Philosophising in Mombasa: Knowledge, Islam and Intellectual Practice on the Swahili Coast 9780748631735

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International African Library 35 General Editors: J. D. Y. Peel, Suzette Heald and Deborah James

PHILOSOPHISING IN MOMBASA

The International African Library is a monograph series from the International African Institute and complements its quarterly periodical Africa, the premier journal in the field of African studies. Theoretically informed ethnographies, studies of social relations ‘on the ground’ which are sensitive to local cultural forms, have long been central to the Institute’s publications programme. The IAL maintains this strength but extends it into new areas of contemporary concern, both practical and intellectual. It includes works focused on problems of development, especially on the linkages between the local and national levels of society; studies along the interface between the social and environmental sciences; and historical studies, especially those of a social, cultural or interdisciplinary character.

International African Library General Editors J. D. Y. Peel, Suzette Heald and Deborah James Titles in the series: 1 Sandra T. Barnes Patrons and power: creating a political community in metropolitan Lagos 2 Jane I. Guyer (ed.) Feeding African cities: essays in social history 3 Paul Spencer The Maasai of Matapato: a study of rituals of rebellion 4 Johan Pottier Migrants no more: settlement and survival in Mambwe villages, Zambia 5 Gunther Schlee Identities on the move: clanship and pastoralism in northern Kenya 6 Suzette Heald Controlling anger: the sociology of Gisu violence 7 Karin Barber I could speak until tomorrow: oriki, women and the past in a Yoruba town 8 Richard Fardon Between God, the dead and the wild: Chamba interpretations of religion and ritual 9 Richard Werbner Tears of the dead: the social biography of an African family 10 Colin Murray Black Mountain: land, class and power in the eastern Orange Free State, 1880s to 1980s 11 J. S. Eades Strangers and traders: Yoruba migrants, markets and the state in northern Ghana 12 Isaac Ncube Mazonde Ranching and enterprise in eastern Botswana: a case study of black and white farmers 13 Melissa Leach Rainforest relations: gender and resource use among the Mende of Gola, Sierra Leone 14 Tom Forrest The advance of African capital: the growth of Nigerian private enterprise 15 C. Bawa Yamba Permanent pilgrims: the role of pilgrimage in the lives of West African Muslims in Sudan 16 Graham Furniss Poetry, prose and popular culture in Hausa 17 Philip Burnham The politics of cultural difference in northern Cameroon 18 Jane I. Guyer An African niche economy: farming to feed Ibadan, 1968–88 19 A. Fiona D. Mackenzie Land, ecology and resistance in Kenya, 1880–1952 20 David Maxwell Christians and chiefs in Zimbabwe: a social history of the Hwesa people c. 1870s–1990s 21 Birgit Meyer Translating the devil: religion and modernity among the Ewe in Ghana 22 Deborah James Songs of the women migrants: performance and identity in South Africa 23 Christopher O. Davis Death in abeyance: illness and therapy among the Tabwa of Central Africa 24 Janet Bujra Serving Class: masculinity and the feminisation of domestic service in Tanzania 25 T. C. McCaskie Asante identities: history and modernity in an African village 1850– 1950 26 Harri Englund From war to peace on the Mozambique–Malawi borderland 27 Anthony Simpson ‘Half-London’ in Zambia: contested identities in a Catholic mission school 28 Elisha Renne, Population and progress in a Yoruba town 29 Belinda Bozzoli, Theatres of struggle and the end of apartheid 30 R. M. Dilley Islamic and caste knowledge practices among Haalpulaar’en in Senegal: between mosque and termite mound 31 Colin Murray and Peter Sanders Medicine murder in colonial Lesotho: the anatomy of a moral crisis 32 Benjamin F. Soares Islam and the prayer economy: history and authority in a Malian town 33 Carola Lentz Ethnicity and the making of history in northern Ghana 34 David Pratten The man-leopard murders: history and society in colonial Nigeria 35 Kai Kresse Philosophising in Mombasa: knowledge, Islam and intellectual practice on the Swahili Coast

PHILOSOPHISING IN MOMBASA KNOWLEDGE, ISLAM AND INTELLECTUAL PRACTICE ON THE SWAHILI COAST

KAI KRESSE

EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY PRESS for the International African Institute, London

To all my parents, for all their support and To the memory of Henry Odera Oruka (1944–1995)

© Kai Kresse, 2007

Transferred to digital print 2014 Edinburgh University Press Ltd 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Plantin by Koinonia, Bury, and

printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Croydon, CR0 4YY A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN

978 0 7486 2786 8 (hardback)

The right of Kai Kresse to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. For other publications of the International African Institute, please visit their web site at www.iaionthe.net

Ltd,

1 CONTENTS

Preface and acknowledgements Sources About the author Maps Prologue Approaching philosophical discourse in a Swahili context

vii xi xii xiii

1

Part I Coordinates – theory, ethnography, history 1 Towards an ‘anthropology of philosophy’ The ethnography of critical discourse and intellectual practice in Africa

11

2 The Swahili context Mombasa, the Old Town and Kibokoni

36

3 A neighbourhood of thinkers Knowledge, discourse and East African Islam

70

Part II Contextual portrayals of local intellectuals 4 Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany Swahili poetry and the conservation of cultural knowledge

105

5 Ahmad Nassir’s poetical moral theory Utu – how human beings ought to behave

139

6 The Ramadhan lectures of Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir The social critique of a politically minded Islamic scholar

176

Part III Reconsidering ethnography, reconsidering theory 7 Counterpoints and continuities: the younger generation Intergenerational idioms – experience and perspectives

211

Epilogue Approach and findings, conclusions and perspectives

231

CONTENTS

vi

Appendices 1 Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany: Utendi wa baraza ya Iddul-l-Fitri

240

2 Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir: Ramadhan lecture, 26 December 1998

247

Notes Bibliography Index

251 267 283

MAPS

1 2 3

Western Indian Ocean and Swahili coast, with Mombasa Mombasa District and Mombasa Island Mombasa Old Town within city area, with Kibokoni

xiii xiv xv

FIGURES

— 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6

Rooftop perspective, Old Town, with Mombasa skyline Historical background of coastal–upcountry divide Rooftop perspective, Old Town, view towards Old Port, creek Street scene, Old Town: Ndia Kuu Mandhry Mosque, near Old Port Street scene, children playing Street scene, Kibokoni: the author’s home during fieldwork (top floor) 3.1 Baraza corner with two young men 3.2 Football: David Beckham picture at Manchester United corner 3.3 Zefe (festive procession) during maulidi, Lamu 1999 3.4 Zefe at maulidi, Lamu 1999, detail with Sharif Khitamy and Ali Hassan Mwinyi 3.5 Sharif Khitamy in front of Habib Saleh’s house, 1999 3.6 Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui 3.7 Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy 3.8 Sayyid Omar bin Sumayt and Sayyid Omar Abdallah 3.9 Intellectual genealogy of East African Islamic scholars in the twentieth century 3.10 Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui 4.1 Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, with his first wife Khadija, 1999 4.2 Topical comment on the resignation of Mayor Balala 5.1 Ahmad Nassir (Juma Bhalo), 1999 5.2 Utu – the cycle of demand and reward 6.1 Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir, 1999 — Man thinking in a cafe, Lamu, 1999

xvi 54 56 58 60 63 65 73 74 85 86 88 90 91 92 93 95 113 134 152 168 184 232

1 PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The research project leading to this book has combined many of my study, research and travel interests over the last fifteen years or so. It can be linked back to my MA thesis in Philosophy (University of Hamburg), where I dealt with Ernst Cassirer’s philosophical anthropology and its relevance for an intercultural project of philosophy (Kresse 1996); to my MSc thesis in Anthropology (LSE, University of London), where I discussed the izibongo genre of Zulu oral poetry and its role for critical discourse in society (revised and published in 1998); and to my ongoing preoccupation with African philosophy which started in 1990, when I was a first-year student of Philosophy and African Studies. In the same year, I had already begun learning Kiswahili while travelling in East Africa, and then studied it for over four years in Hamburg under the good guidance of Sauda Sheikh Barwani. This book is based on my PhD thesis which was examined at the University of London in February 2002. For the period of my postgraduate research, I was registered in the Anthropology Department and also the Africa Department at SOAS. Fieldwork for this project was authorised by the Kenyan Office of the President (OP/13/001/28C 115/4) and conducted between early August 1998 and late September 1999. It included a good ten-month stay in the Kibokoni quarter of Old Town Mombasa, where I lived in a flat in Nyeri Street. Several short trips to Lamu and Zanzibar were undertaken within the fieldwork period. I was already familiar with East Africa and the Swahili region due to previous visits: for three months in 1990, 1992 and 1993 (with a DAAD stipend for a two-month Kiswahili intensive course in Zanzibar) and for one month in 1995. An HSP3 doctoral scholarship from DAAD, the German Academic Exchange Service, financed the first two years of this project and is gratefully acknowledged. From SOAS, I received an additional fieldwork award, for which I am also grateful. During my stay in Kenya, I was affiliated to the Institute of African Studies at the University of Nairobi and I would like to express my gratitude for that. At SOAS, J. D. Y. Peel and Louis Brenner, then my supervisors, provided a finely balanced combination of encouragement, guidance and critical feedback. My sincere thanks for their confidence in me, and also for their

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reliable support and the seriousness with which they treated this project in all its stages. From a standpoint of Swahili expertise, Farouk Topan gave me feedback on several chapter drafts and I thank him for that. Before embarking on fieldwork, I also profited from valuable comments from Ridder Samsom, Kit Davis, Susan Beckerleg, Sean O’Fahey, Sheikh Yahya Ali Omar and Trevor Marchand, among others; the latter two provided further helpful advice after fieldwork as did Richard Fardon. I thank Henrietta Moore and David Parkin for the fruitful discussion of an earlier version of this manuscript and for their encouragement since. I am also grateful to Mohamed Bakari for his helpful comments and for generously sharing information. I also thank the two anonymous readers of the manuscript submitted to the IAI for their comments and their endorsement of this project. In Mombasa, there are many people to thank, too many to mention all those who made my stay as productive, pleasant and homely as it was. Nawashukuru wote. My gratitude is firstly due to the three main characters of this study who, when introduced to the aims of my research, helped me in their different ways. Their openness to my research, and their readiness to discuss with me what I was seeing, hearing, reading and thinking about, and their encouragements to look, listen and participate in social activities, were crucial to the realisation of this project. I thank my wazee, Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo and Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir for all the support, time and kindness they showed me. In a similar vein, I thank Sayyid Abdulrahman Saggaf Alawy (Mwalimu Saggaf) for sharing some of his vast knowledge with me, readily spending many hours on my questions; and I thank marehemu Sayyid Abdulrahman Ahmed Badawy (Sharif Khitamy), unfortunately deceased before this publication, for all his support and friendliness. My gratitude also needs to be extended to the wives and families of all those mentioned, for their admirable and generous hospitality. I fondly remember the early evening hours at Hassan F. Hassanali’s sweetshop, enjoying the company of Hassan himself, the Sheikh, and ‘Abubakar yake’, Mzee Bashir Chandoo; also Bwana Agil, Mwalimu Iqbal Gitau, Mohamed Dumila and Bwana Potelo. Talks and discussions with them were often enlightening and helpful. Thanks also to Swaleh Said, for much assistance in the transcription of Ramadhan lectures, for many talks and walks in the Old Town and for being a good friend. For cheerful inspiration and friendship, thanks also to Shoeb Chandoo. Abdulqadir A. Nassir, for all help offered, links established and thoughts shared, must be thanked emphatically and with a smile of recognition: utu personified. Culinary thanks go to Island Dishes in Kibokoni; to Fuad, Farouk, Abdulkarim and their staff, who made me feel at home during all different times of the day and provided delicious Swahili food. My helpful neighbourhood included Mzee Abdulkarim (generous with and full of stories),

PREFACE AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ix

his son Akasha and family, and my neighbour Hussein. Fuad Muhammad and (from early on) his wife Bi Nuru Ali Hussein and her family, her mother and brothers Abbas, Abdallah, Farouk and Ahmed made me (and Joy) feel as extended family. I also thank Sulaiman and family for friendship and hospitality. For interviews and conversations, I thank Ustadh Harith Swaleh, marehemu Mwalimu Jumadari, Athman Lali Omar, Athman Hussein Athman and Stanbul A. Nassir, but also Ali, Munir, Zainabu, Hassan, Habibu and Omari. Also Gitari’s company will not be forgotten. I thank Shabbir Pirbhai for helping me to settle, and Hein Somfleth for first introducing me to Mombasa, starting in 1978. For hospitality at the Islamic University of Mbale, and for feedback and a good discussion on my project, I would like to thank Prof. T. S. Sengo and his family, and also his students and colleagues. In Lamu, I owe much to Ahmed Shuuri and his family and friends for the immediate extension of friendship ties: asante. Thanks also to Ali and Hashim Bunu, for pleasant periods of accommodation at Sun and Sail, and to Hashim especially for stimulating conversations and critical questions. Also, Mahmoud Mau was very kind and ready to share some of his knowledge and poetic material with me: shukran. In Zanzibar, I thank Mwalimu Idrisi for providing helpful information and initial contacts. I also thank Bi Asia Salim Omar and family for hospitality and information, and for help in translating Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu. For feedback and corrections on earlier versions of the manuscript not already mentioned above, I especially thank my three wazee, and Abdulqadir A. Nassir, Hashim Bunu, Mahmoud Mau, Alena Rettova and my two anonymous reviewers. On the side of academic philosophy, I thank Jens Heise for his early interest in my work and for many inspiring talks informing the philosophical framework of this research. In Nairobi, when I came for brief but regular visits, both Gail Presbey and Bruce Janz kindly provide philosophical inspiration through discussions, as well as generous accommodation in their respective flats. The interest in the late H. Odera Oruka’s work had brought us together, and the spirit of sage philosophy was still alive at the University of Nairobi where I also benefitted from stimulating talks with friends and colleagues such as Oriare Nyarwath, Juma Ndovu, Joseph Situma, OchiengOdhiambo,Wafulah and Owakah. Outside of philosophy, Prof. M. Abdulaziz and Hassan Mwachimako are thanked for graciously sharing some of their expertise with me. Papers and presentations on various chapters and aspects of this manuscript were given in a number of conferences, workshops, lectures and seminar talks in London, Nairobi, Mbale, St Andrews, Bayreuth, Mainz, Kassel, Oxford, Cambridge, Edinburgh, Ithaca, Binghamton, Evanston,

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Istanbul and Manila. I am grateful for many stimulating, inspiring and critical comments on those occasions and for the invitations to present my work. Having been engaged in related and overlapping projects and discussions with the following helped me clarify my thoughts during the period of writing and revision, and I am grateful for any input this may have had: Bertold Bernreuter, Franz M. Wimmer, Roman Loimeier, Scott Reese, Edward Simpson, Trevor Marchand, Roy Dilley, Knut Graw and Barbara Drieskens. In St Andrews, I am grateful to Peter Clark and the School of Philosophical and Anthropological Studies for providing a supportive research environment, and for travel grants to pursue visits to Mombasa in 2003 and 2005. I thank Sarah Broadie and John Skorupski for their comments on Chapter 5. I am grateful to my colleagues in Social Anthropology, for keeping up a good esprit de corps and for refreshing discussions within the Centre for the Anthropological Study of Knowledge and Ethics (CASKE). Special thanks to Mark Harris, for discussion of an earlier version of the manuscript, and for many related discussions during the revision process. The responsibility for all shortcomings and errors remains, of course, my own. Last but not least, I want to thank my family – especially my parents and extended parents – for their belief in me, and for their continuous support over the years. My final thanks are to Joy Adapon, for providing immeasurable support, nourishing food and thought, and much editorial help. And to Saskia, who joyfully popped up later on to join us in life. Kai Kresse

1 SOURCES

Some sections of the text have been published in the following sources: Parts of Chapter 1 in the article, ‘Towards an anthropology of philosophies, in the African context’, in G. Presbey et al. (eds). 2002. Thought and Practice in African Philosophy, pp. 29–46. Nairobi: Konrad Adenauer Foundation. Parts of Chapter 3 in the article ‘“Swahili Enlightenment?” East African reformist discourse at the turning point: the example of Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui’, Journal of Religion in Africa, 33 (3), 2003, 279–309; and in ‘At the baraza: socializing and intellectual practice at the Swahili coast’, in T. Falola (ed.). 2005. Christianity and Social Change in Africa: essays in honour of J. D.Y. Peel, pp. 613–31. Durham, NC: Carolina Academic Press. Parts of Chapter 4 in the article ‘Reading Mudimbe, applying “Mudimbe”, turning an insider out: problems with the presentation of a Swahili poet’, in Journal of African Cultural Studies, special issue on Reading Mudimbe, 17 (1), 2005, 101–26. Parts of Chapter 6 in the article ‘Making people think: the Ramadhan lectures of Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir in Mombasa, 1419 A.H.’, in S. Reese (ed.). 2004. The Transmission of Learning in Islamic Africa, pp. 212–43. Leiden: Brill.

1 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kai Kresse studied Philosophy, African Studies and German Literature in Hamburg and Vienna. He pursued postgraduate studies in Social Anthropology at the London School of Economics before embarking on his doctoral research in Anthropology and African Studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS). Currently he is Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of St Andrews and Research Fellow at the Zentrum Moderner Orient in Berlin (2006– 2008). In 2005, he was Evans-Pritchard Lecturer at All Souls College, Oxford. He is co-editor of Struggling with History: Islam and Cosmopolitanism in the Western Indian Ocean (Hurst, 2007), and has published articles on the Swahili coast, African philosophy, African literature, Anthropology and Philosophy, and the philosophy of Ernst Cassirer. He has edited volumes on the African philosophers H. Odera Oruka (Peter Lang, 1997) and V.Y. Mudimbe (Journal of African Cultural Studies, 2005), and on Cultural Philosophy (Wehrhahn Verlag, 2001). He is also a co-editor of the online journal polylog: forum for intercultural philosophy (www.polylog.org).

Map 1 Western Indian Ocean and Swahili coast, with Mombasa

Map 2 Mombasa District and Mombasa Island

Map 3 Mombasa Old Town within city area, with Kibokoni (only a few main streets of the city are indicated here)

Rooftop perspective, Old Town, with Mombasa skyline Picture by the author, 2005

PROLOGUE APPROACHING PHILOSOPHICAL DISCOURSE IN A SWAHILI CONTEXT

Knowledge and the knowledgeable As regards knowledge, there are four basic categories of human beings, the poet and healer Ahmad Nassir told me in his Kibokoni home. There are those who don’t know but think they know, those who don’t know that they know, those who know that they know, and those who know that they don’t know. According to Nassir, the only praiseworthy group was the last one. All the others had internal deficiencies. People who don’t know but think they know might boast to have knowledge but in the end would know nothing of value, because their supposed knowledge had no foundation; their knowledge would only be superficial and thus not worthy of the term ‘knowledge’. People who don’t know that they know are too insecure to have faith and strength to build up reasoned opinions for themselves; they are too reticent and shy to seek guidance and answers to important questions inside themselves. They would never find out about the knowledge they actually had. Those who know that they know tend to be arrogant, showing off their knowledge and separating themselves from others. Their knowledge may often also be restricted to areas of minor social relevance. This last point brings us to the fourth group, the praiseworthy category of those who know that they don’t know. They alone are conscious of the limits of their human knowledge, and aware that the actual quality of knowledge lies in questioning, in the pursuit of knowledge, and not in answering, the fact of having it. This position considers knowledge as a task, a project that never comes to an end. From such a position people will not risk deceiving themselves, as with the other positions. They will not over-estimate themselves and their abilities, nor ignore or underestimate their potentials, nor (consciously or unconsciously) restrict themselves to a given or defined limited sphere of knowledge.1 In teaching me this folk wisdom, Ahmad Nassir’s point was, I take it, to state several things: that the real value of knowledge lies in its being sought; that someone who truly values knowledge also questions and doubts it; that being conscious of one’s own limits of knowledge is already a step beyond these limits; that there is a circle of knowledge and questioning,

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in which questioning is the starting point for knowledge and knowledge is only the basis for further questioning. In the end, the message seems to be that, as human beings, all we can know is that we cannot ever fully know, for the growth of knowledge also accelerates the growth of ignorance. Thus knowing that we don’t know appears to be the one basic insight that we have.2 Nassir’s characterisation of the people of the fourth category is very similar to one of the classical identity markers of Western philosophy, anchored in ancient Greece, namely Socrates’ famous dictum ‘I know that I don’t know’ that Plato conveyed to us. Those who know that they don’t know are the knowledge seekers. The lovers of wisdom. Philosophers. Like Socrates’ statement, this brief narrative from the Swahili context (possibly of Sufi origin) illustrates a transcultural character of philosophical thought: seeking a secure basis of knowledge while at the same time finding it impossible to attain is a central feature of philosophy. Ahmad Nassir is a highly respected and knowledgeable healer and poet, well-known in Mombasa and far beyond for his exceptional wit and virtuosity in the use of language. Going over my fieldnotes, I wondered why he volunteered this particular characterisation of forms of human knowledge and emphasised that only the last position was productively tenable. Did he use this anecdote and adapt to my epistemological criteria because I am a Westerner? I do not think so, and from all my experiences of talking to him (exclusively in Kiswahili) I have no indications of this. I prefer to treat this little story as it came to me: an epistemologically interesting anecdote, seemingly part of Swahili folk wisdom, told and explained to me by a philosophically minded local intellectual. This introduces several topics crucial to my research: human knowledge and its scope, various attitudes or orientations towards knowledge as well as their respective normative evaluation, and the role of fundamental questioning, all looked at from within a specific Swahili context. But it also raises questions about the epistemological frameworks that are involved, which could roughly be called Swahili and Western. This leads to the problem of adequate description or representation of the coordinates of local knowledge, intellectual discourse and philosophical discourse that I seek to provide. In short, this introductory episode opens the field of topics and problems that I shall deal with in this book. The bit of wisdom above presents us with a certain conception of knowledge about knowledge that is part of, and draws from, Muslim intellectual discourse in Africa. Seeking knowledge about knowledge characterises philosophy as discursive activity which is self-reflexive and critical. The statements made here, about general categories of people’s capacities of knowing and how certain ways of knowing entail a lack of knowledge when viewed from a different perspective, come from a specific intellectual tradition shaped by Islam. Yet they address general questions of being human, and they do so

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with the intent to provide universally valid answers, beyond any confinements of social or cultural contexts, though inevitably speaking from within them. In this, they are successful: the anecdote speaks to us and is meaningful, even to those who may not be part of or even familiar with the context in which it was expressed. This is true for philosophical statements wherever we locate them regionally or historically. Descartes’ cogito ergo sum, ‘I think therefore I am’, was developed within a specific historical situation and within an intellectual project that addressed (also) the need for social change in France at that particular time. Yet it speaks to all of us, and possibly makes us ponder productively about the relationship between thinking and being, and if we are up for playing along, about an intellectual proof for our own existence vis-à-vis the questions of radical doubt. Similarly, Socrates’ dictum ‘I know that I don’t know’ was, on the one hand, a historically contextualised statement about the limits of human knowledge vis-à-vis the wealth of what there is to be known, made by a particular individual in ancient Greece. Yet because this has been appreciated as containing a meaningful insight into the human condition – what we call wisdom – it has been preserved in social memory by others, and it is still alive, stimulating and resonating with our own experience of our intellectual limitations. A driving force behind this study has been the assumption that it is a valuable task for anthropology to investigate, document, mediate and discuss statements and discourses of such a kind, where knowledge about knowledge is illustrated, formulated or performed by individual thinkers, within their specific socio-historical contexts, yet conveying meaningful insights about human life to all of us, as human beings. Such investigations, I take it, are themselves meaningful both within and outside of our own society, in ‘Africa’ as much as the ‘West’. Illuminating insights into our human condition, or critical clarifications upon the situation we live in, may be come across and uncovered anywhere in the world. But with regard to Africa, we, as ‘Westerners’ and particularly as social scientists and Africanists working within the Western academic tradition, may have a particular obligation to pay attention to such aspects of social practice, due to the history of neglect, prejudice and outright denigration of intellectual practice and intellectual history in Africa. Over the last decades, things have very much changed for the better, as the expanded debate and research on African philosophy, for one, illustrates. Historical and anthropological works too have contributed much to a better understanding of the internal complexities of social discourse and intellectual practice in Africa. These fields will provide the specific reference points for me to introduce the project of an anthropology of philosophy (Chapter 1), from various interdisciplinary angles and through various ‘turns’.

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Issues raised by the above anecdote on knowledge about knowledge will be picked up again later on in this study (Chapter 3). There I will also introduce relevant Swahili key concepts and frameworks of knowledge, the local appreciation of intellectual practice and the regional intellectual history in relation to Islam. The point of using this anecdote (or piece of folk wisdom) as a starting point here was to illustrate that such fundamental questions (about what kinds of knowledge there are, who is knowledgeable, etc.), are indeed raised and treated in the Swahili context – and that the statements given there may ring true and seem similar to those we, from elsewhere, are familiar with. ‘Approaching philosophical discourse in a Swahili context’ used to be the working title for this study. What this expression captured well, I thought, was the plurality of relevant connotations: the processual character of becoming closer, and then getting to understand; the preliminary character of the results (in the sense that what is presented here is only one out of many possible pathways, thematic foci and ways of dealing with Swahili philosophical discourse); it also draws attention to the challenge of the investigation that has to be dealt with consciously and cautiously; finally, the concluding part of the phrase emphasises the relevance of the regionally specific and historically grown environment within which texts, discourses and intellectual practice are actually investigated as philosophical. For my research, I saw it as very fortunate that Swahili language, culture, literature and history have been studied so well and intensively over much of the last century. This has made it easier for me to develop my own take, a related yet independent focus on philosophy that could draw from a lot of the existing material and could (re-)read it in a new light. It goes without saying that Swahili philosophical discourse can be approached and treated in many other ways as well, and I would appreciate more companions and collaborators working in this field, using different methodologies and frameworks and covering different issues – there are so many to be covered, and so many ways of thinking about them. While I introduce my framework in the next chapter, it is worth pointing out that other research on philosophy in Kiswahili is currently underway, dealing, for instance, with Shabaan Robert and Euphrase Kezilahabi, important writers of the colonial and early postcolonial phase in Tanganyika/Tanzania.3 F O C U S O N I N T E R N A L D I S C O U R S E S I N SW A H I L I

Careful attention to internal discourses, their dynamics and their relevance has been a welcome feature of some recent social research on the Swahili context, both historical and anthropological. Studies giving strong consideration to internal reflections on society, using archival resources or directly through participation in social life, seek to establish sensitive

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scholarship that succeeds in conveying the complexities of social life. In this vein, poetry and newspaper debates (in the form of poems or letters to the editor), for instance, have recently been studied (Saavedra 2002; Brennan 2002; Bromber 2002); for much of the twentieth century, these were common forms of public expression of conflicting views (or even fullblown conflicts), as well as mediating channels for their resolution. Conflict resolution itself, on a private and public level, has been investigated with a discourse-oriented strategy, involving the actual accounts of parties involved (Hirsch 1998), and also folklore and poetry reflecting cases of social conflict and resolution (Yassin 2004). Also, research with a conceptual focus on key terms of social discourse, such as uchawi, particularly on Pemba (Arnold 2003) or ustaarabu, particularly in Tanganyika newspaper debates (Bromber 2006), is widening the scope of Swahili studies. Finally, the ongoing project of collecting the bibliographic references of all Islamic writings in SubSaharan Africa also covers the Swahili context and will prove valuable for future research (Hunwick and O’Fahey).4 All these sources help us to focus in on internal discourses and debates, and enable us to acknowledge and document the regional diversity of opinions, to investigate the rhetorical strategies and arguments used by social actors to support their case. All of this contributes to a perspective that includes more consciousness about the ‘internal dynamism’ of Swahili culture and the ‘internal pluralism’ of voices, positions and opinions. Both terms were coined by Paulin Hountondji, who regards them as helpful starting points for empirically based research on African philosophy. He recently restated the demand ‘that the internal dynamism of African cultures – and in particular the pluralism of beliefs and systems of belief transmitted by these cultures – be taken into account’ (Hountondji 2002: 107). Interestingly, these are issues that anthropological (and historical) research on African societies has covered well over the last two decades – while philosophical research on Africa in some ways has to catch up in these respects. WO M E N A N D F E M A L E I N T E L L E C T U A L S

A Muslim community inevitably carries with it certain constraints upon fieldwork as far as gender is concerned. Being a male researcher, I obviously had much less, and less natural, access to women as regular informants and confidantes than a female counterpart would have had. This is naturally reflected in my account, which to a large extent draws from (a) experiences and observations made in public contexts among male peer groups in the streets of the neighbourhood where I did my fieldwork, and (b) extensive informal talks and interviews with good friends and confidants and a selection of local intellectuals (almost exclusively male), some of whom are described in detail below. Even though I had good contacts to and informative conversations with female members of families I was

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close to, my account could not adequately represent women’s perspectives (as far as gender difference matters) on all the issues I am talking about here – and this was never my goal. Swahili studies provides a variety of rich accounts on women’s perspectives by female researchers (e.g. Strobel 1979; Mirza and Strobel 1989; Fuglesang 1994; Fair 2001; Askew 2002). However, to my knowledge there has been no study yet of female thinkers and intellectual practice. This would surely be a rich field of study, as there are numerous examples of poets and healers who were influential in their wider social framework. In poetry, for instance, it is said that a female poet may use her husband’s name as a pseudonym for her work; and even in Islamic scholarship, some influential teachers have been women, e.g. the famous Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy once studied under a female teacher. This and other related examples are integrated into my account below, so that at least the information about female scholars or intellectuals that I came across is passed on. In the Swahili context, more specifically the Old Town of Mombasa, women – young or old – do not generally seem to be the weaker, suppressed or passive members of society; nor are they generally regarded as such – even though some Western, and local, preconceptions may regard them so. Often women are the breadwinners in the family, or at least contribute significantly. Particularly younger women in their twenties and thirties seemed economically active, perhaps more so than their male counterparts, many of whom were unemployed and hanging out in the streets. Young women were working as saleswomen in small local shops, as businesswomen (travelling and selling goods), as secretaries, or even computing instructors giving lessons in local computer centres. Knowledge, Islam, and intellectual practice are central pillars of this study, and their interlinks and overlaps should become more and more clear as the book proceeds. Knowledge is investigated in various shapes and forms, and some aspects of its relationship to reflexivity, ideology and critique in social practice are sketched out, analysed and discussed below. Islam provides the basic overall framework for both knowledge and social practice – and its actual regional form and practice in return depends very much on both of these. Intellectual practice, in the form of discussions and debates but also studying, reading, writing and the delivery of lectures or speeches – but also just thinking – is socially contextualised and thus always part of social practice. These three terms to me convey the important parameters of this study quite adequately. This brings us back to the initial anecdote, where knowledge about knowledge is displayed; presented within an Islamic framework, and with a view to repercussions for intellectual practice, it provides a useful entry point for the study of philosophical discourse – so there we are. I would like to conclude this preliminary prologue with a note on the

PROLOGUE

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historical framework of this research. This is constituted by the duration of my major fieldwork, from August 1998 to October 1999; neither my ethnographic description nor the discussion of historical events relevant to local discourse in Mombasa will venture beyond the end of my fieldwork stay, even though on subsequent visits to Kenya I have of course observed more recent events and their effects.

PART I COORDINATES – THEORY, ETHNOGRAPHY, HISTORY

1 TOWARDS AN ‘ANTHROPOLOGY OF PHILOSOPHY’: THE ETHNOGRAPHY OF CRITICAL DISCOURSE AND INTELLECTUAL PRACTICE IN AFRICA INTRODUCTION

An anthropological investigation into philosophy provides us with insights and information about traditions of knowledge and intellectual practice elsewhere in the world, in social contexts very different from our own. The project needs to engage with – and first of all be able to identify – philosophy as part of social discourse, and as a social practice, within any given region. Here, I am carving out one particular approach about how this could work in relation to the Swahili context and against the background of discussions in African philosophy. Philosophy, as socialised discourse and practice, overlaps with other (more established) areas of anthropological interest, like literature and religion. These overlaps, of genre and of discipline, can be investigated and made useful as points of orientation. However, one difficulty of introducing the project of an ‘anthropology of philosophy’ to an interdisciplinary audience with widely disparate expertise and background is dealing with all the subject-specific matters and questions in appropriate depth. Here, I am trying to find a balance, presenting several sub-disciplinary ‘turns’ that lead to an anthropology of philosophy. Thus the interdisciplinary overlaps provide entry points into the characterisation of this project. T OW A R D S A N A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F P H I L O S O P HY

Why an anthropology of philosophy? Anthropology as the study of human beings is concerned with the whole realm of human experience. Within the last few decades, anthropology has developed various interdisciplinary subfields of research on ever more complex and sub-differentiated areas, thus creating a broader range of ‘anthropologies of …’ that are investigated in their own right. To push this research ahead, knowledge from other disciplines needs to be brought in, and has indeed become more crucial for anthropology than ever before (Moore 1999: 4). Now, philosophy is a specific field of human activity, an intellectual yet socially contextualised endeavour. As such, it deserves the specific attention of anthropological enquiry, just like all the other fields of human activity and interest. For these purposes, the following characterisation of philosophy, by the German philosopher

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Herbert Schnädelbach, has struck me as providing a particularly useful guideline; he qualifies it as the attempt of thoughtful (or intellectual) orientation within the sphere of the fundamentals of our thinking, knowing, and doing. (Schnädelbach 1988: 215)1 Philosophy can be seen as a human practice, responding to the common need for intellectual orientation that is at work in many different social and cultural terms and contexts. As such, it merits anthropological attention and investigation. In the case I present here, texts and debates on the nature of philosophy, on African philosophy, and on the relation between philosophy and its cultural and social contexts are used for research on Swahili philosophical discourse. Overall, this study is a concrete example of an anthropology of philosophy, engaged with the ethnography of the Swahili context as observed in the Old Town of Mombasa between 1998 and 1999. If the social practice of philosophy falls within the interest of anthropology – in regard to the regionally particular cultural and social contexts of this practice, but also in general as an area of human experience and expression – this interest is, and should be, reciprocated by philosophy itself. In cultural philosophy,2 the need to base general statements on human nature on the available empirical data on human culture, and to constantly reassess new reflections against an empirical background, is obvious. This has been highlighted, for instance, by the German philosopher Ernst Cassirer (1874– 1944). His Philosophy of Symbolic Forms, comprising extensive works on the nature of human knowledge and culture (Cassirer 1923, 1925, 1929), is based on a principal double-aspectivity of the human symbolic sphere (and man as animal symbolicum).3 Hereby, all human experience is shaped and determined through the projection of meaning onto the world, in relation (and partly in response) to concrete material forms. Cassirer’s approach thus recognises a combination of intellectual activity and sensuous receptivity at the core of the distinct human way of being in the world. Accordingly, human beings shape, or ‘make’, their worlds through various alternative and coherent frameworks of meaning, the symbolic forms. Indeed, Nelson Goodman’s similarly structured ‘ways of world-making’ (Goodman 1978) is based on Cassirer, who himself used the phrase ‘ways of understanding the world’ (Weisen des Weltverstehens) to characterise the symbolic forms as channels for the constitution of human experience and knowledge (Cassirer 1994a: introduction). As Cassirer’s approach sees an interplay of intellectual and sensuous capacity at the core of what makes us human, it also provides a framework that situates ‘theory’ (the intellectual production of focused and general accounts of whatever is reflected upon) in relation to an empirical context

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from the outset. From this perspective, philosophy itself is always seen as linked to and contextualised within human experience of the world, no matter how abstract its reflections can become. Cassirer’s approach can also provide the basis for a non-hierarchical descriptive approach to the general study of cultures and cultural practices worldwide. It does not prioritise any one before the others per se.4 His philosophy bases itself on a general philosophical anthropology, addressing the question ‘what is the human being?’, which itself is rooted in concrete and specific empirical information, like ethnographic accounts of cultures and human interaction happening within them. Cassirer himself called for an ‘anthropological philosophy’ (Cassirer 1992: 42, 66f), while developing his philosophical statements in relation to the available empirical and historical information. He was an avid reader of the anthropological and ethnographic works of his time (e.g. Malinowski), and often drew from them to illustrate and underpin his theoretical statements. The need to root philosophy in experience, or at least to contextualise it in such, can also be applied to self-referential statements by philosophy on itself. As a discipline concerned with the formulation of social and cultural theory by reflection on empirical data collected during fieldwork, anthropology is able to assist philosophy in extending its awareness of its own character and status – particularly in intercultural perspective – in regard to a variety of different cultural contexts. This implies, of course, that philosophy is not (and should not be) understood exclusively as a Eurocentric project of Greco-Judaic origin, but as a critical and fundamentally reflective practice that occurs worldwide in many different forms. In this way, an anthropology of philosophy can assist philosophy to attain a wider and more inclusive self-understanding. This is appropriate, particularly at a time of rising awareness about globally operating power strategies and mutual interdependencies, and within suspicions that ‘philosophy’, as an icon of Western intellectual culture, may be used as a Eurocentric smoke-screen for power interests by way of excluding others. As has often been raised within the debate on African philosophy, to deny others the potential to philosophise is, to some extent, to deny them their humanity (Appiah 1992; Oruka 1997; cf. also Taylor 1994). In a similar vein, in postcolonial African societies like Kenya, the label of ‘philosophy’ has been used to advertise and commend autocratic rule as a quasi-democratic national consensus of the people (cf. Moi 1986). Through ethnography, anthropological research can provide concrete details, accounts and assessments of philosophical practice in various parts of the world, in addition to those that sociologies of philosophy – for instance the illuminating and expansive intercultural study by Randall Collins, itself partly inspired by and drawing from anthropological approaches (Collins 1998) – or histories of philosophy can offer. Fundamentally, philosophy

