14th century saint who is still venerated today, Hadibi starts by attempting to reconstitute an “authentic” local zawiya-culture in the Kabylia based on the integration of Berber and Islamic traditions. In his view the vitality of the zawiya depended largely on the plurality of social groups and of the material, psychological and spiritual needs that were articulated in the ritual and everyday events of the zawiya. Most interestingly Hadibi demonstrates a transhistorical work of Islamic reformism over five centuries operating on hostile footing with the zawiya culture of the Kabylia. For Hadibi, the traditional critique of the zawiya was transformed in the 1920s when the hard-line al-Islah movements emerged and by gradually introducing modern perceptions and subjects of teaching lead the zawiyas into the political discourse of anti-colonial struggle and Islamism. Hadibi clearly demonstrates here how nation-state bureaucratization and politicization of religious practice and discourse led to the gradual decline of a once rich and vivid local cultural scenario. Refika Sariönder (Chapter 3) demonstrates a pattern of transhistorical interplay between saints and orders, on the one hand, and centre politics in the development from the Ottoman Empire to Turkish nationhood, on the other hand. Here, it becomes obvious that the discourse of saints and orders is very much tied to the development of a modern secular social understanding rather than solely to the “eternal” imposition of the sacred. It is interesting to note

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 15 with regard to the argument of this chapter, that, despite all sacred vocabularies, religionized politics remains secular in both outlook and practice.

III. Saints and modern society Just one chapter, comprising almost 24 pages, of Edward William Lane’s notes to the “Thousand and One Nights”, originally published as “Arabian Society in the Middle Ages”, is dedicated to formal “religion”. The four following chapters deal with “demonology”, “saints”, “magic” and “cosmography” which, at the time, were the other quite commonly accepted disciplines in the context of the knowledge of the “otherworldly”. In reading these chapters, one gets the impression that, although intended to explain a work of fiction, these fields of “transcendental” knowledge are clear-cut, separate, simple, factual and real. It should not come as a surprise to learn that, today, matters of saints and otherworldly knowledge in Muslim countries, the “Arabian society of the Modern Age”, are far more blurred, complicated and complex. In terms of sainthood and the “otherworldly”, Lane’s Middle Ages cannot compete with the reality of the manifestations of sainthood in our times with respect to the variety of instances, in-depth linkages, networking, mediatic experience etc. As I already stated, Spadola’s paper is of unique significance in this context. It is a well known fact in the history of dogma, ritual and law in Islam that much freedom was given to dissent, far more, certainly, than is the case in the development of Christianity. Ignaz Goldziher was among the very few who recognized this relative tolerance not only in terms of the character of theological discourse and doctrinal differences, but also with respect to the religious and ritual practices of the ordinary people. In fact, the relation between the rule of material life and religious perception was rarely at the heart of Islamologists’ interest. Goldziher was the exception and we owe him a few interesting observations with respect to “local tradition” being associated with the maintenance of the graveyards of saints (Goldziher 1968; 1969; 1971). When he refers to the offizielle kirchliche Welt (“the world of the official church”) as caring little about the mud-brick villages of the Fellaheen and the saintly qubbas emerging all over the place (1969: 111), Goldziher is, of course, in tune with mainstream religious theory of his time. Within this framework of theological and intellectual forgetfulness, he notices that the domes of the saints signify a sort of “traditional memory of the ordinary populace” among whom the Islamic saint merely enjoys the status of “the latest bearer of a cultic momentum which reaches back to pagan antiquity” (1969: 112). He sees in the fact that an old grave of Osiris was turned into the place of a Muslim saint, a case of mythological foundation of sainthood in Islam, and characterizes it as an “ultimate metamorphosis of an Egyptian perception of god” (1969: 113). We may be very perplexed today by this intrinsic questioning of an appearance of local saints in its religious-historical and ethnographic dimension and by his quest – to my knowledge rarely im-

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16 | Georg Stauth plemented – to collect “the hagiological traditions from the mouth of the populace” (1969: 113). Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen (Chapter 1) – who in a recent collection of articles develops the parallels and coincidences of hagiography and the study of “grand men”, heroes or martyrs (Mayeur-Jaouen 2002) – adopts Goldziher’s method in both conception and methodology. However, she adds the experience of ethnographic fieldwork to the combination of textual and historical analysis: the analysis of different historical sources (the history of the three dominant Sufi brotherhoods of the region, the Rifa
iyya, the Ahmadiyya, and the Burhamiyya and the hagiography of the respective local saints: one of them, Ahmad al-Badawi, being of local, national Egyptian and transnational importance), with the analysis of the rizaq ihbasiyya records the donations of peasant families for the maintenance of sanctuaries, the following up of informants and their networks. She demonstrates the historical bondage and religious restructuring of social space in the densely populated agrarian area of the Central Nile Delta which was the cultural battlefield in the transition to monotheism. Mayeur-Jaouen shows that the importance and, in fact, the historical continuity of a local saint in the Central Delta depends very much on family networks (it is mostly local notables who maintain the material conditions of a sanctuary), on the vitality of local brotherhoods giving spiritual importance to the place and on periodical invocations of mythical saints which remain very instrumental to local interests in feasts and market days as much as in invoking the grandeur of the place with the respective importance of the myth of the saint. It is in this framework combining history with geography and ethnography that Mayeur-Jaouen provides a very clear picture on how a plurality of local saints have given meaning to a whole landscape over the past four hundred years and hence provided a livelihood for the region where the authenticity of the sacred results in the opening up of re-enforcing institutional and local cultural bondage. In her article, Mayeur-Jaouen shows that meaning and memory would not be restricted to collective practices and their incorporations or that it would depend exclusively on the signature of symbolic inheritance, but that material cultural interests and vivid practices would play a decisive role in the local collective memory. The Egyptian experience with Sayyid al-Badawi of Tanta is also the subject of El-Sayed El-Aswad’s contribution (Chapter 7). His paper complements that of Mayeur-Jaouen in that he gives us a comprehensive description of performances of – what he calls – sanctified formal and informal networks as they developed around the sanctuary of Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi in and around Tanta. His descriptions relate mostly to various ways in which the saint is venerated by ordinary people or members of Ahmadiyya-Tariqa. The veneration includes the ziyara, the dhikr, the hadra, the dars and the pledging of a vow, the nadhr. It is the conviction of El-Aswad that specific material and spiritual networks exist around these performances which constitute the cultural vitality of the place. He also claims that there is a certain Egyptian cosmological form related to these performances which integrate the individual into the social process be-

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 17 yond the specific settings and functions they adopt in the modern social machine. Chapter 5 provides an account of in-depth local relations and translocal practices and networks that depend on the veneration of a local saint. The authors, Chanfi Ahmed and Achim von Oppen, focus their observation of a commemoration of a Shadhiliyya-Yarshrutiyya shaykh in East Africa on the issue of the variety in the local and translocal performance of the rituals. The simultaneity of ritual performances in different locations and the changes in the inter-relatedness of the shaykh’s places is made into a field of study in its own right. It is interesting to note how various layers of memory are linked through the simultaneity of the performances in different places and within different communities. This issue of the translocality of saint veneration, which is often strongly linked to cross-border interaction within brotherhood communities, is of utmost importance with respect to the constitution of global issues relating to Islamic sainthood. Although in this case translocality is contained within a seemingly limited regional context, the issue of spiritual cohesiveness symbolized in cross-border veneration of saints – and in many cases corresponding to claims of political cohesion and solidarity – remains of significance in many areas of the Muslim world and is of specific importance with respect to the political formation and representation of minorities. In this study, Chanfi Ahmed and Achim von Oppen have taken initial steps in an area that would undoubtedly require further comparative analysis so as to illustrate an ongoing process in the constitution of an issue of global significance. Patrick Franke (Chapter 2) gives us an introduction into the issue of the sacred place by demonstrating the varying powers of the prophet/saint Khidr, the Green, which involve the inspiration and consecration of the locality. Khidr is distinguished with Qur’anic notability as “official” and is presented in various popular, literary and non-literary legends and sources. With reference to cosmological and cosmogonist definitions of cosmic pillar, axis mundi, provided by Mircea Eliade’s theopolitical theory of possession of land, Landnahme, Franke leads us to a sort of universal understanding of sainthood and its essential authenticating function with respect to the overall construction of a global symbolic super-centre and related sub-centres of local cults in traditional Islam. In fact, in the relationship between the mythological Khidr – the Green – and the Aya Sofya in Istanbul and with respect also to other sacred places in the Islamic world, he describes the effects evoked by the legendary presence of this wandering saint in constructing an in-depth sense of specific places, in fact a religious authorization of space and legitimization of sanctuaries. It is not surprising that Modernists and Muslim Brothers have strongly rejected the idea of Khidr altogether. Emilio Spadola (Chapter 8) refers to a specific type of “sainthood” which is common among the poor throughout the Muslim world: the practice of magic healing. Most notably, in Morocco such practitioners are called foqaha, a term

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18 | Georg Stauth otherwise reserved for legal teachers. However, in contrast to the conventional study of healers, Spadola focuses on the presence of mass communication and technological media in the relationship between foqaha and their patients and, specifically, on the technological and media impact on renewing the social and even spiritual significance of these practices and the related imagery. Spadola’s observations are based on encounters with younger and elder foqaha in the Medina of Fez and in the Rabat-Salé region. Most interestingly Spadola develops the current appearance of jinns as a parallel to the mediatic encounter with the stranger, as the modern emergence of a political culture facing the foreign. Adopting a conceptual critique of Max Weber’s “charisma” as being inapt when it comes to the charismatic authority of Sufi saints, Paulo G. Pinto (Chapter 10) describes the various aspects of the performance of baraka by a local zawiya shaykh in the Syrian town of Aleppo. Pinto focuses on the notion of religious persona, i.e. the construction of a spiritual vision of a shaykh, as stemming from the process of his practical detachment from the Sufi community (illness, death). This process includes the intensification of ritual practices which enabled a real “virtuoso” from the community to gain the status of the leader (khalifa) of the zawiya, despite his inferior rank in terms of age and lineage. In this context it is interesting to note that although the dynamics related to the death of the shaykh include a kind of spiritual objectification of his authority into a sort of “impersonal institution”, in this case an institutionalised chain of successors, which in Weber´s terms of “routinization” would be the necessary consequence of the process, did not emerge. It is here that Pinto observes a particular character in the performance of sainthood in Sufi communities – with specific reference to Syria and Aleppo – in that they allow for the transmission by the shaykh of his charismatic authority with no imperative for “routinization”.

IV. Coincidental analysis issues This volume deals with local saints and religious spirituality in Islam, albeit in a far more restricted sense than in the theory discussed above. Thus, by bringing together a limited range of subjects of factual analysis, we propose to approach our topic as a sociological investigation into various fragments of the pantheon of Islamic sainthood. It is not that we believe that “grand issues” are diminished or shrunk when confronted with factual analysis. On the contrary, it is our aim to make complex issues explicable – step by step – in empirical contexts. However, there is also an intermediary level of conceptualization, which includes some broader social issues. Firstly, a general importance attaches to the “place of the saint” and this is evident in almost all of the papers in this collection. At an initial glance, this statement sounds very clear and concrete; however, it could prove rather ambiguous since the location of saints is often linked with their spiritual capacity

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 19 to “move”. Whatever the nature of the presence, their appearance in concrete social places, which often relates a given “transhistorical” religious landscape to the forms of their “historical” appearance and maintenance, are of great importance with respect to local social reconstruction. Secondly, and coincidentally to the appearance in place and space, a variety of symbolic expressions and practices exist on the different “platforms” of saint veneration which all relate to both institutional strategies of order and perceived symbols of order in local social life. Action on this level is largely dependent on the permanent mutual exchange between government and the populace. Finally, a third dimension which is of modern significance is the quest that exists for sacral solutions in the elementary actions of everyday life – long since part of the general code of Islam as a religion. This has witnessed a particular change in intensity and meaning in the context of the increased expansion of modern lifestyles and expectations. This later issue is related to the impinging of ritual practice on communal self-understanding and is awarded special significance in the contributions by Schielke, Ahmed/von Oppen, Pinto and El-Aswad. As we can see in these papers, the communitarian function of rites relates to both processes of individual power formation and processes involving the control and order of local public space. Here the state seems to operate through the challenging presence of institutional power from behind the scenes to suppress certain expressions or to interfere in any process of ritual performance. On the other hand, in the broader historical terms developed in the case of saints relating to Ottomanism and Turkey by Franke and Sariönder, the historical entity of the state and power politics remain inherently linked with the selective issues of modern symbolic representation of sainthood. The local historical continuity of the saint’s place and how this relates to collective memory and communitarian practice in local societies is an issue which also warrants special attention in the papers on Egypt by Mayeur-Jaouen and El-Aswad; the paper on East-Africa by Ahmed/von Oppen develops this topic with an analysis of “ritual practice per se”. As can be seen in the papers by Andezian, Hadibi and Schielke, the issues of place and ritual take a more specific turn when the challenges of politically inspired “reformism” and modern ideology become involved. However, modernism operates – in a much more sophisticated way than by strategic intervention – from within cultic practices resulting in drives for modern self-transgression and the re-construction of the idea of the sacred itself and of Islamic sainthood as such and thus immediately inspiring the social and political action of people (Ahmed/von Oppen; Spadola). This is a dimension which plays a specific role in all forms of representation of re-constructions of Islam, the sacred, and Sufism. I have ordered the papers approximately on the basis of a “hidden agenda” ranging from “history” to “space” to “performance”. Some of the readers may have preferred to see one or other paper in a different place or in a different context. It is true that these issues are generally related and, indeed, feature to

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20 | Georg Stauth varying extents in all of the collected papers. However, my intention was to stress these points in relation to the specific variations in the subject of study and approach and in relation to the specific forms of their interconnection. At this point I would like to express my own concerns very clearly. What we see here is the general dimension of material culture as related to the local performance of cults in both rural and urban contexts and their networks and institutions. Although there is local and ethnic colouring in practice and spiritual range, idea and practice are universal in Islam. In a first step we may reduce this general perplexity with respect to the diversity in emphasis and form to a problem of “topography” and the authenticity of place and landscape. Natural characteristics, pre-Islamic cultic reality, local events and mentalities are often stronger witnesses of the “authentic” grave – the place of the saint – than historical “reality” would possibly reveal in upholding a critical view on the very place of life and death of the saint. It is the – stated, experienced, maintained, defended – presence of the saint and the belief in his broader capacities that lend sacredness to the place of veneration, locations or landscapes. Practices and social needs related to the perpetual invocation of this presence are perhaps best described in the chapter by Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen. As already discussed in relation to place, space and order, sainthood and the celebration of saints incorporate certain transitions between social material and “transsocial” principles and visions which generally represent the main problem for a modern understanding of the sacred and related religious practices. Modernity supposes the transgression of collective norms into individuality, of ethical inclinations into knowledge and of wisdom into individual action, in other words the ever more self-responsible methodization of everyday life. The question that may be asked in this context is whether “saints” and “Sufis” open up a specific modern way of individuation and an alternative to western individualism. This volume does not provide an answer to this question. However, I feel the need to stress its present importance, specifically with a view to inviting reflections and analysis for future issues of this yearbook. The point is that – as discussed at the outset – since the genealogy of modernity is so intrinsically linked with asceticism and the religious roots of modern dialectics of inwardness and power construction, we need to understand why the Islamic adherence to saintliness would reject any ultimate dialectic between inwardness and externality – a point I owe, here, to my discussion with Armando Salvatore. Furthermore, the question must undoubtedly be extended to the various patterns of east-west cultural exchange today: What would it mean if we were to see how this fundamental issue in the genealogy of modern individualism, interlinking inwardness with affirmative powers of self-construction, is converted into a perpetual tool for a re-construction of collectivism? Massignon was not perhaps aware of the sociological range of such questions. However, he was the first to really embark on this field of analysis. With respect to sainthood the experience of transgression is reserved to the extra-or-

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 21 dinary: the saint and the event of the sacred. Within the framework of this contention there remains always the contradiction between the inner method of achieving knowledge and collective practice. A close look at the “legal consequences” for Islamic discourse in response to what we may today call the selfidentification of al-Hallaj with the truth of God and his subsequent martyrdom – as shown by Massignon (1981) – would suggest that whatever type of self the individual consciousness of God would have produced, it can be Islamic only through collective appreciation and celebration. It is at this point that Muslims would affirm the vision of individuality only with respect to a vision of collective experience. Today Islamic spirituality is figured out as a specific case among world religions which forbids the believer to “share” (shirk) in the knowledge of, i.e. identification with, God. Nevertheless, the testimony and realization of the grace of god is individual. As Massignon has shown, by disclosing “in the perishable world, the incorruptible presence of a sacred Truth” (Massignon 1981: lxiii) “[the saint] ties his ‘transsocial’ experience to the liturgical cycle that is communitarian and real” (Massignon: lxii). In his various this-worldly experiences in disrespect of bodily sufferings, and his rank in the extra-world through his “theopathy” on earth, the saint remains the real substitute for the Muslim community. In this sense the continued practise of sainthood is both a source of individual and collective spirituality based on visionary and ritual approaches of the momentum of redemption. Paradoxically, all this is to limit any absolute claim of knowledge of God on the part of the human being. However, at the same time, the absoluteness of God also seems to invite a methodized way to the “transsocial” experience of God. I am again rewording Massignon’s (and Hallaj’s) conceptualizations of history in terms of “political theology”, the presence of the sacred and the modern location of the individual. Massignon makes us aware that the problem of power and politics is related to the varying issues and re-emerging practices of veneration of saints. There is a relationship between legitimacy of power and sainthood that goes beyond the saints’ “unity with” and/or “knowledge of God” as substituting the community of ordinary believers. The control of communal practice by the state approaches the problem of the legitimacy of rites and forms of symbolic expression, and in a broader sense – as demonstrated by Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen – it enters the problem of controlling – or as in the case developed by Ahmed/von Oppen re-inspiring – the collective cultural memory. There can be no doubt that the game with, perhaps, nostalgic sentiments and archaic resurgence is most prevalent here. The engagement of ideas and technologies of symbolic reconstruction, Sufism and the celebration of saints often trigger archaic visions and rites, if not – as Goldziher demonstrated – turning to archaic places. However, although it shares common ground with the question of modern individualism, the issue of individual transgression and performance goes much further: it opens up to perspectives of repositioning of the self in a global order (Robertson/Chirico 1985: 236). Certainly, it is an issue that transcends the

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22 | Georg Stauth concern with Sufi groups and their places, instruments, methods and organizations; it relates in a very strong sense to the modern significance of saints as masters of performance and models for re-locating individuals. In this sense, saints are not treated as mythological figures, “sacrificers”, inventors or discoverers, but as “professional” performers. Although this is an underlying theme in all of the papers, this dimension is most strongly developed in the accounts provided by Spadola and Pinto. Finally, I would like to acknowledge and express my gratitude for the help and support I received in compiling this volume. Fanny Colonna and Armando Salvatore were of enormous assistance in introducing me to some of the authors and in helping me to guide them through the issues being raised: Armando, in particular, followed the preparation of the yearbook through all its stages. I would also like to mention the workshop on “Modern Adaptations in Sufi-Based Islam” at the Zentrum für Moderne Orientforschung, Berlin, in April 2003, to which I was invited at a relatively late stage in the development of the yearbook by Ulrike Freitag, Achim von Oppen and Chanfi Ahmed, which provided me with an excellent opportunity to rethink the structure and organization of the collection. I should also mention that I had earlier discussed the issues surrounding modernity and Islamic sainthood with friends and students at my seminar in Bielefeld; I am particularly grateful to Levent Teczan and Marcus Otto for their part in some very fruitful discussions. Elke Rössler in Mainz and Susan Cox in Ireland carried out invaluable work on the preparation of the texts for publication. Last but not least, I would like to thank both the Kulturwissenschaftliches Institut des Landes Nordrhein-Westfalen (Institute of Advanced Studies in the Humanities) in Essen and the Sonderforschungsbereich 295, Sprachliche und kulturelle Kontakte (Special Research Area 295, Linguistic and Cultural Contact) of the University of Mainz for their generous support. Readers should be aware that this is the work of sociologists, historians, anthropologists and specialists in Islamic Studies. The intensity with which the intricacies and rules of transliteration of Arabic are observed, varies according to region of research or descent and discipline of the authors. We have generally observed conventional rules of English transliteration. Please note that
ain is rendered through
. Hamza is rendered as  in the middle of the word, like fadail while it is absent at the beginning and at the end of a word.

References Goldziher, Ignaz (1968) “Muhammedanische Traditionen über den Grabesort des Joshua”. In: Ignaz Goldziher Gesammelte Schriften (ed. by Joseph Desmogyi), Hildesheim: Olms, vol. II, pp. 71-75.

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Muslim Saints and Modernity | 23 Goldziher, Ignaz (1969) “Heiligenkultus in Ägypten”. In: Ignaz Goldziher Gesammelte Schriften (ed. by Joseph Desmogyi), Hildesheim: Olms, vol. IV, p. 111. Goldziher, Ignaz (1971) “Veneration of Saints in Islam”. In: Ignaz Goldziher Muslim Studies (transl. by C.R. Barber and S.M. Stern), London: Allan & Unwin, vol. II, pp. 255-341. Hourani, Albert (1960) “Preface”. In: Jamal Mohammed Ahmed The Intellectual Origins of Egyptian Nationalism, London/New York/Toronto: Oxford University Press, pp. Vii-Xi. Hourani, Albert (1996) Islam in European Thought, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ibn Khaldun (1958) The Muqaddimah. An Introduction to History (transl. from the Arabic by Franz Rosenthal), vol. 1, London: Routledge & Kegan. Massignon, Louis (1981) “The Juridicial Consequences of Al-Hallaj” (transl. by Herbert Mason). In: Merilin L. Swartz (ed.) Studies on Islam, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 140-163 (orig. La Passion de Husayn Ibn Mansur Hallaj, Paris 1975, vol. III, chap. 8). Mayeur-Jaouen, Catherine (ed.) (2002) Saints et héros du Moyen-Orient contemporain, Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose. Robertson, Roland/Chirico, JoAnn (1985) “Humanity, Globalization, and Worldwide Religious Resurgence: A Theoretical Exploration”. Sociological Analysis, 46(3), pp. 219-242. Simmel, Georg (1911) “Das Problem der religiösen Lage”. In: Georg Simmel Philosophische Kultur. Gesammelte Essays, Leipzig, pp. 222-241. Stauth, Georg (1990) “Frühe Ansätze zu einer Soziologie des Islams: Ignaz Goldziher (1850-1921) und Max Weber (1864-1920)”. Österreichische Zeitschrift für Soziologie, 15(2). Repr. In: Georg Stauth (2000) Islamische Kultur und moderne Gesellschaft, Bielefeld: transcript, pp. 217-238. Stauth, Georg (1993) Islam und westlicher Rationalismus. Der Beitrag des Orientalismus zur Entstehung der Soziologie, Frankfurt a.M./New York: Campus. Stauth, Georg (1999) Authentizität und kulturelle Globalisierung. Paradoxien kulturübergreifender Gesellschaft, Bielefeld: transcript. Stauth, Georg/Turner, Bryan S. (1988) Nietzsche’s Dance. Resentment, Reciprocity and Resistence in Social Life, Oxford and New York: Basil Blackwell. Weber, Max (1966) Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Religionssoziologie, vol. 1, Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck).

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24 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen

Chapter 1 Holy Ancestors, Sufi Shaykhs and Founding Myths: Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen The central Nile Delta is a particularly suitable region for the study of local Islam. It is certainly one of the most fertile, most densely populated and most stable regions in Egypt. Even the terrible black plague of the 14th century only resulted in the disappearance of a few villages, and during the peasant migrations of the Delta of the Ottoman period, the less favourable provinces, such as Buhayra, were abandoned for the south-west Central Delta (Michel 2001). This exceptional stability in terms of population and inhabitation explains why the current administrative units of Minufiyya and Gharbiyya constitute a region that has been continuously identified as a holy seat from the Mameluke period right up to the present. There is no village or, indeed, hamlet that does not have several holy tombs, modest cupolas or vast mausoleum. The enduring presence of three great Sufi brotherhoods, i.e. the Rifa
iyya, the Ahmadiyya and the Burhamiyya which originated in the period from the 12th to 13th century, is one of the factors that has contributed to the shaping of this religious landscape, especially as the Ahmadiyya and Burhamiyya emerged specifically in the Central Delta. Another factor is the exceptional dimension of the three main annual pilgrimages (mawlid, plural: mawalid) to the graves of the greatest holy men of the Delta; Al-Sayyid al-Badawi in Tanta, Ibrahim al-Disuqi in Disuq and Sidi Shibl in Shuhada. While the history of the two latter mawalid is largely unknown, we know that the mawlid of Badawi goes back, if not to the death of the holy men in 1276, at least to the 14th century. Holy men, brotherhoods and pilgrimages have dictated the dominant characteristics of the religious landscape of the Central Delta from the end of the Mameluke period to the present day. These strong continuities, which are not found in other regions of Egypt, make it possible to chart out a religious history and geography that extends over a long period. Several sources can be referred to in the attempt to describe this infrastructure. To start with, hagiography is an important primary source which

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 25 enables us to understand clusters of brotherhoods, such as those of the Sutuhiyya at the end of the Mameluke period, and to identify and date certain mausoleums. However, it does not enable the understanding – other than through allusion – of the more modest tombs. The rizaq ihbasiyya records are a second source and probably the richest on local Egyptian Islam in the Mameluke and Ottoman periods. The historian Nicolas Michel has shown the importance of this little studied source of religious history for the Egyptian rural milieu (Michel 1996). The rizaq are to the country what the waqfs are to the town; goods allocated by peasant families for the purpose of serving their interests or as a gesture of devotion in mosques, tombs or zawiyas. A study of the Jazirat Bani Nasr register provided remarkable results. Here, the extremely local scale of the gifts, and hence also of the devotion, is particularly remarkable; the rizaq are allocated from one village to another, with distances not exceeding a day’s walking; in general, they don’t extend beyond the province. Thus, what is at work here is piety on the most modest scale, and one that is most embedded in the Egyptian rural milieu. Nonetheless rizaq catalogues are extremely succinct. A third and indispensable source is required “to make them speak”: i.e. fieldwork. When crosschecked with Ottoman hagiographic or administrative texts, fieldwork can produce exceptional revelations and insights. The studies referred to here were carried out mainly in Tanta and the surrounding region and in Shuhada and its periphery. The work consisted not only in the identification of the existing holy tombs and the recording of the local oral tradition surrounding them, but also in comparing these often ancient tombs with the aforementioned sources. This made it possible to produce a long-term history of local Islam in the Central Delta. Some of the conclusions of these multiple studies are presented here. The religious landscape of the Central Delta seems to be structured in three types of partially overlapping networks: family networks where holy ancestors dominate and on the very small scale of a village or local area; brotherhood networks, thanks to which zones of installation can be mapped out, as demonstrated by the example of Sutuhiyya; and, finally, mythic networks which reconstitute the religious history of a region. The latter is the case, in particular, with the sanctuaries dedicated to the martyrs of the Islamic conquest in the Ottoman period which flourished around Shuhada.

Family networks: the role of holy ancestors Some Muslim saints of the Nile Delta, such as Sayyid al-Badawi himself, are “possessed” holy men, celibate majdhubs without descendants; others are identified only by their names or nicknames which do evoke conviction of a well-defined historical basis and reduces them to the role of agrarian cults. This is the case with shaykhs like Abu l-Ghayt, the “saint of the field”, or Shaykh
Akrut (literally “the loser” or “the good for nothing”) whose cupola acts as the centre

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26 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen of its hamlet, Kafr
Akrut. However, in general, most village holy men venerated in the Central Delta were followers of the Sunna. Thus, they founded families with holdings constituting a hamlet, a quarter, a village or sometimes an entire area. All that remains of these founding holy men, whose legends are generally forgotten, is the memory of the decisive genealogy that corroborates their holiness. The innumerable examples of family holiness include: Ibrahim al-Disuqi (d. 1277) who is venerated on one bank of the Nile, in Disuq, while his father is buried on the opposite bank, people cross the river in boats to pay homage to the holy man;
Abd al-
Al (d. 1333), Badawi’s main disciple, is buried next to his master in Tanta, while his father Shams al-Din Muhammad al-Ansari al-Gamgamuni rests at Gamgamun, and his brother
Abd al-Majid is the patron saint of the family’s town of origin, Fisha, next to Tanta, where his mother also reposes. In some cases the links are legendary and forged in retrospect so as to legitimize a local holy man and reinforce his aura. However, both hagiography and field observations indicate that Muslim saints are voluntary hereditary saints who transmitting their baraka through both filiation and spiritual genealogy. The best known and most ancient of these patrilinear holy men in our region is Hasan al-
Ashmawi, whose son is buried at his side in an adjoining tomb. The family in charge of the tomb or the zawiya is not necessarily composed of holy men. Its relative renown and wealth – obtained explicitly by exploiting the holy founder’s charisma – enabled it to set up a local power. The Ottoman archives of rizaq attribution yield further knowledge; the study of the records for the Jazirat Bani Nasr province in the early Ottoman period reveals that several rizqas were handed down to familial zawiyas. Five rizqas were allocated, for example, to zawiyas attributed to the “children” (awlad) of a given shaykh, for instance the Awlad
Abd Allah in Babij or the Awlad Mahmud in Dalgamun. The term awlad is ambiguous; it could, of course, refer to the saint’s followers, his spiritual “sons”; however, in this case, the disciples are also descendants. All do not benefit from the baraka to the same degree as the eldest son. For the renown of the tomb to last, however, a new holy man must appear to revive the fervour and charisma around the shrine. That is what happened in a hamlet in Minuf where Shaykh Hasan b. Zarif has a tomb and a zawiya, at least from 905/1499-1500; however the Ottoman archives clearly specify that it belongs to the founding family of the zawiya. The fact of being related to a known saint from the past can contribute to ensuring the legitimacy of a new holy man many centuries later: in Dalgamun, for example, Sidi Mahmud al-Musaylih (d. 1963) whose important shrine receives worshippers is considered to be a distant cousin of Sidi Musa b. Humayl, who has been continuously venerated in the village since the Mameluke period. Both, moreover, members of the Burhamiyya, are also sharifs and descendants of Ibrahim al-Disuqi: additional conditions of holiness. The affirmation of a lasting vocation of holiness also shows the impressive stability of the village’s devotion to the brotherhood. Thus, family holiness is constituted around relatively wealthy families, the

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 27 only families that have the means to endow the tombs of the elders and establish a neighbourhood – or even a hamlet – around them that will become a new village. In the villages of the Central Delta each important family or clan often occupies the neighbourhood of the village where its appointed tomb and mawlid, those of a holy ancestor, are located. This phenomenon of holy family ancestors, to which Jacques Berque alluded too briefly in his book on Sirs al-Layyan, has never been studied, simply because the holy men in question were unknown in hagiography and their charisma was based at least as much on their founding paternity as on their baraka. “Village hagiology,” he wrote in 1957, “remains quite vigorous […] It remains closely linked to family structure. There are a large proportion of ancestors among the holy men” (Berque 1957: 37). I was able to verify the relevance of this information to the present day in several cases. The old neighbourhoods of the villages of Gharbiyya are based on clan origins and grouped around the tomb of a holy man who serves as an ancestor and of whom we often know only the first name. Toponymy often confirms the founding role of the holy man; when a village expanded around the tomb and pilgrimage of a holy man it ended up taking his name. The current village Kafr Abu Dawud, which was formerly part of Mit Hebesh al-Qibliyya and close to Nifya, is under the patronage of Sidi Bakr Abu Dawud al-Qashshashi. In certain cases, these founding saints are also sharifs. This is the case in Zawiyat al-Baqli, a village built on the edge of the west bank of the Nile around the tomb of the ancestor Shaykh Sulayman al-Baqli; the village, a cradle of Malekite
ulama, also produced the first doctors and engineers of modern Egypt (Mubarak 1994: 216). Today, a significant part of the village’s inhabitants are considered to be descendants of the saint al-Baqli. In other cases the family spreads for the purpose of establishing other holy places in other villages. There are two possible reasons for this: either the phenomenon of holiness carried enough momentum to allow the holy man’s descendants to move to another village where devotees of their ancestor were already found; or divisions in the brotherhood and family disputes around the heritage and baraka of the founding shaykh led a family member, a candidate for holiness, to seek his fortune elsewhere. In either case, the settling of holy men from the same family in different villages confirms very strong regional relationships, including economic relationships: Zin al-din Dirgham al-Rifa
i al-Maliki was powerfully endowed in rizqas in the village of Shanshur over a long period of time. Some of these descendents settled next to al-Wat (known as Minshat Sultan since 1931) where a tomb was maintained by its descendants in 959/1552. Here we have a true dynasty. Where did – or does – the charisma of these holy men lie? Were they primarily miracle workers or protectors of the harvest? Our sources are too incomplete to say. In some cases, it is clear that our families of saints were also families of
ulama. Their charisma arose from their zeal for Islamic teaching. An imposing madrasa from the Ayyoubid period can still be found today in Ibyar which was the capital of the province of Jazirat Bani Nasr in the Ottoman peri-

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28 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen od. This madrasa, which was established by Shaykh Ahmad Ridwan in 629/12311232 (Korn 1999: 265-292) and was one of the Delta’s important centres of Islamic learning at the beginning of the Mameluke epoch, was developed from Coptic or Byzantine vestiges, enlarged until it became a large mosque, but was also a place of Sufi devotion. Furthermore, the rizaq registers refer to it as a zawiya in 1042/1632-1633. Ridwan’s descendants occupied the location for an unknown period (since the Mameluke period or only in the Ottoman period?): Ridwan’s grandson, Ahmed Bagam the Great, his mother, his two brothers and his descendant (Ahmed Bagam the Small) were also buried around the central court and would give their name to the mosque, now known as Jami al-Bagam. At the beginning of the 17th century, the mosque was extended in the Ottoman style and the tombs of the Bagam family holy men were endowed with maqsuras. The main memory retained of this family by the inhabitants of Ibyar concerns it wealth: the oral tradition would have it that Bagam the Great was firstly a rich land and property owner. Fuqaha and
ulama lived in his mosque. The Bagam family spread throughout the region; a Sidi
Ali al-Bagam is found in Zawiyat Bimam in the tomb of a more ancient holy man, Sidi Mas
ud al-
Abdi, and other Bagam holy men in Quwesna and Bilqas. Ibyar undoubtedly gives an impression of a true city. However, families that play this role of the shaykh can also be found in villages, albeit on a more modest scale. In Fisha al-Sughra, for example, the Awlad
Abbas maintained a madrasa during the Ottoman period, for which they received a rizqa. Simultaneously saints,
ulama, and small local notables, these family groups were sometimes continuously maintained from the Mameluke or Ottoman periods to the modern period. For example, the Awlad al-Ra
i, descendants of one of the “Companions of the Roof” who was a direct disciple of Badawi (d. 1276), are mentioned in the 19th century. In other cases, however, properties were abandoned, charisma was lost and groups became extinct. But new families immerged, in the 19th century in particular, which assumed responsibility for the diminishing holiness and threatened sanctuaries. A remarkable example of this sacred renewal is the passing of the Bagam mosque in Ibyar to the control of the Naga family, who were
ulama and sharifs of the shafi
ite rite in charge of the syndicates of sharifs (niqabat al-ashraf ) of Minufiyya in the 19th century. Shaykh Ridwan Naga al-Kabir renovated the minaret and financed the current minbar which dates from 1274/1857-58. His successor, Shaykh
Abd al-Hadi Naga, under the khedives
Abbas and Isma
il, was imam of the Bagam mosque where he created a small institution for Islamic learning (Mubarak 1994: 90). The power of the Naga family spread beyond the Bagam mosque and the imposing zawiya of
Ali Muhammad Naga (d. 1930), which was still in excellent shape, remains one of the biggest religious buildings in Ibyar. Here we have the fascinating case of a new family of scholars and holy men who renewed the ancient places with their aura and charisma. What is interesting to note about these family networks is their stability, however, they remained limited to very small regions. As already stated, the

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 29 study of the rizqa demonstrate how such small-scale family networks of holy men worked from one village to another with no interest in Cairo’s large sanctuaries. This profoundly local piety follows the pilgrimage trends. On the whole, this seems to correspond to the network of canals that irrigate the Central Delta; a north-south oriented network, parallel to the western branch of the Nile. It wasn’t by chance that so many tombs were built along the canals a few decades ago; they were navigated for the purpose of both trade and pilgrimage. The unrecognized importance of family networks in the history of local holiness indicates the necessity of – even relative – wealth to support the initial baraka of the elder. In order to maintain the tomb, zawiya or madrasa, it was necessary to own lands and be able to allocate part of one’s income to the holy building. The families of holy men, sharifs and
ulama were clearly local notables.

Brotherhood networks: an ancient and enduring stratum Brotherhood networks often began as family networks. The religious landscape of the Central Delta was shaped by brotherhoods whose initial establishment sometimes goes back as far as the 13th century. The first organized Sufi brotherhood established in the Delta, about which we have information from a reliable source, is the Rifa
iyya. This brotherhood of Iraqi origin was founded on the charisma of Ahmad al-Rifa
i (1118-1182), settled in the Central Delta, through Alexandria, as early as the end of the Ayyoubid period, thanks to active propagandists such as the Iraqi, Abu l-Fath al-Wasiti (d. 632/1234) (Trimingham 1971: 38-39; Bannerth 1970: 20-21 and Geoffroy 1995: 210-211). Moreover, thanks to the Risala by Safi al-Din Ibn Abi l-Mansur, we also know of a few cases of Abu l-Fath al-Wasiti disciples who settled in Gharbiyya in the Ayyoubid period, such as
Abd al-Salam al-Qalibi in Qalib, Abu l-
Abbas al-Damanhuri,
Abdallah a-Biltaki and also Dirgham al-Masir (Gril 1986: 208-209, 214, 220 and 227). In the Ottoman period, the rizaq registers explicitly mention numerous rifa
is, and fieldwork made it possible to verify that these were hitherto important saints, presumably of Iraqi origin and from the Mameluke period, whose tombs also serve as the great mosque of the village. This is the case in Tala where the tomb of Sidi
Izz al-Din al-Rifa
i in the centre of the neighbourhood now makes up a part of the great mosque; this is also the case in
Ashma where Hasan al-
Ashmawi in his imposing mausoleum is also a Rifa
i. It is striking to observe that the power of the Rifa
is in the region has not diminished. The pilgrims who return each year for the mawlid of Shuhada, the main pilgrimage of the Minufiyya, are first and foremost rifa
is. A new brotherhood followed the Rifa
iyya, without ever replacing it. The Sutuhiyya, later called Ahmadiyya, was actually the offspring of the Rifa
iyya. This was the main Egyptian brotherhood founded, if not by the holy man Ahmad al-Badawi (d. 1276), at least by his disciple
Abd al-
Al (d. 1333) in the early 14th century. It identified with Egypt, particularly the Delta, to such an extent

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30 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen that it did not spread beyond the banks of the Nile. Badawi was undoubtedly initiated to the Rifa
iyya in Iraq, and it is possible that he came to Egypt at the end of the Ayyoubid period as a propagandist for this brotherhood. His exceptional charisma and the creation of a new brotherhood around his tomb resulted if not in competition between the two brotherhoods, at least in the sharing of the territory. In the Ahmadi legends of the Mameluke period, Rifa
i shaykhs from Gharbiyya come to give their allegiance to the Tanta master: thus from
Ali al-Miliji, from
Abd Allah al-Biltagi or from
Abd al-Salam al-Qalibi. Things must not have always been so simple. The Sutuhiyya begins very modestly. On the death of Badawi, who is buried in Tanta, his first companions settle in villages located at most an hour’s walk from Tanta. Again, this is a very local brotherhood and devotion. In the 14th century, the Companions of the Terrace, as the first holy men of the brotherhood are called, enlarge their settlement, while at the same time remaining essentially based in the Central Delta and in Cairo. In the 15th century, the Sutuhiyya was given a new name, the Ahmadiyya, to highlight its dominating characteristic: the devotion to the holy founder, Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi, which emerged as early as the end of the Mameluke period. The brotherhood then located domination in the Central Delta permanently. This was the period when the number of hagiographies of the holy man of Tanta increased, the period when the emir Qaytbay extended and sumptuously renovated the mausoleum of Tanta, the period when the mawlid of Tanta ultimately started to become one of the major events of religious life in Egypt. Numerous villages of the region, such as Minyat Shahala and Sirsina, two practically contiguous villages, became Ahmadis fiefs. The Ahmadiyya was not a monolithic brotherhood; on the contrary, it was a diffuse organization with autonomous branches united solely by their shared devotion of the holy man of Tanta. Numerous branches of the Ahmadiyya were found, for example, in the Central Delta. These included the Kannasiyya, the Awlad al-Ra
i and the Shinnawiyya, a reformed branch of the Ahmadiyya, established at the end of the Mameluke period by Muhammad al-Shinnawi (d. 1529). The current shaykh of the Sufi brotherhoods of Egypt, Hasan al-Shinnawi, descended from this brotherhood which is still based in Tanta and its surroundings. The Burhamiyya is a twin brotherhood of the Ahmadiyya. According to legend it was founded by Ibrahim al-Disuqi (1236-1277), about whose life as little known is known as that of Badawi, but who is generally considered as the latter’s disciple. Buried in Disuq, on the shore of the Nile, like Badawi, Ibrahim al-Disuqi is venerated by an impressive mawlid. The history of this pilgrimage is not very well known, however it would appear to be essentially a phenomenon of the Ottoman period, tracing the Tanta festival all the way into its calendar. The Burhamiyya originated in the early 14th century under the impetus of the father and son of Ibrahim al-Disuqi at the time when
Abd al-
Al was structuring the Sutuhiyya. The registers of the rizaq enable the identification of four holy

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 31 men as Burhami in the Jazirat Bani Nasr and to verify that they do indeed date back to the 15th century. This is the case of Sidi Mas
ud in Zawiyat Bimam, Sidi Musa b. Humayl al-Burhami who is buried in Dalgamun, Shaykh
Umar b. Ya
qub al-Burhani in Juraysan and, finally, of a holy Burhami who has now disappeared in Bunufar, on the banks of the Nile. The banks of the west branch of the Nile that lead specifically to Disuq and to its pilgrimage were settlement sites favoured by the Burhamiyya. The extensive local settlement of the Burhamiyya continued on a regional scale as after the powerful Rifa
iyya this is one of the most populous brotherhoods in the mawlid of Sidi Shibl. Thus, the history of Sufi brotherhoods in the Central Delta would appear to essentially involve a succession between Rifa
iyya, Sutuhiyya, Ahmadiyya and Burhamiyya. This succession never supplanted or even overshadowed the oldest brotherhoods and each brotherhood ended up carving out its own territory. A major insight emerged from the fieldwork on the Sufi brotherhoods of Jazirat Bani Nasr: when a holy man mentioned in the Ottoman archives is still venerated today, it is often because his brotherhood was actively maintained, with weekly sessions of dhikr and mawlids at his tomb. The village identity was thus partly constituted around a brotherhood, like the Ahmadiyya which succeeded the Sutuhiyya in Mit Shahala and in Sirsina, the Burhamiyya in Dalgamun and the Shinnawi which is intimately connected to the village of Shuni. However, the strong Ahmadiyya presence appears to have overshadowed the subsequent development of other brotherhoods, such as the Shadhiliyya or the Khalwatiyya, both of which enjoy a far less extensive and demonstrative presence in the Central Delta. The remarkable stability of the brotherhoods of the Central Delta is mirrored by the stability of very rich territories. The patron saints of the Rifa
iyya, Ahmadiyya and Burhamiyya are also holy ancestors who control a local territory and this is probably the key to their success and stability.

Mythic networks: holy martyrs and conquerors, heroes of the islamization of the Delta While the somewhat similar family networks and brotherhood networks account for a large part of the local holiness of the villages in the Central Delta, certain holy networks are mainly mythic in nature, as evidenced by Badawi and his numerous disciples. The Shuhada pilgrimage is another example of this phenomenon. This town, which is now the district centre (markaz) in the administrative region of Minufiyya bears the name “the martyrs” (al-shuhada). One of the most characteristic aspects of the veneration of holy Muslims in the region is the large number of tombs of martyrs who fell in the Arab-Islamic conquest. They are generally buried in groups: seven in Qalib Ibyar and forty in Tala. One of the numerous tombs that are strewn throughout the courtyard of the mausoleum of Sidi Shibl bears the name of Sidi al-Arba
in, the Holy Forty. In Shuhada, in particular, the martyrs are venerated during two annual pil-

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32 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen grimages, the most important of the Delta after the Tanta and Disuq pilgrimages. These pilgrimages are devoted to Sidi Shibl, the supposed son of Fadl b. al-
Abbas, a Companion of the Prophet who was supposedly martyred during the conquest in Syria. The tombs of the “Seven Girls” (Sab
a banat), reputed by oral tradition to be the seven sisters of Sidi Shibl are also located around the latter. It would appear that what we have here does not involve holiness rooted in the place and the terrain and personified by the holy ancestors, village patrons or brotherhood shaykhs as in the cases previously studied. A mythic dimension is at work here which has assisted in shaping the religious landscape and in lending an identity to a whole region. A recent historiographic debate in Egypt raised doubts about the authenticity of the tomb of Sidi Shibl and the very existence of the buried holy man, whose historicity seems more than doubtful (Jarwani 1988;
Uthman 1995). In the context of this study, what is important here is to establish how this cult assumed such a place in local Islam in the Central Delta, and analyze the meaning of its expansion. Of course, by definition the veneration of martyrs is supposed to go back to the beginnings of Islam. However, nothing is known about this tomb earlier than the end of the Mameluke period. It existed, in any case, in 916/1510-1511, at which date, according to the registers of the rizaq, an oratory and a zawiya had already been established in Kafr al-shuhada. The term zawiya here is obviously being used to designate a tomb (maqam). Thus, there was a holy man’s grave and a movement of pilgrims to Shuhada that started at the end of the Mameluke period. Once again, this was piety on a very small and very local scale: the rizqa which, in 916 of the hijra, is allocated to the tomb of the Shuhada comes from the neighbouring village of Salamun. Hence, the pilgrimages made to the martyr’s grave were not made from a considerable distance; none of the hagiographies that refer to the mawlid of Tanta at the same period contain any mention of Shuhada. Moreover, the place remains undetermined as well as the venerated holy men: there is no mention of any Sidi Shibl. In the early 17th century, a great mosque was built to receive the pilgrims of the shuhada. Like all projects involving the construction of a shrine, it was undoubtedly intended to both to consecrate a devotional trend and contribute to its growth. An Ahmadi saint, Ahmad al-Ahmadi al-Misri, known as al-Suhaymi, who died in 1043/1633-1634, played the major role here. According to a biographical dictionary from the 9th/17th century, the Khilasat al-athar by Muhibbi, Suhaymi had just built a mosque next to the mashhad of the shuhada and settled there to recite the Quran and train numerous disciples. When he went to Cairo, al-Suhaymi went to al-Azhar and the people crowded around him. As is the case with Ibyar, what we have here is a saint who is also a scholar and a master. In accordance with his wishes, on his death Ahmad al-Suhaymi was buried next to Sidi Shibl and, in the oral tradition, is considered as the latter’s third vizir. The reassignation of a rizqa that came to finance his tomb dates from 1059/1649, only sixteen years after his death; this is a further indication that Suhaymi was

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 33 considered as a holy man and that his holiness, recognized as far away as Cairo, was crucial in legitimizing and establishment of the Shuhada location. With him the pilgrimage was extended to a larger scale that went beyond the purely local, village dimension and attained, at the very least, a regional dimension. Remarkably, this expansion is contemporaneous with the great hagiographies devoted to Sayyid al-Badawi, Halabi (d. 1635) and
Abd al-Samad in 1619. There can be no doubt that the Shuhada pilgrimage took off in the shadow of the Tanta mawlid and under the protection of Ahmadiyya, which was strongly represented in Sirsina. Since then, the Sidi Shibl mawlid has taken place one week before that of Badawi, which itself proceeds that of Ibrahim al-Disuqi as part of a very organized liturgy of Delta pilgrimages. This was also in the 17th century, so it would appear that the personality of Sidi Shibl distinguished itself from the indistinct conglomerate of anonymous martyrs. This may be why a specific hagiographic tradition is devoted to him. The hamlet of martyrs would soon profit from the growth of the mawlid in the 17th century. As early as 1128/1715, Sirsina was called “Sirsina wa al-Shuhada”. In 1260/1844, the former hamlet of Shuhada had became a fully fledged village (nahiya). Two years later, in 1262/1846, a local notable, Hasan Agha Sha
ir, had the mosque renovated which the minister of awqaf classified it as rabi
II on 1313/10 August 1899. In 1345/1925, the waqf minister renovated and enlarged the mosque which was then inaugurated in full pomp by the King himself in 1927. However, according to witnesses from the Fatimid period, the architectural features of the shrine itself would remain unchanged. In 1941, following supreme consecration, Shuhada became district centre (markaz) and was quickly endowed with the urban functions removed from Sirsina which had become a simple village adjacent to Shuhada. Finally, in the mid-1970s, renovation destroyed all former vestiges of the tomb and rapid archaeological digs were carried out by the Egyptian Service of Antiquities which revealed the site to be of former Byzantine origin. The importance of this mythic cult, which was actually established at a rather late stage, was such that it permeated the whole region and thus constituted a mythic network. According to the oral tradition, numerous local holy men became martyrs of the conquest as well as companions of Sidi Shibl. This is the case with several dozen holy men in the region who are considered as having been emirs, vizirs, clients (mawali) and even slaves of Sidi Shibl: such is the case of Muhammad al-
Iraqi and his brothers, who fell in the village of Minyat al-Wat and from 1931 were called al-
Iraqiyya on account of their tomb, Husam al-Din in Komshish and emir Musa at Madani in Mit Faris, now called Minyat Musa or of Nusayr the slave at Zurqan whose mausoleum serves as the town’s great mosque. According to my own inquiries most of these tombs still exist today and it would appear that oral legend continues to associate them with the martyrs of the Islamic conquest. The make-up of this mythic network is obviously a recent construction of identity that emerged in the Ottoman period. For the inhabi-

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34 | Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen tants of the region and the devotees of Sidi Shibl, the Shuhada, who give their religious face to the current Minufiyya, are the companions of Sidi Shibl, who died during the Islamic conquest against the Christians. All local history, every archaeological discovery and every holy tomb can only proclaim this sacred truth. In Shuhada, a history was thus invented, yet based on an incontestably ancient sanctuary, most probably a tomb from the Fatimid period which succeeded a Christian holy place. This hypothesis would tally quite well with what we know of the rhythm of the Islamization of the Delta (Martin 1997). This tomb of extreme local significance in the 16th century experienced a rapid ascent in the shadow of the Tanta mawlid before triumphing in the 17th century. Without ever supplanting the decisive role of the brotherhood shaykhs, who constituted the religious framework of the country well before the Shuhada mawlid, the influence of Sidi Shibl has since given meaning to a number of the region’s small local sanctuaries.

Conclusion: a coherent topography that instills a land with meaning Families, brotherhoods, founding myths: the superimposition and overlapping of these different networks explain the complexity and the different levels implemented in the religious geography of the Central Delta. Combined with the thorough Islamization of the Central Delta, during the Mameluke and Ayyoubid periods, the
ulama and their madrasas, the holy men and women and their tombs, the shaykhs and their brotherhoods patiently constituted a religious landscape where everything has a meaning. Subsequent new holy men would only have to insert themselves into the fabric from time to time to give it a new impetus. However, the framework was well established in the 14th and 15th centuries with varying holy men, many of whom were also holy ancestors and patrons of prosperous villages in the Delta. The Ottoman period only needed to create the great Shuhada pilgrimage which would come to complete those of Disuq and Tanta, mark a milestone for pilgrimage on the route of the great mawlid of Tanta and supply a founding myth to a land now won over by Islam.

References Bannerth, Ernst (1970) “La Rifa
iyya en Égypte”. MIDEO X, pp. 20-21. Berque, Jacques (1957) Histoire sociale d’un village égyptien au XXe siècle, Paris/ The Hague: Mouton. Geoffroy, Éric (1995) Le soufisme en Égypte et en Syrie sous les derniers mamelouks et les premiers ottomans, orientations spirituelles et enjeux culturels, Damas: Institut français de Damas.

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Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta | 35 Gril, Denis (1986) La Risala de Safi al-Din Ibn Abi l-Mansur, Biographies des maitres spirituels connus par un cheikh égyptien du VIIe/XIIIe siècle, Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale. al-Jarwani, Sa
id Sulayman (1988) Sidi Shibl Muhammad b. al-Fadl b. al-
Abbas, qa
id hamiyyat husn Sirsina, Cairo: Dar al-Risala. Korn, Lorenz (1999) “Tradition und Innovation in der ayyubidischen Architektur in Ägypten”. Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Abteilung Kairo, 55, pp. 265-292. Martin, Maurice (1997) “Le Delta chrétien à la fin du XIIe siècle”. Orientalia Christiana Periodica 63(1), pp. 181-199. Michel, Nicolas (1996) “Les rizaq ihbasiyya, terres agricoles en mainmorte dans l’Égypte mamelouke et ottomane; étude sur les dafatir al-ahbas ottomans”. Annales islamologiques XXX, pp. 105-198. Michel, Nicolas (2001) “Migrations de paysans dans le Delta du Nil au début de l’époque ottomane”. Annales islamologiques 35. Mubarak,
Ali Pacha (1994) Al-Khitat al-tawfiqiyya, Cairo, vol. XI (2nd ed.). Trimingham, John Spencer (1971) The Sufi Orders of Islam, London: Oxford University Press.
Uthman, Muhammad
Abd al-Sattar (1995) Amir al-jaysh Shibl al-Aswad, Sohag.

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36 | Patrick Franke

Chapter 2 Khidr in Istanbul: Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces in Traditional Islam 1

Patrick Franke If we are to investigate the relationship between spirituality and locality in a given religion it might be useful to take a look at the concept of sacred spaces as it has been elaborated in the field of comparative religion. It was Mircea Eliade who developed this concept in his pioneering work “The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion” (first published in German in 1957) and stressed the fact that for religious man space is not homogeneous, but contains breaks and cracks differentiating sacred places from other defined spaces. In order to explain the inhomogeneity experienced by the religious person Eliade used the example of a church in a modern city. For a believer, this church belongs to a space that differs from the street on which it stands. The door that opens on the interior of the church indicates a break of continuity. The threshold separating the two spaces marks the distance between the two modes of being, the profane and the sacred. It is the barrier, the borderline separating the profane and the sacred; at the same time, however, it is also the place of transition between the two spheres. By elevating this dichotomy between the profane and the sacred onto a theopolitical level Eliade developed his theory of the Landnahme, according to which a characteristic feature of traditional societies is the opposition that they assume between their inhabited territory and the unknown and indeterminate space that surrounds it. Their area is the world (more precisely, our world) and cosmos; the rest is a kind of other world, a strange and chaotic space inhabited by ghosts, demons and strangers. At an initial glance, this spatial cleavage

1 This is a revised and extended version of a paper presented at the Centre for Oriental Studies in Halle in October 2000. I would like to thank Ildikó Bellér-Hann (Halle), Hans Harder (Halle) and Marius Kociejowski (London) for their assistance in the preparation of this article.

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 37 appears to be due to the opposition between the inhabited and well-ordered area and the unknown space outside. In reality, what transforms a newly occupied area into cosmos is its consecration by a hierophanic event. The world is seen as a space in which the sacred has already manifested itself and thus a breakthrough from plane to plane has become both possible and repeatable. Where a hierophanic event has taken place, an opening has also been made, either upward (to the divine world) or downward (to the underworld, the world of the dead). Eliade describes this point connecting the three levels of heaven, the earth and the infernal regions as the cosmic pillar (axis mundi), which can be only at the very centre of the universe so that the whole of the habitable world extends around it. In many cases the idea of this axis mundi is expressed in the form of a real or imagined mountain, however, but it can equally be represented by a tree, a shrine or a city. If the sacred space consists of a building it might be conceived not only as the axis mundi, but also as the earthly reproduction of a transcendent model. This, Eliade argues, is particularly valid for the idea of the temple in the great oriental civilizations of Mesopotamia, Egypt, China and India. There the sanctity of the temple was supposed to be proof against any earthly corruption because its architectural plan is the work of the gods and it therefore enjoys a spiritual and invulnerable existence. Man can access the vision of these celestial models only through the grace of the gods, and he endeavours to reproduce them on earth. This concept of sacred buildings entered biblical tradition with the idea of the celestial archetype of the Jerusalem temple as delineated in the First Chronicle 28, 19 and Ezekiel. Later, in Christian Europe, this symbolism was taken over and elaborated in the conceptions of the basilica and the cathedral which were designed as imitations of paradise and celestial Jerusalem. One of the most significant functions of the place consecrated by the hierophanic event is that it makes orientation possible. Hence, according to Eliade, the manifestation of the sacred in space has a cosmological valence because it transforms an amorphous and chaotic space (into which no orientation has yet been projected) into a structured world. In most societies, however, the idea of sacred space is not restricted to one place. Within the inhabited world there usually exists a multitude of smaller and bigger centres that provide orientation: temples, shrines, holy cities etc. As religious man, Eliade argues, always wants to live as close as possible to the centre of the world, he is not even satisfied with knowing that his country or the next city lies at the midpoint of the earth, but wants also his own house to be at the centre and to have a direct access to the upper sphere. Therefore, in traditional societies the symbolism of the centre has had a formative influence not only on the conception of countries, cities, temples and palaces, but also of “the humblest human dwelling, be it the tent of a nomad hunter, the shepherd’s yurt, or the house of the sedentary cultivator” (Eliade 1957: 63). Just as with city and shrine, so too the house is usually consecrated by a symbol or a cosmological ritual that seems to shift it symbolically to the centre of the world.

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38 | Patrick Franke It goes without saying that Eliade’s theory of sacred space, which was based on rather meagre evidence derived from diverse religious contexts, is not suitable for describing all of the specific forms of the religious space experience that have been observed in various places and at different times; he himself was fully aware of this.2 But if we understand his theory as it was intended, i.e. as a mere matrix of interpretation, it proves helpful. Whether or not it is influenced by a romantic concept of religion,3 Eliade’s theory provides us with a set of categories which aid in the understanding of the content of certain myths and religious phenomena that would otherwise remain obscure. Meanwhile a number of scholars have made significant contributions to the discussion of the symbolism of space by opening up or refashioning elements of his paradigm. Harold W. Turner’s “From Temple to Meeting House: The Phenomenology and Theology of Places of Worship” (1979) can be singled out as a particularly clear introduction to meaning in architecture. In this work, Turner interprets the history of religious and, particularly, Christian architecture as the tension between buildings that localize the presence of divinity and those that serve for congregational worship. Others have advanced the discussion of sacred space through case studies of pilgrimage places and the examination of the religious topography of urban spaces (for an overview cf. Brereton 1987). If we apply this paradigm to Islam, the first idea that comes to mind is that the Kaaba in Mecca corresponds exactly to what Eliade defines as axis mundi. As the central sanctuary of Islam it is the final destination of both the larger and the smaller pilgrimage and provides Muslims throughout the world with an ultimate orientation in religious affairs: the Kaaba is the qibla, the direction which the worshipper is ordered to assume when performing his five daily prayers, the direction toward which the head of an animal to be slaughtered is turned, and toward which even the faces of the dead are turned when they are buried. The sacredness of Mecca and its sanctuary finds expression in a sophisticated system of borderlines delimitating it from the outside world. The area encircling the town is conceived as a sacred zone (haram) which the outsider is not allowed to enter without having fulfilled certain consecration rites. In traditional Islam the Kaaba is conceived as “the sacred house of God” (bayt Allah al-haram) which also played an prominent role in cosmogony: According to an idea transmitted in many works of Islamic religious literature Mecca was the first part of the earth to emerge from the primeval ocean at the beginning of

2 Cf. the concluding remarks in Eliade (1957: 62 p.) 3 N. Smart (1984: 87) has criticized Eliade’s methodic approach as being too nostalgic to provide an explanation for modern conceptions of the world. As we are not dealing with “modern conceptions of the world” here we can disregard this objection. Edmund Leach has accused Eliade of being the preacher or prophet of a new religion himself. For this and other more general critical assessments of Eliade’s approach see Berner (1997: 350-53).