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always remains linked to knowledge, the quest for knowledge, the critique of knowledge, and to the various perspectives from which different forms of knowledge can be described and conceptualised. This is why an anthropology of philosophy has to be developed and to proceed in relation to an anthropology of knowledge.The latter is a general term for a diverse sub-field of investigation in anthropology, and thus a concrete pathway of research has to be specified. Here, I follow a hermeneutically inspired approach, as described by Michael Lambek, where various locally relevant forms of knowledge are identified, observed, described and discussed in relation to social practice (Lambek 1993: 8–19). A similar approach is provided in Talal Asad’s conception of an anthropology of Islam that focuses on Islam as a ‘discursive tradition’ and investigates the internal diversities of positions and arguments within the Muslim community (Asad 1986). As will be seen later in the ethnography, in the context of observing social practice with a focus on reflexive discourses of knowledge (those that we call ‘philosophical’) and the processes of their production and mediation, it is not always possible to differentiate very clearly between ‘philosophy’ and ‘nonphilosophy’, nor is such a rigid categorisation the main intention of this study. In fact, perhaps some of the most interesting questions (in regard to the practice of philosophy) emerge from the blurry areas in between: when poetry shifts from didactic to critical language, when a political speech or a religious sermon is focused on reasoning out the basics of human existence. These are discursive instances that are philosophically laden. On the whole, the notion of discourse as verbal practice is important, since philosophy, as critical reflection or the construction of an argument, is always mediated by language.5 Philosophical discourse in this study refers to oral and written statements and texts which I encountered during my fieldwork, produced in the Swahili language, by residents of the Old Town (or people relevant to the social life there). We are dealing with specific individual thinkers and, concurrently, with different perspectives on life which developed out of their different life histories. For some of the main characters of this study, these life histories will be sketched out and integrated into a contextual portrayal which discusses their social relevance and the importance of their intellectual work from an anthropological perspective that is philosophically interested. Each individual and their life history is, to a considerable extent, situated in the ‘same’ social sphere: the Swahili context, Old Town Mombasa and postcolonial Kenya. They partake in (possibly diverse and yet commonly accessible) conceptions of worldview and social knowledge that characterise the Swahili context as an overarching and regionally bound unit, and are linked to schools of thought that influence, determine and shape the thought processes and opinions of individual thinkers in different ways and to varying degrees. The interrelation of these factors will be dealt with below, after a presentation of

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several ‘turns’ toward an anthropology of philosophy, each of which takes a different disciplinary angle or focus as its starting point. Last but not least, the Swahili context and Old Town Mombasa is overwhelmingly Muslim. Thus we are, to a large extent, dealing with Islamic perspectives on knowledge which have been adapted to, embedded in or shaped through the Swahili context, and which are in complementary or competitive relationship to each other. As Talal Asad has made clear, to work out the particular ‘discursive tradition’ of Islam in a region, the ways in which Islam has been negotiated, practised and justified within the dynamic and internally diverse social history of a Muslim community is of fundamental importance. Below, this will be sketched out, and related to the general factors and features that constitute the dynamic field of local knowledge and philosophical discourse mentioned above. Then it can be thematised, how, in a particular setting at the East African coast, ‘local discourses of Islam’ influence philosophical thought and discussion, and how Muslim thinkers and intellectuals are shaped and shape others ‘through discourse’ (cf. Lambek 1993, Bowen 1993). Recent studies of Islam in Africa have been able to illustrate, against common prejudice, the intellectual vibrancy of Islamic thought in Africa, within a network of long-standing historical connections to other parts of the Muslim world (cf. Reese 2004). Linked to such features, then, this study also seeks to contribute to the growing anthropological literature on the comparative study of Muslim societies. In this theoretical introduction, regional references are made particularly (though not exclusively) to the African context. With this, I seek to prepare the framework and focus for an approach to Swahili philosophical discourse which is at the centre of my ethnographic investigation. Having developed through intercultural and multi-ethnic contact over many centuries, absorbing many influences from neighbouring cultures of the wider Indian Ocean network, Swahili communities are paradigmatically ‘translocal’ in character. Nevertheless, Kiswahili is clearly an African language, and strong social relations to coastal hinterland peoples over many centuries have also been confirmed through historical, linguistic, and anthropological research (Horton and Middleton 2000; Nurse and Spear 1985; Parkin 1984). In fact, Parkin’s characterisation of the Kenyan Mijikenda as ‘facing both ways’ (1989) might similarly be applied to the citizens of the Swahili coastal towns, in so far as they have historically acted as intermediaries between the hinterland and upcountry on the one hand and the cultures of their Muslim maritime trading partners on the other. This study presents an account of how contemporary philosophical discourse in the Swahili context, and particularly the Old Town of Mombasa, can be thematised, described and discussed. The issue of place, as the sum of the concrete contexts to be experi-

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enced and observed in the chosen venue of fieldwork, is also of high importance. Even if the Swahili area has a common language (though with many competing dialects), certain common cultural traits and a common historical framework, the differences of specific local histories and what they imply for a discourse-oriented study of knowledge, criticism and debate are considerable. Already a shift of focus to any other area within Mombasa, such as for instance Kisauni, Majengo, Changamwe or Ganjoni, would have led to a number of different factors, possibly in different combinations, at the heart of the investigation. Language, education, history, economic conditions and other factors would have differed significantly, and all of these influence the local discourses of knowledge, the topics that are commonly debated and the way that philosophical reflections are expressed. Evidently, there is discursive pluralism at a local level, an important feature that will be taken up and underlined with the help of other perspectives described in more detail below. Thus the Old Town of Mombasa, and the quarter of Kibokoni where I lived, are introduced at length in the following chapters in relation to the particular interest of my research, and together with the relevant regional intellectual history. TUR N ONE: FROM THE AFRICAN PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION TO ANTHROPOLOGY

The debate about philosophy in Africa among African academic philosophers was sparked off by young academic African philosophers in the 1960s and 1970s.6 They lauched critiques of the book Bantu Philosophy, written by the Belgian missionary Placide Tempels (orig. 1945). Since its inception, the debate led to the development of two antagonistic camps, which the Nigerian philosopher Peter Bodunrin called ‘modernists’ and ‘traditionalists’ (Bodunrin 1985). He characterised as ‘modernists’ those who were mainly focusing on social and technological development that could integrate African societies into the ‘modern’ world. ‘Traditionalists’, in contrast, were characterised as those who sought moral orientation and guidance through a look at the past, documenting and describing values and traditions, with a sense that they may still be of use. Bodunrin wisely characterised the difference between the two camps rather as a matter of focus and emphasis, and not as a wholly antagonistic opposition for which there was no reconciliation. As this opposition dominated the field, those who wanted to contribute to research on African philosophy (rather than engage in an ideological stand-off) had to develop ‘third ways’ to overcome this deadlock and produce alternative approaches that combined a ‘modernist’ insistence on universal, comparative features of philosophy with a ‘traditionalist’ stance on the unique and specific particulars of African cultures and societies – in the ways that people think, argue and debate as much as their other aspects of acting in daily life.

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For academic research on African philosophy today, the deadlock between ‘traditionalists’ and ‘modernists’ that dominated the 1970s and 1980s no longer constitutes such a fundamental obstacle. The heated ideological debate between defenders and critics of ethnophilosophy, the quasiethnographic project of presenting collective worldviews of ethnic groups as philosophies, has largely subsided and led to a wide variety of projects, among them the development of more complex research and discussions. It is now obvious that a diametrical opposition between the description of folk wisdom and culturally based worldviews and the production of critical and scientifically orientated treatises on modernisation is misdirected. Approaches with the character of a ‘third alternative’ (Oruka 1991: 43) or ‘third ways’ (Oladipo 2002) between these two poles have been developed, promising fresh perspectives for research on the documentation and reconstruction of philosophical discourse in Africa. For instance, culturally specific conceptions of knowledge and belief, self and world, truth, beauty and politics have been investigated, within explicit and often clearly defined methodological frameworks, such as analytical philosophy (Hallen 2000; Hallen and Sodipo 1997; Wiredu 1996), or hermeneutics (Okere 1983; Serequeberhan 1994; Janz 1997). Also, the reconstruction of culturally specific ‘conceptual schemes’ of African philosophical traditions has been initiated (Gyekye 1995), as well as the contextualised documentation of philosophical interviews with individual sages (Oruka 1991; cf. Graness and Kresse 1997). Within mainstream African philosophy, pragmatic references to anthropology and ethnographic material have become more common since the 1990s (Masolo 1994; Wiredu 1996; Karp and Masolo 2000; Wiredu 2004). Though substantial interdisciplinary engagement is still rare, this is a significant step forward for a relationship in which anthropology was long dismissed with contempt, or at least regarded with suspicion, because of its historical links with the colonial system (cf. p’Bitek 1970;7 Asad 1973; Hountondji 1996, 2002). It was inherently associated with the misconceived and prejudiced notion of an evolutionary, hierarchical order of human societies, from the ‘primitive’ to the ‘modern’ (cf. Kuper 1993). Of course this included an a priori assertion of the impossibility of culturally immanent traditions of ‘real’ philosophy in Africa, an assertion which was followed in anthropological writings on African ‘thought systems’ (Fortes and Dieterlen 1965). Hand in hand, these early ethnographies portrayed a somewhat paternalistic image, speaking ‘for the native’ from a higher position (Tempels 1959; but partly also Evans-Pritchard 1937; Douglas 1966), an attitude paradoxically taken up later by some African scholars themselves, mostly missionaries (e.g. Kagame 1985). Understandably, then, many academic African philosophers have vehemently insisted that philosophy is a universal form of human knowledge and

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practice, claiming that common human principles underlie ‘philosophy’ just as much as any other social action anywhere – and, as already mentioned, that to deny philosophy to people from the outset, means to deny them part of their humanity. This does not necessarily go well together with the current discourse of ‘postmodernism’, which, as Appiah has pointed out, sometimes is just a new version of the old paternalistic speaking ‘for the others’ already inherent in colonial discourse (Appiah 1992). On what grounds indeed should the claim of ‘having philosophy’ – which in European history has indicated pride in the complexity of one’s culture and its advanced intellectual discourse – be denied to others right from the outset? In Africa, as anywhere else, reason and tradition are not mutually exclusive. On the contrary, the locally competing traditions of reasoning in Africa, in their concrete shapes and forms and against the background of the social histories, need to be analysed and evaluated. They present occurences of what Hountondji has called an ‘internal pluralism’ in society (Hountondji 1983, 1996: 168), a pluralist framework of reasoned views and opinions that characterises African societies as much as others. Beyond that, it presents an initial basis for the identification of philosophical discourse. This notion of ‘internal pluralism’ can be used as a valuable key term for philosophical fieldwork and the interpretation of local discourses and texts, whether written or spoken, whether published or not. Taken seriously, it can help to ascertain that the locally relevant social discourses are followed up, and it can help to remind us that we should seek to discern and understand the internal variety of opinions and positions within a social context, or even a community, that seek to convince others by means of a good argument. Rarely, if ever, will we encounter simple, collective and monolithic structures of belief in a society, in Africa or elsewhere. It is in this sense that Hountondji’s expression ‘internal pluralism’ is used as a guideline for this study. The growing openness and interest of African philosophers in anthropology and its ethnographic data seems linked to an internal differentiation, itself marking development in the field: the more specific and sub-differentiated the issues treated in African philosophy have become (in its subfields of aesthetics, morality, feminism, etc.), the more necessary – and thus acceptable – the inclusion of documents and ethnographic data that may provide the specific information for a philosophical interpretation.8 Interdisciplinary ‘philosophical ethnography’ was already called for long ago, by Wyatt MacGaffey, in a seminal interdisciplinary review of research on ideology and belief in Africa, in the disciplines of anthropology, religious studies, history, politics, theology and philosophy (MacGaffey 1981; cf. 262f). There, he noted the emergence of promising works in this area, and increasing discussions among Africans on it. Now, as the previous concurrence between theology and philosophy that MacGaffey highlighted (ibid.: 257) has been reduced, the ‘ethnographic shallowness’ that he criticised

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in philosophical works may decrease. African philosophers now integrate ethnographic information – along with historical, political and other – into their studies more commonly (e.g. Wiredu 1996; Gyekye 1995, 1998). Overall, however, the lack of an accepted ‘common framework’ (MacGaffey 1981: 228) between the disciplines, which would be needed for such a project, is still observable today. My aim here is to contribute to the construction of such a framework, and to move towards an interdisciplinary cooperation between philosophy and anthropology. In this, I feel supported by two newly edited classics of African philosophy: Barry Hallen has noted a ‘general lack of technical philosophical content in anthropological literature’ (in Hallen and Sodipo 1997: 134), and Paulin Hountondji has observed a ‘change’ within anthropology while acknowledging its potential contribution to this area (1996: xix, viii). Both statements indicate the systematic interest and sceptical caution which is necessary for a fertile interaction between the disciplines. To push this point further, in a recent collection of essays, Karp and Masolo, an anthropologist and a Kenyan philosopher, make a forceful argument for closer interdisciplinary relations between anthropology and philosophy for research in this field: Examining the relationships among discourse, knowledge, and everyday life is an inherently interdisciplinary endeavour, one that requires the skills and knowledge bases of both philosophers and anthropologists alike. This interdisciplinary mix enables us to study what people know and how they express their knowledge as well as how knowledge and saying are contested or become authoritative. (Karp and Masolo 2000: 13) This quote signals support for an anthropology of philosophy, and it encapsulates some of the central tasks faced by my own research. T U R N T WO : F R O M P H I L O S O P HY T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y

From the perspective of philosophy as an academic discipline, approaching African philosophical discourse should not per se pose a problem. If it is reasonable to say that philosophy begins with wonder or puzzlement, as Plato claimed, or if it is time put into thought, as Hegel said, we are bound to expect philosophy in any kind of society. These classic definitions are loose and flexible while still emphasising a particular characteristic trait of philosophy taken to be crucial – awareness of the fundamental uncertainties of life in the case of Plato, and explicit historical consciousness in the case of Hegel9 – and have often been interpreted and put into various contexts of reflection upon society. As philosophy is defined formally here, these definitions present no problem when applied to other cultures – where forms of puzzlement appear as well as categories of time and thought – and thus both

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definitions could be used to describe schools of thought and traditions of reasoning, whether in intracultural or transcultural perspectives. It can also be said that the idea of an anthropological investigation into the forms and positions of philosophical discourse outside of the Western paradigm does not go against the grain of major schools of thought within the history of Western philosophy – even though these did have a Eurocentric and sometimes even a racist bias (cf. Eze 1997a, 1997b). Thus a systematic anthropological inquiry into philosophical discourse and practice around the world could be supported, or at least argued for, even from within mainstream philosophy itself. An example is one of the central pillars of ‘Western’ academic philosophy, the German philosopher Immanuel Kant, who is popularly often taken as an epitome of German enlightenment or European rationalism. He developed a conception of philosophy which can be helpful for our purposes here, differentiating between two conceptions of philosophy, a ‘worldly’ and a ‘scholarly’ one (Philosophie im Weltbegriff and Philosophie im Schulbegriff) which in their interrelation form the whole of philosophy. Thus he distinguished two axes that constitute philosophy on the one hand as a creative and innovative intellectual activity, and as an institutionalised conservative one on the other, i.e. an originally reflexive and a doctrinal aspect (1930: 753–5; KrV B866–868; also 1974: 25–30). The doctrinal Schulbegriff marks philosophy as a ‘system of knowledge’ of scientific character, aimed at the systematic unity of knowledge in an established tradition; here, the teachings and rules of a school of thought are more and more finely interpreted, and thinkers are trained (‘learning’ the rules). Kant characterises this aspect of philosophical knowledge as ‘historical’, which for him marks the systematisation and standardisation of a certain genuine approach: a philosophical school is formed by students acquiring this knowledge, this ‘doctrine of skill’ (1974: 28), at second hand. On the other hand, the reflexive Weltbegriff, the original ‘basis’ of the meaning of the term, refers to those fundamental areas of knowledge which are of ‘necessary interest to everyone’. It is here that genuinely creative philosophical work takes place, namely ‘philosophising’, where a ‘doctrine of wisdom’ is formulated by the thinking individual. It is specifically worldly in that here the specialist is not privileged over the common man: philosophical questions are principally of equal concern to all of us, and crucial innovative ideas are not necessarily initiated from within the scholarly realm. It is also worldly in a ‘cosmopolitan’ sense, in that general questions concerning all human beings are treated from a perspective that looks beyond the realm of cultural and social boundaries, seeing all humans commonly as ‘citizens of the world’ (Weltbürger), i.e. cosmopolitans. Unlike the historical scholarly knowledge, philosophising in this sense cannot really be taught since it ‘can be learned only through practice and the use of one’s own reason’. This is why Kant concludes that philosophy, in the ‘true sense’, is never a given but

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always a task (‘aufgegeben’). For someone following this task, the available historical doctrines within the Schulbegriff can be helpful as thought material and points of orientation: ‘every philosophical thinker builds his work, so to speak, on the ruins of another’ (ibid.). Certainly, the availability of others’ attempts to create a philosophy, and thus the possibility of referring to them, helps in the construction of one’s own. The existence of scholarly traditions makes it easier for the philosophising individual to specify and clarify a point. But such traditions are not a necessary precondition for the initial development of truly philosophical thought in the Weltbegriff. Rather, the latter is initiated by following up fundamental questions on the nature of human existence – i.e. in a philosophical sense, anthropological questions – that every human being is confronted with, in regard to their own perspective on life: ‘what can I know?’, ‘what ought I to do?’, ‘what may I hope for?’, and ‘what is man?’ According to this passage by Kant, these questions, while signifying the various realms of the philosophical sub-disciplines of metaphysics (epistemology), morality, religion and anthropology, together cover the whole field of philosophy.10 This, in its full scope, is based on and always leads back to (philosophical) anthropology because ‘the first three questions are related to the last’ (ibid.: 29) in that they contribute to an overall insight on the nature of human beings. So in two respects Kant’s characterisations of philosophy help provide an orientation for an anthropology of philosophy: first, socially and historically situated (and institutionalised) schools of thought that can be identified and studied in a diverse range of societies around the world can be linked to Kant’s Schulbegriff as one significant aspect of philosophy. This, however, is linked to a second, the generation of critical and innovative ideas for orientation in life, Philosophie im Weltbegriff, which is expressed by individual thinkers in relation to the former. (This process can be documented and discussed, very much at the core of an anthropology of philosophy.) The heart of philosophical activity, for Kant, lies in the potential of individuals as self-reliant, critical thinkers to deal creatively with fundamental questions of orientation, and to express and communicate their thoughts to others.11 As such, philosophy is potentially open and meaningful to all human beings; as pointed out above, it addresses questions which are ‘of necessary interest to everyone’. Having read these passages by Kant for our current purposes, we could now use and apply them for our project, as both a rationale and a method for an anthropology of philosophy could be gained from here. If philosophy is a distinctly human activity of intellectual self-orientation, then it is likely to occur in all (or many) different cultures and societies. This insight can be employed for two central tasks of anthropological research on philosophical practice: the ethnographic aspect, i.e. the empirical observation of philosophy as a fundamentally reflexive and critical discursive practice in social life, and the theoretical evaluation of the

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observed socially and culturally specific forms of this practice in relation to a wider and potentially general understanding of philosophy. The formal distinction that Kant has pointed at is, in principle, applicable to any social context that human beings live in, in any part of the world. In Africa, too, we should be able to identify various institutionalised traditions of knowledge, schools of thought that teach ‘doctrines of skill’ (the Schulbegriff of philosophy) and individual thinkers who develop their own ‘doctrines of wisdom’ in regard to basic questions of human existence (the Weltbegriff). Approaching African philosophical discourse in this way, the ambivalent Kantian distinction between internal worldly and scholarly aspects can help as a guideline in looking for and identifying philosophical practice. Being formal, it can do this without predetermining any concrete form or shape that philosophical thought should take, for it does not prescribe any content for a culturally specific practice of philosophising, nor does it determine the concrete forms in which culturally specific philosophical thought can develop. It provides formal criteria with which to identify, contextualise and understand philosophical discourse. Such a descriptive and value-free conception of philosophy enables us to approach existing institutionalised traditions (‘systems’) of knowledge in Africa, and since the historical knowledge of this realm can be taught and learned, it might also be publicly accessible or otherwise recordable by the philosophical fieldworker or the philosophically minded anthropologist. Furthermore, individual intellectuals can be approached and their practice of theory can be evaluated against its context: is it historically given knowledge or genuinely innovative? Is it critical or purely doctrinal? It is in the observation of the interaction between the two aspects of scholarly and worldly conceptions of philosophy that we can identify a specific tradition of knowledge, and that we appreciate further attempts by individual thinkers to increase and improve knowledge and theory within that tradition. From a thorough description of the interaction between these two levels, then, we can work out an appropriate understanding of what one may call ‘philosophical discourses’ in societies in Africa and elsewhere.

The relation between philosophy and culture, following Cassirer In order to specify what differentiates philosophy from other forms of knowledge and experience and how it relates to culture, let us turn to Ernst Cassirer’s philosophy of culture and its conception of philosophy. Cassirer’s philosophy provides a fundamentally pluralistic framework for the analysis of ‘culture’, the realm of human experience. This relates to a variety of ‘symbolic forms’, such as language, myth, religion, science and art, which are various mediating channels of human experience through which meaning is constituted. They have also been termed fundamental

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‘ways of understanding the world’ (Cassirer 1994a: 5). For our purposes here, it suffices to liken them to differently coloured pairs of glasses: when wearing them in turn they make us experience the ‘same’ reality from different coherent angles. These symbolic forms, in their overall dynamic interrelation, constitute ‘culture’ as a whole, which in turn refers to the allembracing sphere of human expression and interaction. Cassirer explicitly states that the symbolic forms, as general and coherent pathways of understanding the world, are of equal value for humanity (ibid.: 9); thus they should not be construed into a hierarchical order. By way of analogy, this point can be expanded and applied to cultures as a whole (after all, they are complex conglomerates of symbolic forms): concrete cultures, then, can be seen as distinct yet equally valid realms of human experience. As descriptive apparatus for cultural analysis, then, Cassirer’s framework can be used to analyse diverse cultures on equal terms, not only without reducing their complexity, but even insisting on their respective specificities. Within Cassirer’s philosophy of symbolic forms philosophy itself is conceptualised as ‘both critique and fulfilment of the symbolic forms’ (Cassirer 1995: 265),12 marking a reflexive quality which is not a particular part of any symbolic form but which can provide insight into each of them. Overall, philosophical reflection focuses on the interrelations between the various symbolic forms in the way they constitute ‘culture’ as a whole. From this perspective, philosophical knowledge is not a separate form of knowledge, but is present in each particular symbolic form in so far as a critical and selfreflexive discourse (including a focus on the interrelation to all the other symbolic forms) is generated and expressed within and through it. In this view, all such fundamentally self-critical and theory-oriented knowledge, whatever symbolic form it takes as its starting point, is philosophical. This also means that there are various different, but equally valid, types of philosophical thought, according to the respective standpoint (in a symbolic form) from which reflection takes place. Applied to a wider stage of intercultural comparison, this approach implies that traditions of philosophical reflection in different cultures (which are themselves distinguished by a unique set of internal interrelationships of symbolic forms) may present different but equally valid general and reflexive perspectives on the world. Therefore, this approach has the advantage of not only explaining but even anticipating an ‘internal pluralism’ of competing philosophical discourses not only among cultures, but potentially within every culture.13 It also anticipates a pluralism of traditions of philosophical discourse worldwide.14 Thus the initial hypothesis, that distinct traditions of philosophical discourse may be found in any culture, is in principle supported by Cassirer’s philosophy of symbolic forms. With this, we have established a basis for further investigation into the specific forms of philosophising in other cultures from a particular philosophical perspective. However, the

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actual existence of such forms and their traditions should not be simply presupposed in theory, but has to be empirically established through the documentation of philosophical discourses and practices in their social context. This is a task for anthropology. So far, the characterisation of philosophy has been highlighted as central to the project of an anthropology of philosophy. Only a formal and relatively loose definition which is not predetermined by cultural specifics can assist in laying the foundations for it. In earlier approaches to anthropology of religion in an African context, a similarly wide conception of religion has been advocated for analogous reasons (Peel 1968: 10–18). And the fruitful reflexive tension between ethnography and theory in the hermeneutic circle concerning the understanding of ‘religion’ has recently been re-emphasised (Lambek 2001). The ethnography of social phenomena under the banner of ‘religion’ may feed back into a questioning process of previous conceptions or definitions of ‘religion’, and lead to a wider (possibly more complex) and more flexible definition. This flexibility makes ‘religion’ applicable to a larger variety of cultures and societies, and thus makes sure that Western conceptual categories are not simply imposed onto other social and cultural spheres.

The intercultural project: recognition of philosophical traditions A seminal evaluation of the impact of African studies on philosophy came to the conclusion that the interdisciplinary study of philosophical topics – from historical, anthropological and philosophical perspectives – in the African context ‘provides a model for interdisciplinary analysis in philosophical work’ as a whole (Mudimbe and Appiah 1993: 133). Although a systematic model does not yet exist in African philosophy, a multidisciplinary approach is becoming increasingly indispensable to the description and analysis of specific philosophical traditions of Africa. The postcolonial African ‘search for identity’, within philosophical discourse, involves not only reflection upon the interrelationship of the various disciplines that philosophy has historically followed in terms of institutional processes of self-cleansing and re-evaluation of what it means to be ‘African’, namely history, literature, political science and sociology (Masolo 1994: 44f). It also requires reflective contributions from other disciplines in order to make the contours and characteristics of Africa’s various philosophical traditions fully visible. This is true particularly for anthropology, which aims to illuminate the internal dynamics of the constitution of meaning and the processes of human interaction in other cultures. The search for philosophical identity in Africa has to be informed by that observation and social contextualisation of cultural practices, which is the particular task of anthropology. For the reconstruction of the histories of the various (especially the oral) traditions

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of philosophical thought in Africa, philosophy, anthropology, literature and history need to cooperate (cf. also Wiredu 2004). The relation between philosophy and the multiplicity of cultures, as referred to above, has become an issue of continually growing importance for philosophy itself, particularly in regard to its history of Eurocentrism. In philosophy as well as in other disciplines, ‘the empire writes back’ (to use a popular phrase), questioning and contesting the imposed evolutionary frameworks in which ‘other cultures’ have been likened to ‘previous stages’ of Western culture. Within Western mainstream philosophy, a process of critical rethinking has been set in motion. Charles Taylor, for instance, when addressing the North American curriculum debate vis-à-vis the increasing phenomenon of ‘multiculturalism’ in Western societies, cautioned that we need to become aware that, as a fair starting point for intercultural discussion or debate, ‘we owe equal respect to all cultures’ (Taylor 1994: 66). This claim, however, is not meant as an ideological dogma and should not be understood as an asserted truth, but rather as a preliminary working assumption which, being largely ignorant about the histories of other cultures and societies, we are morally obliged to start off with. It provides a fair starting point for the empirical inquiries that need to follow, as each concrete and complex case has to be investigated. Thus overall, the ‘politics of recognition’ that Taylor advocates is based on the initial acknowledgement of every culture’s potential to contribute to (and enrich) human civilisation. As a second step, he demands that we follow up on and find out about the particular circumstances under discussion. By means of analogy, Taylor’s point can be expanded, applied to the field of intercultural philosophy and used for the project of an anthropology of philosophy.What is called for, on a theoretical level, is thinking of the relations between philosophy and culture as inherently pluralistic, without giving up the terminological coherence of the concepts ‘philosophy’ and ‘culture’ per se. Human beings in comparable, but distinct and unique, cultures produce distinct and unique traditions of reflective practices through which selfassertion and conceptual orientation take place. In this way various culturecorrelating philosophical traditions and philosophies come into being. But so far, mutual recognition of different philosophical traditions has not been established (this, to some extent, is true intra- as well as interculturally). It has to be worked out and argued for. From research in African philosophy, contributions to such cross-cultural philosophical interaction on equal terms can be expected (cf. Mudimbe and Appiah 1993: 133f; Moore 1996: 3). While engaged in the establishment of such a practice, philosophers who are working comparatively, and ‘able to use other languages in philosophical thought, in particular, languages which are very different from their own’, are seen as relevant facilitators (Wiredu and Kresse 1997: 42). An emphasis on the use of local languages as the principal medium for philosophical

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fieldwork and the use of methods of anthropological inquiry, can assist in approaching and achieving this intercultural goal for philosophy. In the field of African philosophy, some few studies making use of such fieldwork have contributed significantly to the overall debate while dealing with specific regional discourses and their sub-themes: e.g. on ordinary language usage concerning ‘knowledge’ and ‘belief’ in the Yoruba context (Hallen and Sodipo 1997), on Yoruba moral and aesthetic discourses (Hallen 2000) and on Kenyan ‘indigenous thinkers’, socially acknowledged sages with philosophical qualities (Oruka 1991). My study here seeks to contribute to the field along these lines. During my fieldwork, I used Swahili as the language of documentation, interviewing and discussion. In this case, however, the use of the local language is merely one – if perhaps the most important – aspect of an endeavour to document and discuss philosophical discourse with the fullest possible social contextualisation. T U R N T H R E E : F R O M A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F K N OW L E D G E T O A N T H R O P O L O G Y O F P H I L O S O P HY

Recent reflections upon the status of anthropological knowledge and theory have expressed a renewed interest in intellectual and philosophical traditions of other cultures, especially in Africa. Henrietta Moore, for instance, sees it as a serious shortcoming of anthropology that, even when occupying itself productively with non-European ‘modes of thought’ (e.g. Forde 1954; Horton and Finnegan 1973) or local theories, it worked under the assumption ‘that the theories of non-western peoples have no scope outside their context’ (Moore 1996: 2); they were not taken into account for crosscultural evaluation and the furtherance of theory as a whole, as contributions to a global project of understanding ‘knowledge’. But if anthropology does not want, ultimately, to remain entangled in a Eurocentric stance, it must begin to treat the members of other cultures also ‘as producers of social science theory’ and not only, and per definitionem, as ‘producers of local knowledge’ (ibid.: 3). In other words, in dealing with a variety of regional traditions of knowledge, anthropology should always include a comparative dimension that looks at their specific contributions to an overall theory of human knowledge. Integrating these perspectives into the globally oriented social sciences is a task for anthropology. In the long run, it also means to initiate a self-critical attitude within such scientific inquiry on a global level, bringing in the theoretical and reflexive dimensions of all regional traditions of knowledge. In any culture ‘an ongoing auto-critique of concepts, notions and forms of argument’ (ibid.: 6) might be found; at least this cannot be ruled out from the beginning. Such reflexive discourse is often taken as a constitutive trait of philosophy, and so anthropology has to consciously reckon with, and try to integrate into its own apparatus, the existence of philosophical traditions in other socio-cultural contexts. Broadening the

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outlook of social science in this way, while at the same time learning how to identify and understand these intellectual traditions on an empirical level, would be the aim for an anthropology of philosophy. The call to such an agenda seems long due. It may also be supported by Ortner’s relevant (though now dated) overview of anthropological theory which observed that until the 1980s ‘little effort has been put toward understanding how society and culture themselves are produced and reproduced through human intention and interaction’ (Ortner 1994: 402). Such neglect to focus on the conscious shaping of culture and society by specific individuals was particularly detrimental to the portrayal of African intellectual culture and history. Though much more effort has been put into this since, earlier European prejudice about the supposed intellectual deficiencies of Africans (by Hegel, Levy-Bruhl, etc.) had long-lasting ill effects. Also, the anthropological study of African societies under the paradigm of structural functionalism, due to its focus on collective functional dynamics, had little to say on individual figures (cf. Falk-Moore 1993), thus indirectly reinforcing the cliché of the African as a passive constituent of a collective social entity. Anthropology in Africa, though producing much acute analysis of social structures and processes, was partly guilty of simplifying societies, when ‘levelling’ African societies by leaving aside their discursive ‘internal dynamics’ in terms of possible pluralisms to be investigated (Hountondji 1983: 137).15 Applying the label ‘traditional’ to Africa in a generalising fashion, as opposed to ‘modern’ (and ‘the West’), is directly linked to this issue: it denies even the possibility of theoretical pluralism.16 As ‘closed’ systems without developed awareness of potential theoretical alternatives and opposed to the ‘open’ character of scientifically orientated societies based on rational debate (Horton 1970: 153ff), the kind of theory that African societies were supposed to be able to offer was visualised as fundamentally inferior to a Western conception of science from the outset. Subsequently, the unequal basis for such intercultural comparison was criticised from within African philosophy (Wiredu 1980). Insisting on the inadmissibility of (culturally specific) double standards in philosophy while highlighting the cultural specifics of local intellectual practice has been a key feature of African philosophers like Wiredu, Hountondji and Oruka.

From within anthropology: neglected perspective, hidden tradition More than half a century ago, Paul Radin used a different approach for his anthropological investigation into philosophy in oral societies among native North Americans. He basically agreed with the positive methodological rule of acknowledging the possibility of philosophical discourse in any society, as I have sketched out above. He stated very clearly that ‘there is nothing […] that prevents philosophical formulations from being attempted. Individuals

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with a philosophical temperament are present, the languages are adequate, the structure of their societies places no obstacle in the way’ (Radin 1957: xxviii). Altogether, his work is mainly an extensive collection of insights into life, as expressed in poems, songs, myths and legends, which he then comments upon. However, Radin takes care to emphasise that individual thinkers, composers and commentators who were not simply representatives of the common worldview of their social group were the creators of these texts. But we gain little insight into the culturally specific ways of composing or performing such literature, nor into ways of how critical reflection, discourse and debate in society was furthered by these texts or their composers. Nevertheless, this study is probably the earliest anthropological attempt to approach philosophical discourse explicitly, as a field of investigation in its own right. As such it was emphatically approved by the famous pragmatist philosopher John Dewey, who wrote the foreword (ibid.: xvii–xx). Already a while ago, surveys of the anthropology of knowledge (Crick 1982) and of the anthropological analysis of ideology (Asad 1979) made important points for an anthropological investigation of what can be called the wider philosophical sphere situated in other cultures (cf. also Franklin 1995). Understanding the anthropology of knowledge as ‘a reminder of what anthropology is centrally concerned with’ (Crick 1982: 287), Crick emphasises the intimate relation between anthropology of knowledge ‘and the needed reflexivity in the discipline as a whole’ (ibid.: 308). Arguing from the perspective of African divination, Peek joins in with this call (Peek 1991: 10) and expresses regret that African philosophy has so far not dealt with divination (ibid.: 13).17 Anthropology of knowledge is thus characterised as part of the philosophical core of the discipline. We may understand this call for a stronger philosophical stance in anthropology also as a call for a closer cooperation between anthropology and philosophy. While Asad points at the ideological character and context of anthropological research which is especially precarious when dealing with ideologies of other cultures, he also highlights that ‘looking for and reproducing the essential meanings of another society’s […] should be problematised far more than it has been’ (1979: 623), so that the particularities of the ideologies under investigation will no longer be simplified within decontextualised generalisations. Although up to now few anthropological studies have explicitly investigated philosophical discourse, the last decades have nevertheless borne evidence of much research that focused on fundamentally related topics and fields, especially in regard to cross-cultural theories of knowledge, emotions, the self and morality. Yet they have rarely focused on the individual thinkers in society, and have rather emphasised more the ‘underlying’ or unifying structures of social knowledge and discourse. Some dense and cautiously written ethnographies which use local terminology and systematic

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explanation of fundamental understandings of society as central guidelines have been produced, and for these reasons they are of crucial interest to an anthropology of philosophy.18 We also come across examples where anthropologists, even if only in passing, note distinctly philosophical activity in the cultures they study. For instance, Clifford Geertz vividly described the widespread ‘intellectual activity’ and ‘philosophical obsession’ of Javanese people (1993b: 60), while on the other hand he noted the limited extent of ‘philosophical sophistication’ in Balinese religion (1993a: 175). How far these statements are ethnographically adequate can of course not be judged from here, but they do display a rare explicit sensitivity of an anthropologist for philosophical reflection as human activity in potentially any culture. In both cases ‘philosophical’ refers to a locally embedded reflection of local knowledge, a local reflective discourse on forms of local knowledge.19

Shifting the anthropological focus: from ‘religion’ to ‘philosophy’ Like philosophy, religion is concerned with matters of fundamental orientation in the world, and the two spheres are in part overlapping. Although religious practices and beliefs in various cultures differ, they are still open to a common theoretical framework which can supply a comparative basis for a philosophical quest. An explicit, critical questioning of the bases of practices by way of conceptual reasoning always constitutes a philosophical practice. Ethnographic work, when engaging in explicit discussion with knowledgeable members of society in order to elucidate the frameworks of meaning for religious practice already displays a general interest in philosophical discourse. The reflective mechanisms (a certain aspect) of social life are being examined. In attempting to understand the basis of specific forms of ritual, ethnographers have to discuss with individual specialists the theory of religious practice in the culture concerned. Here, the process of producing a reasonable explanation constitutes a philosophical discourse which illuminates religious practice. Now, although this already points to the philosophical potential of local religious experts, the foremost concern of an anthropology of philosophy does not lie in responses to the questions of the investigator (as, for example, visible in Oruka’s sage philosophy project), but in the observation and documentation of practices of philosophical discourse among members of the community itself. Here, the anthropology of religion has always had a philosophical tinge in so far as it claimed to elucidate the basic concepts structuring social life and ritual practice. In this sense, one might speak of a ‘hidden tradition’ of an anthropology of philosophy in anthropology itself. For instance, LeviStrauss’s characterisation of Boas’ Quesalid, the Kwakiutl healer as not a healer but a ‘free thinker’ (1993: 178), can be understood in this vein: Levi-

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Strauss described him as sceptical of the healing practices that he himself performed and his clients believed in, and somewhat outside of the ‘social consensus’ (180) on healing procedures of his society. And although LeviStrauss himself engages in a socio-psychological reflection on the constitution of Quesalid’s status as an accepted healer, this can also be read as a hint at the neglected category of individual free thinkers in anthropological research – and free thinking has been taken as a characteristic criterion of philosophical inquiry, from Kant to Odera Oruka. More explicitly, Victor Turner’s article ‘Muchona the Hornet, interpreter of religion’ provides us with a personal portrait of a ‘true philosopher’ (Turner 1967: 132) who was an expert on various systems of knowledge in his own society (while socially remaining something of an outsider) and at the same time a major source for Turner’s articulation of a theory of Ndembu ritual. In this text Turner conveys a vivid impression of the social status of a local intellectual, a veritable ‘philosophy don’ who seems destined to be permanently misconceived as a ‘witchdoctor’ within his own society (150). Furthermore, Turner provides a revealing account of the process of intensive discussion between specialist interpreter and anthropologist, a process which finally led to Turner’s classic interpretations of Ndembu ritual which he presented in other texts, in a more theoretical, generalising and objectifying manner. In this respect, Wyatt McGaffey’s ethnography on Religion and Society in Central Africa is stimulating in the way that it relates religion to Bakongo society. Its three constitutive parts are a description of social structure and its fundamentals in cosmology, the ‘conscious elaboration’ that no society can do without (1986: 3), a description of the religious practices evolved in this context and finally constituting ‘religion as a political system’ (169ff), and an account of the historical continuities and changes of religious movements in Bakongo society which pays explicit, systematic tribute to the recognition of the historically grown categories of religious sages and their communal functions in modern conditions (189ff). The internal dualism of Bakongo cosmology is carefully depicted. MacGaffey quotes individual Bakongo extensively to establish his points from within the social perspective he observes, and overall his way of relating fundamental structures of religious knowledge and practice to social life provides important guidance for philosophically interested research. The same can be said of Lambek’s ethnography of knowledge and healing practices on Mayotte. His study exemplifies plastically how practices of spirit possession do not only not oppose rational inquiry but might sometimes even enhance it, as when the healer consults a spirit for further information about adequate treatment, or when a serious discussion takes place between spirit and spouse of the possessed (Lambek 1993: Part IV). Finally Feiermann, focusing on the intellectual discourse among

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Tanzanian peasants and following Gramsci’s definition of intellectual activity, supports the point that potentially ‘all people are intellectuals’ but only some people have a leading, organisational function as intellectuals (Feiermann 1990: 18). This, while applicable to almost any society including the Swahili urban communities, can also be related back to Kant’s conception of philosophy in a worldly sense (Weltbegriff). Everyone is regarded as a potential philosopher, a producer of original ideas, but in a fully socially accepted actual sense only those who follow a locally institutionalised, i.e. scholarly, tradition of knowledge (Schulbegriff) in society are considered to be philosophers. Individual capability in the use of one’s intellectual ability and participation in a publicly instituted school of knowledge, then, are the two common aspects to look out for, for a social investigation into the practice of philosophy. As I have tried to show, all of the studies mentioned above are open to explicitly philosophical readings, readings with a particular interest in philosophical discourse. As such, they can contribute to situate and contextualise the study of African philosophical discourse in culturally specific African intellectual and religious discourses that have already been portrayed in depth. Similarly, the presentation of my own ethnographic research on Swahili philosophical discourse will draw from the multitude of available studies and publications on Swahili language, literature, history, culture and society. Since the endeavour here is interdisciplinary, this literature is indispensable for the contextualisation of Swahili philosophical discourse. DOCUMENTING LOCAL PHILOSOPHICAL DISCOURSE

Anthropological accounts often stay, and may often have had to stay, linked to a collective worldview of the people or community studied. Consequently, the wisdom and sensitivity of the individual thinkers who inspired the ethnographer and served as his sources during fieldwork may inevitably become untraceable and inaccessible for the reader (cf. Fardon 1990: introduction). Also, it is rare that exact renderings or quotations from interviews are given. In the present study, however, the documentation of the utterances of the intellectuals in question is an important part of the project itself: the form of a philosophically meaningful statement is inseparable from the statement itself, and both are specific to their author. In this sense, there exists an obligation to render statements and accounts of their formulation (and the practices involved) as accurately as possible under the circumstances. There is, thus, a commonality with literature, and specifically artistic genres, such as poetry. One of my goals here is to provide original samples of local reflexive discourse which can then be further interpreted and discussed.20 While this was not always possible, and I have documented some selected excerpts from the original texts in the appendix, I have taken care to reconstruct all

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the texts that I discuss at length very thoroughly, and I work with extensive quotations in the ethnography (in Swahili and with English translations). This means that my interpretation can basically be followed, approved or dismissed by the readers who themselves develop their own interpretation of the individual thinker’s interpretations of his life-world. The ethnographic accounts of the three Swahili individual thinkers focused on, presented in Part II below, I call contextual portrayals. In some ways they draw from and can be related to both Brenner’s (1984) and Oruka’s (1991) approaches to portraying insider perspectives on local intellectual discourses. Stimulated by Oruka’s sage philosophy agenda, the documentation is the result of anthropological-cum-philosophical fieldwork, an important aspect of which was interviews with Swahili ‘sages’ on issues related to knowledge and philosophy. However, unlike Oruka, my aim was to centre these portrayals of the sages around their own role as local intellectuals within the everyday life of Mombasa’s Old Town, according to their own self-conception and that of their fellow citizens. The focus of my research was not, as in Oruka’s case, based on rather abstract and socially disconnected philosophical questions that the sage was confronted with. Rather, I tried to evolve my questions from my fieldwork experiences in Mombasa, from sharing the everyday life of the locality and from personal contact with these sages.21 Over a period of twelve months, I got to know, and became friendly with, Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, Ahmad Nassir (also called Ustadh Bhalo) and Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir, as well as with many other residents of Kibokoni and the Old Town.The questions, and concurrently the focus of my research, developed in each case according to my understanding of the characteristics of these thinkers as local intellectuals and specialists in various fields of knowledge. With the means that I had and to the extent that they allowed me, I followed the histories of these three thinkers to create my contextual accounts of each of them in the chapters that follow.22 In variable degrees it became necessary to discuss their life histories. In this respect, my account is related to Brenner’s contextual historical depiction of the West African Sufi leader Cerno Bokar (1984).23 In the three parts of his study, Brenner focuses on the historical political and intellectual contexts that led to the emergence and importance of this individual thinker, on Bokar’s religious and spiritual search, and on an exact documentation of the English translations of the preserved spiritual discourses of this Sufi sage. Similarly, I introduce the coordinates of time and space, in regard to locality (Chapter 2) and the historical contexts of these Swahili thinkers, in terms of forms of knowledge, intellectual discourse and current regional peculiarities of argument and debate (Chapter 3). It is, however, at the ethnographic heart of this study (Part II) where the personal biographies play an important role in the characterisation and discussion of the three thinkers whom I introduce.

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Approaching the local Islamic context The Swahili societies along the east African coast have been Muslim for more than a millennium (Horton and Middleton 2000). This still holds true for the community of Old Town Mombasa today, though many other parts of Mombasa are no longer predominantly Muslim. Even if the Old Town community cannot easily be labelled ‘Swahili society’, we are dealing with a Muslim context of complex ethnic and linguistic composition (cf. Chapter 2). For an investigation into local discourses of knowledge and relevant intellectual figures, this means that Islam is a major reference point for normative debates and arguments in social life. Interpretations of the Qur’an and the hadith are produced in order to justify or contest established practices of behaviour, drawing, of course, from the various locally established traditions of Islamic scholarship and understanding.24 Rivalry between competing Islamic positions is observable, and also an underlying tension between entrenched local practices (often rituals) and the strictly universal outlook of Islam as a global doctrine. This will be described in more detail below. In his ethnographic work on the Swahili and Mijikenda context, Parkin has touched on many of these aspects. Between conceptual foci on healing and morality (1985a, 1985b, 1991b, 2000b) and foci on the rhetorics and pragmatics of local Islamic discourse (1985c, 1989, 1995a) and ritual practice (1970, 1994b, 2000a), Parkin touches on many aspects relevant to this research here, and provides extensive primary quotes of critical and reflective discourse (1984) and reference to eminent local thinkers (1995b). As his work shows, all of these aspects cannot be strictly divided from each other; they are interlinked in the intellectual and practical spheres of everyday life.25 Similar internal tensions exist in Islamic discourses of other Muslim regions due to the inherent ambivalence of the project of a world religion: casting Islam as universal, all-embracing doctrine, while at the same time rooting it firmly in local socio-cultural contexts and histories. Islam has repeatedly been characterised as a religion for which aspects of discourse, debate and a heterogeneity of positions are crucial features (cf. Asad 1986; Eickelman 1982; Bowen 1993). Incidentally, this provides a link back to Hountondji’s expression of an ‘internal pluralism’ in society, as a condition for philosophical discourse (or better: an appropriate starting point for its investigation) pointed out in the context of the debate on African philosophy. In Muslim societies interpretation of the recognised scriptures of Islam is essential for claiming that one’s own group stands in the rightful tradition of Islam, which is the basis for political legitimacy. But, ‘the process to win someone over for the willing performance of a traditional practice […] is a necessary part of Islamic discursive traditions as of others’ (Asad 1986: 16; original italics). In both cases, i.e. in any society where it is important to keep traditions of practice alive by seeking the positive approval and

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participation of the members of society, ‘reason and argument are necessarily involved in traditional practice’ (ibid.), because there is the possibility of dispute and disagreement. What is rightful, and ‘what is “traditional” in Islam [or, in Muslim society] is necessarily subject to ongoing debate and interpretation’ (Eickelman 1982: 14), and in principle this statement applies to other societies as well. It concurs fully with Hountondji’s refutation of the common Eurocentric misconception (visible in early anthropological studies) that reason and tradition were opposed or even incompatible factors in society (Hountondji 1983), a prejudice that had African societies collectively classified as ‘traditional’ and therefore lacking reason. In an interesting contrast, but following the same principles, members of Islamic reformist movements (such as the Salafiyya) cast themselves as the real and rightful, ‘traditional’, followers of Islam, while dismissing the practices of other Muslim groups (often cast as ‘traditionalists’) as ‘innovative’ and therefore lacking reason and legitimacy. Such ideological debates about improper religious innovation (bid’a) were central to Islamic discourse in Mombasa during my fieldwork.26 These debates among local Muslims in Mombasa about the correct, or even just the acceptable, Islamic attitude towards established local cultural and ritual practices took place continuously in everyday life and often in my presence. They proved to be a helpful starting point for my fieldwork. Such debates, arguments and strategies of reasoning took place around me in the neighbourhood between friends, relatives, neighbours and other residents, but also in speeches and lectures in mosques or in the public media. Also, many of my new friends were keen to persuade me, with the best possible reasons they could think of, to become a Muslim, and this introduced me to some frameworks of local Islamic discourse and its characteristic lines of argument.

Fieldwork and ethnography: points of orientation For orientation in my ethnographic project, the work of Michael Lambek (1993) has been particularly helpful. He analysed the relation between knowledge and practice in a Muslim village context in Mayotte (an island of the Comoros, set between the Swahili coast and Madagascar). Lambek makes a case for and provides an ethnographic example of a hermeneutically based and discourse-oriented anthropology of knowledge. Ethnographically, his most important principle is that he follows ‘what people themselves identify as important knowledge’ (1993: 9), local discourses and classifications of knowledge in relation to social practice, and derives from them the relevant criteria and organisational principles for his own study. Thus the three main parts of his study relate back to the locally valid general division of knowledge into worldly or cosmological knowledge (’ilim dunia), sacred Islamic knowledge (’ilim fakihi), and knowledge of spirits and

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their mediums (’ilim ny lulu), which also provide the book’s subtitle, ‘local discourses of Islam, sorcery, and spirit possession’ (ibid.: 12). Lambek contextualises each of these areas within social practice, and so works on the internal dynamics of the discursive fields of knowledge using the perspective of insiders. He concerns himself with the local specialists of knowledge and describes, with the help of particular narratives, how their specific capacities as Islamic scholars, healers, and readers of Arabic, are perceived as relevant to social life by the intellectuals themselves as well as by the commoners. My own aim was similar, to follow internal discourses of knowledge in Old Town Mombasa with a particular focus on how they generate reflexivity, and express critical discourse and self-awareness in society. In this, I focused on intellectuals who were of particular interest in this respect (and also willing to cooperate with me), active in Islamic scholarship, healing and poetry, the three most prominent local categories for intellectuals for the Swahili context.27 As institutionalised local traditions of intellectual practice they have been shaped and utilised in the Swahili context for many centuries, and Swahili intellectuals are often proficient in two or even all three of them. In the end, it is the interface between the creative thinking processes and their expression by individuals in social context, and the distinct intellectual tradition they relate to and which they use for the formulation of criticism, praise, affirmation, critique and questioning of socio-political processes and situations, that lies at the heart of this inquiry, attempting to make a case for the project of an anthropology of philosophy.

2 THE SWAHILI CONTEXT MOMBASA, THE OLD TOWN AND KIBOKONI

Gongwa nda Mwana Mkisi, Mvita Mji wa Kale. Usitupile viasi ukenda enda kwa p’ole; Inika chako kikosi maninga vyema sivule, Mwina wa chiza mbwi chile, mtambuzwa hatambuli! (Muyaka bin Haji, 1776–1840) from a poem on Mombasa Gongwa is the royal land of Mwana Mkisi, Mvita is a city of old! Do not exceed the bounds, but tread wearily therein. Cast down your head, and do not look straight, with your eyes wide open – This is an abyss of deep gloom, even those who are well-informed comprehend it not! (quotation and translation from Abdulaziz 1979: 20–1) T H E SW A H I L I C O N T E X T A N D T H E H I S T O R Y O F M O M B A S A

What are commonly known as ‘the Swahili’ are the urban Muslim communities that emerged along the East African coast around 800 CE (Horton and Middleton 2000), roughly in parallel with the emergence of the Swahili language (Nurse and Spear 1985). Their life-world has been described as essentially of mercantile character, and directed at and suspended between two radically different cultural worlds, the Bantu-African and the ArabicIslamic, whose influences and people were integrated into Swahili life and society (Middleton 1992). Rooted in and partly economically reliant on the coastal hinterland (Berg 1971; Willis 1993), they were also integrated into the larger Indian Ocean trading system by trade and kin relationships. They conducted regular exchange with the ports of Oman, the Hadramaut, India and toward the South-East with the Comoros and down to Madagascar. Situated ‘at the edge of Arabia and the African continent’ (Horton and Middleton 2000: 16), Swahili communities were on the margins of both, and at the geographic rim of Islamic civilisation. ‘Facing both ways’,1 towards the hinterland and seawards, also meant bridging those worlds, bringing them together, and common trade interests; Islam and the Swahili language as a lingua franca made this possible. As many studies show, a constitutive feature of the Swahili context is

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its dynamic capacity to absorb external cultural features and influences, through the gradual integration of a multiplicity of outsiders into society. Trade, religion, language and a system of serfdom (that stratified society while keeping up its potential to integrate), have served as the internal motors of such absorption, making and keeping East African coastal towns the multicultural and multi-ethnic centres that they are, while also creating and constantly recreating a flexible overall unity of ‘Swahili culture’ and ‘Swahili society’ as an amalgam of the multiple constitutive features. These terms, as the denotation of people, or even a distinct people (cf. Shariff and Mazrui 1994), as ‘Swahili’, are somehow ‘elusive’2 as decades of debate on Swahili identity have shown.3 Yet they have become established as terms of reference, perhaps for want of a better word, in regard to the features of the social dynamics of these urban centres and the East African coast as a whole. Another central feature that has been emphasised in many works on Swahili society is its status-centredness and insistence on social hierarchy (e.g. el-Zein 1974, Beckerleg 1990, Swartz 1991). Though this seemingly contradicts the notion of Swahili unity mentioned above, there is a definite and ethnocentric social ideology that distinguishes insiders from outsiders and prescribes internal layers, or classes, within society. Drawing from a clear-cut dichotomy between the uungwana (civilisation) of the town in opposition to the threatening ushenzi (wilderness) outside of it, it combines a description of society with an appraisal; but in keeping the two strictly apart, it creates an impression of their incompatibility (cf. Nurse and Spear 1985: 45; Pouwels 1984). While this latent ideology of difference can always be activated, at the same time multiple channels of outsider integration exist in parallel (cf. Parkin 1984, 1989; Willis 1993). Altogether, we encounter an observable tension ‘between the outward-looking sense of identity and the inward focus on a particular community, between centrifugal and centripetal tendencies’ in the Swahili context, often as ‘a conflict between maritime and mainland pulls and claims’ (Parkin 1994a: 2). In this chapter, I present a brief sketch of the history of Mombasa and of the current socio-economic situation of the City and its Old Town. First, I discuss two central features of the Swahili context in relation to each other, the potential of social integration and the status-centred self-conception. Strictly speaking, they seem to contradict each other while claiming to represent the key feature of social dynamics in the Swahili context: asserting incompatibility between uungwana and ushenzi does not seem to go together with social integration as a continuous underlying process. I shall treat this issue with selected references to the abundant literature on ‘Swahili identity’, with a view to the specific circumstances and debates taking place in and about Mombasa. Both the ideology of hierarchy and the process of social integration have been mentioned, and I argue that both crucial features of the Swahili context are somehow epitomised in the social history

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of Mombasa. What follows should illustrate and help to clarify why the ‘Swahili’ category is elusive and yet seemingly inevitable. Finally, I describe the living conditions in the Old Town of Mombasa during the time of my fieldwork.

‘Swahili’ in Mombasa: absorption, integration, and rejection The term ‘Swahili’ originally means ‘coastal’, from the Arabic sawahil, i.e. ‘coasts’ (sg. sahil), a word which is also translated as ‘border’ or ‘rim’. It is used descriptively, and integrated into different classes of the Swahili language, to denote coastal people (Waswahili, sg. Mswahili), anything from the coast (kiswahili), the language itself, Kiswahili and the coastal region (Uswahilini). Historically, the term was used to refer to the East African coast at least as early as the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, by Ibn Sa’id and Ibn Battuta (Horton and Middleton 2000: 16).4 However, colloquial usage of the term in society has always been implicated in normative and political interests and related to relationships of power.5 ‘Swahili’ as an ethnonym was usually applied to others, and rarely to one’s own group, in specific historical and socio-political contexts, and with regard to advantages that such labelling might yield. Categorising others, or oneself, as ‘Swahili’ implied different things at different times, depending on who spoke and with reference to whom (cf. Willis 1993). The relationality of this term has often been emphasised, by a British colonial officer in 1913 (Stigand 1966: 115–16) as well as by many researchers more recently (e.g. Eastman 1994a; Arens 1975; Shariff 1973).

A ‘Mijikenda’ perspective For Mombasa and its relations with the coastal hinterland, the historical emergence of the category ‘Swahili’ in social discourse and public administration, and also the ways of its strategic applications, have been worked out by Willis, mainly from Mijikenda sources (Willis 1993). He showed that this was, by definition, a blurred category, which first served as an integrative term for all newcomers into the urban society, while later on it was used to distinguish the historical patricians of Mombasa from other ‘Africans’, including the hinterland Mijikenda peoples. The Mijikenda (who coined their own identity as ‘Mijikenda’ only from 1940 onwards) are historically the group most closely related to the urban population of Mombasa, and in the past used to call them ‘uncles’ (wadzomba).6 Until today, this close relationship has also entailed tensions and antagonisms linked to religious and cultural ideology.7 Nowadays the Mijikenda apply the term ‘Swahili’ in multiple ways: to ‘any Muslim’, ‘a town-dweller’, ‘lost’ relatives living in Mombasa,8 or to themselves, as an alternative to ‘Mijikenda’; but the term is also used in a pejorative way referring to ‘sly and deceptive’ people (ibid.: 109). The British administrators also used the term in a judgemental way.

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At the end of the nineteenth century, ‘Swahili’ for them referred to the particularly cultured, educated and literate civilisation of the coastal towns. But only a decade or so later, they started to apply the term in an inverted, dismissive way to the growing African urban population of Mombasa, labelled as prone to be dishonest, criminal and lazy (ibid.: 110–11). After 1920, the British introduced a more selective usage of the term, applying it exclusively to members of the patrician Twelve Tribes of the town (ibid.: 190). Willis introduces an analytical characterisation of what the application of that ethnonym generally implied: ‘Swahili were those, of whatever origin, whose personal networks of patronage or clientage were located within the towns, participating in a patronage system based ultimately on access to the credit networks of the Indian Ocean’ (ibid.: 20). This definition is helpful since it incorporates both patrons and clients of this system, and thus stays appropriate over various phases of historical change of the system and the usage of the ethnonym itself. But because of this, it is also provocative, since the waungwana, i.e. the urban patricians (for Mombasa the members of the Twelve Tribes), and their dependents, servants and slaves, the watumwa, fall into the same general category. It is important to note that Willis’s characterisation is juxtaposed to one of the ‘Nyika’, the derogatory label used to describe the hinterland peoples (until they ‘became’ Mijikenda).9 Nyika were ‘those whose ties of dependence and obligation were located outside the coastal towns’ (ibid.: 19–20). According to this approach, people were classified descriptively in relation to the area of the centre of their dependency system, whether it was in a coastal town or situated in the hinterland. From this perspective, descent is clearly irrelevant for being characterised as ‘Swahili’. Elaborating on the processes of how some Mijikenda men and women (in the above sense, ‘Nyika’) left their homesteads and actively sought association with patrons in Mombasa in order to improve their lives (fleeing famine, repression or punishment), while others were given into the hands of urban patrons by their hinterland patrons (as slaves, serfs or temporarily as security for an economic exchange), Willis summarises: ‘by virtue of their position as clients in networks of dependence located in the town, all these people could be described, and could describe themselves as Swahili’ (ibid.: 76). Wealthy urban traders sought further dependants, since people (manpower, labour) were the ultimate source of status and economic power, and thus welcomed these newcomers (ibid.: 8). They became Muslims and were integrated into the trade and subsistence system of their new masters as part of the household. Willis maintains that for people of the hinterland ‘becoming Swahili in itself involved the acceptance of dependent status’ (ibid.: 54–5). For them, the label Swahili always characterised the role of a client, a minor, someone dependent on his patron in the running of his everyday affairs. There were, however, many levels of

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dependency, and through success in trade, reward by the patron or marriage, upward social mobility inside the urban society was possible. Willis makes it clear that in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Swahili clients, as members of the urban system, could be integrated into one of the Twelve Tribes or the patrician Swahili elite of Mombasa (e.g. ibid.: 56, 74, 195), and they even could occupy a leading office (ibid.: 193). Thus while there was dependence, there was also the possibility of a radical improvement of social status within the system.10 When the British established their political control (1890–1920), the existing coastal systems of dependency came under threat. The British introduced the ‘Swahili’ category as a general term for all ‘native’ Africans of Mombasa. Thus again, for people of Mijikenda origin, identification as Swahili served to evade submission to the political authorities (ibid.: 12, 107). As lower-level Swahili in Mombasa they became untraceable to the colonial authority for tax purposes, while they were also ‘lost’ as suppliers to the homesteads in the hinterland. On the other hand, to be registered as ‘native’, together with all other Africans, was a blow to the self-confidence of the waungwana (patricians), who increasingly publicised their claims to Arab descent in order to qualify as ‘non-natives’. This status gave certain privileges but also obliged people to pay higher taxes. In the 1920s, the Twelve Tribes unsuccessfully sought legal equality with the Arabs, who held ‘non-native’ status from the British (cf. Salim 1976; Kindy 1972). In exchange for adequate official recognition of their group, some of them even offered to assist the administration in excluding all lower-range Swahili, freed slaves, integrated Mijikenda etc. from their group, by pointing those ‘mere followers’ out to the relevant authorities to be classified as ‘native’ (Willis 1993: 189). Effectively, someone was considered ‘real’ Swahili (and ‘non-native’) only if direct descent from one of the Twelve Tribes could be demonstrated. Descent had now become the criterion for public recognition as Swahili, and this redefinition meant the construction of ‘the Swahili’ as an ethnic group, or the invention of ‘Swahili ethnicity’. With this strategy, the waungwana sought to close the social gap with the Arabs, while creating a conceptual gap between ‘being Swahili’ and ‘being African’ in waungwana ideology and local discourse. Concurrently, cultural vehicles of integration into urban society, like the beni dance societies (ibid.: 190; cf. Ranger 1974) were repressed and later abolished. Those excluded responded by enforcing the newly established ideology of descent and the opposition between Swahili and non-Swahili from their side. The peoples of the hinterland actively worked for the construction of a common ‘Mijikenda’ identity, which ran along the lines of a common myth of origin from Singwaya (east of the lower Tana River).11 In local Mijikenda discourse, according to Willis, the Swahili were viewed either as traitors to, but former members of, the original inhabitants of the coast, the Mijikenda, or as the descendants of

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foreign arrivals, the Arabs (ibid.: 194). In other words, one could say that ‘the Swahili’ did not exist.

An ‘Arab’ perspective From an Arab perspective, the descendants of the Hadhrami masharifu who had started settling along the East African coast in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and founded local ‘Swahili branches’ of the family tree (Bang 2003: 6) might have been referred to as ‘Swahili’ by their Hadhrami relatives. Within the Swahili context, however, they would usually be qualified as ‘Arabs’, even though their first language might be Swahili. The same might apply to the Omani-Arab clans who had moved to Mombasa and Zanzibar (and Lamu, Pate, etc.), mostly in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; it was said then that the relatives ‘born in Oman thought themselves much better and of higher rank than any of their African relations’ (Ruete 1989: 94). The patrician Swahili waungwana (noblemen, free-born) cast themselves as of ‘Arab’ or ‘Shirazi’ descent, possibly in response to the Arab newcomers who were seen as a threat to their political supremacy and high social status.12 For the nineteenth century, visual similarities between Arabs and Swahili have been recorded in illustrations of men and women (Guillain 1856). The men portrayed as ‘Souahhéli’ of Lamu, Pate and Mombasa, with their impressive beards and turbans, look almost exactly like the depicted ‘Arabs’ of Zanzibar in terms of facial features, posture, and dress code, up to the detail that one Zanzibar ‘Arab’ is shown holding a Swahili bakora (walking stick) in his right hand, just like the ‘Swahili’ from Lamu. In contrast, a young and beardless man, dressed simply with a kofia (cap) and a white shuka (cloth) thrown over the shoulders, represents the ‘Souahhéli’ from Zanzibar. This apparent contrast between Zanzibari and other Swahili should perhaps not be surprising, at a time when the Omani Sultan Sayyid Said had just made Zanzibar his domicile and it was important to retain a clear distinction between locals and rulers.13 At any rate, from these pictures it appears that a visual difference between so-called Arab and Swahili notables in their festive dress was hardly perceivable at that time. Now, 150 years after these depictions and ongoing coexistence and intermarriage (mostly Arab men marrying local women), cultural features such as food, dress, manners and, more importantly, language and religion merged almost completely. This shows that a clear distinction between the two groups is not possible anymore, except in terms of ancestry and the groups’ ideologies of descent, as described above. Having looked at the lower end of the blurry Swahili continuum in society, we now have to turn to the upper end. Was the distinction between Arabs and Swahili waungwana, then, an arbitrary one which can be forcefully reactivated as an ideology of difference in status when need be, and which can be forgotten about and cast aside

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in times of social peace and prosperity? In his historical accounts of the Kenyan coast and Mombasa, Salim seems to take such a position, reflected in his usage of the term ‘Arab-Swahili’ (e.g. 1973, 1976). For him this label qualifies ‘a people who are united by certain cultural and ethnic ties and who yet display periodic bouts of strain and disunity’ (1976: 65). Notably, the Mijikenda do not feature as part of this explicitly, although Salim acknowledges that, at the lower stratum, the social dynamics are basically openended towards the African hinterland and actively integrate newcomers from there. The four sub-groups of Arab-Swahili that Salim differentiates are the Omani Arabs (or ‘Coast Arabs’), the Twelve Tribes of Mombasa, the Bajuni and the Hadhrami Arabs (ibid.: 66–7). The crucial feature that, for Salim, unites these groups in the Arab-Swahili category is their outright and active rejection of being classified as ‘natives’ under colonial administration (ibid.: 67). However, in their respective attempts at overcoming such a classification, the common cultural and ethnic bonds did not prove to be the glue of united action. On the contrary, each of these groups fought for its own benefit, sometimes explicitly counter to the interests of another, as when in 1926 Ali bin Salim, the Arab liwali (governor) of the coast, excluded the Twelve Tribes from the possibility of being classified as ‘Arab’ and thereby of gaining certain privileges (cf. Kindy 1972: 26ff; Salim 1973: 139ff). Although thirteen years later his successor, Mbaruk Hinawy, made a case that ‘the Arabs and the Twelve Tribes were one and the same’ (Salim 1976: 76), this did not bridge the rift. The Twelve Tribes founded their own ‘Afro-Asian’ bodies of representation and proceeded to push for the legal acknowledgement of their hereditary Arab status. At the same time, in their redefinition of who the Swahili are, they actively alienated the lowerlevel Swahili, excluding them as ‘Africans’ from the urban Swahili society of Mombasa (cf. above). The main point for Salim was to show how colonial politics and ‘the introduction of racially inspired laws and regulations of the colonial administration generated tensions within the generally culturally homogenous, composite, Arab-Swahili community’ (ibid.: 83). Pressure to break up this social unity from within was applied from the outside by the colonial administration. This worked via the activation of ideologies of difference, and the encouragement of descent as the acceptable criterion for social identity. Obviously, Salim’s concern is with the upper level of the Swahili society of Mombasa, the Twelve Tribes, and their ambiguous relationship with the Arabs. The blurred dynamics of interaction, integration, hierarchisation and rejection going on at this upper end of the Swahili continuum are similar to those happening at the lower end in relation to the hinterland. In the end, Salim even calls the line that was drawn between the so-called Arabs and Swahili an ‘arbitrary’ one (ibid.: 83), rather like the concurrent line between so-called Swahili and Mijikenda, as seen above. However, Salim’s

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focus on the upper stratum to some extent follows the ideology of descent: those with claims to Arab descent are the Arab-Swahili, the unquestionable upper class. At the same time, a category of lower-class African-Swahili is introduced, even if only implicitly. Once again, as it was from the Mijikenda perspective, the Swahili category ultimately dissolves under these circumstances. Salim’s approach helps us see (as Willis before) that it was the colonial administration which forced coastal people to identify along the lines of descent. Since the early framework for being ‘Swahili’ was not strictly based on descent but on negotiable networks of dependency, it may have had to be dissolved, so that an economic and political dependency on the colonial system could be created.

A ‘Swahili’ perspective on the colonial period In his autobiography, a prominent member of the Twelve Tribes, Sheikh Hyder Kindy, gave an insider account of these political power struggles between the privileged Omani Arabs and the Mombasa waungwana, the Swahili Twelve Tribes (1972: 26–45). He described how the 1926 attempt of the Twelve Tribes to attain official Arab status and join the Coastal Arab Association (CAA) backfired badly. As he pointed out, it left them in political isolation: Instead of fighting only against Arabs, they found themselves bitterly opposed by their fellow Africans. Why? Simply because they had once identified as Arabs when they were drawn to join the CAA. Without allies in either camp, the Twelve Tribes could only remain like bats – rejected by birds as animals and by animals as birds. (ibid.: 31) In seeking the best possible strategic coalition by calling themselves Arabs, the Twelve Tribes had denied the historical links with ‘their fellow Africans’, the Mijikenda. The latter now felt betrayed and embittered, just as the members of the Twelve Tribes felt towards the ‘Arabs’. In fact, both groups used the same historical narrative to express this: as the original inhabitants and owners of the coast, they offered hospitality to the Arab newcomers when they arrived, only to be taken advantage of, disposessed of their properties and thrown out of their own houses (ibid.: 32; cf. Willis 1993: 194). For the Twelve Tribes the reproach was directed at the Omani Arabs of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, for the Mijikenda against the Swahili Twelve Tribes, who had opted to identify as Arabs. In 1929, members of the Twelve Tribes decided on ‘a complete and total boycott of anything Arab, even praying in their mosques’ (ibid.: 32). Kindy even wrote of a ‘fight’ and a ‘battle’ between the Swahili and the Arabs. In their agitation, they attempted to ‘undermine’ each other and are reported to assess ‘their chances of annihilating one another’, whereby each group sought support from the ‘exslaves’ – the same ‘fellow Africans’ mentioned above (ibid.: 31–2).

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The argument among these three parties, for the Mijikenda have to be counted in, is about claims to political supremacy over the coast as much as anything else, and the interpretation of coastal history is at the forefront of such claims. This is expressed, for instance, in a letter to the Mombasa Times in 1928, where an Arab writer, Shariff Abdallah, concluded that ‘the Arabs are the rulers of the Twelve Tribes’ (Kindy 1972: 33). According to this letter, the Arabs brought civilisation and Islam to the coast, while the Twelve Tribes were identified as members of the Mijikenda peoples. Interestingly, this version concurs to some extent with Mijikenda narratives; they insist that the Swahili Twelve Tribes of Mombasa are in fact Mijikenda or their offspring. As the original inhabitants of the area, Mijikenda were also the founders of Mombasa, and they could rightfully claim ‘political primacy for the Mijikenda at the coast’ (Willis 1993: 35–7). Being identified with the hinterland peoples by the Arabs was utterly rejected by the members of the Twelve Tribes. In an anonymous letter to the same newspaper, they presented their own version of Mombasa’s history, stating that their ‘Persian’ ancestors14 came from the Northern coast in the year 1200 CE and founded the dynasty of Sheikh Mvita on Mombasa Island after chasing away the Mvita people. The settlement was called Mvita, and it soon attracted ‘swarms of people from the nearest towns’, so forming the Nine Tribes section of the town. The letter ended in calling the descendants of the founders the ‘owners’ and ‘legitimate citizens’ of the town, while warning the ‘immigrants’ not to interfere with their rights (Kindy 1972: 34). When this version of history was denied publicly by Shariff Abdallah, several Swahili youth, among them the young Sheikh Hyder Kindy himself, went to punish him for his arrogance. They attacked him and another Arab elder with their sticks, a deed for which they were then imprisoned (ibid.: 35–45). This episode highlights the desperation with which the Swahili Twelve Tribes clung to their vision of history. They believed they were the legitimate political leaders, though they had never ruled independently since 1590, the end of the dynasty of Sheikh Mvita (Berg 1968). After that, there had always been a superior ruler or governor to whom tribute had to be paid, and the Twelve Tribes were never granted more than a ‘sub-group autonomy’ by the Omani rulers (Berg 1971: 158). Yet this was sufficient for them to follow their own political and economic interests, while over time merging culturally and socially with the Omani Arabs who, until the establishment of colonial administration, regarded them largely as peers rather than subjects.15 In order to better contextualise these perspectives on the Swahili continuum, I will now provide a historical sketch of Mombasa and its political organisation.