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 39 time whence its epithet Umm al-qura (mother of the cities).4 As we will see, there even exists a legend portraying the Kaaba as the earthly reproduction of a heavenly model. Of course, sanctity in Islam is not restricted to one place.5 Apart from Mecca, there are multitudes of other smaller and bigger holy places, encompassing a wide variety of very different localities. Nearly equal in rank to Mecca is Medina, the city to which the Prophet migrated and where he is buried in a place called rawda (garden). Medina gained in significance as the veneration of the Prophet increased in the course of Islamic history. Another holy place of Islam, dating from the time of Muhammad, is Jerusalem, which is known as al-Quds or Bayt al-Maqdis (house of the sanctuary) in the Islamic tradition. In this case, a location has become sacred because of a hierophanic event that has occurred there. Although various traditions were attached to the city, it was above all the Prophet’s nocturnal journey there and his mysterious ascension from there to heaven that established its sanctity. Jerusalem was even selected as the qibla at a certain point of history, at the beginning of Muhammad’s preaching. Although it had already relinquished this function to Mecca during the lifetime of Muhammad, it later became a significant destination of Muslim pilgrimage, especially after the erection of the magnificent Dome of the Rock. For the Shia community these three places are not the only holy places; other holy places include those where members of the Prophet’s family died or were martyred, the most important being Kerbela in Iraq, Kazimiyya near Baghdad and the cities of Qum and Mashhad in Iran. These places are surrounded by special sanctity, and, as is the case in both Mecca and Medina, non-believers are generally not allowed inside. However, the sacred geography of Islam would be incomplete without a mention of the many tombs of Muslim saints found in almost all of the countries of the Islamic world. Hundreds of thousands of people gravitate to these tombs on the anniversary of the saints’ deaths or birthdays so as to obtain blessing by participating in prayer, communal meals and religious music. This co-existence of a global super-centre venerated by all Muslims and many sub-centres serving as focal points of local cults seems to be a peculiar attitude Islam has developed to mitigate the contrast between religious and dogmatic unity, on the one hand, and regional, cultural, ethnic and denominational diversity, on the other. Although the local sanctuaries play an important role in the religious life of Islam, they are generally conceived as secondary to the central sanctuary of Mecca and they do not compete with it. Their undisputed subordination to the central sanctuary is expressed almost everywhere by the

4 Cf. ath-Thalabi. The early 17th century Meccan scholar
Ali al-Qari (1970: 12) explains that likewise Abu Qubays, the local mountain of Mecca, is called Umm al-jibal because he is the mother of all other mountains of the world. 5 For an overview of the sacred geography of Islam see also Schimmel (1991).

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40 | Patrick Franke annexing of a mosque to the local sanctuary. The mosque in itself is a type of religious building which can be read as “the meaningful negation of sacred space” (Brereton 1987: 528a). Its primary function is to serve as a place for common prayer. The mosque has significance not because of any specific spatial properties, but because the community gathers and worships there. Wherever they are, mosques must face the qibla and with their mihrab (prayer niche) they direct worship towards the sacred city of Mecca. When combined with a pilgrimage place or the burial site of a saint, the mosque, however, may be conceived in itself as a sacred place. Hence, mosque architecture shows the tension between two religious concepts of locality, which are, in Brereton’s apt phrase, “the sanctification of a place and the denial of any localization of divine presence”. In this article, the concept of sacred space shall be used as a hermeneutical aid for understanding the meaning of a series of Turkish legends concerning the Haghia Sophia (Aya Sofya), the principal mosque of Istanbul during the Ottoman period. A comparative look at some Arabic legends concerning the virtues (fadail) of certain localities shall also enable us to discuss the question of the legitimacy of Islamic sacred places on a more theoretical level. What makes these places different from other spaces? And why are they interpreted as bearers of religious meaning? The purpose of this article is to shed light on some elements of the symbolic instrumentarium traditional Islam provides for transforming profane spaces into sacred ones.

The Ottoman patria Anyone who has visited the Haghia Sophia will appreciate how impressive a structure it is. Erected between 532 and 537 at the instigation of the Byzantine emperor Justinian, the outstanding feature of this building, which is also described as the most significant achievement of Byzantine church architecture, is its voluminous central dome with a diameter of 33 metres. Numerous guide books provide ample information about the architectural details of this building, the interior décor and the various mosaic panels. What is less well-known is the fact that around this edifice, which was perceived as a symbol of the empire throughout the late Byzantine era, a cycle of legends developed which tell of the mysterious circumstances of its construction. In the Byzantine context, these legends are called patria.6 In 1480, thirty years after the Turkish conquest of Constantinople and the conversion of the Haghia Sophia into a mosque, the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II ordered a certain dervish called Shems ed-Din Kharabati to write a history of the building of Constantinople and the Haghia Sophia. The result is a work written in Persian which draws inspiration from the Byzantine patria to a considerable extent. F. Tauer translated it into 6 The various versions of these legends have been critically edited by Vitti (1986).

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 41 French in his article “Les versions Persanes de la legende d’Aya Sofya”, which was published in Byzantinoslavica in 1954. A slightly modified version of this legend has also been incorporated into various Ottoman historical works, for example Mustafa
Ali’s world chronicle Künh al-akhbar which was compiled in the late 16th century. According to this legend, which for reasons of space can only be presented here in summary, the Haghia Sophia was built because the Byzantine emperor Justinian had a dream in which he saw a man on the roof of his palace commanding him to build a church that would become a place of worship (
ibadatkhane) for the whole world. When Justinian woke up the next morning, he vowed to comply with the man’s order immediately. He informed the leading figures of his empire and ordered them to bring stones and marble from all over the world so that he would be able to build the church as soon as possible. Justinian appointed his court architect Ignatius to carry out the project who in turn called together a hundred other architects to draw the plans. Some difficulties arose after the foundations for the church had been laid because the architects could not agree on the exact arrangement of the pillars, domes and apses. As none of their plans pleased the king, they suspended the work for seven days. Shems ed-Din tells us that on the night of the seventh day, in a dream the king saw an old man clad in green walking around the construction site, holding a plate of silver in his hands on which the plan of a church was engraved. “When I saw him”, Justinian reports, I immediately thought how wonderful it would be if I could obtain this plate in order to erect the building according to this plan. While I was still thinking about it, the old man laid the plate into my hands and said: ‘Behold! This is the building plan for Aya Sofya, drawn up long ago on the table of destiny (lawh-i qadar). Now the hour has come, and I bring it to you.’ I asked him: ‘Venerable master, what does ‘Aya Sofya’ mean?’ He answered: ‘From the very first day, the church that you will build was named by God Aya Sofya […].’ When I woke up, I thanked God because I knew that this old man was a bringer of glad tidings and that the church had received its name from God himself (Tauer 1954: 8).

As the court architect Ignatius had a dream vision revealing precisely the same building plan, Justinian was delighted and gave the order that work be resumed on the construction site in accordance with the newly received scheme. However, some time later when the pillars and numerous supporting domes had already been erected, a new problem arose. The treasury was empty, thus the great dome in the centre of the church could not be completed. For seven days the work on the construction site was stopped, until, on the night of the eighth day, Justinian had another dream. Shems ed-Din lets the emperor speak himself:

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42 | Patrick Franke This night I prayed to God until morning. It was almost daylight when I was overcome with sleep. Again I perceived that old man who had earlier delivered good news to me. He stood on the construction site and performed his prayer. When he finished I ran up to him, prostrated myself before him, and asked: ‘By the name of God, tell me, who you are!’ He answered: ‘Know that I am the prophet Khidr. At the command of the Creator I am the protector of the helpless. Now, from the World of the Unseen (
alam-i ghayb), the order has come to me to take care of this church.’ I asked: ‘O honourable and mighty man, do you know that we have nothing left to meet the costs?’ He answered: ‘Do not worry! When it gets light mount your horse and go out through the Golden Gate, which is the Gate of Silivri, till you come to the place of the three hills. Not far from there you will find a column of blue marble. Let them dig at the base of this column. Take what you find under it and use it for the erection of this church!’ When I woke up I thanked God (Tauer 1954: 9).

As we see, in Shems ed-Din’s account of the construction of the Haghia Sophia, the green-clad old man intervenes three times. The first time he invites the emperor to build the church, the second time he delivers the building plan and the name for the church, both having been predetermined from all eternity, and the third time he announces his future protection of the church and helps to provide the funds for the building. It is only on this last occasion that the old man discloses his identity and reveals himself as the prophet Khidr, who is a protector of the helpless as commanded by God and has received an order from the metaphysical world to take care of the Haghia Sophia. Stephane Yerasimos, who presents a detailed study of this legend in his book “La fondation de Constantinople et de Sainte Sophie dans les traditions turques” (1990), has shown that the legend was not written for entertainment but was embedded in a complex ideological debate surrounding the question as whether it was right that the Ottoman sultans, by moving their capital from Edirne to Constantinople and adopting Haghia Sophia as their principal mosque, take over the imperial heritage of the Byzantine empire. I will return to this debate later, but I would like to follow another track first. In Shems ed-Din’s account, in the last dream of Justinian the prophet Khidr announces his protection of the Haghia Sophia. It is remarkable that in several Turkish legends stemming from a later period Khidr reappears as a protector of this edifice, as for instance in an account recorded in the “Seyahatname” of the Ottoman author Evliya Chelebi in the 17th century. The events described in this account concern the time of the prophet Muhammad. At the moment of his birth, it is said, a number of great buildings of the world collapsed. However, since at that time Aya Sofya was already under the protection of Khidr, there was no difficulty in reconstructing its dome. Evliya Chelebi relates the following in his travel account: In the blessed night, which announced the birth of our Lord, the messenger of the two worlds, a terrible earthquake caused the Taq-i Kisra (in Ktesiphon), the Dome of the ‘Red

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 43 Apple’ (in Rome) and the Dome of Aya Sofya to collapse. After a while, on orders of Khidr, about 300 priests, which were lead by the hermit and monk Bahira of Bosra, moved to Mecca and took some saliva from his Highness Muhammad, who at that time was still a young boy. […] Together with the sublime saliva, the priests brought some water from Zamzam and some of the pure soil of Mecca with them for blessing. After their return, they set about reconstructing the collapsed parts of the church (Chelebi 1896 I: 124f.).

It is easy to realize the purpose of this legend. It should demonstrate that Aya Sofya was not a pure Christian building, but one which was already Islamized at the time of Muhammad by his saliva, which here functions as a symbolic carrier of sacred energy. Thus, we can interpret this legend within the framework of Eliade’s theory as a myth of Landnahme, which projects the hierophanic event consecrating the relevant space back into a time preceding its real occupation by the society concerned. The time chosen for the hierophanic event is, of course, not arbitrary but corresponds to the most sacred period in the history of this society. It is Khidr who draws the attention of the Christian priests to the magical effect of Muhammad’s saliva. His part becomes even more evident in a slightly modified version of this legend recorded by the Turkish folklorist Mehmet Önder, which, according to him, is the Aya-Sofya-legend par excellence. A brief extract from this legend is sufficient here: After the wall of Aya Sofya had been erected the architects wanted to place a dome upon it. The dome, however, did not hold, but immediately broke down. At that time the prophet Khidr – Peace be upon him – appeared in the guise of an old dervish. He approached the architects and said to them: ‘Such a great dome you cannot build. Do not make further efforts! There is only one possibility: If you mix the saliva of his Highness, the last prophet Muhammad, with the water of Zamzam and add this mixture, together with some of the soil of Mecca, to the mortar of the dome, it will stand quickly.’ Then he disappeared, while the architects stood behind in a state of puzzlement. They went to the priests and told them the words of the dervish, who had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. The priests were astonished as well and set out for Mecca. There, they met Abu Talib, the uncle of our prophet, to whom they explained the state of affairs. With the help of Abu Talib they reached our prophet and filled a bowl with his saliva. Then they loaded seventy camels with the soil of Mecca and seventy camels with the water of Zamzam and returned to Istanbul. The architects made the soil and water of Zamzam into a mortar and, with this, erected the dome (Önder 1966: 21/22).

As, according to legend, Khidr had already appeared as a protector of Aya Sofya at the great moments of pre-Islamic history, it goes without saying that he could not be absent at an event as significant as the capture of Constantinople by the Turks. So a well-known legend tells us that he went to meet the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II, when, after his conquest of the city, he entered the Haghia Sophia church. At that time Khidr stuck his finger in one of the pillars of the church

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44 | Patrick Franke and turned the building on its own axis until it was aligned with the qibla. Then the Muslim conqueror consecrated the building by performing his ritual prayer there.7 Evliya Chelebi relates in his “Seyahatname” (1896 I: 25) that, after the seizure of the church, Mehmed was above all interested in its dome, because he knew that it owed its existence to the blessing of Muhammad’s saliva. In memory of this event, he hung a golden ball exactly beneath the summit of the dome, an action which prompts Evliya Chelebi to make the following comment: As it is under this ball that his Highness Khidr stays and, from time to time, meets with the devout ones of the community, the person who wants to meet him should perform his morning prayer under this golden dome for forty days together with the poor. This is what the reliable traditions known by the people say.

All in all, the belief that Khidr is present in the centre of the domed hall of Aya Sofya and cares for the sacred building appears to be widespread. As the 18thcentury Ottoman author Hafiz Hüseyn Ayvansarayi relates in his guide to the Muslim monuments of Istanbul “Hadiqat ül-jevami’” (2000: 8), it was precisely here that, at the command of Khidr, the Turkish poet Hamd Allah Hamdi (d. 1503) translated Jami’s love epic “Yusuf wa-Zulaykha” into Turkish. According to the Ottoman “Haqaiq-name” of Firdevsi-i Rumi (d. after 1512), a manuscript of which is kept in the Staatsbibliothek Berlin, it was also here that Molla Ilahi (d. 1490), a renowned shaykh of the Naqshbandiyya-order, had an encounter with Khidr, who on this occasion examined him in his religious knowledge. Another, very bizarre story about an encounter with Khidr on this spot is related again by Evliya Chelebi.8 According to P.N. Boratav, the author of the article on the Turkish veneration of Khidr for the Islâm Ansiklopedisi (cf. there vol. 5, p. 464a), it is widely believed, even today, that in the Laylat al-qadr, the holy night of 27th Ramadan, Khidr visits the place under the lustre suspended from the dome. For all the popularity that the idea of Khidr’s presence in the Haghia Sophia enjoyed – and continues to enjoy in part – we should keep in mind that it is originally an invention of the dervish Shems ed-Din Kharabati. It was he who incorporated this figure into his account of the construction of Haghia Sophia. There is no mention of Khidr in the Byzantine precursors of this account. Instead of the three dreams about Khidr we find three apparitions of an anonymous angel who has taken the shape of a eunuch dressed in white. The question that arises here, therefore, is why Shems ed-Din Kharabati replaced this angel with Khidr. In the remainder of this article, I would like to explore the fact that, with the figure of Khidr (al-Khidr, in Arabic, means “the Green one”), the 7 See Önder (1966: 23); Ocak (1990: 132, 121; 210). 8 See Chelebi (1896 I: 128-133). For an abridged German translation see Franke (2000: 493-98).

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 45 dervish adopted a symbol which is a very popular device employed in the sacralization of spaces in the traditional world of Islam.

The function of Khidr in traditional Islam It may be useful to start by providing some background information about the personality of Khidr9. What kind of figure is he? The doctrinal basis for the Islamic conception of Khidr is the Quranic account of Sura 18: 60-82, which relates how the Israelite prophet Moses travels to the majma
al-bahrayn, a mythical connection between two seas, and there meets a nameless servant of God, whom he seeks to accompany in order to attain some of his heaven-inspired knowledge. The undertaking, however, very soon comes to an end because Moses cannot bear the absurd and bad behaviour of his companion, the true sense of which he is not able to understand. Based on several hadith-traditions, which are to be found in the great canonical collections, the servant of God who appears in this account is generally identified as Khidr. A.J. Wensinck presents lengthy discussions based on older research studies about the mythological background of the Quranic account in his article on Khidr in the Encyclopaedia of Islam (IV 902b-905b). There is no need to follow these up here, especially as their findings have been conclusively disproved in the meantime by B.M. Wheeler (1998). Suffice to say that in the course of Islamic history Khidr has been associated with numerous narratives, some of which, e.g. the tale about his drinking from the water of life, had an aetiological function: they should explain Khidr’s extraordinary longevity. For it is a popular belief that Khidr, a person already active in pre-Islamic times, is still alive at the present day and will not die before the end of time. One aspect of Khidr, which, in my view, is of central importance for the traditional conception of this figure in Islam, is almost eclipsed in Wensinck’s article and the earlier studies, namely the topos of “Encountering Khidr” so common in traditional Arabic, Persian and Turkish literature. Just as Khidr appears to the Byzantine emperor Justinian in Shems ed-Din Kharabati’s account, he is also said to have encountered many other persons, disclosing divine secrets to them, helping them in time of need and distress or just keeping them company for a while. In the appendix of my doctoral thesis, I collected 150 texts, all of them describing encounters with Khidr, but stemming from very different times and regions (Franke 2000: 375-562). These texts served me as a source basis for the mapping out of a general historical phenomenology of the veneration of this figure within the Islamic world in the main part of the study. 9 There are many variations in the spelling and pronunciation of this name. In Arabic he is also called al-Khadir, al-Khadr and el-Khudr, in Persian the pronunciation is Khezr, in modern Turkish Hizir, in Bengali Khijir, in Javanese Kilir, in Tamil Hilir and so on; see Franke (2000: 2).

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46 | Patrick Franke The earliest reports about encounters with Khidr are found in the Arabic religious literature of the 9th and 10th centuries. They are shaped as traditions traced back through chains of transmission to the companions of the prophet, their successors or other reliable authorities. As an example we may refer to the so-called hadith at-ta
ziya, a tradition quoted in different versions by scholars such as Ibn Abi Dunya (d. 894), Ibn Baboye (d. 991) and as-Sahmi (d. 1038): it relates that when the messenger of God had died a man identified as Khidr appeared in the house of the mourners to comfort them (cf. Franke 2000: 383-86). From this early layer of Islamic religious culture, which was strongly influenced by ancient Arabic beliefs, the idea of encountering Khidr has been passed on through both literary and oral channels to later generations of Muslims. The presence of Khidr in nearly all the great Islamic epics and romances10 shows that professional story-tellers must have contributed a lot to the popularization of this figure. Such tales, in which Khidr generally appears as the rescuer of the heroes, not only had a formative influence on the collective imagination of broad social strata, but were also fed by that very collective imagination, thus it is possible to speak of a relationship of dialectical exchange between the two. There were hopes of belonging to the chosen ones who had come into contact with Khidr, and it was these same hopes that produced new stories about encounters with him. A miracle-story which an-Nabhani quotes from the Hadrami historian ash-Shalli (d. 1682) gives a clear idea of how things heard contributed to the formation of new accounts. This story, whose hero is a certain Ahmad b. Hasan al-Mu’allim, goes as follows: One of his karamat (miracles) is that when he heard about Khidr and his great affairs he asked God to bring him together with him so that he could breathe in the scent of his perfume. Sometimes it happened to him that at the midday heat he entered a cave. A Bedouin joined him and sat with him a long time while speaking only a little. He felt very familiar with him and became aware that he was one of the people of distinction. When the man had vanished by flying away, the air of the cave was still fragrant with the perfume. So he knew that he was Khidr, the magnificent (
azim al-miqdar). He asked the people of the wadi about him, but they said: ‘There was nobody else than you’. When he met his shaykh
Abd ar-Rahman as-Saqqaf and told him about these things, the shaykh said to him: ‘This is Khidr – peace be upon him. Definitely the blessing of the encounter with him will attain you’ (Nabhani 1993 II: 544/545).

This story makes visible, in an impressive way, the psychological and mythomotoric working of the encounters with Khidr: a person has heard about the “great 10 As representatives of this genre we may mention the Sirat Sayf ibn Dhi Yazin, the Sirat az-Zahir Baybars and the Sirat Bani Hilal in Arabic, the Hamzaname and the Qissa-i Hatim-i Tai in Persian, the Danishmandname and the Battalname in Turkish and the Hikayat Hang Tuah in Malay. For the role of Khidr in them see Franke (2000: 12, 510-518).

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 47 affairs” (ahwal
izam) of Khidr and himself starts to yearn for an encounter with him. He later meets a person with whom he feels very familiar; and, in his imagination, this everyday individual becomes the saint he has been seeking. And a new story about Khidr is born. The notion of encountering Khidr is not, by the way, a closed chapter in the history of Islam. Even today, stories about encounters with Khidr circulate in many parts of the Islamic world. Some years ago, I heard the chief librarian of the university library of Islamabad, a Sufi of the Qadiriyya-order, telling of his shaykh’s encounters with Khidr. A colleague of mine, Ildikó Bellér-Hann (2000: 85), recorded stories of this kind among the Uyghur in Western China. Other contemporary evidence comes from areas as distant from each other as Egypt, Java, Nigeria, Sri Lanka and Turkey.11 One of the most prominent modern personalities said to “have seen Khidr”12 is Hasan at-Tihami, an Egyptian statesman of the days of Nasser and Sadat, who was General secretary of the OIC (Organization of the Islamic Conference) between 1974 and 1976. If a person “meets” or “sees” Khidr, it is generally understood as a divine distinction. Sufi manuals from various epochs stress that the encounter with Khidr (al-ijtima
bi-l-Khidr) proves that a man or woman belongs to the so-called “friends of God” (awliya Allah). In a Tunisian chronicle dating from the 18th century, al-Hulal as-Sundusiyya by al-Wazir as-Sarrag (d. 1736), it is even claimed that there is no friend of God on earth, who has not made Khidr’s acquaintance because he, as the rais al-awliya, is their leader. In view of such statements it is not surprising that tales of encounters with Khidr are an integral part of the motif inventory of Islamic hagiographical works. Whether they concern individual saints or entire saint-groups, this motif is encountered in almost all of these works. Khidr also plays an important role in the hagiographical literature on the founding figures of the various Sufi orders. Be it
Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani (d. 1166), after whom the Qadiriyya-order is named, Abu l-Hasan ash-Shadhili (d. 1258), to whom the Shadhiliyya-tradition is traced back, Jalal ad-Din Rumi (d. 1273), the founder of the Mevleviyye, or Hajji Bektash (13th century), the semi-legendary heros eponymos of the Bektashis – Khidr legends are attached to all of them in one form or another. In other Sufi orders, the affiliation to Khidr is of a more programmatic nature. Thus, in the central Asian Naqshbandiyya and the Turkish Jelvetiyye, the specific forms of dhikr distinguishing these orders from others are traced back to the intervention of this figure.13 Finally, the most important movement of “Khidrical” inspiration, namely the Murshidiyya, which continues to exist as an autonomous religious group within the community of the Syrian Alawites, also deserves a mention here. Sulayman Murshid (1907-1946), the central figure of this movement, who, in the course 11 For the geographical diffusion of this belief see Franke (2000: 12-15, 224 pp., 245). 12 Personal information by several Egyptian journalists, among them M.I. Sharqawi, director of the Ahram office in Frankfurt/Main. 13 For source references see Franke (2000: 180 pp., 250 pp.).

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48 | Patrick Franke of his religious and political career, rose from being a simple shepherd to become the head of an ephemeral polity in the Alawi mountains in the late 1930s, was initially venerated by his followers as a messenger (rasul) and Mahdi of Khidr, commissioned by the latter to guide them to the right path (cf. Franke 1994). The general popularity of Khidr can be concluded from the frequency with which he was instrumentalized as a symbol of religious authorization in the course of Islamic history. We may refer, for example, to the large number of invocations which are said to possess magical powers because they have been conveyed to somebody by Khidr. The most famous invocation of this kind is the so-called du
a Kumayl which
Ali ibn Abi Talib is supposed to have received from Khidr. It is one of the most important invocations of the Twelver-Shia and was publicly recited in Teheran at the funeral of Ayatollah Khomeini (Aigle 1994). However, stories about encounters with Khidr have also served the religious legitimization of entire dynasties14, and they have played an important role both in the Shi
i apologetic discourse and in the propaganda of the various Sunni schools of law. Moreover, the encounter motif is used for pointing out the divine origin of certain doctrines and ideas. The treatise al-Mizan al-Khidriyya by
Abd al-Wahhab ash-Sha
rani (1989), in which this Egyptian Sufi attributes his theory of the equal ranking of the four Sunni law schools to an inspiration by Khidr, is a good example of this. Likewise, as will be shown in the following section, Khidr is an important agent in the sanctification of localities and the legitimization of sanctuaries.

Khidr and the sacred places of Islam Just as the persons who have met Khidr are elevated from normality and profanity to a state of sacredness, so too are the places where he is said to have made his appearance. It is the widespread notion of Khidr’s permanent wandering about the earth which gave rise to the belief that certain localities exist that continue to serve as places of temporary abode and rest for him. Among these is his sanctuary, called maqam al-Khidr al-hayy in Sarafand, a small town fifteen kilometres to the south of Sidon in Lebanon. A.P. Stanley (1889: 268), who visited the place in 1871, saw the interior of the building and noted the absence of any tomb, a peculiarity which was explained to him by the peasants living in the village as being due to the fact that Khidr was still alive and flying continually around the earth. They told Stanley that sanctuaries, such as the one in Sarafand, are built wherever Khidr has appeared. Indeed, in the countries of the Near East we find many other places with sites or buildings called maqam al14 I have shown this for the Ghaznawids and the early Ottomans (Franke 2000: 278 pp.). We can now add to this Anke von Kügelgen’s findings (2002: 204 pp.) about the Turkish dynasty of the Mangits which reigned in Bukhara from 1753 to 1920.

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 49 Khidr (station of Khidr) or mashhad al-Khidr (shrine of Khidr). In the Persianspeaking regions such places usually are called qadamgah-e Khezr (literally: footplace of Khidr)15, a term based on the belief that when he was on his travels Khidr set foot (qadam) there. Finally, in Anatolia and the Balkans such places were named Hizirlik or Hidirlik, and in some cities and villages we find hills and buildings, which have retained this name to the present day (for examples cf. Franke 2000: 102-5). In addition to these simple sanctuaries, mosques can also be found that are named after this figure, one example being the masjid al-Khidr (mosque of Khidr) in the southern Syrian town of Bosra, which was renovated as early as 1132 by the Zangid amir Gümüshtekin. In his historical topography of Syria, the Syrian scholar Izz ad-Din Ibn Shaddad (d. 1285) mentions another mosque of Khidr located in the citadel of Aleppo, on which he comments: “Some inhabitants of the citadel have reported seeing Khidr – peace be upon him – performing his ritual prayer in this mosque” (Ibn Shaddad 1991: 228). Magical powers of resistance are sometimes ascribed to such mosques dedicated to Khidr, as is the case in the south-east Anatolian city of Mardin. An Arab informant of this city, who was interviewed by O. Jastrow in the late 1960s for linguistic purposes, explained that whenever Khidr stops on his travels in Mardin he stays in this mosque. A foreigner who tried to destroy this building with a bulldozer was allegedly struck with great grief immediately (Jastrow 1970: 44-47). Khidr’s presence is not restricted to the mosques named after him. On the contrary, the reports on encounters with him show that he can appear in mosques of any kind and at any place. Above all, however, his appearance is part of the sacred aura of the great congregational mosques. According to a legend from Istanbul every day he attends one of the ritual prayers in the famous mosque of Sultan Ahmad. The North-African historian az-Zarkashi (d. 1526) quotes in his Tarikh ad-dawlatayn (p. 115) a Tunisian shaykh who states that Khidr makes a daily attendance before noon prayer in the famous mosque of az-Zaytuna, near the maqsura in the eastern part of this building. It is precisely here that Abu l-Hasan ash-Shadhili is reported to have met him when he entered the mosque one Friday and prayed two rak
as for the salutation of the building. Another spot in this mosque allegedly frequented by Khidr is the “western pillar at the first row”, which is also called the pillar of Khidr (rukn al-Khidr). Reporting on this local belief, the above-mentioned Tunisian historian, al-Wazir as-Sarraj, adds that he himself saw Khidr here one evening when he was reciting a poem written by his shaykh Abu
Abdallah Fatata (1984 I:553). Another popular legend, transmitted by several Syrian historians, relates that the Great Mosque of Damascus, now known as Umayyad mosque, was blessed

15 For example the sanctuaries of Khidr in Chahbahar, Amul and on the island of Abadan. Another qadamgah-i Khezr located near Kabul is mentioned in the autobiography of the 15th-century Mughal Sultan Babur (Babur 1905: 128 pp.).

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50 | Patrick Franke by Khidr’s periodical presence. The version of this legend quoted below is taken from Ibn Kathir’s worldchronicle al-Bidaya wa-n-nihaya (1985 I: 311): When al-Walid ibn
Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan, the founder of the mosque of Damascus, once intended to spend a night in this mosque to perform devotional exercises, he ordered the attendants to make it free for him. They did just that and as night fell he entered the mosque from the Clock’s Gate. But behold, there was a man standing and praying at the place between it (i.e. the Clock’s Gate) and the Khadra-Gate. So he said to the attendants: ‘Did I not order you to make it free for me?’ And they answered to him: ‘O Commander of the Faithful, this is Khidr who comes here every night for prayer.’

Today, there is an inscription in Arabic reading maqam al-Khidr on the southern wall in the eastern part of the mosque. It is quite possible that this place name goes back to the legend transmitted by the Syrian historians. A very close relationship binds Khidr to the holy sites of Jerusalem. He features as a prophet who has taken up residence there in a legend told by the famous biographer Ibn Hisham (d. 828). The story goes that the mythical ruler Dhu l-Qarnayn, the “Two-Horned”, marched there at the head of a huge army in order to get Khidr to interpret his dreams. A famous tradition, which is traced back to the Syrian traditionalist Shahr ibn Hawshab (d. 718), gives more details about the alleged place of his residence: “Khidr resides in Jerusalem, on the square between the Bab ar-Rahma (Gate of Mercy) and the Bab al-Asbat (Gate of the Tribes)” (Ibn al-Murajja 1995).16 The Bab ar-Rahma, which is generally known today as the “Golden Gate”, is situated on the east border of the Temple Mount and has been sealed up since the Middle Ages to be opened only on the Day of Judgement; the Bab al-Asbat is situated on the northern border of the sacred precinct. This, however, is not the only place in the Temple area associated with Khidr. There are other sites, for example: the Bab al-Khidr in the east part of the Al-Aqsa-mosque; the maqam al-Khidr in the holy grotto of the Dome of the Rock; a small qubba consecrated to Khidr at the northwest corner of the haram platform; and the so-called “Black Slabstone” (al-balata as-sawda) behind the northern gate of the Dome of the Rock. With respect to the latter, the German ethnologists R. Kriss and H. Kriss-Heinrich (1960: 147) have pointed out that today this site plays a very important role in popular religious practice, in particular in the month of Ramadan, during which it is almost constantly crowded with praying women who come alone or with their children. One woman is even said to have seen Khidr praying here. Various researchers who have studied the veneration of Khidr in the Levant have tried to explain the relationship of this figure with Jerusalem as an Islamic adoption of Jewish and Christian beliefs (cf. e.g. Augustinovic´ 1972: 18f.). In my opinion, however, this relationship can be interpreted entirely within the framework of the traditional Islamic conception of Khidr which sees in him a 16 For further sources quoting this tradition see Franke (2000: 115, note 327).

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 51 permanent wanderer among the holy sites of Islam. In the above-mentioned tradition of Shahr ibn Hawshab we read: “Every Friday Khidr prays in five mosques: in the Holy Mosque (of Mecca), in the mosque of Medina, in the mosque of Jerusalem, in the mosque of Quba and in the mosque of Mount Sinai”. Quba, mentioned here after the three holy sites of Islam, is a village that lies a few kilometres to the south of Medina on the road to Mecca. The mosque of this village, which is called Masjid at-Taqwa and generally identified with the “mosque founded on piety” of Sura 9: 108, has a special position in Islam because the first congregational prayer is said to have taken place here. In some versions of this tradition (cf. e.g. at-Tadili 1958: 56f.), Quba is replaced by a locality of a rather cosmic nature, namely the dam erected, according to the Holy Book (18: 93-98), by the “Two-Horned” (Dhu l-Qarnayn) as a bulwark against the apocalyptical peoples of Gog and Magog (Yajuj wa-Majuj). In these versions, however, Khidr visits the five holy places – Mecca, Medina, Jerusalem, the Mount Sinai and the Dam of the Two-Horned – not in a weekly, but in a daily rhythm. This idea might be influenced by the popular belief that Khidr moves to the Dam of the Two-Horned every night to protect the Muslim community from the descent of the eschaton (for evidence of this belief, cf. Franke 2000: 127, 148 pp.). Bearing this tradition in mind, we may reconsider the legends that connect Khidr to other sites and mosques. When it is reported that Khidr appears at these places at regular intervals, the implication is that on these occasions he functions as a transmitter of the sacred energy he has absorbed at the central holy sites of Islam so that the local ones are newly imbued with it.17 The space within which Khidr has appeared is temporarily promoted from the periphery to the centre and becomes the axis mundi. It is remarkable that in Afghanistan, Iran, Anatolia and Iraq there exist certain ceremonies which aim at bringing the propitious effect of Khidr’s presence even down to the level of the private house. The central element of these ceremonies, which in their details vary from place to place, consists of a meal that is prepared for Khidr and on which he is supposed to leave his traces. The room in which the food is set out for him is thoroughly cleaned and is then closed for the night. The next morning, people look for the imprint of Khidr’s finger or hand in the substance they have prepared for him. This substance or food “touched” by him is regarded as blessed and is consumed at a celebration with relatives and friends (Franke 2000: 165-67). If we read these ceremonies as a means of invoking sacredness we can

17 The story that Geoffrey Bibby was told by the Shi
i inhabitants of the Kuwaitian island of Faylaka about their local sanctuary of Khidr is a good example of this. Bibby was told that Al-Khidr is a saint who normally resides in the Shi
i town of Kerbela, but every Tuesday he flies to Mecca and then, in the following night, rests in the shrine of their island. Cf. the chapter “The Green Man” in Bibby (1969). I am grateful to Kurt Franz (Halle) for drawing my attention to this book.

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52 | Patrick Franke take them as a confirmation of what Eliade said about the religious conception of private houses in traditional societies. In some cases Khidr sacralizes a certain space not only by his cyclical appearance, but also – as in the legend on the construction of the Haghia Sophia – through his being incorporated into the foundation myths of the corresponding sanctuary. Such is the case in the following narrative about the Kaaba, which is quoted by Ibn Hajar al-
Asqalani (1960: 1441) from the Kitab Makka of the Arab historiographer al-Fakihi (d. 885) and thus represents one of the most ancient encounter reports. According to this narrative, the fifth Imam of the Shi
ites, Muhammad al-Baqir, was once questioned by Khidr in Mecca about the origins of the Kaaba and the Black Stone. Muhammad al-Baqir explained to him how at the beginning of time the angels were ordered by God to build the Kaaba as the earthly image of God’s celestial throne. Just as after their rebellion (Sura 2: 30-33) God pardoned the angels because they circumambulated His throne, so He should pardon every human person who circumambulates the Kaaba. At the end of this narrative, which perfectly fits Eliade’s conception of sanctuaries as earthly reproductions of celestial archetypes, Khidr attests the correctness of what the imam has said and disappears. The fact that in this narrative it is not Khidr himself, who figures as the discloser of the message about the Kaaba, may be explained by the second function inherent in it which was to demonstrate the omniscience of one of the Shi
ite imams. The examples given here show that the legends about Khidr’s appearance in the Haghia Sophia are part of a well-established tradition which can be traced back to the very beginning of Islamic history and which utilizes this figure for the symbolic construction of local sanctity.18 What makes the case of the Haghia Sophia different from others is the degree of complexity of the legend and its specific relation to an ideological issue, namely the move of the Ottoman capital from Edirne to Istanbul which at the end of the 15th-century was still highly disputed. As Yerasimos’s investigations have shown, the debate about this question was accompanied on both sides by the production of texts praising the respective cities: just as Shems ed-Din Kharabati’s book on the history of Constantinople legitimized the move, the opposing position also found expression in literary works. For our purposes, the important thing about this debate is the fact that both sides invoke Khidr to indicate the centrality and sacred nature of the city. The role of Khidr in Kharabati’s work has already been explained; for the opposing side of the argument we may refer to the Turkish epic Saltiq-name composed between 1475 and 1480 by Ebü l-Khayr-i Rumi (1987) on behalf of Jem Sultan, the unfortunate rival of Bayezid II. In this work it is the Hizirlik of Edirne situated on a hill opposite the city to which the symbolic function of the axis mundi is attributed. At the very beginning of the Saltiq-name 18 Additional evidence for this assertion is now provided by Meri (1999: 257-60) who has analyzed the role of Khidr in the medieval foundation myths of two Syrian shrines.

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Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces | 53 it is told how Sari Saltiq, the hero of the story, has a meeting here with Khidr and Ilyas19 who explained to him that this place is “the holy site of Rum and the earthly Garden of Eden”. “It is forty years now,” Khidr tells him “that we have been performing our morning prayer here every day. And whoever fasts for forty days and performs the morning prayer here, to him we will appear so that he can benefit from us” (Rumi 1987 I: 32f.). In the same work we learn that Khidr appeared to some other persons on this very hill, among them the 15thcentury Ottoman sultan Murad II (Rumi 1987 III: 260-62, 358). What we have here is clearly a deliberate attempt to show that Edirne with its Hizirlik is endowed with the same blessings as Istanbul with the Haghia Sophia. The former Ottoman capital is presented as a counter-centre which could compete with the old Byzantine metropolis by the Bosphorus in terms of its quality as a sacred place.

Conclusion I have tried to demonstrate in this article that Khidr is one of the most important symbols used in traditional Islam for transforming profane into sacred spaces. The reports concerning his appearances at the holy sites of Islam, in mosques and at local sanctuaries show that these localities are conceived as hierophanic places in the sense expressed by Eliade. Khidr is not, of course, the only symbol adopted in the sanctification of spaces. Local saints and their tombs also play an important role in this context; however Khidr may even have a hand in this process, because many saints, as friends of God, are religiously authorized through an encounter with him. As the case of the Ottoman patria demonstrates, the figure may also serve in endowing a pre-Islamic building with an air of “Islamicity”, thereby making it acceptable to Muslims. The use of Khidr as a symbol of legitimization and sanctification presupposes the belief that he has been alive ever since the days of his meeting with Moses. This is the very point, however, that was rejected by the more orthodox Muslim scholars such as Ibn al-Jawzi (d. 1200). Although some scholars, such as Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya (d. 1350), endorsed his opinion, the majority of them in pre-modern times opposed this orthodox line by declaring that Khidr’s continued existence is proved by prophetic traditions. Today, the debate about this question is still going on, and several Arabic treatises refuting Khidr’s eternal life have been published over the past twenty years in Egypt, Syria and Saudi Arabia (cf. for example
Abd al-Muqtadir 1997). It is in the context of such refutations that we must qualify our statements on Khidr as being valid for “traditional Islam” only. This term should not be understood as a temporal 19 In many encounter reports, Ilyas, the biblical Elijah, figures as a companion of Khidr. For his relationship with Khidr as his ‘double’ see the chapter “Elias, Khidrs Doppelgänger” in Franke (2000: 136-161).

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54 | Patrick Franke category, but in an analytical sense, i.e. as distinguishing the Islamic currents which indulge in the reliance on traditions – even if they are of doubtful origin – from the reformist circles which would like to rid Islam of all regulations and beliefs that cannot be traced back with certainty to the Quran or the Prophet. In this context it is remarkable that recent attempts have been made to eliminate the figure of Khidr altogether from the Islamic world view. Thus, Sayyid Qutb, the spiritual father of the Egyptian Muslim brothers, has demanded that the identification of Khidr with the servant of God (Sura 18: 65), which is based on several canonical traditions, should be abandoned. Should this opinion gain acceptance, Khidr would lose his place in the Holy Book of Islam and by such a move would himself be deprived of an important source of religious legitimization. However, for the present, we can say that just as the belief system of traditional Islam is still strong enough to withstand the challenge of the reformists, so also the idea of encountering Khidr has not relinquished all of its popularity.

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Alam al-Fikr. Schimmel, A. (1991) “Sacred geography in Islam”. In: J. Scott/P. SimpsonHousley (eds.): Sacred places and profane spaces. Essays in the Geographics of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, New York: Greenwood Press, pp. 163-175. Smart, N. (1984) “Eliade und die Analyse von Weltbildern”. In: Hans-Peter Duerr Die Mitte der Welt: Aufsätze zu Mircea Eliade, Frankfurt/M: Suhrkamp, pp. 79-94. Stanley, A.P. (1889) Sinai and Palestine, London: Murray. at-Tadili, Yusuf ibn Yahya Ibn az-Zayyat (1958) at-Tashawwuf ila rijal at-tasawwu,. (ed. by A. Faure), Rabat: Matbu
at Ifriqiya ash-shimaliya. ^

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56 | Patrick Franke Tauer, F. (1954) “Les Versions Persanes de la legende d’Aya Sofya”. Byzantinoslavica XV(1), pp. 1-20. ath-Thalabi, Ahmad ibn Muhammad (n.d.) Qisas al-anbiya al-musamma
Arais al-majalis, Beirut: al-Maktaba ath-Thaqafiyya. Turner, H.W. (1979) From Temple to Meeting House: The Phenomenology and Theology of Places of Worship, The Hague: Mouton. Vitti, E. (1986) Die Erzählung über den Bau der Hagia Sophia in Konstantinopel: kritische Edition mehrerer Versionen, Amsterdam: Hakkert. al-Wazir as-Sarraj, Muhammad ibn Muhammad (1984) al-Hulal as-sundusiyya fi l-akhbar at-Tunusiyya, 3 vols. (ed. by M. al-Habib al-Hayla), Beirut: Dar alGharb al-Islami. Wheeler, B.M. (1998) “The Jewish origins of Quran 18: 65-82. Reexamining Arent Jan Wensincks theory”. Journal of the American Oriental Society 118, pp. 153-171. Yerasimos, St. (1990) La fondation de Constantinople et de Sainte Sophie dans les traditions turques, Istanbul: Isis. az-Zarkashi, Muhammad ibn Ibrahim (1895) Tarih ad-dawlatayn al-Muwahhida wa-l-Hafsiyya/Chronique des Almohades et des Hafçides (transl. by E. Fagnan), Constantine: Braham.

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 57

Chapter 3 Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam. Encounters, Orders, Politics Refika Sariönder Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli are two 13th century Turkish Islamic saints who are truly venerated in Turkey today. Although, like other orders, the orders they founded in their names suffered under the republican ban on religious orders of 1925 and were thus subject to an interruption, thanks to various social and political developments both thinkers are still enormously popular and their teachings attract high number of followers. Due to the fact that their tolerant teachings do not represent any threat to secularist republican state issues, both thinkers are also celebrated at state level. Religious issues began to attract increasing attention after the military intervention in 1980, in particular. The intervening period has seen an increase not only in Islamist tendencies, but also in the popularity of Sufi orders. Some orders in Turkey try to combine Sufism with Islamism, whereas others, which do not necessarily support Islamism, have close relations with political parties of liberal, conservative, nationalist or religious tendencies.1 Sunnis who have Sufic tendencies but want to stay away from politics, or feel themselves attracted by the “Whirling Dervishes” – who are already well-known due to their performances worldwide – prefer to follow Mevlana and his ideas. Alevis, who tend to be supporters of social democratic and left-wing parties – although this has been changing to some extent in recent years – have experienced political and social publicity in recent decades and discovered the importance of Hacı Bektas¸ and his teachings. The annual festivals organized in the name of Mevlana, in Konya, and Hacı Bektas¸ , in the town of Hacıbektas¸ in Nevsehir, are also supported by state institutions and visited by state officials. The festivals attract throngs of visitors from all over Turkey and abroad, and have become pilgrimage-like in nature. 1 For a presentation of the political relations of Islamist and Sufic groups, see Çakır (1993).

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58 | Refika Sariönder In this article I trace the local development of Turkish Islam by examining the histories of the two saints Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ and the orders founded in their names. Although they have been researched individually, I was unable to find any previous study of the interaction between them. Despite the fact that their ideas and orders attract different communities in contemporary Turkey, I discovered three points at which the saints and their followers intersected. Firstly, both Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ lived in the same period; they died in central Anatolia in 1273 and 1270-71 respectively. The available information suggests that the two saints did not get on well with each other because of their different religious perspectives. Secondly, when their followers founded the orders of Mevlevism and Bektashism after their deaths, they brought the two saints closer together due to developments in the Mevlevi order. From the 15th century, in particular, Bektashi teaching and practices began to be influential among Mevlevis and this led to a division within the Mevlevi order. Thirdly, the religious politics of the Ottoman Empire resulted in the polarization of the two orders as the Ottoman sultans were interested in Mevlevism and acted against Bektashism due to political reforms in the state.

Turkish Islam and saints The specific nature of Turkish Islam should be traced back to the Turkish conquerors and immigrants who became Muslims in Central Asia and came to Anatolia from the 10th century on. A new synthesis of Islam then emerged in Anatolia, based on Central Asian and Middle Eastern traditions that included many strains of orthodox and heterodox Islam. In addition to orthodox Sunnism and Islamic mysticism, gazi (ghazi, warriors of Islam) Islam, which was practized by warrior dervishes who aimed at jihad but were tolerant of heresy, and the Islam of the baba (missionary preachers), which maintained the shamanism of Central Asia with Islamic elements, all existed simultaneously in Anatolia (Ménage 1979: 59-60; Ocak 1996b: 25). The mystical traditions, which were important for the people rather than the court, helped the spread of Islamic culture and flourished, especially in the Seljuk period (Trimingham 1971: 23). With regard to the Seljuk period, Lindholm states: It is no accident, then, that the zenith of Sufism in the central Muslim lands was during the Seljuk period, when the caliphate had fallen and a purely secular authority had begun to suborn and encapsulate the ‘ulama, leaving the populace with very little in the way of either spiritual resources or legitimate authority. In these circumstances the Sufi lodges with their cosmic hierarchy of charismatics offered Muslim masses the experience of moral unity under sanctified leadership, as well as an imaginary universal order overseeing the disrupted universe (Lindholm 1998: 224).

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 59 Before and during the Mongolian invasions, Anatolia was a place of refuge for Islamic and mystic scholars from Persia as well as for the baba and dervishes from Central Asia (Trimingham 1971: 23-24). The synthesis of orthodox and heterodox Islam was also very significant in the first centuries of the Ottoman state, i.e. the 14th and 15th centuries, which welcomed all strains of Islam in its expanding territories. According to Ocak, the most important evidence for this synthesis lies in the cult of evliya (saints) in Turkish Islam, which still exists. The significance of this cult of saints, which rests on the belief that sacred persons with mystical charisma also have supernatural ability, can be seen in the numerous tombs of various saints found throughout Turkish cities (Ocak 1996b: 25). Thus, the graves and tombs of saints are important and popular places to visit. These, as Tanman puts it, act as a permanent focus for devotion toward the spiritual manifestation of the saints (and to their visualization after death), a devotion parallel to the respect and homage paid them during their lifetime (Tanman 1992: 133).

Visits and pilgrimages to these sites are carried out for many reasons, for example, to request certain favours of the saint, to pray for a temporal or spiritual matter, to make use of the saint’s healing powers (Tanman 1992: 134-135). It is also very important to note that the religious origin of the saint does not always play a significant role. Tanman gives the example of the visits and pilgrimages of both Muslims and non-Muslims to the tombs of Muslim and Christian saints for the purpose of availing of their healing gifts (Tanman 1992: 168, note 7). Also intra-Muslim differences play no role so that, for example, the Sunnis of Istanbul go to the Church of Aya Yorgi and visit the tombs of the Bektashi saints like Karacaahmet, S¸ ahkulu and Garip Dede.

Encounters and confrontations Mevlana belonged to an important Sufi family in the city of Belh (now Balkh in Afghanistan) in the 13th century. A lot of biographical information about his childhood and the immigration of his family to Anatolia where his father was invited by the Seljuk sultan to the capital city Konya can be found in various historical texts. He was educated under his father Bahaeddin Veled, Veled’s caliph Burhaneddin Muhakkık-ı Tirmizi and in medreses (Islamic schools) in Haleppo and Damascus. After his studies abroad, he returned to Konya and started teaching (Gölpınarlı 1999: 44-49; Ocak 1996b: 122-123; Schimmel 2000: 60-61; Trimingham 1971: 60). The turning point in Mevlana’s Sufic life was the arrival of S¸ ems-i Tebrizi in Konya. After his encounter with the latter, the serious teacher Mevlana turned into a poet of divine love and ecstasy organizing sema meetings with

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60 | Refika Sariönder music and dance. S¸ ems-i Tebrizi convinced Mevlana that science was not a medium for divine love. Mevlana was thus influenced by a Sufism that ignored worldliness, considering it a barrier to divine love. This Sufism originated from Khorassan and Transoxania and incorporated some pre-Islamic mystical elements, which emphasized human being and ecstasy and neglected pious practices. In this respect, this tradition contradicted the tradition Mevlana had inherited from his father and his caliph which was based on Iraqi pious and moralist Sufism. Mevlana followed a pious life based on Sunni rules until the end of his life. Ocak asserts that Mevlana had to insist on these practices although S¸ ems-i Tebrizi sometimes opposed them (Ocak 1996b: 129-132; Schimmel 1995: 1820). All of these traditions, on which Mevlana’s Sufism were based, are set down in his best known work, Mesnevi (referred as Mathnawi in Arabic). This six-volume work covers a very wide variety of themes: interpretations of various books, Quranic and religious knowledge, daily events, folk customs, stories and jokes, poems, myths etc. One of his followers, Çelebi Husameddin, wrote these themes down while Mevlana recited them daily in a specific poetic rhythm (Gölpınarlı 1999: 118-120; Schimmel 2000: 61-63; Trimingham 1971: 61). Following the veneration of Mesnevi as “the Quran in Persian” (Trimingham 1971: 61), Gölpınarlı compares Mesnevi with the Quran and states that, like the Quran, Mesnevi’s order is a compound of disorder in which the themes change continuously (Gölpınarlı 1999: 120). Trimingham also asserts that the Mevlevis consider the Mesnevi “as a revelation of the inner meaning of the Quran” (Trimingham 1971: 61). The very limited historical information about Hacı Bektas¸ , however, begins with his arrival in Anatolia. Hacı Bektas¸ and his brother Mentes¸ were followers . of Baba Ilyas Horasani. They moved from Khorassan to Anatolia on account of the Babai revolt in 1240.2 Although Mentes¸ died in the revolt, Hacı Bektas¸ came to the central Anatolian town Sulucakarahöyük (today Hacıbektas¸ ) where he lived until his death. Hacı Bektas¸ is presented in the literature in two ways, i.e. as both a historical and mythological figure (Birge 1965: 33-51; Mélikoff 1998: 93-100; Ocak 1996b: 157-166). This dual representation stems in part from Vilayetname – a hagiography of Hacı Bektas¸ – and from historical research. They present different accounts of the saint’s life. Vilayetname is considered by researchers as a book of mythological character that includes anachronisms and sometimes false historical information. However, it is still highly respected by Bektashis and Alevis and they regard its information as historical. According to the Vilayetname, Hacı Bektas¸ stems from the lineage of the Prophet Muhammed and . 2 The Babai revolt, Babailer Isyanı, was the outcome of the political, social and economic dissatisfaction among nomadic and rural people on account of the bad government of the Seljuk state in Anatolia. Although the Babais managed to score various victories over the Seljukes and increased their numbers of followers very rapidly, in the end the state gained control over the revolt (Ocak 1996a: 31).

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 61 hence was a seyyid. His father was considered as the Emperor of Khorassan. Groß analyzes this legendary information as follows: Der Bettelderwisch aus Chorasan war in Rum zu ungeahntem Ansehen und weit besprochener Heiligkeit gelangt. Die fromme Phantasie bedarf zur Erklärung solcher Steigerung des Wesens eines Menschen ins Übermenschliche der Annahme einer übermenschlichen Herkunft und Anlage (Groß 1927: 200).3

Vilayetname is full of accounts of the miracles, prophecies and keramet (karamat, charismatic gifts) of Hacı Bektas¸ . He is presented as a caliph of the famous Sufi Ahmed Yesevi who sent him to Anatolia. It is told that although the Sufis in Anatolia did not welcome his arrival, after seeing Hacı Bektas¸ ’s miracles and prophecies, they became his followers. Furthermore, his death is related to a miracle in the Vilayetname: before his death, Hacı Bektas¸ gave many of his caliphs a document and sent them to various regions of Anatolia. Before he died, he informed one of his caliphs of his death and made his testament. Again, he died with a keramet. However, according to historical research, Hacı Bektas¸ came to Sulucakarahöyük not as a lonely dervish, but with his tribe, the Bektas¸ lu. Furthermore, he neither followed a pious life nor obeyed the Islamic rules strictly, but he was a dervish who lived in ecstasy and solitude. The historical contention that he had a convent but did not found any order or try to gain followers contradicts the Vilayetname (Mélikoff 1994: 56, 154, 217; Mélikoff 1998: 93-123; Ocak 1996a: 175-179). Although Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ were contemporaries and lived in the same area, in Central Anatolia, historical sources reveal very little about their possible personal contact. One of the few sources from this period, namely Eflaki’s Menakibu’l Arifin states that Mevlana had a poor opinion of Hacı Bektas¸ ’s religious life. Two stories in Eflaki’s work underline possible animosity between Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ . In the first story “there is a Haji Bektash of Horasan who was a mystic of enlightened heart, but a man who had not felt constrained to follow the law as given by the prophet” (Birge 1965: 42). According to the story Hacı Bektas¸ is represented as having been jealous by the stir caused by his rival religious teacher. He consequently sent one of his inspectors, Seyh Ishak to inquire why, if he has found or attained to the goal of his mystic search, he is not satisfied with that; or if he has not attained, why he is stirring up a tumult among the people. Seyh Ishak arrived just as the followers of Celaleddin were commencing their service of music and dance. At the very moment of his entry, which was made reverently kissing the threshold, Celaleddin com3 “The Begging Dervish from Chorasan attained unsuspected respect and widely discussed holiness in Rum. In order to explain the elevation of the essence of a man to the superhuman, the pious imagination needs the assumption of a superhuman origin and disposition.”

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62 | Refika Sariönder menced the recitation of a poem which was worded as if asking the newcomer the very question which the investigator had intended to ask him. ‘If you have not yet seen the Friend, why do you not search for him? If you have attained to him, why are you agitated? Sit down quietly, for it is a wonderful thing; it is you who are to be wondered at not to desire such a marvel.’ The visiting dervish wrote down these words, making note of the date, for they seemed to indicate the supernatural power of the Master at Konia. On his return he rendered his report and Haji Bektash saw that the reciting of this poem coincided in time exactly with an experience he had had when Celaleddin had appeared to him in the form of a roaring lion, had seized him by the throat and only released him after he had humbled himself and begged for mercy. Haji Bektash is then represented as testifying to the power and grandeur beyond imagination both of the insight and the eloquence of Celaleddin (Birge 1965: 42-43).

Another story refers to a bey (governor) who insisted that Hacı Bektas¸ should do the daily prayers. In response, Hacı Bektas¸ asked him for water to do the ritual washing. As the bey brought the water and poured it, he saw that it was blood and was very astonished. When Mevlana heard this story, he said that Hacı Bektas¸ should have transformed the blood into water, since it was no great talent to be able to pollute clean water (Gölpınarlı 1999: 238; Öztürk 1997: 75-77). According to Ocak, Mevlana’s dislike of Hacı Bektas¸ was based on the way that Hacı Bektas¸ mixed Islamic with pre-Islamic Turkish beliefs (Ocak 1996a: 180-181). Although Ocak does not elaborate on the pre-Islamic Turkish beliefs, it is reasonable that it was the pre-Islamic traditions which annoyed Mevlana rather than the disobeying of Sharia rules. Otherwise, Mevlana could be expected to criticize S¸ ems-i Tebrizi as well as he is also depicted as neglecting pious practices.

Merging orders After the death of Mevlana, in accordance with his wishes, his caliph, Çelebi Husameddin, became his successor. Çelebi Husameddin’s first priority was to build a tomb for Mevlana, which became a centre for his followers, where they read the Quran and the Mesnevi and organized sema meetings. Although many of Mevlana’s followers wished that his son Sultan Veled had succeeded his father, out of respect for his father’s wishes and Çelebi Husameddin, Sultan Veled waited until the death of Çelebi Husameddin to take over. It was during the reign of Sultan Veled that Mevlevism was established as an order. In order to maintain the centre and the services in it, Sultan Veled had to maintain good relations with the rich, the Seljuks and Mogols, and various bey that enabled the foundation and expansion of vakıfs (waqf, pious foundation). With the aim of systematizing Mevlana’s ideas, Sultan Veled developed a rigid frame of belief and ceremony that depends on an idea of human being, divine love, and sema ceremonies. Sultan Veled began to dispatch caliphs who advocated these ideas

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 63 so as to propagate in the name of his father (Gölpınarlı 1983: 19-46). Although Trimingham states that Mevlana’s close association with the Seljuk ruling authority caused the order to develop aristocratic tendencies and become a wealthy corporation, Gölpınarlı stresses that the order which was founded in the name of Mevlana contradicts his personality, as he had actually lived from the small donations he received for his services. Despite being hungry at times, Mevlana had rejected the Sultan’s donations. He had taught that one should not live from vakıf goods but should instead live from the fruit of one’s own labour. He also had an independent understanding of religion free from ceremonies and ascetic discipline (Gölpınarlı 1983: 64; Trimingham 1971: 61). Nevertheless, it is often cited that since Mevlana lived in a big city and used Persian in his poems, his followers often originated from urban, aristocratic and elite social strata, whereas rural people were attracted by Hacı Bektas¸ and the dervishes of the Bektashi order, whose literature was in Turkish (cf. Birge 1965: 15; Schimmel 1995: 32-33). According to the Vilayetname, Hacı Bektas¸ was very well-known by contemporaries and founder of the Bektashi order. However, historians agree that Abdal Musa, who was a follower in the convent of Hacı Bektas¸ , was the person who spread the teachings of Hacı Bektas¸ after his death. Abdal Musa played a significant role in the development and expansion of Hacı Bektas¸ ’s ideas in the 14th century. Like many other dervishes, he went to the newly established and popular Ottoman lands under the service of Orhan, the son of Osman. There, in addition to spreading Hacı Bektas¸ ’s ideas, he attended battles on the side of the Ottoman fighters accompanied by his dervishes. After that he went to Antalya, Elmalı and founded a convent. Bektashism was first established as an order by Balım Sultan at the beginning of the 16th century. He was a follower of a Bektashi convent in Greece before being appointed by sultan Bayezid II, who was himself attracted by the ideas of Bektashis, to the convent in Sulucakarahöyük in 1501. The convents, which spread to towns and villages, were centralized during his appointment. The order was also institutionalized through ceremonies and religious functions under Balım Sultan4 (Mélikoff 1994: 21-22; Mélikoff 1998: 205-207; Ocak 1996a: 212; Ocak 1996b: 163-167, 218-222; Triming4 Balım Sultan is considered as the founder of the mücerred tradition which deems marriage and other worldly desires and addictions unnecessary and promotes instead devotion to the order and to Hacı Bektas¸ . This new direction resulted in the splitting of the Bektashi order into two parts which still exist and have since been competing for the leadership of the order. The followers of the new direction, yol evlatları (children of the way), called their leaders baba, and the followers of the old order, bel evlatları (children of the loin), called their leaders, who claimed to be direct descendants of the Hacı Bektas¸ , çelebi. The majority of the Alevis recognize the çelebi as the highest authority. The yol evlatları section was open to all those initiated into the order after a certain education, whereas the bel evlatları section of Bektashi order follows the lineage for initiation like the Alevis.

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64 | Refika Sariönder ham 1971: 83). Trimingham’s statement to the effect that the Bektashi order claimed to be a Sunni order but must be called a Shiite order is not substantiated in other works about Bektashism. While Trimingham’s assertion that the Bektashi order is very unorthodox is also stated by other researchers, the Shiite elements in Bektashi teaching are traced to the political developments in the Ottoman state after its rivalry with the Safawid state in the 16th century. The propaganda of the Safavi leader Shah Ismail challenging Ottoman power attracted many Turkish people of rural origin who suffered under the social and economic measures of the Ottoman state. Shah Ismail’s poems, which underlined the revenge on Ottomans with extreme Shiite motives, were one of the means used to spread this propaganda (cf. Trimingham 1971: 80; Mazzaoui 1972: 52-56; Mélikoff 1994: 39-40; Ocak 1996b: 204-209, 251-254; Kehl-Bodrogi 1988: 38-39). The discrepancy between Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ appears to have diminished in the orders founded in their names. The reason for this rapprochement can be traced to the Mevlevis; the successive leaders of the Mevlevi order began to apply increasingly the batini (esoteric) approach which had split the Mevlevi order. Unlike Mevlana, Çelebi Husameddin, and Sultan Veled, who were batini in character but tried to follow the zahiri (exoteric) and practise the formal duties, many of the subsequent leaders, namely the Çelebi, and dervishes contravened the Sharia rules. Gölpınarlı states that some Mevlevis were addicted to wine and hashish. One story even tells how the Mevlevi leader Divane Mehmed Çelebi smoked hashish with Abdal Musa in a ceremonial way. Gölpınarlı underlines that in the case of Divane Mehmed Çelebi, who followed some characteristics of the Kalenderi way5, Mevlevism and Bektashism were united. He wore Kalenderi, Mevlevi and Bektashi dress interchangeably, visited the Bektashis centre and travelled to many towns accompanied by both 40 Mevlevi and 40 Bektashi dervishes. This merging of different strands continued to become a group in itself which is called the S¸ ems branch (S¸ ems kolu) and which, unlike Sultan Veled’s (Sultan Veled kolu) group which stressed the principles of s¸eriat (Sharia, Islamic law), paid more attention to love and ecstasy. Up to the reign of the last of the Çelebis in the early the 20th century, some Mevlevi followers and Çelebis were simultaneously Bektashis (Gölpınarlı 1983: 204-211, 224-236; Özönder 1997: 158; Yazıcı 1991: 886).