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H I S T O R I C A L S K E T C H O F M O M B A S A , C I T Y O F T WE L VE T R I B E S 16

Mombasa has become known under at least three different names in its history: Kongowea, Mvita and Mombasa. The latter is locally pronounced ‘Mambasa’. According to Mijikenda sources, this was derived from the name of a Mijikenda hunter who founded a settlement on the island. According to a local Swahili historian, the name originated in an old battle cry of the citizens against the Portuguese invaders, Mambo ni sasa! (lit. ‘things are now’, meaning ‘it’s now or never!’).17 Kongowea (or Gongwa) was the oldest settlement on the island, situated north of the Old Town. It was associated with the memory of a queen, called Mwana Mkisi, and was established before the fifteenth century, but there is little further information on it. The oldest reference to it is from the nineteenth century by Muyaka, the most famous poet of Mombasa who is still held in high esteem by contemporary poets. An early twentieth century account states that Kongowea was taken over by a Sheikh Mvita, who came from ‘the Shirazi towns’ in the north, probably on the Benadir coast of Southern Somalia (Berg 1968: 44). The town, from now on called Mvita after him, was ruled by his dynasty and shifted its centre further south along the creek. It was probably one of the most powerful Swahili city states before any external domination or subjugation under a foreign power. In the fifteenth century, there was a continuing influx from other towns and regions along the coast, and a system of military support for the townspeople by the mainland peoples was reported by the Portuguese. Mvita was approached, but not entered, by Vasco da Gama in 1498, since he considered the inhabitants his enemies. Only several days later the Portugese established friendly relations with the king of Malindi, an arch-enemy of the rulers of Mvita. Seeking pre-eminence in the Indian Ocean region for their trade interests, they were keen on breaking down any rival powers. Mombasa was looted and destroyed by the Portuguese with much effort in 1505, 1526 and 1589, and the Portuguese each time committed many atrocities (Strandes 1961). Nevertheless, the city managed to recover again and again. The wealth and the complex building structure of Mombasa has been recorded in Portuguese sources, which state that in 1505 already the town had a surrounding wall and ‘high, multi-storeyed houses’ (Strandes 1961: 60). At that time, Mombasa was seen as ‘the greatest city of the coast’, and its immense wealth was strongly associated with being at the centre of the Indian Ocean cloth trade (Pearson 1998: 48). The population of Mombasa was estimated at about 10,000 people, and its social structure was described thus: The majority of the inhabitants were African slaves who, however, appeared to live in a state of easy dependence, rather than under any strong compulsion. The ruling classes were ‘white and black

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moors’, i.e. pure Arabs and half-castes. Indians engaged in commerce completed the population. (Strandes 1961: 79) Mombasa was subjected to Malindi rule after a failed attack on Malindi in 1590, in which the last Sheikh Mvita (the city’s heriditary ruler) died. Subsequently, the Sheikh of Malindi, his clan and ‘a good part of Malindi’s population’ moved to Mombasa in 1593 (Berg 1968: 45). They were supported by the Portuguese who also settled there and started building Fort Jesus in the same year. The Malindi people were integrated into one of the Nine Tribes of Mombasa (the Mvita), the ruler and his clan living between the fort and the harbour, while the Portuguese settled in existing old houses near the fort in a street today called Ndia Kuu, literally ‘The Big/Main Street’ (Strandes 1961: 149–150). In the seventeenth century, the particular socio-political structure of the Swahili community of Mombasa was created.These were the Twelve Tribes (Thenashara Taifa).This happened because of political instability in the hinterland region (causing movements of groups to Mombasa) and in the town itself. A sequence of power changes, invasions and sieges resulted demographically in the creation of an urban ruling class of groups of high social standing but of diverse origin along the hinterland and the northern coast of Mombasa. First the people from Kilifi and Mtwapa (settlements around creeks north of Mombasa), then other groups, fled to security on the island from raids they faced from peoples such as the Galla (now called Oromo) and Segeju, who were moving southwards along the coast. Thus an urban core structure of four taifa evolved on the island (the Mvita, Jomvu, Kilifi and Mtwapa), around which incoming taifa from the farther northern coast, the Pate, Faza, Shaka, Bajun and Katwa (or Somali) were grouped, forming the Nine Tribes (Tisa Taifa). This process took until the mid-eighteenth century. From the south and west of the island, the Kilindini, Tangana and Changamwe taifa merged forces on the island by the 1630s, to form the Three Tribes (Thelatha Taifa), founding their own settlement of Kilindini in the south-western half of the island. Not until much later, in 1837, did the Three Tribes move into the town of Mombasa itself. After the forces of Sultan Said had destroyed Kilindini Town, they decided not to rebuild it but rather move into Mvita. They settled in distinct neighbourhoods, south of the quarters of the Nine Tribes, marking the point of reconciliation of a long rivalry between the two factions. This rivalry had shaped the internal dynamics of Mombasa politics in much of the preceding two centuries. Berg described Mombasa as ‘an exceptionally successful example of a precolonial Swahili city state’, because it appears to be ‘unique in the extent to which “foreign” Swahili were adopted into the social body’ (1968: 35), referring to these dynamics of the Twelve Tribes. They symbolise social diversity within a larger framework of unity in the urban system, and as such they mark the process of integration that has taken place. Again, one should keep in mind that these could only take

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place because of their common religion, common trade interests, common language and the town as a centre and guarantor of political power and social interaction. The combined rule of the Sheikh of Malindi and the Portuguese lasted until 1631. Then, after a long siege, the town was briefly taken over by the people of Mombasa before the Portuguese captains resumed rule on their own, until 1698. They were then overpowered by the forces of the Yarubi Imam of Muscat, for whom various governors ruled the city until 1735, with an interlude of Portuguese recapture in 1729–30. The Mazrui, also from Oman, took over and assumed independent rule between 1735 and 1837. In 1837, the Sultan Sayyid Said overcame them with the help of an internal conspiracy against Mazrui rule, initiated by the tamim (head) of the Three Tribes. In return, the Sultan granted this tamim and his successors special rights of sovereignty, and a status above the law in Mombasa. Though they installed their liwali (governor) at the Fort as nominally the highest authority in town, the Sultans hardly interfered in local politics. All in all, throughout the rule of the Busaidi Sultanate (1837–95), much political power was left with the representatives of the Swahili Twelve Tribes to regulate the internal affairs of the town. The existing political structures, which secured representation and influence of all Twelve Tribes and their affiliated Mijikenda (then called Nyika) groups on the mainland, were basically left untouched (cf. Berg 1971: 332). Only at the top did the Omani liwali now displace the Mazrui ruler. This ‘semi-autonomy’ boosted the confidence of the Twelve Tribes, and installed in them a sense of equality with the Omani Arabs, even if this was ultimately illusory. Thus it can be argued that Mombasa was consolidated as an urban society under the Swahili paradigm during the Busaidi period. Berg concludes that ‘participation in a common culture did not eradicate differences between the two communities, but it may well have made Arab hegemony more palatable for the Swahili and more satisfying for the Arabs’ (Berg 1971: 157). The colonial period represented a total break from this. At the beginning of the twentieth century, according to Janmohamed, ‘with the advent of British rule, the Arab-Swahili community of the Kenya coast entered an era of economic decline and stagnation’ (Janmohamed 1978: 161). The two pillars of its economic resources along the coast had been land and labour (utumwa), and both were now diminished. Much land was appropriated by the Crown and slavery abolished. As the colonial government sought to integrate them into the newly established capitalist system, slaves became squatters, which did not mean a general improvement of their living conditions (cf. Cooper 1980). In this transformation Mombasa became the terminus of a railway line into the interior. This changed the nature and possibilities of trade with the interior and created a climate of financial speculation. Familiar with such opportunities to raise capital, Indian and

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European newcomers to Mombasa (and a number of wealthy Arabs) who sold land to the Crown, made large financial profits while dominating the crucial networks of the new economic system. The development of a huge modern port at Kilindini went hand in hand with the development of the railways. In consequence, the Old Harbour diminished in significance, reflecting the decline of the economic and political structures of the Swahili and Arab era. In the 1920s the economic centre shifted beyond the boundaries of what now began to be called ‘the Old Town’. The transformation of its urban character was also indicated in the ‘growing dependence of Mombasa and the coast on upcountry labour’ (Janmohamed 1978: 342–3). Coastal urban life was upturned by colonial policies, and it had became possible for members of waungwana families (who had lost their privileged status under colonial rule) to be found ‘working side by side with former slaves’ at the docks in Mombasa.18 Upcountry migrant workers were mainly employed at the port and their impact on change in the city is underlined by the rapid increase of their numbers: from 18,000 in 1921 out of a total population of 32,200 (56 per cent), the figures rose to 43,000 in 1948 (51 per cent) and to 111,847 in 1962 (62 per cent) at the eve of independence (Stren 1978: 17). Their numbers eclipsed the indigenous coastal population of Mombasa, and the percentage of residents from upcountry rose further after independence. The trend to rely on upcountry workers was stimulated by the fact that the Mijikenda resented working for the colonial administration and, besides, were relatively independent of regular paid employment. They had access to other opportunities for informal trade and economic activity in their home area (Janmohamed 1978: 342–3).19 Some upcountry newcomers became Muslim, particularly those who wanted to gain social standing and participate in Muslim society, and this was reflected in the social life of the emerging ‘Swahili’ quarters in the new parts of the town (e.g. Majengo). But the previous historical process of gradual and controlled integration of newcomers into Swahili society could not take place as before, and the difference between coastal and upcountry people was also perceived differently. The wabara (upcountry people) had long suffered discrimination by the Swahili upper class who generally saw them as washenzi (barbarians) and potential watumwa (slaves, servants). Now, for the first time in history, they had become serious competitors seeking to dominate the social and political structures of life in Mombasa. This was emphasised when it emerged that British colonial rule, which had impoverished coastal Muslims but also granted them a relative sense of security,20 was coming to an end. The probability of being under upcountry rule was feared by many. In the pre-independence period, several coastal groups, with different key motives and with internal struggles, united in the ‘Mwambao’ movement and campaigned for the political autonomy of the Coastal Strip (cf. Salim 1970). This was, after

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all, still the legal property of the Sultan of Zanzibar which the British had only administered but never acquired. These actions were taken seriously by the British, and Commissioner J. W. Robertson prepared a report on the situation in the Coastal Strip, the so-called ‘Robertson Report’, in order to elicit the opinions of all people concerned. Robertson visited the region in October 1961. After hearing the Sultan of Zanzibar and the representatives of the coastal population and their communities and associations, he advised against coastal autonomy and in favour of national unity with an independent Kenya (Colonial Office 1961). In April 1962, the Lancaster House Conference on the Coastal Strip, with elected delegates from all regions of Kenya, endorsed this advice. An agreement to this effect was signed by all the participants of the conference with very few exceptions. Among them were, notably, the representatives of the ‘Mwambao United Front’, Omar Basaddiq and Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir (from Mombasa),21 who, as the protocol recalls, ‘refused to sign’ (Colonial Office 1962: 30). In October 1963 the Sultan of Zanzibar renounced any claims on the region in return for the assurance of the personal and religious security of his former subjects.22 This sketch of a social history of Mombasa up to independence shows how the absorption of outsiders into an existing urban core has been at the heart of the social dynamics of Mombasa, from its beginnings until the end of Busaidi rule. The integration of groups of ‘foreign Swahili’, as Berg called them, into the patrician upper class of Mombasa, at a time when those groups were refugees, did not follow humanitarian motives but rather practical considerations. In this process, the basic political structure was formed. The town needed to increase its population in order to gain stability and increase its political and economic strength. As Willis said, it was people who were the determinants of wealth and status, so the integration of more dependents into one’s network of influence was a necessary condition for more power. The long-term integration of outsiders not only from along the Swahili coast but also from along the whole Indian Ocean trading system helped to make Mombasa one of the most powerful Swahili city states, while at the same time giving it the character of a fundamentally intercultural society. Political and economic power increased since all of those who were integrated, as groups and as individuals, brought in their own ties of dependencies and contacts. The overall network of the city profited from this, as the establishment or continuation of trade relations were eased considerably. People from India, Persia, the Hadhramaut, Oman, Somalia and the Comoros were integrated as traders and citizens of equal status. People from the far African interior, upcountry and the coastal hinterland were also integrated, but mostly as minors, dependants, slaves and servants. All of them could, after time, become full members of society, legal citizens

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with all rights and duties. As mentioned, there were certain social institutions that facilitated such integration and made it possible in the first place: Islam, trade, marriage and the Swahili language. Yet such far-reaching processes of integration were connected to an ideology of status, hierarchy and dependency that characterised social life in Swahili towns just as much as the potential of absorption. In the following section, I will look at core features and concepts of Swahili ideologies of selfrepresentation, and discuss how they relate to the coastal town’s capacity for social integration. Under the surface of Swahili ideology and its focus on uungwana (civilisation) in contradistinction to ushenzi (barbarism), the notion of utumwa (serfdom, slavery) has been at the basis of social dynamics. As an ambiguous concept, it represents social integration and subjection at the same time. In the Swahili context utumwa, serfdom or slavery can be seen as a process or channel of integration into society, while it is naturally based on hierarchy and different levels of status. U R B A N I T Y , SW A H I L I I D E O L O G Y A N D S O C I A L STRATIFICATION

A central feature of Swahili settlements is often described as their ‘urban character’ or ‘urbanity’.23 This should not necessarily be taken as a conditional feature, however, since along the coast it also makes sense to talk of ‘non-urban Swahili’ who have been described as ‘rural Swahili’ (Parkin 1984: 249).24 However, the exclusive claim to the association of Swahili culture with the town already reflects the self-representation of Swahili waungwana (patricians). While ‘urbanity’ applies to the material appearance of the houses, which were built of stone, this term is also linked to the social organisation of space (Allen 1981). According to several accounts, it expresses an ideology based on binary oppositions between insiders and outsiders which are at the basis of Swahili social stratification (cf. el-Zein 1974; Pouwels 1984). A strict social hierarchy (Beckerleg 1990) and status as its main organising principle (Swartz 1991) are characteristic traits of social order that have been documented. Swahili settlements have been analysed according to such hierarchical imagery. The basic dichotomy of Swahili social ideology, between the waungwana (noblemen) and the watumwa (slaves or serfs), was depicted in the divisions between the inner and outer structures of Swahili towns and their peripheries. For Lamu, el-Zein stated that only the waungwana had the prerogative to live within the town walls, as well as the right to live in stone houses. The serfs (since they were not slaves in the ‘classical’ sense) had to stay outside the town walls at night in their thatched mud huts. It was feared that they could otherwise jeopardise social peace and order by bringing in destructive African spirits (cf. el-Zein 1974). The outward ‘wilderness’ was considered adequate quarters for the serfs, who were

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regarded as ‘people of the bush’ (el-Zein 1974: 72),25 while ‘all religious and intellectual life was naturally inside the town’ (75). According to elZein’s structural analysis, then, culture and civilisation (uungwana) were clearly linked to the town, while nature was situated outside of it. Cultural man, the ruler and town-dweller, was opposed to natural man who was part of the outward ‘wilderness’ (ushenzi). Such simple binary oppositions are, in fact, to some extent observable in Swahili social discourse as part of an ideology of pride. The common citizen, however, is not accounted for in this scheme, where he would be situated somewhere in between the poles. This ‘in between’ should be observed more closely, since it is significant for social dynamics and integrative processes. What separated waungwana from other Swahili was not an absolute distinction but a gradient between two idealised cultural poles, the uungwana of the urban townsmen and the ushenzi, or ‘unculturedness’, of the peoples of the hinterland, with most people occupying intermediary positions in the middle. (Nurse and Spear 1985: 25; my emphasis) It was through the integration of outsiders that Swahili urban communities were formed, and this applied particularly to Mombasa. There have been continuous waves of social change, through an ongoing yet controlled influx of newcomers. With reference to this, Pouwels remarked: ‘if any one thing can be said to have characterised the coastal town, it would be that it institutionalised change’ (Pouwels 1984: 248).

An ethnocentric dichotomy: uungwana versus ushenzi In terms of ideology Swahili society seems strongly ethnocentric. This may be astounding for an urban-centered social life that is so much based on social integration and interculturality.26 Yet a clear, value-laden dichotomy between ‘us’, the town-dwellers, and ‘them’, the outsiders, can be distinguished. The sphere of civilisation, uungwana, in the inside of the town, is juxtaposed to ushenzi, the wilderness outside of it. Grammatically, these Swahili terms are abstract nouns of the u-class, and people can be associated with them by putting the terms into the m/wa-class, the class denoting human beings (watu) and animals (wanyama). Thus waungwana means ‘the civilised’ (pl.), while washenzi means ‘the barbarians’. Both can be seen as abbreviative constructions, for watu wa uungwana, ‘the people of civilisation’, and watu wa ushenzi, ‘people of the wilderness’. Both terms signify the polarised ends of the spectrum of watu, human beings, and their only commonality seems to be their generic opposition to wanyama, animals. Characteristics of uungwana are, obviously, descent and town dwelling, but also refined behaviour, politeness and best manners adequate for people

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of the highest status (thus waungwana is often translated as ‘noblemen’). This includes language, a refined vocabulary and the most elaborate ways of talking. Furthermore, being Muslim is part of this conception, and being wealthy (through trade). But this creates a difficulty which tends to subvert the dichotomy. This is because wealth cannot be imagined or experienced except in relation to others. Those others are either servants, who somehow express or represent the wealth of their masters, or social peers who are more or less wealthy than oneself; for if all were to be equally wealthy, the notion of wealth itself would be meaningless. Hence the ideological and illusory character of the basic dichotomy between waungwana and washenzi. If there were only noblemen and -women on the one side and wild people on the other, society could not exist. Thus, in the hierarchical order between these two poles, a variety of status levels of human beings who are part of society is tacitly implied. These reflections uncover the logical: in practice, civilisation cannot be based simply on an opposition to wilderness, it is based on a system of dependency (serfdom or slavery), utumwa. There is no uungwana without utumwa. Thus, in the Swahili context as elsewhere, civil society is based on inequality.27 To be recognised as mwungwana (civilised person, nobleman), i.e. to be accepted by other members of society as being of high status, one needs to be seen exercising control over inferiors, watumwa (servants, slaves, dependants). Of course, there are different levels of inequality, and so the category of utumwa, mediating between the binary opposition of uungwana and ushenzi, can be filled in a variety of ways, thus creating a more complex picture of society.28 There is, of course, also a variety of levels of uungwana illustrating the internal complexity from the other side of the spectrum.

Mediating the dichotomy: utumwa Following this thought, we can pick up on Willis’s characterisation of a Swahili person mentioned above: someone who, as patron or client, is part of a system of social dependency whose centre is situated in the coastal towns and linked to the trade links of the Indian Ocean. This can be reformulated to say that a Swahili is someone who is linked to the dependency system of utumwa. Here, utumwa should be understood as serfdom, the multiple ways in which, in a status-centred society, society pivots on the relations between the superiors and the inferiors. This is supported by the literal translation of mtumwa, someone who is sent,29 and by socio-historical evidence. Slaves in Swahili society became part of the household and were often trusted and regarded as members of the household or even the family. They had responsibilities and obligations, such as to provide food and assistance with medical care in times of illness, and to take care of children. In fact, there was a special term for descendants of slaves born within the household, wazalia, who were raised within the family and commonly attained freedom

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and social recognition. Also, the children of a mwungwana father and a suria (a concubine slave) mother were considered free-born and deemed to have full civil rights as waungwana (el-Zein 1974). Often mutual care and responsibilities between former slaves and their masters were extended until long after the abolition of slavery. Often slaves were set free after proving their sincerity or fulfilling special tasks for their masters, and they continued working for their former masters out of free will (Strobel 1979, 1978; Ruete 1989), living with them as part of the household and family. It is evident, then, that the ancestors of a large number of the coastal population at one point or another were watumwa. On the other hand, we can also see how it was possible for many members of society to lay claim to waungwana ancestors. We should remember, as was pointed out above, that social dependency worked both ways. There are a number of cultural practices which are peculiar to the Swahili context and would not have evolved, or could not have been sustained, without utumwa. This applies, for instance, to many of the customary prescriptions in relation to waungwana women: as prescribed in the famous Utenzi wa Mwana Kupona (a nineteenth-century poem of a patrician mother to her daughter), they should be confined inside the house and not be seen outside of it; they should not work, but on the other hand should always have the house in perfect order for the husband. All of these requirements are unthinkable without the assumption of having servants, willing and able and trained to work. Even today in the Old Town of Mombasa, despite intense economic pressure, patron–client networks between Swahili residents and Mijikenda servants are still quite common and openly visible. This, I think, reflects the will to continue life the way it used to be (or how one knows it), but now as a paid labour relationship, so as to keep one’s status and a minimum level of comfort. If at all possible, the wife should not need to work in the house (especially cleaning and washing), let alone outside of it.Today, this is mostly not possible. Daughters and wives increasingly contribute to the family income from a variety of jobs; there are saleswomen and computer teachers from the Old Town working in the city today, and although such work is still often seen as violating the ideal, it has, through necessity, become more acceptable. Pushing the point, one can interpret this current impossibility of relying on utumwa as representing the breakdown not only of Swahili uungwana ideology but of Swahili society as a whole, as a functioning system living up to its own standards. Urban dance societies at the beginning of the twentieth century, such as the beni for men and the lelemama for women, were particular cultural institutions of the Swahili context and very influential in Mombasa. They served as vehicles for the integration of outsiders and former slaves into urban society, while at the same time they sustained new urban rivalries between groups, mostly associated with town quarters, mitaa (Ranger 1974;

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Ethnocentric Swahili social ideology ‘us’ uungwana urbanity civilisation

‘them’ ushenzi wilderness

waungwana (patricians, noblemen)

washenzi (barbarians)

utumwa serfdom slavery watumwa (slaves, serfs) Society is hierarchical, yet integrative Figure 2.1 Historical background of coastal–upcountry divide Strobel 1979, 1978). As such they were part of an intermediary Swahili continuum which was open-ended at the bottom. Perhaps paradoxically, it ensured equal rights of access to a society characterised by its internal inequality. Only in this sense is it possible to speak of Swahili society as being based on equality: it was, in principle, open to everyone. Even though inside it everything depended on the negotiation of status, no one was by definition excluded from upward mobility which had to be negotiated, awarded, deserved, manipulated.30 It must have been this feature of potentially open-ended integration, offering its newcomers even the possibility of power, that made Swahili city states so successful over the centuries. On the other hand, those on the upper end of the ladder of social status had an interest in keeping the incomers’ chance to rise from below to the top of society nominal, so as not to jeopardise the existing social hierachy. For this reason the ideology of hierarchy and status was activated in social discourse as an important means to conserve the structure of society and its current balance of power. This is why utumwa, in reality a membrane through which outsiders might be integrated in society, was cast as an impermeable layer of distinct status within Swahili social ideology. To summarise, the ambivalence of utumwa pinpoints the ambiguity of Swahili social dynamics between open integration and strict subjection to rules of status. Swahili ideology could choose and switch between them

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as desired. Utumwa, a dependency system linked to and established by uungwana, in return made possible and sustained the waungwana social class, but also posed a potential danger from within. This interdependence is crucial to Swahili social relationships. Ushenzi, an external sphere holding the ‘Other’, can be considered as the arsenal of potential watumwa, being human but in the wild. Situated outside society, this arsenal could be tapped and integrated, via the channel of utumwa. This conceptual triangle of uungwana, utumwa and ushenzi thus characterises the history of social dynamics and socialisation along the East African coast. We can identify this conceptual triangle in a historical study of a nineteenth-century slave rebellion in Pangani, where the internal dynamics of coastal society are worked out along these lines, with an emphasis on the internal gradations of utumwa. It is shown for the mrima coast (of current Tanzania) that slaves within coastal communities – who should be understood foremost as ‘personal dependants’ (Glassman 1995: 81f) in a client–patron relationship – emulated the ideology of their patrons and cast themselves as ‘variants’ within the same social framework, particularly visà-vis more recent incoming slaves from upcountry. Furthermore, […] like the freeborn, they scorned newly arrived slaves as washenzi or ‘barbarians’, masking their own origins by calling themselves ‘people of the coast’, using the fashionable Arabic derivation waSwahili. It is perhaps an index of the long-term success of such efforts that some 20th century informants claim that the appellation ‘Swahili’ implied free or patrician status. (Glassman 1995: 94–5)31

‘Swahili context’ In my own ethnographic study of Mombasa, I have chosen to use the expression ‘Swahili context’ rather than ‘Swahili society’ because it seems more helpful in order to come to grips with the diversity of particular influences in the social life of the Old Town – some of which, such as national Kenyan politics or global economic webs like tourism are decisively not ‘Swahili’. If ever there was a clear-cut, distinct ‘Swahili society’ in Mombasa or the Old Town, it no longer exists.32 Nevertheless, the Swahili language remains the means of communication among all residents, and the social ideology of uungwana continues to provide the framework for much of the status-centred structuring of everyday life in the Old Town, evidence of which is still readily observable. Patterns of speech and behaviour, greetings and terms of status and emotional states of being reflect the underlying idiom of social hierarchy, though much less so today than Swartz’s material on these aspects, gathered mostly in the 1970s and 1980s, suggests (cf. Swartz 1988, 1991, 1998). Other distinct features of Swahili material culture – such as the women’s kanga and buibui, the men’s kofia, the popular t’arab music emanating from the houses in the early evenings when the

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baraza benches in front of the houses are occupied by men of the neighbourhood having their daily informal meetings (called baraza too)33 – all of these also contribute to what I call the Swahili context. All of them can be seen as the outcome of locally based intercultural interaction and, together with Swahili language and ideology, confirm that a Swahili framework is the essential paradigm according to which social processes and cultural dynamics have to be understood, whoever else lives in the area, controls the town or rules the country. POPULATION AND SOCIO-ECONOMIC SITUATION OF M O M B A S A A N D T H E O L D T OW N

At the time of my fieldwork, the population of Mombasa,34 according to the 1999 population census, amounted to 665,018 inhabitants.35 This figure includes the mainland sections of Kisauni (North), Changamwe (West) and Likoni (South), which together make up almost three quarters of the overall population of Mombasa, in contrast to the 146,344 residents of Mombasa Island which has a size of 14 square kilometres. Of the island residents, 21,516 were from the Old Town area, corresponding to 3,600 households. Had it not been for the so-called ‘Likoni clashes’ where acts of violence and aggression were directed at residents of upcountry origin before the general

Figure 2.2 Rooftop perspective, Old Town, view towards Old Port, creek Picture by the author, 2005

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elections in 1997 (leading to a mass exodus back upcountry), the overall figures for Mombasa would have been significantly higher.36 A specific feature of the recent demographics of the Old Town area is that many of the thousands of Somalian37 refugees that entered Kenya from the early 1990s came to Mombasa where they took up residence in the Old Town, the only truly Muslim part of the city. Interestingly, they are the only real outsider residents here, perhaps the only new group of people who have come to live here within the last century. Despite the fact that they are Muslims, they were not easily integrated. This relates to the fact that other ‘motors’ of integration into Swahili society do not apply in their case: few speak Swahili well, they have no historical relationships of dependency and reliance on any of the communities in the Old Town, and they have yet to determine their specific economic niche in local trade relationships. Having said that, the latter is somehow in the process of being established. Somalian men have become the informal, yet public, currency traders of Mombasa, changing dollars for shillings on the edge of the Old Town, in full view of the Central Police Station. Furthermore, they have built up a new string of offices offering cheap international telephone calls. But while these activities also profit the locals, they do not endear the Somalian newcomers to everyone in town. Many of the Old Town community seemed to resent the strong Somalian presence, while others, most notably landlords, profited from it. The Somalians, partly financed through relatives who had attained refugee status in North America or Europe, had comparatively large cash funds at their disposal. I was told that this contributed to steep rises in local rents. For instance, two-bedroom flats were advertised at a rate of about 10,000 Kenyan shillings a month in 1998 (when 100KSh amounted to roughly 1GBP), while only some years before some 2,000KSh or so would have been charged. Even after allowing for the inflation of the shilling, this was still an outrageous and unaffordable amount for many Old Town residents. For them, regular monthly wages ranged between 5,000 and 8,000KSh a month (e.g. for work as a storekeeper for a company, driver for a tourist hotel or instructor at a computing school), while a matatu (minibus-taxi) owner who shared the driving with another driver could earn about 30,000KSh. In comparison, assistants in a hoteli (small local restaurant), mostly Mijikenda who would not live on the island but commuted every day, would earn between 1,500 and 3,000KSh.38 It is obvious that such wages are only sustainable when no, or hardly any, rent had to be paid. In fact, many of the residents of Old Town that I got to know lived either in their own house or they or their family had already been living for many years in the house or flat they were now using. Continuous residence in the Old Town, and thus the importance of family, clan and neighbourhood relationships for social cohesion in the

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Figure 2.3 Street scene, Old Town: Ndia Kuu Picture by the author, 2005 various mitaa (quarters) (pl.; mtaa sing.) and their rivalry with others is well-documented for Mombasa,39 and is also attested to by a recent Conservation Plan for the Old Town area (CP 1990).40 This plan provides details for the southern part of Old Town, including Kibokoni, the area in which I

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lived. It states that about 65 per cent of the households had already resided in the Old Town before moving to their current location, roughly 35 per cent even in the same mtaa; altogether, more than 80 per cent moved to their current residence from somewhere else in Mombasa. Furthermore, for more than 50 per cent, their closest relatives lived in the same mtaa; for another 11 per cent they lived somewhere else in the Old Town, and for a further 18 per cent in other parts of Mombasa. Over 60 per cent of the households had been established for more than five years at the time of questioning (CP 1990: 49–51). Though I have no comparative material for any other parts of Mombasa or other towns, these figures underline a residential continuity within Mombasa Old Town that must be rare to come by anywhere else, let alone a major city. As mentioned already, this might have to be regarded as a major factor enabling economic survival under the current circumstances. Unemployment in the Old Town is high, as it is in Kenya as a whole. It is difficult to provide figures, however, in the absence of comparative and reliable sources that correctly represent the significant informal sector. Without providing figures for the informal sector, a government source gives an employment rate of 65 per cent for the whole of Mombasa in 1985 (DDP 1989: 31). Informally, residents of my neighbourhood estimated between 30 per cent and 70 per cent unemployment or no regular employment, and my own impression concurred with that. Nevertheless, people looking for work might be able to find some on a day-to-day basis (kibarua) or create a job for themselves. In Kibokoni, for instance, two young men without work set up a tiny food stall selling home-made juice and chips since several other juice bars in Mombasa had become very popular with the locals at that time. A small group of others started selling chips, mishkaki (barbeque kebabs) and sweets at a street corner in the evenings, and another young man started selling coffee next to them, providing wooden benches for his customers and friends, thus creating a youthful popular baraza at night. An estimated figure for the Old Town in 1990 rates unemployment at 23 per cent for men and 82 per cent for women, noting the figure of 40 per cent unemployment of young men aged 18–24 as worrisome (CP 1990: 53). The economic situation has worsened continually since then. From 1992 onwards, the introduction of multi-party democracy in Kenya, the activities of the IPK (Islamic Party of Kenya) and its leader Sheikh Khalid Balala, and their repression by the government and its agencies led to fights and war-like scenarios in the Old Town, which ceased between 1994 and 1995.41 In 1997, the extremely heavy ‘El Niño rains’ destroyed much of the harvest and many houses and roads. They led to floodings and an outbreak of typhoid and cholera in the coastal area. Between August and November of the same year, pre-electoral violence in Likoni and Kwale (the district

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Figure 2.4 Mandhry Mosque, near Old Port Picture by Salim Nashir, with kind permission south of Mombasa) killed hundreds, drove thousands away and destroyed much of the local economy (KHRC 1997: iv).42 Both events were publicised in the international media, with the obvious effect of a sudden rapid decline in tourism. People in Mombasa, including the Old Town, were severely

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affected by this, as the economic situation of many is linked either directly or indirectly to tourism, and much of the local economy has been designed to serve this sector (entertainment in Mombasa, service in the beach hotels, safaris to the game reserves, selling curios such as carvings, clothing, etc.). Employees of hotels were fired or indefinitely put on forced, unpaid leave. When hopes for a recovery in tourism were slowly consolidating, in August 1998 the bombing of the US embassy in Nairobi by al-Quaeda terrorists created a catastrophe of previously unknown dimensions. This prolonged the crisis in the country and also put more intense pressure on the historically sensitive relations between Christians and Muslims (cf. Cruise O’Brien 1995).43 Meanwhile, many international donors severely restricted their financial aid to Kenya due to evidence of corruption on many levels of public life. They also suspected governmental interference with the newly established multi-party system and the repression of democratic opposition. The economic situation of the Old Town was naturally affected by all of this, and during my stay in Mombasa many people had become economically desperate. Summing up, I am convinced that because of these political and socio-economic developments in the 1990s unemployment must have risen dramatically in this period in comparison to the late 1980s. In the Old Town, many people told me that several factors made it particularly difficult for young coastal Muslims to find a job, among these being ethnic, religious and educational background. According to them, a job is most likely found through informal networks that are based on membership in a particular ethnic group. The public and private sectors are seen as dominated by upcountry people who prefer to employ fellow ‘tribesmen’, or at least ‘black Africans’, and openly prefer Christians to Muslims. Furthermore, Indian traders and businessmen seem to prefer to draw labour from the Mijikenda work force. Prominent coastal Muslim businessmen or tycoons in Mombasa do not specifically provide employment alternatives to Muslims and, like other businessmen in Kenya, have been embroiled in scandals of ‘land-grabbing’, corruption, smuggling and tax evasion, for which they are resented by parts of the community. In terms of education, the standard of education in Mombasa and the Coastal Province has for a long time lagged behind Nairobi and Central Province in terms of quantity and quality. This also applies to the level of spoken English. But people in the Old Town call for change. Many believe that, in accordance with anti-coastal, antiMuslim governmental policy, schools at the coast are supplied with the worst teachers, while the most highly qualified are kept in the central region around Nairobi, in a deliberate attempt to keep the coastal people dominated and ‘backward’. Such sentiments were sometimes qualified as expressions of a conspiracy theory; but they were backed up and substantiated by established Kenyan Muslim academics (Mazrui 1993; Mazrui 1994; Ayubi and Mohyuddin 1994), even warning of a ‘black intifadah’ (Mazrui 1993: 87).

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In any case, the local pervasiveness of this feeling in itself speaks volumes about the perception of national politics from a coastal Muslim perspective, and indicates lack of confidence in the government. This obviously feeds into a general lack of self-confidence, in turn diminishing job prospects even further. Even economically successful people told me about discrimination they suffered during their education and job training. On the other hand, they also pointed at the tendency of their fellow coastal Muslims of giving up too soon, losing hope too easily and not exerting the necessary level of discipline and commitment to secure education and a job.44 For some of those who are not regularly employed, income for subsistence is yielded partly from shambas (fields) that the family owns, often situated on the mainland area along the coast, or from the income of renting out rooms, flats and houses in the Old Town itself. There are no big businesses in the Old Town itself, and opportunities for work are relatively scarce in comparison to the central district of town. Nevertheless, apparently only about 30 per cent of the employees in the Old Town area lived in the Old Town, and slightly bigger groups came from Mombasa Island and the mainland (CP 1990: 60). About 70 per cent of the businesses in the Old Town are owned by residents of the area, with another 24 per cent having owners in Mombasa Island. Sixty per cent of the owners are of Indian ancestry and another 10 per cent each of Arab origin and from along the Kenyan coast (ibid.: 58). Among the small businesses in the Old Town are various kinds of dukas (shops) distributed all over the area, from bakeries to little grocery shops, retail shops, bookshops and video libraries. At regular intervals one comes across tea houses and little restaurants, though they are much less densely placed here than in the city centre. There are also several music shops selling cassette tapes specialising in the popular local t’arab music and selling poetry recitations. Jewellery is traded in specific streets, as is clothing. Handicraft workshops produce heavy chests made of wood and brass, and reproductions of the beautiful carved doors that the Swahili towns are known for and which are still visible in the Old Town. Curio shops are situated mostly along Ndia Kuu and Mbarak Hinawy Road, near Fort Jesus. While McKinnon Market, at the north-western end of the Old Town, is the central venue to buy fruit and vegetables, meat and spices, in Kibokoni fruit and vegetables are also sold by street vendors, either by single men selling out of their pushcarts or groups of Mijikenda women placing their produce on the pavements, mostly along Nyeri Street, Kibokoni Road and Ndia Kuu. According to traditional Swahili uungwana ideology, of course, women were not supposed to work, or at least not supposed to be publicly seen working; however, the attitude toward this has changed. This might have to do with more liberal interpretations of Islam and their influence in the town as much as with the fact of simple economic pressure. In many cases,

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Figure 2.5 Street scene, children playing Picture by the author, 2005 servants could no longer be afforded, and increasingly, daughters (and wives) have become motivated to work outside in order to contribute to the household. Sometimes, they come up against substantial resistance from parents (and brothers and husbands) while in other cases they have whole-

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hearted support. In any case, Muslim women are nowadays seen working in a variety of professions all over town, and I have often seen not only female secretaries, vendors and shop assistants, but also businesswomen, computer specialists and instructors.45

Kibokoni,46 place of the hippo Kibokoni literally means ‘place of the hippo’ or ‘at the hippo’. A local historian thinks this was due to hippos being sighted in this area earlier on, before the area was integrated into the town.47 Alternatively, it is suggested that here, in the vicinity of the Police Station (about 100 metres away from Kibokoni Road), whips made of hippo hide, also called kiboko, were used to punish people convicted of crimes (Maitland-Jones et al. 1985: 29). In the Kibokoni area, to the west of Fort Jesus, a considerable number of shophouses were built between 1930 and 1950, with a shop area on the ground floor and residential apartments on the first floor. These were designed and built for Indian traders and their families (CP 1990: 91), and they still dominate the streets of Kibokoni. It is largely due to the number and variety of local shops in this area that this quarter of the Old Town is particularly lively, day and night. In Kibokoni or the southern part of the Old Town, about 27 per cent of the inhabitants are classified as ‘Swahili’ (including Barawa, Bajuni and Comorians), 23 per cent Arabs and another 30 per cent are Asian Muslims, of which the Ithnaashari amount to 12 per cent and the Bohora to 9 per cent (CP 1990: 46). The comparatively low number of ‘Swahili’ and high number of Asian and Arab residents should not surprise us, since these figures are restricted to the south of the Old Town. This includes Kavani (or Gavana), which had been the prestigious residential area for the people of the ruling Omani clans since the time of the takeover from the Portuguese in 1698. (Members of the Swahili Three Tribes moved here only in 1837, after their settlement in Kilindini had been destroyed.) The Indian merchants and traders also settled here after their arrival, and between 1930 and 1950 they built many shop-houses in the original Kibokoni area (Kibokoni Road, Nyeri Street). Other Asian groups in the area include the Muslim Cutchi, Badala, Kokni and Baluchi, and a Hindu and a Jain community. Furthermore, a small proportion (3 per cent) who are Mijikenda are listed, working as servants in Swahili households and returning to their homes on the mainland at regular intervals. In contrast to the southern part of the Old Town, Swahili predominance always existed in the northern part which includes the sites of its historical Swahili roots: the settlement of Sheikh Mvita and the Kongowea of Mwana Mkisi (see above). This had always been the ‘Swahili’ part of the town, with simpler houses, i.e. single storey, often in mud and not stone, with makuti (palm leaf) roofs. Though nowadays there are hardly any mud houses and makuti anymore, the character of the area

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Figure 2.6 Street scene, Kibokoni: the author’s home during fieldwork (top floor) Picture by the author, 2005

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has remained simple, from Kuze northwards to Mji wa Kale (literally: Old Town), via Mlango wa Papa (literally: Door/Gate of the Shark). The religious affiliation given for Kibokoni (in the wider sense) in 1990 was 63 per cent Muslim Sunni, 22 per cent Muslim Shia, 5 per cent Hindu, 3 per cent Christian, and 1 per cent Jain (with 5 per cent unknown, and 2 per cent unspecified Muslim). Languages primarily spoken in the households referred to are, as single languages, Swahili (45 per cent), Gujarati (14 per cent), Kutchi (8 per cent), Arabic (8 per cent), and Urdu and Hindi (1.5 per cent each). In combination with a second language in a household they are Swahili/Indian language (6 per cent), Swahili/Arabic (4.5 per cent), Swahili/English (3 per cent), Kutchi/Gujarati/Urdu (2.5 per cent), and combinations of Swahili with Persian and English with Indian languages which are negligible (CP 1990: 45). If any proof was needed, these figures underline the internal cultural diversity of Mombasa, but also the binding role that the Swahili language plays in forming an overall community, an integrative multicultural society.48

Tourism, drugs, and decay As pointed out already, tourism is an important means of livelihood for the people of the Old Town and Mombasa citizens as a whole. Many are (or were) employed by hotels or travel agencies, or profited from tourism in an intermediary way, selling curios, producing craft items, leading tourists around Fort Jesus and the Old Town for half a day, or providing food and drinks from stalls or little restaurants. It is important to note, though, that there are no hotels or hostels inside the Old Town itself. This is unlike other prominent Swahili towns along the coast, like Lamu and Zanzibar, where hotels and guest houses are situated within the old parts of the town, increasing the experience of an ‘Oriental’ atmosphere for the tourists, but also the impact and pressure on local manners and values in social life. Tourists regularly stroll around the Old Town for half an hour or so after visiting Fort Jesus, accompanied by a guide who is a local, if not employed by a hotel or travel agency. They do not disrupt life in the Old Town, and only occasionally is there a case of an inappropriately dressed tourist taken up by residents, when an argument might occur. While there are several hotels in the city, tourists mostly stay in the beach hotels along the coast north and south of Mombasa, and usually these hotels provide all the facilities required by them (including swimming pools, tennis courts, discos, etc.). Thus Mombasa Town is not a huge tourist centre as such, but provides all the important links and a basis for the tourism network, as well a variety of leisure venues (bars, discos, casinos, restaurants) for citizens and tourists.49 In public speeches by imams during Friday prayers, or by other religious leaders on other prominent occasions, much attention has been given to the

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destructive influence of ‘Western culture’ on the local Muslim community. The decay of moral values, indecent dress and shameless public behaviour, the consumption of alcohol and other drugs, and the supposed spread of homosexuality,50 are all often blamed on the ‘Westernisation’ of Mombasa. These statements are combined with calls to return to proper Islamic values and codes of conduct. However, such calls are fairly ineffective, and are perhaps more an expression of helplessness in regard to these phenomena, especially drugs. Drug abuse has apparently increased dramatically in the Old Town area within the last decade (despite the economic decline). Parents and relatives are extremely concerned that their youth may have become regular users of hard drugs such as heroin, usually consumed by being smoked as ‘brown sugar’. Theft and petty crime related to drug addiction have affected families severely, and the lack of experienced guidance for such cases often makes the situation desperate, as neither the families nor the youth are provided with an opportunity to break the vicious circle (cf. Beckerleg 1995). But there is also much consumption of less harmful drugs, such as smoking bangi (marijuana) and chewing mairungi or miraa (Arabic: qat).While bangi is still associated with the decadent youth culture of wahuni, i.e. young men who have turned their backs on the communal social values (often dressing like Rastafari), miraa is consumed by many citizens, old and young, men and women. It has a semi-legal and semi-acceptable status in society. While it is openly available in some markets in Mombasa, the police sometimes crack down on traders and dealers. Similarly, its consumption by people of higher status in society takes place inside the home, behind closed doors, in the company of friends and family, while others are seen chewing it outside, in groups (rarely alone) along the streets during the evenings and at night. People value the effects of these leaves which stimulate and yet help to relax; chewing them makes people talkative, and regularly small groups of friends spend half the night chewing the leaves and talking without getting tired. This is a somewhat common occupation for Saturday nights. Mairungi or miraa nevertheless has a dubious status, since the practice is criticised by some Islamic scholars and activists and has been qualified as haramu (violating Islamic principles). The Chief Kadhi himself, residing in Mombasa, fully supported a booklet taking such a position, explaining with reference to the Qur’an and Islamic scholars why mairungi, next to other drugs, was haramu (Ali 1992: ii–iv). CONCLUSION

As I have described here at length, the history of Mombasa saw many centuries of integration of foreigners into urban society. Up to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, these were mostly ‘foreign Swahili’ from other parts of the coast, as well as Mijikenda, some Hadhrami and only a few Omani Arabs. There was a significant incorporation of Omani rulers and their

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Baluchi soldiers during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Processes of integration proceeded over a long time, surmounting antagonisms and oppositions that, via historical documentation, are still traceable in the names of the Twelve Tribes and the poems of Muyaka and others, in the way that the older separate parts of the town grew together, and in rivalries between mitaa as reflected in various kinds of ngoma dance competitions (beni, lelemama). A distinct urban unity of ‘Mombasa’ was created, with an inherent diversity of social and cultural backgrounds. In the second half of the nineteenth century, Indian and Persian ‘foreign Muslims’ arrived, Shia Bohoras and Ithnaasharis who, as traders, were integrated into the overall network of society as separate, ethnically and religiously defined communities. Though usually there was no intermarriage between these Shi’ite groups and the former Sunni majority, they cohabited peacefully within the town. Even intersectional assistance between these groups has been recorded, such as aid for the construction of new mosques (Berg and Walter 1968: 75).51 In the first half of the twentieth century, due to British economic interest in cheap, technically trained labour for the building of Kilindini Port and the railways, a last wave of newcomers arrived via the links of the Empire. There was another group of Hadhrami Muslims, the socalled ‘Washihiri’, and Indians of different ethnic and religious background. They were integrated into society, and for decades they were regarded as of somewhat lower class, culturally distinct from the patrician Swahili and those coastal Arabs who were fully integrated into the Swahili context. Now, however, this distinction barely applies any more. As pointed out, the current presence of Somalian newcomers poses a new task for integration, and it remains to be seen whether this will be achieved. All these integrations took place within the area that is now called Old Town, a Muslim urban community with a tiny minority of tolerated religious outsiders. But these were also the last integrations that took place, for all the later expansion of Mombasa was completely initiated and controlled from the outside, by the British colonial administration and later the postcolonial Kenyan government. What followed from then on, in terms of urban dynamics, was more of a process of self-defence, of selfpreservation. Unable to play an active role in the further development of Mombasa, and unable to compete economically or politically with the now dominant Christians from Europe and upcountry Kenya, the Old Town became less and less significant, and more and more closed off from the new centres of political and economic power in town. Judging from comments by tourists (and guide books), this process has had easily observable effects, and some Mombasa residents from inside and outside of the Old Town would probably agree. For most brief visitors who cast a glance around, ‘to walk down its streets is to enter another world’ (Jewell 1987: 24). The Old Town, with its peculiar buildings and narrow alleys, is said to be ‘totally

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different’ from everything else in Mombasa, ‘like a museum’ or even, as I heard a privileged tourist once say, ‘like a slum’. In the lived reality of its residents, however, it is of course neither of these. True, feeling somewhat closed off may have led some people to a similar illusion: that while most families continue living in their old houses, while almost everyone is still Muslim, and hardly any upcountry people live here, and the market and the sea are still in the same place, ‘everything is still the same’. And yet, of course, everything has changed.

3 A NEIGHBOURHOOD OF THINKERS KNOWLEDGE, DISCOURSE AND EAST AFRICAN ISLAM

S O C I A L A P P R E C I A T I O N O F K N OW L E D G E A N D C R I T I C A L CAPACITY

I have already clarified above why I think that philosophical discourse exists in a wide variety of places around the world, and that it is not a specific feature or achievement of European (or Western) cultural history alone. In what follows, the intellectual climate of Mombasa today is sketched, and also the recent intellectual history of the region, including some of its most significant scholars. They are constant reference points for discussions taking place among common people in the streets, or among scholars in their speeches or religious booklets. In describing local discourses and intellectual debates, I also provide evidence for the internal recognition of features that are associated with philosophy. It should be noted that in Swahili intellectual discourse, the label ‘philosopher’ (mwanafalsafa, or failousouf) is sometimes directly and spontaneously applied to prominent thinkers. Furthermore, my investigation is not focusing on the local practice of the Islamic discipline of philosophical scholarship falsafa (from the Arabic falsafah, a loanword from the Greek philosophia, cf. Marmura 1993). While most of my documentation will be presented and developed in Part II, in the contextualised portraits of selected local intellectuals, background information is provided here. For instance, one of the most outstanding scholars of the East African coast, Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui (1891–1947) was frequently credited by his students and peers with ‘opening the eyes’ of coastal Muslims. He can be thought of, and is often referred to, as a leading figure of a regionally specific ‘enlightenment’ movement, even in scholarly articles: ‘The Sheikh managed to enlighten people as to the true spirit of Islam as essentially a religion of social progress’ (Elmasri 1985: 230).1 His popular writings in Swahili were aimed at making people aware of fundamental relations between religious and socio-political issues and their influence on everyday life during the colonial period. His public social criticism aimed to raise critical consciousness and intellectual self-reliance in Swahili society, and the success of his work brought him recognition and a following that went far beyond the usual respect and support for a Chief Kadhi. Also, we know that during the nineteenth century in Mombasa

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intellectuals such as judges, religious teachers, scholars and healers (kadhi, maalim, mwanachuoni, mganga) were considered ‘men of high standing among their people’, sometimes even enjoying ‘prestige equal to or greater than the official sheikh of a “tribe”’ (Berg 1971: 160). Intellectual capacity, therefore, was a source of social recognition and power which could to a certain extent compete with political office. Intellectuals of that era who, due to their exceptional qualities, lasted a long time in the social memory of Mombasa were Maalim Kame bin Mwinyi Shafi , ‘orator of the Kilindini and their learned men’, the healer Mwinyi Kasimba and Muyaka bin Mwinyi Haji, the most famous of Mombasa’s poets (cf. Abdulaziz 1979). The social appreciation of philosophical prowess can also be observed in the sphere of poetry. Swahili poets express ‘thoughts and philosophy that have been shaped through their own investigation’ (fikira na filosofia inayotokana na uchunguzi wao wenyewe), according to Shihabbudin Chiragdin, an eminent local intellectual from Mombasa who also obtained a degree from the colonial University of East Africa in Makerere (Chiraghdin 1973: ix). The realm of thought is qualified as a specific field of Swahili poetry (Chiraghdin 1971: 9), and poets are explicitly lauded when tackling this field successfully, when expressing critical reflection on various spheres of life with artistic competence (Chiraghdin 1971, 1973). Muhammad Kijumwa, the famous Lamu poet of the 1920s (cf. Abou Egl 1983), is called a ‘philosopher’ by a Lamu contemporary (Shariff Abdalla 1980: preface), and also the Tanganyikan poet Shabaan Robert was remembered in his obituary as ‘a philosopher’ who had ‘opened up new ways of expression, new modes of thought’ (Swahili 1962/63: x). Unquestionably for many, the early nineteenth-century poem ‘Al-Inkishafi ’, dealing with the decline of the city state of Pate, is as philosophical a poem as you can get. It includes a variety of overlapping concerns (historical documentation, dramatic depiction of social life, religious invocation, questioning of the self) and links them to a reflexive, critical turn against the social and political elite whose moral decay led to the breakdown of the historical greatness that is being praised (cf. Nasir 1977, 1980). In Mombasa, I met some poets and scholars who still know it by heart (like Ahmad Nassir and Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany), and because of the depth of its language and the issues raised it seems immensely admired by all who know it. This, however, excludes the younger generation more and more. Few Swahili poems or poets seem to be known to those in their teens and twenties. This marks a great cultural decline from the times, still remembered by the elderly, when practically everyone knew how to compose poetry. Finally, it should be mentioned that for the two well-known poets Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany and Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo who reside in Kibokoni and will be discussed in detail later on, the presentation of critical, challenging and original thoughts ranks among the main criteria of what they consider to be good poetry.

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‘A neighbourhood of thinkers’ – Kibokoni and baraza culture The title of this chapter reflects the fact that a considerable number of established intellectuals lived in Kibokoni and around in my wider neighbourhood area while I was living in Mombasa and conducting my research. Among the most notable ones were: Sharif Khitamy (Sayyid Abdulrahman Ahmed Badawy), the head of Riyadha Mosque and College in Lamu, grandson of the famous Habib Saleh2 and a healer of the highest reputation; Mwalimu Saggaf Alawi, a former teacher and historian and a student of Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui and Muhammad Ghazali; Mwalimu Jumadari, a former teacher and local historian of Mombasa; Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, a poet and Swahili scholar, originally from Lamu;3 and Ahmad Nassir, poet and healer.4 They were, of course, not the only ‘thinkers’ around there, nor does this mean that there are necessarily fewer thinkers in other parts of the Old Town. In fact, as another important local intellectual, Shihabbudin Chiragdin, stated, the mitaa of Kuze, Mji wa Kale, Birikau and Mkanyageni (all to the north of Kibokoni but not far from it) are renowned for their poets, teachers, reciters, singers and musicians (Chiragdin 1971: 4). Of course, it can also be argued that everyone is a thinker, or also a thinker, at certain times. This quality comes to the fore, for example, when people meet up and engage in specific ways of talking, such as discussing, questioning, explaining, reasoning, debating and possibly even in telling a joke, a story or an anecdote. This is a second connotation to which the phrase ‘neighbourhood of thinkers’ can be applied, and it relates back to what I introduced as a ‘worldly’ or ‘cosmopolitan’ understanding of philosophy above.5 Reflective, critical discourse, by which people turn themselves into thinkers in everyday life – and even jokes often contain a critical perspective – has to be included for an adequate contextual understanding of the local intellectual sphere, making it possible to identify and appreciate specifically knowledgeable and witty contributions which make certain individuals stand out as thinkers. This is what an investigation into philosophical discourse as social practice entails. Swahili social life in general and the Old Town of Mombasa in particular offer many public or semi-public opportunities for informal talks and discussions, at least for the men. Every evening, groups of younger and older men meet up, sitting on wooden benches around a coffee-seller in the street, in or next to a hoteli (tea-house or cafe), or on the stone benches outside a house or mosque. They meet mostly according to age groups, preferably before sunset, that is before magharibi-prayers, and after around eight p.m. after isha-prayers. This is a more or less regular daily practice of exchanging the news of the day (local, national and global), discussing and interpreting them, and reflecting upon them. It is also, of course, recreational chatting. The locality of the meeting or the group of people gathered there are called baraza, or maskani.6 Literally, baraza refers to a bench or verandah in front

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Figure 3.1 Baraza corner with two young men Picture by the author, 2005 of a house, often (and originally) integrated into the outside wall. It is the common and regular place provided for men to rest and chat informally with neighbours and friends without retreating into the sphere of privacy – the domain of women – inside the house. Maskani literally means ‘home’ or the place where somebody lives (although this is usually called nyumbani). Meetings begin with exchanging opinions on the events of the day, and this sometimes leads to discussions or lively arguments on any conceivable topic. I was present listening in to discussions on the existence of spirits (pepo or majini), on the permissibility of dhikri (Sufi invocations of God), on corruption, on national and global politics, on the interpretation of the Qur’an, and many others. Friends tell jokes and tease each other. The latest news and the newest gossip is passed around. Football results are discussed with vigour by young men who are more likely supporters of Manchester United, Bayern Munich or Barcelona than of the local Coast Stars. Lively discussions and serious arguments on days before and after matches may easily go on for hours, and the celebration of an important victory can still be evident among the youth for a couple of days. Besides, some famous clubs have their local Old Town equivalents: Bayern and Liverpool are recreated by youth teams from Kibokoni, and young men from Kuze ‘are’ Brazil. The local pitch for these and other teams is the small space between the huge

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Figure 3.2 Football: David Beckham picture at Manchester United corner Picture by the author, 2005 400-year-old walls of Fort Jesus and the sea; in the face of the late afternoon sun, every weekend, its sidelines are filled with spectators. Baraza culture has been part of Mombasa and other Swahili towns for many centuries. Early Portuguese sources already mentioned that ‘nearly every house had a stone bench built out in front of it’, making the typical narrow streets with up to three-storey-high houses feel even narrower (Strandes 1961: 79). Though the basic communicative aspect of the baraza has persisted over time, its social function has changed, at least in two respects. Until the British takeover of political administration in 1895, it must have been part of the wider political system of Mombasa, in which each of the twelve hereditary sheikhs of the Twelve Tribes represented his area of influence. Each sheikh consulted and communicated with the elders of the mitaa, and these neighbourhood representatives surely used their barazas for meetings at the level of local politics. Until recently, some barazas were notable for their specifically intellectual character and interest. As meeting points of knowledgeable wazee but open to a wider audience, these were educational sites or, somehow, local institutions of (higher) learning – even likened to a ‘Swahili university’.7 Such intellectual barazas could also be set up with a religiously motivated ideological agenda, as the one by Sayyid Mansab in late nineteenth-century Zanzibar (Salim 1985: 47).

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Also, educational folk stories, fables, myths and legends were related and discussed. Moreover, the baraza was the setting of a competition of wit, as participants were challenged with riddles, spoken in poetic or other cryptic forms. Nowadays, there are, as far as I know, no exclusively intellectual or political barazas left in the Old Town. Even if the informal baraza gatherings of today may be somewhat exclusive, this applies in a different sense. They are friendly meeting points of people of the neighbourhood, consisting of regular members and their respective friends who are invited to participate. They are not, by common understanding, open meetings where everyone is free or welcome to join in. This is naturally so, as a certain level of privacy and mutual trust is needed in order to freely carry on conversations across the whole range of topics. The extent of openness can also be determined by economic interests in some cases, as coffee-selling barazas or similar meetings in tea-houses are open to new customers. But there is always a core of regulars, dominating the group dynamics and the topics and style of discussion. There are, for example, some young men who meet up with their friend Omari at ‘his’ baraza in the evenings. As a coffee-seller who brews and sells his coffee at a particular spot in the street, he would set up two or three simple wooden benches for his customers every evening, serving coffee at a cheap price (two or three shillings).8 This made it possible for his friends to sip a coffee on the side while the evening’s topics would be discussed. Similarly, a group of Swahili-speaking Shia Ithnaashari Muslims of Swahili, Indian and Persian background had their regular meeting point in the café of a Bohora friend to converse about daily events – this is remarkable in so far as language is also sometimes used as a boundary marker, when, for example, Gujarati and Urdu are used by the latter two groups so that they stay among themselves. Another ethnic group, which needs to be treated slightly separately, are Mijikenda people from the coastal hinterland (Digo, Giriama, Rabai, etc.). Those living in the Old Town – not just commuting daily to and from work in Mombasa Island, as most Mijikenda do – basically constitute an internal servant class, somewhat in continuation of the historic patron–client relationships (of utumwa, discussed in the previous chapter) between the Mijikenda hinterland groups and patrician townspeople. As Muslims, and being young (mostly in their teens), they live with their patron families. They are a group of accepted outsiders within the community who may or may not integrate more closely over time. They have meeting points and barazas of their own, where they chat in the street in their distinctive Mijikenda dialects, unintelligible to most of the other Swahili speakers. To illustrate baraza culture in Kibokoni a bit more vividly, let me provide an exemplary sample from a group of elderly men of the neighbourhood,

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airing their resentment about living conditions in postcolonial Kenya. This episode from my fieldwork illustrates the disillusionment of coastal Muslims, particularly the older generation, with the current postcolonial situation. As they see it, they have become downgraded to second-class citizens; worse still, they have come to be ruled, and taken advantage of, by the wabara (the upcountry people) who in the historical consciousness of Mombasa’s urbanites used to be the underprivileged and less cultured outsiders, incomers and, indeed, second-class citizens: Later at night, I was invited into the paan-leaf house on my street by a small group of older men from the neighbourhood who gathered regularly in this little shop on my street. As I entered, I realised that one of the recurring topics of the older generation (but not exclusively the older generation) was being treated: the men were commemorating the ‘good old days’ and lamenting about the unhappy present. It was common to hear complaints, by a variety of members of the community, about how bad things had become in society, how dirty, how expensive, how complicated, and how chaotic, in contrast to the days before Kenya’s Independence in 1963. It was often suggested that the local community had been much better off under British colonial administration than during the decades of the postcolonial period. This point was made particularly about education. Now again, the men took turns in giving their personal accounts of things. An Indian employee, with a 1950s rock-a-billy hairstyle, the shop-owner and an elderly customer, both of Arabic descent, and Ghalib’s (my neighbour’s) father, a respected Swahili elder, took their turns, all conversing in Kiswahili. Ghalib’s father was commenting on how sad it was that they couldn’t have the tables outside anymore (like they used to do) sitting in the streets and playing cards together. ‘Mombasa raha’, as he called it – joyful Mombasa – was no more, was now gone forever. Yusuf, the Indian employee, agreed, reminding the others of how much bigger this paan-leaf tea house had been previously when the whole building next door had belonged to it; that was now rented out as a gym that was well frequented by young men eager to work out and do their weight training. Before, he said, the tea shop was always full with people playing cards, chewing their paan leaves, and ordering tea all the time (he made a special point of this, noting with a look around that these days people hardly ever ordered any drink any more); those were the merry, lively times. Somehow the conversation jumped to the topic of television and its bad influence. (Despite the relative poverty of Old Town households, TV sets were prominent items in almost every living room. Many had access somehow to means of satellite reception, and thus Indian, Arabic, South African and Western channels were quite widely watched – the

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latter mostly for its football and news programmes.) The shop-owner said it was disgraceful how bad and immoral acts were shown that should not be seen by children nor even adults; now these were easily accessible to little kids and must have disturbing effects. Ghalib’s father agreed, and added that during the one year that he had owned a TV at home, all of his children failed at school. So the TV was given away, and things improved again. If he wanted to watch TV these days for specific reasons, he would do so at the home of friends or relatives. Or, as he did during the last football World Cup, he would even rent a TV. Picking up on the topic of failing at school, the other customer raised the problem of school education for the coastal people as a more general topic. This is a much repeated lament by young and old when it comes to complaints about how national upcountry-led politics are aimed at weakening the coastal Muslim population. He expressed his dismay at what he thought was a big decline of the standards of school education in town since Independence. He contrasted this to the then government’s investment in education for schools in Nairobi and the upcountry areas. Ghalib’s father, apparently a dominant voice in this group, chipped in to remind the others – and to point out to me – the qualities of the Arab Boys’ School during colonial times (this too, I had often heard already). There, he said, he had been educated by highly qualified British and local teachers. Among the latter he mentioned Mwalimu Jumadari and Mwalimu Saggaf in particular; they were prominent local historians now in their eighties. The others agreed, adding their comments on the discipline which they were taught, and how English language training had been so much better. Nowadays, they added, children who were mother-tongue speakers of Kiswahili would even be taught Kiswahili by upcountry teachers. In school, their acquired ways of speaking, spelling and vocabulary would be regarded as incorrect vis-à-vis the standard Kiswahili taught in the curriculum; for them, this was a very frustrating experience. Further complaints were stacked up, led by Ghalib’s father: about headmasters who did not seem to mind the bad state their schools were in; and about the vast amount of subjects that pupils had to cover nowadays (put at about 20) while attending school almost the whole day. This, he suspected, had economic and political reasons behind it. As there were now so many subjects to learn and books had to be bought by pupils themselves, a good market had been created for educational publishers, at the expense of the parents (who had to pay for this on top of school fees); before, I was told, the required books for the four or five main subjects taught would have been given out to pupils. Political interests, to weaken Islam and the Muslim community in Kenya, were seen behind the extended class hours; it was assumed this should make

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it impossible for Muslim children to attend their madrasa education on the side. Here, Ghalib’s father saw a strategy that had been implemented in several stages over the years, gradually increasing the length of school hours, and finally adding so much homework that any other occupation for the pupils was made impossible. His characterisation of these policies having the goal of undermining and breaking up the local tradition of Islamic education was supported by the others, who made sounds of approval and nodded emphatically. Interestingly, no one mentioned in this case that local Muslims themselves had some responsibility to bear for the late start in secular school education, as Muslim leaders initially opposed government-run schools as a danger to the Islamic faith. They feared strong negative, undermining impacts on the existing Islamic education system, and also the spread of moral decay. The current popular fashion, for the secular school education of both boys and girls alongside their Islamic education, only became dominant later on, as the Muslim community felt they were generally losing out in terms of education.9 The men’s comments in the illustration above clearly express the actual sense of neglect by the government felt by many coastal Muslims – who do not see it as ‘their government’. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me to say whether school standards have actually fallen when comparing the leading current schools to their colonial counterparts; in some conversations with local secondary students (or those who had recently finished), I was very impressed with their sharpness of thought and clarity of argument. What is most important to register here is the dominant feeling by local Muslims, of all ranks and educational levels, of being a neglected minority within their own country and even their own home region. Of course, the above example does not illustrate intellectual discourse in any emphatic sense. Nevertheless it provides an account of common discursive dynamics and themes of discussion in the neighbourhood. It also brings to the fore aspects of a historically grown and politically biased background that is common to Muslims along the Kenyan coast and often shapes discussions; the long-grown tension between coastal Muslims and upcountry Christians, for instance, is very visible, and particularly the bitterness about having to experience an upcountry Christian rule after independence. Also, a sense of the dynamics of speaking among neighbours, friends and peers in the local neighbourhood is gained – with people switching over from one topic to the next along their immediate lines of interest, and occasionally delving into deeper or more serious discussions depending on daily happenings or the nature of topics raised. During baraza talks a variety of further issues may be discussed very seriously (and in a focused manner), most commonly having to do with politics or conflicting views on religious practice. Discussions I witnessed centred

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around questions such as whether or not the mayor of Mombasa was right in stepping down, claiming that most of his councillors were being paid by a local tycoon, his biggest political foe, to undermine his policies. Or they might have been about whether and why the Sufi practice of dhikri was bid’a (unduly innovative) or even haramu (sinful) according to Islamic judgements. Such discussions could be sparked off by remarks on a story that someone told (e.g. whether it was believable or not), and they could turn into long, heated arguments. This could be so for younger as well as for older age groups, though the older would usually have a more sober or humorous tone. Therefore, it can be said that the semi-private yet semi-public sphere of the baraza is also a delicate and ambiguous meeting point for conversation which can test the bonds of common interests and mutual trust that brought the group together. Thus, while friendships are developed and confirmed in baraza meetings, in some rare cases trust and friendship can also be broken up in relation to events taking place at a neighbourhood baraza. From my experience of the more serious, politically or religiously focused baraza discussions, two prototypical kinds of ‘thinkers’ can be distinguished that stand out from the rather quiet and receptive majority. They are firstly the intelligent, sharp-minded and fast-speaking agitator, and secondly the calm, reflective mediator. The first type is a speaker whose rhetorical strategy focuses on getting his listeners to support his views, to bring home an apparently ‘very clear’ point, often in a populist manner, referring to a rather one-dimensional framework of reasons (‘of course, the mayor was wrong because he gave in to corruption and bribery …’, ‘dhikri is obviously haramu because it constitutes shirk …’). He is likely to associate himself with a ‘higher’ standpoint of moral and religious integrity, and may well antagonise those in the group who do not show ready agreement with him. This ideological manner of speaking is common in public religious speeches such as the hotuba (sermon) before the Friday prayers. The second type, often the senior person around, is more interested in minimising the differences within the group by pointing to a common basis of understanding, mediating controversies with an eye to something like a framework of general acceptability within the group. He shows a more reflective and questioning attitude, and is often at pains to point out the difficulty of a question, or the reality of a problem, before volunteering his suggestions to deal with it. He takes into account the possible validity of apparently conflicting claims, and weighs the extent to which they have to be taken seriously. This critical, reflexive way of formulating thoughts on a controversial or ambiguous issue implies the responsibility of questioning oneself and the risk of making oneself vulnerable to others (by not readily subscribing to commonly accepted stereotypes of explanation or behaviour), just as well as the possibility of mediating a conflict. Maybe because of this, thinkers of this second type are altogether more rarely found, or few people have the

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courage and self-confidence to present themselves as such to an audience. But they are also much respected by a broader variety of people, even if only for their rhetorical mediating skills. In any case, reasoning, rhetoric, ideology, critical thinking, questioning and engaged debates in various fields – these intellectual activities are by no means the privileged resorts of intellectuals only. They are part of everyday street life in Mombasa. In this way, the baraza and the maskani host and enhance intellectual activity alongside other social activities. Intellectual activity here is constituted in communication and social interaction among peers, in speech and oral skills, and mostly initiated situationally in relation to locally relevant events. People of the neighbourhood, friends, peers gather together in order to talk – and thereby to think – things over. Thus the Swahili barazas can be characterised as regionally and culturally distinct venues where, among a variety of possible levels of discourse, philosophical discourse – reflection on the basic framework of one’s thinking, knowing and doing – is from time to time performed as well. As such, we encounter here a specific social practice of philosophy, which is conducted orally and within certain local, historically grown, conventions of socialising. It is the outcome of a social practice embedded in everyday life, in which people (neighbours, friends and peers) are engaged with each other as intellectuals, questioning and negotiating fundamentals of knowledge which in everyday life would be regarded as unquestionable and non-negotiable.10 Of course, this does not mean that barazas provide the only, or even the pre-eminent, venue for philosophical discourse in the Swahili context – as will be seen below, other forms and genres are equally significant. Nor, as I think I have made clear, do I want to suggest that baraza communication is ‘philosophical’ per se; mostly it is not. Having emphasised the relevance of this social setting for ethnographic investigation of philosophical discourse, another decisive axis for this investigation needs to be introduced: regional Islam, the contours and dynamics of Muslim society (and communities) along the Swahili coast, and their impact on knowledge, scholarship and debate. This needs to be approached from a historical perspective. M U S L I M S O C I E T Y A N D I S L A M I N P R A C T I C E : B E T WE E N M I L A AND DINI

In scholarship on the East African coast, there is a tendency to apply the term ‘Swahili Islam’ to religious practice in the Swahili area (e.g. Horton and Middleton 2000: 68; Hock 1987).11 This is problematic for several reasons. It suggests a homogenous and continuous understanding of Islam common to all social actors, somehow as an underlying ahistorical matrix. Furthermore, it also makes a case for a very distinct and unique regional form of Islam, implying a possible differentiation from other ‘Islams’. This neglects the unitary universal claim of Islam as well as its particular global networks

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to which every Muslim society is linked. Of course, this internal tension in Islam, between a rigid, universal doctrine and the variety of particular regional and cultural contexts which characterise Muslim communities, has a specific and unique form in the Swahili context, where it is linked to the local dichotomy between dini (religion) and mila (customs). But still, Islam in the Swahili context is dynamic – as anywhere else – and its predominant form is shaped by a history of constant debate and linked to power struggles in the region. Both elements that constitute this conceptual tension are themselves subject to ideological, social and historical changes. As Asad stated for Muslim communities in general with his characterisation of Islam as a ‘discursive tradition’ (Asad 1986), there is always an ongoing multivocal debate about the idea of Islam and the right way of being a good Muslim, while the socio-historical determinants, the conditions of living, vary over time, affecting all kinds of practice. From both poles, variations in the interpretation and the implementation of (the socially dominant form of) Islam in society can be initiated, and subsequently, the appearance of society will change. Individuals, while affiliated to group interests, are always involved in this process and have their input, not only as thinkers who provide alternative interpretations, but also as ordinary members of the umma (Muslim community) who facilitate implementation through their behaviour: they ultimately choose how to practise their religion. All of this is observable in the Swahili context, and some significant characteristics of such change, which has entered yet another crucial phase, will be sketched out below. Let us now have a look at some of the concrete features of these dynamics, before going on to the regional intellectual history in terms of Islamic scholarship, schools of thought and inherent individual achievements. Analogous to the label ‘Swahili Islam’, the general identification of a definitive group called ‘the Swahili’ with a certain Islamic faction or legal school (madhehebu, Ar. madhhab) is inevitably problematic as well. Strictly speaking, statements such as, ‘The Swahili are Sunni Muslims’ (Topan 2000: 100), or even ‘The Swahili are all Sunni Muslims’ (Ayubi and Mohyuddin 1994: 147; my emphasis), leave little room to capture the complex and dynamic reality appropriately.12 Social actors who are outside the established norm cannot be included, namely those individuals who, though originating from within the Swahili context and commonly called ‘Swahili’, may not be Sunni Muslims. In recent years, for instance, becoming Shia has turned into a real option for Muslim (and non-Muslim) East Africans of nonShi’ite background. After the Iranian Revolution in 1979 and the establishment of branches of the Bilal Muslim Mission in East African towns, affiliation with the Shia Ithnaashari has become one of a variety of realistic choices to practise Islam.13 For instance, Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir – who will be discussed in detail later on – is a descendant from the Twelve Tribes

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(the Kilindini) and a reputable scholar who converted to Shi’ism in the 1980s and thus set a public precedent for overcoming ethnic and sectarian boundaries. I also encountered younger (Swahili and upcountry) converts who told me that they had decided to become Shia, of the Ithnaashari orientation, after much study and consideration. Thus we have seen that the characterisation of ‘Swahili people’ as Sunni Muslims by definition does not provide adequate recognition of the historical dynamics in the regional frameworks of religious affiliation. This is reminiscent of the difficulty of defining ‘the Swahili’ as such. In this context, one can also recall a similar earlier episode of the coastal social history: the conversion of large parts of the Omani Arab population from the Ibadhi sect to the Shafii madhhab at the end of the nineteenth century. This was largely initiated by Sheikh Ali bin Abdallah Mazrui, the Kadhi of Mombasa, who had converted to Shafiism, possibly during his stay in Mecca. He encouraged his fellows to follow suit, on the basis of a rational critique of Ibadhism, since he was publicly ‘disputing Ibadhi doctrines’ in his writings (Salim 1973: 143; cf. Bang 2003: 95–6). It must have been his argument about the interpretation of Islam that was convincing to others, as they followed his example. The converting Omanis had no political or material benefits to gain from this decision. On the contrary, under the rule of an ideologically engaged Ibadhi Sultan, this meant taking a personal risk, and indeed Sheikh Ali was jailed by Sultan Barghash for his activities in 1887 (and only released in 1888 after the sultan’s death). This conversion process ultimately led to a better integration of the Omani Arabs into the social structure of Mombasa; it can also be understood as underpinning the social integration that had already taken place. The success of Sheikh Ali’s appeals to convert was attributed to his ‘reputation for sanctity and scholarship, together with his powers of persuasion’ (Berg 1971: 156). His individual intellectual capacities, and his qualities as a pious Muslim, made him a role model for others, and finally had a remarkable effect on the religious and social constitution of Mombasa.

Mila versus dini In local discourse, and in anthropological literature, much has been made of the dichotomy between dini (Islamic religion) and mila (customs) in order to describe Muslim practice in the Swahili context. As mentioned above, these two terms constitute the poles of a field of tension between the universal, orthodox demands of Islam (dini) and the realm of customary socio-cultural practices (mila) that also characterise this Muslim society. The latter specifically refer to ritual practices involving dance, healing, spirit possession, invocations and offerings which are also associated with the ‘Bantu heritage’ of Swahili culture.14 They are conventionally viewed as threatening purist Islamic ideals, posing the danger of shirk. Nevertheless,

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the two are not seen as strictly incompatible, as the mila-related practices are not outright sinful (haramu) as such. Quoting a local saying, Middleton stresses that Uislamu na mila aghlabu haupingani (1992: 162), i.e. Islamic doctrine and custom, are usually not in conflict, and points out that this dichotomy operates in a blurred area. One should not, he says, rely on this simplistic and typified opposition, where dini is related to an ‘Arabic’ and mila to an ‘African’ background. Referring to the same basic tension in society, Caplan comments that ‘beliefs in spirits coexist uneasily with Islam’ (1997: 152), while the existence of spirits is mentioned in the Qur’an itself. This was often confirmed to me during long baraza conversations in Kibokoni, where much of the talk also revolved around the presence of spirits in Mombasa. Such stories featured a guardian spirit of the Old Town, and a large variety of mysterious encounters of others – citizens, acquaintances and relatives – with spirits who represented good as well as evil forces. While sometimes these accounts and anecdotes sought to entertain and amuse, in many cases they involved a didactic moral, to illustrate how an unrelenting adherence to piety, even under the most adverse circumstances, will guarantee success, security and wealth. The mila–dini opposition is indeed problematic as an analytic tool, since at the conceptual level it artificially isolates what occurs together or is intermingled in real life (Middleton 1992: 162); yet the solution cannot be, I think, to dissolve the already problematic term ‘Swahili Islam’ into the even less clear one of ‘Swahili religion’, as Middleton proposes (1992: 162ff; also Horton and Middleton 2000: 180).15 Even though the motive for this, to treat the whole realm of religious practice in Swahili society as a unit of investigation without any preconceived internal hierarchy, is understandable and well-put, little is gained with this label. While it does not as such open up those ritual practices seen as part of religion to more analytical scrutiny, it puts us in danger of losing sight of the fact that we are still dealing with a Muslim society. Such practices are ‘Muslim’ practices (whatever else they are), part of Islam as locally understood, and thus they are internally subject to paradigms of evaluation that are ‘Islamic’ and themselves subject to constant re-evaluation and debate.

Between mila and dini: the maulidi celebrations In regard to the dichotomy between mila and dini, in so far as this is a local conception, there is still a potentially fertile path of investigation to be followed. Its most important aspect surely lies in the way that it is used in social discourse itself, on a self-reflexive level. It is especially in this sense that it has to be taken seriously. A good example for illustrating the local usage is the celebration of maulidi, i.e. the birthday of Prophet Muhammad, which is celebrated in the third month of the Islamic calendar (Rabbi alAwaal) called Mfungo Sita in Kiswahili. As ritual events with religious

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underpinning, maulidi celebrations can also be held at other times of the year, using the same set of praises of the Prophet to celebrate a specific achievement, the commemoration of an important event or the end of a period of endurance, as a sign of gratitude. During the maulidi, people recite specific praises of the Prophet Muhammad, of which there are a variety in Arabic and Swahili. They follow a prescribed intonation, so that they sound almost as if they are sung. The recitation of the el-Habshy version (originating from the Hadhramaut), which is particularly popular around the northern Kenyan coast, is accompanied by small hand-held drums and tambourines. In around 1910, maulidi el-Habshy was introduced to East Africa by the founder of the Riyadha Mosque in Lamu, Habib Saleh, and it is still widely practised today.16 For decades, Islamic scholars of reformist orientation have been criticising it as bid’a, unacceptable religious innovation. In an educational Islamic booklet of the early 1970s, for instance, while discussing the issue of maulidi in detail, Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui lists this practice, of using musical instruments as support, among the bad elements (mabaya) that are found in the performances of maulidi (Mazrui [1971]: 13). These things, he argues, are forbidden or unwanted by the sharia, the Islamic law (mambo yenye kukatazwa au yasiopendeza katika sharia; ibid.). Mazrui’s reproach still has much currency, as, with growing reformist criticism, particularly from the locally established reformist side – Salafiyya, often denounced as Wahhabi – the practice of maulidi in general has come under much pressure. What was considered as one specific hallmark of East African Islam over the last century has now become suspect for many who used to customarily follow this practice.17 Here we come back to the mila-dini dichotomy. Defenders of maulidi, and of using small drums during the ritual, invoke this opposition in their defence. They claim that maulidi is part of customary cultural practice (mila), not religion in the strict sense (dini) or even religious worship (ibada), and this is why the religious criticism is misdirected if it is levelled at the practitioners of maulidi. In this way, they also counter another important criticism inherent in the reformist ideologues, against attributing a status of divinity to the Prophet Muhammad. Ibada, by nature, can only be directed at God, thus the praises recited for the Prophet are in celebration of his deeds as an exceptional human being. In principle, he is celebrated and praised like any other human being, in a cultural festival. While this argument seems to be a neat response on the one hand, it also backfires and undermines the whole agenda of maulidi and the social relevance of their networks in regard to time, space and power in East African Islam. Reduced to the level of birthday celebrations and cultural festivals by such arguments, maulidi are in danger of losing their significance for the (re)affirmation of religious and social unity and authority (cf. Parkin 1984). The organisation of maulidi, while considered as an expression of religious

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Figure 3.3 Zefe (festive procession) during maulidi, Lamu 1999 Picture by the author piety, has always been linked to high social prestige (a position of influence, power, authority) and wealth, and each performance of a maulidi has to be understood also as a consolidation of, and boost to, the social prestige of the host. But it seems that only the inclusion of the religious sphere here makes the process of reaffirming social authority complete. In a social context that is profoundly Muslim in self-understanding, the claim that maulidi are only a cultural practice immediately diminishes their social relevance and thus undermines the social authority of the hosts. They must be unhappy with the fact that their claim to authority, expressed in the organisation of the maulidi, is now seen in cultural rather than religious terms, mila rather than dini. This leaves them as religious leaders without control over dini, and thus basically renders them powerless. It was in this sense that I heard a local critic, who was also an Islamic scholar, comment that these maulidi practices were only a temporary ingredient of East African Islam: not in existence a century ago, they were now in the process of turning into cultural festivals, becoming less and less relevant. However, leaders of the Riyadha Mosque and other staunch supporters of maulidi celebrations would strongly disagree. Referring to the 20,000 or so annual Muslim visitors to Lamu from East Africa and the Indian Ocean region for maulidi celebrations, they claim that the social relevance of maulidi has never been as high.18

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Figure 3.4 Zefe at maulidi, Lamu 1999, detail with Sharif Khitamy and Ali Hassan Mwinyi (guest of honour, ex-president of Tanzania) Picture by the author To summarise, in any Muslim society with similar bipolar tension between concepts like mila and dini, their religious aspect will always be seen as a crucial sphere of social influence. From here the acceptability of (new) paradigms is negotiated, prevailing ideologies are formulated and announced. Giving up the claim to dini and its equivalents implies ceding the claim to moral guidance and integrity, social authority and, ultimately, political leadership, since in Islam all of these are based on the foundation of religious doctrine, dini. Standing for the ‘proper’ Islamic conception of universal Islam and its inherent duties and obligations, dini is constantly renegotiated in debates between several competing interpretations, formulated and represented by the local scholars. Subject to this debate are the local, culturally framed Muslim practices which are themselves enacted interpretations and contextual implementations of Islam. E A S T A F R I C A N I S L A M I N T H E T WE N T I E T H C E N T U R Y : HETEROGENEOUS UNITY TO FACTION-FIGHTING

The dominant Muslim group in East Africa is Sunni-Shafii, with close scholarly links and family ties to the Hadhramaut, via the Alawiyya (cf. Bang 2003), as part of a network all along the coastal region and the Indian Ocean trading system. Historically, Omani Arabs were mostly Ibadhi, but

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most of them have now been integrated into the Shafi group. There are also a variety of small, but economically and socially significant, Shia subgroups, the Bohra, the Ithnaashari and the Ismailis, all of whom (until recently) sustained isolated communities and intermarried only within their own religious group. For this reason they are colloquially sometimes referred to as kabila, ‘tribes’. Sufi traditions of the Alawiyya and, to a lesser extent, the Qadiriyya and Shadiliyya have influenced the religious practice of the major Shafii group. Recently, the great number of Somali refugees in Mombasa has led to a new increase in local Sufi practice (particularly dhikri). East African Islam has been described as ‘intellectually monolithic’, based in a ‘homogenous’ cultural area (Bakari 1995: 180). But how should this assertion be understood? Obviously, a tightly knit web of Hadhrami Shafii-ulama relations along the coast has existed since at least the sixteenth century,19 probably earlier (Bakari 1995: 169), about eight centuries after the arrival of Islam at the Swahili coast. Scholarly connections and religious education developed along with family ties: teachers and students were often relatives (e.g. father-son, uncle-nephew), and pupils who were sent to the centres of Islamic scholarship, such as Lamu, Zanzibar and Mombasa, would often live with local relatives for the duration of their studies (cf. Farsy 1989). Salih b. Alawi Jamalil-Lail (1844–1935),20 popularly known as Sayyid Habib Saleh, and his influential offspring have a central position for East African Islam in the twentieth century. His sharifu family is part of the Ba-Alawi clan from the Hadhramaut. Born in the Comoros, he was sent to his uncle in Lamu to be cured of an illness by the famed healer and scholar Mwenye Manswab. After a successful healing experience and a brief stay back in the Comoros, he returned to Lamu to study under Mwenye Manswab. He became a dedicated disciple and well-known for his piousness and his good ways of dealing with people. Turning into something of a recognised local scholar and religious figure in his own right while remaining a trusted disciple and friend of Mwenye Manswab, he began to question the exclusiveness of Islamic education for the privileged waungwana. He challenged this ideology and in 1889 he opened his own institution of learning, the Riyadha Mosque, outside of the town on a plot given to him by Mwenye Manswab. This was named after the al-Riyad Mosque in Seyun, Hadhramaut (founded in 1878).21 Here, he offered Islamic education to the underprivileged and previously excluded groups of the urban society, such as coconut-tappers (wagema) and former slaves (watumwa). Their active integration into the umma was publicly underlined by the common celebration and recitation of the newly introduced form of maulidi from Seyun, the Maulidi al-Habshy (already referred to above). This was named after its author, Ali b. Muhammad Al-Habshy, the founder of al-Riyad who had provided Habib Saleh with written permission and instructions about how

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Figure 3.5 Sharif Khitamy in front of Habib Saleh’s house, 1999 Picture by the author to perform the maulidi.22 Due to his piousness and charisma Habib Saleh gained much support from the people of the lower stratum of society very quickly, and the Lamu waungwana elite is said to have felt threatened and tried to suppress his activities, but without success. A shift in social structure and urban hierarchy was the consequence. With support from the underprivileged, Habib Saleh and his descendants became a significant social power in Lamu and beyond. Subsequently, disciples from Riyadha went to various regions in East Africa and established madrasa which remained affiliated to their alma mater in Lamu, for example in Mambrui, Malindi, Takaungu, Dar es Salaam and Tanga. The celebrations and the Riyadha Mosque are still thought of as symbols of the ‘identity and unity’ of East African Islam (cf. Khitamy 1995: 276). The notion seems to reaffirm Bakari’s statement above on the homogeneity of regional Islam. But considering the rivalries and tensions between various groups, it is questionable whether this is a typical reflection of the current sentiments of East African Muslims. In the second half of the twentieth century there has been a rise of regional reformist criticism, fuelled by the external influence of Islamic reformism financed from Saudi Arabia. This reformist group is called ‘Wahhabi’ by its local critics, while they call themselves the ‘Ahlul Sunnah’ movement or watu wa sunna (people of the sunna). However, they sometimes accept the challenge of this name given

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to them, ‘if it is indeed the name suitable for a perfect Muslim to be called WAHABI’ ([…] ukiwa Muislamu kamili huwa ndio umefaa kuitwa WAHABI; Warsha n.d.: preface; see also Mazrui [1971]: 15–20). Thus the unity of East African Muslims is no longer all-inclusive, if it exists at all. Disunity is visible even within the Jamalil-Lail family itself, as divisions led to a split and the establishment of two rival mosque-colleges in Lamu in the 1980s, namely Badru and Swafaa. Some of Habib Saleh’s descendants have moved to Mombasa, including his oldest living grandson, Sayyid Abdulrahman Ahmed Badawy, called Sharif Khitamy (died 2005). The latter was a famous healer and scholar in his own right, and acted as the head of Riyadha, based in Mombasa, during the time of my fieldwork. Some of his brothers, also well-respected scholars, have moved away from Lamu, founding madrasa in Tanzania and even Uganda or teaching elsewhere along the Kenyan coast, thus further extending the Riyadha network. Other family members remained in Lamu but split off from Riyadha and supported other mosques and their educational projects through new alliances and different networks. One can see from this example that, while family ties on the intellectual map of the Swahili region do indicate common reference points and influence, they do not guarantee a single or even ‘monolithic’ body of scholarship.