Interests and politics The Sultan Veled group within the Mevlevi order assumed an increasingly Sunnite character and became more established in towns and cities as opposed 5 Kalenderis (Qalandaris) wore a special dress, shaved their head and facial hair, perforated their hands and ears, etc. See for special information Trimingham (1971: 267-269).

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 65 to villages. Because of the foundation of vakıf by the governors and the affluent, Mevlevism appealed increasingly to the elite. Many Ottoman sultans, in particular Murad II, Bayezid II, Selim I and Murad III, were interested in Mevlevism. The first Mevlevi lodge was built during the reign of Murad II in the 15th century and many sultans helped the Mevlevis financially and renovated the Mevlevi lodges (Gölpınarlı 1983: 247-248; Inalcık 1973: 200-201). Prior to embarking on his Iranian campaign, Selim I came to Konya to ask the opinion of the Mevlevi leader (Kayaoglu 2002: 38). Selim I, who wrote poetry in Persian, may well have been attracted to the Mevlevi order on account of its Sunnite character and the use of the Persian language by Mevlana and the Mevlevi lodges in the cities as a way of distancing himself from the Iranian Shah Ismail, who used Turkish in his poems and tried to meld Shiism and Turkish Islam. Furthermore, the preference for Mevlevism above any other order was most likely influenced by the fact that the Mevlevis were always very passive when it came to politics. According to Gölpınarlı, from the end of 16th century in particular, Mevlevism moved away from villages and small towns and became an order of the authorities. By the 17th century Mevlevism was almost a state institution (Gölpınarlı 1983: 247-248). Despite its strong links with rural people, Bektashism was, however, a state institution much earlier. Although there is not much information about how the Janissaries, the first organized army of the Ottomans, were linked with the Bektashis, researchers think that Abdal Musa, who fought in the front, probably helped found this army in the second half of the 14th century. The relations between Janissaries and Bektashis increased to the extent that the Janissaries accepted Hacı Bektas¸ as an authority for their organization, and from 1591 onwards Janissaries became officially connected to the Bektashi convent (Çamuroglu 1994: 21, 29-30; Hasluck 1973: 490; Mélikoff 1998: 202).6 The changing of the Janissary rules, which had dictated that they live in barracks as bachelors also, occurred at the beginning of the 16th century. From the 18th century on, however, very few Janissaries lived in the barracks, and most of them were working in non-military spheres, a development which had a negative effect on the army (Çamuroglu 1994: 28-29). In the meantime, they became aware of their potential power but misused it by terrorizing sultans and making and unmaking grandvizirs (Birge 1965: 75-76). The threat represented by he Janissaries and the need for reform led Mahmut II to establish a new army in 1826, an event which sparked a revolt by the Janissaries and ended up destroying them. This destruction affected the Bektashis in turn, who had up to then enjoyed very good relations with Ottoman authority with the result that their teaching was not attacked by the authorities until then. However, many ^

^

^

6 Here again, according to a legend, Hacı Bektas¸ was the co-founder of Janissaries with the Ottoman sultan Orhan (Hasluck 1973: 483, especially 489-493). Hasluck reports that he even found a very similar legend linking the foundation of Janissaries with Mevlevis (Hasluck 1973: 493, 613, note 3).

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66 | Refika Sariönder Bektashi convents were destroyed with the abolition of the Janissaries. Their books were confiscated, many dervishes were arrested and some Bektashi leaders were executed or sent into exile (Birge 1961: 76-78; Çamuroglu 1994: 31; Faroqhi 1981: 107-127; Trimingham 1971: 81). Gölpınarlı states that the Ottoman sultans Selim III, who reigned between 1789 and 1807, and Mahmut II, who reigned between 1808 and 1839, became Mevlevis on account of their reaction to the Janissaries (Gölpınarlı 1983: 271). Mahmut II choose the Mevlevis as his allies in his reforms – not only against the Janissaries and the Bektashis but also against the ulema (ulama, Islamic scholars), who wanted the political and legal superiority of the Muslims over Christians – since they “more than any Mohammedan religious body in Turkey have stood for tolerance and enlightenment” (Hasluck 1973: 619).7 The embeddedness of the Mevlevi and Bektashi orders in the interests and politics in the Ottoman state, on the one hand, and in social and cultural life, on the other hand, underwent a new era with the Turkish Republic, which was founded in 1923. Although a special law enacted in 1925 prohibited all convents and lodges, the significance of religious issues and the orders in Turkish social and political life did not decline. This fact is supported with developments in the late 1940s which marked the end of the one-party system represented by Atatürk’s Republican People’s Party. With the transition to a multi-party system, the Republican People’s Party initiated many religious reforms in order to secure its place in the election in 1950, in which the religious conservative Democratic Party would also have take part. However, the various reforms, such as the introduction of elective courses on religion in the primary grades, the establishment of a Faculty of Theology, new professional courses for Muslim clerics and the reopening of tombs of saints and Ottoman sultans, did not prevent the Democratic Party from gaining power (Mardin 1983: 143-144; Rustow 1957: 93-94). As part of these religious reforms, the Mevlana museum was opened in 1954 and the annual festival was launched in Konya; the town of ^

7 The girding ceremony of the sultans is presented in many works as an example of competition between Mevlevis and Janissaries, i.e. Bektashis. In contradiction to the legendary history of this ceremony, in which it is claimed that the right of girding of the sultans with a sword belonged traditionally to Mevlevi leaders, Hasluck states that “the privilege of the Mevlevi Sheikh is not an ancient institution but a comparatively recent innovation, and that there is a good deal of evidence to show that it became regular only after the accession of Mahmud II in 1808” (Hasluck 1973: 618-619). Hasluck uses this argument to support Mahmut II’s favouring of the Mevlevis over the Bektashis. However, Gölpınarlı challenges Hasluck’s argument which is stated in almost every work regarding relations between the state and the Mevlevi; this view even prevails in the entry for “Mawlawiyya” in The Encyclopedia of Islam (Margoliouth 1991: 888). Gölpınarlı asserts that the first and only success of Mevlevi propaganda regarding the girding ceremony occurred in the ceremony for sultan Res¸ ad, Mehmed V, who came to power in 1909 (Gölpınarlı 1983: 276-277).

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 67 Hacıbektas¸ has been operating the Hacı Bektas¸ Museum and festivals since 1964. The political passivity of the Mevlevis in the Ottoman state may have been the reason behind what Kafadar describes as their “unique privilege of occasional quasi-legitimate functions in its traditional asitanes of Konya and Galata” and “status of a semilegitimate cultural institution” in present-day Turkey which is reflected in the fact that “Mevlevi troupes have traveled abroad to represent the republic by performing the ‘dance of the Whirling Dervishes’” (Kafadar 1992: 312-313). According to Kafadar, Mevlevis have convinced reformist Ottoman governors and European travellers since the 18th century that their order was the most sophisticated and enlightened one. In Turkey, Mevlevism was respected particularly on account of Mevlana’s humanistic teachings which are free of dogma and ritual. Thus, with the exception of the very orthodox, conservatives and leftist secularists have not had any problems with Mevlevism in the new republic (Kafadar 1992: 312).8 Although we know that some of the leading intellectuals of the Tanzimat period were both Bektashis and Freemasons (Mélikoff 1994: 233), Bektashism has maintained its closed structures up to the present day. However, with the rise in Alevi politics since the late 1980s, Hacı Bektas¸ and his ideas have been enjoying a renewed popularity. The acceptance of Hacı Bektas¸ as a “great Turkish personality” by the state and as a “great Alevi saint” by the Alevis has led to an instrumentalization of his name. The Alevis, who had problems founding organizations in their name, used the name of Hacı Bektas¸ for initiating many Alevi associations and foundations within which, in addition to other activities, they also conduct their own religious rituals. The term Alevi-Bektas¸ i is also used nowadays without any reference to the yol evlatlari branch of the Bektashis, which differs in terms of rituals and membership. For example, the former Bektashi convents in Istanbul are run and used by Alevis. Hence, the promotion of Alevi politics led to the establishment of another ‘semi-legitimate cultural institution’, with the result that the annual Hacı Bektas¸ festivals are filled with statespersons of every grade who also take part by the openings and activities of Alevi associations. Officials typically emphasize Hacı Bektas¸ ’s tolerance and modernity in their speeches.

8 Reed writes in 1957: “Mystics come from all walks of life, but many are intelligent, well-educated, responsible men and women. […] Every one of them combines an unusually good knowledge of Islamic tradition and history with, in most cases, command of at least one foreign language, an university education, considerable study of comparative religion, and a liberal, radiant, personal religious life which is apparent on his face and in his daily work. These Turkish mystics usually follow Mevlana” (Reed 1957: 139).

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68 | Refika Sariönder

Conclusion The depictions of Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ in Turkey are quite similar: both were great thinkers of a humanistic and peaceful Islam. The public legitimacy of their respective groups, however, relies on very different factors. Both groups draw on the respect accorded to their religious founders, Mevlana and Hacı Bektas¸ , however while “the status of semi-legitimacy” of Mevlevis depends on their apolitical attitudes, that of Alevis lies precisely in the domain of politics. The Turkish state, which recognizes that most Alevis support the secular republican system in Turkey, tries to instrumentalize Alevis as a front against the anti-secularist tendencies within the Islamist movement. In this context, a discussion about “Türk Müslümanlıgı” (Turkish Muslimhood) has even been facilitated in recent years which develops Turkish elements instead of Arabic and Persian influences. Once again, Alevism and Bektashism with their spiritual leader Hacı Bektas¸ and Turkish as their language of worship have gain attracted attention in these discussions.9 Alevis have also attempted to incorporate Mevlevis into their organization. In the discourse of Cem Vakfı, which is one of the biggest Alevi organizations and is accepted by the state as representative for the Alevis, the utterance AleviBektas¸ i is occasionally expanded to Alevi-Bektas¸ i-Mevlevi.10 The affiliated monthly journal Cem Dergisi also contains articles about Mevlevism. In his article, Baki Öz even argues that S¸ ems-i Tebrizi, through whom Mevlana accessed his initial ecstatic inspiration, was sent to Mevlana by Hacı Bektas¸ of whom he was a follower (Öz 1999). Through a personal discussion with an executive of an Alevi association in Istanbul, I observed that even some of today’s Alevis believe that Mevlevism had changed dramatically after Mevlana who – in their view – was actually an Alevi. These examples show that in a highly politicized atmosphere like that prevailing in Turkey two saints who could not get well with each other can be presented as fellows. To recall Robertson (1989), today not only are religions politicized, but politics are also “religionized”. Thus, the interaction between orders and between state and socio-religious groups is not only determined by religious issues but increasingly also by politics. I have attempted here to outline two of the many faces of local Islam in Turkey. My aim was to show how both Mevlevism and Bektashism have repeatedly intersected and interacted from their very beginnings – depending on the relevant socio-religious and political interests at the time. The specialty of these two orders, unlike the many others in Turkey, lies in the charismatic potential of the two saints who have been instrumental^

9 For the discussions, cf. Ocak 2001: 147-156. . 10 Cf., for example, the book Cem Vakfı Anadolu Inanç Önderleri Birinci Toplantıs¸ı . edited by Cem Vakfı and published as part of the series Alevi-Bektas¸i-Mevlevi Inanç Önderleri Toplantıları.

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Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Hacı Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam | 69 ized and politicized according to the interests of socio-religious groups and governments.

References Birge, John Kingsley (1965 [1937]) The Bektashi Order of Dervishes, London: Luzac & Co. Ltd. . Çakır, Rus¸ en (1993 [1990]) Ayet ve Slogan. Türkiye’de Islami Olus¸umlar, Istanbul: Metis Yayınları. Çamuroglu, Reha (1994) Yeniçerilerin Bektas¸iligi ve Vaka-i S¸ erriye, Istanbul: Ant Yayınları. . Cem Vakfı (ed.) (2000) Cem Vakfı Anadolu Inanç Önderleri Birinci Toplantıs¸ı, Istanbul: Cem Vakfı Yayınları. Faroqhi, Suraiya (1981) Der Bektaschi-Orden in Anatolien, Vienna: Verlag des Institutes für Orientalistik der Universität Wien. Gölpınarlı, Abdülbaki (1983[1953]) Mevlana’dan Sonra Mevlevilik, Istanbul: . Inkılap ve Aka, revized 2nd edition. Gölpınarlı, Abdülbaki (1999 [1951]) Mevlana Celaleddin. Hayatı, Eserleri, Felsefesi, . Istanbul: Inkılap Kitabevi. Groß, Erich (1927) Das Vilajet-Name des Haggi Bektasch. Ein Türkisches Derwischevangelium, Leipzig: Mayer & Müller GmbH. Hasluck, F.W. (1973 [1929]) Christianity and Islam Under the Sultans, New York: Octagon Books. . Inalcık, Halil (1973) The Ottoman Empire. The Classical Age 1300-1600, London: Weidenfeld and Nicholson. Kafadar, Cemal (1992) “The New Visibility of Sufism in Turkish Studies and Cultural Life”. In: Lifchez, Raymond (ed.) The Dervish Lodge, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 307-322. . . Kayaoglu, Ismet (2002) “Sultan-Mevlevi Ilis¸ kilerine Genel Bir Bakıs¸ ”. In: X. Milli Mevlana Kongresi/Tebligler. Konya: Selçuk Üniversitesi, pp. 35-49. Kehl-Bodrogi, Krisztina (1988) Die Kizilbas/Aleviten. Untersuchungen über eine esoterische Glaubensgemeinschaft in Anatolien, Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag. Lindholm, Charles (1998) “Prophets and Pirs. Charismatic Islam in the Middle East and South Asia”. In: Prina Werbner/Helene Basu (eds.), Embodying Charisma, London and New York: Routledge, pp. 209-233. Mardin, S¸ erif (1983) “Religion and Politics in Modern Turkey”. In: James P. Piscatori (ed.) Islam in the Political Process, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 138-159. Margoliouth, D. S. (1991) “Mawlawiyya”. In: The Encyclopedia of Islam, Leiden: E.J. Brill, vol. VI, pp. 887-888. Mazzaoui, Michel M. (1972) The Origins of the Safawids, Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner Verlag. ^

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70 | Refika Sariönder . Mélikoff, Irène (1994) Uyur Idik Uyardılar. Alevilik-Bektas¸ilik Aras¸tırmaları, Istanbul: Cem Yayınevi. Mélikoff, Irène (1998) Hacı Bektas¸. Efsaneden Gerçege, Istanbul: Cumhuriyet Kitapları (orig. Hadji Bektach, un mythe et ses avatars, Leiden: E.J. Brill 1998). Ménage, V. L. (1979) “The Islamization of Anatolia”. In: Nehemia Levtzion (ed.) Conversion to Islam, New York and London: Holmes & Meier Publishers, pp. 52-67. . Ocak, Ahmet Yas¸ ar (1996a [1980]) Babailer Isyanı, Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları. . Ocak, Ahmet Yas¸ ar (1996b) Türk Sufiligine Bakıs¸lar, Istanbul: Iletis¸ im Yayınları. . . Ocak, Ahmet Yas¸ ar (2001 [1999]) Türkler, Türkiye ve Islam, Istanbul: Iletis¸ im Yayınları. . Öz, Baki (1999) “Mevlevilik Içerisindeki Alevilik Çizgisi.” Cem no. 87. Özönder, Hasan (1997) “Yangınlarla Kaybettigimiz, Yenikapi Mevlevihanesi”. 9th Milli Mevlana Kongresi (Tebligler), Konya: Selçuk Üniversitesi, pp. 143-189. Öztürk, Yas¸ ar Nuri (1997) Tarihi Boyunca Bektas¸ilik, Istanbul: Yeni Boyut. Robertson, Roland (1989) “Globalization, Politics, and Religion”. In: A Beckford/Thomas Luckmann (eds.) The Changing Face of Religion, London: Sage Publications, pp. 10-23. Reed, Howard A. (1957) “The Religious Life of Modern Turkish Muslims”. In: Richard N. Frye (ed.) Islam and the West, The Hague: Mouton & Co, pp. 108-148. Rustow, Dankwart A. (1957) “Politics and Islam in Turkey 1920-1955”. In: Richard N Frye (ed.) Islam and the West, The Hague: Mouton & Co, pp. 69-107. Schimmel, Annemarie (1995 [1978]) Rumi. Ich bin Wind und du bist Feuer. Leben und Werk des großen Mystikers, Munich: Eugen Diderichs Verlag. Schimmel, Annemarie (2000) Sufismus: Eine Einführung in die islamische Mystik, Munich: C.H. Beck. Tanman, Baha M. (1992) “Settings for the Veneration of Saints”. In: Raymond Lifchez (ed.) The Dervish Lodge, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 130-171. Trimingham, J. Spencer (1971) The Sufi Orders in Islam, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yazıcı, T. (1991): “Mawlawiyya”. The Encyclopedia of Islam, Leiden: E.J. Brill, vol. VI, pp. 883-887. ^

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 71

Chapter 4 From “Total Fullness” to “Emptiness”: Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia Mohand Akli Hadibi Based on a study carried out in the 1990s on a zawiya and its founding saint, Sidi Wedris, we shall attempt to present an account of the original conception of a zawiya, and to demonstrate the changes this endogenous “model” has undergone over time in the context of its relationships with various reform movements and to explore the impacts of the latter on both this type of institution and on the future of the “religion of the people” as so well described by Fanny Colonna (1992). Although the study in question concerned a specific case, that of the zawiya of Wedris, in terms of the observation of the constituent elements that structure the modes of management and expression of zawiyas as much on a cultural and physical as on a social level, the conclusions drawn from it are also applicable to the essential features of zawiyas in Kabylia. The study enabled us to reconstitute a concept which may be described as original and endogenous and which developed in the context of the term used to designate zawiyas in Kabylia, timeâmmert.1

1 All of the zawiyas in Kabylia are designated using the term timeâmmert, the Berberised form of the Arabic verb
ammara, which has the same root as
umran. In his preface to Discours sur l’Histoire universelle, Vincent Monteil writes that
umran here is equivalent to our civilisation. It is, primarily (Ibn Khaldoun 2001: I, 86) an inhabited place, then the culture, population of a country, and finally the civilisation. Etymologically, it is that which fills a void. Ibn Khaldoun uses ma
amur from the same root in the sense of “inhabited, cultivated region”; eimara “agriculture” and ietimar “population and demographic growth” (Ibn Khaldoun 1978: XXXIII). Today, “civilisation” is not anymore rendered as
umran, but as hadhara, tamaddun or madaniyya, but our century liberally employs the derivative of the same root, isti
mar, “colonialism”. With respect to the significance of the local designation of the zawiya as timeâmmert in

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The zawiya of Wedris: a “full” institution The “full” character of the social phenomenon observable in the zawiya offers a suitable starting point. The density and heterogeneity of the protagonists, the variety of their practices, the needs they express and the constant repetition of ziyaras (ziyara means pilgrimage) in each mawsim (season) are all conclusive evidence of this. Based on this cultural concept, we have constructed an explanatory model in an attempt to formulate a globalising and “internalist” approach. The proposed explanatory model is constructed on the basis of the concept of the timeâmmert, and its sociological scope is based on the way in which the different constituent elements of the zawiya are maintained. These elements are the saint, the different social groups who claim his paternity, the physical situation of the institution itself which includes the saint’s tomb, his sanctuary and the remainder of the site. They also constitute an analytical framework, a coherent group whose different elements fit together and are part of a cognitive logic. Although the elements in question are not the outcome of a simple juxtaposition but of a long and complex historical process which cannot be recounted here in full, the importance that each element carries in the context of the others nevertheless favours the adoption of a certain order which will be retraced in the following account. The first and most important of these elements is the saint, Sidi Ahmed Wedris. A renowned scholar, Wedris was a mufti in Bougie in 1353 (Christian calendar) (Ibn Khaldoun 2001: 309). He is also reputed to have been master of Ibn Khaldoun prior to setting himself up with the Illoulan Oumalou in the Great Kabylia region. It was there that he acquired the status of saint. This election to sainthood granted him a place among the friends of God (d-ahbib rrebi) while still among men, close to their preoccupations, knowledge and culture. As a sociological phenomenon, election to sainthood is, in effect, the outcome of a long process. A number of characteristics are required that the saint must acquire or have attributed to him. These “characteristics” are socially produced. They are generally attested when the saint – while still alive – responded with favourable actions to crises faced by the group in the past.2 These characteristics are those of the Berber aggouram combined with the Muslim additions – such as the fact of being an
alim for the saint in this case was a Kabyle usage, it refers to the filling up of a space, night and day and throughout the year without specifying what exactly fills this space (cf. Hadibi 2003: 319). 2 According to Said Boulifa’s theory, the four saints – Sidi Ahmed Ou Malek, Sidi Mansour, Sidi
Abderahman and Sidi Ahmed Wedris – came together in the 16th century to liberate the population from the tyranny of the Kingdom of Koukou. From then on the four were venerated for the protection they provided to the population of this region (cf. Boulifa 1925: 200-230).

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 73 scholar who knew the Quran and the sacred writing, as well as being a Sufi – that where superposed onto the local saints. The saint renounced all claim to worldly goods to devote himself to the quest for piety with the aim of attaining the “supreme”, that is to say divine, truth. Certainly, the status of foreigner attributed to the person in question placed him above village and tribal divisions, but gave him above all the advantage of being free of social ties. This enabled him to overcome the logic of the group and to free himself from the discourses particular to each fraction of the group so as to create his own social discourse.3 The renouncement of the worldly goods that preoccupy continuously the common mortals strengthened the judgement society developed of the saint’s personality. It is precisely because his interests were not of the same kind and did not exist on the same level as those of society that he acquired the authority and legitimacy necessary to ensure the respect and observation of his judgement. Furthermore, this renunciation of worldly goods and his status as a “foreigner” allowed the saint to speak the “truth” that other men could not take upon themselves because they had to manage their relationships according to power relationships that existed within society so as to protect and conserve their interests and positions. The saint, as presented here, did not share the same interests and either located his own interests outside those of society, or subordinated them to those of the collectivity. Thus, this renunciation of material goods became one of the conditions necessary for the saint to distinguish himself from the group in terms of his positions and judgements. The temporary retreat from social life, involving isolation in a ribat (hermitage) or taxelwit, referred to in the account of the saint’s life, is evidence of this renunciation of the material life and became one of the most important stages in the election to sainthood. It enabled the development of the saint’s personality in the context of both physical and social deprivation. This detachment may also be interpreted as another condition for the election to sainthood in that it gave the saint the distance and time necessary to reflect on the values and the logic of the group, to consider them in their entirety, to discover any eventual inconsistencies and to propose suitable responses to the social crises faced by the group based on the group’s own culture. This proved valid when people failed to find solutions to their crises because as integrated social actors they did not have the necessary distance from the prevailing situation. Nevertheless, the fact of being chosen for the sainthood was ultimately perceived as divine which prompted a rich transposition of prophetic scenes 3 The analysis of Boulifa’s account and the different legends collected in the locality revealed that the saints, including Wedris, were attributed with the status of foreigners and that they had undergone a period of reclusion involving both physical and moral suffering. This is an important and necessary phase in the process of election to sainthood (cf. Hadibi 1998: 273-285).

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74 | Mohand Akli Hadibi onto their life stories. The saint is close to God, the Prophet and other saints, as well as man and living beings. He is the intermediary between the Creator and His creatures. He is the bearer of Muhammadan knowledge and of the baraka: the generating force of life, both creative and curative. This force is found everywhere the saint has been and has left behind a burhan (proof of sainthood) which is attested by the stories and objects that belonged to him. The baraka continues to exist even after his death – emanating permanently from his tomb, for example. Thus, the saint is the central element around which all other elements gravitate. Sidi Ahmed Wedris occupies a particular position within the domain of sainthood in Kabylia. He has no direct descendants. The particular status he enjoyed enabled him to establish an intensive symbolic relationship with several social groups of varying tribes.4 In effect, all of the neighbouring tribal groups argue about the symbolic paternity of the saint, which dates from a period which it is not possible to pinpoint here, but which is, however, attested by the known passage of the saint through the location where these different groups abide. This symbolic relationship is constantly renewed and expressed in terms of the protection that Sidi Wedris provides to his followers. It is experienced as a dialectical and historical relationship to the extent that the saint himself is always present to protect the groups in question and they, in turn, pay their annual tithes, visit him at each mawsim and intervene any time the zawiya is in need of help. In acknowledgement of the saint’s deeds and virtues a qubba was erected in his memory and the zawiya was built around his tomb. The construction of the zawiya was a long process and necessitated contributions from village society in general, and from the groups favoured by the saint in particular. Thus, the material basis or land property of the zawiya consists of habous (i.e. mainmort lands). These lands were acquired through donations from rich and poor, more or less socially integrated individuals and from groups. Thus the zawiya “house of God” (d-axxam rrebi) is constructed on “God’s ground” which does not belong to anyone and is theoretically inalienable. No one may claim either its 4 See Hadibi (1995). His central thesis is the following: the special status of the saint Wedris is characterised by an absence of saintly descendance, and the difficulty, even impossibility, of determining the ascendence of the saint, which constitutes a myth which the different groups refer to in reference to his passage among them as attested by his burhans (proof of sainthood); thus he embodies, as it were, a common or shared history. This is why different groups of different tribes which do not belong to religious lineages inherited his baraka as a shared capital which some use to legitimise their practices and to distinguish them as special therapists and which others attempt to avail of in dealing with their daily preoccupations. The ethnic groups in question are four in number: Ath Waghlis, Ath Yemmel, Iloulan and Ath Aissi. The first two were located in the Soummam Kabylia and the second two in the Djurdjura Kabylia. For more details see Hadibi (1995: 113-149).

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 75 ownership or the authority or right to exclude anyone from it. Anyone, irrespective of social position, origin or sex may take up residence there and be sheltered and helped there temporarily. Thus, the zawiya is always “inhabited” (full). Day and night throughout the year, it receives a constant stream of pilgrims, casual travellers, the poor and the sick. It also provided a permanent home for the tolba (plural of taleb, student) who are replaced periodically. Just as the baraka is a permanent feature of the zawiya, the names of God, the Prophet and the saints are constantly referred to and the jinns (spirits) always present there. However, it is mainly during the mawsim of the ziyara that the zawiya reaches its peak of “fullness”, as during this period it receives thousands of pilgrims who, in turn, cite all of the local saints and those whose reputation extends beyond Kabylia. They recall the dead and remember those who are absent. In this way, they illustrate the sociological scope conveyed by the name given to the institution in Kabylia: timeâmmert, i.e. “fullness” par excellence. The fact that Sidi Ahmed Wedris died without leaving any descendents prevented the creation of a hereditary monopoly on the sainthood and the allocation of responsibility for the management of the zawiya to a defined lineage. Indeed, it enables several groups to claim part of this legitimacy that they are able to put forward at all times. Hence, the zawiya is always open to these different groups and they are involved in its management to varying degrees. The level of the involvement of each group is determined by their symbolic, historical and geographical proximity to the each other. Thus, the village residents of Ath
Ali Wemhend and the few villages of the Illoulen are the most influential in terms of the management of the ongoing affairs of the zawiya. The Ath Yemmel are consulted on important decisions concerning the future of the zawiya, for example problems concerning the land. The Ath Waghlis limit their involvement to making financial contributions towards the work carried out on the extension of the zawiya. Daily management, maintenance and the services provided to the pilgrims are the responsibility of the tolab and a few Ath
Ali Wemhend villagers who live there permanently. The various groups that enjoyed special relationships with the saint in the past sustained these relationships to the present day and they were only temporarily disrupted when historical events resulted in the closure of the zawiya, i.e. during the presence of the French and during the revolution of 1954 to 1962. The relationships were re-established when Algeria became independent. This perenniality was expressed by ritual practices observed during the annual ziyara. All of the zuwwar (plural of pilgrim) who come to Wedris observe ritual practices at locations traditionally acknowledged as the centres of the saint’s sacredness. Most of them followe the same itinerary and try to observe the ritual requirements in their words and actions. However, alongside these sacralized practices, the groups and individuals also invest the space of the zawiya with other religious practices, such as the

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76 | Mohand Akli Hadibi intonation of the dhikr, religious chants, trances and therapeutic practices and various secular activities, including festive chants and dances. Although these practices tended to be adopted by the majority of pilgrims, certain differences can be observed between the different groups. The Ath Yemmel observes the ritual down to the last detail and through sacrificial acts in particular. The Ath Aïssi differe from the former in that their practices were undertaken in a spirit akin to Sufism and expressed in the organisation of diwans and/or the recitation of the dhikr. As attested by our corpus, the litanies express a quest for perfection. It should be noted that these litanies are expressed in Kabyle, the bearer of the local culture which developed a structured and coherent representation of the cosmos in the broadest sense and a universalist representation of Islam. The Ath Waghlis, whose participants are mainly young, tend to use the zawiya as an area for expression and emotional release, and their practices are more secular than religious in nature. They take the form of secular songs and dances which bear witness to the ongoing quest for innovation and individual and collective perfection. The Illoulen are involved in all of the practices carried out at the zawiya, turning, for example, the religious holiday of Achoura, into a day of local festivities. These different activities, which actually express relatively diverse conceptions, compete and intermingle, but always end in co-existing and sharing either time, space or both. This co-existence is made possible by the fact that each protagonist derives the practices of the present from the past, where necessary altering the saint’s biography for the purpose of legitimising these practices among the other practitioners. Thus, in effect, the group’s memory often selects the recollections it required and chooses to forget those that could contradict its position, practices and current interests. In this case, orality facilitates the task of selection to the extent that – unlike written testimony – it does not freeze the facts and the historical relationships between the different groups with the saint at a particular point in time. Actors who are specialized in the dispensation of curative therapies also emerge from these different groups. Although these actors differed with respect to the therapies they practized, they joined forces in seeking to strengthen their healing powers through the saint’s baraka, or the sacred verb. They found legitimation for their practices through reference to the saint, and in the case of actors of religious descent this authority is further reinforced by lineage. The tolba and Ath
Ali Wemhend villagers also refer to the supposed words and actions of the saint to legitimise their practices, irrespective of the nature of these practices. The concept shared by all was that the qubba (saint’s tomb), and by extension the zawiya, constitute the centre from which there is a symmetrical junction between the earth and the sky5, between the world of the living 5 Throughout the world, the highest points of the mountain are considered as selected places where monasteries are founded and various cult locations become established (Eliade 1987: 39-40).

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 77 and that of the dead. It is the centre from which the physical and the social space emanate, with all the levels mixed. The geographical area of the village is restricted to that of the zawiya; similarly, the boundaries of the realm of the dead are defined in relation to it, and the uninhabited area, i.e. the lekhla (wild uninhabited area), is defined in terms of the narrowing of the social area, i.e. leamara (Hadibi 1995: 169-170). However, in this centre that was the zawiya disorder reigns temporarily: men and women intermingled, the roles are inverted, social positions and tribal divisions are briefly eliminated. Thus, the zawiya remains dynamic and open to all social categories, women and men, integrated and marginalized. It evolveds on the basis of the social and psychological needs of those who seek its services. It was a place that brings together several village groups of different ethnic origins who are resident in a heterogeneous geographical area extending from the Djurdura Kabylia to the Soummam Kabylia and, on this level, it creates a approach between heterogeneous individuals as it facilitates the contracting of matrimonial relationships. It brings about the identification of the different groups with the saint and on that basis the different groups find fulfilment in a universal representation, i.e. Islam. The spirit of the festival that dominated the three days of the ziyara enabled the society to overcome the rigidity of the social control it exercised over the groups and individuals and achieve a significant relaxation of both individual and collective tensions. This phenomenon was most clearly perceptible among the young participants who occupy the space and transform it into an arena of (emotional) release characterised by the permanent shift from the realm of the religious to the secular songs which are continually innovated. The young participants express newly emerged preoccupations and aspirations and on this occasion, they are allowed to go beyond the anxiety and vicissitudes of life that usually stifles them in the village. The dance, the gestures and physical expression that accompanied the songs, generally assumed a carnal form and allowed individual self-expression in the context of relationships with the opposite sex. Thus, it promoted the breaking down of the rigidity of socially codified behaviours. During this period, the zawiya offered society the possibility of temporarily reversing the order established with respect to the sexual division of roles, positions and physical spaces. Thus society could find fulfilment in a different way than usual and this was made possible by both the sacred license offered by the saint and by the social status and practices of the tolba, whose capacity to invert roles and social values has already been demonstrated (cf. Hadibi 1995). Its temporary inversion makes it possible to reinforce and maintain the social order because it allows the group to release the tensions imposed by the order and psychologically rehabilitated those who are marginalised by the social order (Balandier 1990: 128). The qubba, which is largely in demand on account of its liberation of the baraka, the force capable of responding to multiple and variable social needs, reinforces the social order as the demand for it reflects

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78 | Mohand Akli Hadibi both the “traditional” preoccupations and new requirements of society. Thus, the saint’s baraka combined with ritual and therapeutic practices makes it possible to respond to concerns involving the biological, social, symbolic and economic reproduction of the group to the extent that the zawiya is responsible for a range of topics including celibacy, widowhood, sexual impotence, sterility and mental and physical marginality. Hence its role can be identified as vital given that these topics were perceived as a potential risk to the very existence and cohesion of the group and to the reproduction of the patrilineal system.6 In economic terms, the ritual of the ziyara also enables the integration of wealth in both the zawiya and at the suq (market). It provides an opportunity for intensive commercial activity and institutes an economic balance within the local population.7 The persistence of the various practices effectively reflects how deeply rooted these practices are in the complex socio-cultural reality of the group. The zawiya is organised in a way that it adapts to the society’s specific type of social organisation while developing a defence system for the conservation of the latter’s interests. Through its constitution, organisation and mode of operation, it adapts to the changes taking place within the society, in particular those concerning the religious reform movements. Thanks to the flexibility of its structure, it succeeds in conserving its essential nature and multifunctionaltiy. This capacity for adaptation was manifested in two ways. The first consisted in the ability to integrate every contribution that does not risk challenging the dynamism and diversity of zawiya; this was evident in the relationship it maintained with religious (sufi-) brotherhoods by attributing to the saint the title of founder of the tariqa al-Idrissia and later opening up to the Rahmaniyya through the intermediary of khouan-members from this brotherhood as sufism did not constitute a closed ideology and tended instead to act as a source of inspiration and innovation. The second way in which this capacity for adaptation becomes manifest consists in the way the zawiya adopts an attitude of resistance, remarkably so as this meant facing up to the Islah movement, which gave rise to the relationship it maintained with its neighbour, the zawiya of Sidi Abderrahmane. The Islahist ideology acted as a vehicle for a rationalist and positivist Islam which opposed the practices observed at Wedris, condemning them as anti-Islamic and believing them to be a result of obscurantism (Nadir 1975), hence the incompatibility with the nature of a “religion of the people” as a religious culture and source of

6 The three forms of therapy were analysed: they concerned different physical handicaps, forms of hysteria and temporary or prolonged sexual impotence. Other complaints were recorded in order of redundancy: madness, the research of matrimonial alliances, sterility and quest for masculine fertility, for both men and women (Balandier 1990: 195-236). 7 Similar functions were analysed for Morocco by Pascon (1984).

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 79 inspiration uniting the different levels of sacredness and evolving in an arena of intersubjectivity. The way that the different forms of religious practices present themselves today in the zawiya of Wedris and reflect the diversity of the religious culture of Kabylia, they provide a structured representation of the cosmos, incorporating Berber cosmogony and a vision of the local integrated into an unversalist framework represented by Islam. They also express a dimension of Berber identity to the extent that individuals and social groups find a local reference point in the symbolic relationships they have with the saint that enable them to relate to Universalist reference points, i.e. those of Islam. This observation is confirmed by Ernest Gellner in his work Saints of the Atlas (1969). The place occupied by different religious and cultural practices in the zawiya of Wedris is that of a diversified and dynamic religiosity which responds to the cultural level of the different social groups and expresses entirely contemporary preoccupations. The “model” we have attempted to outline here was the dominant one within most of the zawiyas in Kabylia, although some of these zawiyas were founded by saints with a religious descendance whose legacy was monopolised by a single lineage. Nonetheless, all of these zawiyas were affected by the reforms introductions by various religious movements in the region, and these movements progressively altered the original conception of the institutions to varying degrees and at different times, and even went as far as altering their original function: formerly “full” institutions they ended up “empty”. This transformation involved a complex series of actions and reactions, resistance and change which we will now examine.

The reform movements: same objects and same supports From the arrival of Islam in Maghreb, one religious reform movement followed on another. They ranged from the Almoravide, which having been an innovative movement became a centralising ideology, to the Almohades and, with a few intermediary stages, modern Islamism. It is striking to observe that the reform movements always shared the same aims and sources of inspiration: in the context of social behaviour, their aims focused on clothing habits, the management of the body, illicit objects of consumption, dogma and the relationships between the sexes. And in terms of inspirational sources, the different movements have always demanded compliance with the spirit of the Quran and of the Sunna. Six centuries after Ibn Tumert, the premises for a new reform movement began to be established to the east of Bejaia in the Biban mountains around a saint alim, al Hocine al Wartilani. An 18th century saint, “he would be the last offspring of a family of prominent saints founded by Sidi
Ali al-Bakkay de Bougie and a distant cousin of the shurafa (pl. of sharif, descendent of Muham-

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80 | Mohand Akli Hadibi mad) of Budjlil” (Bargaoui 1998: 251). His critical views of the society of Kabylia, from which he originated, are presented in the form of an indictment in his work known under the authorship of Rihlat al-Wartilani. A travel narrative compiled during his pilgrimage to Mecca, the work includes detailed descriptions of the places he stayed, reporting on the inhabitants’ mores, customs and practices and on their scholars and saints. In his critical reading of this work, the contemporary Tunisian researcher Sami Baragaoui demonstrates the dominant themes of this work based on the level of interest expressed in them by the author. Based on the work, it would appear that al-Wartilani suggests the existence of a need to reform religious practices in accordance with the rules of Islam and an examination of the aims of these reforms reveals that they are close to those advocated by Ibn Tumert. In reference to women he has the following to say: “The habits of women are beset by dissoluteness and excess. They parade their uncovered faces, mix with men in full daylight. They even dare to go to the market in their finery. The women of Zemmoura who expose their intimate parts are a prime example of impropriety”. And al Wartilani states candidly: It is not just a matter of faces, but also of bosoms, breasts, armpits, legs and thighs. And to crown it all, their husbands are proud of this! These incomprehensible customs and unrestrained habits are accompanied by ignorance of the most simple Islamic rites, as some villages are incapable of celebrating the Friday prayer in accordance with the Sharia rules and they abandon the observation of the rites of Islam and transform them into the opposite of what they are. The people of Zemmoura are guilty of heresy as they believe in one part of the Quran and deny another (Bargaoui 1998: 251).

As a well informed native of Kabyle society, al-Wartilani also analyses the origin of social injustices and their causes, particularly in the area of inheritance, the position of women and the social rules governing exchanges. He denounces the bid
a and in his opinion, the most dreadful (shani
a) are those who contravene the rules of the fiqh. Among those most often mentioned is the disinheritance of women. He associates this with the practices of the devourers of the money of the widow and the orphan, the appropriation of the goods of another without legal right (bil-batil). The levirate is equally condemned. To kill one another without recourse to the rules of the shar
, to kill without the right to do so, is no less serious. Here he is referring to the practice of vendetta and all collective forms of violence practised in Kabylia (Bargaoui 1998: 257-58).

Al Wartilani also attacks local sainthood and the marabout lineages, in particular, as these were not restrictive in their management of social matters and in the observation of Islamic rules which, in his opinion, should be observed. He considers that a large number of marabouts and marabout lineages are nothing but

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 81 false saints who must be fought against and avoided. Many of them are uneducated people who claim to allow the mountain dwellers to commit acts that are contrary to the law. […] Certain marabouts of Ilman allow themselves to be guided by Satan, bringing men and women together for the occasion of the hadra, mixing young and older people dancing and crying, evoking love and passion. On the day of arafa, men and women meet freely around the tomb of Sidi Yahyia al Idli and also around those of Sidi Ibn Shaddad, Sidi
Ali Ibn Musa and Sidi
Abd al-Rahman al-Tha
alibi in Algiers, providing an opportunity to those who would like to meet women. With regard to the students of Sidi Ahmed Ibn Idris (Wedris), he holds them up to public reproach for having attacked and burned the residence and entire village of another marabout (quoted in Bargaoui 1998: 259).

In order to maintain their “fullness”, the zawiyas managed to resist this type of reform, which was unleashed in the mountains of Kabylia in the 18th century, only to find the material basis and the social structures they supported systematically attacked under colonisation. These measures affected all of the zawiyas that did not accept the new colonial order. In order to discern the interest shown in the political aspect of Islam, we researched they way it was dealt with. Perceived as an obstacle to the civilising action of France and as the origin of the armed resistance, the brotherhood found itself in the firing line; having failed to rally, its structures were annihilated and the khouan (brokers) pursued, hence the treatment witnessed by the Rahmaniyya after the revolt of al Moqrani in 1871 (Mahe 2001: 1990-2003). If not closed down, the zawiyas were placed under close police surveillance; for example, the zawiya of Oumalou, led by Shaykh Mohand Ou
Ali Ou Sahnoun, moqaddem of the Rahmaniyya of Shaykh al- Haddad was closed down in 1871 and did not resume activity until 1898 (Salhi 1979: 247). During this period a second zawiya opened for the Ath Waghlis in the village of Taghrast: Politically, the chief of the branch is subject to close surveillance because he expresses great hatred of the secular French schools. The second representative of the branch […] is in the same situation with respect to the administration because he is an influential agitator who detests French authority (Salhi 1979: 248).

In the case of the zawiya of Sidi Moussa of Tinebar, this was of the Rahmaniyya persuasion, but was independent of the mother zawiya of Seddouk, “from 1910 to 1945, thanks to the quality of his teaching and, above all, his restraint with regard to political conflicts, Shaykh Said Bahloul gives it a very great reputation” (Salhi 1979: 377). The zawiya of Izarouqen, whose founding saint created his own order known under the name of Zerrouqiyya, which appears to be a branch of the Chadouliyya, was not particularly influential but was, nevertheless, placed under police control with several of its shaykhs and managers being under surveillance. The zawiya of Sidi Yahyia Ou Moussa is not mentioned in the French archives and we failed to find any mention of it in the overseas archives in Aix-en-Provence. The segments claimed a certain legitimacy in its manage-

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82 | Mohand Akli Hadibi ment which was based on a logic of equality with respect to men, power and knowledge. In effect, two major lineages were involved: one which resided in the village itself and the other in the village of Ath al-Hadi. Both protected the zawiya from political influence; they maintained a balance between them and guaranteed the stability of the zawiya. They were a source of educated men and men of authority. Despite including a few scholars, the rest of the segments were mainly farmers and were more involved in the agricultural activities than the management of the zawiya. The equality of the segments in terms of their power relationships helped to neutralise the segments that would have liked to surpass the others and in the entire recent history of the zawiya we did not in fact observe any kind of local feudalism or any revolt on the part of one segment against the others. This situation prevailed until 1945 until when the French administration adopted a cautious attitude to the zawiya whose managers provided certain stability and as a result it succeeded in largely retaining its original character as demonstrated by the following account: Thirty years ago! At that time, the feasts of Achoura took place in summer and involved splendid festivities which started early in the morning and did not end until nightfall. The celebration on the same day of the feast of Sidi Khellil infused the festivities with a spirituality which the thousands of guests who came from a 50-kilometre radius soaked up while listening to the venerable shaykh of the zawiya giving his last course in law under the great oak in the middle of the meadow. How could we forget this last lesson given by the Master to his disciples, how could we fail to remember the fascinating ceremony that he performed in the early hours for us children so we could catch the procession of the shaykh and the tolab leaving the zawiya to go to the middle of the meadow. I remember the whiteness of the tunics and burnous, the immaculate scarves artistically entwined around the heads. […] I see again the timing of the marching, opened and closed by the youngest pupils, those who are known as “apprentices”, and in the middle, the old Master, carried and raised very high by dozens of disciples with their strong arms. […] I hear again the thunder of the fire that two rows of rifles breaking into fire as the cortège passed, blackening and burning some of burnous tails! I see the arrival at the oak again, the meticulous preparations for the arrangement of the four or five concentric circles of listeners around a central point where the venerable shaykh was standing, leaning on a cane with a finely carved pommel, starting the last lesson of law, listened to by a human flood transfixed in an absolute silence lasting two hours. […] It is the undisputed end of the course and what happened next is still most clearly imprinted in my memory: the Master nominated the best student of the year, the latter stood up to be shown to the crowd and his co-disciples, a huge crescendo of youyous (cries chanted by women during festivities), another deafening crescendo of fire saluted his honour for two to three minutes […] And then the inevitable tribute that must be paid to him for having distinguished himself among hundreds, an avalanche of strikes with burnous, bags and even little pieces of chalk! (Bélanteur 1973).

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 83

From reformism to Islamism or how the zawiyas became “empty” The 1920s saw the birth of another religious reform movement – Islah. The movement, which is known as “modern reformism” and was established under the aegis of the
alim Ibn Badis (Colonna 1995: 323-28), associated a definition of the Algerian umma (nation) based on the reform and re-appropriation of religion and the Arabic language with the reform of social behaviour and engaged in a conflict with what remained of the brotherhoods and maraboutism: Opposed to all segmentary and local forms of Islam that had emerged around the sanctuaries and local saints, the reform movement, which would acknowledge the authority of reformist theologians, i.e. the Oulémas, developed in the 1920s. This movement, which started in the old inland towns (Constantine, Tlemcen, Nedrouma, etc.), infiltrated all kinds of rural associations, in particular, the Muslim scouts who adopted the famous slogan coined by
Abdelhamid Ben Badis: Arabic is my language, Algeria is my country, Islam is my religion (Stora 1991: 42).

In the case of the Soummam area of Kabylia, the reformist movement that originated in Constantine focussed on Bejaia and the person of Bachir al Ibrahimi, second-in-command to Ben Badis, and recruited a local reformer in the Biban mountains, Fodil al Wartilani. The latter is a direct descendant of al Hocine al Wartilani, whose observations on the need for reform were quoted above. Assisted by the demise of the brotherhood, whereby the most spectacular decline is without doubt that of the Rahmaniyya of Petite Kabylia. Of over a dozen important establishment in Soummam d’Akbou, only two or three remained in 1940-1950. The disaffection of the khouans with respect to their shaykh is complete (Salhi 1979: 37).

Reformism quickly became established in all of the regions of the Soummam area of Kabylia despite the strong and formidable presence of the PPA/MTLD (Algerian Popular Party), against whom the conquest of the favourite area, i.e. the zawiyas, was targeted. The two movements, i.e. the PPA/MTLD and modern reformism, had the same attractions and recruited followers within and outside the religious lineages; in some cases, they even succeeded in attracting followers from the same family. While Aoussat Mohand Said, Messali’s lieutenant in the Soummam and a native of the village of Djenane, established the first PPA/MTLD structures through local personalised propagation in the neighbouring villages, these structures depended on persons who, for the most part, had studied at the French school and had subsequently obtained positions of responsibility at both national and local level.8 At the same time, the reformist movement was re8 The first PPA/MTLD militants who organised the movement in the Soummam

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84 | Mohand Akli Hadibi cruiting in the same villages in the same way as the PPA/MTLD. Thus, the Ath al-Hadi of the village of Djenane recorded several supporters of reformism who were known for their pedagogical and militant actions. The village of Sidi Yahia included several reformist shaykhs who distinguished themselves by opening a madrasa in 1954. The instruction at this madrasa included new subjects such as mathematics, history and geography and aimed to prepare the children of the village for the University of the Zitouna in Tunis; several waves of students were thus selected, including the students from the local tribe and those of Guenzet. The municipal elections of 1948 undoubtedly constituted the first test faced by the PPA/MTLD which participated at local level. The elections breathed new life into the foundations of nationalistic awareness. These different movements later reorganised to launch the national war of liberation under the auspices of the FLN (National Liberation Front). Throughout this period, therefore, the zawiyas functioned as locations for the recruitment and expression of militant activity and they paid dearly for this involvement. The zawiya of Izarouquen saw its extensive number of students and managers decline due to the emigration and displacement of some – together with their families – and the deaths of many others during the War of Independence. The zawiya of Sidi Yahyia was closed by the French army on 8 June 1958, a closure preceded by that of the zawiyas of Taghrast and of Sidi al Hadj Hsseyen. The many political actions carried out between 1945 and 1958 had their effect; like many others in the Soummam area, the different zawiyas of the Ath Waghlis emptied: “In the course of two decades, 1930 to 1955, the joint reformist and nationalistic action appears to have virtually completely eliminated the brotherhood and maraboutism, at least in terms of their representatives and zawiyas. Two zawiyas remained influential and active up to 1957 – that of Sidi Hadj Hsseyen (douar Djenane, in Soummam) and that of Tasslent (Akbou). They were both strongholds of the nationalist element and closed between 1956 and 1957 for collaboration with the FLN” (Salhi 1979: 376).

After independence, the majority of these zawiyas did not recover from the damage already caused; while some tried in vain to resume a semblance of activity, e.g. the zawiyas of Sidi al Hadj Hsseyen and of Taghrast where the job of the shaykh was limited to the regulation of property conflicts, the zawiya of region mostly originated from the tribe Ath Waghlis which largely constituted the local elite. For the most part they were educated in the French schools established in the region. The list has 27 members including several lawyers and teachers in Bejaia, Constantine or Algiers. The network was developed to have ramifications towards the east, in particular with Boumaaza in Kherrata, Boudiaf in M’sila and Abane Ramdane in Algiers. All of the individuals subsequently enjoyed senior positions of responsibility at national level and abroad. It should also be noted that the village and familial origins of the recruits of the PPA/MTLD and reformism are the same.

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 85 Izzarouqen failed to resume any significant level of activity. The zawiya of Sidi Yahyia tried to re-establish its functions, however the reformist activities continued behind the scenes. The madrasa was reopened and led by a reformist from the village but it ultimately failed as the school closed its doors immediately after the death of the initiator. Some tolba were in charge of the reading of the Quran for the dead and the feast of Achoura was maintained but was negatively perceived in the locality as illustrated by the following account penned by journalist from the village in 1973: Today, there is no more trace of the feast of Sidi Khellil, and that of the Achoura which continues to exist does not succeed alone in filling the void left by the former. Of course, there are still the girls and boys of the village lined up in a square sounding patriotic chants and the banal preaching of the imam retracing the history of the Achoura and, above all, there are two or three interventions by the old members of the tribe who are appeased by being allowed to attack their favourite targets again: the unfaithful, renegades, emancipated women, young men with long hair, smokers, drinkers. The religious ceremony ends when the village notables, the signatories from the neighbouring villages and the imam rise to go to the mosque. This is the signal for the start of the second part of the festival which is impatiently waited for by the young people and, in particular, the 30 to 40 guns who have come so as not to miss the tradition of firing at stone targets. The spectacle of all of the region’s hunters who assemble once a year to compete and challenge each other, get all worked up, attempt to hit the target, despair, fire over 100 bullets without hitting the stone stuck in the ground over 300 metres away, the clusters of admirers and spectators congregated around the firebrands to the point of stifling them, the whistling of bullets whose echo rebounds from hill to hill is all the more moving and grandiose as the youyous get even more intense. Violence of the gun powder, violence of the youyous. Towards three o’clock in the afternoon the stoked-up barrels of the guns stop smoking and the throats of the women and girls calm down. It is now necessary to direct all of these people towards the zawiya and to feed and water them. It is difficult to gather people around the large dishes of couscous without mixing people from two different villages or without forgetting someone and, above all, to remain good-humoured in the face of all the requests fired at those responsible for ensuring the smooth running of the meal, e.g. pouring drinks for the thirsty, giving meat rations to those who ask for them, consoling lost children, these feats are highly appreciated in the midst of the commotion and hubbub of the crowd which show no sign of diminishing until hunger and thirst are satisfied and quenched. Then it’s time for the grand embraces of departure […] It’s the end of the festival (Bélcanteur 1973).

This type of ceremony ceased to exist from 1978 and the zawiya was reduced to its most basic form; it merely housed a small and fluctuating number of tolba who fulfilled the requirement for the reading of the Quran on the eve of funerals and during interments. The action of the reformists suffocated even the symbolic presence of the saint – the national emblem was placed on his tomb – and the bureaucratisation of the function of the imam, who is paid by the state

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86 | Mohand Akli Hadibi and reduced to ensuring the passage of the official ideology of the various state policies, did not delay in producing an effect: the emergence of a new reform movement, i.e. Islamism. The ambition of this new movement was re-appropriate religion for its own purposes and transform it into a source of legitimacy as a basis for its project to create an Islamic state. Showing a certain level of continuity with reformism, Islamism took the logic of reform to its extreme and, after a lengthy incubation period in the cities, which it structured in associations and parties, succeeded in conquering the rural areas by seizing the opportunity afforded by the political liberalisation of Algeria from 1988. The zawiya of Sidi Yahya was affected by this developments; one of the descendents of a segment came to the village from Algiers to carry out Islamist propaganda work and started to gradually assemble other militants originating from non-religious lineages. Their discourse targeted the behaviour of men and women by imposing restrictions on clothing habits contact between men and women and enforcing the physical separation of the sexes. The conflict between the followers of Islamism and those who defended what remained of the religion of their parents came to a head over the matter of the renovation of the zawiya mosque. The former wanted to dissociate the mosque from the saint and called for it to be rebuilt above the village far away from the saint’s tomb. The latter wanted to rebuild it on the site of the old mosque. This conflict, which was by no means insignificant, quickly assumed an unexpected dimension for the villagers. A terrorist group seized on the opportunity to intervene and claim the zawiya assets. The terrorists’ action cost lives in the village and the zawiya has since become entirely empty of pilgrims and no longer receives any donations. None of the traditional functions are provided, apart from the presence of a few recently arrived tolba. Other zawiyas met with the same fate, such as that of Sidi
Ali ou-Moussa, which is 25 km away from Tizi Ouzou which was attacked and burned in 1995. The different actions associated with the above-described movements gradually and almost systematically affected all of the zawiyas in Kabylia. If the brotherhood was able to express itself using the traditional concepts of the zawiyas, while also incorporating the khouans, peasants who recite dhikr, it served the zawiyas to the same extent that they served it: the zawiyas always constituted basic structures for the expansion of Sufism as in the case of the Rahmaniyya. As for reformism, despite its fervent desire to be “modern”, it ended up being a closed and centralising ideology. By attacking the marabout zawiyas it destroyed the essential principle on which the zawiyas were founded, i.e. the social character that is integral to its very definition, and, as Kamal Chachoua stresses in his recent book (2002: 269), in wanting to reform the educational aspects, it ended up reforming behaviour to a certain level while failing to offer a new support such as the madrasas. Reformism ended up bureaucratising reformed religion and handing it over to the state which turned it into a tool of political legitimation. And all Islamism did was to brutally destroy what remained of the basis of the zawiyas while showing no concern for the

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Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia | 87 extensive contribution these institutions made to local religiosity, insofar as they went against its extra-local objectives. It finished off the zawiyas that had survived because they were driven back into inaccessible areas, such as the zawiya of Sidi
Ali ou-Moussa and even more recently, i.e. since 1998, the abovedescribed zawiya of Wedris was subject to the restriction of some of its practices, e.g. the hadras are no longer organised at night and throughout the week and are only held at the weekend. Thanks to this situation in which religion is viewed from an overtly political perspective and responsibility for the management of social matters has been handed over to the state due to the demise of the zawiyas, deficits are arising in the area of social regulation and malfunction in the so-called traditional institutions. The question now arises as to whether we heading towards a form of hidden “secularisation”, in Kabylia at least, whereby it is possible to observe an element of indifference towards religion, or towards a more rigorous approach to a religion organised in an associative manner through “modern” mosques which will proliferate from now on in the villages and urban centres?

References Balandier, George (1990) Pouvoir sur scène, Paris: Edition Balland. Bargaoui, Sami (1998) “Sainteté, savoir et autorité en Kabylie au XVIII siècle: La Rihla de Warthilani”. In Mohamed Kerrou (ed.) L’autorité des saints: perspectives historiques et socio-anthropologiques et méditerranée occidentale, Paris: Édition Recherche sur les civilisations. Bélanteur, Said (1973) “Algérie Actualité”, no. 383 (17 February). Boulifa, Said (1925) Le Djurdjura à travers l’histoire: de l’antiquité jusqu’à 1830, organisation et indépendance des Zouaoua (Grande Kabylie), Alger: Edition J. Binju. Chachoua, Kamel (2002) L’islam kabyle: Religion, état et société en Algérie, Paris: Editions Maisonneuve & Larose. Colonna, Fanny (1995) Les versets de l’invincibilité: Permanence et changements religieux dans l’Algérie contemporaine, Paris: Édition Presses de Sciences PO. Colonna, Fanny (1992) “Algérie: continuité d’une religion du peuple?”. Monde Arabe Maghreb-Machrek, no. 135 (January – March), pp. 37-38. Eliade, Mercea (1987) Le sacré et le profane, Paris: Édition Folio. Ibn Khaldoun (1978) Discours sur l’histoire universelle: Al muqaddima (transl. by Vincent Monteil), Paris: Edition Sindbad. Ibn Khaldoun (2001) Histoire des Berères et des dynasties musulmanes de l’Afrique septentrionales (transl. by De Slane), vol. III, Alger: Berti éditions. Gellner, Ernest (1969) Saints of the Atlas, London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Hadibi, Mohand Akli (2003) Wedris: Une totale plénitude, Approche socio-anthropologique d’un lieu saint en Kabylie, Alger: Edition Zyriab.

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88 | Mohand Akli Hadibi Hadibi, Mohand Akli (1998), “Sainteté, autorité et rivalité: le cas de Sidi Ahmed Wedris en Kabylie”. In Mohamed Kerrou (ed.) L’autorité des saints: perspectives historiques et socio-anthropologiques et méditerranée occidentale, Paris: Édition Recherche sur les civilisations, pp. 273-285. Hadibi, Mohand Akli (1995) Étude descriptive et analytique des pratiques socioculturelles dans un lieu saint en Kabylie, le cas de Wedris pendent les années quatrevingt-dix, Mémoire de Magistère, Tizi Ouzou. Mahe, Alain (2001) Histoire de la Grande Kabylie XIXe -XXe siècles: Anthropologie historique du lien social dans les communautés villageoises, Paris: Édition Bouchene. Nadir, Ahmed (1975) “Le mouvement réformiste algérien et la guerre de libération nationale”. Revue d’histoire maghrébine, vol. 3 (July), Tunis. Pascon, Paul (1984) La Maison d’Illigh et l’histoire sociale de Tazarwalt, Casablanca: Édition SMER. Salhi, Mohamed Brahim (1979) Étude d’une confrérie religieuse Algérienne: La Rahmania à la fin du XIX siècle et dans la première moitié du XIX siècle, Thèse du doctorat 3éme cycle, Paris, EHESS. Stora, Benjamin (1991) Histoire de l’Algérie coloniale (1830/1954), Paris: Édition La Découverte.

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 89

Chapter 5 Saba Ishirini: A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality around the South Swahili Coast Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen Introduction Saba Ishrin, also called Saba Ishirini in Kiswahili,1 is the main annual ceremony of the tariqa (Sufi order, “brotherhood”) Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya in East Africa. This ceremony serves to commemorate the anniversary of the death of the founder of this tariqa in the region, Sayyid Muhammad b. Ahmad al-Ma
ruf (1269/1852 to 1904) who is buried in Moroni (Ngazija/Grande Comore). Since the remarkable expansion of the tariqa in the 20th century, this ceremony has been celebrated on the 27th of the month Jumada al-Thaniya, from which date its name (meaning “twenty-seven”) is derived, on the Comoro Islands, in Madagascar, Tanzania, Kenya, Mozambique and Uganda. Despite its important contribution to the popularization of Islam around the South Swahili coast and its hinterland, the history of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya has attracted less attention among researchers than that of other turuq (sing. tariqa). The Saba Ishrin ceremony provides an opportunity for the regular reinactment – through the medium of memory – of connections across various boundaries, i.e. local, cultural and national, that were involved in the making of this tariqa. We regard the translocality of this (and other) tariqa neither as a historically new development nor as merely a faint echo of the past, gradually eroded by a general decline of Sufism in the region. Instead, we see the re-enactment of translocality through practices of remembrance as a specific mode in which the tariqa continuously re-articulates itself in both local and global contexts. The combination of translocality and remembrance which this ceremony embodies is underlined by the two generic terms that are used to designate it. In the Sufi terminology of the region, ziyara (literally “visit”) refers to the (indi1 In the following text Arabic-Islamic terms, if popularly used, are given in their local Kiswahili spelling.

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90 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen vidual or collective) pilgrimage to the tomb of a saint, while hauli refers to the (collective) annual commemoration of the saint’s death. On the Comoros islands, where the Saba Ishrin originated, the ziyara is the pilgrimage to the tomb of the founder of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya in East Africa, al-Ma
ruf, and is performed by the disciples on the 27th of Jumada al-Thania each year in addition to the individual pilgrimages made to al-Ma
ruf‘s tomb on other days. On this occasion, the disciples organize a big hauli ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of their hero’s death. Those who cannot come to the Comoros islands from the other countries in the region organize a similar commemoration ceremony (hauli) on the same date in their main zawiya. This commemoration ceremony is referred to everywhere using the term ziyara (literally “visit”, and by extension pilgrimage). The disciples follow the same procedure (in their hearts and minds) as they would if making a pilgrimage to the tomb of al-Ma
ruf. In other words, in spirit they symbolically reappropriate and re-invent the sacred but distant space of the tomb. This symbolic visit is echoed by the real visit they experience when they meet regularly at the Saba Ishrin of Jumada al-Thaniya every year. In Tanzania, the ziyara is threefold in purpose: it commemorates the death of al-Ma
ruf, it involves a visit to the tomb of Shaykh Hussein, who was responsible for spreading the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya on the continent, and, finally, it enables the founder’s son and disciples to revisit their past and become reacquainted with each other. Starting with an analysis of the Saba Ishrin held on the Comoros Islands in 2001 and in Tanzania in 2002, our contribution examines how the disciples of the tariqa Shadhiliyya are adapting the performance of this ceremony to changing conditions and, in particular, how they reconstruct their translocal connectedness through the practice of remembrance. We will start with an overview of different areas of change in the Saba Ishrin ceremony, comparing evidence on this shared heritage of the Shadhiliyya in both countries with regard to both common trends and local differences. Special attention will be paid to a form of spatial mobilization in the performance of this ceremony that has emerged in Tanzania in the last two decades. This new translocal practice, which could be called the “caravan of the Saba Ishrin”, will be discussed with regard to aspects of temporality, hierarchy, community and historical change. This essay is a product of an ongoing research project on “Sacred places, popular memories and translocal practices around the South Swahili coast” which is being carried out jointly by the authors at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies and funded by the German Research Foundation (Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft). Most of the empirical evidence presented here was collected by Chanfi Ahmed during recent field trips to the Comoro Islands (2001) and East and South Tanzania (2002).

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Changes in practice and participation One of the differences we found when comparing the Saba Ishrin as performed today in the Comoro Islands and in Tanzania concerns the sequential arrangement of its elements. In Moroni, the hauli begins with a morning ceremony that lasts from 5 a.m to 9 a.m. At noon, the muridun are invited to a collective meal which is held in the open in the grounds of the zawiya of al-Ma
ruf. As is the case every year on this date, breakfast, lunch and dinner at the al-Ma
ruf hospital in Moroni (the main hospital of the Comoros, named after the founder of the tariqa) are prepared and served at the expense of the Comorian Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya. Following the afternoon prayer (al-
asr), a similar ceremony to that held in morning takes place: collective reading of the Qu’ran, dhikiri (dhikr) and sermons. In the evening, another ceremony involving religious songs, mawlid al-Barzandji, dhikiri and sermons is staged after the last daily prayer (al-
isha). It is tradition on the Comoros that the mawlid al-Barzanji is carried out before the dhikiri or, more precisely, the dayira (daira). This dayira or dhikiri sequence represents the emotional peak of the ceremony: it contains more singing and dancing than the mawlid sequence, but is carried out inside the zawiya. The dhikiri continues until daybreak. In Tanzania, in contrast, the dhikiri sequence comes before the mawlid and takes place outside the zawiya. Furthermore, the mawlid Sharaf al-anam with its stronger musical elements is used, as opposed to the more sober mawlid al-Barzanji which is common on the Comoros. In Tanzania, the mawlid sequence is the emotionally most intense part of the celebrations. The dance steps, the songs (in Arabic and Kiswahili), the tambourine music and the trances of several muridun express a more passionate love for the prophet Muhammad than can be observed on the Comoros. Differences in the spatial arrangement are also indicative of a differentiation in the range of social participation in the ceremony. In both Tanzania and on the Comoros, the muridun clearly distinguish between the dhikiri or dayira sequence and that of the mawlid. The dayira is reserved for the muridun alone, while the mawlid is open to all. In the Comoros, the non-muridun leave the zawiya after the mawlid al-Barzanji and let the muridun perform the dayira alone until morning. In Tanzania, in contrast, the muridun leave the zawiya after the dayira to continue the evening with the mawlid Sharaf al-anam outside the zawiya in a square reserved for the event and everybody is called upon to take part, both official and unofficial guests. Thus, in both countries, and in Tanzania in particular, a distinction is made between a purely religious part of the ceremony, i.e. the dayira, which is reserved exclusively for initiated followers (in this case the muridun), and a semisecular part, i.e. the mawlid, which is open to all, both the initiated and non-initiated. Dhikiri, du
a, hizb and Quranic verses are recited at the dayira, while during the mawlid pastries are eaten, tea, coffee and soft drinks consumed, and poems chanted; in Tanzania there is even dancing to the music of the tambou-

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92 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen rine. This corresponds to the distinction between a private space where the muridun are alone among themselves in communion with their shaykh and the sacred, and a public space where they exteriorize the religious sentiments they have previously internalized in order to communicate them to the public. It is in this public space that the tariqa presents itself in the full sense of the term. The high social status of the guests who are seated beside, the shaykh, the number of participants involved in the ceremony and the general success of the evening all add to the prestige of the shaykh and the tariqa and demonstrates its vitality to the others. In fact, in the context of the history of the expansion of Islam in the region, it is interesting to note that this type of public mawlid organized by the turu, with its splendour and refinement in terms of dress, food and decoration and the dancing and music often accompanied by processions, often attracted even non-muslims and occassionally gave rise to new conversions. In any case, it created a public sphere in which the members and followers of different religious denominations could meet and interact. Another aspect of social and spatial differentiation concerns the role of women in the Saba Ishrin. Female disciples and sympathizers participate in the ceremony in both countries. In the Comoros, however, their participation is very restricted and more conventional. Firstly, during the day, they perform the dayira privately, away from the gaze of men. In the evening, when the men are performing dayira, they assemble in a special area of the zawiya which is separated from the men by a curtain. They follow the ceremony from here and are thus both far away and close by. Thus, they place themselves (or are placed) in a position of seeing without being seen. In Tanzania (in Kilwa-Pande in particular) in contrast, they perform their dayira during the day in public in full view of the men, outside the zawiya but around the tomb of the founder Shaykh Hussein. This extraordinary gender division of labour in religious practice is accompanied by an equally extraordinary division of labour with regard to the work done during the ceremony (notably during the ziyara to Kilwa-Pande, see below): while women are responsible for the preparation of the breakfast, the other meals are prepared by a committee of young male muridun.

Changes in translocal connectedness The differences mentioned so far could be viewed mainly as adaptations of the same ceremony that have been spread to different local contexts through a common heritage of translocal connectedness – in this case with a greater emphasis being placed on public performance and emotionality and greater public participation on the part of women in religious affairs on the East African mainland as compared with the Comoros. Other differences, however, also clearly reflect aspects of historical change. This concerns, in particular, the ways in which the sacred sites where the Saba Ishrin ceremony takes place are connected to other places in their hinterlands where many of the muridun and

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 93 sympathizers of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya live. On the Comoro islands, before the 1990s, all the muridun of the Shadhiliyya used to gather in the zawiya of the capital Moroni at the tomb of the founder to commemorate the anniversary of his death. Before and after the 27th of Jamada al-Thaniya, hauli commemorating the same event were held in all the villages with zawiyas of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya. Because of the huge number of participants in this celebration and the impossibility of hosting more than 1000 people at the zawiya, the leaders of the tariqa then decided that the muridun of every town or village in the country that has a zawiya should organize the Saba Ishrin by themselves, and that only those from Moroni and its region could come to perform the ceremony in the founder’s zawiya. Thus, from the 1990s they all held the Saba Ishrin hauli on the same day as Moroni. Even today, when the Saba Ishrin ceremony is held in the zawiya of al-Ma
ruf with a congregation consisting only of people from Moroni and foreign delegations, many participants are forced to remain outside the crowded zawiya. What appears to be a sign of decentralisation or even dissolution, is in fact a proof of the vitality of the tariqa and an example of its flexibility in adapting to changing circumstances. The coherence of the tariqa is no longer expressed by spatial mobility (of visitors to the central zawiya), but reaffirmed by an even stronger emphasis on a shared temporality, as all Saba Ishrin celebrations take place on the same day. Furthermore, spatial mobility has not entirely vanished. Several muridun from other villages, who complete their ceremonies at an earlier hour, travel by car to the zawiya of al-Ma
ruf to participate in the dhikiri until dawn. The links to more distant places are also expressed by official delegations who attend the celebration at Moroni. In 2001, for example, a delegation of eleven people from Anjouan, led by the Grand Qadi, came to take part in the Saba Ishrin celebrations. The congregeation also included people from Kenya and Zanzibar who had come privately and were staying with relatives or friends. The links between the central and other sites of the Shadhiliyya are further strengthened – and, furthermore, acknowledged by the state – by the fact that the evening ceremony at Moroni is usually broadcast live on “Radio Comores” until midnight. In Tanzania, in contrast, the leaders and disciples of the tariqa have developed a very different way of connecting centrality and decentral integration. On the one hand, since the 1980s, the central Saba Ishrin ceremony has been performed at Kilwa-Pande, at the tomb of the founder of the tariqa on the mainland. On the other hand, the leader and many members of the Tanzanian Shadhiliyya now reside in the capital Dar es Salaam. Thus, the participants in the ceremony have to perform a ziyara to Kilwa-Pande, some 350 kms further south. This ziyara is then extended to include other places on the way, including Dar es Salaam itself, where smaller ceremonies are also held. This case could, therefore, be described as a kind of “mobile centralisation” of the commemoration practices. This new “translocal” practice, which we call the “Saba Ishrin caravan”, is examined in more detail in the next section in which we

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94 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen describe the practice on the bases of our observations in August-September 2002 and as analyze it from the perspective of three particular issues.

Fi-l-haraka baraka 2: the “Saba Ishrin caravan” in Tanzania The first “caravan” group left Dar es Salaam on 26 August 2002. It consisted of Shaykh Nuruddin, the Shehe Mkuu (head shaykh) of the Tanzanian Shadhiliyya, his close muridun and the pupils from his madaris (sing. madrasa) in Dar es Salaam and Korogwe (north of Tanzania) - a total of some 100 people. The group of around 70 pupils (ranging between 15 and 20 years of age) and their teachers plays a large part in livening up the ceremonies with Sama music and chanted poems (kaswida) during the month of the “Saba Ishrin caravan”. The ceremonies are held in accordance with a programme distributed in advance by the secretary of the tariqa in Dar es Salaam. The programme is available to everyone. The programme for the events in 2002 read as follows: 27/08/02: ziyara in the town of Mohoro on the Rufiji; 05/09/02 hauli in Kilwa-Pande; 06/09/02 ziyara in Kilwa-Pande; 07/09/02 private ceremony in Kilwa Kisiwani with Shaykh Said Khalfani at Mbuyuni; 08/09/02 private ceremony (marriage) in Kilwa Kisiwani with Shaykh Salim Aboud at Yumba ya Pwani; 09/09/02 private ceremony in Kilwa Kisiwani with Shaykh Nuruddin b. Hussein at Shamu; 12/09/02 ziyara on Mafia Island; 13/09/02 wazhifa and mawlid on Mafia, the big Mafia Island mawlid organised by Madati (a rich local merchant); 19/09/02 private ceremony in Kigogo (area of Dar as Salaam); 21/09/02 ziyara in Kariyakoo (area of Dar es Salaam); 28/09/02 ziyara of Kigamboni (area of Dar es Salaam).

Of all the stopovers (ziyara) and commemoration ceremonies (hauli) in the pilgrimage, the one at Kilwa-Pande was the longest. The group was joined by local participants at the various local venues; in Kilwa-Pande between 200 and 300 people from the south-east region of Tanzania joined them. Although the dates were fixed for 5 September (day of the hauli) and 6 September (day of the ziyara), people had been assembling in Kilwa-Pande from 28 August on. They thus had another seven days to prepare or to simply meet among themselves; this was the explanation given to us by the shaykh and the muridun.

2 “On the move, there is blessing”. Arabic proverb (Geetz 1993: 139).

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Layers of memory If the practice of ziyara can be seen as the regular re-activation of translocality through the medium of memory (see Introduction), the “Saba Ishrin caravan” clearly does so on more than one level. In fact, it appears to combine a whole range of translocalities through different layers of memory. Firstly, the pilgrims who begin their “caravan” in Dar es Salaam come primarily to commemorate the death of al-Ma
ruf, as is the case with all of the other zawaya of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya in east Africa. Secondly, the route followed by the “pilgrimage caravan” (Dar es Salaam – Mohoro – Kilwa-Pande – Mafia Islands – Dar es Salaam) incorporates the places where the expansion of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya began and the places where it continues to prevail today. When he was still alive, Shaykh Hussein, the founder of this tariqa on the African continent, often travelled along this route to spread the tariqa. Thus, participation in this trip is akin to the repitition of the action of the founder, i.e. a work of memory. The following of this route involves the undertaking of a pilgrimage, however, in this case, the place of pilgrimage is not a defined and recognizable sacred space, but a route or, in other words, an unlimited space. In any case, this combination of the two aspects of the ceremony, one territorialized and stable, the other mobile, is one of the innovations introduced to the Saba Ishrin ceremony by Shaykh Nuruddin, the son of Shaykh Hussein. Thus, the visit of the tomb of Shaykh Hussein is also a key objective of the Saba Ishrin caravan. Shaykh Hussein died on 24th Rabi
al-Awwal (which corresponds to 21 May 1971). However, the ceremony to commemorate his death does not take place on 24th Rabi
al-Awwal, as one would expect, but on 26th Jumada al-Thania, i.e. the day before the Saba Ishrin ceremony. This arrangement has clearly been established for practical reasons. Instead of travelling to the south-east twice a year for two different ceremonies, the muridun preferred to celebrate both ceremonies back to back and thus “kill two birds with one stone”. It does not seem to matter to them that the date of the commemoration of Shaykh Hussein’s death does not correspond to the actual historical date of his death, the important thing is that the event is commemorated. The significance of the date is more important than the date itself. Shaykh Hussein is buried in Kilwa-Pande, the location where he built the second zawiya-madrasa around 1917 and where the two big tariqa ceremonies are held annually. He later built a third zawiya and a madrasa on the island of Songomnara. The zawiya in Kilwa-Pande is still the largest, however, and is called al-zawiya al-kubra (the big zawiya). Three other houses have been built next to the zawiya, forming a circle enclosing a large square where the ceremonies take place. Shaykh Hussein resided in each of the three places (KilwaKisiwani, Kilwa-Pande and Songomnara). He moved from one place to the other by boat, staying for periods ranging between several days and several weeks in each place. He ordered the muridun to bury him at the spot where he died. Thus, he was buried in Kilwa-Pande where he actually died. After his

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96 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen death, his residence in Kilwa-Pande was abandoned. Nobody lives there today either, except for two muridun who take care of the houses (including the tomb) and the land. Thus, the Saba Ishrin caravan can be said not only to commemorate, but to physically re-enact Shaykh Hussein’s alternation between his residences, and thus brings these places back to life – in particular the town of Pande – for around ten days each year. When it is all over, the place becomes empty and deserted once again. The Saba Ishrin caravan also links some important stations in the life of Shaykh Nuruddin who was born in Kilwa Kisiwani and now resides in Dar es Salaam. Finally, and importantly, the caravan affords many disciples (and their children) an opportunity to revisit their own origins and become reacquainted with their families and the other disciples who remained in the region, and to maintain an awareness of the deprivation in that region in the overall context of Tanzania. Most of the participants are people from the Kilwa region who settled in Dar es Salaam. They migrated to the capital looking for work and for a less impoverished life. In fact, the south-east of Tanzania, which is inhabited by a Muslim majority of mostly Makonde, Mwera, Yao, Makua and Ngoni ethnic groups, has been considered the poorest region in the country since the German and British colonial periods. It seems that neither nature nor history have been kind to the population of this region. The famous Maji-Maji rebellion (1905-07) against the German colonialists, which was brutally crushed, took place here. Combined with the arrival of the British after the First World War and the intensified Christian proselytism that accompanied it, the defeat of the Maji-Maji rebellion deeply traumatised the Muslim population in the region – if Mohamed Said’s account is to be believed (Said 1998: 198-99). Moreover, from around late October every year, torrential rainfall in this part of the country make the roads completely impassable (even in the dry season, they are in bad condition); the region then finds itself cut from the rest of the country and the world. Thus, for the most part, the Saba Ishrin caravan which departs from Dar es Salaam and heads in the direction of Kilwa-Pande is mostly made up of people from the south-east (including islands like Mafia and Gibondo) who live in Dar es Salaam. The Saba Ishrin ceremonies offer them an opportunity to reacquaint themselves with their region of origin and to reaffirm their common origins. In this context, therefore, Dar es Salaam is not only the point of departure and arrival of the “caravan”, but – due to the migration mentioned before – it is also the home of a large population from the south-east, many of whom are followers and sympathizers of the Shadhiliyya. Thus, Dar es Salaam has been transformed from a fairly peripheral location of the Shadhiliyya to the actual centre of the tariqa. The original centre in the south-east, i.e. Kilwa-Pande, now only fulfils this function once a year, ie. during the Saba Ishrin, while Dar es Salam, where also the shaykh resides, does it for the rest of the year. This new

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 97 status of Dar es Salaam as the centre of the Shadhiliyya in Tanzania has been underlined by yet another instance of translocal memory practice. With the autorization of Shaykh Nuruddin, the Tanzanian Government decided to transfer the bed of Shaykh Hussein from his birth home in Kilwa Kisiwani to the National Museum of Dar es Salaam. This took place again during the 1980s. This monumental bed, which goes back to the 19th century, was placed in the department of the Museum dealing with historical objetcs from Kilwa Kisiwani. Shaykh Hussein inherited this bed from his grand-father, an Omani from Zanzibar, who came from Zanzibar to establish himself in Kilwa Kisiwani. Hence, it would appear that the bed, which he brought from Zanzibar, is an object that originated in Oman or on the Indian subcontinent. Thus, apart from the bed anecdote, which illustrates just how far back the tradition of translocality goes in the region, it is interesting to note that the post-Independence state of Tanzania considers the Shadhiliyya as a token in its policy of constructing a national identity (and also in creating political legitimation). Even this, however, is not very new – it should be kept in mind that the British administration in Tanzania financially supported Shaykh Hussein’s madrasa at Kilwa Kisiwani.

Remembrance and the staging of power Continuity of personal leadership is also an important message conveyed by the ceremony. Everything is arranged as though Shaykh Nuruddin wished to assure the disciples left behind in the south-east that despite being absent from the region and living somewhere else (previously in Korogwe and now in Dar es Salaam), he has not left them in a broader sense; the tariqa has not been weakened. This is also brought to the attention of the shaykh adversaries in the region and indeed the whole country. The excellent organisation, the importance the shaykh attaches to attracting people from different parts of the country and from abroad and, where possible, distinguished guests serve this objective. These factors also demonstrate how closely his leadership is linked to that of the Tanzanian nation state and of East Africa as a whole. Personalities such as the former Tanzanian president Ali Hasan Mwinyi, Sharif Hussein Badawi (grandson of Habib Saleh of Lamu) who directs a madrasa in Lushoto in Tanzania, Shaykh Ali Comorian, son of the famous poet, the
alim Mzee Ali Comorian who was a close companion of Shaykh Hasan b. Amir, Sharif Manswab of Lamu and Umar al-Qullatayn (Khalifa of the Qadiriyya tariqa of Zanzibar) were all seen participating in the ceremonies in Dar es Salaam in 2002. Through the presence of
ulama, who are descendants of famous
ulama in the history of East Africa and followers of other turuq (Alawiyya and Qadiriyya), the shaykh wishes to demonstrate his “ecumenical” spirit and demonstrate that his influence goes beyond the borders of Tanzania. The presence of the
ulama also indicates a certain esprit de corps among these “heirs” who join ranks to

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98 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen defend a spiritual and familial heritage that is also part of culture and Islam throughout over the region. Shaykh Nuruddin is the chairman of the Federation of the Independent Islamic Associations and Institutions of Tanzania or the Islamic Centre (Baraza Kuu la Taasisi ya Kislamu)3, the counterpart of the government’s Islamic institution, the BAKWATA (Baraza Kuu la Waislamu wa Tanzania), National Muslim Council of Tanzania.4 At the same time, however, Shaykh Nuruddin has been asked for his advice by the government in matters concerning the country’s Muslims on numerous occasions. In September 2002, he declined the offer of the government to appoint him mufti of Tanzania, justifiying it with old age (he is, in fact, around 88 years old) and the fact that he is khalifa of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya; he said that this was enough for him. Thus, as a mass movement, the pilgrimage stopovers and camps (ceremonies) act as a physical expression of power. At this point, one is tempted to compare this phenomenon observed in Tanzania, mutatis mutandis, with what Clifford Geertz (1993) writes about in his book “Local Knowledge” concerning the symbolism of power in Morocco5 and especially the symbolism of the royal procession “under canvas”. He writes that, in fact, King Moulay Ismail (13th/14th century) did not stay a whole year in his palace, but spent most of his time in procession under the tent. The person who moved most, however, was Moulay Hassan (d. 1894), who usually spent six months of the year on the move, “demonstrating sovereignty to sceptics”. The king relentlessly shifted the centre, i.e. the court, from one capital to the other. He used to stay weeks or months in an area and then move to another to stay there for a similar length of time. At each “stopover”, he received the local notables, held feasts, sent out punitive expeditions etc. In short, he “made his presence known”. This movement of the king was called mehalla (literally “way station”, camp, stopover), or harka (literally “movement”). Hence, the royal mehalla can be compared to the mobility of the pilgrimage “caravan” of Shaykh Nuruddin. What is important in this comparison is not so much the quasi-resemblance of the two phenomena, but the comparable character of the internal motivation that inspires them. By “making his presence known” on this particular occasion and at other events in Islamic life in Tanzania, the shaykh tries to outwit the other turuq of the country, in particular the Qadiriyya of Bagamoyo, the majority tariqa of the country. The latter had been

3 The centre, which is located in the Magomenimapipa quarter, houses a mosque, a clinic, a primary and secondary school and the institution’s general secretariat. 4 The BAKWATA was founded by the Nyerere government to replace the EAWMS (East African Muslim Welfare Society/Chamacha Kustawisha Uislam Katika Afrika ya Mashariki), which was founded in 1954 in Mombasa and presided over by the Aga Khan. 5 For the question addressed here see Geertz (1993: chap. 6; pp. 121-146).

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 99 weakened considerably since the death of its khalifa, Shaykh Muhammad Ramiya6 in August 1985. This staging of power by the shaykh of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya is not organised purely for the generation of symbolic profits. It also has material effects. It is worth remembering that the shaykh is no longer active in the fish business from which he made a lot of money in the past when he resided in the south, nor indeed in any other business. Apart from the income he derives from his rented private houses in Lindi and those of the tariqa in Dar es Salaam, the sole activity that brings in money today is his Haji Trust “concern”, a very lucrative business which consists in organizing the departure, stay and return of most Mecca pilgrims in Tanzania (hajj).

A translocal experience of community The sustaining of a high level of personal charisma in an East African context requires more than ritual performance and successful management of religious and secular affairs. It is, therefore, significant that Shaykh Nuruddin assumes other important functions during the caravan. For example, in 2001, he received families and other persons who were embroiled in conflicts and came to ask for his mediation at every stop. In this way, the shaykh is a privileged mediator of vertical relations, i.e. of those that link the murid with God, and also of lateral relations, i.e. of those of between the muridun themselves and their relations. Also, participation in the Saba Ishrin itself provides intense reassurance of belonging to the community which is underlined by the fact that in between the different parts of the ceremony meals and other everyday practices are shared among the murid and outsiders (as in the case of Moroni – see above). It would appear that this communitarian experience is greatly enhanced by the practice of the “Saba Ishrin caravan” in Tanzania. The trip itself provides for a period of intense communal living, a kind of mobile camp life over a period of several weeks, away from everyday normality. This is a fairly universal way of staging and experiencing religious community (see below). The sanctuary of Kilwa-Pande, in particular, is a regular resort to which the people originating from the region who now live in a socially destabilised environment in Dar es Salaam go once a year to “recharge their batteries”; they recover their identity here and leave behind the isolation of urban life. Thus, following Pierre Nora (1984), the place fully assumes the sense of a “place of memory” (lieu de mémoire). It is not just a place of remembrance of the past but also a place of construction of the present. The dayira or dhikiri ritual (literally

6 He is the son of the founder of the tariqa in Bagamoyo, Shaykh Yahya b. Abdallah, known as Shaykh Ramiya, who died in 1931.

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100 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen “reminder”, “remembrance”, “memory”) which is performed there is a dramatic representation that transmits the past into the present. This is what Maurice Halbwachs observed so astutely in his book Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire: “[…] one of the ends of the liturgy is to remind [us] of the religious past and to make it present by means of some sort of dramatic representation […]” (Halbwachs 1994: 187). This attempt to transmit the past into the present which we have observed in the performativeness of the Saba Ishrin ceremonies in Tanzania is reinforced by the names of persons and places that are mentioned in the poems (kaswida) chanted in Arabic and Kiswahili. These include the names of places such as Sham (Syria), the country from which the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya claims its origin (the house of Shaykh Hussein in Kilwa Kisiwani is also called Sham), Ngazidja (the island of Grande Comore), Bara (mainland Africa) etc. and the names of individuals such as Nuruddin al-Yashruti (founder of the ShadhiliyyaYashrutiyya), his son and successor Ibrahim, his daughter Fatima (the writer of the tariqa), Abdallah b. Darwish and Muhammad Ahmad al-Ma
ruf (the propagator of this tariqa in East Africa). Furthermore, the daily recitation of the wazifa by the muridun is part of this attempt to render the past into the present of the tariqa. The wazifa, is a prayer in which, inter alia, the names of the principal leaders of the Shadhiliyya are recited, i.e. those who preceded Abu al-Hasan ash-Shadhili (founder of the Shadhiliyya), such as the Prophet Muhammad and Abdu as-Salam b. Mashish, and those who emerged after this, up to Muhammad Ahmad al-Ma
ruf, through Nuruddin al-Yashruti. These names form the transmission chain (silsila) of the tariqa Shadhiliyya. A framed depiction of this chain is suspended on the walls of the zawaya (sing. zawiya) and of houses of the muridun. All this reminds us that the tradition of communal practice of memory in this tariqa, described above, is actually matched by a collective memory shared by its muridun.

Pilgrimage as process and history Another way in which the “Saba Ishrin caravan” links its participants to other places through practices of remembrance is through explicit comparisons with similar practices in other parts of the region which are linked to the Swahili. Sharif Manswab, a man who comes from Lamu every year to participate in the pilgrimage at Kilwa-Pande, narrated to us the following experience. He once had an opportunity to travel to Balad Hud (literally “village of Hud”), which is located about 50 kilometres outside the town of Tarim in Yemen. Another Sufi pilgrimage camp is held there every year which is comparable in some respects to the one in Kilwa-Pande. In his narrative, Sharif Manswab could not avoid comparing the two and tried to work out the similarities and the differences between them. There, the pilgrimage period is between 1st and 10th of sha’ban every year and is open to any Muslim who wishes to go there, although most of

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 101 the pilgrims are in fact Hadhrami shurafa (sing. sharif) and almost all the houses belong to the shurafa. The pilgrims live and eat there for free and do a considerable amount of trading in the ten days. The 9th day marks the climax of the pilgrimage when pilgrims take a bath in the river of the prophet Hud. At the end of the pilgrimage period, i.e. after ten days, the houses and the entire village are completely empty again. This cycle of “fullness” for ten days and “emptiness” for the rest of the year that characterizes Balad Hud, according to Sharif Manswab, also applies to Kilwa-Pande. Even the numerical distribution of the days between “fullness” and “emptiness” is said to be identical. Sharif Manswab’s experience clearly demonstrates the translocal character of the pilgrimage to holy Sufi places in the region, on the one hand, and the interpenetration of the turuq, on the other. After all, Sharif Manswab is an
Alawiyya murid of the Qadiriyya order of Lamu and at the same time a sympathiser of the Shadhiliyya and participates in the annual ziyara in Kilwa-Pande. He made the pilgrimage to Balad Hud in 2001, while his wife (a native of the Usambara region in Tanzania) was doing religious studies in Tarim in the madrasa of the town’s now famous
alim, Al-Habib Abu Salim b. Hafid, generally known as Habib
Umar.7 The pilgrimage of Kilwa-Pande (as well as that of Balad Hud) successfully fulfils one of the main functions attributed to pilgrimages, i.e. the “rebirth” experienced by the pilgrim – his sins are forgiven and a promising new life can begin. This phenomenon is expressed in common language using terms such as “purification” and “recharging the batteries”. The meaning of such formulae even refer to the three ceremonial sequences that are the feature of all rites of passage, including pilgrimage. These sequences can be outlined here as follows: the pilgrim leaves his normal social environment (separation or pre-liminal period) full of spiritual and moral flaws; he arrives at the place of pilgrimage and completes the pilgrimage within a given period (margin or liminal period). In doing so, he discharges all his negative energy and purifies himself. After completing the pilgrimage, he is reborn and recharged with positive energy. Finally, he returns home and re-enters his familiar environment (post-liminal period). It is worth noting that the notions of “empty” and “full” that characterize the pilgrimage place before and after correspond to the state of the pilgrim’s “inner world”, which is “empty” in advance and “full” as a result of the pilgrimage. The terms used above for the different phases of pilgrimage are the classical terms used by van Gennep (1981). The British anthropologist Victor Turner, who worked extensively on the anthropology of ritual, developed this model further and reduced it to only two phases, i.e. the margin (or liminal period) which he equates with his concept of communitas and the postliminal period 7 Born in Tarim, Habib Umar studied in the region of al-Baya under the supervision of Sayyid Muhammad b. Salim al-Maddar. Habib Umar directs two madaris (sing. madrasa) in Tarim: one for men called Dar al-Mustafa and one for women called Dar al-Zahra.

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102 | Chanfi Ahmed & Achim von Oppen which he refers to as structure.8 For him, communitas is any group of individuals who come to consider themselves as a united and distinct community in the course of a ritual, despite the disparities in their status. The tie that unites them is an egalitarian relationship consolidated by shared emotions and a common appearance. He contrasts this “we-group” with structure, a social entity which is characterised by a system of distinction and hierarchical differentiation of members at all levels. This corresponds to modern society, or to any group organised on a juridico-political basis. Communitas and structure can be seen as modes which function in every society being at once complementary and opposite. There is, however, a strong element of social process involved. Spontaneity and immediacy, the main features of communitas as opposed to the juridicopolitical form of structure, cannot last long. The existential or spontaneous communitas quickly loses its “winged” form to become a normative community and later a stable political system, i.e. a structure. From that moment, previously free relations will be governed by juridico-political norms. Turner advances the same view with regard to pilgrimage. He maintains that while every pilgrimage originally assumes the spontaneous aspect peculiar to the existential communitas, it very quickly becomes enveloped in norms under the direction of the religious authorities who, at the same time, obey the imperatives of social control. However, during the pilgrimage, the participants are affected to a lesser extent than in normal everyday life by the social constraints that surround them. Thus, the concepts of communitas and structure would appear to be suitable in explaining the origins of a pilgrimage like that of KilwaPande as well as its formative effects on a religious group such as the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya. Does this mean that the transformation of communitas into a structure (here the tariqa) is a one-way process? We know that in the history of the turuq, when a tariqa conformed to the law and became a structure, and the charisma of the khalifa became routine, a rebellion would often break out with the result that part of the disciples would follow the authority of a new leader and create a branch (another communitas), which would eventually become an independent tariqa, bearing the name of its leader. However, this does not function in an automatic circular way. The Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya shows that a tariqa can have long periods of a relative stability and still more or less survive. This seems to depend, however, on the ability of the leader and his close disciples to occasionally inject the structure (here the stable or stabilised tariqa) with Utopian ideas from the origins of the tariqa (i.e., the communitas period) which, at the same time, are adapted to a modern context. With their combination of remembrance and translocality, Shaykh Nuruddin’s modern innovations in the performance of the Saba Ishrin ceremony, as discussed above, appear to be capable of fulfilling this task.

8 Turner (1969), chapters 3 and 4 in particular; Turner (1974), in particular the chapter entitled “Pilgrimages as social process”, pp. 166-230; Turner (1978).

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A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality | 103

References Geertz, C. (1993) Local Knowledge. Further Essays in Interpretative Anthropology, Glasgow: Fontana Press. Halbwachs, Maurice (1994) Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire, Paris: Albin Michel. Nora, Pierre (1984) “Entre mémoire et histoire. La problématique des lieux”. In P. Nora (ed.) Les Lieux de mémoire, Paris: Gallimard, vol. 1, pp. XV-XLII. Said, Mohamed (1998) The Life and Times of Abdulwahid Sykes (1924-1968). The Untold Story of the Muslim Struggle against British Colonial in Tanganyika, London: Minerva Press. Turner, Victor W. (1969) The Ritual Process. Structure and anti-Structure, Chicago: Aldine. Turner, Victor W. (1974) Dramas, Fields and Metaphors: Symbolic action in human society, Ithaca, New York and London: Cornell University Press. Turner, Victor and Edith (1978), Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture. Anthropological Perspectives, New York: Columbia University Press. Van Gennep, Arnold (1981) Les rites de passage, Paris: Picard.

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104 | Sossie Andezian

Chapter 6 Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria 1

Sossie Andezian The veneration of saints in Algeria down through the ages The veneration of saints in Algeria is based on the Sufi symbolic system. One of the major religious orders in North Africa, Sufism assumed special features in the region. Also known as “maraboutisme”, a term established by French Orientalists.2 North African Sufism has traditionally promoted the emergence of saintly personages or friends of God (wali3). Endowed with baraka4 (divine 1 For classical Islamology, only the term “wali” should be translated as “saints”. The use of this category, which is a Christian one, is not accepted by all the scholars. However, according to Chodkiewicz (1995), there are enough similarities between Christian and Muslim saints for this translation to be acceptable. 2 The origin of this term, which is obviously the transliteration of the Arabic word murabitun (singular murabit), is not clearly established (Chabbi 1995). French Orientalists refer to it when speaking of the dynasty of al-Murabitun (Almoravids) or when referring to the “people of the ribats”, which were military and religious institutions in medieval Islam, and where known for sheltering fighters and later preparing them for jihad. 3 Wali: one of the names of God, which means “protector”. The root wly expresses proximity and contiguity, adherence and attachment. In the religious language, this notion of proximity extends to the relationship of man with God. The verbal forms derived from the root wly may be translated by “to be a friend of”, but also to govern, to direct, to take care of. After the emergence of the idea of human perfection, wali designates, on one hand, someone who is close – a friend or relative – and, on the other hand, the helper, protector and patron. As a result of his/her proximity to God and humankind, the wali becomes an intermediary and an intercessor (Chodkiewicz 1986). 4 Baraka: according to popular belief, a beneficial force of divine origin that provides benefits in all realms of life. It is thought to be especially concentrated in the person of the Prophet and the saints, who can communicate it to all those who ask for it. The

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 105 grace) and in some cases legitimized by Orthodox Islam, these saintly personages were scholars or people known for their piety, theologians, men of law, founders of initiatory paths, local patrons, hermits, heroes, ancestors and chiefs of tribes and men and women madly in love with God. While integrated into social and political life, Sufism has given birth to religious organizations known as the tariqas5, which is translated by French administrators and scholars as ordres religieux (religious orders) or confréries (brotherhoods), to saintly lineages and to tribes that claim maraboutic or prophetic descent (sharif6). A polymorphous and polysemic phenomenon, Sufism has played a major role in spreading and rooting Islam in the area and in fighting against invaders, such as the Portuguese, Spanish, Ottomans and French.7 The main North African brotherhoods were founded between the 16th and early 20th centuries (
Isawiyya, Tidjaniyya, Darqawiyya, Taybiyya, Rahmaniyya,
Alawiyya etc.). Affiliation was usually achieved through initiation and each brotherhood had its own doctrine, mode of organization and specific rites. While the brotherhoods presented themselves as transregional religious structures, which, unlike the ethnic lineages, were not based on kinship or constrained to a specific local area, the majority soon superimposed themselves on tribal structures, thus producing brotherhood lineages. The founders of the brotherhoods were worshipped along with their biological and spiritual descendants, hence the expansion of the long list of North African saints. The majority of Algerian brotherhoods came from outside the country and in particular from the west:
Isawiyya, Darqawiyya, Taybiyya etc. Not many brotherhoods were actually founded in Algeria: Rahmaniyya, Tidjaniyya, (although the latter began to expand in Morocco where its chief sought refuge after living in conflict with the Ottoman authorities), Qadiriyya, Shikhiyya,
Alawiyya etc. In all of these brotherhoods, the doctrines of the founding fathers were developed from the doctrines of the brotherhoods in which they had been initiated. Their role was

leaders of Sufi orders, considered as holy men, are also invested with that supernatural force, which is at the origin of all prodigious events. All ritual ceremonies performed by the Sufi brotherhoods are supposed to diffuse the baraka among the participants. 5 Tariqa: literally the “path”. A spiritual method developed by a Sufi Master for the quest of the divine. It is composed of prayers, exercises, principles and behaviours that every individual who wants to be initiated to Sufism must perform in the presence of a spiritual master known as the shaykh. The disciples are received in lodges called zawiya which are built on the (putative) tombs of a saint and where the shaykh resides. The ritual performances are also conducted here. 6 Sharif: a member of the family of the Prophet. This – in most cases fictitious – kinship serves to legitimize the exercise of political and/or religious power. 7 See the following authors: Rinn (1884), Depont/Coppolani (1897), Doutté (1900), Bel (1938), Dermenghem (1954).

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106 | Sossie Andezian not limited to religious domains, and some of them played a political role in various periods, circumstances and environments. Thus, Sufism contributed to the shaping of North African identity up to the very beginning of the 20th century when its role was challenged and supplanted by nationalist and reformist movements. As was the case elsewhere in the Muslim world, Sufism was strongly opposed in North Africa by the Salafiyya reformist movement. Known as al-Islah8 in Algeria, the movement was initiated by a group of
ulama,
Abd al-Hamid b. Badis, Bashir al-Ibrahimi and Tayyeb al-
Uqbi, who founded the Association of the Algerian Muslim
Ulama (AUMA) in 1931. Supported by secular reformists, these religious scholars launched a struggle against the chiefs of the brotherhoods, accusing them of encouraging ignorance and backwardness among the Algerian population. Immediately after Independence, the Algerian State adopted their ideology and excluded the brotherhoods from the field of religious power. In their struggle against the brotherhoods, the reformist
ulama, who called for the modernization of society, accused their chiefs of developing bid
as9. This accusation was also directed at the reformist
ulama in return on account of the numerous innovations they had imposed on ritual and social life. The counter accusation was motivated by the same principle, namely that of fidelity to the prophetic tradition. The reformists rejected all of the innovations that they considered as blamable, for example devotional acts that are not prescribed by the Quran, are not recommended by the Prophet or were not instituted by the Prophet’s first successors, and were created by shaykhs in religious training. The reformists condemned the brotherhoods’ veneration of religious personages as shirk10, and called for the affirmation of divine transcendence and the restoration of unitarianism, the scientific and rational approach of faith and the obligation to follow the example of the Prophet in all aspects of secular and religious life. Thus, the latter’s image was transformed from that of miracle maker to enlightened and rational social reformist. In turn, the brotherhood chiefs accused the reformists of deviationism. Accusing them of being people of no faith or religious knowledge, devoid of divine grace and spiritual virtues, and of disrupting the moral and social order and instigating blamable innovations, they also charged them with being inca-

8 Islah: literally “reform” or “amelioration”. It refers to the movement attached to the Salafiyya ideology, a political, social, cultural and religious reformation movement, which spread throughout the Muslim world in the early 20th century. As implemented in Algeria, Islah tended to redefine Islam with reference to its primary sources (Quran, Hadith and Sunna), and to reorganize private and social life in conformity with Islamic norms and values. 9 Bid
a: innovation in accordance with Islamic law. 10 Shirk: association of human beings with God, which is considered as polytheism.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 107 pable of handling the religious renewal they claimed to propose. While Islah attracted the support of some of the brotherhoods and zawiyas – either before or after the emergence of the movement – it has met the resistance of the holders of local power and of the lower social classes. While the former appeared to feel threatened in terms of their position of power, the latter refused to be dispossessed of their symbolic expressions, such as language or religion. Thus, the conflict was mainly a political one between the supporters of an established order and the partisans of a new one (Benkheira 1988). Reformism was a principally urban phenomenon and was embraced mostly by urban intellectuals and some rural landowners. The reformists led a cultural, religious and political campaign which was directed against the colonial administration and people in power, whether local, religious or political. Their purpose was the establishment of a new order inspired by western enlightenment and enriched through the addition of the Arab-Islamic dimension. As such, reformism was one of the renewed cultural movements that emerged in Algeria after the collapse of the pre-colonial educational, religious and political system. The
ulama were part of the new Algerian intelligentsia who tried to develop a new societal project and redefine the relationships between Islam and the west, tradition and modernity. Educated in madrasas (Muslim colleges) or in Islamic universities (al-Azhar in Egypt, al-Zaytuna in Tunisia), these mainly Arabicspeaking intellectuals used modern means of mainly written expression, i.e. press, petitions, pamphlets, and created modern socio-educational structures – schools, in which the approach to teaching broke with that of the zawiyas, or nadis (cultural circles), scout movements, sport associations, benevolent societies – and aimed to educate and enlighten the common people. However, as they used classical Arabic in their writings, they only actually succeeded in addressing a small number of learned individuals (Djeghloul 1984; Carlier 1995). Unlike the reformists, the brotherhoods were closer to the people. They intervened in all domains of life (socio-economic, religious, political, therapeutic etc.) and defended the interests of their disciples, in case of invasion for example. Some of them (e.g. the Qadiriyya brotherhood with Emir
Abdelqader and the Darqawiyya, Shikhiyya, Taybiyya and Rahmaniyya brotherhoods) initiated and carried out resistance against the Ottoman occupation and later the French occupation (Nadir 1972). Thus, the colonial authorities associated the brotherhood organizations with warriors. Surveys concerning the brotherhoods at that time were focused, in particular, on organizational aspects, and little attention was paid to the individuals affiliated with these orders (Rinn 1884; Depon/Coppolani 1897). Obsessed with fear and danger, the colonial administration focused on their political role and was not interested in their religious and socio-educational roles. While the political role of the religious brotherhoods was a reality, not all of them were involved in political struggles as such. Finally, the widely held belief that the brotherhoods collaborated with the colonial authorities is not historically founded. The reformists partly succeeded in their systematic attempts to eliminate

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108 | Sossie Andezian the brotherhoods. The colonial administration, which had closed zawiyas and prohibited pilgrimages, did not ultimately succeed in eliminating the brotherhoods. This period saw the birth of a new brotherhood, the
Alawiyya brotherhood in Mostaganem in 1920 (Lings 1967), whose founder competed with the
ulama in religious debates. This contradicts the theory presented by Merad (1967) in his work on the reformist movement, in which he asserts that maraboutisme was eradicated by the Islah. In independent Algeria, Sufism still had its followers, although they were less numerous as compared to the previous centuries and more isolated. Its institutions (qubba11, zawiya) did not completely disappear and some of them still provide places for the reception and assembly of the faithful, sites of pilgrimage (mostly) and, in some cases, places for religious teaching (for example the zawiya Rahmaniyya of el-Hamel in south Algeria, the zawiya
Alawiyya of Mostaganem12). As for the brotherhood chiefs, the majority continued to pursue their activities as spiritual leaders or healers. Some brotherhood members formed religious choirs, which perform during family ceremonies and cultural events. And most of them have continued to practise the rituals of their tariqa.13 The post-Boumediene period was more favourable to the brotherhoods. Some of the zawiyas which had adopted a lower profile, resumed their activities (for example the zawiya of the Qadiriyya in Relizane in west Algeria); regional branches of brotherhoods which had not associated for several decades, got in contact with each other again (such is the case with the Isawa of Constantine and of Tlemcen); some brotherhoods which had been accused of being allied with the colonial power (Tidjaniyya), or of having tried to destabilize the government after Independence (
Alawiyya), were rehabilitated for their role in the spreading of Islam throughout the world – in Africa in the case of the former and in Europe in the case of the latter. The recognition of Sufi movements within the state was attested by the organization in June 1991 of a “national seminar on the zawiyas”, at which 300 zawiya chiefs gathered and established the National Association of the Zawiyas. Having been banned for sixty years by reformism, the zawiya chiefs were rehabilitated in their spiritual, educational, religious and social functions (Hadj Ali 1992). This change in the attitude of the state with regard to the brotherhoods is usually interpreted as a strategy of manipulation, to counter the rise of Islamism. However, in reality, it is the global socio-political changes that explain the visibility of brotherhoods, in particular the evolution of the state’s religious policy since the Independence. 11 Qubba: shrine which is a room containing the coffin of a saintly man or woman and which is covered by a cupola or a tiled roof. 12 This zawiya continues its founder’s editorial activities and is now involved in the production of computerized material. 13 See references in my article, Andezian (1995), which is a review of the researches concerning religion in Algeria after independence.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 109 The focus of my attention is the significance of the veneration of saints in Algerian society after Independence. My purpose is not to emphasize the permanence of ancient religious forms, but to shed light on the relationship between institutional religion and diverse expressions of religiosity, in a society that has undergone profound structural modifications, and in which Islam, having become an issue of power, happens to be the object of controversial reinterpretations. It is not my aim to highlight religious idiosyncrasies as much as to focus on how the universal principles of Islam are put into practice within determined social and historic contexts. As in the rest of the Muslim world, the expressions of Islam in Algeria come in multiple forms. Sufism, which is one of these forms of expression of Islam, is itself multiple in its manifestations.

Islam in Independent Algeria: from uniformity to diversity14 In the first years after Independence, Islam had no place in the ideology of the state which exalted Socialism. In an attempt to get rid of all religious ideologies that were considered as an obstacle to modernism, Ahmad b. Bella, the first President of the Republic, introduced reforms of revolutionary nature. The Algerian Charter, which was adopted by the congress of the FLN (National Liberation Front) in 1964, adopted scientific socialism as the state’s basic ideology. However, under the pressure of the Islamic current within the FLN, which organized itself in 1963 under the title of “al Qiyam al-Islamiyya” with the objective of fighting against westernization and establishing an Islamic state, the government was eventually forced to consider the Islamic dimension of Algerian identity. Houari Boumediene, who had staged a coup d’état against Ben Bella in 1965, continued the latter’s socialist policies, but adopted a more ambivalent attitude to the place of Islam. More precisely, he attempted to reduce the Islamic opposition by integrating it into the state apparatus. He put an end to the al-Qiyam association in 1966 and at the same time launched a policy of Arabization and Islamization. He worked on establishing an official Islam with a remunerated clergy, whose members, mostly of Salafiyya sensibility, enjoyed far-reaching control in the areas of education and culture. The processes of Arabization and Islamization continued to progress under the rule of Chadli Benjedid (1979-1991). During this period, a certain liberalization was noted in the various sectors of society, i.e. the economic, cultural and religious sectors, as was a decline in centralism in favour of the emergence of regionalism. Greater freedom of expression was also enjoyed during this period. People openly criticized the system, which seemed to be gradually abandoning the civil population to its fate. The subsidies on basic foodstuffs were elimi14 For this chapter, see Sanson (1983), Rouadjia (1990), Deheuvels (1991), Carlier (1995) and, again, my article, Andezian (1995).

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110 | Sossie Andezian nated, making daily life more difficult. From 1982, the Islamist movement politicized and manifested its opposition to the regime. Some armed groups went underground and those that were under the supervision of the state tried to influence political decisions without overturning the social order. Incidents between Islamist and Marxist students at the University of Algiers multiplied. In an attempt to quell the opposition, the authorities introduced a series of measures to satisfy the Islamist forces. The Family Code of 1984 was unfavourable to women, whose status declined as compared with the status they enjoyed in the aftermath of Independence. The National Charter of 1986 reinforced the religious dimension of the FLN’s nationalist ideology. Gradually, religion moved out of the control of the state. Mosques multiplied in the populated areas as did independent imams. The gradual success of the latter goes back to the need for religious education, which was abandoned during the colonial period and was weak after Independence, to the development of worldwide identity movements under the umbrella of Islam and to the charitable work of the Islamist associations. In fact, semi-liberalization in the majority of the state spheres was accompanied by an increase in poverty among the middle classes who were seriously affected by unemployment. Religiosity became more and more ostentatious. It is against this background that we must consider the increasing visibility of Sufism, which attempted to reposition itself within the religious sphere, with brotherhood groups trying to reorganize themselves here and there. Starting from 1988, a year marked by an unprecedented political crisis, the religious environment was completely redefined. This period witnessed the emergence of two movements: multiparty system and the Islamization of society, from which Sufism benefited. Thanks to the democratization trend which prompted the multiplication of such structures, the brotherhoods organized themselves as associations. The restitution of the lands of the zawiyas, which were nationalized during the Agrarian Revolution, encouraged some branches of the brotherhoods to resume the farming of the lands of their zawiyas. The children of shaykhs who faced unemployment in cities returned to their zawiya homelands where they worked as agriculturists. The FIS’s victory in the municipal and regional elections, which awarded greater legitimacy to Islam in society, favoured the status of those brotherhoods that had resumed the denomination of tariqas. Finally, this trend also benefited from state measures, aimed at the re-evaluation of the role of the zawiyas. However, the brotherhoods still did not resume the roles they had enjoyed before Independence or, to be more precise, prior to the 19th century. The social structures that sustained them, which had for the most part already been destroyed before the Independence, no longer existed. Thus, the role of Sufism in Algerian society underwent a transformation in the aftermath of Independence and later again under the influence of Islamism. This form of religion, which was still practised after Independence despite its marginalization, was at the core of the issues of identity that divided Algerian

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 111 society in the late 1980s. Along with the habitual clientele of the Sufi brotherhoods, numerous intellectuals also sympathized with this religious movement. Unlike the period around the 1930s, which saw the condemnation of Sufism in the name of reason, the order was now viewed as one of the expressions of Algerian identity. People who had been educated in reformist madrasas admitted their liking for the
Isawiyya brotherhood, for example, whose disciples perform spectacular ecstatic rituals. They openly referred to ceremonies and rituals which they had practised secretly and were careful to conceal when they were young. Students from the university institutes for popular art and tradition increasingly selected Sufism as a subject for their dissertations. The choice of this popular and symbolic code, which is rooted in the history of North Africa, over Islamism, which is associated with the east, could be a reflection of its less restrictive nature and more expressive dimensions. The manifestations of Sufism are inscribed in the body and exteriorized through song and dance. The popularity of religious songs that celebrate saintly personages and resume the repertoire of the brotherhoods is very significant in this context. However, it is probably its ability to give meaning to new social and political contexts that makes Sufism a source of identity in times of crisis.

Algerian Sufism after Independence: a local cultural tradition After Independence, Sufism was a local phenomenon confined to certain zones. The region of Tlemcen in western Algeria is one area where evidence of Sufi practices, such as visits to saints’ shrines, women’s groups performing ecstatic ceremonies and brotherhood organizations, could be found. In spite of the establishment of the reformist ideology in both the city of Tlemcen and in some rural areas (El-Korso 1989), Sufism was still practised here and there as a local cultural tradition, as I observed it while conducting an ethnographic study on Sufism in the region between 1980 and 1990 (Andezian 2001). The capital of the region, Tlemcen, which is a modern city, has retained its medieval character and its local traditions. Legal Islam and Sufism succeeded in coexisting and melding there to form a local brand of North African Islam based on the classical Arabic and Islamic cultures (Valensi 1993). The region of Tlemcen was one of the great intellectual centres of North African Islam. As in all other parts of medieval Muslim North Africa, Tlemcen had quickly become a breedingground for religious scholars whom the local sovereigns had brought to their kingdom (Barges 1859; Brosselard 1876). The scholars taught in the mosques and in the madrasas, which were schools of Islamic law (shari
a) and canonical jurisprudence (fiqh). A staff of imams, khatibs and faqihs15 were in charge of the control of religious practices in the mosques. The sovereigns, who were ex-officio imams, used to lead the Friday prayer and say the prayer for the dead. Dur15 Imam: a Muslim man who leads the prayer; khatib: preacher; faqih: man of law.

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112 | Sossie Andezian ing the mawlid,16 they would open their court to the public to participate in the festivities and the literary competitions organized on this occasion (Ibn Khaldun 1913). Along with Sunni Islam, Sufism initially developed as a form of individual devotion to extraordinary men renowned for their piety, their religious knowledge or their singularity. Zawiyas were built on the tombs of saintly personages and sheltered Sufi masters who provided classical religious instruction and initiation to Sufism. Students and scholars would stay there in an atmosphere of prayer and meditation. The
Abd al-Wadid Sultan Abu Zayyan II himself compiled a treatise on religion in which he exalted Sufism. Some princes would save a place in their sepulture for a man who was venerated at their time. Hence, the Tlemcenian religious men were at once scholars, men of law and friends of God. This model survived after the collapse of the Zayyanid dynasty and the arrival of Ottoman rule and remained significant throughout the following centuries when men of religion were first and foremost seen as mediators between God and man. Named the “well guarded city”, on account of its large number of mausoleums, Tlemcen never stopped honouring the men who are said to have protected it against its numerous invaders. Many books are devoted to them, such as the 14th century biographical dictionary of saints compiled by Ibn Meryem (1908). Most of the mausoleums, i.e. small edifices with different shapes, can still be seen in the landscape of Tlemcen, in both the mountains and the plains, the city and the countryside. They are built on the supposed burial places of saintly figures, male and female, who are said to have been endowed with supernatural powers. The word wali which refers to saintly personages in Islam, is also used in the area to designate the qubbas in which they are housed. The qubbas, which are chalk-whitened cubic constructions, comprise one or more rooms including a funerary chamber crowned with one or more domes; semi-circular and octagonal domes being most common. Either isolated or integrated into a zawiya, the qubba can be part of a larger complex comprising a zawiya, a mosque and a Qur anic school. Sometimes it is limited to an enclosure or a simple heap of stones. The sanctuaries are located away from the inhabited areas in places that cannot be accessed easily, e.g. on mountain summits, at the extremities of ravines, in the forests, on the edges of the cliffs and in cemeteries. Their topography was modified with the reshaping of the national territory after the Independence. Some of them, which where originally on the edge of the city, are now in the centre. Others, which were built on village summits, remote from the built-up area, are now located between houses. Among the qubbas mentioned in the books of the colonial period (Dermenghem 1954), those that were destroyed during the wars or by the political authorities are still in ruins while others were restored, either by the state as 16 Mawlid: the commemoration of the Prophet’s birth.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 113 part of the reconstruction of the historical heritage or by the followers of the saints. Whether locally resident or not, the followers take care of the sites and welcome visitors. The qubbas which were nationalized became public places. The interior of the sanctuaries differs from one place to another. Completely bare in some cases, they merely contain a catafalque which is recovered with coloured sheets and topped with flags. In the more prestigious sanctuaries, the walls are decorated with ceramics, adorned with calligraphy and pictures of Mecca, or they bear the traces of hands reddened with henna, a plant substance symbolizing the sacrificial blood which spreads the baraka. Candles and incense burners can currently be found in these sanctuaries. In the context of the post-Independence development of Sufism as a local tradition, the following questions arise: What kind of relationship did the people of Tlemcen develop with saints after Independence? How did they integrate the worship of saints into their religious, cultural, social and personal life? What happened in the late 1980s when radical Islam entered the public arena? I will now examine the different ways that people related to saints in the city of Tlemcen and in the surrounding towns and villages during the 1980s. I will mainly focus on the changes that affected the meaning of this once widespread phenomenon as well as the relevant changes in the political, social and religious field. The saints whose sanctuaries I visited during the 1980s ranged from familiar historical characters, e.g. Sidi17 Abu Madyan, Sidi Dawdi, Sidi Snusi, Sidi al-Halwi, Lalla Sitti, to unknown individuals, e.g. Sidi Fathallah, Sidi Msahhil, Sidi Kanun and chiefs of religious lineages and/or brotherhoods, e.g. Sidi Muhammad b.
Ali, Sidi
Abdallah b. Mansur, Sidi M
ammar b.
Alia, Sidi Tahar b. Tayba, Sidi b.
Amar. Some individuals were known as saints only among the members of a particular family: they were usually ancestors who are buried on family land and whose tombs are covered with a heap of stones decorated with votive materials. These men of previous eras are renowned either for their proficiency in religious knowledge and their qualities as Sufi masters, i.e. Sidi Abu Madyan, Sidi Snusi, Sidi Muhammad b.
Ali and Sidi
Abdallah b. Mansur, or for their asceticism and piety, their mystic madness and the miracles they performed. These supernatural beings are mostly represented by their real or spiritual descendants, known as shaykhs, murabits, muqaddims18, who embody theoretically their attributes or virtues, such as goodness, generosity, power and piety. Brotherhood chiefs or simple guardians of the sanctuaries, these inheritors of baraka, irrespective of its intensity, transmit the initiatory knowledge of their prestigious ancestors and work on promoting the prosperity of their line17 Sidi: literally “my master”; a deferent form of address used for the men in a family, i.e. grandfather, father, uncle and brother, and systematically used when addressing saints. Lalla is the feminine equivalent of Sidi. 18 Muqaddim: a leader of a group of brotherhood devotees or a group of a saint’s followers; the female leader of a women’s group is called muqaddima.