An intellectual genealogy When we look at the genealogy of the intellectual history of coastal East Africa, a plurality of positions can be identified.23 In Lamu, Habib Saleh was the teacher of Abdallah Bakathir (1860/1–1925), who later became one of the most well-respected scholars of East Africa, next to Sayyid Ahmed bin Sumayt (1861–1925). These three pillars of East African Islam were related through friendship, scholarship and intermarriage (Bang 2003: 98– 101). Bakathir went from Lamu to Zanzibar, and from there, by recommendation of bin Sumayt, to Mecca and the Hadhramaut for further studies. After returning, he settled in Zanzibar where he founded the Madrasa Bakathir which was accessible to Muslims from all social backgrounds and different madhhab. He became renowned as a teacher, and introduced the (now common) practice of daily public lectures during Ramadhan in the Gofu Mosque. He stayed in close contact with his friend and spiritual guide, Ahmed bin Sumayt, who worked as a kadhi to the Omani Sultans, in cooperation with the British administration. Bin Sumayt was born in the Comoros, and spent several years studying in Mecca, Egypt, the Hadhramaut and Istanbul.24 In 1913, the Mufti of Mecca requested that he come to resolve a conflict about the Friday mosque between quarrelling Shafii groups in Cape Town. Bin Sumayt sent Bakathir who successfully accomplished the task. Bakathir’s other travels included trips to Java (from Mecca), to Uganda and to the Comoros. Among his students were

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Figure 3.6 Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui Picture from the Saggaf Alawy Library, with kind permission Sayyid Ahmed Badawy (Habib Saleh’s son) and Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui from Mombasa. The latter, a famous initiator of modernist critique along the coast, taught both the reputable Sayyid Ali A. Badawy (grandson of Habib Saleh and former head of Riyadha) and Sheikh Abdallah Salih Farsy from Zanzibar, who had come to Mombasa for further studies. After the bloody revolution in Zanzibar in 1964, Farsy moved to Mombasa, became a Kenyan citizen, and in 1968 was appointed Chief Kadhi of Kenya. According to Bakari, Sheikh Farsy ‘underwent an intellectual metamorphosis’ (Bakari 1995: 180) that followed on from his shift of location and can be linked to his studies of modern reformists under Sheikh al-Amin. He sharply criticised common local Muslim practices as bid’a, and used his position and his regular public lectures to fight against much of the Swahili Muslim heritage. Thus he turned ideologically against his intellectual ancestors and spearheaded a reformist movement which became increas-

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Figure 3.7 Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy Picture from the Saggaf Alawy Library, with kind permission ingly dominated by Wahhabi doctrine. Ironically, as the supreme Muslim leader in Kenya, he was now at odds with the majority of the local ulama some of whom in turn resented him as a ‘foreigner’ (Bakari 1995: 181) or even denounced him publicly as an ‘unbeliever’ (Yassin 2004: 212–14),25 but had no means to oust him. Their most energetic spokesperson in Mombasa was now Sharif Khitamy. At this point we have come full circle; having started with one person in a genealogy of coastal Muslim scholars that covered roughly one century, there is now a visible fundamental disagreement over the conception of Islam and good Muslim practice between the various intellectual descendants. Still, the conflicting interpretations were linked by an underlying continuity of their common framework of education and scholarship in the Swahili region. Also, they were ultimately embedded in a common sphere of experience: their life-world in the Swahili context. The shared historical

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Figure 3.8 Sayyid Omar bin Sumayt and Sayyid Omar Abdallah Picture from the Saggaf Alawy Library, with kind permission network or system of East African scholarship might have had invaluable advantages for the quality of local scholarship, as well as for social peace in the umma.26 Everyone had attended schools that were part of the same network and knew about each other’s background, strengths and weaknesses in scholarship. But due to the establishment of external dependencies from the 1970s and 1980s onwards, Swahili Islamic scholarship became something of a playing field for external forces of the Muslim world. But it would be wrong to assume that East African Muslims were passive and simply used by those groups and their interests. There were mutual benefits, since personal careers as Islamic scholars were linked to factional affiliations. Through alliance or affiliation, individuals could secure their religious

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Figure 3.9 Intellectual genealogy of East African Islamic scholars in the twentieth century

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education, further studies, positions of employment, influence and, ultimately, social prestige. Now young Muslims were offered scholarships at universities in the Middle East by a variety of Islamic missionary groups, foremost among them from Saudi Arabia but also from Egypt, Pakistan, Sudan, Kuwait and Iran, who desired influence in the Swahili region. Upon their return, the graduates, impressive in Arabic but often less eloquent in giving speeches in their mother tongue, implemented changes in local religious education. Hence, formally taught Islam was not as closely reflected in local practice as it had been before, and the traditionally oriented elders were no longer seen or treated as role-models. In the perception of Swahili elders, little respect or acknowledgement was given to the achievements of East African Islam and its scholars. They felt angered by what they saw as arrogance among the young scholars who came back from the Middle East and proceeded to criticise locally established Muslim practices as a whole. It seems there was little serious engagement in debate between the groups, but rather a lot of sharp rhetoric against each other in public speeches and sermons (cf. Bakari 1995). Muslim commoners, largely the older generation, felt increasingly uneasy in this changing environment. In an interview with me, a notable Swahili elder once expressed his contempt for the Wahhabi reformists, characterising them as members of a new religion (dini mpya), a religion of money (dini ya pesa). It is ironic that the introduction of modernist critique to the Swahili context by Sheikh al-Amin, who had strongly opposed outward domination by Western influences, could ultimately be seen to have led to an outward domination of Islamic discourse by the Middle East, functioning on the basis of money. REFOR MISM AT THE TUR NING POINT: SHEIKH MUHAMMAD K A S I M M A Z R U I 27

Following Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui and Sheikh A. S. Farsy,28 Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui of Mombasa was at the heart of the reformist movement at the Kenyan coast. This is visible in his position in coastal Islamic education as well as in his reformist writings. While he was educated within the regional system of scholarship and later became Chief Kadhi of Kenya (1963–68), some of his students became the proponents of local Wahhabi criticism. His Islamic booklets display the rational principles that his reformist movement relied on and propagated, while they also contain hints of an overtly rationalist attitude and a more dogmatic tone that was yet to come. In terms of education, teaching and intellectual orientation, Sheikh Muhammad Kasim, a student of Sheikh al-Amin, was part and parcel of the historic networks of East African Islam. Some of his and Farsy’s students later became the new leading figures of the reformist agenda, such as Sheikh Harith Swaleh,29 Sheikh Nassor Khamis, Sheikh Ali Shee, Sheikh Ahmad

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Figure 3.10 Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui Picture from the Saggaf Alawy Library, with kind permission Msallam and others who are currently active. They acquired additional academic training and qualifications at Islamic universities in the Middle East, which had provided them with scholarships (Bakari 1995). They can be seen as part of a new paradigm for the popular Islamic discourse of the East African region, which might be called the centrality of the exterior. Having acquired their degrees, the graduates brought back with them the anti-bid’a doctrines of their respective host institutions, which were more radical and combative in tone and content than earlier Swahili reformism (ibid.). They applied these in their teachings and public speeches, which led to the radicalisation of reformist discourse and the polarisation of Islamic debate. One effect was that reformist activists began to be perceived as

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representatives of the externally funded Islamic groups with whom they were associated as much as individual thinkers in the shared social context of the local Muslim community.30 While many Swahili Muslims of different ages now feel unsure about the propriety of some local practices,31 their insecurity about such matters is not resolved by the way that the reformists tackle them in public speeches. But there are also counter-examples, attempts at the demonstration of Muslim unity, such as the common maulidi celebrations of the Mombasa Muslim community, including various Sunni and Shia groups in Mombasa (June 1999), at the Makadara grounds near the Old Town. In his account of important scholars along the Swahili coast in recent history, Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy points out that Sheikh Muhammad Kasim’s ‘books, especially his little treatises, have done a lot to open the eyes of Muslims and have aided them greatly in augmenting their knowledge of Islam’ (Farsy 1989: 122). An increase of knowledge, leading to a better insight and (self-)understanding of Muslim individuals through the medium of Islam, is highlighted as Muhammad Kasim’s main agenda. The idiom of ‘opening the eyes’ of local Muslims is particularly telling, as it implies that Muslims were commonly not able to ‘see for themselves’ what was going on around them, what was right and what wrong. This image of enabling people to see (and think) for themselves is familiar from Western intellectual history and from other Muslim societies, as in West Africa (cf. Brenner 1984: 157ff). In the Swahili context, this enlightenment motif (the incentive to self-reliance on one’s own faculty of reason) became a leitmotif for the reformist agenda. We encounter this idiom in a number of varieties. For example, in the same book the initiator of this regional movement of reform, Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui (1891–1947), is characterised as ‘the one who uncovered our eyes and opened our mouths’ (Farsy 1989: 125; my emphasis).32 Sheikh al-Amin’s work thus facilitated an increasing Muslim consciousness in the modern world, and an increasing awareness of the necessity of self-critique and humility (i.e. not to overestimate oneself, not to succumb to prejudice). In the foreword to a posthumous publication of some passages of Sheikh al-Amin’s translation of the Qur’an, he is praised by Sheikh Muhammad Kasim (et al.) for his achievement ‘to take us out of the curse of foolishness’ (kututoa katika viza vya ujinga; Mazrui n.d.), i.e. to enlighten his peers. As a student in Zanzibar under Abdallah Bakathir and Ahmed bin Sumayt, al-Amin studied reformists like al-Afghany, Muhammad Abduh, Ibn Taymiya and Muhammad Abdul-Wahhab, among others (Mazrui 1980: ix). He was stimulated to develop a locally specific strategy of how to offer an understanding of Islam that was compatible with ‘modern life’ and the achievements of science to the people along the Swahili coast. Crucial to

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the success of his agenda was the use of the Swahili language and simple printing technology, both for addressing and educating the masses of Muslim commoners. Sheikh al-Amin was convinced that, among ‘modern things’, nothing is as good as a newspaper in order to show people the right way, to insert good thoughts into their minds and ‘to wake up their hearts’ (Introduction to Uwongozi, 1944).33 In 1930, he began to write, print (in ‘cyclostyle’) and distribute free pamphlets giving Islamic advice on current issues of social life. These weekly publications were initially written in Arabic script and called ‘Sahifa’ (page) because they consisted of a double-sided copy of a single page. After sixteen months, the volume grew to a bilingual publication in Arabic and Swahili in Latin script. It appeared as ‘Al-Islah’ (reform) for another twelve months before collapsing because Sheikh alAmin had to take over the position of Kadhi of Mombasa (ibid.).34 As Sheikh Abdallah Farsy states, this had a revolutionary effect on the public and popular Islamic discourse in Eastern Africa, where Swahili is the lingua franca. Over the decades many picked up on this method of dissemination. Now many people write religious books in Kiswahili, but it was he who started this good thing – even if many people imitate him in this today. Thus, everyone who writes religious pamphlets in Kiswahili will get their reward from God [thawabu] for having performed this good deed, and Sh. al-Amin will get it [as well] since he was the one who opened this door. (1989: 121) As the first to introduce this medium for Islamic discourse in the region, he also utilised it specifically to widely publicise his reformist critique of culturally embedded Swahili Muslim practices which he interpreted to be bid’a (innovation in religious matters) and shirk (violating the principle of unity of God): Na yeye ndiye mtu wa mwanzo kupiga kelele kubwa na kuandika magazeti na kutunga vitabu vya kukataza mambo ya Mabidaa na Ushirikana (ibid.). Sheikh A. S. Farsy and Sheikh Muhammad Kasim were partisans of the same project. Their teacher Sheikh al-Amin was a role model according to whom they shaped their own work. And so they did, publishing a vast number of educational booklets on Islam (e.g. on how to pray, fast, marry, divorce, bury and inherit correctly according to Islamic principles).35 By popularising Islamic knowledge and the principles of judgement in Islamic matters, they made them accessible to the people, and thus educated the masses. They followed their mentor who had aroused ‘the much needed social consciousness and commitments among Muslims of the East African coast’ (Elmasri 1987: 229). To this day the booklets of these two authors are among the most commonly known religious booklets along the Swahili coast, and many of their writings are sold in almost every little religious

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bookshop. While Sheikh Farsy is the more famous of the two – not the least because he produced the first full translation of the Qur’an into Swahili by a Swahili mother-tongue speaker in 196936 – there are three booklets by Sheikh Muhammad Kasim which are still very popular. These are his biographical accounts of the first three khalifas, Abubakr, Umar and Uthman, published in 1958, 1962 and 1964, narrating the popular history of Islam in Kiswahili. The fourth treatise was on Imam Aly, which Sheikh Muhammad Kasim had only been able to finish under much duress in 1965. It is almost impossible to find, perhaps because of the big controversy that it had caused, since it combined the portrayal of Aly’s life with a critical discussion of practices, rituals and habits of the masharifu faction.37 In contrast, his first three booklets were very successful, written in sober and descriptive style, with few references to the Swahili coast. The first book was welcomed enthusiastically and a second edition was printed after one year (1959: 1). This book had the explicit aim of enlightening the Muslim public and youth on the history of Islam as a conscious counter-measure to the imbalance caused by colonial educational politics. As Muhammad Kasim despaired, ‘a Muslim knows the history of people like Napoleon and Christopher Columbus and other famous Western people, and he should know nothing about the history of people like Sydna Abubakar, Sydna Umar, Sydna Uthman, Sydna Aly, nor anything about the great men of Islam’ (1959: 2). Judging from his writings and the debates he was engaged in, for Sheikh Muhammad Kasim the idea of Muslim unity along the coast was more an ideal for the future than a practical goal within reach. For this, the rift between the two dominant and oppositional factions in East African Islam had already become too big, despite the fact that the leading figures ultimately shared much of their intellectual genealogy. Just as for his teacher Sh. al-Amin, who propagated publicly for Muslim unity (cf. ‘Jamiatul-Islam’, in Uwongozi 1944), unity was not to be had under any conditions. Ultimately, the quest for the right way of performing Islam was regarded as superior to a nominal unity of Muslims as such. Although the reformist concern for fellow Muslims who (in the eyes of a reformist) were unconsciously violating God’s commandments and being led astray by others who misinterpreted the Qur’an and hadith can be understood as ultimately subsumed in the quest for Muslim unity (with the stress on ‘Muslim’), this is not the only interpretation of affairs. On the surface, and in popular perception (and in historical interpretation, cf. Pouwels 1987, Salim 1973), this was often rather seen as part of a power struggle between Omani Arabs in Mombasa who usually held the position Chief Kadhi, and the Lamu masharifu who held Riyadha and had wide popular support from the masses. For Sheikh Muhammad Kasim the guiding principle seems to have been a preference for reform before unity. With this attitude he pursued his agenda of supplying the Muslim masses

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with educational material and information that was understandable to them, and that they could access for themselves without the mediation of their local sheikh or sharif as long as they could read Swahili. As Salim says with regard to the introduction of such Swahili textbooks by Sheikh al-Amin: ‘For once the new Muslim (and even the old non-Arabic speaking Muslim) could read about Islam for himself ’ (1973: 167). The last two words here deserve special emphasis, as they highlight the liberating character of such provision for the individual Muslim who now could independently acquire criteria for decision-making on Islamic grounds. In this sense, the publication and distribution of reformist educational booklets was a potential source of more self-reliance and independence for individual Muslims. On the other hand, it was a potential threat to the position of social power that local religious figures and teachers (particularly sheikhs and masharifu) had acquired. They were now in danger of losing their status of virtually indispensable mediators between ordinary Muslims and God.38 A concrete example of such reformist writing in the early 1970s, less than a decade after Kenyan Independence, is Muhammad Kasim’s Hukumu za sharia. ‘To try to bring Islam back to its status of cleanliness’ (kujaribu kuuregeza Uislamu katika usafi wake) is how Sh. Muhammad Kaism describes his goal at the end of the second volume ([1971]: 42), when he lists the various benefits of consciously studying the Qur’an. The reader (i.e. the Muslim commoner) is told that if he reads the Qur’an by way of understanding and remembering its meaning (rather than only learning to recite it by heart), he will understand why some Islamic scholars take such trouble to translate the Qur’an and attempt to return Islam to its original purity. Furthermore, he will also understand ‘the illness that has entered the Muslims of today, and also the medicine against that illness’ (ugonjwa uliowaingilia Waislam wa leo, na dawa ya ugonjwa huo; ibid.). Beyond that, the reader will also better understand the fundamentals of Muslim history and the capacity of the Qur’an: how the early Muslims had been able to lead and rule the world, even when they initially seemed like a small and weak minority facing huge armies as enemies; why they were the most knowledgeable people, influencing cultures all over the world; how the Qur’an predicted things that took place only recently (e.g. the building of the Suez Canal); how it was in accordance with astonishing modern achievements (e.g. the landings on the moon); and how it taught things that were found out by modern science. Sheikh Muhammad Kasim entices the reader with the idea that he can find all this important knowledge in the Qur’an on his own, by educating himself through continuous reading and studying. It is there to be taken advantage of, to be picked up and made fertile, whether in its original Arabic version (which must be studied for ultimate clarity), or through translation. He narrates an anecdote of an English sailor who

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became Muslim after being fascinated by an impressive and incredibly poetic account of the sea in an English version of the Qur’an which he had picked up at random (ibid.: 40–1). What matters most, according to the Sheikh, is the conscious reading because only thus can a real understanding be acquired and sustained. With the call for self-reliance in conscious Islamic orientation, a rationalist position is put forward. Islamisation, as the process of returning to a purer Islam through reformist processes in society, can be attained through and goes together with the rationalisation of the understanding of Islam, a rationalist interpretation of the Qur’an and the hadith. It is in this way that Sheikh Muhammad Kasim wants his own writings to be read and understood: logically, following clear arguments. The individual and concrete use of the general faculties of human ratio by the reader seems to guarantee the possibility of religious self-education and self-reliance, ultimately in direct communication and interaction with the revealed word of God, the Qur’an. In the two39 volumes of Hukumu za sharia then, we encounter an attempt to make people aware of this possibility of such self-reliance (which should be read as ‘direct reliance on God’). This happens in the context of discussing widespread customs, practices, beliefs and prejudices as they occur in the Swahili area. In these booklets with their all-encompassing character, we can see some general features of this period of Islamic reform along the Swahili coast in Kenya. From the shahada to haj, from marriage laws to uganga, from dhikri via ziara to maulidi, all the particular ritual practices of the region that are associated with Islam are named and discussed in a way that seeks to explain to the reader why, or in which way, these practices do not constitute proper elements of Islam, even in the Swahili context. Rather, Sheikh Muhammad Kasim presents many of these practices (not all of them) as aberrations from the prescriptions of the Qur’an and hadith. He portrays them as errors which have resulted largely from ignorance, from lack of knowledge of ordinary Muslims about the exact prescriptions given to Muslims in the Qur’an. In this region, basic Islamic education had been historically sustained in what was principally an oral system, so that religious teaching and education hinged on learning by heart, not on intellectual understanding. It focused on the internalisation of certain dogmas and their corresponding practices; in the words of Sheikh Muhammad Kasim: on imitation, not on providing Muslims with principles for conscious decision-making in an Islamic framework. But it was the latter that the reformist movement had in mind as an ideal to strive for, and in this Sheikh Muhammad Kasim was following his mentors, Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy and Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui.

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The currently observable discourse of reformism, in its antagonisms and aggressive rhetoric, often seems a far cry from such ideals, and in fact seems to have led to a new form of imitation in religious practice, where local Muslims might shift their allegiances according to expectations of material benefit, or just to keep with the majority, to stay safe. In a way, reformism has become dogmatic, with activists denouncing as ‘superstitious’ many things that are not immediately explicable within their framework, and calling a variety of established ritual and everyday practices bid’a in a sort of reflex, without thinking it through in each case. Even in Muhammad Kasim’s writings there are some indicators of a strong personal engagement which has become so embittered by the permanent attacks of the ‘enemies’ (maadui; cf. 1973: foreword) that it is not in every instance as fair and rational as it should have been and generally claims to be. And nowadays, such dogmatism seems to have become part of an effective rhetorical strategy to denounce one’s opponents. This is visible also in Zanzibar, where it was recently observed that young Islamic activists who posed prominently as reformists and criticised reputable senior scholars, did not themselves have a convincing basis of knowledge for their criticisms (Purpura 1997: 357). There, young reformists were often perceived as attempting to make a name for themselves by opposing others solely for the sake of opposition, not always knowing very well what they were talking about or fighting for. In a humorous and somewhat ironic choice of words, they are commonly called watu wa bid’a (bid’a people) or just bid’a by other citizens.40 This label indicates that these reformists are identified by the words which they constantly use, pointing at things and people around them shouting bid’a!. Ordinary Muslims who apply the label bid’a to these anti-bid’a activists do not seem to care too much about what the reformists are saying – or they have become a bit tired of this repetitive and unoriginal discourse. This seems to support the impression that, on the ground, dogmatism and rhetoric are dominating the confrontation between the groups, not the attempt to convince through arguments. In contrast, the local reformist leader in Zanzibar is reported to be perceived quite differently. He is taken very seriously, and is generally acknowledged as an extraordinary orator. His classes of Islamic education for women are appreciated and cassettes of his speeches are widely distributed (Purpura 1997: 358ff). Nevertheless, if the observation is correct that his followers, as self-proclaimed reformists, do not really know what they are talking about, it raises the question to what extent there is a real public ‘debate’ (in an intellectual sense) on these issues. In Mombasa during 1998–99, arguments about undue religious innovation (bid’a) were noticeable all around in everyday life, in public religious speeches but also in conversations in the streets. Here, it seems the (lighthearted) use of the term watu wa bid’a for the reformists was used much

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more sparingly. This might be because Mombasa has been the centre of this debate in East Africa for several decades now. In Zanzibar, on the other hand, due to political restrictions, pluralist Islamic discourse across a wide range of issues and the establishment of institutional links to the wider Islamic world have become possible again only during the last decade of the twentieth century (if at all).41 For Mombasa, perhaps, the lighthearted (or joking) application of such labels would be inappropriate and out of the question, granted the seriousness of the debate, in terms of its history and in terms of the challenge to local systems of power that it implies. The reformists were usually called ‘Wahhabi’ by their critics, while they themselves would avoid this name and call themselves ‘watu wa sunna’ (people of the sunna) or similar names.42 This is a common feature along the coast. In an account of the historical background to the current Muslim factionalism in his Ramadhan lectures, Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir (once a student of Sheikh Muhammad Kasim) assumed that the avoidance of this label was part of the strategy of Wahhabi activists to blend in more easily with the Muslim host society, while preparing to take over control from within. The label sunna of course is an excellent label for such a strategy, because all Muslims have to adhere to it by definition, and it provides space for the reformists to fill with their intended meaning. Of course, this can also be seen as a crucial strategy of the Wahhabi to substantially alter the character of a Shafii society from within, avoiding suspicions that they might be imposing something from outside. As already stated, the bid’a topic frequently resurfaced in informal discussions at baraza meetings in the neighbourhood. There, arguments and exchanges of opinion were held among friends and confidants about the status of maulidi, dhikri, uganga and spirit possession. Though sometimes tempers were short during such discussions and opinions were presented with much vigour, rarely was any consensus reached on the main issues of the early reformist agenda. They are still unresolved and as contentious as thirty years ago, when Sheikh Muhammad Kasim was writing his pamphlets.

PART II CONTEXTUAL PORTRAYALS OF LOCAL INTELLECTUALS

4 AHMED SHEIKH NABHANY SWAHILI POETRY AND THE CONSERVATION OF CULTURAL KNOWLEDGE P O E T R Y A N D P O E T I C A L D I S C O U R S E I N SW A H I L I S O C I A L L I F E

One evening in the sunset, the awards ceremony of the annual football tournament for youth teams of the Old Town was taking place at the foot of Fort Jesus, just next to the creek that surrounds Mombasa Island and links the town’s Old Port to the sea. A local celebrity, the retired TV actor commonly known as Mzee Mombasa (literally, ‘Old Man Mombasa’), a popular character in the Old Town known for his wit, was reciting a poem which he had been asked to compose for the occasion. He could hardly be heard as he tried to raise his voice intonating the recitation so that it would surmount the noise of the youths who shouted and shuffled in expectation of their prizes. The commotion was so loud that, finally, Mzee Mombasa had to break off his efforts in frustration. Of course, the excited behaviour of the victorious youngsters is understandable. However, it also underlines the fact that ceremonious poetry and its performance, at least in this context, means very little to them. Later on in the night, they would be parading their cup through the narrow streets of the Old Town with their supporters, singing and chanting their own praises, and asking local patrons such as shop and restaurant owners for money as a reward for their accomplishment. On other occasions, they would, perhaps, still consider the public recitation of poetry, and their own participation in it, as appropriate or even desirable, such as during festive maulidi celebrations, where the recitation of religious poetry to praise the Prophet was an integral part. After their football performance, however, they did not pay respect to the poet’s or the organiser’s style of ceremonial congratulations, even though this had all been set in place to honour them. In contrast, for many of the older generation, any festive or celebratory occasion without the recitation of poetry would have been unthinkable until very recently, and even now its omission would surely be regarded as awkward. Unlike many other instances of everyday life in Mombasa – some of which will be expanded upon here – this instance illustrates a failure to connect the long-standing tradition of poetic performance to the popular culture of today’s urban youth. Historically, poetry and its performance was applied to a wide range of incidents in Swahili social life. Before a baby was born, during the labour

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pains of prospective mothers, poetry was recited to soothe the birth process and ease the arrival of new-born babies (Nabhany MS1: 112). Then came the lullabies (utumbuizo) sung to babies, and later many occasions that marked important stages in the lives of children and adults were celebrated to the accompaniment of poetry – weddings being the grandest among them. There were also particular genres for rhymed songs performed by farmers (wawe), or by sailors and fishermen (kimai).1 Religious poetry was composed in various genres and recited notably during maulidi, but also at many other occasions. The variety of Swahili poetry and its performances is also visible in politics and the political history of the coast: ‘One can scarcely think of a significant political event in Swahili society which was not attended by poetic composition’ (Shariff 1983: 180). A vast number of compositions since the nineteenth century have been documented and partly published, and poems store the memories of many a battle along the Swahili coast, of political rivalries, in voices mocking the parties involved or in more sober modes of documentation (e.g. Mazrui 1995; Abdulaziz 1979; Nabhany MS1). The historical abundance of poetry in the Swahili context is nicely illustrated in the documentation of a case of land dispute on Mombasa Island in 1913, when the Sheikh of the Three Tribes, Abdullah bin Sheikh bin Yunus, claimed title to some 200 acres of land in the south-western corner of the island from the Crown. While the court dismissed the case for lack of evidence, it is of interest that the evidence produced on behalf of the claimants included several songs which were seen to indicate the alleged ownership (KLR 1913–14: 62–3).2 Of course, poetry is not only a thing of the past. Some formal occasions still include the recitation of poetry as a natural part of the programme, and the Swahili daily and weekly newspapers feature pages of poetry (bustani ya mashairi), where contributors comment in verse form on various social and political issues and react to previous comments by other readers. These are pages of ‘poems to the editor’ to which poetically inclined readers contribute from all over the country. Swahili dialogue poetry has also been explored in regard to its relevance for social discourse (Shariff 1983; Samsom 1996; Biersteker 1996). Illustrating historical continuity, political poetry has been used in postcolonial election campaigns along the coast, for example in parliamentary elections in Lamu in 1975 and 1980, where the kimwondo (shooting star) poems of Mahmoud Mau in support of his favourite candidate assured plenty of popular support. In response, the political rival secured the services of several other poets for his own campaign, and a heated, poetically fuelled and intensified debate ensued between politicians, poets and supporters (Amidu 1990).3 The poems were recited live during the campaigns; furthermore, recordings with popular reciters were prepared, played and distributed. Finally, it should be mentioned that both

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presidents of the Republic of Kenya were presented with printed collections of Swahili praise poems in their honour (cf. Dumila 1971, 1978).4 People of the older generation confirmed to me that poetry in everyday life used to be a crucial part of Swahili self-identification. As Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany told me: ‘We are Swahili, we are Muslims, and our customs and traditions follow the way of saying things in poetry without saying them in words’ (sisi ni Waswahili,Waislamu, na sisi ni kitu mila na desturi kwao kwenda kusema kwa ushairi bila ya kusema kwa maneno). He went on to claim that in everything they do, the Swahili people use poetry (katika kila jambo lao, Waswahili wanatumia tungo).5 This is also evident from his written social history of the Swahili people (Nabhany MS1). With a view to current everyday life in Mombasa, however, one could say that this statement rings less and less true; yet for Nabhany the reasoning behind it also illustrates a basic religious self-understanding. As human beings created by God, he explained, the Swahili need this element to feel ‘complete’ or ‘full’. From this perspective, poetry can even be presented as an aspect of Islam as ‘the complete way of life’. Such an immediate self-identification of the Swahili as Muslims and poets, and as poets due to being Muslims, may be linked to the historical abundance of poetry in the region, while this abundance itself may be taken as an indicator of a good and highly civilised Muslim society. Indeed the Qur’an, the revealed Word of God, is often characterised as the perfect poem. In terms of its beauty and the aesthetic enjoyment its language provides to its audience, particularly those listening to its recitation, it is said to be unsurpassable, just as much as in terms of the knowledge that it provides. As I once heard a maalim say in a speech, even if all poets of the world were brought together and provided with all the ink and paper they needed, they would not be able to produce one verse of poetry of the quality of the Qur’an. This illustration was given as evidence of the divine origin of the message revealed to human beings by the recitation of the Prophet Muhammad, and I repeatedly came across similar allusions or comparisons during the course of my research. Pushing this point, one could interpret this as constituting a kind of sunna (following the way of Prophet Muhammad), making it advisable to use poetic language whenever possible, especially to give authoritative meaning to an event. The recitation of poetry here is thus cast as somehow equivalent to the recitation of the Qur’an. In both cases, the recitation transmits knowledge, and provides moral orientation for the structuring of social life. The Qur’an is the Godly poem that human beings can only strive to internalise and understand – but which they also must strive to internalise and understand. The process of internalising the revealed word of God in sound, spirit and action is the task for every Muslim. The ideal envisaged is to embody God’s word perfectly, following the example of Prophet Muhammad, ultimately

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leading to a ‘complete way of life’. As human beings are hardly capable of ever fulfilling that ideal, the composition and recitation of poetry may assist them to pursue self-perfection through the form of language. Seeking to follow or imitate ‘the ideal poem’ in their earthbound ways through their own productions of verbal artistry, they underline the sincerity of their efforts to follow the straight path prescribed by Islam.The customary beginning and end of many Swahili genres of poetry may attest to this, as they consist of praises of God. Islamic poetry itself accounts for a considerable part of the whole corpus of Swahili poetry, next to the wide variety of secular poetry (cf. Knappert 1971; Shariff 1991). One prominent Islamic scholar-cum-poet in Mombasa during the first half of the twentieth century was Sheikh Muhammad Abdallah el-Husny. He was a well-known teacher and preacher, and also took over the editorship of the Al-Islah (‘Reform’) newspaper when Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui had to drop this position due to other commitments. His Mashairi ya Waadhi (‘Verses of Admonition’), for instance, in which he fiercely criticised the moral and religious decay taking place in Mombasa, became extremely popular (Frankl and Omar 1995). Overall, Swahili poetry has long been used for Islamic and social education as well as for ideological attacks between political or religious opponents. Reformist poets, for instance, railed against the supposed enemies of ‘pure’ Islam, such as the so-called waganga, traditional healers practising divination or spirit-possession. They were cast as evil, or at best naive or superstitious people who tried to lure Muslims from the right way (cf. Sacleux 1939: appendix). POETICAL GENRES IN SOCIAL LIFE

Walking through the narrow streets of Mombasa Old Town in the late afternoon, one may hear the sounds of t’arab, popular Swahili music, from within the houses, and women or girls singing along with the recording. T’arab, with musical influences from Egypt, India, and even Indonesia, is based on a genre of Swahili poetry called wimbo (sing. nyimbo).6 This immensely popular form is commonly used for love songs and topics of light entertainment. Wimbo means ‘songs’, but strictly speaking not anything that is sung falls into the wimbo genre. A nyimbo consists of stanzas that have three lines of 16 syllables each, with a mid- and an end-rhyme on every eighth syllable (each line here representing one syllable): _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) There are several different acceptable ways of intoning this pattern, and the number of stanzas is not prescribed. As a rule of thumb though, a nyimbo should be no longer than fifteen stanzas so that the listener will not get

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tired out (Nabhany P1: 4). Wimbo use easy, playful language to attract and entertain as many listeners as possible. They draw from a pool of popular images and expressions so that all who hear them feel pulled in, memorise them and boost their popularity by singing them and buying recordings and thus pass them on. Historically, the pace at which new popular songs could ‘travel’ from their first performance in Mombasa to the surrounding villages and small towns on the mainland has proven to be pretty fast. In 1871, for example, during the Mazrui rebellion against Sultan Barghash, the pace of oral dissemination was regarded to be fast enough by the poet Sheikh Suud bin Said al-Maamiry to employ wimbo as a medium for passing on urgent secret messages from Mombasa to the endangered rebel leader Sheikh Mbaruk bin Rashid bin Salim al-Mazrui in Gazi, roughly 40 km away in the South. Sure enough, via the commuting tradespeople who came from Mombasa singing the newest popular song, the message reached Sheikh Mbaruk ‘within a day or two’, in time to prepare his counter-measures (Hinawy 1950: 34–40, 38). Nowadays, every important t’arab singer has recordings of his or her songs made locally, and while these might not be available in the national commercial music shops, they are for sale in a network of local shops which also act as recording studios, e.g. in Mombasa, Zanzibar and Lamu. Thus, the latest hits of this most popular form of Swahili poetry are constantly available in the urban centres along the coast. It is noteworthy that the best and most highly respected local poets are among the suppliers of lyrics to the singers and t’arab groups. In Mombasa, for instance, the immensely popular Juma Bhalo, while writing a good deal himself, also draws some of his lyrics from the poetry of his cousin Ahmed Nassir bin Juma Bhalo (see Chapter 5). The similarly popular singer Zein Ab’din obtains wimbo for his t’arab songs from Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany. Both poets mentioned have regional and even international reputations. It is difficult to say whether this fact reflects the high standard of expectation that common people have of lyrics and poetic language. But it is possible that in Swahili society where historically many customs and practices are combined with or adorned by poetry (from childbirth to religious praise, from agricultural work to political statements), the taste for poetical language is very highly developed, so that only the best lyrics and wordplay can make a song into a hit. Apart from the wide variety of t’arab songs, the specialised coastal music shops (among them one in Mombasa’s Old Town) also sell a small selection of recorded poetry recitations. These belong to other, more complex and more distinguished genres of Swahili poetry which are not sung, but are recited by men (like the Qur’an) without any musical accompaniment. They are usually tenzi (sing. utenzi). Tenzi are epic poems of a form that has been used for centuries to store and spread news about important historical

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events or teachings of a secular or religious character, or to praise leading figures in public life. The form and rhyme scheme is prescribed, like in every classical form of Swahili poetry, and looks as follows: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) In the written or printed version, this is often ordered in this way: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) In all the following stanzas of the poem, (b) is kept at this final position in every stanza, while (a) can be substituted by any other rhyme that has to appear on all three marked points of every stanza (i.e. x could replace a in the figure above). Tenzi are usually very long; hundreds of stanzas in a poem are not rare, and cases of more than a thousand stanzas are known (Nabhany P1: 4; cf. Allen 1971). Several different prescribed intonation patterns are accepted for recitation. It is said that the utenzi-form is the only kind to which people can listen for a long time without tiring, which is also due to the fact that it uses clear and straightforward language – differentiating it from the shairi, a shorter kind of poetry which often consists of highly developed wordplay and riddles. Its form and rhyming pattern will be presented later on below. Poetry is still part of everyday life, though probably less so and differently from how it used to be. Social reality continues to be reflected in the various forms of Swahili poetry, linked to discourses of power, politics and criticism (cf. Mulokozi 1975, 1982), or entertainment. Interestingly, the local sales of utenzi cassette recordings point to a preference for spoken poetry over written. Indeed, all poetry is meant to be performed, i.e. recited, even though in almost every case it is written. While some of the tenzi published in tape form are well-known historical classics that have previously been published in text form in various editions, others have only been published as recordings and have become very popular nevertheless. During my fieldwork, for example, the cassette recording of the unpublished Utenzi wa Mabanati was extremely popular among Swahili people in Mombasa and Lamu. It narrated the tragic life-story of a Swahili girl trying to commit suicide because she had been seduced and made pregnant. The poem was composed in Kiamu (the Lamu dialect of Swahili) by the Lamu poet Mahmoud Mau in 1974.7 However, all the young people with whom I spoke about it believed that it had been composed only recently because to them it felt so ‘current’ in its concern with social problems. In this case, it was not only the exquisite language used to portray a very sad and tragic run of

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events so adequately, or the sensitive and thoughtful treatment of a serious topic, but also who the reciter was, performing in this recording from July 1996. It was the much-loved and recently deceased Mwenye Mohammed Abdallah Shatry who contributed to the popularity of this particular utenzi cassette. His performance was adored by everyone, and the fact of his recent demise also contributed to the popularity of this particular cassette. So, even if poetry has lost much of its former historical status and influence, it is still told or played, listened to and retold or passed on, much more than it is read. Reading itself is strongly associated with being in school, or with the activity of studying or interpreting the Qur’an, and as such is considered to be more of a scholarly activity. A H M E D S H E I K H N A B H A NY A N D H I S P R O G R A M M E O F C O N S E R VA T I O N

[…] lengo lake kubwa pale anapokwenda au anapotunga ni kuhifadhi lugha nzuri ya Kiswahili ambayo imo katika kupotea; vilevile kujaribu kuhifadhi mila zetu za Kiswahili. (Ibrahim Noor Shariff 1985: 8; my emphasis) […] his big aim wherever he goes or wherever he composes is to preserve beautiful [good, rich] Swahili language which is about to be forgotten; also, to try and preserve our Swahili customs. This epigraph gives a characterisation of Nabhany’s literary and cultural project that can serve as a guideline through these passages which attempt to give a portrait of this important intellectual. ‘To preserve [one’s] language’ (kuhifadhi lugha) and ‘to preserve [one’s] customs’ (kuhifadhi mila) can be subsumed together under the broader agenda of preserving one’s culture, and to insist on one’s cultural identity, which is specifically defined by the past. Ways of doing things – of living, both materially and socially – that were handed down from one generation to the next are invariably linked to ways of speaking – telling, informing, announcing, greeting, praising, writing. Custom depends on language, which is the only medium for describing customs without re-enacting them, so it can inform us about practices in their absence. This is an act of mediation which makes it possible for us to experience what we have not lived through, and to live through incidents that we have not experienced. For this reason language is most central to Nabhany’s overall project. Practices or customs that are almost forgotten cannot always simply be performed; they have to be remembered and retained in consciousness. For that they may first have to be described and explained, and that is best done with the help of language. In the following sections, Ahmed Nabhany and his intellectual project will be presented, with a specific focus on issues of ‘preservation’, the relation between language and customs, and how poetry contributes to it.