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114 | Sossie Andezian ages while responding to the requests made by their visitors. The majority of the saints’ representatives live on the income arising from the donations made visitors or through the exploitation of their zawiyas. Those who are the chiefs of zawiyas and/or are responsible for brotherhood groups are assisted in their tasks by members of their families and by disciples who work for the zawiya and, most often, by the delegates (muqaddims). The muqaddims, who are appointed by the shaykh with the approval of the majority of affiliates, initiate the new disciples and also lead the ritual ceremonies and manage the brotherhood’s material assets. The work of saints is, therefore, largely carried out by their lively representatives. Whatever the type of the saint veneration practised, be it individual visits to the shrines or collective prayers by groups of a saint’s followers or groups of brotherhood members, the core of the practice is the ziyara19. It refers to the system of relationships that women and men maintain with the saints or their representatives in order to ask for favours. Expressed in the context of a spiritual meeting or hadra20, the ziyara is practised on Monday, the day of the birth and the death of the Prophet, on Thursday afternoon, the eve of the sacred day in Islam, and on Friday, the sacred day in Islam, and during the main Muslim holidays. It culminates on the occasion of the annual pilgrimage to the tombs of saints, commemorating their birth or death. This ritual sequence, composed of acts of purification, prayers, offerings and sacrifices, is based on a circular principle of exchange among the visitors of saints: talab or request –
ata or supply – ziyara or offerings. These exchanges are expressed in different languages: physical language comprising gesture, posture, states of trance and ecstasy; sign language, which consists in the interpretation of extraordinary phenomena that manifest the divine presence or demonstrate the necessity of entering into contact with the supernatural world, such as natural disasters, illness, rites of passage, dreams; liturgical language, composed of prayers, from the meditation or the dialogue with saints to collective recitation of the dhikr, through the recitation of different forms of invocation known as the prayers of du
a and talab. Other forms of exchange between the visitors, e.g. the exchange of words, advice, mutual aid and food etc., contribute to the enhancement of the efficiency of the visit. The requests must be made with a pure intention. All types of hadra comprise a sequence of dhikr mainly composed of panegyrics of prophets and saints. It starts with the recitation of the fatiha, the first sura in the Quran. This formula constitutes the introductory liturgical prayer of any ritual ceremony in North Africa and places the participants under the 19 Ziyara: literally “visit”; it designates the visit to the saints’ tombs, the offerings made to the shrine or the visit paid by a shaykh to his disciples. 20 Hadra: literally “presence”, suggesting the presence of God. In the area of Tlemcen, it refers to the spiritual performance composed mainly of the dhikr, the core of the Sufi prayer, that means recollection of the name of God. The dhikr consists of litanies, recited repeatedly, with the aim for reaching a state of trance.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 115 protection of God. The repetition of the shahada or Islamic profession of faith is another of the litanies frequently encountered at such events. Strictly speaking, the prayer of dhikr consists of the rythmical repetition of divine names, and in most cases is limited to the repetition of the name “Allah”. Gradually the letters composing this name are eliminated, so that in the end only a moan can be heard, while the bodies are shaken by the trance. The end of the dhikr is the most privileged moment, as it is the time when the communication with the saints takes place. In brotherhoods affected by reformism, such as the Darqawiyya, this sequence is limited to the recitation of litanies in a seated position. In other brotherhoods, such as the
Isawiyya, the recitation itself accompanies the phenomenon of trance, in which the manifestations are spectacular to a greater or lesser extent: moans, crying, shouting, fainting and dancing. These manifestations, which can be observed at events involving both male and female participants, seem more spontaneous and less controlled among women, whose emotional expressions of religious feelings dominate the other forms of exchange with God, the prophets and the saints. Besides the prayers, the gestures have the advantage of promoting the communication with saints: turning around catafalques, touching the sheets that cover them, hanging votive materials, lighting candles, burning incense. The incubatio, which consists in sleeping one or more nights in the sanctuary or its vicinity in order to receive a visit from the saint in one’s dreams, is a rite which facilitates the exchange with saints. The saints appear in people’s dreams to guide and advise those who have made requests of them. All granted vows are a call for new offerings and new visits. A cycle of exchange is hence established between visitors and saints which leads to the establishment of a durable bond between the parties. Hence the numerous visits made to the saints as an expression of gratitude, loyalty and fidelity. More than other types of visit, the individual ziyara implies a personal relationship with the saints. And it is this personal relationship that persisted any time that the Sufi activities or the assembly of Sufi followers were prohibited. Unlike the dhikr prayer assemblies, the individual visits do not require an organization. For this reason, it would appear relevant to focus on the analysis of the individual ziyara based on the example of Abu Madyan. The figure of Abu Madyan is emblematic of saint veneration by individuals in Algeria and its evolution throughout the centuries under the influence of new religious systems or ideologies such as reformism and Islamism. It exemplifies pertinently the complexity of this phenomenon which is not merely a popular religious practice. A great Sufi master, known locally as Sidi Boumediene, he became the patron saint of the city of Tlemcen. His memory is honoured by both religious and non-religious people, by both faqihs and Sufis, by the literate and illiterate, by men and women and by young and old. He symbolizes the diversity of Algerian Islam and of Algerian Sufism, which adopted specific features based on historical contexts. In the early 1990s when the religious sphere was basically reshaped in Algeria, the figure of Abu Madyan

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116 | Sossie Andezian was central to the struggle which opposed different social and political forces for the control of the religious power.

The veneration of Sidi Boumediene: a multireferential process in transition Abu Madyan Shu
ayb b. al-Husayn is one of the most important Sufi figures. He is the ghawth (“great help”) and the qutb (the “pole” of the saints), which means that he is at the top of the hierarchy of Sufi saints. His spiritual path illustrates the itinerary of Sufis who traveled from west to east to achieve their initiation at the hands of Sufi masters. He did not create a new tariqa of his own, but his teachings, which were the synthesis of Andalusian, North-African and Oriental Sufism, were diffused by his disciples across North Africa as well as the east. For example, Ibn
Arabi is one of his indirect disciples as his masters were initiated by him. Thus, Abu Madyan is both a universal and regional figure within Sufism (Bargès 1894; Brunschvig 1947; Dermenghem 1954). Although Abu Madyan has never lived in Tlemcen, he is the city’s patron saint. He died at the entrance of the city on route from the Algerian town of Bejaia to Marrakech in Morocco. As he fell ill and felt his end approaching, he asked to be buried in the village of al-Eubbad on the outskirts of Tlemcen. His will was carried out and the population of Tlemcen adopted him as the new saint protector of the city in place of Sidi Dawdi. Thus, Abu Madyan became a major figure of local Sufism. A qubba was soon built over his tomb by the Sultan
Abd al-Wadid Yaghmurasan b. Zayyan. The Marinids decorated and constructed a mosque in the 14th century. A basin for ablutions, a hammam and a madrasa were later added to the site. Leo Africanus and Ibn Battuta visited the place. Ibn Khaldun retired there and taught in the madrasa in 1369. When it was damaged by a fire, the tomb was repaired and decorated with sculptures, paintings and ceramics by order of the Ottoman Sultan Muhammad Bey. Official Islam, legal Islam, Sufism and popular religiosity converged on the tomb of Abu Madyan, which reflected the image of Islam in this western part of Algeria (Marçais 1950). The shrine of Abu Madyan is situated in the old village of al-Eubbad, now one of the city neighbourhoods. The village was named either after the ribat al-
Ubbad built in the lower part of the village, where the founder of the Almohad dynasty had retired, or after the first man of the village, Sidi al-
Ubbad. The sanctuary is composed of the qubba, sheltering the tomb of the saint and the house of the caretaker called the muqaddim. The entrance door, which is framed with earthenware tiles, is topped by a canopy supported by two pillars. The visitor goes down a few steps and reaches a small yard where there is a well that contains water with healing virtues. The funerary room is quiet and lit by the multicoloured stained-glass window. The catafalques of Abu Madyan and
Abd al-Salam al-Tunsi, another saint, are covered with silk and positioned perpen-

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 117 dicular to the back wall. Hangings embroidered with gold thread and pictures adorn the walls (Dermenghem 1954). Whether tourists or worshippers, visitors remove their shoes and talk quietly so as to not disturb those who are praying. The worshippers sit or lie down on the carpets around the catafalques. Most of them are women. The male visitors do not stay there for more than a few minutes. If they do, they turn their back on the women so as to hide themselves from their sight. Women do not appreciate the presence of men there as they might be suspected of having come to the qubba to meet them. The visits usually take place on Thursday afternoon, Friday and during the religious holidays. Up to the eve of the war of liberation, the brotherhoods would go there in procession during the holidays (Doutté 1900; Dermenghem 1954). When I conducted my fieldwork, these visits were carried out on an individual basis. The eve of the mawlid, the day on which the Prophet is supposed to have been born, women who had prayed until dawn in the zawiyas and mosques used to go there by groups. Leaning against the coffins with their backs, the visitors pray, meditate, cry, light candles and burn incense. Some of them sleep, hoping to receive a visit from Sidi Boumediene in their dreams. “He is the greatest saint! Ask him anything you want: well-being, good health, success; he will give it to you”, recommended the lady who accompanied me during my first visit to the shrine. As is the case with any religious visit, the requests for favours concern both the material and spiritual life. During the football world cup in 1982, an old woman came and implored the support of the saint for the national football team. In all cases, a ziyara to the sanctuary expresses faithfulness to the patron of the city. The visit can last from a few minutes to several hours. The women exchange a few words from time to time. Some Fridays and on holidays, there are spontaneous hadras, accompanied by sacrificial meals in honour of the saint. The ritual of the ziyara ends with an offering of coins, fabrics, candles, incense, perfume and food. And nobody leaves the sanctuary without drinking a cup of water from the sacred well. After the Independence, the entire building was listed as a historical monument. It is taken care of by both the local authorities and the associations for the preservation of the historical heritage. Tourists do not fail to visit it as it is one of the city’s most interesting cultural spots. The madrasa and the hammam do not work any more as such. The mosque is one of the most prestigious in the city. On week days, only people from the neighbourhood come to pray. Worshippers from the surrounding areas feel it a duty to pray there at least once a year. When I was doing my fieldwork, the yard of the mosque was used for special religious events. In 1982, the National Union of Algerian Women (UNFA), which is affiliated to the FLN, organized a ceremony there to celebrate the Laylat al-Qadar (“night of destiny”) on the 27th day of the fasting month of Ramadan, when the Quran is said to have descended from heaven. From evening to dawn, an elderly woman chanted and directed the chanting of poems and litanies praising the Prophet. The place was crowded with women and their

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118 | Sossie Andezian children who were very happy to have an opportunity to spend the night under the protection of their cherished patron saint. The significance of the shrine of Sidi Boumediene was particularly obvious in the late 1980s – a time of political, social and moral crisis – as he became one of the stakes in the struggle for symbolic domination. Everyone projected his own representations on the figure of the saint. An incident which happened in late September 1990, a few days before the celebration of the mawlid al-Nabawi (the birth of the Prophet), was indicative of such a struggle which eventually resulted in civil war. Accused by the Islamists of encouraging the worship of the dead and of keeping the offerings made by the visitors to the sanctuary for himself, the muqaddim was handled roughly and hit. Access to the shrine was prohibited. Most people in Tlemcen condemned this act, and considered it an attempt at erasing the city’s historical heritage and one of its architectural masterpieces. The women were angered, for the shrine of Sidi Boumediene symbolizes an important aspect of local female religiosity. Since the burial of the saint, his tomb has been visited by women who, apart from praying, confided all their secrets, joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, wishes and desires in him. A visit to Sidi Boumediene’s shrine provided an opportunity to go out for some fresh air. Sometimes, the women undertook chain visits, going from one shrine to another. The older ones would recall their outings to the saints’ tombs with their children as an opportunity to get a breath of fresh air and relax. They would tell of the joy of the children running in the forest and their own pleasure in escaping their domestic tasks and daily burdens. They would stress that the place was so safe that they could sleep there all night. This was before the War of Independence and, according to them, was no longer feasible after Independence when the city’s population changed and the number of workers from the surrounding villages and other cities increased. In spite of the threat that the women felt, however, they continued to visit the shrine in the afternoon with friends or relatives when they had finished their domestic tasks. When the Islamists closed the zawiya a week before the mawlid in 1990, the women were convinced that they did it to prevent them from spending the eve of the mawlid there. All of Tlemcen’s zawiyas remained closed that night, as everybody was afraid of the reaction of the Islamists who had won the municipal elections a few months earlier. In the zawiyas of the suburbs, where, despite being fewer in number than in former years, the women managed to pray all night long, discussions centred on the incident at the Sidi Boumediene zawiya. On the day of the mawlid, while accompanying a friend to the zawiya of Sidi Muhammad b.
Ali in the village of Ain el-Hout, I was told by the muqaddima about the night of dhikr they had performed: “The zawiya was full of women; we recited the dhikr without talking. It was led by a young woman, it was extraordinary!” Addressing my friend and two other women they asked, “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” The women answered, “You know our men; they would never let us go out alone, neither during the day nor at night; today we escaped.” My friend added: “I was so tired that I couldn’t make it.” The truth is

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 119 that, as her husband had travelled to Morocco with the
Isawiyya brotherhood of which he is a member, she did not want to leave her children alone at home and go out. In general, men do not like the idea of the women of their families, i.e. wives, daughters, mothers or sisters, visiting the shrines. Since time immemorial, women’s visits to the shrines have been associated with bad behaviour. The women are suspected of wishing to meet unknown men. A muhtasib or censor of customs from the 15th century, Muhammad al-
Uqbani, denounced in a book (1966) the not very recommendable behaviour of the Tlemcenian women and highlighted the ambiguous nature of their gatherings. In his view, all women’s gatherings, such as visits to cemeteries, funerary rituals and even weaving circles, had only one aim – that of seeking contact with men for the purpose of illicit amusement. The descriptions of ziyaras and pilgrimages written by 19th century Western authors are full of accounts of such “bad behaviour”: drinking alcohol, dancing, sexual relationships with men etc. When the reformists launched their attacks on the practice of the ziyaras in the early 20th century, they started by denouncing the gatherings of women in the cemeteries and the zawiyas. In the early 1950s, the Communist press strongly condemned this kind of practices, arguing that they were the pretext for some participants to drink alcohol and to meet prostitutes. As for the colonial administration, it recognized the necessity for Algerians to enjoy freedom of worship, but was also critical of such misbehaviour. This representation of the ziyaras remained active in Algerian society after Independence. More than the practices themselves, it was the women’s outings that were disapproved of. The men consider them as a transgression of the principle of the sexual segregation of space, a principle, on which the social organization is still based. In independent Algeria, although many women were educated and some of them held high positions, their access to public space, which is predominantly men’s space, was controlled by men. Sexual segregation increased since the rise of the Islamists in the public sphere. Thus, far from having created the phenomenon, the Islamists merely reinforced an existing attitude and legitimized it by invoking divine law. The victory of the FIS in the elections resulted in a reactivation of the debate surrounding the legality of the practices of the ziyara and the dhikr. An elderly woman confirmed this in the following comment: “This morning, the bearded (Islamists) were angry because we spent the night at the zawiya. I told them that we were doing nothing bad by reciting the dhikr, the memory of God that we have always acted this way.” Thus, she initiated a debate concerning the prohibitions “created” by the FIS, for example those concerning the ziyara at the tombs of saints and the dhikr. “They have forbidden all the gatherings in the zawiyas. They have closed Sidi Boumediene so as to prevent women from spending the night there; there were only us and women from Ouzidane (a nearby village) who celebrated the eve of the mawlid.” Young girls wearing the hijab, a new phenomenon since the elections, were also criticizing the FIS. My

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120 | Sossie Andezian friend stressed that they are not “mutadayyinat” (religious), but that they wore the hijab to protect themselves from the men. The discussions revealed that the FIS was not only censoring religious rituals. It was censoring the customs too, thus acting as a muhtasib who censors all behaviour, both private and public, including spoken language, such as the way a husband and his wife address each other, clothing, celebrations etc. The women complained about this and had their own way of ascertaining legal and illegal based on their individual or social interests. They explained that those who had adopted the hijab did not do it for religious reasons, but because they felt more comfortable. They admitted that they should change some of the oral expressions which were not correct, such as the use of the term ukhti (my sister) and khuya (my brother) when addressing one’s wife or husband. “Spouses are not sister and brother; we should say zawjti (my wife) and zawji (my husband)”. But they vehemently rejected the Islamists’ attempts to abolish the customary marriage celebrations which apart from the actual wedding itself provided opportunities for social and symbolic exchanges between members of a family, friends and neighbours. The closure of Sidi Boumediene’s shrine was intolerable to them. Sidi Boumediene’s shrine was not only the physical embodiment of the religious memory of Tlemcen, it was a symbol of rejoicing and feasting, and for the women, a symbol of freedom; a place where the love for God and saints is expressed with words, chanting, dances, a place of commensality. It was a place where women were allowed to go without restriction. Furthermore, the closure of the qubba on a festival as important as that of the birth of the Prophet seemed very repressive, in both the physical and moral sense. “They are forbidding even the visit to saints now, the only men worthy of confidence and of respect in this country! What are they going to allow us to do!” cried a young girl. As soon as the qubba reopened, the women rushed to the shrine on Friday to visit their cherished saint. While they were waiting for the muqaddim to open the door, two Islamists came out of the mosque and shouted at them. “What are you doing there? Are you coming to see a man who died centuries ago? Stop your ignorant practices and go home!” The women tried to resist but to no avail. They gave up and walked home slowly, cursing the men whom they called “fake Muslims” and humming an old song praising the saint, rearranged by a Tlemcenian singer, Nouri Koufi. Here are a few verses of the song: Sidi Boumediene, I come to you with a purpose, come in my dreams to cure me. […] Sometimes I cry for my country, sometimes I cry for exile, sometimes I cry for the mosques, where no taleb and no imam reads. […] O Ghawthi21, don’t forget me. […] O Boumediene, I want to see you in my dreams with my own eyes. […] Tlemcen is praying so you remove all disease and affliction from the people […].

21 Ghawthi: “my great help” – one of the names given to the saint in Tlemcen.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 121 For its followers, saint veneration evokes notions such as authenticity and liberty as opposed to hypocrisy and alienation, which, they say, characterizes radical Islam. It is described as an internalized movement, expressing depth of history, but, especially, a sensory depth that animates the body and transports the spirit beyond social limits. If it has passed the test of time, it is because it has been cultivated out of sight, in the secrecy of sanctuaries, houses and remote areas. To express itself successfully, saint veneration has blended with the local culture. More than the reference to religious law, it is the reference to the experience of the followers and that of their ancestors that confer its legitimacy. The attachment of women to this religious form was undoubtedly facilitated by their exclusion of the public religious space, and by the confinement of their religious life to the private space, outside the arena of political power.

Conclusion Like any other local religious system in Algeria, Sufism has witnessed inevitable changes. It could seem paradoxical to speak about the changes affecting local forms of Sufism which is condemned by the partisans of Algerian Islamic reform as being archaic. In reality, the observed changes, whether in the representations or practices of Algerian Sufism, have not followed a linear evolutionary course. Historically, they have been characterized by the tension between permanence and innovation: the permanence of the conception of religion as an experience of divinity, equally associated with the figures of the jinn and the saints, the Prophet and God; the permanence of the Quranic language in addressing the experience of divinity and the variations in the different modalities of this experience; the permanence of Sufism as a religious system of reference and the diversity of its rituals; the permanence of Sufi institutions associated with the zawiyas and brotherhoods and the changes in their roles and uses. This tension was particularly strong towards the late 1980s when Algerian Islam radicalized and attempted to eliminate various forms of local religious expression. In the Tlemcen region, the practice of Sufism had remained frozen in its collective forms for the previous ten years, which had been the case with the War of Liberation. However, a few signs of reawakening emerged here and there. In the year 2000, the
Isawiyya brotherhood reorganized the annual pilgrimage to the regional zawiya which had been interrupted since 1992. Members of the brotherhood living in France were glad to be able to participate in the pilgrimage and considered it a very important event in their lives. Thus, once again the extinction of local expressions of Sufism, heralded since the early 20th century, seem to have been postponed once again. Given that they cannot confide their fate to politicians, who have proved incapable of breaking the violence, the followers of saints turn towards these supernatural men in an attempt to find a sense out of the chaos which pervades in the country.

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122 | Sossie Andezian

References Andezian, Sossie (1995) “Sciences sociales et religion en Algérie. La production contemporaine depuis l’Indépendance”. Annuaire de l’Afrique du Nord, vol. XXXIII, pp. 381-395 Andezian, Sossie (2001) Expériences du divin dans l’Algérie contemporaine. Adeptes des saints de la région de Tlemcen, Paris: CNRS Editions. Bargès, Jean-Louis (abbé) (1859) Tlemcen, ancienne capitale du royaume de ce nom, Paris: Duprat. Bel, Alfred (1938) La religion musulmane en Berbérie. Esquisse d’histoire et de sociologie religieuse, vol. I. Benkheira, Mohammed Hocine (1988) “La pensée divise: Bachir Al-Ibrahimi et la censure en islam”. Revue maghrébine d’études politiques et religieuses, no. 1 (October), pp. 22-59. Brosselard, Charles (1876) Mémoire épigraphique et historique sur les tombeaux des émirs Beni Zeiyan et de Boabdil, dernier roi de Grenade, découverte à Tlemcen, Paris: Imprimerie nationale. Brunschvig, Robert (1947) La Berbérie orientale sous les Hafsides. Des origines à la fin du XVème siècle, vol. II, Paris: Maisonneuve. Carlier, Omar (1995) Entre Nation et Jihad. Histoire sociale des radicalismes algériens, Paris: Fondation Nationale des Sciences Politiques. Chabbi, Jacqueline (1995) “Ribât”. Encyclopédie de l’Islam, Leiden, E.J.Brill vol. VIII, pp. 510-523. Chodkiewicz, Michel (1986) Le Sceau des saints. Prophétie et sainteté dans la doctrine d’Ibn Arabi, Paris: Gallimard. Chodkiewicz, Michel (1995) “La sainteté et les saints en islam”. In: Henri Chambert-Loir/Claude Guillot (eds.) Le culte des saints dans le monde musulman, Paris: Ecole française d’Extrême-Orient, Etudes thématiques 4, pp. 13-32. Deheuvels, Luc-Willy (1991) Islam et pensée contemporaine en Algérie: la revue Al-Asâla (1971-1981), Paris: Editions du CNRS. Depont, Octave/Coppolani, Xavier (1897) Les confréries religieuses musulmanes, Paris: Maisonneuve. Dermenghem, Emile (1954) Le culte des saints dans l’islam maghrébin, Paris: Gallimard. Djeghloul, Abdelkader (1984) Eléments d’histoire culturelle algérienne, Alger: ENAL. Doutté, Emile (1900) Les Aïssâoua à Tlemcen, Châlons-sur-Marne: Imprimerie Martin Frères. Hadj Ali, Sliman (1992) “Algérie:le premier séminaire national des zaouïas”. Maghreb-Machrek 135 (January-March), pp. 53-67. Ibn Khaldoun Yahya (1913) Histoire des Beni
Abd el Wad, rois de Tlemcen (transl. by Alfred Bel), Algiers: Fontana Frères, 2 vols. Ibn Meryem (1908) El-Bostan/Jardin des biographies des saints et des savants de Tlemcen (ed. by Mohammed Ben Cheneb), Alger: Fontana Frères.

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Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria | 123 el-Korso, Mohammed (1989) Politique et religion en Algérie. L’Islah: ses structures et ses hommes. Le cas de l’Association des
Ulama Musulmans Algériens en Oranie, 1931-1945, Thèse de 3e cycle, Paris: Université Paris VII-Jussieu. Lings M. (1967) Un saint musulman du vingtième siècle. Le Cheikh Ahmad Al
Alawî, Paris: Villain et Belhomme. Marçais, Georges (1950) Les villes d’art célèbres. Tlemcen, Paris: H. Laurens. Merad, Ali (1967) Le Réformisme musulman en Algérie de 1925 à 1940. Essai d’histoire religieuse et sociale, Paris-La Haye: Mouton. Nadir, Ahmed (1972) “Les ordres religieux et la conquête française (1830-1851)”. Revue algérienne des sciences juridiques, économiques et sociales, no. 4, pp. 819-872. Rinn, Louis (1884) Marabouts et khouan: Etude sur l’Islam en Algérie, Alger: Librairie Adolphe Jourdan. Rouadjia, A. (1990) Les Frères et la Mosquée. Enquête sur le mouvement islamiste en Algérie, Paris: Karthala. Sanson, H. (1983) Laïcité islamique en Algérie, Paris: Editions du CNRS. alUqbani, Mohammed (1965-1966): “Un traité de hisba. Edition critique par A. Chenoufi”. Bulletin d’études orientales, Institut français de Damas, vol. XI, pp. 131-342. Valensi, Lucette (1993) “Le jardin de l’Académie ou comment se forme une école de pensée”. In: Hassan Elboudrari (ed.) Modes de transmission de la culture religieuse en Islam, Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie orientale, pp. 41-64.

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Chapter 7 Sacred Networks: Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta el-Sayed el-Aswad Introduction Sainthood and the patterns of social and expressive behaviour related to saint cults in the Muslim world, in general, and Egypt, in particular, have been a major concern of diverse anthropological and sociological studies conducted by scholars such as Lane (1836), Blackman (1927), McPherson (1941), Gellner (1969; 1981), Trimingham (1965; 1971), Gilsenan (1973; 1983), Waugh (1989), and Abu Zahra (1997). However, the significance of religiously sanctified social networks between people and saints has not been fully addressed. One of the frustrating predicaments of modern life is that the manifestation of religion in different worlds of form and meaning has been used by the already desacralized type of knowledge, which has dominated the mental outlook of the Western man in recent times, to destroy further what little remains of the sacred in the contemporary world (Nasr 1981: 280).

Muslim culture cannot be understood by merely focusing on the structural paradigm that seeks to uncover the deep structure underlying its various surface manifestations or the instrumental functional scheme that overlooks semantic dimensions of the problem being studied, but by paying attention to myriad metaphorical and symbolic forms of sacred reality as maintained and expressed in wide-ranging discursive and non-discursive contexts. Thus, this essay draws on some theoretical insights from works of Eliade (1954; 1957) and Rappaport (1979; 1999) concerning the significance of the sacred in society and cosmos, as well as on Geertz’s symbolic hermeneutics dealing with culture as an historically transmitted pattern of meanings embodied in symbols, a system of inherited conceptions expressed in symbolic forms by means of which men communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge about and their attitudes toward life (Geertz 1973: 89).

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 125 The following questions are addressed: What are the sacred networks? Why do traditional cults and sanctified networks still persist side by side with secular and modern networking? What do they mean to people? Do they meet the specific needs of the people? Are they considered as a special means of establishing communication with a trans-social world beyond this material universe? Are they used as decisive means for mobilizing certain actions and resisting certain events?

What are sacred networks? I take sacred networks to mean both the public and private sanctified mediums that establish the religious and social bonds necessary for maintaining basic community relationships.1 To be more specific, sacred networks indicate ongoing symbolic exchange and communicative scenarios both between human beings (alive or dead) and between human and non-human beings. As cultural mediums sacred networks encompass cosmological, personal and social aspects and go beyond instantaneous tangible practices or rituals to include continuous reciprocity of material and immaterial symbolic codes between people and unseen entities. Sociologically, sacred network strengthen social ties, facilitate communication between individuals and deepen the alliances and solidarity necessary for maintaining Islamic community at both local and global levels (el-Aswad 2003b). Sacred networks are inseparable from religious worldviews, which are not exclusively oriented towards empirical or experimental facts, but more essentially toward establishing paradigms that render life and the world intelligible. These religious worldviews or sanctified paradigms are concerned with transcendental truth, which is different from the relative truth constituted within a mundane world (el-Aswad 2002a). In transcendental logic there can be no differentiation or dichotomy between sense and truth, the imaginative and the real or the possible and the actual (Gangadean 1998: 139). Religious concepts do not just maintain these sacred networks, they actually make up these networks. Religious propositions, in accordance with which people conduct their lives, sanctify or certify their systems of comprehension and actions and generate certain forms of networks which, when sanctified, work to reduce spatial divisions as well as to accentuate temporal connections. This religious meaning is an indispensable cause for retaining and stressing the notion of sanctity, 1 The material on which this essay is based draws on extensive ethnographic research conducted in the city of Tanta, Middle Delta, Egypt in 1998, 2002 and 2003. The main sources of data included participant observations and in-depth interviews along with library research and government documents. My previous ethnographic study of sainthood in the Buhayra province (2001; 2002a; 2002b; 2003) helped me to understand the significance of sacred and social networking among the people of the Delta.

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126 | el-Sayed el-Aswad especially when it is applied to mundane or non-religious spheres. The sanctified paradigm bestows meaning to the secular or mundane one (el-Aswad 2003a). Simply put, propositions pertaining to environmental features as well as economic, political, communicative and social practices may be sanctified by linking them to religious sentences (Rappaport 1979; 1999). “Behold! verily on the friends of Allah there is no fear, Nor shall they grieve” (Quran 10: 62).2 This verse of the Quran is frequently used by Muslim scholars, leaders of Sufi orders and common Muslims to certify their belief in those who have achieved the merit of trans-social experience and the honoured status of being close to Allah. The people’s imaginative depiction of saints as cosmic navigators who know the geography and traffic of the universe and who are able to be in different places and different periods of time simultaneously can be rendered understandable within this sanctified context.3

Sidi al-Badawi of Tanta: sacred space and sanctified networks As the region of the Delta is the main stage of this study, brief mention can be given to the fact that notwithstanding the significant differences between them, the communities of both the Delta (Lower Egypt) and the Valley (Upper Egypt) share a national culture. These differences have historically and politically been categorized as bahari or bihiri (used locally to mean both “sea”, referring specifically to the Mediterranean Sea located north of Egypt and north), and sa
id or sa
idi (used refer to Upper Egypt). Historically, Lower Egypt has been socially and economically privileged and fortunate as compared to Upper Egypt. With its geographical features (particularly of the Nile Delta) and location near important waterways, Lower Egypt has been subject to greater exposure to oriental and occidental influences (el-Aswad 2002a; 2002c). Centred in the middle of the Delta between the Damietta and Rosetta branches of the Nile, is the city of Tanta, a dominant networking location for trade, local industry, communication, transportation and education. Educationally, Tanta University, established in the early 1960s, has been a distinguished provincial university, attracting a substantial number of students from the Delta and elsewhere in Egypt.4 Tanta, the capital city of the al-Gharbiyya province located 95 kilometres north of Cairo and 125 kilometres south-east of Alexan2 The English translation of the verses of the Quran used in this paper is based on
Abdullah Yusuf
Ali’s work The Meaning of the Holy Quran (1992). 3 For a detailed discussion of the impact of mythological and cosmic forces on archaic Egyptian culture, see el-Aswad 1997. 4 According to an unpublished registration record of Tanta University for the academic year 2002/2003, the total number of the enrolled students was 108,000. Also, graduate students from different Arab and Muslim countries are enrolled in various faculties of Tanta University.

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 127 dria, is the largest and most active commercial centre located in the Middle Delta comprised of a mixed urban-rural population. In 1996, the population of Tanta exceeded 400,000.5 It is a city endowed with religious significance because it is home to both the shrine and mosque of the renowned Muslim saint and historical and iconic-folk hero, al-Sayyid al-Badawi, a revered “pole”6 (qutb) at the level of both the nation and the Muslim world. As a city of sanctuaries Tanta encompasses a connected chain of holy saints located within the sacred regional network of Sidi al-Badawi.7 The spirituality and divine blessing, i.e. baraka, of Sidi al-Badawi have sacralized the space and endowed it with sanctity. Although Tanta encompasses some characteristics of the urban environment, such as impersonal, material and exploitative relationships, the people there still enjoy distinct social and unofficial networks based on intimate bonds of kinship, neighbourhood, friendship and religion that go beyond the unequal relations between the social classes found elsewhere. During the anniversary celebration of Sidi al-Badawi and on ordinary days, visitors travel to Tanta to pay homage to Shaykh al-
Arab al-Sayyid al-Badawi and to buy goods, including roasted chick peas and sweets, hummus wa halawah, for which the city is celebrated. Shop owners from the surrounding towns and villages purchase their wares and newlyweds shop for their furnishings and gold from the city. Al-Sayyid al-Badawi (1199-1276)8 was the founder of Egypt’s large and 5 The population of Tanta grew rapidly; it was 10,000 in the 19th century and reached 300,000 in the 1970s (Reeves 1990; 1995). According to the general population census of Egypt (1996), the population of Tanta is slightly over 400,000. It is worth noting that the proximity of the shrine or mosque of al-Badawi to other large towns such as Kafr al-Zaiyyat and al-Mahala al-Kubra bestows meaning and importance on these towns which became industrial centres in the 1940s and the 1960s and manufacture oil products and cotton textiles, respectively. 6 The other three poles are Sidi Ibrahim el-Disuqi,
Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani and Ahmad al-Rifa
i. It is interesting to note that the shrine or mosque of Sidi Ibrahim al-Disuqi is located in the city of Disuq, 45 kilometres north-west of Tanta. 7 As a place of regional sanctuaries, Tanta comprises 40 wali or saints (Wahbi 2000: 495). 8 Al-Badawi was born in Fez, Morocco. He travelled to Egypt, Mecca (for the pilgrimage) and Iraq. He came back to Egypt where he finally settled in Tanta (called that time Tanteda). Al-Badawi’s genealogy goes back to al-Husain, son of
Ali Ibn Abi Talib, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad (Mahmud 1993: 49). In the course of previous fieldwork I discovered the shrine of the female saint
Aisha Sitt Radiyya in the village of El-Haddein (Qaum Hamada district, Buhayra province) about 50 kilometres southwest of Tanta. She is believed by the people to be a relative of al-Sayyid al-Badawi and that their common ancestors were direct descendants of
Ali al-Rida (8th Imam).
Ali al-Rida had five sons and one daughter:
Aisha Sitt Radiyya (el-Aswad 2002a).

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128 | el-Sayed el-Aswad populist Sufi order, the Ahmadiyya. Due to his spiritual esteem and the wonders and blessings ascribed to him, many pilgrims visit his tomb in the mosque at Tanta.9 Over a century ago Lane maintained that the “tomb of this saint attracts almost as many as visitors, at the periods of the great annual festivals, from the metropolis, and from various parts of Lower Egypt, as Mekkeh does pilgrims from the whole of the Muslim world” (Lane 1836: 220). This statement is still applicable to al-Badawi’s charismatic position not merely in Egypt, but also in the Muslim world. The major birthday celebration, mawlid, of al-Badawi is held annually in October at the end of the cotton harvest and lasts seven days (including the grand night, al-laila al-kabira on Thursday). Almost two million people from around the Delta and other parts of Egypt and the Arab world come to celebrate this outstanding occasion in which vows are fulfilled and many infants and young boys are circumcised. Ordinary people as well as followers of different Sufi orders perform various dhikrs during the mawlid. Also, relatives, friends and members of Sufi orders, motivated by love, respect and loyalty, get together to celebrate the occasion until dawn. Folk songs praising al-Sayyid al-Badawi are frequently sung and are also available on audio recordings. The last day of the mawlid is Friday in which the procession, zaffa, begins in the morning at the mosque where the successor, khalifah, of al-Badawi mounted a horse, leads the procession of innumerable Sufi orders, government representatives and ordinary people. The procession lasts until noon or the Friday prayer, al-gum
a. According to Egyptian folk narrative, Sidi Ahmad al-Badawi, a bachelor and powerful saint, is widely known as al-farraj, the liberator or the hero who subdued women and liberated Muslim captives, al-asra, from Christian captivity. As a young man he distinguished himself as a brave knight who impressed both friends and enemies by his extraordinary ability to fight with two swards simultaneously (Mahmud 1993: 52). He is known as al-Qutb, the “pole” or one of the four poles (aqtab) governing the universe. A hierarchy exists among the saints themselves: “Saints are recognized as having a hierarchical worth or value exceeding that of ordinary believers, based very simply on the understanding that they have achieved a special closeness to God” (Smith/Haddad 1981: 184). Also, al-Badawi is depicted as the gate of the prophet (bab an-nabi). His other titles include as-Sutuhi (the companion of the roof), Shaykh al-Arab, (the master of the Arabs), al-Mulaththam (the veiled or masked) and Abu-Lithamain (the man of double veil). Sidi Ahmad al-Badawi gained a far-reaching reputation as a man who preferred a simple life and interacted with ordinary people. In an interview with a person in a coffee shop close to the al-Badawi mosque, the interviewee repeatedly said “take it easy and act in the manner of Ahmad al

9 Dignitaries, including Baybars, the Sultan of Egypt (1260-77), actually met and received blessings from the saint and would visit the saint at his place in Tanta. Later, Qaytbay would also visit the tomb to receive blessing (Wahbi 2000; McPherson 1941).

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 129 Badawi” (Khally al-busat Ahmadi). I actually heard this phrase being used in many different informal and spontaneous interactions and social contexts. A vivid and literary portrait of the sacralized networks embodied in al-Badawi’s mawlid is beautifully represented in Abdel-Hakim Kassem’s novel entitled ayyam al-insan al-sab
a (“The Seven Days of Man”). In his introduction to the novel, Higazi (1996: xiii) points out that when the band of travellers arrives in Tanta, the day of service in the lodgings begins. Pilgrims to the tomb of Sayyid Bedawi are his servants, and the servants of his followers and his loved ones. They offer them food in the form of the bread and moulid cookies they have brought with them. It is common for the people from a given village to rent a single house or apartment in which to stay during the moulid. These lodgings are their home in the city as they carry out the rites of the pilgrimage and perform their devotions and ritual dances. And from here they share their provisions with the needy.

Sanctified cults in Egyptian society have a great impact not only on the people, but also on artists, poets and novelists who have created genuine portraits of the dynamics of the social and religious forces implicit in and driven by them.10 The anniversary celebrations of local and national saints are core factors establishing ongoing waves of networks bonding people together. “Regional cults are characterized by a nodal organization of hierarchically ranked sacred centres and subcentres, linked together across space rather than enclosed

10 This influence is explicitly and implicitly shown, for example, in the aforementioned novel by
Abdel-Hakim Kassem (1996) ayyam al-insan al-sab
a (“The Seven Days of Man”) which describes the activities of the people in a nearby village to Tanta city during a week of preparation and participation in the anniversary celebration of the birthday, mawlid, of shaykh or Sidi Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi in that city. In this novel Kassem depicts the “image of the village, the faces of its people, the characteristic traits, the distinctive expressions, the penchants and the homes they live in, their wives or their husbands, their children, their animals, and their belongings. The fields surrounding the village, the palm trees and the willows, the water wheels and the lanes, the feasts and the festivals, the love and affection that bind its people together, the strife and enmity that at times divide them. The house and animal pen, the mosque and graveyard, the slaughtering of animals and the baking of bread. The bond between husband and wife, the relations between fellow wives, the flowering of full-fleshed adolescence. Day in the village and evening in the village, the guest house and the coffeehouse, weddings and funerals, degrading poverty and indomitable spirit. How the sun rises, how the shadows retreat, the burning of the noonday heat, and the fall of evening. Cries and whispers, sounds and echoes, the harshness and the tenderness on the men, the misery of the women and their occasional little joys. The fatigue of the day, the ecstasy of the dhikr, and the dreams of the journey to the feast of Saint Ahmed Bedawi in Tanta” (Higazi 1996: ix-x).

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130 | el-Sayed el-Aswad within territorial boundaries” (Werbner 1996: 311). Saints, as represented by their sanctuaries, are visible bonds that vertically link the heavens with the earth and horizontally connect north with south and east with west as embodied in the conviction of the four “poles” regulating the world. Simply put, if the Nile geographically and physically connects south and north or Upper and Lower Egypt, the saints connect all parts of Egypt. For instance, in the anniversary celebration of al-Badawi, members of various Sufi orders as well as ordinary people come from the north from such cities as Alexandria (where the sanctuary of Sidi al-Mursi Abu al-
Abbas is located) and Disuq (where the sanctuary of Sidi Ibrahim al-Disuqi can be found), from the south or from Qina (where that of Sidi Ahmad el-Qinawy is located) and Luxor (where that of Sidi Abu Haggag is situated) and from the centre or Cairo (where the of mosques of Saiyyduna al-Husain and Saiyyda Zainab among other honourable walis have been built) to celebrate Sidi al-Badawi and recite al-Fatiha (the opening chapter of the Quran) on the behalf of both the holy saints and the people involved. Both men and women participate in these religious festivals. Saint cults are not confined to purely religious goals; instead they comprise secular aspects represented in the involvement of people in trade and commercial activities as well as in different forms of mundane entertainment. Unlike affiliation with specific Sufi orders (which are restricted to men), at such festivals women and even families have good opportunities to participate and appreciate life in its sacred and secular dimensions. In such cults as the mawlid of al-Badawi, tents are erected in which women cook and make tea, while the men are involved in organizing their own activities. Sometimes women gather and serve free food in an open place or sidewalk. The strong association between women and saints is illustrated in their daily activities. When involved in heavy household work such as grinding seeds or kneading dough, women endeavour to improve their strength by invoking the names and power of the saints, specifically that of Sidi al-Badawi. For example, one woman, while using a mortar to smash and mix tough raw meat with rice, repeatedly uttered melodically, “al-Sayyid al-Badawi is here” (“hina hu”). I also observed another woman correcting her sons who were singing a folk song celebrating the Saint’s wonders with other children: “Allah Allah ya Sayyid gab al-asra” (“O Allah, Sayyid brought, or free, the captive from the captivity”).

Symbolic forms of sacred networks Influenced by overarching Islamic worldviews, Muslims distinguish between
alam al-ghaib, the invisible or unknowable world (or al-batin, hidden), and
alam al-shahada, the visible world (or az-zahir, apparent). Ontologically, the invisible world encompasses the world of spirits (
alam ar-ruh), the world of angels (
alam al-mala
ika), the world of jinn and the afterlife, including the world of the tomb

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 131 or the eschatological world. The religiously grounded belief in al-ghaib or the unseen sphere should not be considered as inconsistent or irrational manifestations of a pre-modern outlook, as some intellectuals might suggest, but instead as generative elements in an imaginary cosmological order shaping and being shaped by Muslim tradition and the experiences of both individuals and collectivities. The invisible, represented in its highest divine form in the conviction of “Allah’s willing” (mashia), empowers and allows for possibility, a cardinal concept in Muslim thought, and renders the whole world a dynamic structure. As opposed to mundane modes of networking restricted to this secular world with its technological means, sacred networks spiritually and symbolically deal with both invisible and visible domains. To be more specific, these sacred networks include multiple channels of formal and informal religious discourses explicitly and implicitly expressed in symbolic forms. These symbolic forms are embodied in different ways in the cults of sainthood among other religiously significant spheres. It is worth noting that although most, if not all, of the saint cults in Egypt, as in other parts of the Muslim world, are essentially interconnected with Sufi orders, these cults or ceremonies eventually surmount any specific Sufi order and penetrate the majority of the local and national populations and people. I shall now explore some of the sanctified devices of such networks, i.e. visitation, circumambulation, the dhikr ritual, holding of religious gatherings (hadra), religious teaching (dars) and the pledging of vow (nadhr).

Visitation and circumambulation There is an ongoing debate between Muslim scholars concerning the appropriate way to deal with the public and private realms in the context of the practices adopted when visiting the saints’ shrines or mosques. However, I shall focus here exclusively on ordinary people’s views of such practices. Within a broad context, visitation (ziyara) to the shrine of a saint is the primary way of establishing sanctified ties or networks between the visitors and the saint, on the one hand, and between them and the other people who come to visit, on the other. I met and interviewed persons who had come from different regions to visit the shrine of al-Badawi and driven by no other motivation than mutual love, “love for the sake of Allah” (mahabba li wagh Allah), and companionship. Some visitors pointed out that “it is habit (
ada) to come to visit al-Badawi once or twice a year and pray there just for baraka, blessing”. When I asked them if they had made a vow (nadhr) to come to visit, they replied: No, it is not necessary though we sometimes donate some money to sanduq an-nudhur (a donation box or bank located inside the mosque), but we would prefer to come together or meet here in the mosque either during the anniversary celebration (mawlid) or on any Friday we choose.

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132 | el-Sayed el-Aswad Although there are business and material dimensions involved in the activities of those who come to Tanta, they show a need for spiritual aid and genuinely seek blessings for their efforts. Egyptians work hard and calculate for their needs, however, the majority of them think and behave as though there were other invisible forces and beings, good and bad, that affect the outcome of their plans or actions. Thus, it is seen as wise to establish peaceful relationships with these forces to ensure their support and blessing or, at least, neutralize them. Other visitors come to the shrine seeking, for example, spiritual healing from the endless suffering of incurable disease or hopeless situations. The saints are believed to perform miracles and extraordinary deeds in the eschatological spheres, thus supporting those who approach or call on them for assistance. This portrait represents an imaginative and humanistic perspective that provides hope to those afflicted with illnesses and misfortune. Thus, it is not simply an irrational belief in the power of the dead to dominate people’s lives that engenders polytheism and scorns God’s power, as some scholars critically argue (
Uways 1965). Instead, it is the participation of the saint in the hidden dimension of reality as well as his loyalty, or closeness to Allah that gives him the power to perform astounding humanistic deeds. This might explain the widespread belief that the body of Sidi al-Badawi has not decomposed, but is still “warm” and “alive” like that of the martyr.11 The position of the saint in the cosmology of Egyptians depends fundamentally on the forces of life and death that are diffused in the universe (el-Aswad 1987; 1994; 1999). Muslims are aware that ‘Allah is He who effects the creation, hence He repeats it.’ (Quran 10: 3). However, the eternal repetition of the cosmic act as dominated by the Divinity allows for the possibility of recovering from severe illness and permits the return of the dead to life, and maintains the hope of the faithful in the resurrection of the body (Eliade 1959: 62).

It is worth noting here that the quintessential attribute of this supra-saint is his baraka, which he is believed to have inherited from his pious ancestors (ahl al-bait), whom Allah had blessed, as well as from his piety and honourable deeds. His reputation attracts a large number of people who seek or ask for his holy services through intimate contact with his shrine. Close and intimate networks between people and the saint are explicitly mirrored in the ritual of circumambulation the saint’s shrine while reciting the fatiha (the opening chapter of the Quran), touching the tomb with their hands, praying and requesting the intervention of the saint on their behalf. The intimate and spiritual 11 In accordance with the Quran (2: 154; 3: 169) and Islamic tradition, Muslims maintain that any martyr (shahid) is not dead but alive and enjoys the prominent status of being close to Allah. The martyr is considered mujahid (derived from to the word jihad or holy war), referring to the one who dies defending his religion, country, honour and property.

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 133 bodily network, however, can only be achieved directly through physical contact of which there are two kinds. Firstly, there is the healing touch made by those who possess baraka. The person who possesses baraka passes his hand over another person to transmit his blessing or healing power to him or her. And secondly, there is the touch made by the receivers of baraka. Here, people pass their hands over someone or something that is believed to have baraka. In this context, individuals visit the shrine or tomb of al-Badawi to obtain baraka so as, for example, to enable children to recover from a sickness, overcome an enemy or the evil eye or to gain wealth. The hand is an embodied symbol which captures the benevolent invisible heavenly force that is manifest through touch.12 At the shrine of Sidi al-Badwi, I saw visitors – using either their right or both hands, but never their left hands alone – touch the cloth that covers the shrine as well as the pillars and walls inside the shrine, and say loudly and emotionally, “madad ya Badawi ya ahl al-baraka” (“help and support us O Badawi, man of the baraka”), or “ya barakat sayyidna ash-shaykh as-Sayyyid” (“O baraka of our master, holy man as-Sayyid”). In terms of the people’s view of an imaginative and sacralized bodily network, it is believed that al-Badawi achieved the highest forms of baraka, i.e. blessing and honour, by shaking the hand of the prophet despite temporal and spatial distances. It is true that men believe in the holiness and baraka of saints, however, they never elevate them to a position close to that of the Prophet Muhammad or God.

The dhikr One of the core elements in the saint cult is the dhikr which can be categorized into two types. On the one hand, there is the formal or official dhikr related to a specific Sufi order or tariqa such as Ahmadiyya or Shadhillyya, and on the other, there is an unofficial dhikr that is not restricted to a specific Sufi order, but organized by a group of people seeking a spiritual experience, celebrating a religious occasion, fulfilling a vow or pledge made to the saint or donating a laila li ahl Alla (a night for the ‘people’ of Allah) in which an animal is sacrificed and distributed to the needy (el-Aswad 2002a). In both kinds of the dhikr a small band consisting of a singer, sayyeet (or munshid), a flute player, a tambou12 Hocart observes that in Egypt, when the shrines or tombs of saints “are visited, physical contact is sought by stroking or kissing. The devotees pass their hands over the rails which enclose the tomb, then stroke themselves and their children as if they were collecting and dispensing an emanation from the saint himself. In the same way the ancient are to be seen in the bas-reliefs transmitting with their hands the vital principle represented by the
ankh symbol” (Hocart 1942: 370). Also, sacred offerings are presented to the saint or his servants with the right hand. It is the right hand that receives favors from heaven and which transmits them in benediction (Hertz 1973: 15).

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134 | el-Sayed el-Aswad rine player and/or a drummer is invited or hired to accompany the dhikr. The dhikr is performed in a public place such as a mosque or a clean place in the street in front of the shaykh or host’s house. Despite the fact that the dhikr is not primarily associated with any device for exorcising spirits or asyad, in certain circumstances, it is used for that purpose. Members of certain Sufi orders, such as Ahmadiyya and Rifa
iyya, for example, are invited to perform the dhikr on behalf of an afflicted person.13 In the dhikr men glorify the ultimate creative power and the transcendental oneness of Allah, and honour many different famous saints referred to as “people of God” (ahl Allah). It happened that on a street corner nearby the shrine of Sidi al-Badawi there was halaqat dhikr (a circle of dhikr) where an afflicted and abnormal looking person was sitting in the middle of the circle. When I asked about the case, the only comment I heard from the shaykh leading the dhikr was that the man was possessed (or earthly touched) and the unfriendly possessing spirit was irritated by being in such a scared place as the one where the shrine is located. Such a case could be remedied, the shaykh asserted, by participating in the dhikr, reading or listening to the Quran, observing daily prayers and consulting those who are knowledgeable in the application of divine healing. Within as well as outside of the context of the dhikr there are men known as majazib whose minds and behaviour appear anomalous. Locally, a majzub is a prototype of personhood encompassing features of abnormality and religiosity. He is believed to have a mystical network or something that connects him directly with Allah. Strange and out of context words uttered by the majzub are interpreted by the common people as revealing or disclosing the secrets and mysteries of the unseen world,
alam al-ghaib. The majzub demonstrates that he is in a distinct state that is superior to daily experience. He is attracted or taken there by al-jalalah or Allah’s sublime glory. In other words, he is in the state of “being moved” that denotes “an encounter with the divine in its beatific, healing, regenerative form” (Kramer 1993: 60).

The hadra The hadra is a religious gathering, whereby Muslims come together in a mosque or a house to recite some verses of the Quran, to collectively read poems praising the Prophet and/or perform a dhikr (for the purpose of the remembrance of Allah). “We are in the presence of al-Badawi” (“fi hadrat al-Badawi”) was a phrase I heard when a religious leader gave a signal to start the ritual of reading the Quran and the praising of the Prophet and almost all saints in the Muslim world. Al-Fatiha, the opening chapter of the Quran, was 13 For further information on the relationship between the dhikr and the zar, see el-Aswad (2002a: 125-134).

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 135 loudly and collectively read on the request of the leader who mentioned each saint by his/her name saying “for them, the Fatiha”. The invisible can be present (hadir) and existent in beings or entities as well as in discursive and nondiscursive actions. The collective and ongoing recitation of the Quran or mystical poems generates a unique atmosphere of spirituality and divine grace deepening the communication between participants who assert that baraka (blessing) exists when people pray, work, eat together and love each other. Within this spiritual milieu, it is believed that the spirits of prominent saints, including al-Badawi, come down to participate in the hadra. This belief is sanctified by, and is clearly manifested in, the image people have of the evergreen but invisible cosmic saint al-Khidr14, known as the “Pious Slave” (al-
abd as-salih) upon whom Allah has bestowed divine hidden knowledge (
ilm ladunni) and who is thought to be alive and attentive to whoever mentions his name, especially at a collective gathering, such as the hadra. It is within this cosmic imagery imbued with divine wonders that al-Khidr and other revered saints are able to be present, though invisibly, among those who recall their names or stories. Put differently, the collective recitation of the Quran, the praising of the prophet, prayers and rituals, including the dhikr, performed or offered during this religious hadra help make the spirit of the saint and the angels present and active though unseen. However, despite the fact that the intensive symbolic exchange presented in the hadra can make the invisible visible and the private public, it is the religiously sanctified visible and social activities that bind people together in such a gathering. Participants of the hadra show great concern for their brotherhood and friendship. In short, participants seek to establish an intimate social relationship with each other through verbal and public exchanges of blessing and kindly words. A kindly word (kalimah tayyibah) that a person utters to his friend, for example, is considered sadaqa or charity as well as baraka or blessing that maintains their social ties.

The dars Another example of the effective devices employed by sacred networks can be evidenced when a group of Muslims informally attends religious instruction (dars) at the mosque15 (usually starting after sunset prayer and lasting until evening prayer) or at home. In this dars, religious leaders (shaykhs) fulfil a duty that goes beyond the mere teaching of religious principles and practices to 14 The story of al-Khidr is mentioned in the Quran (18: 60-81). For further details on the place of al-Khidr in Muslim life see el-Aswad (2002a). See also Franke in this volume. 15 See Gaffney’s study (1994) in which he discusses the significance of religious lessons delivered by preachers in Upper Egypt. Also, Antoun (1993) provides a case study of religious lessons in the Jordanian context.

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136 | el-Sayed el-Aswad embrace the establishment of friendship and spiritual brotherhood (ukhua fi al-Islam). Religious leaders, however, do not have “a monopoly on sacred authority where Sufi shaykhs, engineers, professors of education, medical doctors, army and militia leaders and others compete to speak for Islam” (Eickelman/ Piscatori 1996: 211). Except for their religious knowledge, there is no particular dress or symbol that distinguishes shaykhs from the other people in attendance. In the mosque of al-Badawi, attendees demonstrate respect and politeness towards these religious lessons. I witnessed a couple of attendees coming late after the session started whispering, while getting ready to take their place in the session, “Pardon, O owner of the place, O master of the Arabs” (“dastur ya sahib al-makan, ya shaykh al-
Arab”) as though he could hear them. During these sessions and lessons different religious and social issues are addressed thus allowing those present to participate through discussion, argument, negotiation and questions. However, at one of these sessions a shaykh was addressing the role and significance of the pious saints (awliya Allah as-salihin) not only in the Muslim society, but also in the entire universe. According to his teachings, the imagined space of the invisible heavens is the world in which angels and spirits or souls of human beings, among other unseen entities unknown to people, can be found. Only by Allah’s will, the shaykh emphasized, are the souls of saints (or saints themselves) able to move freely, at the speed they prefer, in both visible and invisible heavens to help people and show marvels based on faith (iman). In addition, informal religious lessons and gatherings mixed with social enthusiasm occur inside the homes of religious leaders or their followers. At such sessions light food, dates and fruits are served in addition to tea. Although most of the attendees are poor, they show contentedness, peacefulness, happiness and tremendous strength in their spiritual characteristics. The participants at all of these gatherings, including dignitaries and high government officials, prefer to wear gallabiyya (traditional cloth in a gown like dress). I participated in both of these kinds of religious sessions and gained a deeper sense of the significance of religious and social networks generated through such participation.

The nadhr A sanctified form of network is represented in the notion of nadhr (vow) in which a promise for an offering, action or sacrifice is given to the saint in exchange for some form of requested intervention. Offerings are gifts given by the living to the dead saints not only to express their love and gratitude or to repay a debt (Mauss 1967: 16; Godelier 1999: 186-188), but also to maintain a peaceful relationship with them. These networks deal not only with the community’s moral domains, but also with the unseen beings, spirits and forces that play a significant role in people’s daily actions (el-Aswad 1993). Unseen forces and beings, human or superhuman, as materialized in symbolic forms represented

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 137 in offerings are inseparable from social reality. They constitute integral devices for the entire web of networking.16 This world is based on the twin belief that there exist invisible beings and powers which govern the universe and that humans can sway them by prayer and sacrifices, and by adopting a behaviour in accordance with what they imagine to be their desires, their will, or their law (Godelier 1999: 27).

If a person can make a vow to visit a saint’s shrine or mosque and present an offering or a gift on behalf of the saint’s soul, the saint can demand that a person come to his place either to offer a sacrifice or to perform certain actions or sponsor certain ceremonies. For example, Salah, a retired local attorney whose voice and style of reciting the Quran have distinguished him as a famous and expensive reciter of the Quran in the Delta region, mentioned that he received messages through dreams that shaykh al-
Arab as-Sayyid was not happy because of the greed and material gains generated by the recitation of the Quran. Salah showed great trepidation while telling me the story of how he lost his voice for almost one month. He recounted that one night when he was about to recite some verses of the Quran at the funeral of a member of an affluent family, his voice was suddenly blocked (inhabas), preventing him from doing the recitation. He also mentioned that he had had some dreams one month before he actually lost his voice. In these dreams, which served as an effective means of a trans-social network, he was asked by a person to recite the Quran once a month at al-Badawi’s mosque or to donate some money to the shrine. Salah did not take such dreams seriously until he lost his voice and discovered that doctors were unsuccessful in treating him. However, after visiting the shrine for three weeks Salah gradually regained his voice and started to recite the Quran again, first inside the mosque and then in the public. Salah interjected from time to time during his conversation a common phrase using a collective form: “al-Badawi was calling me. May our Lord make our talk (about the saints) light for their hearts, or acceptable to them,” (“rabuna yaj
al kalamuna khafif
ala qalbuhum”). By uttering this phrase, Salah was seek16 Although deeds of religious significance, such as annual almsgiving (zakat) and charity (sadaqa), are not associated with the practice of the vow (nadhr), some interviewees point out that the gifts given to the saints as fulfilment of a vow are presented with good intentions and for good reasons, and should be considered a sort of charity. They quote verses of the Quran to support their argument: “Whoever establishes regular prayers and spends (freely) out of the gifts we have given them for sustenance. Such in truth are the Believers: They have grades of dignity with their Lord, and forgiveness, and generous sustenance” (Quran 8: 3-4). “Whatever of good ye give benefits your souls, and ye shall only do so seeking the ‘Face’ of Allah. Whatever good ye give shall render back to you and ye shall not be dealt with unjustly” (Quran 2: 272).

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138 | el-Sayed el-Aswad ing the pardon of the saint and the protection of Allah when he found himself involved in talk that might, intentionally or unintentionally, upset the saint. The value of nadhr ranges from, for example, the giving of a handful of money or lighting of a dozen of candles in the shrine of the saint, to the sacrifice of an animal whose meat is distributed among the needy and those who look after the shrine. As nadhr differs in size and value, depending on the seriousness of the demands and on economic condition, saints also differ in weight and dignity. For example, barren women wishing to have children may visit the shrine of al-Badawi to make a vow to the saint promising to light the shrine with candles or sacrifice a sheep if their wish can be granted. It is very unsafe for someone not to carry out the nadhr, especially if the demand has been made through the support of the saint. Any misfortune or calamity that happens to a person or collectivity might very well be explained within the framework of whether or not the nadhr was fulfilled. “The negative value placed upon the failure to fulfil reciprocal obligations follows from the assumption that reciprocity is fundamental to cosmic structure” (Rappaport 1999: 264) as well as to social and trans-social networking. Material aspects are eventually involved in this sort of trans-social exchange; however, the relationship between the person and the saint is not a business deal, but a spiritual appeal in which the saint, due to his nearness to God, intercedes on behalf of the person. This relationship is sanctified as a result of being associated with the Muslim concept of shafa
a, i.e. mediation or intervention.17 Sanctified networking of mediation is different from the secular intervention known as wasta (wisata). Basically, wasta is a mundane or secular means by which people seek to acquire benefits or privileges by manipulating people who are believed to have the power to materialize those privileges. Although the two words shafa
a and wasta are used interchangeably to mean mediation, wasta is used more frequently with reference to secular experiences in which people and not invisible forces or agents are involved. Mundane mediation, wasta, can be facilitated through gifts or other kinds of symbolic exchange.

Conclusion I have focused considerable attention on the sanctified networks in their multiple forms of symbolic interaction. These sanctified or sacred networks, maintained by symbolic exchange with people, saints and unseen beings, constitute core ground for the Egyptians’ cosmological and social orientations in both 17 In the Islamic tradition, mediation (shafa
a), is used in a theological sense, particularly in eschatological descriptions. The intercession of the prophet Muhammad on the Day of Judgment is frequently mentioned in Muslim tradition. Also, shafa
a is used in other than theological language such as when laying a petition before a high-ranking official or when interceding for a debtor (Gibb/Kramer n.d.: 511-12).

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 139 public and private domains. The cults of Muslim saints serve as sanctified social networks uniting people from different locations or regions and different from economic, social, intellectual and educational backgrounds.18 Living people and saints known for possessing baraka or blessing become socially and religiously significant as immediate agents for achieving social cohesion. Blessing becomes defined more in terms of good networking with people as well as with unseen entities and imagined cosmic forces. Although most of the saint cults in Egypt are related to Sufi orders, in reality, these cults reach beyond those orders to infiltrate the majority of the population. Visitation, circumambulation, religious gatherings (hadra), performance of the dhikr, pledges or vows (nadhr), religious lessons (dars) and anniversary celebrations (mawlid) are sanctified devices or means of communication through which followers of Sufi orders as well as ordinary people from different cultural backgrounds establish and maintain their social and supra-social networking regionally, nationally and globally. These symbolic forms of sanctified networks are associated with ongoing attempts at religious purification, social amalgamation and cultural unification and are inimical to extreme forms of secularization.

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140 | el-Sayed el-Aswad el-Aswad, el-Sayed (1999) “Hierarchy and Symbolic Construction of the Person among Rural Egyptians”. Anthropos 94, pp. 431-45. el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2001) “The Ethnography of Invisible Spheres”. AAA Anthropology Newsletter (Middle East Section) 42(6). el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2002a) Religion and Folk Cosmology: Scenarios of the Visible and Invisible in Rural Egypt, Westport, CT: Praeger. el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2002b) “Sanctified Cosmology: Maintaining Muslim Identity in a Globally Dominant and Changing World”. Paper presented at Society for Anthropology of Religion Meeting, 5-7 April, Cleveland, OH. el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2002c) “Viewing the World through Upper Egyptian Eyes: From regional crisis to global blessing”. Paper presented at a conference on the Social and Cultural Processes in Upper Egypt, organized by the Social Research Center of AUC, 17-20 October, Aswan, Egypt. el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2003a) “Sanctified and Secular Paradigms: Bridging Differing Worldviews in Contemporary Muslim Societies”. Paper presented at the Conference on Explaining the Worldviews of the Islamic Publics: Theoretical and Methodological Issues, organized by NSF, 24-26 Feb., Cairo, Egypt. el-Aswad, el-Sayed (2003b) “Islam in Two Worlds: Global Violence and Changing Images of the Muslims in the Homeland and Diaspora”. Paper presented at the Society for Anthropology of Religion Meeting, 24-26 April, Providence, RI. Eliade, Mircea (1954) Cosmos and History: The Myth of the Eternal Return, New York: Harper & Row. Eliade, Mircea (1957) The Sacred and Profane: The Nature of Religion, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World. Gaffney, Patrick D. (1994) The Prophet’s Pulpit: Islamic Preaching in Contemporaray Egypt, Berkeley: University of California Press. Gangadean, Ashok K. (1998) Between Worlds: The Emergence of Global Reason, New York: Peter Lang. Geertz, Clifford (1973) The Interpretation of Cultures, New York: Basic Books. Gellner, Ernest (1969) Saints of the Atlas, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gellner, Ernest (1981) Muslim Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gibb, H.A.R/Kramer, J.H. (n.d.) Shorter Encyclopedia of Islam, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Gilsenan, M. (1973) Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt: An Essay in the Sociology of Religion, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gilsenan, M. (1983) Recognizing Islam: Religion and Society in the Modern Arab World, New York: Pantheon Books. Godelier, Maurice (1999) The Enigma of the Gift, Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press. Hertz, Robert (1973) “The Pre-eminence of the Right Hand: A Study in Religious Polarity”. In: Rodney Needham (ed.) Right and Left: Essays on Dual Symbolic Classification, Chicago: The University Chicago Press, pp. 3-31. Higazi, Ahmaed Abdel-Muti (1996), “Introduction”. In: Abdel-Hakim Kassem The Seven Days of Man, Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press.

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Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta | 141 Hocart, A.M. (1942) “The Legacy to Modern Egypt”. In: A.M. Hocart (ed.) The Legacy of Egypt, London: Oxford University Press, pp. 369-9. Kassem,
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a al-masiyyia:al-mugalad ath-thani, awlyia Allah wa al-Atharad-diniyya Gharbiyya wa Kafr al-Shaykh (The Diamond Encyclopedia of the Provinces of the Delta, vol. 2: Saints and Religious Antiquity. Gharbiyya and Kafr al-Shaykal-Shaykh Egypt), Cairo: al-Ahram Press. Waugh, Earle H. (1989) The Munshidin of Egypt: Their World and their Song, Columbia, South Carolina: University of South Carolina Press. Werbner, Pnina (1996) “Stamping the Earth with the Name of Allah: Zikr and the Sacralizing of Space among British Muslims”. Cultural Anthropology 11 (3), pp. 309-338. Yusuf
Ali,
Abdullah (1992) The Meaning of the Holy Quran, Greenwood, Maryland: Amana Corporation.

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142 | Emilio Spadola

Chapter 8 Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco 1

Emilio Spadola Whether religion is an example of language and technology or the converse cannot be settled. James T. Siegel, Fetish, Recognition, Revolution

With the presumed secular trend in modernity challenged by resurgent religious practice in the Muslim world, the task remains to describe how conditions of modernity reinvest old practices with new meaning and authority. The present work addresses a contemporary technique used by Moroccan foqaha (Moroccan Arabic fqih) for curing illnesses of the jinn (spirits). Foqaha are not legal experts in the classical sense; they claim no mastery of Quranic jurisprudence or interpretation. Nor are they employed regularly as Quranic teachers as they were regularly in Morocco (Eickelman 1985: 60). Rather, they practice al-
ilm al-ruhani (spiritual science), inscribing and reciting Quranic verses to treat possession by jinn and to relieve physical and social ailments associated with clandestine acts of sorcery (al-sihr). In Rabat and Fez, where I am presently researching foqaha, al-
ilm al-ruhani forms part of a field of available cures of the jinn. Depending on the severity of their case, foqaha’s clients also consult male and female seers (shuwwaf or shuwwafa; Radi 1994 and Rausch 2000) and make annual sacrifices and pilgrimages to saints’ tombs (Andezian 1996; Berque 1955; Brunel 1926; Chlyeh 1998; Colonna 1988; Cornell 1998; Crapanzano 1973; Dermenghem 1954; Doutté 1900; Eickelman 1976; Geertz 1968; Gellner 1969; Hammoudi 1997; Keddie 1972; Mernissi 1977). In rare cases, clients may also seek psychiatric and medical care (Bennani 1995; Pandolfo 2000). Despite well-articulated differences among the practitioners of these varied (non-medical) techniques, the cures of the jinn nonetheless draw general 1 Author’s note: Research for this study was supported by the Social Science Research Council’s International Predissertation Fellowship Program, 2000-2001 and the Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad Program, 2002-2003. I gratefully acknowledge the editorial comments of Brinkley M. Messick and the participants of the Third Mediterranean Social and Political Research Meeting Workshop (2002), organized by Armando Salvatore and Amr Hamzawy.

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 143 criticism on social and doctrinal grounds. Primary and secondary public school courses in tarbiyya islamiyya (Islamic formation), and mass media outlets (Bouhabi 2003) view the jinn cures, in particular al-
ilm al-ruhani, as archaic residue or remainders of local culture, one unassimilated to a universalizing Islamic and Moroccan modernity. Yet despite the awareness and evidence of modernist and reformist sympathies among critics and clients alike, the spirit cures remain in very high demand. Addressing Moroccans demands for al-
ilm al-ruhhani, can we detect the influence and imprint of contemporary life on this apparently ahistorical practise? The present study aims to describe a relationship of foqaha and their patients to one aspect of modernity, namely the pervasive use and rapid expansion of mass communication and technological media in Morocco (Jaidi 2000). Indeed, the anticipated disappearance of jinn practices and beliefs has been complicated in Morocco by the uneasy sense that the same technological media thought to banish the cures of the jinn in fact renew their force. Articles entitled “Le Maroc superstitieux” and “L’obscurantisme se modernise” published in La Libération (Rabat), 12 May 2001, criticize their proliferation in very familiar terms: “Now that the Kingdom is advancing ostensibly toward modernity, logic would suggest that the phenomenon would disappear little by little. Instead […] it is being reinforced more and more.” Arguing that Morocco’s adoption of modernity’s technology and rationality should exorcise these conspicuous ruins of the past, the author nonetheless faults cell phones and media advertising for lending foqaha a gloss of authority before mass audiences. The technological as counter to modernism appears a peculiar effect of modernity itself, but one effectively downplayed in some current readings of religion and media. As Eickelman and Anderson (1999) argue, developments and availability of such technological media not only disperse religious authority, but also, by providing a technological lingua franca, restructure Muslims perceptions of social fields and foster identification with a large-scale abstract public. Drawing on Benedict Anderson’s analysis of precisely such identifications, the authors conclude optimistically: (Religion in the public sphere) contributes to the recognition that such a public is not mass and anonymous, but defined by mutual participation – indeed by performance. In this sense, which Benedict Anderson [1991: 37-46] refers to as a growing sense of reading together, the public sphere emerges less from associations, more strictly the domain of civil society, than from ways of dealing confidently with others in an expanding social universe of shared communication (1999: 16).

I agree with Eickelman and Anderson that media technologies and attendant figures of public Islam and shared communication are profoundly changing religious practice, the foqaha’s and their clients’, for example. However, the subject and conclusions of this case study differ markedly from Eickelman’s

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144 | Emilio Spadola and Anderson’s. This study outlines not confidence, but, rather, the intensification of specific fears in Morocco that attend the spacing of the social – and the destruction of any certain borders between public and private domains – through the ambivalent force of technological media. That is to say, the technological, modernist fantasy of surpassing local origins for the national or Islamic universal “expanding social universe of shared communication” in many cases revitalizes fears of precisely those anonymous and massified others (whether classed or gendered or ghostly) who suddenly share the same space.2 Social criticisms and fears of the effects of technologized connections are not limited to late modernity; identical concerns apparently motivated certain Moroccan reformists. The prominent intellectual Mohamed bin Hassan alWazzani’s editorials in Morocco’s first nationalist newspaper L’Action du Peuple, 25 August 1933, supported a royal dahir (decree) criminalizing the unorthodox and ecstatic public displays of the
Aissawa Sufi order as of the Hamadsha, Gnawa and Dhgoughiyin. Although the Moroccan administration could not itself propose legislation in the French zone (this was the Protectorate government’s right alone), the dahir nonetheless supported the reformists’ position against the Sufi brotherhoods, whether for their collusion with colonial forces or for their religious ecstasies. In calling the dahir a “great social reform”, however, al-Wazzani criticized neither the doctrine of the
Aissawa’s founding saint Sidi Ben
Aissa nor saint veneration in general. Instead al-Wazzani took issue with their rituals of possession and with the colonial and technological forces he felt provoked such excessive displays: Before the establishment of the Protectorate these exhibitions of the possessed (énergumènes) were almost exclusively limited to the city of Meknes, where Sidi MHammed Ben Aïssa is buried and where, moreover, they were neither ostentatious nor built up as official festivals. (But) with the establishment of the Protectorate the means of transport multiplied and the bloodthirsty crowd of the Aissawa could stream into the unfortunate city of Meknes. […] Beyond the Aissawas who head toward Meknes the number of sadistic spectators has risen steadily. The zeal of tourists and filmmakers has transported the image of these ignominies beyond the hills and seas to all four corners of the world, as if it were the present style in our country and defined the evolutionary social stage of our people (1933a: 3).

In banning the ecstatic and mass “exhibitions” one notes the concurrence of colonial and Islamic modernist interests in control of the masses, a matter Mitchell (1988) addresses in reading the colonial-era treatment of the Mawalid in Egypt.3 Yet for al-Wazzani the
Aissawa were not alone responsible. He pointed to the new network of roads permitting their teams (tawaif ) to surge 2 On the matter of anonymity and spectrality as a condition of the abstract public see Anderson (1991: 9; 1998: 37). 3 I thank Geoffrey Porter for alerting me to Mitchell’s reading.

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 145 through Morocco and converge en masse on the city of Meknes. He faulted foreign tourists and cameras for soliciting and then disseminating these exhibitions to the world. Communications in the broadest sense – the mutual force of the road and the camera – reinforced the
Aissawa’s own transgressions and drew them still further from their religious origins. But the technological media promised more than chaotic dissemination; for al-Wazzani an alternative mode of publicity emerged, one in which the force of the technological was circumscribed and thus subservient to Moroccan national interests. Al-Wazzani in L’Action du Peuple, 10-24 November 1933, contrasted the patently embarrassing performances of the confréries to another public spectacle, namely the Fête du Trône, which he and other young Moroccan nationalists vigorously promoted (Pennell 2000: 230-231). In a textbook example of Benedict Anderson’s thesis that homogeneous time and space condition national identity (1991: 70; 1998: chap. 2), al-Wazzani looked to the same technologies of communication (newspapers, cameras and roads) to foster simultaneous public celebrations for the Sultan in multiple cities across the Kingdom. Proper circulation was paramount. Al-Wazzani assumed that images of the Fête du Trône would likewise travel both inside and beyond Morocco; he meant it to convey another image to and of the Moroccan people. But the Sultan at the centre would secure the proper reception of these images by an anonymous audience of readers and spectators who were otherwise, he feared, blinded by the
Aissawa’s ecstasies. Religious display without the Sultan meant dispersed images of
Aissawa crowds, and risked, for al-Wazzani, the international reputation of the Moroccan people. In contrast, nationalist love for the Sultan promised to keep communication properly circumscribed, and the desire of the crowds, distinct from possession, properly bound. Although we might assimilate foqaha’s cures of the jinn and al-
ilm al-ruhhani to other “popular” forms of Islam considered distinct from the modernist and explicitly media-based “scripturalist” tradition, Moroccan foqaha embody something else, which emerges from the history of reformist Islam in Morocco. Although many foqaha come from a rural or poor urban class, and therefore cannot share al-Wazzani’s own class interests, they do share, I believe, his modernist belief in the power of one medium properly anchored to circumscribe communicative forces unleashed by media in general.The foqaha’s uniqueness among the cures points up this reformist base: in contrast to ritual visits to saints and seers, which to my knowledge do not emphasize Quranic precedents, Moroccan foqaha foreground their ties to Quranic scholarship and transmission (Eickelman 1985; Westermarck 1968). In Westermarck’s ethnographies one sees the historical depth of this relationship. He refers to the fqih as talib (45), “schoolmaster” (337), and “scribe” (passim), the last term used most often and designating in translation the fqih’s literal handling of writing and explicitly linguistic authority. In addition to teaching the Quran, Westermarck notes that the fqih mastered the “science of names” (
ilm al-asma), inking proper names of Muslim jinn in magic squares (jedawil) on paper or on the palms and forehead

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146 | Emilio Spadola of the stricken (143, 217). He wrote Quranic verses in blood and saffron on the inside of a bowl, then dissolved the writing in water for use as a general medicine (210). Along with Berbers and Jews, he knew charms, amulets and talismans (208), the “most precious” (and most expensive) of which, the tabrid, used to stop bullets from penetrating the body, was inscribed on silver and inserted under the skin of the arm or between the shoulder blades (213). With the exception of the tabrid, these forms of curative writing are still put to use, though, for reasons I will address, only among the older foqaha. No longer employed as scribes or Quranic teachers, foqaha’s recitations and inscriptions nonetheless combine the force of Quranic transmission with an esoteric knowledge of its miraculous curative virtue. In some cases, among younger foqaha in particular, enthusiasm for the Quran’s capacity to exorcise jinn no longer demands mnemonic facility (Eickelman 1978, 1985); their recitations of the Quran are supplemented by its technological reproduction in audiocassettes and CD-ROMs. The forces these Quranic media exorcise are likewise characterized as mediatic. Foqaha and other interested Moroccans remind me that in the Quran (7: 27) Shaytan and his tribe (by which they mean the jinn), “see you from where you do not see them.” The jinn are among us, moving and watching, yet requiring a body to make their presence felt. The patient is a medium for spirits, its body and tongue a site of presence.4 Foqaha often diagnose clients with illnesses caused by other forces that likewise represent anonymous attacks on their public persona: the evil eye, envy and curses (Westermarck 1968). One hears analogies between such circulation and more explicitly criminal clandestine networks such as the narcotics trade, prostitution, black markets and the more banal traffic violations, all of which threaten the social field as an abstract unity.5 Rather than wipe away the superstitions of another age, it appears that technological media has given new, real effect to the world of invisibility and absence, al-ghayb. Just as technological media draw other worlds close (the recent war in Iraq and 16 Mai 2003 terrorist bombings in Casablanca) the visual and vocal presence of spirits in Moroccan bodies, along with traces of magic within the most intimate relationships, gives hints and fragments of something much larger out of view. They too are media. Like their audio- and televisual counterparts they confirm that another, unseen world exists and acts upon ours. Under these circumstances, the inclusion of a mass of unknown, 4 For a reading of connections between media and mediums, and on spirit possession as a discourse of presence, see Morris (2000). 5 In the popular Moroccan tabloid Akhbar al-Hawadith (News of Accidents) pictures of criminals superimposed over photographs of their dead victims juxtapose summaries of newly enacted laws, articles on jinn possessions and advertisements for “worldfamous” foqaha. Peter Geschiere (1997) finds similar political analogies of magic and capital in Cameroon. See also Comaroff and Comaroff (2000).

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 147 unseen readers and telespectators into one’s social field does not foster confidence. As Chlyeh (1998) has noted, the foqaha’s practice is “exorcist” where other cures of the jinn are “adorist”. Where the cures of the Sufi orders summon or “make-present” the jinn in the hadra, the foqaha summon the jinn to cast them out. Foqaha readily distinguish the Quranic recitation and inscriptions of al-
ilm al-ruhani from these other (adorist) cures, which they name and condemn interchangeably as magic (sihr) and charlatanism (sha
wadha). They blame women (illiterate women in particular) for enacting and maintaining their popularity by telling stories and spreading rumours among friends of such techniques’ efficacy in seeking vengeance against their husbands, daughters-inlaw and intimates. It is a testimony to the communicative force that foqaha exorcise that the acknowledged lies and financial fraud of charlatanism bleed into the science of magic in Morocco. Like the jinn they are figures of such influences at a distance; they are legacies and lines of communication that are not only religiously problematic, but affect a society spaced by mass communication. As the state security apparatus looks after crime, contemporary foqaha oversee the same society in which technologically mediated connections touch the most intimate relations. To combat magic, charlatanism and jinn, one seeks out foqaha who reach, with Quranic inscriptions and recitations, beyond the eye and control what one alone cannot. It is this technical and religious authority – a sacred mediatic force – embodied by foqaha that concerns us here.6 Their Quranic transmissions reach into al-ghayb to control jinn and magic much as modernist mass-media literacy campaigns promised to reach into the hidden corners of the social and extract or abstract Muslims from residual networks of sacred transmission, most notably the saintly transmission of baraka.7 Such transmissions promised to deliver this national public, held in the thrall of local legacies, into a new society based on Islam’s pure, originary textual sources, the Quran and Hadith.8 A fascinating comment from a Moroccan Muslim in Boujad who once patronized the local saint, recorded by Eickelman (1976: 215), sums up the role of mass media in abolishing a saintly 6 I differ then from Gonzalez-Quijano who appears to support the rationalizing, demystifying force of media. He argues that the superstition rampant in ‘Islamic books’ in Cairo signals an “overly rapid” (1991: 290) assimilation of Western technological (i.e. print press) literary production. That assumption of a proper assimilation, and the Cairene public’s inability to enact it suggests a deficiency in the Muslim public in whose hands communications technologies inherited from the West become “a baroque constellation of media gadgets” (292). 7 The multi-media campaign Muharabat al-Umiya (Fight against Illiteracy), in particular, combined alphabetization with religious lessons (Benchekroun 1956a). 8 On Islamic modernism as a “doctrine of passage” to a new society, see James T. Siegel (2000: 254).

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148 | Emilio Spadola intermediary (or medium): “Of course the radio says that everything comes directly from God.” The radio supplants the saint; one medium replaces another. It is a peculiar and unsettling fact of modernity that in the “expanding social universe” that Eickelman and Anderson identify one not only communicates with media but at the same depends on it to know one’s own reality, extending beyond the naked eye and ear. Jinn possessions and the effects of magic are figures and signs of uncontrolled networks and legacies, that is of communications that convey more than their message. They connect previously distinct domains, allowing one to inhabit the other. Where and when mass communication appears bound, I believe it offers the exhilarating promise of unity. National instances are well known in Morocco: the famous sightings of King Mohamed V’s face in the moon in August 1953 is exemplary of the force of communication bound to national hierarchy. Radio and photography at the time provided a feeling of such connection to Mohamed V that his exile was experienced as an acute and painful loss (Lacouture/Lacouture 1958: 108-109). Hassan II’s call to participate in the Green March in 1975 is exemplary of another era (Laroui 1992; Rchich 1975). In ways that I wish to detail below, the labour of foqaha represents a recuperation and circumscription of the communicative force technologized by contemporary media. In generational terms however, the sources of that circumscribing authority among foqaha differ radically.

Two generations The discussion of a modernized religious practice draws on recorded interviews and informal conversations with foqaha aged 29 to 73 in Fez Medina in central Morocco and the Rabat-Salé region on the Atlantic coast. I compare two men in particular whose religious training and practices represent two generations’ distinct concerns with jinn and magic. The elder practitioner, Si Mohamed, was born in the mid-1940s in the town of Zagoura in southeast Morocco, the site of the internationally recognized zawiya nasariyya (Nasariyya lodge) and a precolonial outpost for Saharan trade. At the time of our meetings he was living on the northern edge of Salé, the spiritually wealthy and economically depressed city across the Bouregreg River from the nation’s capital, Rabat. He was married with ten family and household members in his care. The Moroccan friend who introduced me to Si Mohamed praised him highly as one of the few “true” practitioners she knew, a “real fqih”. He viewed charging money as the mark of charlatanism. Given his financial responsibilities, he did accept sadaqa, or charitable donations. He kept a small workshop where he saw clients, a five-minute walk inside Salé medina. There a green paint-flecked wood door at street level led up narrow, uneven stairs to a rough and rectangular room with unpainted wood floors and whitewashed

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 149 walls. During our interviews I sat on one of two long, bare mattresses at one end of the room. Patients waiting to see him sat at the other end of the room. Si Mohamed sat next to me, hunched over a wooden crate standing on end, surrounded by piles of crumpled up sheets of lined pale green paper. A reed pen, a bottle of saffron ink, a ball-point pen and a film canister rested on the crate, to be put to use during treatments. The younger of the two practitioners I address here,
Abdelwahid, was born in 1969.9 At the time of our interviews he was unmarried and shared a sparsely furnished apartment with his mother in a newly developed neighbourhood south of Rabat. He graduated in 1992 with a degree from Université Mohamed V’s Islamic Studies program (al-dirasat al-islamiyya), but only recently acquired his post as a midlevel clerk in the town office (al-baladiyya). Given the chronically high unemployment in Morocco, it is not unusual that he did not practice his specialty, despite his desire to do so.10 He began curing spirit illnesses in 1992 but, he explained, with his current work he had far less time for seeing patients. Nevertheless, his work as a fqih had never been a source of income; he neither sought out patients nor charged for his labour. His first exorcism came on the request of a neighbouring woman who recognized his extraordinary piety. Indeed he spoke and carried himself with scholarly seriousness, and at the amplified call to prayer suspended our interviews to pray in the neighbourhood mosque. In the fashion of the local Ikhwan al-Muslimin (Muslim Brothers) he kept a long beard, and, although he wore ordinary clothing to the office, changed into a white robe at home. Unlike Si Mohamed, he kept no separate office space, but rather treated his occasional patients in his own home or in their homes when he was asked to do so. He only stipulated that the space be cleared of any haram objects, especially the colourful bands of cloth associated, he explained, with “traditional” (taqlidi) Moroccan spirit cures of seers and Sufi brotherhoods. Both practitioners described their clientele as including men and women, with women accounting for the majority of cases (60 vs. 40 percent).
Abdelwahid noted with a great deal of concern too that children represent a growing proportion of cases. Their clients complained of chronic illnesses caused by jinn or by magic: general anxiety, palsy and localized paralysis of limbs and face (al-shalal), sexual dysfunction (al-rubt and al-thqaf ), inexplicable hatred of one’s 9 Names have been changed to preserve anonymity. Si Mohamed and Abdelwahid shared generously their time, knowledge and life stories. I gratefully acknowledge their help and that of other foqaha here. 10 United Nations statistics from 1991-1997 indicate 16 percent unemployment among Moroccan men (http://www.un.org/depts/unsd/ww2000/table5a.htm). One NGO (http://www.usaid.gov/country/ane/ma) places current unemployment above 20 percent. Hiring of university graduates is extremely low. See ArabicNews. Com, “Moroccan private sector hires only 3 percent of university graduates”, 13 April 1999 (http://www.arabicnews.com/ ansub/Daily/Day/990413/1999041339.html).

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150 | Emilio Spadola spouse and family (al-karh), muteness and blindness. Even when inhabited by jinn, patients often suspected that the jinn had been sent out of jealousy or malevolent interest by someone whom they had encountered, but could not readily identify. In either case, one might be inhabited (maskun) or struck (madrub) by jinn, the former term used to designate acutely possessed people as well. Such possessed people are likewise malbus, “worn” by a jinn as one wears a garment. Like possession elsewhere (Boddy 1989; Crapanzano 1977; Morris 2000; Rothenberg 2001; Siegel 1978), in Morocco it means a total dissociation of the subject. Possessed people shriek, writhe and sob, their heads, hands and arms contorting in odd positions. Other foqaha explained that they emit foul breath, display inhuman strength and endure normally intolerable pain. Although Quranic references put the existence of jinn beyond dispute, the details of the matter appear the source of endless debate. The term spirits, or, in French, ésprits or démons fail to translate the Arabic word jinn. The jinn are not souls (ruh or nafs) of either the living or the dead, nor are they entirely demonic. According the Quran (15: 27, 55: 15), the jinn are another (non-human) race created by God before humankind and, unlike humankind, not from solid, substantive clay, but from smokeless fire. People have assured me that the jinn are “just like us” (umamun amthalukum), comprising nations religions, and families. Personal stories however dispute basic details as to whether the jinn take visible forms, and whether or not they possess humans. To some, jinn appear as humans and animals, attack in response to accidental slights and fall in love with humans and guard them from human lovers. One woman I spoke with had breastfed the child of a jinn. Others assured me, however, that the jinn are invisible. Many stories fall somewhere in between. The jinn appear to women in dreams, for example. Overall, however, one gathers the impression that jinn are unpredictable, desirous and vindictive, and that any commerce with them invites chance and danger. I have been warned against studying them, and I have heard of two practitioners who died as a result of vengeance by the jinn. Since encounters with the jinn are potentially dangerous and unpredictable, they are the source of some anticipation. Jinn occupy all spaces public and private, including homes. Two Quranic translations suggest interpretations of the word jinn in particular surahs as “strangers” or “nomads” (Ali 2001: 1625; Ali 1993: 128). Like strangers they do require a certain hospitality. Some Moroccans greet empty rooms with the customary salaam alaykum to “appease the Muslim jinn and scare away the unbelievers”, as one fqih explained. The bismillah is said to be a gift from God for clearing one’s table of jinn. Others perform a set of sacrifices to appease the jinn in their home, and routinely warn the jinn before pouring scalding water into sink drains where they are known to live. A professor at Université Mohamed V in Rabat described his mother’s instruction not to play with scissors lest he accidentally snip a jinn’s tail off. The anthropological literature is rich with such accounts. I have also found, however, a number of aspects of the jinn for which there seems to be little

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 151 precedent. According to Westermarck (1968: 302-365) and Crapanzano (1973: 139), the jinn’s world is distinct from ours, located underground. Foqaha I have interviewed, however, routinely describe jinn originating in our own human cities and nations – Tel Aviv, Algiers, Orlando (Florida), the Congo and Baghdad being just some of the examples. Similarly, they have human names, among them Abdallah, Gerard, Gilbert and Jackson. They have careers. A young fqih shared an example: he exorcised a jinn (a lawyer from Algiers) who refused to leave his illiterate host until he had helped him argue a property dispute in a local court, which he did, with evident success.
Abdelwahid exorcised a jinn whose father had converted his family of jinn to Islam. His father named him “
Abdelwahid” (like the fqih) and this coincidence further irritated the jinn who refused to leave the body of the possessed. Identities and origins of this sort must be distinguished from those attributed to a pantheon of jinn in the saintly tradition, sometimes also called mluk al-jinn (kings of the jinn). Unlike Lalla
Aisha Sudaniyya, who is said to have emigrated from Sudan to Morocco centuries ago (on the back of the saint Sidi Hmed Dghoughi), or Lalla Malika, who prefers European to Moroccan dress, the jinn in the present case have not appeared in Morocco by a historical voyage. Such jinn are not found among the limited dramatis personae associated with the mluk –
Aisha, Hammou, Shamharush, et al. – who may possess many people at any one time. Nor do they overlap with the personages of a saint, as Dermenghem suggested may occur among the jinn: The frontier is imprecise. It is possible that he (the saint) may be truly human, accumulator of mystical energy and dispenser of grace, whose history is forgotten leaving only legend or whose legend and story are forgotten. It is also entirely possible that he may be a spirit to whom a human name has been given. Finally sometimes it refers precisely and conscientiously to a jinn (1954: 97).

Although such cases certainly do exist in Morocco, in the cases I am outlining, jinn are merely one of hundreds of millions from Iraq or Israel or Algeria which a Moroccan may encounter by chance. The structural logic of the stranger, the foreign, and the spectre is worth considering. It points up, I believe, the transformation of the social into one defined by mediatic connections. National identity, that is, a relationship to fellow nationals fostered by print-capital and its simultaneous readership, or by television and its spectators, is strikingly close to encounters with jinn. It means living among a nearly infinite number of unknown and unseen others. National identity, and indeed transnational Muslim identity, requires faith in others whom one does not know and for whom one has replaced the personal encounter with the telecommunicative and mediatic. Such mass communication is not of course only occult. But in the Moroccan case, at least, the mediatic encounter as the oxymoronic condition of national community, of intimacy even, is structurally similar to those with jinn. This appears not to make the jinn less foreign. On the contrary, encounters with

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152 | Emilio Spadola the foreign in possessed bodies and in media forms are similar in two respects. In the sense of broadcast, media aimed at the anonymous audience of “anyone” foster chance encounters with what is already circulating. Like the jinn, one encounters it, in a sense, accidentally. One has to identify oneself with, and as, “anyone” in order to receive it. More crucial, the necessary risk of spectral encounters in one’s most intimate dwelling concerns the political culture toward the foreign. Exorcism is one approach. The sources of its authority are no doubt religious, but, as in the case of al-Wazzani, cannot be reduced to doctrine.

Authority The fact remains that foqaha practicing al-
ilm al-ruhani are neither scholars of jurisprudence (fiqh) nor masters of Quranic exegesis (tafsir). I am familiar with some foqaha who have only memorized sections of the Quran, and
Abdelwahid and other young foqaha explained that a cassette tape of Quranic recitation would suffice to exorcise jinn. Nonetheless, in the popular imagination foqaha are reputed to have a specialized knowledge of the Quran and the jinn, their intimacy with the former permitting them to communicate with the latter. Foqaha’s exorcisms comprise one of several religious methods for curing possession by jinn, the others practiced by female and male seers and particular Sufi orders, the Gnawa, Aissawa, Hamadsha and Jilala. Cures of this sort, varied as they are, likewise privilege communication with the jinn. Rather than expel the jinn, however, these techniques explicitly demand the patient’s commitment to appease the jinn through an annual pilgrimage to a saint’s tomb, a sacrifice or a night (laila; hadra) in which musical rhythms and dance (jedba) explicitly summon the jinn to presence. Every fqih I have met has criticized this manner of traffic with jinn as haram (forbidden), and patients who express great faith in a fqih’s orthodoxy will likewise criticize the patrons of the saints for their ignorance of true Islam. Despite the generational differences, addressed below, the practices of the foqaha share some common methods. When I have observed them, foqaha begin by asking clients simple questions about what is bothering them, whether they sleep well at night and what types of pains they are experiencing. Two distinct techniques are used to diagnose clients. In the one technique, used mainly by older practitioners, called al-hisab or al-khat al-zinati, and associated with the science of the letter (
ilm al-harf ), the fqih takes the client’s name and mothers name and assigns each letter of the name a numerical value. He then adds the numbers to produce a figure designating the day on which the patient was possessed and the jinn associated with it. In another manner, used by both young and old foqaha, the client’s response to Quranic recitation itself signals the cause and extent of the illness. In this case the fqih holds the client’s forehead or his hand, pressing his thumbnail under the client’s. He then quietly recites the Quran.

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 153 In one case I attended, the fqih, a 61-year-old Qarawiyyin graduate, slipped his cracked thumbnail under the glittering polished thumbnail of his female client and recited the ayat al-kursi and several names of God. His recitation lasted only a few moments because almost immediately the young woman keeled over and began to cry in long deep sobs. The fqih continued his recitation as the woman’s friends supported her with pillows. Her crying ceased and the jinn began speaking on her tongue. Several jinn spoke, and, with the fqih’s questioning, identified themselves as
Aisha and Mimoun, known mluk. The conversation continued for some 20 to 30 minutes until the possessed woman abruptly woke up and looked around disoriented and blinking. Although it was clear that the woman was possessed, the fqih elaborated his diagnosis with al-khat al-zinati. He determined that she had been originally possessed on a Saturday and the original jinn which had attacked her was not
Aisha, but Mimoun, a Jewish jinn. The fqih then promised to prepare her several written amulets which would begin her three-day treatment of possession by the jinn. He charged 300 dirham for the visit. When the fqih, his client, and I all met a day later, the fqih had prepared nine writings (kitabat), which would variously expel and protect her against the jinn. These writings comprised a set of Quranic inscriptions written in light saffron ink and included three different types, one to burn, one to mix with water and drink, and one dissolve and swab over her entire body. He recommended the patient use one of each type for three days. In addition the fqih prepared a hijab (amulet) adorned with names of God, some written in Assyrian. He suggested the patient wrap it in plastic and wear it only at night. Common to both generations is the conversation with the jinn, who speaks on the tongue of the possessed. As with the previous case, the fqih speaks with the jinn, compelling it to leave the possessed person’s body by force or through an agreement (
ahd). The interview or interrogation involves the fqih posing questions to the jinn: “What is your name?” “What is your religion?” “Where are you from?” “Why did you possess this person?” During the questioning the presence of the jinn is signalled by the new voice.
Abdelwahid described a two-year-old boy speaking in the voice of a “much older man”. A point made in such descriptions is that the voice is entirely distinct from the possessed person’s, often involving a gender change, i.e. a man’s voice substituting for a woman’s. Another incontrovertible sign for foqaha is the foreignness of the jinn’s language. Si Mohamed described such events as entirely ordinary. Someone has lost consciousness (faqd wa
i diyaluh). Or the sick person comes to your shop and says to you “I’m sick”. What do you do? You take his finger like this (thumbnail under thumbnail) and recite the first (sura) of the Quran, or the last part of surat al-baqara […] or surat al-jinn. Or one of the names of God. The jinn speaks, speaks the language that’s in him. If he’s from away (min al-barra), he speaks that language. If he’s from here (min al-dakhil), he speaks that language. If he’s a Muslim he recites the Quran with you, if he’s kafir he shouts and screams – you read more.

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154 | Emilio Spadola
Abdelwahid described a confusion of tongues and expressed his own astonishment: In 1998, a 33-year-old man was brought to me. I asked him (the jinn possessing the man) again and again, “What is your name? What is your name?” Finally the thought struck me to speak in French or English. My English is not very good, but I asked in English, “What is your name?” And he began to speak English to me. He spoke to me in English, but he was from Turkey. He spoke English with a Turkish accent!

He continued, saying that of all the uncanny facts of possession this remained the one for which he had no explanation: You see people who didn’t go to school, didn’t study, ni école ni université: illiterate. When I speak, I recite the Quran, he begins to speak. In French, or Turkish, or English, or all three. An Arab speaks Shilha (Berber). This still remains a mystery. Till now I haven’t found an answer. It’s a scientific condition (halla
ilmiyya)! From a scientific aspect: Where did that language come from? Where is he keeping that language? Even more! – someone recites the Quran with me! This is not a tangible matter (masala malmusa); it is an invisible matter (masala ghaybiyya).

People around the patients at the time of possession have often remarked to me that the voice was in some way strange. It is a source of curiosity but it is also felt to prove that it is the jinn speaking and not simply the person acting. The person is gone, “not there” (ghaib), nowhere. The absolute quality of this absence is marked by the new voice, a man’s for a woman’s, a jinn’s for a human’s, and, of course, a foreign language for a Moroccan one. The national origins of the language are not, however, particularly important; they appear to be the same habitually used as examples of nationalities in general conversation. In
Abdelwahid’s story an uneducated, illiterate person suddenly spoke a language that belonged elsewhere. Its presence on the tongue of an uneducated person was inexplicable. He may have spoken multiple languages but this would not have made it any stranger. The point, I believe, is simply that the foreignness of the language signals absolute presence. In the case of presence, the possessed person transmits whatever he or she is receiving, whatever is “wearing” the body, often referred to as a “corpse” (juta). Such a person is transformed into a medium, so speaking another language is only a change of channels. Like those of his generation,
Abdelwahid described this foreign presence of jinn as a potential source of fear: You talk with someone (possessed) masculine, male. You are with him, his family. You say, “give me your name” (ta
atini ismuk). He says, “My name is ‘so and so’ (fulan).” It is no longer the same name, no longer the name of a man. And the voice changes. If it is a woman, she speaks in the voice of a man. The first time I saw this condition I got scared.

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 155 Over time he no longer felt scared, something that marked his abundance of iman (faith).
Abdelwahid explained, “Either the fqih is stronger and he wins or the jinn is stronger and he wins.” Only truly pious foqaha had enough strength of iman to not fear the presence of the jinn. They increased their resilience to fear through recitation of the Quran. Of course the fqih’s recitation was unaccompanied by exegesis (tafsir), and in some cases an audiocassette of Quranic recitation worked as well. That a mechanically reproduced voice may substitute for the fqih’s raises the question of what a fqih’s strength comprises. Among
Abdelwahid’s generation I was told that a good fqih is “like a blank cassette tape” because he “records the Quran perfectly”. Morocco’s Grand Mufti and televised
alim of Rukn al-Mufti, Mohamed Tawil, explained to me with a similar metaphor that a fqih first “records” (Moroccan Arabic kaysejil) the Quran but he does not yet grasp its meaning. Tawil’s explanation, which privileged the later stages of learning to interpret the Quran, contrasted with foqaha I spoke with, who, like
Abdelwahid, readily attributed great power over the jinn to a mechanical lack of fear, a piety based on praying and reciting like a cassette tape. Quranic recitation embodied by a fqih who is both fearless and faithful reasserts control over a human possessed by a voice out of place. The fqih, like the patient, works as a transmitter, a messenger, a medium. Their encounter is that of two vocal presences, one of which is spectral. The other is Quranic, which is, of course, foreign in an absolute sense.11 The latter presence brings the possessed back to consciousness in a very particular way: it engages the spectral voice in order to control it. The patient stops screaming and crying as the sound of the Quran calls the jinn to attention. In the case of the Muslim jinn the recitation compels it to recite the Quran in unison. If it is Jewish or Christian or kafir, the jinn may scream or lie to avoid obeying the fqih. Regardless of the jinn’s religion however, the ideal end is the same. Exorcism means expelling the jinn for good. However, in defining foqaha’s authority as that of Quranic mediumship (itself a familiar theme in the history of Islamic scholarship) I do not want to give the impression that the foqaha practised a homogeneous tradition. The stakes of exorcism, its metaphoric and political potential, differed radically between the younger and older generations. What Si Mohamed called al-tibb al-ruhani (spiritual medicine) could include Quranic treatments, writing and recitation, but was not limited to that. Si Mohamed shared an exemplary instance of al-tibb al-ruhani: One man from the area around Midelt had one very swollen leg. He came to Hospital Ibn Sina (in Rabat). The doctor told him, if you don’t amputate the leg you’ll die. You have 11 Eickelman (1985: chap. 3) outlines the role of the fqih in providing “Quranic presence” to rural Morocco. Eickelman’s description of the fqih as Simmel’s “stranger,” one both foreign and familiar, points up the important parallels between the fqih’s and the jinn’s force as uncanny presences.

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156 | Emilio Spadola cancer. But that man had strong faith in God (iman qawi). And he’s still alive today. The man told the doctor, “my leg is dear to me, I don’t think I want to cut it off.” He went back home, though he couldn’t lift his leg. Now it weighed 20 kilos. He went to a woman who’d never studied, never read: illiterate. She said “If you can’t cure this man, I will. But if he dies, it’s not my responsibility. If he lives, it is God who healed him.” She gathered scorpions, crushed them with a mortar and pestle, folded them in a cloth and wrapped it around his leg. What’s in a scorpion? Poison! Does it kill or not? It kills! This is traditional medicine. This is the medicine of people who are uncultured, unaware (ghir mtaqaf, ghir wai). Over a period of three months, the flesh on his leg fell off, till only his bone showed. Then the flesh on his leg started to grow back. It grew until it came back to normal. After that he went back to the doctor. […] He said, “I’m that man who came to you and didn’t remove his leg.” The doctor asked him, “What did you do for your leg?!” He said, “I did nothing. This is the power of God, may He be praised.” This was fifteen years ago, and he’s still alive. He had true faith (niyya) in that woman. If a person has niyya, he can be healed even from a glass of water on which the Quran has been recited. God heals and he ails.

As with many of his stories, Si Mohamed emphasized that a successful cure required proper faith and purpose (niyya) from both healer and patient. This was in fact mentioned by all foqaha, and certainly no one volunteered himself as an example of unorthodoxy or magic. However, Si Mohamed’s association of an illiterate woman, tradition and faith in God was not one shared by all foqaha. Such an association leads to a clear sense of the significant differences in both the discourse and in specific techniques for curing the effects of the jinn. These differences, it happens, turn on the communicative force of techniques. To diagnose illnesses and determine the influence of jinn, the older foqaha used al-hisab or al-khat al-zinati, which calculated a diagnostic number based on the Arabic letters of the patient’s and the patient’s mother’s name. Foqaha then counted beads on a tasbih (Arabic misbaha; rosary) and discovered the specific cause of the illness, whether human or jinn. According to some foqaha the technique involved listening to servant jinn who whispered the details of the patient’s condition in their ear. Si Mohamed used it, as did most older foqaha. One fqih, a blind and vibrant man whom I interviewed, had spent the first four years of a 21-year apprenticeship with master foqaha learning to hear the jinn’s whispers.
Abdelwahid nonetheless very specifically identified al-hisab and al-khat al-zinati with the work of magicians: The magician (sahir) has information, or talismans (talasim), by which he controls jinn, a group of demons (shayatin) – not Muslims. These jinn are his servants. That sahir has a science (
ilm) by which he controls the shayatin, but he’s left the shari
and he’s left Islam and his ideas too are shaytani, meaning that he thinks only of hurting people. […] He (the magician) asks you, “What is your name? What is your mother’s name?” Anyone who asks you that has left Islam. It is science, but it is unlawful science (huwa
ilm walikinahu

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 157
ilm haram). The origin of this science is the Jews. In Islamic Studies we have to study Hebrew for two years. In Hebrew every letter has a specific number. He tells you “Every letter (in your name) has a number” and then he counts them and tells you “You have a jinn. You are stricken.”

Si Mohamed and his cohort used al-hisab and to arrive at a diagnosis, doing so with complete confidence of its religious legitimacy. Nevertheless,
Abdelwahid condemned it for reasons of both religious doctrine and social welfare. The jinn it puts to work are not Muslims but demons, shayatin, just as the form of learning that hurts people is demonic, shaytani. Hurting people was not limited to the realm of magic but could be done by a similar figure, the charlatan or musha
wid with whom he associated saint veneration: A man or a woman – but especially a woman – wants to break up Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so (fulan wa fulana), two married people. They will take a piece of clothing of the two people. The mush
awid will say “go to Siyyid al-Fulani (a saint)”. Now Siyyid al-Fulani will be in a graveyard. Why? The Quran tells us that this is a favourite place of the jinn. The mush
awid says, “If you want to be healed, bring a sheep.” They have to sacrifice it. That is forbidden in Islam. Why? Because in Islam sacrifice must be for God, thanking God, in the name of God. Those who demand a sacrifice in order to cure do so in the name of a jinn or a dead saint. That is called shirk (idolatry).


Abdelwahid considered such charlatans the purveyors of superstitious “Moroccan traditions” that typified a recalcitrant ignorance of Islam in Moroccan society. At its worst, Moroccan tradition, as
Abdelwahid held it, substituted jinn and saints for God.
Abdelwahid and many others illustrated the dangers of such practices in their effects on proper familial relations, turning husband against wife, parents against children. But
Abdelwahid also criticized the magician’s use of al-hisab, amulets, and talismans – a clear reference to the older generation’s preparation of kitaba. This too, he felt, was unorthodox.
Abdelwahid explained, “anyone who writes is using magic”.
Abdelwahid demonstrated the dangers of kitaba for me by pretending to write an amulet, to fold it into a small paper bundle and then to slide it under a pillow on the living room couch. There, he explained, humans couldn’t see it. However, because the jinn were everywhere and invisible, they would see it. It is a similar concern to one expressed in his stipulation that the space of the possessed be cleared of any haram objects, especially pieces of cloth bearing the colours associated with particular jinn. A magician or a charlatan could use writing, or colours, or, just as well, recommend that the possessed enter a hadra of the Hamadsha,
Aissawa, Gnawa or Jilala orders and trance (jdeb) to summon and appease the jinn. With a laugh he said, “Even a healthy person will fall ill listening to that music!” For
Abdelwahid music and handwriting had the same force; a force of communication improperly bound. Colours and writing and music caught the jinn’s attention, whereas the recitation of the Quran, in an disciplinary sense of order,

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158 | Emilio Spadola called it to attention. Like a policeman, the foqaha summoned the jinn. In contrast, the Moroccan spirit cures that rely on kitaba, on the jinn’s whispers and labour, he felt engaged in commerce with the jinn; they invited the jinn to presence. One thinks of the Gnawa brotherhood’s ceremonies, where the question “Who will open the door?” is posed until monetary exchange permits the arrival of the jinn (Kapchan 2000). The force of such communication points up the notable lack of distinction between magic (sihr) and charlatanism (sha
wada) in the daily use of the terms. I have asked a number of foqaha to describe the relationship of sihr to sha
wada, with nearly equal certitude that each is an instance of the other. The victim of each technique is not simply one person, but society itself; it hardly matters whether the linguistic forces unleashed by desire for money or vengeance derive from magic or merely effective lies.
Abdelwahid described a unique, but common, situation where clients act as if they were possessed: There is one situation where you recite the Quran and the patient and he falls, but it’s not possession. In my experience, it’s not. And why? They have the false impression (kaykun
andhum wahm) – a preconceived notion (
anduh fikra masbuqa) – that he has a jinn. Maybe he went to charlatans (mush
awadin) – les voyants, for example. They have no response but “Vous êtes malades.” He’ll never tell you “You’re healthy”, “You’re fine”, “You’re good”. He always tells you “Vous êtes malades.”

The diagnosis was inevitably the same; a magician or a charlatan tells a client he is ill. The client is lied to and fooled into thinking he is possessed. It is similar enough to possession that
Abdelwahid in fact followed the same curing procedures, using recitation only as a placebo. Like the victim of magic, the language of the voyant (always francophone in
Abdelwahid’s examples) planted a seed, a sickness, if not a spirit, in the mind of the ignorant person. The traffic with jinn, summoning them, using them as servants, appeared not only as a religious trespass. For
Abdelwahid exorcism of the jinn carried the additional responsibility of combating or exorcising the ignorance of underdevelopment, actively re-enforced by those charlatans and magicians who held commerce with jinn and sought to exploit the ignorant, the illiterate in particular, usually for money. One might imagine further that Si Mohamed’s story of the use scorpion poison to heal, especially by an “illiterate woman”, would warrant an accusation of superstition and magic by
Abdelwahid. For both generations, illiteracy very powerfully stands for ignorance in general that allows relations of magic and charlatanism to pervade Moroccan society.
Abdelwahid, for example, contrasted illiterate people to “Doctor Fulani” or “Professor Fulani” whose visits to a saint were more shocking considering their education level. For Si Mohamed it pointed to the curer’s adherence to tradition. In both cases, however, illiteracy did not stand for a deafness or blindness to important messages. It marked, on the contrary, a receptivity to other messages, to the force of other practices that draw one into circulation, beyond control, in cemeteries, among the dead, for

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 159 example. There is a recognition of a communicative force, but one wrongly channelled or not ordered by a channel at all. For
Abdelwahid, as for al-Wazzani, this communicative force is an effect of Moroccan tradition itself. It is foreign to modernity but it is not non-Moroccan. Rather it is an achronical12 effect of religious practices which remain. Dead but alive. That
Abdelwahid criticized superstition is not extraordinary. George Joffé (1997: 76) has written that in the Maghrib “populist and mystical Islam has been discredited and the scripturalist tradition has been reworked in a global radical form.” But this explanation may be pressed further. How has superstition been discredited? Have the foqaha, like Roy’s “new Islamist intellectuals”, joined the “occidentalized” intellectuals in condemning superstition on the same grounds (1990: 275)? Certainly the younger foqaha like
Abdelwahid are scripturalists in the sense that they criticize saint veneration and identify with Islam’s originary texts. But their criticisms of superstition emphasize its communicative force. Foqaha and most modernists argue that, like magic, it exerts power over social relations. The discrediting of superstition is not therefore a lack of belief in its effects. It is the result, I believe, of a concern with a society composed of telecommunicative structures, one extending beyond face-to-face intimacy and into al-ghayb, the unseen, the unseeable, jinn, kitaba, communication. They are real, effective, and structure the social. People believe in them and seek to control them in the name of a better society. The foqaha of the younger second generation, more explicitly than those of the older generation, took society itself as the object of their labour. In an exemplary instance, a young fqih, a contemporary of
Abdelwahid’s, described “ideology” (idiulujiyya) as rendering members of society “spellbound” (mashurin). The emphasis among younger foqaha on social relations reflects differing religious training and social conditions of religious consciousness. It is similar to the distinction identified by Jamil Abun-Nasr between early and late salafiyya movements in Morocco, and detailed for the post-Independence period by Eickelman’s description (1992: 643) of the “‘objectification’ of the religious imagination” in Morocco. The early reformists, including Al-Azhar educated Al-Sanoussi in the 1870s and Al-Dukkali in 1907, found little success in converting Moroccan
ulama, despite explicit support from ruling sultans, Hassan I and
Abdelhafid respectively (Burke 1972: 111-113).The later “neo-Salafists” like al-Fassi and al-Wazzani drew on internationalist sources both religious and social (pan-Islamism, socialism) and, rather than criticize the minutiae of religious practice, aimed at the reconstruction of social relations in Morocco (Abun-Nasr 1963; Brown 1973; Dermenghem 1930; Halstead 1964; Jalabert 1934; Lafuente 1999; Mouslim Barbari 1931). As Abun-Nasr (1963) argued, these reformists made society, rather than religious practices, the object of their labour. Al-Wazzani’s critique of the
Aissawa demonstrates that this meant 12 I thank Vincent Crapanzano for his suggestion to use this term rather than “anachronistic” that would suggest its locatability in another (specific) time.

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160 | Emilio Spadola controlling the modes of communication that would help to construct that society. The concern with communication is not al-Wazzani’s alone; Allal alFassi at once called for the protection of Islam against the French Berber policy and for the promotion of the Arabic tongue as the “effective vernacular of the Muslim world in its entirety” (1954: 114). Although unsuccessful in establishing a true vernacular, al-Fassi’s call previewed the expansion of mass media in Morocco, radio and photography in particular, and the simultaneous transformation of nationalism after 1953 from an elite to a mass movement (Montagne 1954; Fanon 1968). Post-Independence nation-building followed much the same approach, using multiple media forms (Chevaldonné 1987) and mass literacy (Benchekroun 1956a; Eickelman 1992) to foster public consciousness, though not always for purely educational purposes: an opinion poll in the Moroccan press sought to determine whether their readers preferred King Mohamed V attired in Moroccan or European-American costume.13 Exorcism of jinn, as practiced by two generations today, comes after this century in which media has reshaped perception of the social, permitted national identity as much as nationalism, and further technologized the transnational lines of Muslim faith. But Si Mohamed and
Abdelwahid grew up during distinct moments in the history of this communication in Morocco and this difference is apparent in their emphasis on the sources of control of this linguistic force. Si Mohamed’s religious training began with memorizing the Quran in his native rural region near Zagoura, site of the zawiya nassariyya, of which he was a member. In 1970 he received a scholarship to a nationalized programme of religious studies (al-takwin al-mukawwanin al-diniyyin) at Jama
Al-Sunna in Rabat. When I was young, 13 year-old, I studied the Quran in the countryside. Around Zagoura. (With whom?) Most of those foqaha I studied under have since died. I studied for years in Agdiz, and with some of the foqaha in Tanghir. Later I came to Jama
Al-Sunna. There I studied al-wa
t wa-l-irshad (religious counsel and guidance). That’s what they taught at Jama
Al-Sunna. There was a group of very distinguished teachers: Al-Makki al-Nasiri taught there. He was the President of the Moroccan
Ulama and received a sacred honour (l’Instant Royale)

13 Lacouture and Lacouture (1958: 100-101): “Mais dans les cités du nord, que penset-on de ces photos du souverain dans le style Far-West, que la revue Al Machaïd publia avec un éclat tout particulier? Les animateurs de cet illustré eurent l’ingénieuse idée de demander à leurs lecteurs s’ils préféraient voir Mohammed V en si simple tenue, ou portant le costume traditionnel? Amusant sondage d’opinion dont le résultat fut plus amusant encore: 90 percent des femmes souhaitaient revoir Sidna ainsi vêtu; 80 percent des hommes préféraient lui voir porter la jellaba.”

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 161 from King Hassan II. King Hassan II – God rest his soul – ordered the founding of the chairs of higher studies and provided grants for students. (You had a grant at that time?) At that time I had a grant. There were a lot of great teachers. Brahim Moustafa
Alaoui,
Abdallah Al-Jirari, Al-Hajj Hamd Boudrari, Qadur al-Nasir who’s part of the Islamic council of leaders (al-mudiriyya al-islamiyya) and the Ministry of Religious Endowments and Islamic Affairs (wizara al-awqaf wa al-shu
un al-islamiyya). After noting the number of highly respected teachers and their links to King Hassan II, he reiterated their relationship to the state and its effects: These
ulama are recognized by the state, and recognized by nearly the entire Arab World. […] A lot of
ulama and foqaha graduated from Jama
Al-Sunna. A lot of distinguished students. We have more than a 100 notaries in Morocco who graduated from Jama
Al-Sunna. (Were there diplomas?) Yes, there were degrees in higher studies. Other students did their initial studies here and then went to Saudi Arabia to complete their studies. Some have gone to France. They become professors and judges.

I asked Si Mohamed why he did not become a judge or a professor but, rather, a fqih in the Moroccan sense. He described it in terms that are common among foqaha of his generation and very rare among those of
Abdelwahid’s: as part of a “legacy” that linked him to his family and to his region. He had already explained that in the countryside people had greater faith than those in the city. He reiterated: This is my legacy (Moroccan Arabic wirati). A legacy from my ancestors (aban
an jed). More than 300 people in my family heal with the Quran. From the time we were born till this very day we have healed with the Quran. And we never go to the doctor unless it’s a critical illness. If someone has a fever, we recite the Quran on him and he improves. The origin of this curing is piety (al-taqwa). If there’s no taqwa there’s no curing. The curer must be God-fearing. […] He must be faithful. God – may He be praised – helps him in his work. Piety: that’s the condition (shart) of curing.

Si Mohamed received a nationalized religious education similar to other postIndependence programs which aimed to provide Morocco with educated leaders and secondary school teachers. It brought him officially into a national setting and provided him a basic education, including Arabic, Moroccan history, Hadith, and Algebra, as it did other traditional scholars who had memorized the Quran in a mosque or zawiya. It also provided the possibility for further advancement and state-recognized success. That this did not in effect deracinate his consciousness, that he still practiced Quranic curing, might appear as a failure of Moroccan modernism. The training at Jama
Al-Sunna, which might otherwise have been marked by criticism of his earlier education for its adherence to local traditions, appears rather to have sustained his feelings of pride for

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162 | Emilio Spadola it. He affirms his allegiance to the state, to the King, and to his region. The religious expertise and knowledge he sought to gather is an extension of the inner piety he describes as characteristic of individuals from his region. Sustaining his own piety of intention seems to overcome any contradiction between his original, regional religious practice and the nationalized religion he absorbed.14 Yet his emphasis on King Hassan II and the state is remarkable. From his avowed love and gratitude, it is my impression that for Si Mohamed any contradiction between origins and education were settled by the King; his recognition authorized his movement, applying, after the fact, a religious justification to his legacy and practice and allowing them to blend into the other. We may recall al-Wazzani’s and other nationalists’ efforts twenty years earlier to create an entirely new national holiday, the Fête du Trône, to honour Mohamed V. The celebration would be marked by simultaneous and spontaneous celebrations in Rabat, Salé, Marrakech, Fez and other cities around Morocco. Al-Wazzani viewed his newspaper’s job as promoting and publicizing the celebration. Successful promotion would culminate in spontaneous yet controlled desire on the part of the people for Mohamed V. By the time Si Mohamed began his religious studies in the early 1950s this dream had come much closer.15 Although he expressed a certain disdain for politics, he nonetheless suggested that Independence, as well as Hassan II’s Green March in 1975, had succeeded because of everyone’s, including his own, “love for the nation”. A description in Moroccan author Mohamed Berrada’s autobiography (1992) draws out how this love took on a communicative aspect. The author’s age is Si Mohamed’s; this particular episode describes the late colonial period in Morocco. The radio is on, everywhere, tied to bicycles, in every store. The King’s face is on posted on every wall in well-known photographs. Mohamed V, suffering the hardening of French colonial policy, is in exile. A contemporary film shows him hunched next to the radio in Madagascar, keeping “in touch with his people” (Benchekroun 1957). Although absent, he appears to the people in nightly visitations by moonlight. Berrada writes: The news spread quickly from house to house. The rooftops filled at night with women and men and children searching the moon for the features of Mohammed V, because his face, according to the voices of Radio Medina, settled on the moon to remain, despite his exile, in touch with his people (38).

The word Radio Medina, which appears transliterated in the Arabic, is idiomatic; it refers to the gossip and rumour that Fez’s densely packed medina con14 On the force of contradictions between interior states and social roles and its treatment by Islamic modernism of an Indonesian province, see Siegel (2000). 15 Based on the author’s interviews with Moroccans who lived through Independence. Nonetheless, the thesis risks eliding meaningful differences in nationalist experience, in particular that of religious scholars (see Eickelman 1985: chap. 6).

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 163 ducts. It is similar to another French colonial term for rumour, the “Arab telephone”. The unbound talk called Radio Medina suggests radio broadcasts like those of Radio Cairo during the 1950s, which broadcast nationalist programming, informing Moroccans of the political events of their own country (Attaoui 1986) and, according to Robert Montagne (1954) inciting them as well. Radio Medina is the particular idiom of the electrified talk of a public that forms itself in hearing, or, in the logic of the broadcast, overhearing.16 In the French colonial imaginary, this talk moves quickly enough that it appears technologized and hypercharged, beyond circumscription and thus a bit frightening like the mass itself. The people who hear and transmit the rumour however recognize themselves as its recipients and find it exhilarating. Having heard, they see. In Berrada’s autobiographical text, the term refers to a desire to count oneself among those to whom independence was promised. It affirms a connection between subjects as nationalists and affirms their connection to the King as “his people”. Departing from earlier nationalist era of al-Wazzani, the power of talk and indeed mass communication is celebrated as national, popular and circumscribed, not colonial, mass and unbound. A second autobiography from a recognized hero of the anticolonial resistance (Rida 1994) details a similar effect of media during the same epoch, in this case deriving from the author’s illicit printing of nationalist tracts, his evasion of colonial police raids and smuggling of the print shop’s moveable type. He not only prints nationalist tracts, for which he is arrested and sentenced 20 years of forced labour; he disseminates photos of King Mohamed V (ibid.: 86). The printers say that they love King Mohamed V; they print his photo inside a flyer shaped like a heart (ibid.: 91). The author credits the Atlas Print Shop with instantiating this desire for the King among the people, to such a degree they see his face in the moon. Whether or not the sighting of King Mohamed V was caused by their photograph is debatable. According to Combs-Schilling, even those who heard about the photographs of the King saw his face in the moon; she has suggested that they “saw for the first time what they had only heard”.17 Technological and human media overlap; Radio Medina becomes an extension of the King’s photograph. For Si Mohamed the royal circumscription of communication (now embodied in Hassan II) unifies his religious experience in post-Independence Morocco. He began by studying the Quran at the nation’s geographic fringe and completed his religious studies at the Jama
Al-Sunna in the nation’s capital. His religious training moved him through Morocco, from periphery to centre. Si Mohamed explained several times to me that King Hassan II founded the chair of Religious Studies and provided poor students with scholarships. The school was furthermore overseen by the greatest nationalist
ulama of the generation: Makki al-Nasiri, Moustafa Alaoui, Abdallah al-Jirari, al-Hajj Hamd 16 The association of broadcast and overhearing is developed by Siegel 1997. 17 Personal communication, December 2002.