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This goes along the lines of an earlier assessment of Nabhany’s activities of poetic preservation, characterising them as artistically innovative contributions to a long-standing tradition of ‘ethnohistories in Swahili’ that seek to preserve cultural knowledge (Geider 2002: 270), and as important works of an internal ‘documentary literature’ of this particular African region (especially Geider 1988: 189, 1992: 176).8 I have begun my account by treating the status of poetical discourse and poets in Swahili society in general, and will now go on to place Nabhany and his intellectual activities as poet and self-taught Swahili cultural scholar9 within the social context of Old Town Mombasa. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, born in Lamu in 1927, is one of the most wellknown Swahili poets and scholars from Kenya, and his first wife Khadija is a poet as well. His parents died when he was still a child and he was brought up by his grandmother, Amina Abubakar Sheikh (c.1880–1975), a famous poet in her own right, who initiated him into the art of composing.10 His poems and anthologies have been published since the early 1970s in local newspapers and journals at home and abroad, and also as booklets and books, both in Kenya and Europe. Nabhany is a self-trained scholar who has assisted many academics in their research and, over decades, himself worked through various fields of Swahili cultural knowledge (such as fishing, agriculture and healing, among others). In 1998 and 1999, he worked as an independent consultant on Swahili language and culture. He has had no other formal education than the local madrasa classes and the Qur’anic school at Riyadha in Lamu. He moved to Mombasa in the 1960s while working as a civil servant for the District Commissioner. He took evening classes in English, a language that he can now use well to communicate orally and in writing. Nabhany is also passably fluent in conversational Arabic. Comfortable in these three languages, he has found conversation partners wherever he has gone on his various visits to Europe (Germany, Netherlands, Britain), the US, the Middle East and other African countries (Tanzania, Uganda, South Africa). Most of these visits took place following invitations either as a writer or as an expert on Swahili language, literature and history. In these fields his extraordinary capacity is acknowledged by local scholars and others in Lamu and Mombasa, as well as by academic scholars on Swahili language and culture in East Africa and beyond. For instance, his distinct contribution to the Swahili language has been formally acknowledged by Kenyatta University in Nairobi, and plans have been under way to award him an honorary doctorate at the Islamic University of Mbale in Uganda, where he taught repeatedly as a lecturer. He also won several high-profile scholarships for his visits to Germany and the US (such as DAAD and Fulbright).

AHMED SHEIKH NABHANY

Figure 4.1 Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, with his first wife Khadija, 1999 Picture by the author

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Nabhany likes to highlight the fact that he has helped more than thirty researchers to attain their PhDs in the fields of linguistics, Swahili literature, history and anthropology. Indeed, he was a key informant for a variety of anthropological studies on Swahili culture and society, not least John Middleton (Middleton 1992: xi). He has remained a major informant for senior researchers, Western and African, and also made his services as a consultant available to American universities for their study programmes in Kenya. During my stay in Mombasa, the national newspaper East African Standard featured an article on him, and a team from the Kenyan Broadcasting Corporation (KBC) visited his home for an interview. Over the years, interviews with him on various issues have been broadcast on the Swahili programme of the BBC World Service, the German Deutsche Welle and the KBC radio station. These features underline his status as a scholar across the whole terrain of Swahili language and culture. In Mombasa, where he lives in Kibokoni, he is closely associated with the National Museum at Fort Jesus and also with the Swahili Cultural Centre, where he regularly lectures on Swahili culture and history to young boys and girls of the Old Town community. Nabhany is on the advisory committee for both the museum and the centre. The main objective of both these institutions is conservation and the increase of knowledge about the past. The Cultural Centre also strives to revitalise and make profitable traditional handicraft techniques that are classified as typically ‘Swahili’, and so it offers courses in handicrafts such as carving, stitching and sewing.11 All in all, Nabhany represents ‘Swahili’ concern with cultural traditions that are potentially endangered by the current conditions of life in Mombasa and the whole Swahili area today. As mentioned, it is customary to mark special events with celebratory poems that have been produced for the specific occasion. Nabhany is much in demand for these events, and I recall him composing poems (of the utenzi type) for the graduation ceremony of the apprentices at the Cultural Centre, the opening of a conference at the National Museum, the marking of the last days of Sheikh Harith Swaleh’s Ramadhan lectures, the mayor’s public Idd-Baraza for the celebration of Idd el Fitr, and a local seminar against corruption. He is extremely proud of the heritage of Swahili culture (indeed, his whole life revolves around it), just as he is of his own achievements within it. Outside his house, as waungwana status traditionally requires, you will never find him wearing anything other than a white kanzu (a long-sleeved shirt-like garment that reaches down to the heels), a kofia (a specially embroidered cap made out of cloth), and his leather sandals from Siyu (the renowned place for leatherwork in the Lamu archipelago). Inside the house, on the other hand, kanzu, kofia and sandals are taken off, and a white long-sleeved shirt and a kikoi-cloth which is slung around the hips constitute the whole dress. Shirt and kikoi also constitute the common

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dress for many men outside in the streets, who might wear their kanzu only on Fridays. Programmatically, Nabhany is chiefly concerned with the conservation of Swahili cultural knowledge and language, but also with the adaptation of language to current contexts of living, coining new terms out of old linguistic material, i.e. modernising Swahili language from within. Here, cultural knowledge is linked to language in two ways: firstly, in terms of specialised vocabulary representing the elaborated fields of knowledge that have evolved and become specified within Swahili history; and secondly, in terms of language transmitting, contextualising and explaining cultural knowledge or cultural practices to an audience that is no longer familiar with them – or that has never been familiar with them. He follows this agenda in several different ways, using various forms of collecting, storing and passing on knowledge. One of his major aims, he pointed out, is to rectify mistakes made in earlier research and publications on Swahili culture, notably when done by outsiders. ‘The aim is to rectify mistakes that have been done by people who are not Swahili and who do not understand what the Swahili are exactly.’12 C O N S E R VA T I O N T H R O U G H P O E T R Y

Nabhany uses poetry for documenting and storing cultural knowledge. He has composed many poems that deal with or play upon a certain aspect of Swahili life. Some of them are specifically written to present a thorough description and detailed explanation of something he considers to be a significant element of Swahili culture. For instance, Nabhany has published long didactic poems on religious practice (Mwangaza wa Dini, 1976), on a peculiar kind of sailing ship (Sambo ya Kiwandeo, 1979), and on the importance of the coconut tree for Swahili life (Umbuji wa Mnazi, 1985). The poems are mostly composed as utenzi, which, throughout Swahili literary history, has been the common form for didactic poems such as the nineteenth-century classic on good manners for women, Utenzi wa Mwana Kupona, or for poems on famous historical figures (e.g. Utenzi wa Fuomo Liongo by Mohamed Kijumwa). Furthermore, this genre has been used for the documentation of historical incidents such as wars and political struggles, or the celebration of special days of the calendar. Though tenzi are not praise poems in the classical sense of the south and south-eastern African Bantu-speaking area,13 they fulfil a similar role in society, as they are used in the celebration and commemoration of specific persons and incidents. But the didactic aspect of an utenzi is primary: to teach the addressee something important about life.14 Poets are very much conceived of as teachers in Swahili society, and this is also their own self-perception. Apart from being acknowledged as verbal artists who are able to entertain their audiences, they are recognised as

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specifically knowledgeable people who are obliged to convey their insights to their peers, to keep historical consciousness alive, and to enlighten them on moral issues. This does not mean that every poet, or Nabhany in particular, is regarded as a morally superior person per se, but when discussing the role of the poet in society, this is the generally accepted position. In his poetry, Nabhany often teaches his audience about distinct Swahili cultural practices or fields of knowledge. He brings in all the vocabulary that he has been able to collect on the topic (through his own experience and also specific research) and works it into his poetical description. To a high degree his project can be called a conservationist one, consisting of the following aspects: 1. giving thorough and complete accounts of practices that, due to recent social and cultural change, might be neglected or soon forgotten (like the traditional way of building a specific type of ship), by using and explaining the relevant terminology, which is also in danger of being forgotten; 2. reconstructing parts of Swahili culture, at least verbally, that have been influential and historically significant, but have now become redundant; and in this way … 3. preserving the knowledge and the consciousness of these instances of Swahili culture within society, even if only for the sake of historical documentation. Nabhany’s fear that important elements of Swahili cultural history might fade out of social memory and be completely forgotten is realistic. Over the last century, the conditions of life have changed dramatically in every respect, and consequently so have the practices of subsistence. Over the last three generations there has been an immense decline in the level of Swahili historical and cultural knowledge. While the oldest generation includes the last veritable sages of Swahili culture, with a vast residue of knowledge in all different spheres, the youngest generation was educated under different terms and conditions, and has become estranged from fields of knowledge and practice that for their parents or grandparents were unquestionably at the core of everyday life. In the Old Town, I have encountered young people in their twenties and thirties who could not (or would not) name me either a Swahili poet nor a Swahili poem, though some of them lived just around the corner from Nabhany’s house.

Religion Mwangaza wa Dini, which Nabhany wrote in 1971 and published in 1976, is an utenzi explaining Islamic religious practice according to Shafii doctrine to the Muslim commoners. This poem describes the pillars of Islam, and explains the rules of how to pray (swala) and fast (saumu) correctly, as well as other religious practices in their Shafii interpretation. Nabhany composed

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this 183-stanza poem at the request of his teacher Abdalla Mohamed Kadara from Lamu. As is obvious from the various prefaces and expressions of thanks in the booklet, Nabhany took care to have the contents of the religious teachings in the poem checked and approved by some of the most eminent religious personalities along the Kenyan Swahili coast: the Chief Kadhi of Kenya, Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy; the Head of Riyadha Mosque, Sayyid Ali bin Ahmed Badawy; the well-known healer and scholar Sharif Khitamy; the highly respected teacher and historian Sharif A. Saggaf Alawy; and the Kadhi of Malindi, Mohamed Sheikh Mohamed Al-Waily (commonly called Madi Shee Kadhi). Nabhany even received blessings from the secular side: the District Comissioner recommended the poem for its capacity to enlighten those Muslim commoners who were unable to read and understand Arabic on issues of Islamic doctrine and practice: Usually, many Muslims cannot read books that were written in Arabic; this is why Mr Nabhany has done a very good thing in composing this utenzi in Swahili, since everyone who lives in East Africa knows this language, and will profit very much from reading it. (My translation)15 Considering the regional Islamic debates and divisions at that time, the concurrent support from both leaders of the opposing religious factions for Nabhany’s poem is remarkable as it was endorsed by both the ‘reformist’ Sheikh A. S. Farsy and the head of the sharifu faction around the Riyadha in Lamu, Sayyid Ali Badawy. It seems that the poem marks a common basis of interest among both groups – to advance Islam along the coast and in East Africa more generally. Yet the Zanzibari Sheikh Farsy and Ali Badawy’s Lamu-based Riyadha school had their own respective ‘Swahili agendas’ in religion. In 1969, Farsy made the first Swahili translation of the Qur’an by a Muslim whose mother tongue was Swahili. He obviously had a strong interest in using Kiswahili to make the teachings of the Qur’an more directly accessible for those who could not understand Arabic. The Riyadha faction, dominated by the Jamilail masharifu, did not share such an agenda as it questioned their pre-eminent status as descendants of the Prophet and as intermediaries between Muslim commoners and God. Also, they had sharply criticised Farsy’s translation of the Qur’an (cf. A. A. Badawy 1970). Being at the centre of religious practices that were identified with the coastal region, leading to the expression ‘Swahili Islam’ in scholarship, their interest would have been to further the Shafii and specifically the Riyadha school’s influence. Still, it is remarkable that the two major opposing perspectives struggling for predominance in the Swahili area did merge in their support of this poem. On the one hand, there is the regionally evolved and dominant religious doctrine and practice of Islam (Riyadha). Its characteristic

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ritual practices were initiated and introduced at the end of the nineteenth century by Habib Saleh in Lamu. On the other hand, there is a rather abstract stance focusing on (written or printed) Swahili language as a liberating instrument, freeing the individual commoner from dependency on specialists in Arabic and from the dominant religious and social influence of the Sayyids. This position attempts to lead Muslims away from a culturally determined framework of Islam to an overarching and doctrinally pure Islamic universalism (Farsy and the ‘Wahhabi’). Simply put, one can talk of a culture-oriented and a language-oriented approval of Nabhany’s poem, a conservative and an innovative one. The former, of the Riyadha faction, is anxious to preserve the interdependence between culture and religion, or better, between religious and cultural practice. In terms of the mila–dini dichotomy, this position hinges on an interplay between the two, whereby elements of mila (cultural customs) are linked to dini as they are integrated into or associated with religious practice. Farsy’s position is emancipatory in so far as it aims at a liberation of religion from culture, or better, of religious consciousness from cultural consciousness. Here dini, the ideal and pure religious doctrine, is anxiously separated from mila, the regionally particular cultural customs. But paradoxically this is done by using the regionally developed and culturally bound Swahili language as a vehicle. It is tempting to call these two tendencies ‘traditionalist’ and ‘modernist’. However, this fails to grasp the complex situation. What is now accepted as traditionalist in Lamu and along the Kenyan coast is itself the outcome of an innovative movement of reform, liberating Muslims from the dominance of an earlier dogmatic system of status and opening up Islam for people who previously would have been excluded (cf. el-Zein 1974). As Islamic didactic poetry, Nabhany’s poem is inextricably linked to the conflict between the two authoritative regional factions of Islam. To be accepted by local Muslims and used for Islamic education in schools and madrasa, it needs approval by these authorities. Literary praise or acknowledgement and even the economic success of the poem are based on the condition of its acceptability in terms of Islamic doctrine. Nabhany achieved this by including both parties’ endorsements of the poem in the publication. The poem Mwangaza wa Dini does not actively take part in the regional Islamic conflict, nor does the author. As a conceivable partner for both groups, it is situated in between. While strengthening the Shafii stance (which would, if anything, play into the hands of the Riyadha faction), it teaches the basics of Islam (the five pillars) and thus stays out of Islamic confrontation while gaining overall support. Thus it is part of the general project of spreading and reinforcing Islam in East Africa, while also remaining enmeshed in cultural history in regard to the semantics and the whole meaningful reference of language. A similar ambivalence is visible in Nabhany’s own project. On the one

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hand, Kiswahili and its historically shaped semantics are used for a modernisation or renewal of language from within (cf. his istilahi project on coining new words, below). On the other, Kiswahili and the culturally evolved forms of poetry are used to capture and preserve Swahili cultural practices that are outdated and on the verge of being forgotten. In fact, Nabhany himself is markedly situated between conservationist and innovative forces, since he is part of and pledges allegiance to both systems. After all, he is a poet who has emerged from within the traditional Swahili Islamic educational system and has worked himself into the position of an internationally and academically highly regarded indigenous scholar on Swahili cultural and linguistic issues. Also in this case, the opposition between ‘traditionalism’ and ‘modernism’ proves insufficient for an adequate characterisation. A further principal and common opposition in local discourse was highlighted to me: between mambo ya dunia and mambo ya dini (worldly and religious things). Yet when applied analytically to a reflection of real social life in the Muslim society of Old Town Mombasa, this is rather problematic. Just as the mila–dini opposition is difficult to uphold because to a large extent Swahili religious practice is distinctly an amalgamation of both dini and mila, this one is difficult since it suggests drawing a clear line between ‘religion’ and ‘the world’ is possible, thereby contradicting the basic understanding of Islam as the ‘complete way of life’, which states that such a separation is impossible. But despite being problematic as ordering principles in theory, these local conceptual oppositions are commonly used in Swahili social life, and thus might provide more adequate orientation than the external one between modernist and traditionalist tendencies. With regard to Mwangaza wa Dini, it should finally be kept in mind that here we have a Swahili poet who reminds his Muslim peers about the core teachings of Islam, the basics that are commonly known, unquestioned and self-understood by any Muslim believer. But after all, it is sometimes helpful to be reminded of the basics, for it is in the basics where people fail, for instance by not praying or not fasting correctly. Moreover, Nabhany lists and describes these main teachings for those who have yet to be taught about Islam, who are yet to become conscious and good Muslims, namely Swahili children (ibid.: Saggaf’s foreword). But Swahilispeaking non-Muslims are also potential addressees of this poem, and as such it implicitly takes part in an Islamic missionary agenda (ibid.: Haji’s foreword). Therefore, it might be regarded as an example of how Swahilisation and Islamisation potentially go hand in hand. Swahili as a medium of information opens the door to Islam for those not immersed in Swahili Islamic culture. Thus not only does the usage of Kiswahili for religious texts of instruction potentially improve the Islamic practice of existing Muslims, it also educates the young (parallel to the madrasa classes), and can draw new followers to the religion.

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On the other hand, the translation of the Qur’an into Kiswahili and the use of other Swahili Islamic texts of instruction might question the status of an Arabic-speaking elite that so far has almost exclusively had direct access to the Qur’an and thus to social power. In making the Qur’an accessible (in Swahili) to the commoners and non-specialists, it potentially opens up the existing socio-religious hierarchy to criticism. In principle, through this switch in the language used, even the Qur’an itself becomes a possible object of criticism. After all, the more approachable God’s word is and the more common, the less Godly and unquestionable it might appear. This may explain the vehement insistence on the impossibility of translating God’s revealed word, the Qur’an.

Material culture, jahazi-building Sambo ya kiwandeo (‘The Ship from Lamu Island’), another utenzi of Nabhany’s with 215 stanzas, is an example of Nabhany’s project of conservation and revitalisation of Swahili culture in the area of material culture. It focuses on the building of a specific kind of sailing ship, the jahazi, for which Lamu was famous. Nabhany wanted to create an accurate poetic documentation and memorial of this type of ship and the process by which it was built, since he suspected the time might soon come when majahazi (pl. of jahazi) would not be built or sailed any more.16 After all, that had already happened to the famous mitepe (sing. tepe) of the Bajuni people, the large trading vessels on Pate Island that were constructed without nails. At the time that Nabhany composed Sambo (1969–70), mitepe were not to be seen any more and had almost passed from memory. Nabhany was determined that the majahazi of Lamu should not be forgotten. As he says in the foreword: Long ago there used to be the mitepe and now there are none left except in stories, and when I realised that the jahazi too might disappear completely I decided to write an accurate account of the building of a jahazi. nyuma kuwa kwalikuwa na mitepe na sasa hakuna tena kabisa isipokuwa na hadithi tu, ndipo nalipofikiria kuwa na majahazi piya yatakosekana kabisa ndipo nalipoazimia kwandika na kudhibiti muundo wa jahazi hapo hapo. (in Miehe and Schadeberg 1979: 6) Nabhany goes on to say that, after making this decision, he immediately visited various knowledgeable people of the Lamu community17 in order to collect the correct terms and other information that he needed for composing the utenzi. Having collected a total of 127 terms, he went on to compose his poetical account of how the ship was built. His description proceeds from the beginning of the building process (starting with the keel) to its completion. It includes many little details of the actual construction,

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such as where and how the kitchen, compass and lavatory are installed, which wood is used for which section of the ship, etc. There are also lively portrayals of the various rituals and celebrations that mark the different stages of building. These, one has to keep in mind, also undergo changes: some of the common practices of several decades before the writing of Sambo ya Kiwandeo had apparently fallen into disuse (Prins, in Miehe and Schadeberg, 1979: ix). The major ritual celebrations linked to the building process, such as the first launching of the boat and its final trial when completed, were big social events, since many people of the community had taken part in the construction either directly or indirectly, and a large jahazi took a long time to complete. All this is conveyed in Nabhany’s poem. On the one hand his stanzas can almost be read as a set of building instructions; on the other hand they provide documentation of local customs and social rituals. Both aspects together establish the great value, increasingly so over time, that the poem has for the historical information that it contains. Thus again, poetry in the local tradition, meant to be recited and listened to, serves as a storage medium for important information that might otherwise be lost, keeping social knowledge alive in people’s memory. The lasting accessibility of this information is increased by means of written documentation and publication. This, however, took it away from the local framework of social memory, since Sambo ya Kiwandeo was published far away by an academic institution in the Netherlands. The manner of its publication leads to further questions about the status of the poem. Has it, by the fact of being published (and, consequently, read) abroad, in a non-Swahili area, become disjoined from local discourse and social life in Lamu? Or does it rather broaden the Swahili horizon and invite outsiders, both in terms of their reception of, and participation in, Swahili cultural discourse? It is remarkable how the form of the poem’s storage and transmission seems to alter the status of the poem itself, with regard to its addressees, and linked to that, even its agenda. Put between the book covers of a European university’s press, Sambo appears more like a collector’s item for Western ‘specialists’ than a living poetic vessel of social history, an artefact of literary culture stored in a Western archive, like an item in a museum, separated from its social context. This is confirmed by the fact that the publication has become almost unobtainable locally, so it cannot stimulate further Swahili discourse or participate in it. Yet, participation could be seen as a requirement for its having any effect on social memory or historical consciousness. Having said that, publication in a Western academic press itself does not mean that a text was composed for the Western outsider. Also, it does not exclude the possibility of it being published locally as well (whether in print or sound), thus re-entering an ongoing internal discourse. Some well-known historical tenzi illustrate the latter point: for instance, the classics Utenzi wa Mwana Kupona and Utenzi

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wa Ngamia na Paa are both published in academic collections abroad and are still available on cassette in Mombasa today. In any case, local appreciation of Sambo is included in the preface of the publication itself. Shariff Mohamed bin Sharif Said el-Beidhy from Mambrui has written a short utenzi praising Sambo and its composer (ibid.: 2–3). He calls on his fellow Swahili to take note of Nabhany’s composition which he characterises as valuable for its thorough descriptions and explanations. He particularly praises the poem’s depth of language and wealth of information. But above all, he highlights the overall form of Sambo which with regard to its purpose – to inform and entertain – deserves the highest praise. It should also be noted that Sambo draws from popular sailors’ songs, integrating their phrases as appropriate (ibid.: 72–5). This constitutes a literary transfer from one genre of Swahili poetry, namely wimbo, to another, i.e. tenzi. As A. H. J. Prins says in his commentary, ‘the poem is a work of art, not a manual for a ship-builder’s apprentice. Neither is it an anthropologist’s field report, language, the vocabulary of the trade, being its starting point and poetry the vehicle of communication’ (ibid.: viii). This utenzi, as a piece of verbal art, combines a number of foci and is situated in a field of tension between them. C O N S E R V I N G SW A H I L I L A N G U A G E A N D K N OW L E D G E

Another conservationist project of Nabhany’s is a topically subdivided wordbook of specialist vocabulary used in various significant areas of knowledge in the Northern Swahili area. This wordbook, on which he started working in 1975 and which has been finished for years, is called Nabhany-Kandhi ya Kiswahili (‘Nabhany-Treasure of Kiswahili’; MS2). Here Nabhany displays a wide range of vocabulary not to be found in any Swahili dictionary so far, arranged according to areas such as the human body, agriculture, fishing, sailing, healing, cooking, games and many more. Nabhany points out that in the process of gathering knowledge while listening to one of his teachers, it became clear to him that he would have to write down all the vocabulary that he was told so that he would not forget any of it later. While conscious of the intrinsic value of such information, Nabhany is also aware of the necessity of documenting and storing it so that it remains accessible as a possible source of reference. This is especially so under social conditions that no longer include the context for this knowledge but, on the contrary, threaten to extinguish it and the context in which it is embedded. Nabhany has also put effort into the collection and conservation of oral narratives and poems depicting important incidents in the history of the Lamu archipelago that he collected in his own interviews with his teachers and other Swahili poets and intellectuals over the years. As the outcome of this work, he has prepared a manuscript in English which he was seeking

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to publish, called the Social History of the Northern Swahili Peoples, Based on Oral Traditions.18 A major impetus for this historical work was, as he states, ‘to correct the mistakes that some non-Swahili scholars had produced in their research and publications on Swahili history’ (cf. MS1: 167–70). The manuscript includes descriptions of many Swahili customs and explanations of specific terminology connected to them. Also, a wide variety of historical poems is presented in its context, with translations into English. Furthermore, important poets and their work are characterised, and overviews of Swahili dialects and historical clan connections are given. Nabhany pushes for the increased acceptance of oral history and insider accounts, like the one that he presents here. I S T I L A H I : M O D E R N I S I N G T H E VO C A B U L A R Y

Obviously, Nabhany is permanently concerned with language and vocabulary. His world is, after all, a world of language more than anything else. As a poet and conscious conservationist with the project of building up something like an archive of Swahili knowledge, this is necessarily so. In poetry, it is the artistry of verbal depiction and playful reflection on chosen aspects of life according to certain given and culturally determined rules of composition that create a poem. Knowledge, reflection and questioning can be most clearly documented in language, and explicit commentaries are linked to language as the medium of information. Language is thus crucial to Nabhany’s project of depiction and documentation. As an inevitable consequence of this, vocabulary comes into central focus once more. The richness and versatility of vocabulary establishes the quality of a poem, indicates the poet’s mastery of his craft, and underlines the complexity of the various fields of knowledge and practice in social life. Yet there remains a perennial task for the community of speakers of any language. This is the task of rejuvenating vocabulary in relation to innovations in social life, and of adapting existing terms to cover new meanings that have been introduced through technology or other means. If it is to cope with the reality of the changing life-world, language has to be continually renewed. In both cases, it is achieved by social actors and native speakers. However, the adequate renewal of a vocabulary, one that grows out of the existing vocabulary and the semantic history of a language, does not happen automatically, but is the outcome of the conscious efforts of individual speakers. In contrast to the absorption of foreign loan words (a process observable in any language), the coining of new expressions from within the ‘semantic archive’ of the language itself establishes a continuity between newly created terms and the whole inventory of words used so far.19 This is another field that Nabhany has worked in, at least since the early 1980s. In several articles entitled Istilahi za lugha (‘Vocabulary of language’;

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1988, 1990) and a recent conference paper Uundaji wa istilahi katika Kiswahili (‘Constructing vocabulary in Kiswahili’; 1998), Nabhany characterises the principles according to which such coining should take place, and presents examples of terms in areas of modern technology (e.g. for radio, television, computer: mwengoya, runinga, ngamiza), and special fields of knowledge (e.g. psychology, history, science: ushunuzi, mapisi, ulimbe) that have either been newly coined by him or, as existing but neglected words, reintroduced into common vocabulary. He mentions three criteria helpful for the creation of new terms, namely:

• the shape or form of the thing in question (umbo la kitu), • its function or usage (utenda kazi wa kitu), • the sound of the word in question (sauti au mliyo wa kitu). (Nabhany 1998: 1) One example of Nabhany’s coining is the word runinga that he created for the English ‘television’, which had been translated into Kiswahili as a loan word, televisheni. Runinga is formed out of a combination of two archaic Kiswahili words, rununu and maninga. As Nabhany explains, rununu used to mean news from far away that was suddenly spread about in society, supposedly brought by jinns. Maninga is another expression for ‘eyes’ (cf. Shariff 1985: 5). Put together that means something like ‘news that is brought suddenly from far away in a mysterious way that is perceived by the eyes’ which fits well the function of the thing to be described. Runinga has been officially accepted by the Kenyan Broadcasting Corporation (KBC) which uses this word for its Swahili programme; it can also be found in a recent thesaurus dictionary of Kiswahili (Mohamed and Mohamed 1998). However, many ordinary people have never consciously heard or seen this word, and they themselves use televisheni. The same applies for other words coined by Nabhany, such as ngamiza (for computer) which most people are seemingly unaware of, while they use compyuta in Kiswahili without any doubts or worries. Though Nabhany’s words have been created using the etymology of the Northern Swahili dialects of the Kenyan coast, these links are invisible for non-experts. Judging from my own experience, it seems that, so far, Nabhany’s terms are known mostly to people of higher education, such as secondary school teachers, university lecturers and students, or at least people who have finished secondary school. This is only a small minority of Swahili speakers, and often they are upcountry people rather than people whose mother tongue is Swahili. Nabhany’s approach seems convincing in theory, however, especially in regard to the construction of terms from within a historical repertoire of words and meanings in the original Swahili area. In this respect, the linguistic innovations are created from within. But in practice, they are obviously not easily accepted and spread. In terms of practical everyday usage, it seems

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doubtful whether they can really compete with the anglicisms that dominate conversations about technical items in Kiswahili in everyday life.20 D I S C U S S I N G A P O E M : U M B U J I WA M N A Z I 21

Another of Sheikh Nabhany’s didactic poems, Umbuji wa Mnazi (‘The Elegance of the Coconut Tree’) has recently been critically discussed in a journal on African philosophy. In his article ‘Umbuji wa Mnazi and the poetics of anthropology’ (1997), Nicolas Brown claims that the poetics of this poem display an internalised Eurocentrism and present an essentialist representation of Swahili culture to a Western audience, submitting to its epistemological standpoint, ‘the modern episteme’ (Brown 1997: 223ff.). Though written in Kiswahili, argues Brown, the poem is addressed to outsiders: it concerns itself with the transmission and elucidation of cultural knowledge that would be taken for granted by Swahili insiders. Thus thematising it for the insiders would make no sense, since they do not need to be taught what they know already and what is part of their everyday life. According to Brown, who formulates his position using Foucault and Mudimbe as theoretical pillars, we witness in ‘the Other offering the Same a representation of the Other’ (223). The ‘Same’ here refers to the West as the power centre of discourse, originator and focal point of the ‘modern episteme’ in the framework of which ‘a thought of the West as an Other among others is not possible’ (ibid.). The ‘Other’ that offers its representation to the ‘Same’ for Brown is the Swahili poet Nabhany (or the narrator) who is likened to performing a ‘dead ritual for the benefit of […] tourism’ (ibid.). Having taken the view that Umbuji wa Mnazi is not reflexive (it does not represent itself to itself, but to another), Brown concludes that this indicates a submission to or even an endorsement of a Eurocentric perspective. In effect, Nabhany’s poem Umbuji wa Mnazi is negatively characterised as an ‘anthropological’ or ‘ethnographic poem’ participating – even if unconsciously – in Western discourse on otherness. Thus Brown implies by his treatment (which, incidentally, fails to convey significant basic information about the poem), that the poem should not be taken seriously for what it explicitly claims to be and stand for – a part of the project of preservation that Nabhany advocates. But why? I have several concerns about Brown’s interpretation and the way it presents Nabhany as epistemologically oriented to the West and so committed to the endorsement of existing power relationships and the suppression of marginal voices. Most worrisome to me is the claim of an external analyst like Brown, employing the Foucauldian method of an archaeology of discourse, to be able to see into and engage with the unconscious of the participant’s discourse that he is analysing, and so to pre-empt judgements on and interpretations of the text in question. The external analyst’s understanding, based on the hypothetical instance of an assumed

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unconscious, is given pre-eminence over the more explicit statements of the text itself, and possibly over the conscious reflections of insiders or even the author himself on the text. Historically, claims of this kind have already been made, from a clearly Eurocentric vantage point, about the thought processes of non-Western peoples – and they have been refuted, as the examples of Freud (1914), Lévy-Bruhl (1923) and Tempels (1945) show. All three claimed that, as external observers possessing a privileged analytical method or status, they could understand ‘native’ or non-Western people better than they could understand themselves. If it can be ascertained that Brown treats Nabhany’s Umbuji wa Mnazi in the same way, Brown’s interpretation of this Swahili poem is an instance of what Appiah marked as paternalising and instrumental appropriation of postcolonial Africa by Western postmodernism (Appiah 1992). Nabhany’s educational elaborations on, and poetic celebrations of, the coconut tree are understood by Brown as their contraries: ‘The poem, even as it loudly proclaims the presence and vitality of a mode of life that was Swahili, quietly marks its death’ (Brown 1997: 178f). My own position is rather that the poem signals and exhibits a conscious internal struggle for the ongoing relevance of the practices it documents and describes. In this, I lean more towards the judgement of another commentator on Nabhany’s poem, Thomas Geider, who characterises Umbuji wa Mnazi and other didactic poetry by Nabhany as ‘documentary literature’ of an ethnographic nature being of internal relevance to the Swahili context (Geider 1992, 1988).22 In what follows, I will not directly discuss Brown’s essay any further,23 but take his assessment as a starting point for discussing Umbuji wa Mnazi and Nabhany’s general project. A N A L Y S I N G U M B U J I WA M N A Z I

To start with, it is necessary to have a closer look at the poem itself, to summarise its contents and characterise its form and style, and to contextualise it historically.24 Umbuji wa Mnazi (‘The Elegance of the Coconut tree’) has seventy-nine stanzas that are all concerned with praising and describing the versatility of uses of the coconut tree within Swahili culture.25 Conforming to the conventions of the shairi form in Swahili poetics, each stanza consists of four verses that are divided in half (after eight syllables), creating a middle rhyme, with an end-rhyme at its end. In the last of the two verses in every stanza, middle- and end-rhyme are switched around. Thus the rhyme scheme looks as follows: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a)