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164 | Emilio Spadola Boudrari. As a result, many graduates left Morocco for Saudi Arabia, bearing national recognition for Morocco on an international scene. Through Islam, and the King’s recognition of it, Si Mohamed and his generation could move from the national margin to centre and beyond and back. The move from Morocco to Saudi Arabia relies on the integrity of Islam; it forms the unity and homogeneity of the national space and links it as well to the community of nations. If there is a medium of communication which translates Si Mohamed from countryside to capital, and, potentially, to Saudi Arabia, surely it is Islam. It is a religious-communicative force domesticated, however. Though international, it remains within the hierarchy of the nation. Jama‘ al-Sunna is in the national capital, and the course of study is aimed at constructing a national society. Even if one then studies or works in France or Saudi Arabia one does not fully leave Morocco, rather, in Si Mohamed’s description, one helps to confer upon it religious authority. The differences between Si Mohamed’s and
Abdelwahid’s religious experience and training are marked. Although he studied Islam at l’Université Mohamed V,
Abdelwahid had no background in religious studies and only suggested that his family, his mother and father, had prayed regularly. His source for knowledge of the jinn came from a book he read after he had graduated, “Protection of Humans from the Jinn and Satan” (Wiqayat al-ins min al-jinn wa-l-shaytan). It was imported from Saudi Arabia and sold with accompanying audiocassettes. He had learned about magic in his higher studies (the association of Hebrew and al-hisab, for example) but had learned practical techniques of Quranic healing and spirit exorcism from that book.
Abdelwahid saw no incompatibility between his formal studies of Islamic sciences and this genre, that is to say, between the Quran and mass-produced paperbacks. This was typical of his autodidact cohort who viewed this common genre as a legitimate guide for comprehending not only the jinn and magic, but other uncanny instances such as the Bermuda Triangle and telepathy. The books often emphasize that one must prove that the jinn exist to those who doubt. As
Abdelwahid explained, his book contained photographs of the possessed as proof. This and similar books are imported from Egypt and Saudi Arabia and sold in small bookshops in all cities I have visited in Morocco and in bookstalls outside mosques. Islamist proselytizing around elections in 2002 led the Moroccan government to shut down similar enterprises, though probably not for their guidance in exorcising jinn.18 They do however represent foreign influence against which the nation-state must secure itself, and, indeed, the books share with
Abdelwahid a strong critique of embedded “traditional” religious practices. An examination of two well-known examples of the genre, Karam (1990) and Daoud (n.d.), may be helpful in understanding what, beyond the nation, 18 “Maroc: La coalition gouvernementale résiste à une poussée islamiste”, p. 2, 3 October 2002 (http://fr.news.yahoo.com/020929/202/2rrvh.html).

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 165 authorizes this critique. The books provide a parallel plot and structure, each featuring a journalist paired with an Islamic expert, a fqih or, his Egyptian counterpart, a shaykh to “interview the jinn”. The newspaper journalist brings a camera, and one of the books (Karam 1990) includes an appendix of fuzzy photographic reproductions of possessed men, women and children and the shaykh whispering in their ears. The journalist introduces himself and the project: I assure you in saying that I did not believe at all that jinn and demons (al-jinn wa-l-shayatin) have any influence on humankind, and I imagined that ignorance was the principle reason behind the spread of these beliefs. But after what I saw myself of the influence of demonic possession on humans […] and after I spoke with the jinn and recorded it on video and cassette […] and spoke with different types of jinn who responded in a precise, scientific manner on how jinn injure humans with critical illnesses […] and after I ran several tests to assure that the one speaking with me was not a normal human but one overpowered by a force from another world […] the doubts began to overpower me (5).

When the journalist introduces the shaykh to the reader, he explains that he heard of his powers over the jinn from a friend but still did not believe. He investigates and finds that the shaykh accepts “clients” (many of whom have waited one month and a half to see him) yet refuses payment or even gifts. When the two meet he finds an intelligent and soft-spoken young man, not older than thirty years, with a bushy beard. He questions the young shaykh on matters of medicine and law (10-11): “How can you practice without a license?”; on money and livelihood: “How do live without payment from clients?”; and religious interpretation: “What right have you to interpret the Quran?” In each case the shaykh responds modestly (11): the clients need a spiritual (ruhani) cure, not a medicinal one; his family owns an auto repair shop; he does not interpret the Quran, but only follows the interpretation of Ibn Kathir and al-Qurtubi. Finally, the shaykh explains, to exorcise jinn he need not interpret the Quran, but must recite it on the possessed with absolute precision. The journalist asks if he may see this himself, and a client enters, “a beautiful young woman, with a business degree” (11) whose fiancé has just abandoned her. After questioning the young woman on whether she has nightmares or hears rushing in her ears, the shaykh recites the Quran. She remains unchanged. He declares that she is not possessed by jinn. “Whoever told you that you are”, the shaykh explains, “lied to you” (12). Sending her away, the shaykh remarks to the journalist that many young women who have tried unsuccessfully to marry think that they are affected by jinn. Reciting the Quran on them shows that this is not so. Eventually the young shaykh encounters a true case of possession. The journalist witnesses the exorcism and takes the opportunity to interview the jinn. She is a Muslim jinn living in Italy who enjoys the films of Sophia Loren. The journalist interviews several jinn. The non-Muslim jinn are particularly menacing and must be “burnt” with Quranic recitation. Throughout, the roles

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166 | Emilio Spadola of the shaykh and the journalist are similar. They are kindred spirits. The shaykh provides the journalist with access to the world of the jinn, which he had heard about but not seen and thus not believed in. The journalist in turn declares his purpose that of providing the public readership with access to the jinn, which otherwise they might not believe in. Photographic images of the possessed and audiocassettes of the interviews pair religious encounters with the unseen with the journalistic labour of bringing this world to his unseen readers with incontestable proof. The similarity is not merely coincidental and does not end with possession. Rather, Quranic recitation and the journalist’s media exorcise jinn and ignorance, asserting a proper (unpossessed) consciousness in the patient or showing the patient and the reader that they were previously tricked by what they had heard from others. In these stories the Quran – uninterpreted but purely transmitted by its medium – assures proper circulation and social exchange of which the jinn partake. That circulation might otherwise be uncontrolled. One might be like the jinn rather than fight them. Although Si Mohamed had himself memorized the Quran, his legacy, his zawiya, and the religion that moves him through the nation are circumscribed by the King and the state. The King in particular anchors an old generation’s relationship to communication out of place. A fqih from Si Mohamed’s generation told stories of his teacher who had exorcised jinn from the Royal Palace in Agadir during King Mohamed V’s reign. The same man suggested that we postpone one of our meetings till after the Fête du Trône because he would be called away to participate in official ceremonies. As a circuit of communication it linked the King to the masses, through Radio Medina, to form ‘his people’. Mohamed V or Hassan II, their faces on the full moon or on coins, oversaw, in a sense, and guaranteed the value of this circulation. A public literacy project from early independence, Fight against Illiteracy (muharabat al-umiyya), distributed posters showing King Mohamed V as a Leviathan overlooking crowds of young and old people streaming into a school, which formed the base of the King’s torso. A public service film supporting the campaign (Benchekroun 1956a) shows Mohamed V in a classroom, his hand drawing a perfect alif. Si Mohamed explained to me that “on the Day of Judgment there will be no illiteracy.” It is consistent with the King’s capacity to occupy the moon for “anyone” to see. It is before God, or the King, that subjects will be gathered in a perfect circuit. It signifies his control of writing as telecommunication that forms the space of the nation, and anonymous “anyone” who would respond to his technologized call. It is difficult to overstate the distinctions between the two generations of practitioners ostensibly doing the same thing with regard to the jinn. It appears as a case where different religious paths have converged. An old generation follows a local tradition, modernized and nationalized through institutional and mediatic means. A younger generation is highly critical of this tradition. They equate its techniques and its performative force to summon with the jinn they exorcise. They emphasize their exteriority to the Moroccan tradition as they do

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 167 their proximity to Islam’s textual origins. The younger generation’s education comes not from a nationalized legacy but from popular books imported from elsewhere. The King and the state are notably absent. In
Abdelwahid’s generation it appears that communication is no longer domesticated by the King, the Quran itself, a technological masterpiece, is the source of communicative authority. A young fqih in fact explained to me that his friends referred to the King as mul hayt (master of the wall), a colloquial pun on mulhid (apostate) that blended his ubiquitous appearance in posted photos with a reference to his dubious religiosity.

Postscript: Foreign Visitations On 16 May 2003 (coincidentally or not, the 73rd anniversary of the Berber dahir), a set of bombs were detonated in Casablanca, Morocco. The target appears to have been “foreign” presence in the city: a Jewish social centre and cemetery, a Spanish club. Official accounts of the bombings suggest that such attacks signal foreign influence, in particular the sudden appearance of hidden Al-Qaeda cells.19 The practice of exorcism of jinn in Morocco works with this political expulsion of the foreign, itself associated with unrestrained communication and hidden influence. It is a matter not only of state or official control of religion (Eickelman 1999) but of a mass practice that has absorbed its logic. And like Islamism to the state, young foqaha in particular view the jinn and associated magic as elements of foreignness in a putatively unified domestic space. Each expresses religious desire inhospitable to the time and place of the nation even when it resides there. Before the Moroccan elections in 2002 the head of Morocco’s one legal Islamist party stated that “the Algerian scenario is the phobia of all Moroccans today”.20 The basis of democracy, shared space, representation and communication, itself becomes the source of fear. Something foreign emerges there.21 Such a foreignness comes from another place, but in so doing has no place. It moves from Algeria to Morocco, professing allegiance to neither. An unwelcome guest. 19 “Moroccan Bombers Linked to Global Terrorism”, 20 May 2003 (http://www.reuters. co.uk/newsPackageArticle.jhtml?type=topNews&storyID=296408). 20 “Maroc: La coalition gouvernementale résiste à une poussée islamiste”, p. 2, 3 October 2002 (http://fr.news.yahoo.com/020929/202/2rrvh.html). 21 It emerges forcefully in the public appearance of murdered corpses that, as Nadia Guessous has explained, accelerated rumours of unapprehended members of radical Islamist groups are infiltrating Morocco (Personal communication with the author, October 2002). It concerns as well the arrest of three Saudi and seven Moroccan nationals in Casablanca accused of affiliation with Al-Qaeda. See “Morocco ‘al-Qaeda’ trial resumes”, 9 December 2002 (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/africa/2557065. htm).

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168 | Emilio Spadola Regarding international, cosmopolitical affiliations, Derrida (2001) has recently proposed a politics of hospitality. Hospitality in Derrida’s reading occurs without invitation; on the contrary, the host must “be ready to not be ready” for all that may arrive (21). Derrida includes spectres and the dead. Hospitality so defined is marked by crisis, for what substantive wall, or door, could stop arrivants or revenants, whose very formlessness permits the breaching of spaces, and times, who may, at any moment show up? Yet this, Derrida makes clear, is the demand of cosmopolitics. Abdelkebir Khatibi (1983: 9-39) has called this giving place to the other as other, or the foreign as foreign, a pensée-autre. To think the foreign as foreign is to counter the “ethnocidal”(15) logic of homogeneity. How accurate a description of terrorist attacks and the counterattacks of the US-led “War on Terror”, waged at present on numerous foreign fronts as on the domestic. Wars as exorcism: withdrawal of hospitality from those who might occupy domestic soil, yet supported by their potential presence; war against what stands for the foreign in the national home: terror or religion or jinn. These appear as communicative and mobile forces, which, defined as clandestine, stand for potential and massive omnipresence. Refusing to show themselves, but threatening to show up, they exert the most pressure from their place at the threshold.

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170 | Emilio Spadola Doutté, E. (1900) Les Aïssâoua à Tlemcen, Châlons-sur-Marne: Imprimerie Martin Frères. Eickelman, D.F. (1976) Moroccan Islam: Tradition and Society in a Pilgrimage Center, Austin: Univ. of Texas Press. Eickelman, D.F. (1978) “The Art of Memory, Islamic Education and Its Social Reproduction”. Comparative Studies in Society and History 20(4), pp. 485-516. Eickelman, D.F. (1985) Knowledge and Power in Morocco: The Education of a Twentieth-Century Notable, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Eickelman, D.F. (1992) “Mass Higher Education and the Religious Imagination in Contemporary Arab Societies”. American Ethnologist (19), pp. 643-655. Eickelman, D.F. (1999) “Communication and Control in the Middle East: Publication and its Discontents”. In: D.F. Eickelman/J.W. Anderson (eds.) New Media in the Muslim World: The Emerging Public Sphere, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, pp. 29-40. Fanon, F. (1968 [1959]) “Ici la voix d’Algérie”. Sociologie d’une révolution, Paris: François Maspero. al-Fassi, A. (1954) The Independence Movements of Arab North Africa, Washington D.C.: American Council of Learned Societies. Geertz, C. (1968) Islam Observed: Religious Developments in Morocco and Indonesia, New Haven: Yale University Press. Gellner, E. (1969) Saints of the Atlas, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Geschiere, P. (1997) The Modernity of Witchcraft: Politics and the Occult in Postcolonial Africa, Charlottesville/London: University of Virginia Press. Gonzalez-Quijano, Y. (1991) “Les livres islamiques: histoires ou mythes?”. Peuples mediterraneens 56-57 (July-December), pp. 283-292. Halstead, J. (1964) “The Changing Character of Moroccan Reformism 19211934”. Journal of African History, 5(3), pp. 435-447. Hammoudi, A. (1997) Master and Disciple: The Cultural Foundations of Moroccan Authoritarianism, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Jaïdi, M. D. (2000) Diffusion et audience des médias audiovisuels: cinéma, radio, télévision, vidéo et publicité au Maroc, Rabat: Al Majal. Jalabert, L. (1934) “Le Nationalisme marocain.” ESPRIT (20 August, pp. 443448; 5 September, pp. 625-637; 20 September, pp. 758-767). Joffé, G. (1997) “Maghribi Islam and Islam in the Maghrib: The Eternal Dichotomy”. In: E.E. Rosander/D. Westerlund (eds.) African Islam and Islam in Africa: Encounters Between Sufis and Islamists, London: Hurst & Company, pp. 55-78. Kapchan, D. (2000) “La marché de la transe: le cas des Gnaoua marocains”. In: A. Chlyeh (ed.) La Transe, Casablanca: Editions Marsam, pp. 157-168. Karam, O. (1990) Haywar ma
al-jinn: mughamarat sahafiyyali-tasjil (Interview with the Jinn: Journalistic Adventures for Recording), Al-Qahira: Madbouli. Keddie, N. R. (ed.) (1972) Scholars, Saints, and Sufis: Muslim religious institutions in the Middle East since 1500, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco | 171 Khatibi, A. (1983) Maghreb pluriel, Paris: Denoel. Lacouture, J. (1958) Le Maroc à l’épreuve, Paris: Éditions du Seuil. Lafuente, G. (1999) La Politique berbère de la France et le nationalisme marocain, Paris: L’Harmattan. Lambek, M. (1993) Knowledge and practice in Mayotte, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Laroui, A. (1977) Les Origines sociales et culturelles du nationalisme marocain (1830-1912), Paris: F. Maspero. Laroui, A. (1992) Esquisses historiques, Casablanca: Publications du Centre culturel arabe. Lahlou, L./Moity, P./Chevaldonné, F. (1963) Wa zarou chamandar (Cultivez la betterave), CCM et Office National des Irrigations. Mernissi, F. (1977) “Women, Saints and Sanctuaries”. Signs 3, pp. 101-12. Mitchell, T. (1988) Colonising Egypt, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Montagne, R. (1954) “Crise politique et sociale au Maroc: mai 1954”. La Revue de Paris 61 (June), pp. 46-61. Morris, R.C. (2000) In the Place of Origins: Modernity and Its Mediums in Northern Thailand, Duke University Press. Mouslim Barbari (pseud.) (1931) Tempête sur le Maroc; ou, les erreurs d’une “politique berbère”, Paris: Éditions Rieder. Pandolfo, S. (2000) “The Thin Line of Modernity: Some Moroccan debates on Subjectivity”. In: T. Mitchell (ed.), Questions of Modernity, Minneapolis/London: University of Minnesota Press, pp. 115-147. Pennell, C.R. (2000) Morocco Since 1830: A History, New York: New York University Press. Radi, S. (1994) “Croyance et Référence: L’utilisation de l’Islam par le Fqih et par la Shuwafa à Khénifra (Maroc)”. Annuaire de l’Afrique du Nord, pp. 189-199. Rausch, M. (2000) Bodies, Boundaries and Spirit Possession: Moroccan Women and the Revision of Tradition, Bielefeld: transcript. Rchich, M. (1975) La Marche Verte, Centre Cinématographique Marocain. Rida, S.A. (1994)
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jaysh al-tahrir. Rothenberg, C. (2001) “Embodied Spirits: Palestinians and the Experience of Possession”. In: G. Currie/C. Rothenberg (eds.) Feminist (Re)visions of the Subject: Landscapes, Ethnoscapes, and Theoryscapes, Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books. Roy, O. (1990) “Les nouveux intellectuelles islamistes: essai d’approche philosophique”. In: G. Kepel/R. Yann (eds.) Intellectuals et militants de l’Islam contemporain, Paris: Seuil.

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172 | Emilio Spadola Siegel, J.T. (1997) Fetish, Recognition, Revolution, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Siegel, J.T. (2000 [1969]) The Rope of God, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. al-Wazzani, M. H. (1933a) “Une grand réforme sociale: L’interdiction des Aissaouas et des confréries similaires”. L’Action du Peuple. Fez, 25 August, p. 2. al-Wazzani, M. H. (1933b) “La Fête du Trône”. L’Action du Peuple. Fez, 10-24 November, p. 1. Westermarck, E. (1968 [1926]) Ritual and Belief in Morocco, vol. I, New Hyde Park, New York: University Books.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 173

Chapter 9 On Snacks and Saints: When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid

1

Samuli Schielke Mawlid festivals, which are celebrated annually at the shrines of saints,2 are probably the most colourful and most controversial element of Sufi practice in contemporary Egypt. These festivities are typically characterized by a special festive atmosphere where devotion and entertainment come together in an overwhelming spectacle of crowds, lights, music, pilgrims, Sufi dhikr, trade and amusements (Mustafa 1981; Biegman 1990). Although the number of visitors at mawlids has been declining since the mid-1990s, they still attract up to hundreds of thousands of visitors and represent an extraordinary moment of public mobilization. Mawlids have a close bond to specific locations and a specific spatial arrangement of space. A mawlid is a celebration of the shrine and a celebration around the shrine. All of these shrines have their share in a grand sacred history – both physical and imagined – of holy women and men (Sha
rani 1997) and of sacred places. It is not my intention, however, to analyse this history here. Islamic or pre-Islamic continuities of the sacred spaces are not the focus of my attention here. Instead, this study will focus on some very contemporary discon1 This article is based on papers presented in a public lecture at the NetherlandsFlemish Institute in Cairo on 23 January 2003, and in the workshop “Modern adaptations of Sufi-based popular Islam: concepts, practices and movements in a translocal perspective” at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies, Berlin on 4 April 2003. 2 In Egypt, Muslim saints (awliya) are usually Sufi shaykhs and/or descendants of the Prophet (Hoffman 1995: 89 pp.). The term mawlid (colloquial mulid, pl. mawalid) derives from the Prophet’s birthday (mawlid al-nabi). Elsewhere in the Muslim world similar festivals have different names, for example mawsim in Morocco, urs in the Indian sub-continent, hauli in east Africa and khawl in Indonesia (cf. “Ziyara”, Encyclopedia of Islam). A rich tradition of Christian saints, monasteries and mawlids also exists in Egypt (Frankfurter 1998; Meinardus 2002), however as the Christian tradition has not been subject to controversies and reforms to the same extent as the Muslim tradition has, I have not included Christian mawlids in this study.

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174 | Samuli Schielke tinuities and ruptures in the festive practices at sacred Islamic locations around Egypt. Through the analysis of present-day mawlids I intend to shed light on the contemporary tensions that exist between different understandings of sanctity, festivity, and the respective arrangement of space and time.

Critics of mawlids Ever since they exist (i.e. since the Fatimid and Mamluk eras at least), mawlids have been subjected to criticism (Shoshan 1993: 17 pp.; Kaptein 1993). This criticism, part of a tradition of ritual reform as represented by Ibn Taymiyya and Ibn
Abd al-Wahhab, remained largely marginal until the late 19th and early 20th centuries when it underwent a qualitative change as part of the modernizing and nationalist discourses. For many of the modernizing elites and the Islamic reform movements, mawlids became a symbol of the dark backwardness and ignorance which, in their view, held back the development of Egyptian society. The critical discourse shifted from individual moral and salvation to the civilizational and moral quality of the nation. In this discourse – which today represents one of the common grounds of modernism and Islamic reform in Egypt – mawlids appear as an expression of ignorance and backwardness, an illegitimate innovation in Islam, a shameful remainder of primitive rituals, the very opposite of religion and rationality (
Umar 1902: 255 pp.;
Abd al-Latif 1999; Johansen 1996: 134 pp., 161 pp.; Schielke 2003). Closer examination reveals, however, that there is actually little inherently un-Islamic or anti-modern about celebrating a saint. Salafi discourses do judge the veneration of saints to be a form of shirk, arguing that the belief in the intercession (tawassul) and blessing (baraka) of the wali is opposed to the absolute power of God. However, although the actual practice of saint veneration is highly contested, only the most radical Wahhabi critics actually dare to question the very basics of sainthood.3 After all, the special status of saints or “friends of God” (awliya Allah) is explicitly mentioned in the Quran (10: 62), and the major saints of Egypt enjoy a high level of public recognition. What really makes a mawlid appear irrational and un-Islamic in the view of so many modernists and Salafi reformists, is primarily its specific festive and ecstatic character. In the following I will argue that the mawlid is primarily a problem for the specific interpretations of order and rationality, religiosity and sanctity that predominate in the official public sphere of contemporary Egypt; and that this is also the starting point of all attempts to reform mawlids.

3 Interview with activists from the Ansar al-Sunna al-Muhammadiyya Wahhabi group in Cairo, 15 December 2002.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 175

Festive time and space When the participants of a mawlid are asked what the festivity is about, the answers they provide vary significantly: some refer to the pilgrimage to the shrine, the love of ahl al-bayt and the saint’s baraka, while others speak of the congregation of friends and brethren, the dhikr sessions, the meditation and recitation. Others simply find the mawlid great fun, with crowds, lights, music, and the colourful fascinating world of cheap popular amusements. The festivities also provide a livelihood for a large number of people. In most cases the different motives for celebrating a mawlid are not clearly distinguished. The search for blessing and spiritual experience goes hand in hand with the fascination of the festive atmosphere. Like no other occasion in Egypt, a mawlid is an ambiguous mixture of religious and profane elements. Much of the religiosity expressed in a traditional mawlid is emotional and ecstatic and expressed in conjunction with music and dancing and a strong belief in miracles. Unlike many other festive occasions in Egypt, a mawlid is a carnivalesque Utopian festival, during which many of the boundaries and norms of ordinary life are temporarily suspended. I refer here to Mikhail Bakhtin’s understanding of the festive period of the carnival as a symbolical, temporary suspension of the “normal” order of things. According to Bakhtin, carnival time is not merely a “safety-valve” that helps people to endure the hardship of daily life, carnival is also a time in its own right, a cheerful, grotesque popular Utopia of freedom and equality.4 It is ambiguous by default; it serves the cohesion of society, but also has a subversive element (Bakhtin 1968: 5 pp.). In the narratives of pilgrims and visitors, the mawlid indeed emerges as a Utopian moment beyond the boundaries of daily life, a place where all people from all classes of society unite and where the mystic and the thief come together in the realm of the saint – a beautiful congregation with the Sufi brethren, a moment of freedom far removed from home and daily routines. During the mawlid you can “leave behind your work and family and set for a long, hard journey”, “get a breath of fresh air”, “see strange, new things” and “forget all your worries and live in the moment.”5 4 One could also analyse this festive time in terms of Victor Turner’s (1974) concepts of liminality and communitas. However, Bakhtin’s model has the major advantage that it helps to explain the subversive nature of mawlids, the potential threat they constitute to concepts of order. According to Bakhtin’s logic as opposed to Turner’s, the festive days and nights of the mawlid are not merely an passing moment of antistructure about to turn structure again, but a temporary alternative reality that is strongly utopian in character. 5 Descriptions recorded in Tanta and Disuq in October 2002 and provided by the imam of a mosque in Tanta describing his journey to a mawlid in the desert, a young woman who travels every year with her parents and a Sufi group to a mawlid, a young

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176 | Samuli Schielke The festive space of the mawlid is characterized by an overwhelming and chaotic appearance. The streets are filled with pilgrims’ carpets, merchants’ stands, tents of the Sufi orders, popular amusements and roaming crowds. This is also reflected in colloquial Egyptian idioms in which the term mulid (colloquial for mawlid) is used to express chaos and confusion.6 This festive chaos is not total; it does follow a certain pattern of order, however the order in question is festive and ambiguous in nature. One can best imagine the festive space of the mawlid in the shape of a shooting-target, a space consisting of a series of concentric circles7: In the middle of it all stands the shrine of the saint, the focal point and the very reason behind the festivity and a source of holiness and baraka. Around it, the Sufi festivities take place, a strongly spiritual and ecstatic experience for the participants. But the mosque is also encircled by countless stands of the vendors, and – sometimes mixed with the Sufi celebration, sometimes further out in the margins of the festivities – swing boats, popular singers and all of the other popular amusements that make up the mawlid. Surrounding streets and alleys are filled by a neighborhood celebration, with families sitting in front of their houses and in cafes. People move continuously between the different spots and the huge crowds (zahma) are part of the standard imagery of the festivity. This festivity does not have a clear programme, a clear meaning or a clear plan, however it has a clear centre in its festive geography (both physical and imagined): the shrine of the saint which radiates the aura of sacredness over all of the festivity, encompassing everything and everyone. Thus, even the most profane parts of the festivity are neither separate from nor opposed to the sacred centre; on the contrary they become part of the sacred-profane spectacle (Madoeuf 2001). This festive space and atmosphere is highly problematic for the discourses of modernism and Islamic reform: it is fundamentally opposed to their standards of order and serious and rationalistic knowledge. Yet it is not so much the content of dominant values and norms that is relativized in the mawlid, but the boundaries which mark these: not only that between the sacred and profane, but also those between fun and seriousness, male and female, public and private, living and dead, day and night, city and countryside (Madoeuf 2001; Pagésel-Karoui 2002). The festive order of the mawlid is based on a social order that allows for ambivalence and the temporary reversal of boundaries. In that order, the mawlid is part of the circle of life and plays a legitimate role in both sustaining and

woman from a family of landless farmers running a temporary café in a mawlid and a male teacher and recent university graduate who visited a mawlid with his friends. 6 As for example in the expression “a mawlid without its master (i.e. the saint)” (mulid wi-sahbu ghayib). 7 I have borrowed this concept from Mark Sedgwick, Assistant Professor at the American University of Cairo.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 177 criticizing the surrounding ordinary time. As opposed to this, in the modernist discourse of the 19th and 20th centuries, of which the Islamic reform movement is a part, society is seen in a process of cumulative development, rationalization and perfection. In this kind of discourse, boundaries are universal and the festive time and space of the mawlid appear as a form of retrogression. Hence, what appears as an aura of sanctity over a festivity that unites all of human life in the “shooting-target” model of mawlid becomes, in the modernist world view, a collection of profane, backward and ridiculous practices that taint the purity of the sacred sphere. This phenomenon is illustrated particularly well by the issue of roasted chickpeas – a cheap tasty snack and a common souvenir purchased at a mawlid. In the “shooting-target” model of the mawlid the chickpeas share in the sacred aura of the festival as carriers of baraka, to the degree that in the colloquial idiom chickpeas have come to represent something like an archetypical symbol of mawlids.8 In the critical discourse on mawlids, chickpeas become a problem. A religious newspaper (
Aqidati, 22 June 1999) commented disapprovingly on the mawlid of the late TV preacher Muhammad Mutawalli al-Sha
rawi: “The mawlid of al-Sha
rawi turned into a playground of dervishes, a festival of chickpeas, sweets and children’s play.” Although in themselves chickpeas are in no way opposed to Islam, modernity, civilisation or anything such like, their presence in the celebration of the saint can make them appear so. Here, chickpeas – part of the flourishing trade in sweets, snacks, amulets, toys and souvenirs – symbolize the blurring of the boundaries which ought to define the proper place of both snacks and saints.

Reform discourses and practices However, most of the critics of mawlids in the official public sphere do not demand that the festivities be abolished. After all, there are good reasons for the continued organization of mawlids. They represent a major medium of religious mobilization. For Sufi orders a mawlid is the occasion on which the members of the order meet, the message of Sufi religiosity can be propagated and the identity of the order is demonstrated towards both members and outsiders alike (Gilsenan 1973: 61-64). For the state, mawlids represent an apolitical conservative form of religiosity which should be encouraged in presenting something opposite to Islamist movements and which also provides a good opportunity for the propagation of the official Azhari interpretation of Islam.9 In addition, the

8 For example, “leaving the mawlid without chickpeas” (tili
mi-l-mulid bi-la hummus), which means “missing an opportunity”. 9 Interview in Cairo 8 July 1999 with shaykh
Abd al-Muizz al-Jazzar, deputy secretary general of the Islamic Research Academy (Majma
al-buhuth al-islamiyya) of al-Azhar;

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178 | Samuli Schielke markets and amusement areas are often highly significant in the context of the local economy. In response to the numerous critical views which describe mawlids as an uncivilized and un-Islamic bid
a, attempts to reform mawlids have emerged in the recent years. These attempts originate mainly from two directions: from state institutions, which attempt to reorganize the public space of mawlids to give them a more “correct” and “ordered” appearance, and from reformist Sufi groups (Luizard 1991; Johansen 1996), which criticize the ambiguous atmosphere and the ecstatic rituals of mawlids and reshape their own festive practices to fulfil the requirements set by reformist discourses and the modern public sphere. Although they appear separate at an initial glance, these two reformist trends are, in fact, closely interconnected through the influence exerted by the state on the Sufi orders and the close relationship between reformist Sufi groups, the Azhar and the state (Luizard 1991: 46 pp.), all of whom participate in the same discourse on “true” Sufism and “true” mawlid. In this discourse, which is connected to the more general discourses of authenticity, modernity and civilisation, mawlids are seen as occasions of remembering, learning and charity. Any deviations from these ideals that exist are presented as external influences that have nothing to do with the true Islamic core of the mawlid. Consequently, the aim is to eradicate such deviations in the festivity so as to make the mawlid what it ought to be: an occasion for learning from and practising the pious example of the wali (Abu l-
Azaim 1991; Ibrahim 1996; al-Liwa
al-islami, 1 August 2002). Since its emergence in the late 19th century, this discourse has been accompanied by attempts to reform the festivities. Ritual and moral reform have the longest history. The emergence of ritual reform coincides with the growing public (both colonial and local) criticism of ecstatic Sufi rituals, and was marked with the famous ban in 1881 on the spectacular ritual of dawsa, whereby the shaykh of the Saydiyya order would ride on a horse over the bodies of his disciples. Since the late 19th century and throughout the 20th century, official Sufi dignitaries tried and to some extent managed to ban other scandalous rituals such as snake-charming and eating broken glass, and – with less success – the use of musical instruments and the participation of women (De Jong 1999; 2000: 91 pp.; Luizard 1991: 28 pp.; Gerholm 1997: 140). The moral reform of mawlids went hand in hand with the growing concern for public morality in Egypt since the 19th century. One possible starting point of this development could be a decree issued in 1834 prohibiting female dancers – who in those days were an inseparable element of all major festivities – from performing in public places (Wallin 1864: 44). However, 100 years later dancinterview in Kafr al-Shaykh, 21 January 2003 with Fuad
Abd al-
Aziz Muhammad, director of the awqaf administration of the province Kafr al-Shaykh (cf. also Luizard 1991: 46 pp.).

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 179 ing, gambling, alcohol and prostitution were still common and visible at mawlids although the state did attempt to alter the situation by closing down some of the most infamous mawlids (McPherson 1941: 5-16, 286). More far-reaching measures to “clean up” the festivities were introduced in the second half of the 20th century. Since the 1950s and 1970s, the sale of alcohol has been banned at most mawlids and, today, it is often impossible to find a single bar at a mawlid. Some cities, most importantly Tanta, even impose general prohibition during the festivity. Female dancers, who could still be seen performing on the streets in the immediate vicinity of the mosque in the 19th century, have been forced to move to the outermost periphery of the festivity and are banned from performing altogether at the majority of mawlids (Van Nieuwkerk 1995: 65). Gambling is still a common sight at most mawlids, however it appears to enjoy only a semi-legal status. The large-scale reorganization of the festive space and the rituals has reached its peak since the 1990s, the period which I will analyse in the following. What is involved here is a more fundamental reform that goes beyond the elimination of the most immoral and scandalous elements from the festivities. The practices I will analyse in the following section are part of the discourse of “true” and “correct” mawlid and their objective is to change the festive space and time of the celebrations.

The making of a mawlid Despite its at times very chaotic appearance, a mawlid is by no means a spontaneous event. Major organizational effort is required to stage these apparently chaotic scenes and this provides a means of changing the form and character of the festivity. Several local-level state institutions participate in the organization of a large mawlid. The festivity is planned and organized by a board comprising different branches of the administration, typically the province governor’s office, the city administration, the security, electricity and health authorities and the Awqaf administration. If the mawlid is held in honour of a Sufi shaykh, the Sufi order affiliated to him may also participate in the organization. The state institutions allocate space for different parts of the festivity (Sufi orders’ tents, market stands, amusements, cafes etc.) and are responsible for the planning and maintenance of the public space (buildings, streets, parks etc.) and for security and order during the festivity.10 The state provides the physical framework for the festivity, but – with exception of official celebrations organized by the awqaf administration and the 10 Pagés-el-Karoui (2002); interview with shaykh Muhammad Hammad, shaykh of the mosque of Sayyid al-Badawi, on 28 June 1999 in Tanta; interview with Sa
id Mar
i, secretary general of Qena governorate, on 15 January 2003 in Qena.

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180 | Samuli Schielke Organisation for Cultural Centres (haya qusur al-thaqafa) – it does not produce the content of the festivity. Most of the actual celebrations are organized on a decentralized basis within the framework provided by the state. The more profane elements of the festivity – cafes, restaurants, amusements, small trade etc. – are commercial and run by countless private entrepreneurs, while most of the religious celebrations are organised by Sufi orders and Sufi-minded individuals. The basic physical unit of Sufi celebrations at a mawlid is khidma, the services offered to Sufi brethren and visitors. It is the place where pilgrims sleep during the festival, where free food is offered to the people and where Sufi gatherings – which traditionally consist mainly of collective dhikr – take place at night. The concrete form of a khidma can range from a simple carpet on the pavement with a gas-cooker and a teapot to a lavish tent with bright coloured lights where food is served to thousands and where famous munshids perform at night. Each khidma is independently organized by a Sufi group, as is the form and programme of the gatherings. Hence, two main channels exist where the discourse of reform can take shape in practice: the involvement of the state in the organization of the festivities, which allows for the manipulation of the festive space, and the Sufi hadras which provide reformist groups with the best opportunity for the practice of their version of what mawlid is about.

Reorganizing the public space Over the past ten years, the sites of almost all major mawlids in Cairo have been substantially reconstructed by public authorities. Similar projects have also been carried out in major pilgrimage sites in the provinces, notably in Tanta, Disuq and Qena. Tanta: sharpening the boundaries In the Nile Delta city of Tanta, the mawlid of al-Sayyid Ahmad al-Badawi (Qadi 2001; Mayeur-Jaouen 1994), Egypt’s largest and most famous mawlid, has a long history of government presence (Pagés-el-Karoui 2002). Due to its tremendous size11, this festivity stretches over several kilometres of festive grounds. The mawlid traditionally has three main spaces: the surroundings of 11 The mawlid is estimated to have two million visitors (interview with Shaykh Muhammad Hammad, shaykh of the mosque of Sayyid al-Badawi, on 28 June 1999 in Tanta.). However, as such estimates tend to be vastly exaggerated in Egypt, and there is no reliable way of providing an objective count of the number of visitors, this estimate is little more than a wild guess. The real number of visitors may be far lower.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 181 the mosque in the centre of the city, a fair ground behind the railway line, and behind that, the fields of Sigar where most of the tents of the Sufi orders and pilgrims are located.12 State involvement in the festivity has not affected the basic layout of this festival, however it has continuously tended to draw the lines between the different spaces more rigidly so that vendors’ stands and entertainment areas are only allowed in specified locations. Most recently, in the 1990s, part of the square in front of the mosque, which used to host a market and a bus station, was surrounded by a fence to turn it into a sanctuary (haram).13 During the mawlid, the area inside the fence is covered by pilgrims’ carpets and temporary cafes. The large tents of the police, health service, fire brigade and some Sufi orders stand just outside the fence. Disuq: creating a representative space The reforms of the public space in Tanta have largely followed the pre-existing layout of the mawlid, however they have resulted in a far more rigid differentiation between the divisions within the festival. State involvement in other mawlids clearly opposes the pre-existing festival order. This is the case in the nearby city of Disuq, home to the mawlid of Sidi Ibrahim al-Disuqi (Ja
fari 2001; Hallenberg 1997). In the mid-1990s the mosque square was expanded to give the mosque that houses the shrine a more prestigious environment and to create more space for the mawlid. Since then, the spacious new square hosted the main part of the mawlid. The tents of the Sufi orders stood in front of the mosque and the rest of the square was filled with trading stands and pilgrims’ carpets. The amusements were located in a nearby street. In 2002, however, by order of the province governor
Ali
Abd al-Shakur14, it was forbidden to put up any stands or tents at all in the square during the mawlid (which lasted one week). As a result, the square was only sparsely crowded during the festival, and the celebrations moved to the crowded side streets. The emptiness of the central square was further underlined by an unusually heavy security presence. Most participants were disappointed about the shape of the festivity. Vendors, Sufis and the city’s inhabitants all expressed discontent about this new order, complaining that this year the mawlid was “weak”, “all government” and 12 This has been the case since the 1940s at least (interview with Shaykh
Abd al-
Aziz Faysal, a regular visitor to the mawlid since that time, on 16 October 2002 in Tanta), but this basic arrangement of the festive grounds has been roughly the same much longer (Wallin 1864, vol.2: 39-44). 13 Interview with regular Sufi visitors to the mawlid on 15 October 2002 in Tanta. 14 In a bizarre twist of fate, the governor died of heart attack on 5 November 2002 (al-Wafd, 6 November 2002), only five days after the mawlid, which many Sufis immediately interpreted as a divine punishment for his restrictive measures during the mawlid.

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182 | Samuli Schielke “spoiled”. The local authorities, however, considered it a great success in making the festivity more ordered, beautiful, representable and religious.15 Qena: modernizing the city, relocating the festivity This new order that was imposed in Disuq aimed to create an empty ordered and, most of all, representable space in the centre of the mawlid, however it did not attempt any far-reaching relocation or redefinition of the festivity as has been the case in the Upper Egyptian city of Qena, home to the mawlid of Sidi
Abd al-Rahim al-Qinawi (al-Hajjaji 1996). This mawlid had traditionally taken place in the immediate vicinity of the mosque, in the large open square in front of the mosque and in the graveyard behind it. Sufi khidmas, trade and amusements used to spread over the area, often standing side by side. All this changed when the city of Qena experienced a large-scale development campaign after the new governor, State Security General Adil Labib assumed office in late 1999 (al-Ahram, 1 November 1999; 29 August 2002). One part of the campaign involved the improvement of the pilgrimage site and the reorganization of the annual mawlid. The mosque in which the shrine is located was renovated and extended.16 The open square in front of the mosque, where the stalls and large khidmas were previously located, was completely surrounded by a fence and became accessible only from the main street, not from side streets or from the graveyard behind the mosque. Unlike in Tanta and Disuq where the squares are open for the public to picnic on and wander about, in Qena most of the square was turned into a park that is completely closed to the public. During the mawlid, no tents or stands were allowed inside the passage marked by iron fences (one to separate it from the streets, the other to separate it from the park). On the final night of the festival, at maghrib prayer, the entire area of the mosque was closed to the public because the governor and the shaykh of al-Azhar were arriving for the official celebration. As a result of the erection of the fences and the replacement of the different elements of the festivity, the physical shape of the mawlid changed significantly. Not only were khidmas and a considerable number of the trade stands forced to wander to the side streets, the graveyard, which had hosted much of the mawlid in the past, was largely cut off from the festive grounds. Furthermore, the amusements were given a new location in the nearby stadium, approximately half a kilometre away from the mosque and the Sufi tents. The entire festive space was fragmented by numerous fences and gates.

15 Interview with Fuad
Abd al-
Aziz Muhammad, director of Awqaf administration in the province Kafr al-Shaykh, on 21 January 2003 in Kafr al-Shaykh. 16 In many other pilgrimage centres, the renovation of the mosque went hand in hand with a higher degree of gender segregation, however this was not the case in Qena.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 183 The secretary-general of Qena province17 argued in an interview, that these measures had turned the mosque and the mawlid of Sidi
Abd al-Rahim into a beautiful modern Islamic pilgrimage site, a representable and clean place “for people to perform ziyara and to listen to religious hymns and lectures and the biography of Sidi
Abd al-Rahim” and completely isolated from any kind of “transgressing activities” (a
mal mukhilla), such as amusements, gambling, trade, and eating and sleeping in the open. All these attempts at reorganization result from a specific understanding of the festive order which opposes the traditional “shooting-target model”. The state authorities tend to organize the mawlid increasingly on the basis of a model comprising separate spheres. In Tanta, this is done by sharpening the boundaries of the existing spatial arrangement, in Disuq through the creation of an empty representative space in the centre that is separate from the popular festivity in the side streets and in Qena through the radical relocation of the festivity, which was conceived as part of the modernization of the entire city. In each case, the mawlid space has been restructured in accordance with a functionally differentiated system of order. In this new order, the sacred and the profane, the official and the popular celebrations are separated. Everything (i.e. everything that the planners consider important) has its place. The state symbolically takes possession of the centre of the mawlid by creating an empty, representative space. In the words of the responsible officials and religious dignitaries, this space is “beautiful” and “ordered” (munazzam). Nizam, meaning order, discipline and organization, is, perhaps, the most common word that crops up in the context of the reorganization of mawlids.18 This new spatial order of the mosque and the surrounding area looks prestigious and is suitable for official ceremonies. However, it is rather dysfunctional in the context of a mawlid as it fragments the open space required for the large crowds that attend the festivities. The hybrid and ambivalent space of a mawlid is turned into a prestigious, well-ordered space in a modern city inhabited by well-disciplined citizens as apparently conceived by planners of such projects (Mitchell 1988: 79 pp.). This emphasis on discipline and order is also expressed in the increased emphasis on religious preaching and propaganda and the large official celebrations (consisting of speeches by religious and political dignitaries and some recitation of the Quran and religious poetry) which are held in the immediate vicinity of the mosque. It is further reflected in the television coverage of the festivities. Neither the street festivities nor the Sufi dhikr sessions are broadcast. What can be broadcast are religious lectures, official celebrations, Friday pray-

17 Sa
id Mar
i, Qena, 15 January 2003. 18 Interview with Sa
id Mar
i; interview with General
Adil Labib, governor of Qena, and his secretaries on 15 January 2003 in Qena; interview with Fuad
Abd al-
Aziz Muhammad.

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184 | Samuli Schielke ers (during or following the mawlid) and folkloric arts (such as mirmah, a traditional Upper Egyptian horse race). This is the mawlid as the state institutions would like to show it: a well-organized and precisely orchestrated festivity for the propagation of official religious discourse. Religious dignitaries, not the ordinary visitors, are the focus of attention. The festivity is turned into a medium of religious propaganda, possibly enriched with some elements of folklore. However, the chaotic ambiguous traditional mawlid does not disappear. It is merely moved out of sight. By symbolically occupying the centre of the festivity (the mosque and the surrounding open space), the state can demonstrate its concern for a civilized ordered and representable mawlid and simultaneously allow the margins of the festival to remain the way they used to be. After all, many of the responsible officials are well aware that this is what makes a mawlid really interesting for the majority of the participants: We could make the mawlid even more ordered. We could go to the side streets and organise them the same way [i.e. restrict trade and amusements and decrease the pressure of the crowds], but that would make the mawlid lose its flavour. It’s the crowds that make the mawlid (il-mulid fi zahmituh).19

Thus, the state institutions must strike a balance between the interests of public appearance and order and those of the popular street festivity. This is the fundamental problem of street festivity: its continuation is in interest of the state, but at the same time it represents a potential threat to the public authorities’ understanding of order and beauty and of a festivity as an officially orchestrated show.

Remaking the Sufi hadra Sufi gatherings constitute the other important area in which attempts to reshape mawlids can be observed. The collective dhikr is the most important element of a traditional Sufi hadra at a mawlid. This can take many forms; the so-called “standing” dhikr involving ecstatic dance and melodic, emotional music is the most prominent form which is most commonly subject to criticism and seen as in greatest need of reform (Frishkopf 2002; Hoffman 1995; Johansen 1996; Waugh 1989). Unlike the festivity on the streets, Sufi dhikr is essentially religious in nature, however the kind of bodily disposition expressed in it is controversial. Dhikr is the main event in this most controversial kind of Sufi gathering. After 19 Interview on 18 January 2003 in Cairo with
amid Sayyid Ahmad, member of the National Assembly (Majlis al-Sha
b) and former police chief of Fuwa (province Kafr al-Shaykh) who has many years of experience in the mounted police during the mawlid in Disuq.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 185 an opening ceremony with ritual speeches, prayers and recitation of the Quran, the members of the order stand up and start to invocate names of God while simultaneously moving to the tone of the music. The music is melodic and emotional and the munshid is usually accompanied by a band. Critics see this as compromising the spiritual content to a lower level of animalistic instinct. The dhikr can last for anything from an hour to an entire night. It is concluded by a closing ceremony which, again, involves ritual speech and prayers. There are no lectures, no rhetorical speeches and no intellectual content. This kind of dhikr is very ecstatic and spontaneous – to a certain extent. The physical movement, i.e. the waving and dancing, is often viewed by critics as something opposed to religion. During a mawlid the dhikr typically takes place in a tent open to the street and it is usually quite informal: people come and go, there are different levels of participation and only a weak differentiation between performers and audience. Women commonly participate in such gatherings and critics see this as particularly scandalous. Based on its ecstatic and spontaneous character, on the one hand, and the way it is embedded in the informal lower-class habitus of the mawlid, on the other, the traditional form of dhikr breaks the boundaries set for religious ritual in the dominant religious discourses. From the point of view of an aesthetic of contemplative, disciplined and rational piety, such practices oppose two of the fundamental principles of Islamic ritual: rationality and discipline (Starrett 1995). From this perspective, constrained disciplined intellectualism is the very cornerstone of the Revelation and inherently opposed to uncontrolled, ambivalent emotion: “God opened the Revelation with the word ‘Read!’ (iqra
), He did not say: ‘Dance!’”20 As a result, all recent attempts to reform Sufi gatherings tend to intellectualize the content and give discipline a clear priority over emotional, ecstatic and ambiguous elements. Thus, what is important is to include intellectual, rhetorical elements in the ritual, eliminate uncontrolled expression, create clear discipline and give the whole event a more organized and morally respectable appearance. One of the most important proponents of ritual reform is the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders (al-Majlis al-a
la li-l-turuq al-sufiyya), a government-controlled institution responsible for Sufi affairs in Egypt (Luizard 1991: 29 pp.). In reality, however, the Council only has a limited influence on the actual course of mawlids. It acts primarily as a vehicle for a reformist Sufi discourse.21 Actual reforms of festivities and rituals are implemented by reform-minded Sufi 20 Discussion with an Egyptian academic, Cairo, 23 January 2003. 21 Interview on 17 February 2002 in Cairo with shaykh
Ala Abu l-
Azaim, shaykh of the
Azmiyya Sufi order and a member of the Supreme Sufi Council, who complained that the government authorities would not take the Supreme Sufi Council’s proposals for eliminating deviations from mawlids seriously.

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186 | Samuli Schielke orders and individuals.22 However, just as there are different Sufi groups with different social and ideological backgrounds, there many different ways of making a Sufi hadra fit the requirements of official religious discourses in the public sphere. In the following section, I will discuss three different solutions which I observed at different mawlids around Egypt during 2002. Sheikh Salah: the traditionalist Shaykh Salah al-Din al-Qusi, the holder of a degree in science from a Czechoslovak university and owner of a chemical factory in the military sector, is the leader of a Sufi group which organizes one of the largest khidmas in the mawlid of al-Sayyida Zaynab in Cairo.23 During the day, the tent, which is in a good location next to the wall of the mosque, is filled by visitors who enjoy the free meals offered by the shaykh. Public hadras are held on five consecutive nights during the mawlid. I observed the opening hadra on 26 September 2002. This hadra is traditional in much of its style, but it is clearly organized in a way that is intended to avoid the controversial aspects of Sufi dhikrs: everybody is seated, which makes the entire event far more static and disciplined. The munshid performs without a band and in a style that consciously avoids the generation of an excessively ecstatic atmosphere. Sometimes the recitation is interrupted to explain the meaning of the verse (which is authored by the shaykh). Women are seated separately from men. Nonetheless, Shaykh Salah’s gathering remains close to the traditional milieu and atmosphere of mawlids in many ways, and can be historically related to the long tradition of more contemplative Sufi gatherings. There are very few speeches; the hadra consists of an opening ceremony, the performance of the munshid and a closing ceremony. It is open to all, people sit on the ground and not on chairs, and there is no special dress to distinguish active murids from passers-by. The crowd participates in the inshad, which makes the atmosphere turn ecstatic at times towards the end. This gathering has eliminated the most controversial aspects of a traditional standing musical dhikr, but it is still clearly committed to the form and occasion of a traditional mawlid24, while clearly attempting to create a higher level of discipline and order. 22 It is common for living Sufi shaykhs to have no formal order of their own, only an informal circle of friends and disciples. This is also the case with shaykh Salah al-Din Qusi whose hadra is described below. 23 Shaykh Salah’s supporters are not organized in a formal association, but in an informal group known as al-Ashraf al-Mahdiyya (see http://www.alashraf-almahdia. com/). 24 Supporters of shaykh Salah also abstain from criticizing other Sufis whose gatherings are more ecstatic and colourful. They argue that the standing dancing dhikr is simply a more basic rudimentary part of the Sufi way, which they no longer need, thanks to the spiritual power of their shaykh. Interview with computer engineer and

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 187 Al-Tariqa al-
Azmiyya: radical reform Other reformist Sufi gatherings go much further than that of Shaykh Salah. An outstanding example is the mawlid of the
Azmiyya order. The order, which was founded in 1933 by the prominent anti-colonial activist Muhammad Madi Abu l-
Azaim, is known for its radical anti-Salafi polemics and outspokenly modernist orientation. The
Azmiyya defends mawlids vehemently against Salafi criticism while simultaneously calling for a reform of the celebrations (Luizard 1991: 37; Abu l-
Azaim 1991; 1993). The mawlid of al-imam al-mujaddid (as he is considered to be by his followers) Muhammad Madi Abu l-
Azaim is consciously organized as an exemplary instance of a true and correct mawlid and in clear contrast to a traditional Sufi gathering. The entire festivity consists solely of a religious-political celebration and there are no amusements and no trading to be found anywhere. The mawlid lasts four days and the atmosphere is far from festive. In 2002, the first day was devoted to a conference discussing the contribution of Sufism to religious discourse. On the second day, which was also the day of al-isra wa-l-mi
raj, a celebration was held in the order’s mosque involving a short dhikr – seated and without musical instruments – followed by some learned and many highly political speeches. The main public celebration took place on the two following nights, first in a tent in front of the mosque, and in the final night in a theatre. During the public celebrations on the two last nights of the mawlid, all of the people are seated on chairs. The women are separated from men more strictly than in the hadra of Shaykh Salah where women simply were given one part of the room whose boundaries were not physically marked. In this case, there is a metre-high wall between the female and male audiences. In the theatre, the women are seated on the balcony and the men on the floor. There is also a clear separation between the seated audience and the order’s dignitaries who are seated on the podium. The atmosphere of the entire festivity is very formal. There is no dhikr during the public celebration. The first three and half hours of the celebration consist entirely of speakers and preachers praising the founder of the order and discussing political topics (mostly sharp attacks on Israel and Jews in general, and Saudi Arabia and Wahhabis in general). Awards are given to outstanding members of the order and persons of public prominence. Music finally follows the three and a half hours of speeches. It is performed by an orchestra and a uniformed choir. The music is much softer and more elaborate than the music performed by most munshids in mawlids. It represents the officially recognized and more orchestral form of Sufi music which can be appreciated as high art and broadcasted on the radio (Frishkopf 2002). The only opportunity for public participation is through applause. disciple of shaykh
Umar al-Jundi who was active in the organisation of the khidma on 29 September 2002 in Cairo.

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188 | Samuli Schielke Not only does the festivity lack emotional, ecstatic and entertaining elements, the space itself is also more sober. While in other hadras brightly-coloured traditional textiles are used for the tent, here the cloth of the tent has a simple square pattern with only two colours. This is common in many reformist hadras as well as official celebrations. Otherwise, this type of tent is used for funerals rather than mawlids. This gathering is organized in conscious opposition to traditional mawlids. It no longer looks like a mawlid. However, it does look very much like the many official political and religious gatherings shown on Egyptian television. In fact, it represents a clear attempt to fulfil the norms of the modern official public sphere: the form is that of a conference, the public is disciplined and passive and the content is intellectual, educational and rationalistic. It is not intended to be fun. Al-Tariqa al-Jazuliyya: some emotion, some discipline The Tariqa al-Jazuliyya al-Husayniyya al-Shadhiliyya, a relatively new order that deliberately targets supporters from the well-educated upper and middle classes, adopts a different approach to making Sufi gatherings more in tune with the dominant religious discourses. While the spiritual teachings of the order are more conventional than those of the
Azmiyya, the Jazuliyya is very keen to perform a “clean”, orderly and well-organized dhikr (Hoffman 1995: 147, 152, 247). I observed a public gathering of the order at the mawlid of Sidi
Abd al-Rahim al-Qinawi on 18 October 2002 in Qena and at the mawlid al-nabi celebrations on 12 May 2003 in Cairo. The space for these gatherings is colourfully decorated; a brightly coloured tent, balloons and strips of coloured paper underline the festive atmosphere. The hadra features many preachers and speeches of a rhetorical – as opposed to primarily ritual – nature. However, the emphasis lies on the dhikr. The munshid performs with a band and the music is close to traditional Sufi inshad, i.e. fast, rhythmical, melodic and emotional25. However, the people are seated on the ground, which is an unusual combination. They participate in the music by singing and clapping hands, and many of them are clearly in an ecstatic state. Only members of the order participate in the rituals. Female members of the order are seated at the side of the tent and merely watch the hadra without actively participating in it. The most outstanding feature, however, is the uniform dress of the disciples, which is unique in an Egyptian mawlid. There are white jallabiyyas and caps for normal murids, green caps for those who perform and work for the khidma and blue caps for those who take care of security and order. A member of the order, who was wearing a green cap, explained that the dress code is adopted “so that there is some kind 25 The main difference is that here, as in most reformist Sufi celebrations, the program is based on a fixed set of songs, leaving no space for spontaneous performance.

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 189 of discipline”, so that different functions are clearly distinguished and so that members of the order are distinct from the crowd. As a result of this arrangement, the atmosphere is far more emotional and ecstatic than at other reformist Sufi gatherings, however there is a clear sense of discipline which is evoked most visibly by the functional differentiation based on the uniforms. The dhikr practised by the Jazuliyya is very interesting because it represents an attempt to present an aesthetic of order and discipline while being festive and ecstatic at the same time. This is a central problem for all Sufi gatherings: just as state authorities face a balancing act between the interests of public order and those of the street festivity, reform-minded Sufis must also strike a balance between the aim of presenting a “pure”, “correct” and disciplined gathering and the expression of festive and ecstatic tendencies. This tension between ecstatic states and group discipline, which is present in every Sufi dhikr, has been analysed by Michael Gilsenan as the polar tension between “freedom and control, between unrestrained emotional ecstasy and formal regulation, between the individual and group experience which must be one, though the first always threatens the second” (Gilsenan 1973:174). It would be too simplistic to describe this balancing act in terms of the opposition between “orthodox” and “popular” Sufism (Gerholm 1997: 143). Different types of Sufi gatherings have always existed side-by-side at Egyptian mawlids with more contemplative gatherings taking place right next to the more ecstatic and spontaneous forms of dhikr (Frishkopf 2002; Abu-Zahra 1997: xi; Schielke 2002). Reformist Sufi gatherings are not simply an expression of “orthodox” Sufism (whatever that is); they are part of a complex redefinition and remaking of spirituality, festivity and religiosity. They are closely related to the political, intellectual and economic development of Egyptian society in the 20th century, where being both modern and a Muslim has been increasingly associated with a rational, disciplined and constrained habitus (Starrett 1995; Armbrust 1996). For this reason, the dimension of class distinctions must not be omitted from the exploration of this phenomenon. Reformist Sufi orders consciously try to attract educated middle or upper class followers. As a result, reformed Sufi gatherings often stand out from the general lower-class milieu of the mawlids. Many of these gatherings have emerged only recently, and they often combine a constrained, educational atmosphere (which in itself is a marker of class distinction, especially of educational capital) with two significant innovations concerning the material side of the khidma: the seating of participants on chairs and what other Sufis call a “five-star khidma”, i.e. instead of sitting together on the carpet around the plates of food, the people are seated on chairs and offered individual meals and the food is often of much higher quality than usually is provided in mawlids (it sometimes even includes elements symbolic of restaurant service, such as refreshment towels). Many Sufis feel rather uncomfortable about this development, and with good reason: these khidmas, and the hadras held in them, are in some respects

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190 | Samuli Schielke the opposite of the traditional Sufi mawlid, firstly, because they are associated with the outspoken criticism of the more ecstatic and emotional forms of hadra and, secondly, because of the clear statement they make with respect to class difference by using chairs and “five-star” service.26

Conclusion: the new mawlid Based on an understanding of “discourse itself as practice” (Foucault 1972: 46), the reformist discourse on mawlids is not something distinct from the festive practice itself: the game of redefining the celebrations in the public sphere goes hand in hand with changes in the time and space of the festivity. Interestingly, this redefinition and reshaping of mawlids is largely decentral. Except for the authorization to stage the festivity, which is required from the Ministry of the Interior and in some cases from the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders, there is no policy on mawlids at central government level. The decisions concerning the organization of a mawlid are all taken at local level by the provincial administration and by individual Sufi orders.27 What we have here is not a centralized policy, but a diffuse discursive practice: the similarities in the reorganization of different mawlids around the country follow an implicit understanding of how large popular religious celebrations should look. This kind of discursive common sense is disseminated through the religious and civilizational discourses in the official public sphere, the institutes of higher learning, the education and training of police and security officers and the debates and discussions that take place within the Sufi establishment. These discursive practices of reorganization and reform primarily concern the visible aspects of the mawlids, i.e. their appearance. However, the form of the festivity is actually directly related to its content and meaning. These practices tend to eliminate or to diminish the ambiguity that is so characteristic of the traditional form of mawlid. The mawlid shall now have one clear meaning. Everything shall have its clear place in a spatial order and a festive programme and the people are expected to behave accordingly. These reforms attempt to transform the mawlid from a chaotic, ambiguous, Utopian festivity, during which the normal order of things is suspended, into a disciplined educational celebration that reinforces norms and values.28 26 It should be kept in mind that the temporary suspension of class distinctions is a central motif of the festive time of the mawlid. Interviews with Ashraf Faysal, son and prospective successor of a Sufi shaykh on 1 November 2002 in Disuq and with shaykh Hasan al-Dirini on 30 October 2002 in Disuq. 27 Interviews with Sa
id Mar
i, General
Adil Labib and
amid Sayyid Ahmad. 28 This happens in different degrees, of course. The
Azmiyya Sufi order, which tries to replace the traditional mawlid by an entirely different one, represents an extreme position. A more balanced approach is represented by state institutions (secular and

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When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid | 191 According to Foucault’s (1972: 49) understanding of discourses as “practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak” what we have here is an entirely new object: a mawlid that does not look or sound like a mawlid. However, what is happening is more complex than the mere replacement of one object by another. In practice, so far, the reforms have not led to the elimination of the more carnivalesque and syncretistic aspects of mawlids: the new object – the reformed representable mawlid – must exist in parallel to other objects, all of which are known as mawlid: the ecstatic dhikr, the pilgrims in search of baraka, the children enjoying playgrounds, sweets and toys and the youths roaming the streets seeking entertainment and excitement. However, these different experiences and practices of the mawlid are being increasingly separated from each other, they are being transformed from an all-encompassing spectacle into independent spheres, each representing a mawlid of its own kind. On a final note, it is important to relate the festive reform to the recent decline of mawlids29 and related traditions in Egypt. This development began in the 1990s and is most visible in the shrinking number of visitors to most mawlids and the decline of certain traditions, most importantly processions. The possible reasons for this development – changing patterns of religiosity, modern entertainment industry, the educational system and the current economic crisis – are too complex to be examined here. It is necessary, however, to be aware of the relationship between the reforms, the growing diversity of the festive experience and the current decline of the festivities: the traditional, carnivalesque mawlid has always been simultaneously a moment of libertine joy and a form of religious duty. When this unity of religious and festive experience breaks, the mawlid loses much of its attraction and much of its power to draw pilgrims from all parts of the country to spend a week in the temporary Utopia of a sacred holiday.

religious alike), especially in case of Tanta, which acknowledge the ambiguity and complexity of the mawlid, but attempt to limit and control it. 29 It is not possible to predict the future of the mawlids. Throughout the 20th century, they were predicted as likely to disappear soon and went through many alternating periods of decline (e.g. the 1930s) and growth (e.g. the 1980s).

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192 | Samuli Schielke

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 195

Chapter 10 Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism Paulo G. Pinto Introduction This article aims to analyze the connections between sainthood and power in the context of contemporary Syrian Sufism. Notions of sainthood have a central role in the construction of religious authority among the Sufi communities in Syria, for there is a conceptual and practical continuity in the perception by the Sufis of the religious power of the saint (wali, plural awliya)1 and that of the Sufi shaykh (religious leader, pl. shuyukh). Indeed sainthood is a palpable possibility in the career of the Sufi shaykh as many of them end by being considered as saints by their followers after their death. Instead of focusing on the doctrinal definitions of sainthood among Sufis, the analysis will look at how notions of sainthood emerge from the ritual display and manipulation of the shaykh’s baraka in the context of succession crisis within Sufi communities. In order to demonstrate this proposition I will analyze the succession in the leadership that took place during my fieldwork research at the zawiya (Sufi lodge, pl. zawaya) of shaykh
Abd al-Fatah Aminu in Aleppo.2 The dramatic character and the long span of time that this succession process took allowed a better perception of the symbolic and performatic mechanisms involved. Sufi saints embody models of moral and social conduct and provide guidance and protection to their devotees. The intimate knowledge of the divine reality that makes the saint a “friend of God” (wali Allah) gives him the capacity of mediating the access to God’s power and intervening in favour of his followers from a position of proximity to divine justice. These two sources of saintly power are expressed in the concepts that define “sainthood” in Islam: walaya, which can be translated as “closeness” or “friendship” and wilaya, which can be 1 In order to facilitate the reading of the article the plural of the Arabic words will be done by adding an “s” to them. The Arabic plural will be indicated into brackets at the first occurrence of the word in the text. 2 The empirical data analyzed here was collected from 1999 to 2001, during a sixteenmonth period of fieldwork among Arab and Kurdish Sufi zawiyas in Aleppo and the Kurd Dagh in Syria.

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196 | Paulo G. Pinto translated as “tutoring”, “guidance” and “intercession”. The forms of expression of the saint’s power were nicely summarized by Vincent Cornell, who stated that “the wali Allah is both an intermediary and a patron for his clients” (1998: xix-xx). There is continuity between the authority of the saint and that of the Sufi shaykh, for the latter is also perceived by his followers as someone who mediates between the divine and the human realities due his personal connection to God. While sainthood in Islam cannot be reduced to its expression in Sufism both phenomena are interconnected. Sainthood is a central element in the Sufi conceptions of power and authority and its systematization and incorporation as a legitimate part of the Islamic tradition was mainly the work of Sufi scholars, such as Ibn
Arabi (Cornell 1998: xxxv; Chodkiewicz 1993: 8-10). In his study of sainthood in pre-modern Morocco Vincent Cornell stressed the centrality of the notions of walaya and wilaya for the definition of this phenomenon in the Islamic context. He also pointed to the limitations of the analysis of sainthood based on Weber’s theory of charisma, which usually focuses solely on the personal gift of baraka (divine grace), ignoring that within the saint’s religious persona this concept articulates with other notions derived from the larger Islamic tradition, such as salah (piety/virtue) (1998: xxv-xxviii).3 Some of the problems of these analyses derive from the application of Weber’s theory without its adaptation to the specific dynamics of sainthood in Islamic contexts. Weber considered charismatic authority as necessarily opposed to traditional or bureaucratic forms of domination because its legitimization is dependent solely on the idiosyncratic set of qualities embodied in the person of the leader (1978: 244). Thus, in order to allow the charismatic community to survive the death of its original leader, the charismatic authority of the latter has to become “routinized”, i.e. objectified into impersonal institutions, so as to allow its transmission to a chain of successors (Weber 1978: 246-249). This model cannot give an adequate account of the complex articulation between the personal qualities or gifts related to the notion of baraka and the traditional models of authority expressed in wilaya that define sainthood in the Sufi tradition. Similarly, if the authority of the Sufi shaykh has an evident charismatic character, it is also legitimized by the direct connection of his religious persona with 3 Ernest Gellner is, perhaps, the best example of this tendency in anthropology, as he used the ideal-types of the miracle-maker “saint” and the scripturalistic “doctor” as representative of “folk” and “literate” Islam respectively (1993: 114-130). Another anthropologist who approached the phenomenon of sainthood solely from the point of view of baraka was Clifford Geertz, who actually reified this concept as the main cultural construct of religious authority in Morocco in “Islam Observed” (1975: 44-45). A more complex view of the role of baraka in the construction religious power and sainthood can be found in Michael Gilsenan’s analysis of the Hamidiya Shadhiliya in Egypt (1973: 20-35) and Emile Dermenghem’s study of the cult of saints in North Africa (1982).

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 197 the doctrinal and ritual traditions of Sufism.4 Furthermore, even when the religious authority of the Sufi shaykh becomes “routinized” into hereditary forms of succession, the new shaykh has to prove the power of his baraka in order to keep the members of the community under his religious guidance (Chih 2000: 190; Gilsenan 1973: 72-81; Pinto 2002: 183-195). The performative character of the shaykh’s authority calls for a better conceptualisation and contextualisation of baraka as a constitutive element of disciplines of power in contemporary Sufism. While it is true that baraka is not the sole element in the doctrinal definition of saintly authority in Islam, it cannot be denied that it has a central role in the practical enactment of saintly power. Even the saints who are revered because of their piety or religious knowledge – the salihun – have to be associated with the production of miraculous deeds (karamat) in order to guarantee the social recognition of their holy status.5 In this sense the social reproduction of the saint’s authority relies on his/her performance of powers and qualities that are culturally linked to the notion of baraka.6 This aspect of the saint’s power is very similar to the performative character of the religious authority of the Sufi shaykh, who prove the reality of their baraka by producing or facilitating karamat (Gilsenan 2000: 75-78). Furthermore, the relationship between the Sufi shaykh and their disciples has an emotional character defined by the love (hubb) and the desire (raghba) stimulated in the disciple by the shaykh baraka or nur (light), which lead the disciples to seek the divine truth embodied in the persona of the shaykh.7 These emotional ties work as mechanisms of intersubjective discipline shaping identities that incorporate the persona of the shaykh as an object of desire and as a condition for existential plenitude (Ewing 1997: 163-197).8 These interconnected identities require the permanent presence of the desired other. Thus, the physical 4 The notion of “persona” was taken from Marcel Mauss who defined it as the public aspects of individual identity that are usually linked to social roles (1995: 350-356). Mauss also highlights the fact that the social relations that support and shape the public aspects of the “persona” also constitute the framework for the development of the moral and psychological aspects that constitute the self (1995: 359-362). 5 Vincent Cornell pointed to the fact that the performance of miracles was the main criterion for the attribution of sainthood to an individual in pre-modern Morocco (1998: 112-113). 6 For the cultural uses of the notion of baraka in different social contexts see Emrys Peters’ article on the Bedouins of Cyrenaica (1989: 5-13). 7 The use of “light” as an expression of divine qualities comes from the widespread belief among the Sufis in Aleppo in the nur Muh.ammadiyya, understood as the divine essence embodied by the Prophet. Charles Lindholm highlighted the central role of love in the construction of the notions of charisma (1993: 44-49). 8 The notion of “discipline” comes from Talal Asad who defined it as practices and doctrines that shape experiences and identities within the normative framework of a particular religious system (1993: 77-79).

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198 | Paulo G. Pinto absence of the shaykh caused by his death has to be compensated by his spiritual and emotional presence in the memory of the disciples.9 This memory keeps alive the personal links with the dead shaykh who can still intervene in the lives of his devotees through his baraka, opening the way for his public recognition as a wali Allah (friend of God, saint). Therefore it can be said that there is a conceptual, practical and psychological continuity between the persona of the saint and that of the shaykh, which is created by the ways in which the notion of baraka is understood and used among the Sufis.

Sufism in contemporary Syria Sufism has a widespread presence in Syrian society, providing its adepts with a ritual, doctrinal and emotional framework that connects their individual experience of religion with one of the major religious trends in the Islamic tradition. While markedly popular in its constituency, Sufism also has a strong appeal among the middle and upper classes of the major urban centres in Syria. There are Sufi zawaya (lodges) in Aleppo and Damascus with members from the intellectual, political and economic elite, such as university professors, high ranking bureaucrats and members of the commercial and industrial bourgeoisie. There are also signs of expansion of Sufism among the upper strata of Syrian society, such as the opening of new zawaya and the performance of Sufi hadras (ritual gatherings) in mosques located in upper and middle class neighbourhoods, such as Halab al-Jadida in Aleppo. This process is paralleled by the proliferation of zawiyas in the popular neighbourhoods, which are sometimes controlled by shaykhs from the rural villages around Aleppo who opened an urban branch of their zawiya in conjunction with the migration of their followers to the city. In terms of the organization of the Sufi communities important regional differences exist which are made possible by the absence of centralized control of the Sufi activities. There is no equivalent in Syria to the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders, a bureaucratic arm of the state that aims to organize all Sufi activities in Egypt (Luizard 1900: 43-50). While the Syrian government controls all religious activities sponsored by the religious endowments (waqf, pl. awqaf ) through the Ministry of the Awqaf, Sufi practices escape this direct control because they are sponsored by private funding from Sufi shaykhs and/or their 9 The notion of “presence” (hadra) has a central role in the Sufi experiential approach to religious truths, which is clearly expressed in the fact that the main collective ritual in the Sufi zawiyas is called hadra. The latter can refer alternately or simultaneously to the presence of the participants, the shaykh, the Sufi saints and the “four poles” of Sufism (al-aqtab al-
arba) –
Abd al-Qader Jilani, Ahmad al-Rifa
i, Ibrahim al-Disuqi, and Ahmad al-Badawi – Hussein, Ali, Muhammad and God which demonstrates the various layers of meaning and symbolic reference of this notion in the Sufi tradition.

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 199 followers.10 In Damascus there are large Sufi orders with centralized forms of control of the local zawiya. The most important of these orders is the Naqshbandiyya Kaftariyya, which is led by Shaykh Ahmad Kaftaru, who also holds the official position of Grand Mufti of Sunni Islam in Syria, and developed as a transnational Sufi order with branches in the Middle East, Europe and the USA. The Naqshbandiyya Kuftariyya has close links with the Baathist regime, which helped it to become such a well structured organisation (Bottcher 1998: 126129; Jong 1990: 600). The organization of Sufism in Aleppo is quite different. There are centralized Sufi structures inherited from the Ottoman past such as the Qadiriyya order, which is controlled by the shaykh al-mashaykh based in the zawiya al-Hilaliyya. These hierarchical structures co-exist with zawiyas loosely connected to the doctrinal and ritual tradition of one or several tariqas (mystical path, Sufi order, pl. turuq). These zawiyas function as autonomous Sufi communities, which are connected to other zawiyas through networks formed by hierarchical (initiation) or horizontal (marriage, kinship or friendship) personal links among their shaykhs. The defining elements of the Sufi communities in Aleppo are the hierarchical ties that connect the shaykh to his disciples. Thus, the performative aspects of the shaykh’s power, in particular his capacity in demonstrating the strength of his baraka, are fundamental for the maintenance of his community. The religious identities of the members of the Sufi communities are constructed through their involvement in the collective ritual performance of the weekly hadra, which can be complemented by a process of initiation under the shaykh’s guidance. Therefore, in the Sufi communities in Aleppo there are different forms of participation and identification to the Sufi ritual and doctrinal traditions, which are connected through the participation in the ritual practices and the acceptance of the leadership of the shaykh. Another widespread Sufi religious practice in Aleppo is the cult of saints. Saints’ tombs (maqam, pl. maqamat) can be found almost everywhere in the old neighbourhoods of Aleppo, in an extensive range of locations which includes “mosques, madrasas, public baths, in the citadel, in city gates, cemeteries and some even in private houses” (Gonnella 1995: 148). Most tombs are accessible from the street level through grilled windows, so everyone can pay respects, ask for help or make vows to the saint while pursuing their ordinary activities. In the modern neighbourhoods the cult of saints was prevented from becoming a constitutive element of the urban fabric through the prohibition of burials in mosques or public buildings without governmental approval. As a result the modern saints’ tombs are almost all located within the limits of the cemeteries 10 Needless to say, like any public gatherings in Syria, the Sufi hadras are closely monitored by the security services (mukhabarat). However, this is quite different from the direct governmental interference to which other religious activities are subjected. For example, the texts of the Friday sermon (khutba) have to be approved by the Ministry of the Awqaf before being delivered at the mosques.

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200 | Paulo G. Pinto (Gonnella 1995: 146). While it is possible – in theory – to achieve sainthood while alive, among my informants in Aleppo the term wali was used exclusively in relation to holy figures that are already dead.11 The most important saintly tombs in Aleppo are located in the major buildings associated with religious and political power, such as the citadel and the Umayad mosque. These tombs are connected to Quranic figures such as Khidr, who has his tomb at the citadel, or prophets such as Zakariya, who is buried at the Umayad Mosque. Besides these saintly figures who are connected to the larger Islamic tradition and are revered by a large part of the population, there are saints whose constituency of devotees is limited to the members of a certain social group, such as the saints linked to particular Sufi zawiya. These saints are usually former shuyukh of the zawiya who were buried within its confines and still attract devotees among its members. These saints can acquire a less local saintly persona and a larger and more diversified constituency if some of their devotees found subsidiary zawiya. In this case the stories about their karamat can enjoy wider circulation and even reach people who are not linked to Sufism. The devotees of a saint regularly come together for the celebration of the mawlid (saint’s feast). In Aleppo, this usually involves extended performances of dhikr and sama on the street in front of the tomb. The street celebrations allow the residents of the neighbourhood who are not members of the zawiya to also participate. When the saint is venerated by members of more than one Sufi community, which is extremely common in the villages around Aleppo, the members of the other zawiya come in ziyara (visit, pilgrimage) carrying the banners of their tariqa and performing their dhikr. The public display of different Sufi identities shows that the community of devotees created by the shared veneration of the saint and the celebration of his mawlid brings together the various Sufi communities and individuals without erasing their differences. Thus, it is possible to say that the cult of saints beyond the local community produce a diffuse solidarity among groups that can be easily related to the idea of an abstract Islamic community – the umma – while maintaining the differences among the participants.

Baraka and authority: the Shaykh
Abd al-Fatah Aminu The zawiya of Shaykh Aminu consisted of a large room preceded by an open courtyard and was located on the first floor of his apartment building in a modern middle class neighbourhood in Aleppo. A genealogical tree tracing the silsila (spiritual genealogy) of Shaykh Aminu back to Ah.mad al-Rifa
i and
Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, the founding saints of Sufism hung on the walls of the room. The genealogical tree was flanked by pictures of the holy mosques of Mecca and 11 Julia Gonnella identified the same pattern in her study of the cult of saints in Aleppo (1995: 151).

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 201 Medina and by drums used during the dhikr. The main public activity of the zawiya was the weekly hadra which was performed on Monday nights after the prayer of
isha and involved around 150 participants. The hadra consisted of a collective recitation of the wird (mystical evocation), followed by the performance of the dhikr and culminating in preaching or commentaries on the Quran or Sufi treatises by Shaykh Aminu. There were other activities which were reserved for Shaykh Aminu’s disciples (muridun), for example the lessons and spiritual exercises that were part of their initiation into the mystical path (tarbiya). The social composition of the members of this zawiya was very diverse, ranging from industrialists and professors to manual workers and low-ranking bureaucrats. The pattern of residence was also very diverse with the members of the zawiya coming from all parts of Aleppo. This mixed social composition was not surprising as Shaykh Aminu presented a very complex religious persona, mixing legalistic erudition with miraculous powers. His followers believed that Shaykh Aminu received his baraka through his mystical knowledge or, better said, his direct experience of the divine reality (haqiqa). He claimed to be affiliated to several tariqas, among them the Qadiriyya, the Rifa
iyya, the Shadhiliyya, the Badawiyya and the Tijaniyya.12 These multiple mystical affiliations reinforced Shaykh Aminu’s authority for he was perceived as embodying truth of all the different mystical paths. These ideas were aptly summarized by one of his disciples, a 30 year old merchant who owned a music shop near Bab Antakiya in the Old City of Aleppo, as follows: Shaykh Aminu is different from us because he has more knowledge about God. But his knowledge does not come from the books; it comes from his deeds (
ilmuhu mu min al-kutub hwa min
amaluhu). His good deeds show that he has God in his heart. In Sufism real knowledge (al-
ilm al-haqq) comes from experiencing God’s presence […] His baraka is like the ocean, without limits, and we (the disciples) are the fishermen who benefit from it (barakatuhu mitl al-bahr, bala hudud. wa nahna al-saiyadun an istafadu minhu).

The idea that Shaykh Aminu embodied the mystical path structured the ritual practices of his zawiya, which combined the dhikr of each of the mystical traditions he claimed to embody into a single ritual sequence. During the hadra, Shaykh Aminu was positioned in the middle of the wall opposite the door under a bookshelf with editions of the Quran, books about fiqh, booklets with Sufi poems and awrad (mystical evocations) and numerous copies of devotional manuals, such as the Dalail al-Khaiyrat. This display of books reminded the observer of that Shaykh Aminu was an
alim (religious scholar) as well as a mystic. This spatial arrangement also had a ritual function, for he began the dhikr under the symbols of zahiri (exoteric) knowledge and gradually moved to 12 Shaykh Aminu and his followers claimed that he had an ijaza (diploma) from each of these mystical paths. I did not have access to these documents, however.

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202 | Paulo G. Pinto the centre of the room, symbolizing the dislocation towards the realm of the esoteric (batini) knowledge that was embodied in his own self. Before the dhikr started, the naqib and other disciples organized the spatial arrangement of the circle of participants (halaqa); proximity to the shaykh was based on personal, social and religious importance.13 The hadra started with the singing of Shadhili poems and this was followed by the recitation of the wird.14 After the recitation of the wird, the actual dhikr began with the collective recitation of the Muslim profession of faith “la ilah ila Allah wa Muhammad rasul Allah” (“There is no god but God and Muhammad is his Prophet”), which is considered as a form of dhikr. Then the singers began playing drums and singing songs about the Prophet and God’s love, while the audience listened in silence. Tea and coffee were served and perfume was rubbed on the hands of the participants by the disciples.15 When the singers stopped singing praise to the Prophet, the naqib unfolded the shaykh praying-carpet (sajada) in the middle of the room while reciting the opening verse of the Quran. Then Shaykh Aminu sat on the carpet and all the participants stood up to form concentric circles around him. While the shaykh recited the 99 names of Allah, the participants chanted “Al-Lah”, “Allah-Hu” and “Allah-Huma” and swayed either back and forth or from left to right. The lights were then switched off with only a green and a red light being left on, which represented the colours of the Rifa
iyya and the Badawiyyarespectively. The singers started singing songs about the Prophet and his family, while some disciples played drums and cymbals and the participants swayed uttering “Allah”. After this the lights were switched on and the last part of the dhikr took place, which consisted in up-down movements co-ordinated with very fast breathing as in the Shadhili dhikr. The movements and the breathing reached a crescendo of jumping movements and ended with the exclamation “Allah”. This was the conclusion of the dhikr, after which there was a collective praising of
Abd al-Qadir Jilani, Ahmad al-Rifa
i, Ibrahim al-Disuqi and Ahhmad al-Badawi, all of them “poles” of Sufism and links in Shaykh Aminu’s silsila. The whole ceremony closed with a sermon delivered by Shaykh Aminu. It is easy to see how Shaykh Aminu was the central element in the dhikr. He was the co-ordinator who controlled the pace and the length of each part of the ritual, building on the general mood of the participants. He was also the 13 Shaykh Aminu’s disciples were divided into three hierarchical categories: murid, naqib and khalifa. 14 Booklets were distributed for both activities, indicating the presence of a literate audience. 15 The serving of tea and bitter coffee is a mandatory indication of Syrian hospitality and expresses the fact that the participants of the dhikr are guests of the shaykh. Perfume is also part of the “rituals of hospitality” in Syria, while in religious milieus it is associated with the Prophet Muhammad. During the dhikr the strong smell of perfume also has the function of evoking the presence of the Prophet.

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 203 focal point for the participants as the source of mystical power and his control over the ritual performance articulated and shaped the experience of the participants. Once, during the
ashura Shaykh Aminu started a song about Hussein that moved the entire audience to tears.16 Similarly, he expanded the jumping sections in particularly joyful dhikrs, for example when some disciples had returned from the hajj. Shaykh Aminu’s participation in the ritual was not distant and mysterious, but based on the closeness of communal rejoicing and physical contact. During the jumping movements in the last part of the dhikr, he went around jumping arm-in-arm with the participants or running around the lines of people and raising his arms in order to inspire a more joyful mood. The energetic and playful character he displayed during the dhikr was highly admired by his followers, who saw it as miraculous evidence that their shaykh also transcended the limitations of aging as he was almost 70 years old. This reinforcement of the shaykh’s authority by ritual and physical intimacy with his followers highlights the fact that in order to fulfil his role as mediator between the divine and the human realities he must display a “closeness” with both spheres.17

From blessed leader to blessing saint: the metamorphosis of Shaykh Aminu’s baraka Despite his youthful vitality, Shaykh Aminu had a terminal cancer and as the illness evolved he was forced to remain in hospital for longer periods of time. This meant that there were times that the dhikr had to be performed without him under the guidance of his khalifa.18 On these occasions, Shaykh Aminu’s presence was symbolically evoked during the dhikr by his unfolded carpet. Each time he returned from the hospital to conduct the dhikr, his resistance to effects of the disease was seen by his followers as a miraculous sign. On these occasions he displayed the same joyful behaviour, jumping with the others during the dhikr and giving long sermons. This lively behaviour, which contrasted with the delicate state of his health, was also seen as a proof that the strength of his 16 Valerie Hoffman stated that the devotion to the family of the Prophet among Egyptian Sufis differs from the same phenomenon in Shi
ism in the sense that there is no sadness associated with it (1992: 625-626). However, during my fieldwork research among the Sufis in Syria I witnessed among the Sufis several collective manifestations of grief associated to the figure of Hussein and Ali that resembled very much the Shi
i rituals, in particular weeping and crying during the evocation of their names. 17 This evidence goes against Gilsenan’s theory that social distance necessarily enhances the power of baraka (1973: 77-78). 18 The khalifa is the last stage in the mystical initiation. He can represent the shaykh and, in theory, succeed him in the leadership of the zawiya.

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204 | Paulo G. Pinto baraka allowed him to defy death. However, as his illness became more serious Shaykh Aminu’s attitude started to change dramatically. He became more and more introspective and distant and he began to fall into trance during the recitation of the names of Allah. Sometimes he spent almost two hours with his eyes closed, his head rocking from side to side and his hands making graceful movements with the masbah (prayer bead) and apparently completely oblivious to the activities being performed around him. He stopped giving sermons and either sat in silence while a prayer was said by the khalifa or simply left when the ritual activities ended. To many of the members of the zawiya this transformation in Shaykh Aminu’s behaviour showed that his soul was being dragged into the divine reality and was becoming indifferent to earthly realities. In this sense, he acquired a greater sacredness, but at the same time lost contact with the mundane lives of his followers, which was a fundamental element of his role as the leader and mediator of the community. After two months of constant hospital admissions and discharges Shaykh Aminu’s presence in the dhikr became rarer, but the hope of a possible visit and the fact that he was physically alive enabled his followers to maintain the cohesion of the community. The crisis that could have been triggered by an abrupt vacancy of the leadership was avoided for the time being. During this period the ritual activities of the zawiya were not only maintained but also intensified. The regular hadra on Monday nights became longer and more emotional and participating in it was seen as a form of obtaining baraka from the spiritual presence of the shaykh. One disciple reported that “We feel his (Shaykh Aminu) presence in the dhikr”. Soon, another dhikr was held on Wednesday nights and a one-day fast and a night vigil was instituted on Friday. Both practices aimed to intensify the prayers of the community in order to help the shaykh to recover. These new ritual practices were proposed by some of the disciples and were approved by the khalifa. Despite the leading role of the khalifa during the rituals, the centre of all attention during the dhikr was the empty carpet that symbolized Shaykh Aminu’s invisible presence. However, the emptiness of the carpet showed that, despite the fact that his presence was constantly felt by the participants in the dhikr, his power was becoming more diffuse. The physical absence of the leader also resulted in the connections in the ritual becoming more horizontal, for its force and effectiveness mostly originated in the collective participation. Also, the large number of participants lessened the control that the naqib and his assistants had over their ritual performance, thus loosening the hierarchical structures of the community. Nevertheless, the dhikr was performed with the same precision and even more enthusiasm than before. This was possibly due to the synchronization of the learned embodied dispositions present among the participants. These dispositions, which can be understood as a form of habitus, include shared forms of perception and body techniques that both generated and informed the practices of the agents (Bourdieu 1997: 78-79). The members of the community

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 205 acquired these dispositions through their participation in the rituals of the zawiya and by their initiation in the mystical path. The experience of the continuous efficacy of the ritual, despite the physical absence of the shaykh, allowed a gradual process of objectification of the elements that constituted the charismatic character of Shaykh Aminu’s leadership, anchoring them in the arena of intersubjective interactions created by the collective ritual practices.19 The intensification of the collective enactment of these shared embodied dispositions produced emotions and phenomena that fulfilled the expectations of the participants in relation to the ritual. Healing, which required the physical contact of the shaykh, began occurring in the rituals. For example a ten-year-old boy was cured of migraine after he fasted and took part in the night vigil, showing that the baraka that flowed from the shaykh was now coming from the ritual practices of the community. However, this process of objectification of the shaykh’s baraka which resulted from the intensification of the intersubjective interactions within the framework of the Sufi rituals did not lead to the conscious apprehension of their collective origin by members of the zawiya. All of them continued to attribute the karamat to Shaykh Aminu, but the more diffuse presence of his baraka began to be understood and experienced as something more powerful and less ordinary. The turning point in the perception of Shaykh Aminu’s religious persona for most of his followers came one night when he came from the hospital to celebrate the hadra despite having been given no hope of recovery by the doctors a few days earlier. When he entered the zawiya everybody was mesmerized by the skeletal and fragile figure whose body was devastated by the disease. He entered the room with khul (black eyeliner) in his eyes and a masbah in his right hand, walked through the crowd and took his place in front of the audience. Many men burst into tears and those who were close to the shaykh tried desperately to touch his clothes in order to get some baraka. When he started talking with his feeble voice the only other thing to be heard were the weeping sounds of those too overwhelmed by the emotion of witnessing the epiphany of one of “God’s friends”. The hadra, which usually took two hours, lasted five that night and, if Shaykh Aminu had not ended it so as to return to the hospital, the participants have would remained there indefinitely. After that night he was referred to as a living saint (wali) by some of his followers. One of them told me that “Shaykh Aminu is a shaykh enlightened by God so he cannot die like me and you. God gave him the strength to fight death. If he still wants to remain with us he will. He is stronger than death!” Shaykh Aminu showed his defiance to death, illness and suffering by coming to perform the hadra, during which he once gain

19 The concept of “objectification” is taken from Eickelman and Piscatori who defined it as the process of detachment of religious doctrines and symbols from habitual practices and their systematization into clearly bounded religious systems (1996: 37-45).

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206 | Paulo G. Pinto displayed the joyful mood that he previously showed. This proved to his followers that he was beyond the ordinary human condition, which is powerless in the face of these forces. As a result, Shaykh Aminu’s extraordinary and even holy nature became unquestionable to his followers, whose devotion to him took on the dimensions of a relationship with one of God’s elected saints. In the space of one month the understanding that the members of the zawiya had about their ritual activities changed dramatically. From being merely a means of mobilizing the community around the evocation of Shaykh Aminu’s presence and their wish for his recovery, the ritual practices became an end in themselves. The performances gradually replaced the shaykh as the point where the religious community converged and from which it received its legitimacy. One of his disciples, a 30-year-old merchant, summarized this by exclaiming after one Wednesday dhikr “The dhikr cannot stop. Even if the shaykh dies or even if there is no shaykh, the dhikr must be performed!”. However, Shaykh Aminu was very much present in the dreams and visions of his followers, which were related – in public to moved audiences or in private as confidences – as blessings received from him, thus adding new dimensions to his saintly aura.

The heir of the saint: ritual performance and sainthood in the succession of Shaykh Aminu Parallel to process of objectification of the charismatic attributes of Shaykh Aminu as properties of the collective ritual performances, his successor began to assert his position in the community. While Shaykh Aminu’s elder son was one of his disciples, he never advanced further than the first level of the mystical path.20 In contrast, Shaykh Aminu’s younger son,
Abd-Allah, an engineer in his mid-30s who had the same joyful character as his father, was in an advanced stage in his mystical initiation and was clearly his desired successor.
Abd-Allah’s first moves towards playing a more substantial role in the zawiya occurred during Shaykh Aminu’s illness. When the latter was too absent-minded or weak,
Abd-Allah “complemented” his role, leading some parts of the dhikr himself. He was particularly active during the jumping movements, one of the major moments of the ritual when intimate contact between Shaykh Aminu and his followers it was established. During Shaykh Aminu’s absence
Abd-Allah did not try to assume a central role right away, but he continued to be 20 The lack of the individual characteristics necessary to embody the collective values that are projected on the charismatic leader is a quite feasible explanation for the reluctance of Shaykh Aminu to permit his older son to advance in the mystical path. By doing so Shaykh Aminu eliminated in advance any possible claim that he could have over the leadership of the zawiya. Needless to say, this situation created quite a degree of resentment in the elder son.

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 207 active in limited but crucial moments of the dhikr, during which he increasingly incorporated his father’s gestures and posture. Gradually,
Abd-Allah began to assume a more prominent profile during fasting and vigils. He fasted for two days and, after giving the news about his father, he was practically forced by the ritual participants to lead the prayers and give some sermons during the vigils. Many people in the zawiya started to identify him as the new shaykh. A 35-yearold employee of a state-owned bakery who was a member of the zawiya remarked that “sometimes it is as if we have Shaykh Aminu again, but at the same time Shaykh
Abd-Allah is a very unique person. He is very close to all of us, he is one of us”. Shaykh Aminu died in November 2000, ending the period of transition which had lasted for almost six months. At the time of his death, his brother, who was also a Sufi shaykh, was called by the khalifa to be the new shaykh of the zawiya, for all Shaykh Aminu’s sons were still passing through their initiation in the mystical path. However,
Abd-Allah had already attained an important role as the future shaykh in the minds of most of the members of the zawiya and he continued to pursue this position despite the fact that the zawiya was under the nominal leadership of his uncle. Gradually,
Abd-Allah became associated with the position of leadership of the community, as he stood at the side of his uncle during the dhikr. Many members spoke as if the zawiya now had two shaykhs, despite the fact that he was not actually a shaykh yet. One night while giving the sermon after the dhikr
Abd-Allah excused himself to the audience saying that he did not have the eloquence of his father. The reaction was immediate as everybody showed their support for him, which culminated with the naqib exclaiming “no more arguments, the son of a shaykh is a shaykh!” (“khalas ibn shaykh shaykh”). After a few weeks, stories circulated among the members of the zawiya that
Abd-Allah’s uncle would give him an ijaza (diploma) so as to enable him to be the new shaykh of he zawiya. However, this did not actually happen until 2002, after two years of “de facto” leadership by
Abd-Allah, and showed that either a strategy had been adopted giving
Abd-Allah time to consolidate his authority so as to avoid any possibility of crisis in the zawiya or the delay was caused by unspoken leadership ambitions on the part of his uncle. Since his death Shaykh Aminu has become a constant figure in the dreams and visions of his followers. During my last visit to the zawiya in 2002 a participant in the dhikr told to a circle of friends after the ritual that he saw Shaykh Aminu in his way to the zawiya, adding that due to this blessed vision he arrived on time despite having to stay longer at work, and this was understood by all as a karamat. Several stories about Shaykh Aminu’s karamat started circulating in the zawiya, showing that his saintly powers became the object of shared consensus among most of his followers, albeit not yet systematically verbalized as such in their discourses. This conceptual vagueness shows that while notions and experiences of sainthood emerge from the ritual manipulation of the religious persona of the shaykh, the articulation of discourses and practices in a

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208 | Paulo G. Pinto coherent system depends on the production of disciplinary mechanisms such as hagiographies or collective rituals.21

Conclusion The analysis of the process of succession of Shaykh Aminu reveals the role of sainthood in articulating charisma and tradition in the power structure of the Sufi communities. This example shows that while practical notions of sainthood arise from the ritual manipulation of the religious persona of the shaykh by himself and his followers, they allow a gradual detachment between the Sufi community and its leader which makes his succession possible. The simultaneous weakening of the hierarchical ties to the shaykh and strengthening of the horizontal ties among the members of the community through the intensification of its ritual activities creates the conditions for a new charismatic leader to emerge and restore the hierarchical structure of the community. The ritual “effervescence” caused by the shaykh’s illness intensified the intersubjective interactions among participants, allowing the collective expression of elements which were ordinarily attributed to the shaykh’s baraka.22 In this sense, it may be stated that there was an objectificationof the structuring principles of the Sufi community, which began to be experienced in the community’s collective effort as opposed to the religious authority of the shaykh. The display of these principles in the ritual arena allowed their manipulation by the candidate(s) for the leadership of the community, who could then construct a persona that embodies them as his personal qualities, as
Abd-Allah did in recreating his father’s joyful presence. The process of succession was completed through the establishment of a consensus among the members of the community that the objectified elements emanated from
Abd-Allah’s individual qualities, consecrating him as the new shaykh and restoring the hierarchical nature of the community. However, the entire process could not have succeeded without the parallel transformation of the shaykh into a leader of a different order: a saint. Due the embodied and performative character of the power relations in the Sufi com21 In this sense the confinement of the tombs to the cemeteries by the Syrian state may favour the doctrinal systematization of modern sainthood, enhancing the chances of success of the cult of saints like the Sufi shaykhs who had an organized and literate community of followers while alive. 22 The idea of “effervescence” originates from Emile Durkheim, who saw a relationship between the intensity of social interactions with the production of social phenomena beyond the intention of the agents (1995: 217-218). However, while Durkheim sees in this phenomenon the release of natural forces that are harmonized by social interaction, I consider it to be a display of socially produced identities and subjectivities.

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 209 munities in Syria, the memory of the shaykh among his followers could prevent any successful succession and even endanger the continuity of the community if all of its sources of identity and solidarity remained embodied in the dying shaykh. The ritual response to the crisis of succession allowed the detachment of the charismatic qualities from the shaykh while his religious persona was reshaped within the framework of sainthood. This process transformed the nature of the shaykh’s power, from the embodiment of the community to the embodiment of the Sufi tradition. It also made the memory of the shaykh less threatening to the power of his successor to the point that the latter could identify with and incorporate elements from the persona of his ancestor, as
Abd-Allah did with his father. While it is true that not all succession processes involve such a long period of transition and that the example given here is quite a dramatic case, this analysis provides a model of charismatic succession that is shared by other Sufi communities in Aleppo. For example, while I was doing fieldwork at a Rifa
i zawiya in the Kurdish village of
Afrin near Aleppo the shaykh died suddenly of heart attack. Obviously, there was no period of transition. During the funeral procession which took the shaykh’s body to the local cemetery, his disciples walked in front of the coffin performing the darab al-shish (body piercing with skewers). This performance of karamat publicly demonstrated the strength of the baraka that still flowed from the dead body and the mystical power of the community which could perform it. Thus, it can be said that elements similar to those analyzed in the zawiya of Shaykh Aminu were at play in this case, namely the objectification of the collective basis of baraka and the construction of a saintly persona for the shaykh. The connection established between the saint and the shaykh inscribes the latter’s charismatic leadership into a continuous flow of baraka that goes back to the Prophet. Thus, sainthood links the shaykh’s charismatic qualities with the Sufi tradition. Each individual in the chain of transmission of the baraka articulates a distinct order of leadership, within a vast range of social and mystical realities that vary from the local community organized around the Sufi shaykh to the Muslim community and the whole world, which are considered by the Sufis to be under the protection and guidance of the “assembly of saints” (majlis al-awliya). The process of transformation of the religious persona of the local shaykh into a saintly one connects the local community to larger pools of religious solidarity based on the notion of baraka, which lend experiential and practical dimensions to the idea of umma. While the great saints of the Sufi tradition, such as Ah.mad al-Rifa
i and
Abd al-Qadir Jilani, are considered to have greater intercessory power in their proximity to God, the local saint is a fundamental element in keeping the notion of sainthood alive in the Sufi community. The memory of the local saint creates experiential and emotional links to the various expressions of sainthood, because it associates the saint with the personal relations that were established while he was a shaykh in the local community. In short, we can say that the

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210 | Paulo G. Pinto conceptual and practical aspects of sainthood connect local realities with the diffuse idea of umma by inscribing the charismatic powers expressed by the shaykh’s baraka in the larger framework of the Sufi tradition. Furthermore, the continuous production of sainthood in the Sufi communities in Aleppo and elsewhere creates mechanisms that allow the charismatic authority of the shaykh to be transmitted without the development of any imperative for its “routinization” in bureaucratic institutions.

References Asad, Talal (1993) Genealogies of Religion, Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Bottcher, Annabelle (1998) “L’élite feminine kurde de la Kaftariyya, une Confrérie Naqshbandi Damascene”. In: Martin van Bruinessen/Joyce Blau (eds.) Islam des Kurdes (Les Annales de l’Autre Islam 5), Paris: ERISM/INALCO, pp. 125-139. Bourdieu, Pierre (1997) Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chih, Rachida (2000) Le Soufisme au Quotidien: Confréries d’Egypte au XX siècle, Paris: Sindbad. Chodkiewicz, Michel (1993 [1986]) Seal of the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn
Arabi, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cornell, Vincent J. (1998) The Realm of the Saint: Power and Authority in Moroccan Sufism, Austin: University of Texas Press. Dermenghem, Emile (1982 [1954]) Le Culte des Saints dans l’Islam Maghrébin, Paris: Gallimard. Durkheim, Emile (1995 [1912]) The Elementary Forms of Religious Life, New York: The Free Press. Eickelman, Dale/Piscatori, James (1996) Muslim Politics, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ewing, Katherine P. (1997) Arguing Sainthood: Modernity, Psychoanalysis, and Islam, Durham: Duke University Press. Geertz, Clifford (1975 [1968]) Islam Observed: Religious Development in Morocco and Indonesia, Chicago: Chicago University Press. Gellner, Ernest (1993 [1981]) Muslim Society, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gilsenan, Michael (1973) Saint and Sufi in Modern Egypt, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gilsenan, Michael (2000 [1982]) Recognizing Islam: Religion and Society in the Modern Middle East, London: I.B. Tauris. Gonnella, Julia (1995) Islamische Heiligenverehrung im urbanen Kontext am Beispiel von Aleppo (Syrien), Berlin: Klaus Schwarz Verlag.

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Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism | 211 Hoffman, Valerie (1992) “Devotion to the Prophet and His Family in Egyptian Sufism”. International Journal of Middle East Studies 24(4), pp. 615-637. Jong, Fred de (1990) “The Naqshbandiyya in Egypt and Syria. Aspects of its history, and observations concerning its present-day condition”. In: Marc Gaborieau/Alexandre Popovic/Thierry Zarcone (eds.) Naqshbandis: Historical Developments and Present Situation of a Muslim Mystical Order, Istanbul: Institut Français d’Etudes Anatoliennes d’Istanbul, pp. 589-601. Lindholm, Charles (1993) Charisma, London: Blackwell. Luizard, Pierre-Jean (1990) “Le soufisme Egyptien contemporain”. Egypte Monde Arabe 2, pp. 35-94. Mauss, Marcel (1995 [1934]) “Une catégorie de l’esprit humain: la notion de personne celle de ‘moi’”. In: Marcel Mauss Sociologie et Anthropologie, Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, pp. 331-362. Peters, Emrys (1989) “Baraka among the Bedouin of Cyrenaica”. Bulletin of the British Society of Middle Eastern Studies 16(1), pp. 5-13. Pinto, Paulo G. (2002) Mystical Bodies: Ritual, Experience and the Embodiment of Sufism in Syria, Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms International. Weber, Max (1978 [1956]) Economy and Society, vol. 1, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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212 | Abstracts

Abstracts Holy Ancestors, Sufi Shaykhs and Founding Myths: Networks of Religious Geography in the Central Nile Delta Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen The central Nile Delta is a particularly propitious region for the study of local Islam. Holy men, brotherhoods and pilgrimages dictated the dominant characteristics of the religious landscape of the central Delta from the end of the Mamluk period to the present day. With the help of hagiography, fieldwork and the Ottoman archives (rizaq ihbasiyya records), it is possible to trace the shaping of a religious geography. The religious landscape of the Central Delta appears to be structured into three types of partially overlapping networks: family networks, brotherhood networks and mythic networks. The saints dominate as holy ancestors of villages or local communities through the family networks. The village hagiology is closely linked to family structure. Local religious history is made visible through the Sufi brotherhood networks. However, the numerous sanctuaries dedicated to the martyrs of the Islamic Conquest tell us another story which has the ring of a founding myth. Khidr in Istanbul: Observations on the Symbolic Construction of Sacred Spaces in Traditional Islam Patrick Franke A symbol for the cyclical renewal of vegetation and an archetype of sainthood, Khidr, “the Green one”, has a well-established place in the collective imagination of Muslim people. Immortalized in the distant past, he is said to be permanently wandering and to pay regular visits to the holy sites of Islam. Even today, it is widely believed in many areas of the Islamic world that Khidr is alive and will not die before the end of time. There is a close relationship between Khidr and the Haghia Sophia, formerly the principal mosque of Istanbul. According to a legend created in the late 15th century and transmitted in several Ottoman Turkish works, he is not only the heavenly protector of this building, but was even involved in its construction in pre-Islamic times. Although the nucleus of this legend goes back to a Byzantine tale, the insertion of Khidr into it is a purely Islamic element. This is demonstrated with the help of a comparative look at some other texts of the Arabic fadail-genre. The main purpose of the article is to show on a more theoretical level how traditional Islam has developed its own symbolic techniques of transforming profane spaces into holy spaces. As idols, ritual objects and pictorial representa-

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Abstracts | 213 tions are banned from religion, the sacralization of localities must rely to a considerable degree on tales and legends about hierophantic events. Khidr is one of the most eminent religious figures that can be utilized for this purpose. Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi and Haci Bektas¸ Veli: Two Faces of Turkish Islam. Encounters, Orders, Politics Refika Sarıönder Focusing on two saints of Turkish Islam, Haci Bektas Veli and Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi, in this article, I argue that the local developments of Turkish Islam went hand in hand with state politics. Both saints, who lived in the same period and in the same area, appear to have disliked each another and, with the exception of the establishment of a subsection in Mevlevism in the 15th century that mixed Mevlevi and Bektashi teachings, the orders founded in their names, i.e. Bektashism and Mevlevism, have followed quite different paths in terms of their religious teachings. Mevlevism began to attract the elite, in particular, from the 16th century. There are two reasons for this: firstly it spread more in towns and cities, and, secondly, the Persian language used in Mevlevism became the language of the Ottoman court and literature at that time. Bektashism was mainly established in villages; however it also had very strong relations with the state through the state army, the Janissaries, which was associated with the Bektashi order. The efforts to reform the military and the protests against these reforms by the Janissaries in the 19th century ended up with the destruction of the Janissaries and a breakdown of Bektashis. The ban on religious orders in the new Turkish Republic in 1925 disturbed Sufi orders, including Bektashism and Mevlevism. It was not until the softening of state policy on religion from the late 1940s that both saints regained their popularity – a development once again accompanied by politics. From “Total Fullness” to “Emptiness”: Past Realities, Reform Movements and the Future of the Zawiyas in Kabylia Mohand Akli Hadibi This article aims to demonstrate – based on local culture – an analysis grid which enables us to understand the zawiya as a “full” institution. This fullness was made possible by the constituent elements of the zawiya phenomenon: i.e. the saint, the centrality of the latter and the zawiya in physical, social, cultural and religious terms and of the other elements arising from it. This original conception, which was shared by the majority of zawiyas, has now changed as a result of the influence of a series of religious reform movements, e.g. the historical movement of Ibn Toumert and, more recently, the reformism of Ibn Badis and modern Islamism. It was the combined actions of the latter in conjunction with those of modern political groupings (the PPA, MTLD, FLN and recent groups) that resulted

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214 | Abstracts in the “emptying” of the zawiyas. This situation prompts delicate questions with regard to the future of the zawiyas in Kabylia. Will they make room for a kind of “laicization”? Will they remain as they are? Will their status be reconsidered? Saba Ishirini: A Commemoration Ceremony as the Performance of Translocality around the Southern Swahili Coast Chanfi Ahmed/Achim von Oppen “Saba Ishrini” is the ceremony commemorating the day of the death of Muhammad Ahmad al-Ma
ruf, the founder of the East African branch of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya tariqa (spiritual way, the term for the Sufi path). Although this ceremony is held everywhere in the region and on the Comoro Islands in particular, this article is primarily concerned with Tanzania. Thanks to the participation of people from different locations in the entire region (Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda); the “Saba Ishrini” ceremony is akin to a stage on which the current leader of the Shadhiliyya-Yashrutiyya in Tanzania displays the translocal character of this tariqa as well as his personal influence. This translocality is reinforced by the ziyarat (visits) of the members (muridun), who move as a “caravan” from one place to the other, performing the same ritual at each destination. The ziyara not only enables the participants to visit the tomb of the founders (al-Ma
ruf on the Comoros and Sheikh Hussein in Tanzania), but also allows the muridun from different places to meet frequently. On these occasions hauli are organised in memory of the deceased shaykhs. This historical consciousness and the active practice of its memory incorporates narrative and cognitive aspects which are represented by the texts that are recited and the places where the rituals are performed, as well as a physical aspect, which can be identified in the use of the medium of body language. Recent innovations introduced into the practice of the “Saba Ishrin” show that a tariqa, or any other movement of this type, can survive for a long time if its leader is capable of re-injecting into the ritual the original Utopian ideas that fuelled the creation of the movement itself. Old Practices and New Meanings: Saint Veneration in Western Algeria Sossie Andezian Holy shrines are part of the landscape of western Algeria. They are built on the supposed burial places of male and female saintly figures which are endowed with supernatural powers. The word wali, which usually refers to saintly personages in Islam, is also used to designate the monuments that house their remains. Based on a fieldwork in the area of Tlemcen, this article revolves around the following questions: What kind of relationship did the people in Tlemcen develop with the saints after the Independence? How do they integrate

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Abstracts | 215 the veneration of saints into their religious, cultural, social and individual lives? What happened in the late 1980s when radical Islam entered the public arena? The relationship with the saints is characterized by the ziyara, or visit to the tomb, in order to obtain favours. Individual or collective, informal or organized by Sufi brotherhoods, such visits are made mostly on Thursday and Friday (the sacred day in Islam) and on the main Muslim holidays and they culminate during the annual pilgrimages of the brotherhoods. The dhikr, which is the Sufi prayer of recollection of God through the relationship with the saints or their representatives, constitutes the core of the wide range of rituals performed on these occasions. This article examines the different ways that people relate to saints in west Algeria in the period between 1962 and 1992. The main focus is on the changes that have affected the meanings of this once widespread phenomenon in Algeria, along with the changes in the political, social and religious field. Sacred Networks: Sainthood in Regional Sanctified Cults in the Egyptian Delta El-Sayed El-Aswad This paper intends to investigate the interplay between religious or sacred and secular networks and their impact on communicative scenarios in the Egyptian Delta. This geographic area comprises rural and urban communities and encompasses globally and locally revered saints, including the prominent indigenous saint, al-Sayyid al-Badawi. Traditional beliefs and practices cannot be depicted merely as residual categories attached to archaic societies. Instead, they are historically embedded in different ways in all cultures, both modern and pre-modern. Religious propositions sanctify systems of comprehension and related rituals and establish sacred networks necessary for cosmic reciprocity. In other words, sacred networks, based on sanctified cults, refer to the ongoing symbolic-mystical exchange and communicative dialogue between people, saints and invisible entities. Furthermore, they endow people with a unique sense of imaginative engagement with a transcendent and superior reality. Unlike the mundane modes of networking confined to this secular world with its technological means, sacred networks symbolically deal with divine and secular domains as well as with invisible and visible spheres. Some of the sanctified devices of networks discussed here include saint’s anniversary celebration (mawlid), visitation of the shrine (ziyara), circumambulation (tawaf ), the dhikr ritual, performance of religious gatherings (hadra), religious teaching (dars), and the pledging of vows (nadhr). The point here is that discussion of sacred networks provides an opportunity for public debate to go beyond the immediate context of cults and triggers broader discourses concerning hidden and conflicting dimensions of the cosmos, society and person.

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216 | Abstracts Jinn, Islam and Media in Morocco Emilio Spadola A contemporary Moroccan curing practice among colloquially-designated foqaha uses Qur’anic inscriptions and recitation to treat possession and other physical ailments associated with jinn (spirits) and to relieve related physical and social problems caused by clandestine acts of sorcery (al-sihr and al-sha
wada). Departing from modernist criticisms of the practice as archaic, the present research explains how contemporary social and technological conditions in Morocco are reinvesting the foqaha’s voice with a religious and technological authority to control the shared, abstract public in which humans, jinn and magic circulate. By tracing the national-historical, educational, and personal differences among two generations of foqaha, a picture emerges of the increased political stakes in Morocco of jinn exorcism as a modernist expulsion of the uncontrolled communicative force of circulation, as well as the differing sources of authority, the King or the Quran, to which two generations of Moroccan religious authorities turn to limit that force. On Snacks and Saints: When Discourses of Rationality and Order Enter the Egyptian Mawlid Samuli Schielke Egyptian mawlid festivals which are celebrated around the shrines of saints are among the most colourful and most controversial Sufi practices in contemporary Egypt. In response to the numerous critical views which describe mawlids as an uncivilized and un-Islamic, attempt to reform mawlids have emerged in the recent years. These attempts come from two directions: from state institutions which attempt to reorganize the public space of mawlids to give them a more “civilized” and “ordered” appearance, and from some Sufi orders which reshape their festive practice to fulfil the requirements set by reformist discourses and the modern public sphere. Both these practices significantly alter the spatial form and celebratory character of the festivities, attempting to transform them from a Utopian festivity, at which the normal order of things is suspended, into an educational celebration at which norms and values are reinforced. Performing Baraka: Sainthood and Power in Syrian Sufism Paulo G. Pinto This article analyses how local experiences of sainthood are constructed on the basis of power relations, religious practices and community ties structured around the notion of baraka. There is a conceptual and practical continuity between Sufi saints and the Sufi shaykhs, which derives from the role that the notion of baraka has in defining both forms of religious authority. While the Sufi shaykh’s baraka is produced by and displayed through the hierarchical ties

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Abstracts | 217 that link him to the local community over which he presides, the saint’s baraka embodies a universe of devotees which is not necessarily organized into a cohesive community. These differences must not be approached as an absolute opposition, but rather as principles that are contextually enacted and transformed in the religious practices of each community. There is a continuum of sainthood that goes from the local saints, who usually were Sufi shaykhs, to the “founding” saints of Sufism, who gather devotees across communities and Sufi orders. In conclusion, the notion of sainthood provides a discursive and practical mechanism of articulation and interaction between local forms of authority and the Sufi tradition, allowing the construction of a broader Sufi legitimacy for the former and the continuity of the latter through a process of continuous renewal and adaptation.

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218 | On the authors and editors

On the authors and editors Chanfi Ahmed works as a researcher at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies in Berlin. He is an “Islamwissenschaftler” and social anthropologist and completed his Ph.D. in the discipline of Histoire et Civilisations at the EHESS in Paris in 1996. In addition to publishing various articles in specialist international periodicals, he has written two books: Islam et Politique aux Comores, Paris, L’Harmattan, 1999; and Ngoma et Mission islamique (Dawa) aux Comores et en Afrique orientale. Une approche anthropologique, Paris, L’Harmattan, 2002. E-mail address: [email protected] Sossie Andezian has a doctorate in anthropology and works as a researcher at the CNRS in France. As an Arabist, she specializes in the study of religious activity within the context of social and cultural change (colonial situation, migration, Diaspora). She has published a book on local Sufism in Algeria: Expériences du divin dans l’Algérie contemporaine. Adeptes des saints de la région de Tlemcen, CNRS Editions, Paris, 2001. A member of the SHADYC research team in Marseilles, she is currently working on new research on religion and politics in Jerusalem from the perspective of the Christian churches, mainly the Armenian church. E-mail address: [email protected] El-Sayed El-Aswad Ph.D. (Anthropology) University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, is a professor of anthropology and Chair of the Department of Sociology, Tanta University, Egypt. He is also adjunct professor at Wayne State University and has taught internationally at the United Arab Emirates University and Oakland Community College. He has been awarded fellowships by the Fulbright Program, Ford Foundation, Egyptian Government, UAE and AUC. He is a member of the American Anthropological Association and the Middle Eastern Studies Association of North America. He has published widely in both Arabic and English. E-mail address: [email protected] Patrick Franke is a university lecturer at the Institute for Oriental Studies in Halle, Germany. His publications include studies on contemporary religious developments within the Syrian Alawi community and on the imaginaire of traditional Islam. He is currently working on a post-doctoral thesis (German Habilitation) on the religious thought of the Meccan scholar Mulla
Ali al-Qari (d. 1605). E-mail address: [email protected]

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On the authors and editors | 219 Mohand Akli Hadibi holds an M.A. in anthropology and is a doctoral student at the EHESS in Paris where he is finalizing a thesis in cognitive sociology on the transfer of knowledge between the town and the city in contemporary Kabylia in Algeria. He is currently teaching the anthropology of Berberophone groups at the Department of Berber at Tizi ouzou, is an associate researcher at the CRASC in Oran and working on the theme of young people. He has just published a book: Wedris: une totale plénitude/Approche socio-anthropologique d’un lieu saint en kabylie, éditions ZYRIAB, Alger, 2003. E-mail address: [email protected] Catherine Mayeur-Jaouen is a professor of history at the University of the Sorbonne (Université de Paris-IV). She has carried out research on the cult of saints in Egypt and is the author of the book Sayyid al-Badawî, un grand saint de l’islam égyptien, IFAO, Le Caire, 1994 and editor of Saints et héros du MoyenOrient contemporain, Maisonneuve et Larose, Paris, 2002. E-mail address: [email protected] Achim von Oppen works as a researcher at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies in Berlin. He is a historian and social scientist whose main field of study has been rural Zambia and Tanzania. He cooperates with Chanfi Ahmed in the research project from which the insights presented in this volume are drawn. Apart from this project, he is Associate Director and responsible for research development at the Centre. E-mail address: [email protected] Paulo G. Pinto is a Visiting Professor at the Graduate Program in Anthropology and Political Science of the Universidade Federal Fluminense (PPGACP-UFF) in Brazil. He received his Ph.D. in Social Anthropology from Boston University in 2002 and wrote a thesis on ritual practices, religious experience and the embodiment of religious identities in the Sufi communities of Aleppo and the Kurd Dagh in Syria: Mystical Bodies: Ritual Experience and the Embodiment of Sufism in Syria. In addition to his research on Sufism in the Middle East, he is doing fieldwork on local and transnational interpretations of Islam in the Muslim community in Brazil with a research grant from the Brazilian National Research Council (Conselho Nacional de Pesquisa – CNPq). He is the author of articles on Sufism in contemporary Syria including “The Limits of the Public: Sufism and the Religious Debate in Syria”, Eickelman, Dale & Armando Salvatore, Public Islam and the Common Good, Leiden, Brill, 2004. E-mail address: [email protected] Refika Sarıönder studied sociology at the universities of Bogazici, Istanbul and Bielefeld. She is writing her Ph.D. thesis on “Political Publicity and the Transformation of the Religious by the Alevis” at the Faculty of Sociology, University

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220 | On the authors and editors of Bielefeld. She edited the following book with Oliver Krüger and Annette Deschner: Mythen der Kreativität. Das Schöpferische zwischen Innovation und Hybris, Frankfurt/M., Lembeck Verlag, 2003. E-mail address: [email protected] Samuli Schielke was born in Helsinki, Finland in 1972. He completed an M.A. in Islamic studies at the University of Bonn in 2000 and has been a Ph.D. student at ISIM (International Institute for the Study of Islam in the Modern World) in Leiden, The Netherlands since September 2001. From 2002 to 2003 he conducted fieldwork in Egypt for his PhD project on the changing practices of Egyptian mawlid festivals and the controversies surrounding them. E-mail address: [email protected] Emilio Spadola is a doctoral student of social-cultural anthropology at Columbia University in New York City and a 2002-2003 Fulbright-Hays Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad fellow. He is presently researching issues of Islam, media, gender and intimacy gathered under the rubric of jinn possession and exorcism in Fez medina, Morocco. E-mail address: [email protected]

On the editors of the Yearbook of the Sociology of Islam Armando Salvatore is a Senior Research Fellow at the Institute of Social Sciences, Humboldt University, Berlin. He received his Ph.D. in social and political studies at the European University Institute, Florence. His dissertation was granted the 1994 Malcolm Kerr Dissertation Award in the Social Sciences by the Middle East Studies Association of North America. It was later published as Islam and the Political Discourse of Modernity (1997, paperback 1999). He has edited three volumes, Between Europe and Islam: Shaping Modernity in a Transcultural Space (co-edited with Almut Höfert, 2000), Muslim Traditions and Modern Techniques of Power (2001) and Public Islam and the Common Good (co-edited with Dale F. Eickelman, 2004). He is completing a manuscript on Religion, Social Practice, Contested Hegemonies: Reconstructing the Public Sphere. E-mail address: [email protected] Georg Stauth teaches sociology at the University of Bielefeld (Germany). He is also heading the program on Islamic Culture and Modern Society at the Institute of Advanced Studies in the Humanities (Kulturwissenschaftliches Institut NRW) in Essen. He is co-author of Nietzsche’s Dance (Oxford 1988) and author of Islam und westlicher Rationalismus (Frankfurt 1993). His recent books are Authentizität und kulturelle Globalisierung (Bielefeld 1999) and Politics and Cultures of Islamization in Southeast Asia. Indonesia and Malaysia in the Nineteen-nineties (Bielefeld 2002), both published by transcript. E-mail address: [email protected]

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List of previous volumes Volume 1, Islam – Motor or Challenge of Modernity. Edited by Georg Stauth. Hamburg: LIT, 1998. New Brunswick (USA), London (UK): Transaction Publishers Volume 2, The South-South Dimension of Islam and Modernity. Edited by Helmut Buchholt and Georg Stauth. Hamburg: LIT, 2000. New Brunswick (USA), London (UK): Transaction Publishers Volume 3, Muslim Traditions and Modern Technics of Power. Edited by Armando Salvatore. Hamburg: LIT, 2001. New Brunswick (USA), London (UK): Transaction Publishers. Volume 4, Islam in Africa. Edited by Thomas Bierschenk and Georg Stauth. Hamburg: LIT, 2002. New Brunswick (USA), London (UK): Transaction Publishers.

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English Volumes Global|Local Islam Georg Stauth (ed.)

Margaret Rausch

On Archaeology of Sainthood

Bodies, Boundaries and Spirit

and Local Spirituality in

Possession

Islam

Maroccan Women and the

Past and Present Crossroads of

Revision of Tradition

Events and Ideas

2000, 275 Seiten,

Yearbook of the Sociology of

kart., 28,80 €,

Islam, Vol. 5

ISBN: 3-933127-46-7

(ed. by Georg Stauth and Armando Salvatore),

Cynthia Nelson, Shahnaz Rouse (eds.)

Mai 2004, 228 Seiten, kart., 26,80 €,

Situating Globalization

ISBN: 3-89942-141-8

Views from Egypt 2000, 362 Seiten,

Georg Stauth

kart., 29,80 €,

Politics and Cultures of

ISBN: 3-933127-61-0

Islamization in Southeast Asia Indonesia and Malaysia in the Nineteen-nineties 2002, 302 Seiten, kart., 30,80 €, ISBN: 3-933127-81-5

Leseproben und weitere Informationen finden Sie unter: www.transcript-verlag.de

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