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Sometimes the switching of the last line cannot be done in this ideal form; thus the following rhyme scheme is also acceptable according to the classical standards: _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (a) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (b) _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (x) (x stands for any other ending syllable) Stanzas 1–3 give an introduction, praising God in the first stanza then introducing the topic, 4–6 build up expectations about the ‘treasure’ of wealth and knowledge linked to the coconut tree, 7–14 deal with looking after the young palm tree (planting the seedling and replanting the young tree), while from stanza 15 onwards the numerous productive uses are listed and explained, from top to bottom. The stanzas rank around the specialist terms that are given for the various products, from the different names of the fruit (nut) itself to forms of medicine that can be produced by it, as well as descriptions of cooking procedures and tasty meals that are prepared with it (until 37). Then the fabrication of useful household instruments from nut, trunk and leaves is described: various kitchenware (38–40), houseware such as baskets, mats, cages, brooms, ropes, posts and troughs (until 66), interspersed occasionally with further elaborations on cooking and medical usages. Afterwards, the achievement of the poem itself is praised, as well as Kiamu, the Lamu dialect that was used as mediator (67–8), God is thanked for providing the poet with talent and strength to pursue his endeavour (69– 71), and the use of the poem for education and preservation of this valuable knowledge is emphasised (72–3). Finally, the author gives his name and the date when the composition was finished (74–7), before he points out his own imperfection as a human creature, asking for his mistakes to be pointed out by others and thanking God once more (78–9). Umbuji wa Mnazi was first published in Nairobi in 1985, edited, introduced and annotated for use in schools by A. A. A. El-Maawy who prepared this volume in cooperation with Nabhany (1985: vii, xiii). Nabhany had begun to compose it as long ago as 1954, and he finally finished it on 21 August 1972 (1985: xiii). It was originally called Sifa za Mnazi (‘Praises of the coconut tree’), as referred to in the foreword of Sambo ya Kiwandeo (Miehe and Schadeberg 1979: xi) and, interestingly, even by Nabhany himself in his own foreword to Umbuji wa Mnazi (1985: xiii). Nabhany states that he had the idea to write this poem when he became aware of the full scope of the importance and usefulness of the coconut tree. He wanted to explain to his Swahili peers all the vocabulary and the many benefits connected to it: ‘Praises of the Coconut-tree is a poem in which I intend to explain the coconut tree only, by presenting the vocabulary and

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the profits in the things of the coconut tree that I had collected for my Swahili friends’ (‘Sifa za Mnazi’ ni shairi nililosudia kuueleza mnazi tu, kwa kutaraji kuwakusanyia Waswahili wenzangu msamiyati na ada ziliyomo katika mambo ya mnazi; 1985: xiii). Displaying local patriotism as a good Mwamu (person from Lamu), he points out that his use of Kiamu in the composition is because of the superior knowledge about the coconut tree in Lamu, so that Kiamu has the richest vocabulary of all Kiswahili dialects on this matter (ibid.: xiii, xiv). For his elaborations on the coconut tree, Nabhany says, he was dependent on local indigenous knowledge (maarifa ya kienyeji) and he consulted and interviewed those coconut farmers who still knew about all those things (xvii). El-Maawy, in his introductory remarks, points at the historical centrality of the coconut tree for Swahili culture and economy (vii). Obviously, he says, the intention of Umbuji wa Mnazi is ‘to explain about the coconut tree and its usages’ (ix). As a book meant for secondary schools,26 its aim is to enable the pupils to read Kiswahili within its own cultural context (kukisoma Kiswahili ndani hali yake ya Uswahili; ibid.). For this purpose the coconut tree is a particularly rewarding subject since all the areas of social life are necessarily touched upon; he mentions customs, economy, work, culture, workmanship, fishing, transport vessels, farming, healing and building (ix–x). Two things are obvious from these comments (which touch on a question raised by Brown, namely who the poem is addressed to): knowledge and practice revolving around the coconut tree are seen as central and characteristic of Swahili social life; and there are few people who know about all the details of practice and its corresponding vocabulary. Nabhany took it upon himself to investigate and collect all the knowledge he could get hold of for his poetic documentation. Still, he sees himself as addressing his Swahili peers (Waswahili wenzangu), specifically those who are not as familiar with either terminology or practice in the full scope displayed in the poem. While this might hold true for a majority of people at any time, it is increasingly so in a period of fundamental social change, in which the central activities of everyday life are being reshaped. Unlike in the olden days, not everyone is a coconut farmer any more (even part-time), and due to the kind of division of labour that has come to dominate Swahili society with the rising influence of technology on everyday life, the common people’s experience of coconut trees and their produce has greatly diminished. Under these conditions, it certainly does make sense to gather and store a wealth of vocabulary and practical knowledge in a kind of collective memory with the help of poetry, which itself is a similarly characteristic but less and less significant medium of public discourse in social life. Thus both author and editor remark that the poem includes among its addressees Swahili-speakers who are not part of the traditional Swahili lifeworld depicted in it (specifically that of Lamu, providing the setting and

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vocabulary). By explaining itself to these outsiders who are at the same time partly insiders (as Swahili speakers), it somehow invites them to become part of this world, if only in terms of imagination. This implies a conceptual widening of the ‘Swahili community’ to include all those who use Kiswahili for communication and who participate in Swahili life. Whether they are the younger generation for whom Swahili is their mother tongue, or Kenyans of other linguistic and cultural backgrounds, or even non-Kenyans and non-Africans who have learned Swahili and concerned themselves with the Swahili life-world, does not really matter. All these are addressees of Umbuji wa Mnazi. So too are the true insiders, the Swahili people of Lamu who are (still) familiar with the setting described as part of their own experience, but possibly have not consciously reflected on all the aspects of the coconut tree and its significance for Swahili culture in the way that Nabhany does in the poem. Somehow, this touches on the characteristics for qualifying someone as Mswahili (a Swahili person). It is a label acquired through practice: proficient performance of significant behaviour patterns in everyday life, and most of all of Kiswahili. Thus it is common for an outsider who lives in a Swahili context and works hard on his or her integration into social life by improving behaviour and language skills according to the local standards to be complimented with the words ‘You do that like an Mswahili’ or ‘He has become an Mswahili now’.27 This is worth mentioning, since in Umbuji wa Mnazi as well as in everyday life there is no strictly exclusive understanding of insiderness. Despite the general historical antipathy towards the wabara (upcountry people), there are examples of people from almost any cultural and ethnic background who successfully integrate themselves into Swahili society, at least to a certain degree. In this, the Swahili context provides a good example of socio-cultural flexibility and adaptability in Kenya (though it also features an ethnocentric ideology, as seen above). In contradistinction to several other ethnic or cultural communities, the erstwhile crucial criterion of blood relationship and descent increasingly plays a less significant role. POETR Y AND SOCIAL MEMOR Y

Generally, incidents that are considered meaningful and important within society tend to be verbally recorded for others to be made aware of. This happens in societies around the world, in manifold and differing ways. Making something known always has an aspect of making it more important than before, since what has been put into a special form and made public also means it will be remembered. In Swahili history, this function has always been taken over by poetry, probably from as early as the fourteenth century, or even the tenth (Nabhany, in Chiraghdin 1987; cf. Kezilahabi 1997). Poetry in general possesses and evokes a level of

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consciousness of the scene described that is different from an everyday experience of that same scene. In depicting it, poetry represents reality in a way that makes the recipient of the poem more aware. As with other forms of art, ‘it is an intensification of reality’ (Cassirer 1992: 143) and thus enhances consciousness and sensitivity. It is common for poetry to assist in reflecting upon a situation that cultural insiders are familiar with. But at the same time, it presents the familiar in a new light and in a way that explicitly brings to the fore an understanding that was taken for granted as lingering somewhere in the back of the mind, as part of the unconscious and unquestioned conviction of how the world is. The point here is to show that there is nothing strange in thematising things that are supposedly part of common social knowledge. In fact, the clear thrust of Umbuji wa Mnazi is to keep this knowledge common, in order to secure it for the future. Documenting practical knowledge and cultural practice, the poem makes it possible to perpetuate cultural practice and preserve practical knowledge, since it ensures that the information necessary to keep the depicted life going is passed on and thus kept alive. This is a common feature of Swahili poetry, specifically the utenzi genre, and much oral poetry in other Bantu languages (e.g. Southern African praise poetry). Throughout the history of Swahili literature, tenzi (and, to a lesser extent, shairi) have fulfilled the following interrelated functions in society: documenting historical incidents, teaching and enlightening the community about values and moral standards, and transmitting and publicising a partial interpretation of reality in a situation of social conflict and competition. In all these respects there is the same moment of perpetuation that has just been observed: social experience leads to poetical documentation which later becomes a reference point for social memory and thus keeps up the importance of the original event that led to the social experience. The same poem turns from an expression of social experience to a memorising medium of that same experience which is now recalled (mainly or only) through the poem, and in this way the poem works as an identity marker of the speech community that it addresses. It also ensures continuity of self-interpretation of society (and perhaps the balancing out of conflicting views) in that it promotes a common interpretation of history among the individuals in a community. The unity thus is the condition for a common future of society, fed by the interpretation of the past. While in Umbuji wa Mnazi there is no explicit moral didacticism, the poem itself implies that knowledge (the regional culturally and socially specific knowledge that is in danger of getting lost) in itself is of moral value. Thus communal Swahili knowledge, for which the coconut tree is here somehow a symbol, is celebrated as a value in its own right, a value that one has a moral obligation to respect and preserve. Umbuji wa Mnazi therefore conveys an implicit moral didacticism, based on the moralised status of knowledge.

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It is implied that one should know these things, maybe just as one should do certain other things in order to comply with the social rules, for example, of how to be a good wife which are so famously encapsulated in the historical Utenzi wa Mwana Kupona. The explicit moral didacticism there (‘do this, do that’) is related to the implicit moral didacticism here, in Umbuji wa Mnazi (‘know this, know that’). Both refer to an existing socio-cultural framework which determines what is advisable and acceptable in terms of knowledge and moral behaviour. Both link what they deem desirable to a description of what exists already and therefore might be called conservative in outlook or even traditionalist. The poetic description of what is and has been goes hand in hand with a prescription of what should be. In the case of Mwana Kupona this is explicit: the young female is expected to behave according to existing rules which already governed the lives of her mother and grandmother.28 But in the case of Mnazi this happens implicitly: all information about the coconut tree that is listed and reflected in the breadth of vocabulary helps to create the distinctive character of Swahili life. There is an indirect appeal to the audience to preserve the rich knowledge and practice as part of the totality of the Swahili life-world. This implicit appeal to keep things as they are (or even as they were) seems to inevitably include a vote against social change, and perhaps even against intellectual innovation and enlightenment, but this latter claim would have to be more carefully examined. Indeed, in Umbuji wa Mnazi there is no questioning of Swahili life, nor any self-questioning of the narrator who situates himself within it.29 This was, however, never Nabhany’s agenda; rather, he sought to boost awareness about the wealth of Swahili culture and social practices, and with that to stimulate a certain pride in it. This poem was meant to serve as a vessel for the preservation of Swahili knowledge, and as a prototypical example for similar projects in the future. Under these conditions, a critique of its epistemological and moral basis was not included in the poem itself. Nabhany’s own emphasis was certainly on the collection, documentation and preservation of knowledge and vocabulary, and his attitude in following this project was affirmative toward the established practices as well as toward the past. In this sense, qualifying him as a ‘traditionalist’ would not distort the issue (though in regard to his istilahi project innovative aspects of his approach have been indicated). However, it is remarkable that this attitude comes to the fore against the pressures of national politics,Western influence and the global market economy on Swahili life, which in many cases have made indigenous cultural practices redundant. He attempts to challenge the current sign of the times by making a case for a Swahili consciousness in the present that is rooted in the past and nourished by its unique richness of knowledge and cultural practices.

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A P O E M I N S O C I A L C O N T E X T : T H E M AYO R ’ S I D D - B A RA Z A

The most socially significant oral recitation of Nabhany’s poetry that I witnessed was an utenzi composed for the occasion of Mayor Balala’s IddBaraza on Idd el Fitr. This event was in itself significant in several ways. At a time of political and religious instability in Mombasa, when the town councillors ‘rebelled’ against the mayor who was supported by the overwhelming majority of citizens, and when infighting among Islamic sub-groups was rampant, it emphasised the need for and was meant to give an example of Muslim unity. Also, as a festive occasion, it revived a tradition that had been practised during the days of the British Protectorate, before Kenyan independence (and possibly even before the establishment of the protectorate), marking the celebration of Idd el Fitr publicly.30 The young (31-year-old) and very popular mayor Najib Balala had called the Baraza, inviting all local dignitaries and the Muslim citizens of Mombasa to the old government square, just outside the Old Town. At a time when his position was endangered by the activities of his councillors, the Baraza was also meant to boost his public standing and confirm his leadership. Balala, who had become mayor about a year before, had made himself a good name by cleaning up the city that had continually decayed under the rule of his predecessor. Furthermore, he had shown determination to wipe out the widespread corruption in the city and the city council itself. He was reported to have intervened in the dealings of his councillors on several occasions, which earned him their avowed hatred and opposition. Ironically, it was treated as public knowledge that their counter-activity against Balala was sponsored by Balala’s most bitter political enemy, a local tycoon commonly known as a ‘land-grabber’, who was reported in the newspapers to be involved in many shady deals.31 As was also reported later in the newspapers, the anti-mayoral councillors (seventeen out of twenty-three) who had not attended the Baraza, had instead gone to collect their annual ‘presents’, monies for their collaboration, from the businessman. The papers also reported that Mayor Balala had expressed concern about pressures and even threats issued against him from behind the scenes and his remarks were interpreted as signs of fear about his safety. Though I had been present at the Idd-Baraza, I was not aware of any statement explicitly pointing that way. Balala, as the last of seven speakers, had actually centred his speech around an appeal to Mombasa citizens, Muslims and ostensibly also people of other religions, to engage in politics so that in cooperation with the mayor they could try to realise their wishes. He asked for active support for his own position (the fragility of which was publicly known), but also for proposals for what people wanted Mombasa to look like in the future. Highlighting the necessity for the citizens to become politically active in order to attain the changes they desired, he declared that he would represent their wishes on the platform of municipal

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politics. ‘No one can change our situation apart from us ourselves’ (Hakuna anayeweza kubadilisha mambo yetu isipokuwa sisi wenyewe), he said, assuring his audience that the government would not obstruct such attempts. On the religious side, he emphasised that it was high time for Muslims to unite (implying reference to many years of disunity), stressing that it was possible if people set their minds to it. Casting the Baraza as a symbol of Muslim unity, he made two concrete suggestions for reconciliation between the differing religious camps. Firstly, with respect to the recent disputes regarding both the beginning and the end of Ramadhan (when different factions had started to fast on different days, thus undermining not only the authority of the Chief Kadhi, but Muslim unity itself),32 Balala announced the constitution of a committee that would consult on matters of the sighting of the moon. This committee would consist of members of various Islamic groups and be the basis for these matters to be decided regularly according to a consensus of all Muslims in the region. Secondly, Balala called for the organised and serious involvement of Muslims in the then current debate about constitutional reforms in Kenya. Parliament and government had agreed on such a process, part of which would be the consideration of suggestions made by Kenyan citizens and their representative bodies. While Christian organisations had already coordinated their efforts and formed committees to discuss these matters, no such steps had yet been taken by Kenyan Muslims. These initiatives by Balala indicated his commitment to constructive politics (in reconciling arguments, caring for the ordinary citizens, etc.). Nevertheless, this speech at the Idd-Baraza also marked his last big public appearance. Less than a month later, Balala resigned as mayor. The circumstances of his resignation remained unclear and various rumours circulated about it, but the prevailing opinion was that he had been forced to resign. Now a demonstration and even a general strike was called by Balala’s supporters to force his reinstatement, but a lacklustre overall participation in this (and, as it seemed, also the reluctance of Balala himself) meant that the intial public outcry soon ebbed away. ‘Balala’ now had become consolidated as a topic for baraza discussion; the case had not been able to instigate sustained political action. But let us get back to the Idd-Baraza and Nabhany’s poem. The six other speakers included, in order of appearance, the master of ceremonies, a secretary of the cabinet, a representative of the Aga Khan Foundation, the chairman of the Council of Imams, Sheikh Ali Shee, and the Chief Kadhi, Sheikh Nassor Nahdy, as well as the Provincial Commissioner (PC) of the Coastal Province, Samuel Limo. In his welcome speech, Sheikh Matano, the master of ceremonies, noted that Muslim unity should not only be one of Salaam aleikum!, of simply greeting each other and leaving it at that, but of helping each other. The secretary of the cabinet delivered a message from President Moi, congratulating Muslims on the occasion of Idd yet

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Figure 4.2 Topical comment on the resignation of Mayor Balala Source: Daily Nation, 17 February 1999; reproduced with permission also reminding them to behave according to the principles of the national ‘Nyayo-ideology’ that he had coined.33 With repetitive reference to ‘God’ as the unifying basis of both Muslims and Christians, Islam was indirectly criticised, as the Muslim audience was admonished that the practice of polygamy (tolerated in Islam) could increase the spread of AIDS. While the PC and the Aga Khan representative restricted themselves to appeals for Muslim unity and education as a facilitator of progress in the Coastal Province, the speeches of Sheikh Ali Shee and Sheikh Nassor Nahdy conveyed the underlying tensions that their long personal and ideological rivalry had nourished over time (cf. Oded 2000: 49ff). Shee said that although the Baraza showed a unity, there were different thoughts (fikra mbalimbali) within it, and while a political unity of Muslims was needed, so was strong leadership, which until now had been highly lacking. Nahdy’s speech retorted with the observation that Muslims, due to constant internal squabbles, had put themselves behind other Kenyans in various respects, including education and manners. He emphasised the need for peaceful cooperation to overcome the continuous infighting prevalent in the mosques and the media; if this could not be achieved, he warned, it would be severely detrimental to the interests of all Muslims. The recitation of Nabhany’s utenzi34 on Mayor Balala and his Baraza took place at the beginning of the programme, before the bulk of the speeches were given, but after the official photograph of the dignitaries

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had been taken and they had returned to their shaded and elevated seats. It followed the initial entertainment of zamuni dances by groups of young boys, and a perfectly clear and melodious recitation of the Qur’an by a youth from Kisauni Mosque, which initiated the serious part of this festive occasion. After a short dua (prayer), Nabhany’s poem was recited. Nabhany himself came forward to announce that, due to his age, he would not recite it himself, but had asked a student of his to do so. The recitation found attentive listeners who reacted to several phrases and images used in the poem. Many in the audience smiled and nodded their heads, and there were several outbursts of appreciation in shouts of Takhbir! After it ended, Nabhany and the reciter earned sustained applause, and Nabhany was congratulated with handshakes by a number of men in his vicinity before the next part of the programme, the speeches, began. The Utenzi wa Baraza ya Iddul-l-Fitri, written by Nabhany at the request of Balala, has forty-three stanzas, and three issues dominate in the poem besides the general congratulations and thanks for a successful end of Ramadhan: Muslim unity, education, and praise for Mayor Balala. Almost a quarter of the poem deals with the need for unity in the umma, and in equally strong terms, Muslims are advised to push the matter of education for their children with all their might. The rich are asked to provide all available funds to an educational project (which Mayor Balala initiated on this occasion). The Minister of Cultural Heritage, Shariff Nassir from Mombasa, who was not present, was explicitly called upon. The poem reminds the less wealthy to take care in looking after their children, so that they do not idle around in the streets and behave badly (wazurura majiyani/ wakiufanya uhuni; cf. appendix: stanza 26). Not poverty but negligence is at the root of this, says Nabhany, and he blames parents who do not care about what their children do (27). He highlights the responsibility of Muslim residents of Mombasa for improving things, and asks his peers not to sit around at the baraza and criticise others (outsiders) about the bad state of affairs, but to go ahead and provide good education for the children so that they can progress in life and thus improve the condition of the whole community (31–3). In the final part, much praise is heaped on Balala, and the audience is reminded of the mayor’s successful efforts to clean up the city and make it, once again, pleasant to live in (34–8). The usual identification of author and reciter, and final wishes for a good Idd, conclude the poem. This poem represents a side of Nabhany’s activity as a poet that has hardly been touched upon as yet. He regularly produces poetry for formal and festive occasions, and composes it on request. In this case, it is obvious that the whole occasion benefited from the presence of poetry, as it marked the importance and official character of what was taking place, illustrating the main issues to be celebrated and delivered as a prelude to the speeches that were still to come. Nabhany’s poem here succeeded well. While it was

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acknowledged for its artistic form and its complete coverage of all relevant issues, it did not venture beyond expectations. It did not take an independent or original position on Muslim unity or education, but rather proceeded on the basis of a generally acceptable consensus. With its moderate reprimand and criticism, its full and unquestionable support for the host and its respect for the religious occasion, it provided just the right mixture for this public occasion, the Idd-Baraza, which combined the same factors and strived to represent and work towards Muslim unity. CONCLUSION

Except for the last example, all the poems of Nabhany that have been examined here seek to reconstruct and celebrate various aspects of Swahili life, with a strongly didactic emphasis. They do this through historically rooted descriptions and commentaries on religion, material culture, trade and economy, bringing out their relevance for the life of the community as a whole. The poems evoke a rather idealised and static picture of the Swahili past, with their focus on traditional practices (of praying and religious piety, of shipbuilding, of using the coconut tree). These images are then linked to the present in a didactic and, implicitly or explicitly, moralistic manner. In a way the poems imply that the way that Swahili life was in the past is the way it should be. Nabhany’s notion of ‘Swahili identity’ seems grounded in a vision of the past and is specified through language and poetry. It embraces the whole collective of Swahili people, encapsulating the social norms and values that they should adhere to, and it offers a static and protective conception of culture and custom. On the whole, his conservationist poems show very distinctly how poetic description can entail prescription, or at least the marking of a normative standpoint. In this respect, the admirable and seemingly impartial agenda of poetry as a resource of knowledge about the past manages to engage with the question of how the present social life in the Swahili area should be. Ni dunia, bwana, the common saying that this is the way the world is (like ‘such is life’, used to comfort someone after a bad experience), can be used to underline the double-sidedness of Nabhany’s position.35 It can be understood descriptively, as the way that the Swahili world was, and normatively, as the demand that this is the way the world should be. In remarkable contrast to his static conception of culture is his istilahi project of coining new words with old roots, whereby the creative and dynamic facility of language is enlisted to help people cope with a changing world through drawing from their own cultural repertory. However, since this project runs against the grain of everyday speech, practical success is not too likely here. The Swahili world is more open to change and innovation from the outside than Nabhany allows, even at his most flexible. Elsewhere, Nabhany stated that customs stay the same, even if the world changes:

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If the world changes, it is the world that changes. But customs do not change. […] Customs do not change, and if you change them, it will be you who is inside the customs. Ulimwengu ukibadilika wabadilika ulimwengu. Lakini mila haibadiliki. […] Mila haibadiliki, na ukiibadilisha utapo wewe humo katika mila. (interview October 1998; my emphasis)36 As a poetic corollary of this, the traditional rules of poetry have to be upheld and free verse not permitted. Nabhany was among the first of his generation, and among few Swahili traditional intellectuals altogether, who developed a serious interest in conserving not only rarefied forms of cultural practice and language, but also information from and about the past. As has been seen, poetry plays a special role in each of these sub-fields. But surely, Nabhany is not the first nor the only Swahili poet whose work of collecting and composing poetry in collaboration with Western scholars has become an essential part of the classic corpus of Swahili literature. In the nineteenth century, for instance, the Mombasa poet Mwalimu Sikujua was a key informant for Reverend Taylor’s seminal collection of poetry and sayings, still largely unpublished, ‘the Taylor papers’ (cf. Taylor 1891). Later, William Hichens, with the assistance of Sheikh Mbaruk al-Hinawy, published the first editions and English translations of Muyaka’s poems and the Al-Inkishafi (Hichens 1939, 1940). They contributed to the development of a ‘cultural archive’ which was organised by Western scholars but based on the cooperation of Swahili intellectuals. At the beginning of the twentieth century, Mtoro bin Mwinyi Bakari, who had married a German and temporarily lived and taught in Germany, produced his descriptions of Swahili customs for the benefit of German readers, under the direction of Carl Velten.37 Since then, the awareness about the need to organise research and produce documentation from within has grown strongly within the Swahili-speaking community, leading to publications in the areas of Swahili poetry, cultural practices and social history (e.g. Hinawy 1950, 1964; Kindy 1972; Salim 1973; Abdulaziz 1979; Mazrui 1995; Athman 1995). With regard to poetry, this has recently been underlined, for example, by a research project on the long-term history of Swahili poetry at the University of Dar es Salaam for which Nabhany was a major informant (cf. Sengho and Mulokozi 1994), by a publication of collected Northern Swahili poetry of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries for which Nabhany wrote the introduction (Chiraghdin 1987), and by a seminal exposition of the classic forms of Swahili poetry, written in Kiswahili, by a student of Nabhany (Shariff 1988). Overall, this also underlines Nabhany’s influence and activity in this field.38 It seems that the rise of institutionalised, academic or other specialised efforts put into collecting and publicising historical records of social and

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cultural life in the (Kenyan) Swahili area has gone hand in hand with the decline in general historical consciousness in society, which was very much linked to the knowledge and practice of poetry. Before that, familiarity with poetry and other traditional cultural practices had been part of people’s lives, and that itself meant being in touch with relevant social history. Reenacting those practices meant they could not be forgotten. Within Swahili culture, there was no need or incentive to develop a systematic interest in the documentation of material culture and social practices. However, reenacting is never exactly preserving: due to its performative character it is always dynamic and thus never just simply preserved. The re-enactment in the here and now always adds something to the customary practices (even if it is just the empirical reference points and their meaningful contexts) and thus potentially changes it, while it realises and ensures the ongoing tradition of this practice today and possibly for the future. After all, it is not necessary (or even sensible) to describe to oneself what one is doing or how to do it while doing it. Describing and reminding come in as helpful once one is out of touch and losing track. And surely, the less self-reliant Swahili social, economic and political life became, the more it risked losing touch with traditional practices. Thus under colonial British administration and postcolonial upcountry rule, periods in which the pre-established social systems were profoundly undermined or changed,39 the need for conservation and documentation of the past and the formulation of a positive and distinct Swahili identity became evident. Nabhany, with his specific background, interests, talents and training, responded to this need. Obviously, the conservationist interests of internal and external scholars overlap; they are both concerned to collect, store, preserve and display empirically accessible samples illustrating how Swahili life used to be. Nabhany, in various roles as poet, linguist, historian and key anthropological informant, stands right in the centre of the overlapping areas. As a result, Nabhany’s perspective on his own culture is situated in between these various fields, and between two audiences. He presents and represents a distinct image of ‘Swahili culture’ to the coastal people as well as to the outside world.

5 AHMAD NASSIR’S POETICAL MORAL THEORY UTU – HOW HUMAN BEINGS OUGHT TO BEHAVE INTRODUCTION

This chapter concerns itself with the classic philosophical questions of what is humanity (signifying the field of philosophical anthropology) and what is goodness (characterising moral theory). Here I provide illustrations from Swahili social discourse, using sayings and the expressed convictions of ordinary people. There is a shared common body of knowledge about what it means to be ‘human’ or ‘good’ within the wider Swahili-speaking community. I sketch this out by documenting how a selected handful of young men in Kibokoni whom I knew quite well would elaborate on these issues. A discussion of their overlapping and contrasting statements will then lead on to the portrayal and discussion of Ahmad Nassir’s theory of utu, as he presents it in an extended utenzi poem. Sayings express and mark a social fund of worldly knowledge, widely accepted insights into the nature of being human. Their use, by members of the community, characterises a common ground of reference. Sayings reinforce common understanding, and act as guidelines for and reminders of proper social behaviour. This field is touched upon before more complex investigations are approached. Several Swahili sayings are relevant for the characterisation of humanity. Central to this chapter is the saying mtu ni utu, ‘a human being is humanity’. This saying may be a variation or an abbreviation of sifa ya mtu ni utu (what essentially defines a human being is his humanity).1 Yet this should not be overemphasised and the two sayings not generally conflated, as a small yet significant difference in meaning can be argued for: sifa, can, at times, be used to mean ‘praise’ (picking up from the verb -sifu, ‘to praise’). In Kiswahili, the conception of humanity is semantically linked to morality, which is an exclusively human quality, in distinction from all other creatures. This is signalised in the saying ‘a human being is humanity’ (mtu ni utu), where utu has morality and goodness as primary connotations.2 Reflections on the character of mankind and on morality are thus inextricably linked, and neither can be explained without illumination from the other. This basic conceptual relation constitutes the precondition from which individual intellectual efforts at theorising can take off. Another saying can be linked to these two: mtu ni watu (a human being is

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human beings) characterises human beings as social beings. It emphasises that sociality is an inherent part of human nature, i.e. human beings are what they are through the presence of others. And yet another brief and similarly constructed saying expresses caution vis-à-vis the human tendency to use other people for one’s own ends: mtu si kitu (a human being is not a thing). Treating others like things, i.e. instrumentally, to increase one’s own benefit is thus marked as morally unacceptable. Finally, the saying utu ni kitendo (utu is action) marks the actual performance of goodness or morality as the decisive feature of goodness itself. Before the realisation of goodness in an action, one cannot seriously speak of it; one should only call someone else a good person when having actual evidence of morally good behaviour.3 All of these sayings are important hallmarks for the understanding of humanity and morality in the Swahili context, and they will again become visible in the elaborations of utu voiced below. To translate utu adequately into English, one should use both the terms ‘humanity’ and ‘goodness’ in order to make the dual connotation of utu explicit from the outset. The overlapping of the connotations of these two, descriptive (for ‘humanity’) and normative (for ‘goodness’), constitutes the characteristic field of tension within which utu operates. It is the human sphere in so far as it also covers the sphere of moral goodness. Thus utu might be likened to ‘humanity’ used in a moral sense (as in ‘humane’ and ‘humanism’), as with the German term Menschlichkeit. The fusion of the two aspects inherently refers to something like an overall solidarity of human beings. As such, it stands for a perspective which goes beyond that of the natural sciences where human beings are categorised as a certain group of living organisms in the larger spectrum of mammals. That conception focuses solely on biophysical mechanisms and is devoid of the normative implications that utu is all about. Utu is a term of great social significance. As a general concept of morality it implies a number of culturally defined rules of behaviour. But while these rules are common knowledge in the form of do’s and don’ts, there are also particular positions, interpretations of utu by knowledgeable individuals, that go beyond them. Thus it is helpful to distinguish between common social knowledge (as expressed in sayings) and more complex theorising by specific individuals (as expressed in a detailed interpretation of a saying). The two levels cannot be totally separated from each other, as they are interdependent. An individual’s interpretation takes off from common social knowledge; conversely, as a specific moral theory, it may also influence the reformulation and reform of the social understanding from which it draws and which it, again, feeds into. In fact, it is the interplay between the social and individual, the practically established and theoretically reflected understandings of the normative concept utu, which contains the potential to shape social behaviour.

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Here I am interested in that interplay and its two constitutive poles: social knowledge, internalised and passed on through history as a set of rules, and individual theorising as active and creative reflection on social life and its guiding principles. The following analysis of utu deals with all these aspects. Firstly, the presence of utu in social discourse will be exemplified in the ethnographic context, and social knowledge is described and analysed. I will refer to statements on utu collected while asking friends and acquaintances in Mombasa about its meanings and implications. Secondly, I will present and discuss Ahmad Nassir’s poem Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu (Utenzi on a human being is humanity). This poem thematises the popular saying in a thorough description and interpretation. Nassir’s utenzi goes far beyond the common popular understanding from which it arises (and in which it is grounded), and will be discussed as a vehicle of moral theory. As seen in the title, Nassir’s poem takes the form of an elaboration of the saying mtu ni utu, and thus explicitly relates to both levels that I have addressed. His 457-stanza poem is a complex reflection on utu and its social meanings, and his theory of utu will, after a thorough reconstruction of the poem itself, be discussed in relation to the common social conceptions of utu presented earlier. SW A H I L I M O R A L D I S C O U R S E : U T U I N E VE R Y D AY L I F E

For a critical analysis of a concept like utu it cannot be assumed that the English word ‘humanity’ is an adequate translation or the complete equivalent.4 The term in question needs to be situated in the social and cultural context of everyday life, in the context where it plays an important role. As usual with abstract terms, there is no single empirical correlate. In discussions about and comments on exceptionally good or bad actions and behaviour of people in the Swahili context, the usage of utu in social discourse can be observed. For instance, if someone behaves disrespectfully towards other people (especially toward women or elderly people), it might be said of him yeye hana utu (he has no utu), and the same would be said of someone who, because of earlier bad deeds, has a record as a person not to be trusted. Though the word for trustworthiness itself would be uaminifu, using utu makes a statement on the (general) moral character of the person in question. Remarkably good or bad actions are qualified by attributing the presence or lack of utu in the nature of a person; someone either has utu (yeye ana utu) or has none. In this sense, of course, utu marks moral goodness which itself becomes explicit through the good actions that are performed. This is expressed in the saying utu ni kitendo, meaning ‘goodness is action’; it is in the performance of good deeds that utu lies. This saying thus highlights the equality of all people in terms of their moral, even if not social, status. For this reason, another version of the saying is uungwana ni kitendo, referring to the historical upper class of Swahili society, the free men or

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noblemen (waungwana) whose supposed fine qualities of good behaviour are personified in uungwana. The emphasis on kitendo underlines that moral recognition can only be achieved through the performance of goodness itself. The proof of goodness is doing good, the label of real nobility can only be achieved by behaving accordingly. Utu and uungwana are thus understood as qualities applicable to anyone doing good. There is an implicit warning to the waungwana, people of higher social status (wealthy families, sharifu descent, etc.), reiterating that it is the performance (kitendo) of good action, and not money, descent or other instances of social power, that earn people the title of a morally respectable and honourable being.5 In principle, this saying states, human beings are all the same, and to be called a good person, the criteria of doing good apply to everyone in the same way. This theme of equality points to a less prominent connotation of utu: the descriptive abstract quality of being human, in addition to the normative quality of being humane which needs to be proven each time through concrete performance. This points to the fact that (as in much of Western folk thought and philosophy) human beings are perceived as the only moral creatures, even if the ‘moral’ quality here is of a potential nature. This means that human beings are the only beings to which the term morality can be meaningfully applied or who can be perceived as moral agents. On the other hand, bad behaviour that severely violates utu is associated with the realm of amoral creatures, namely animals (wanyama): unyama (animalness); this word also means ‘atrocity’ or ‘bestiality’. These characterisations of human beings as the moral agents, the potentially good beings, are in contrast to animals and their amoral sphere which, if applied to human beings, is the ultimate expression of moral evil.6 Linguistically, utu is constructed out of the semantic stem -tu, denoting a ‘being of some kind’, and the prefix of the noun class for abstract entities, u-. Consequently, one would expect the meaning to be ‘being’,7 parallel to the words ki-tu (pl. vitu, meaning ‘thing’, the ki/vi class denoting especially body parts and things) and m-tu (pl. watu, ‘human being’, in the m/wa class that is shared, notably, with animals). This is not so, however, and I cannot recall any usage of utu in this abstract form of ‘being’. Probably, this would be considered as an empty and meaningless term for everyday use.

Three explanations: utu according to young men in Kibokoni Here I will sketch out the common understanding and usage of utu, which reflect a common social knowledge of utu, referring to three different positions taken by some young men in Kibokoni. Though they used different approaches to explain utu and emphasised different aspects, significant commonalities in their understanding of utu are nevertheless observable. From this, I shall develop some preliminary conclusions which lead on to further questions to be addressed in discussion of Ahmad Nassir’s poem.

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Salim Salim, of Baluchi family background and about thirty years old, explained that utu is very much based on imani (good faith, trust or religious belief). He reasoned this out in the following way. Imani could be seen as an inner guideline to treat people in a good and proper way. Nothing bad could result from imani, because imani itself was linked to and defined by the word of God (in the Qur’an). He specifically exemplified this by focusing on the treatment of other people, using the popular saying mtu si kitu (a human being is not a thing), which stresses that fellow human beings must never be treated as things. This position, he claimed, is already part of imani: acting out of good faith makes it impossible to treat a fellow human being like a thing. It can be seen that the two sayings mtu ni utu and mtu si kitu complement each other, stating the same principle in a positive and in a negative form. Mtu si kitu implies a warning against an instrumental orientation towards other people.8 Mtu ni utu is a positive reminder, pointing at the shared sphere of human beings, humanity, and thereby it implies a moral demand similar to the golden rule: treat others as you would have them treat you. Imani, then, as the source of good intention for any action performed, assures utu or compliance with utu. Concluding his explanation, Salim told me that utu would result in heshima (respect, honour). Heshima is obviously less a moral but rather a social category, signifying a publicly acknowledged social status that someone has, and implying a corresponding behaviour toward that person. To respect someone else (kumheshimu mtu) in the appropriate way and display this in the form appropriate to one’s own status has been one of the ever present tasks in Swahili social life (expressed in greetings, behaviour, language used, etc.). To prepare for this is one of the earliest tasks of childhood education, where the children are taught adabu (good manners). When a child (or an adult) has misbehaved, others may comment hana adabu, yeye (he/she has no manners). In this particular discussion, I tried to obtain a better sense of the religious tones in Salim’s explanation, and about their implications.When asked about the religious significance of imani in his explanantion of utu, and whether utu was an Islamic concept, Salim emphasised that utu was strongly connected to religion, but not determined by it. The most important thing for him was that utu shows itself in all good deeds that are performed, irrespective of the actor’s faith. Non-Muslims as well as Muslims are capable of doing good (having utu), and he agreed that it was possible, though surely not the rule, that a non-Muslim might display more utu than a Muslim. This stress on deeds rather than on religious identity for the qualification of an action as good, i.e. showing utu, is based on another popular saying which Salim mentioned at this stage: utu ni vitendo9 (goodness is deeds). This highlights the performative character of goodness: morality shows itself only in good deeds, not in good thoughts or talk alone, nor in high social status,

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wealth, descent or religious allegiance. However, religion can be taken as a guideline in order to perform good deeds, and in such a way the usage of imani above should be understood. From this, the relation between Islam and utu in general could be described as one of correspondence, not of consequence. It is not the Islamic doctrine as such which necessitates good deeds, but rather the good faith of an individual’s intention when performing an action that makes the action a morally good one. Something performed out of good faith, treating others as fellow human beings and not as things, can be called a good action, displaying utu, regardless of the religious belief involved. Thus in Salim’s explanation of utu, two different theoretical approaches can be identified: a morality of intention, as his last comments suggest, and a morality of performance, as the earlier emphasis on kitendo implies. There was, however, one last question which I put to Salim: if not in the Qur’an, in God’s word, where and by whom is the fundamental distinction between good and bad ultimately defined? But if it is defined in the Qur’an, is then the concept of utu not necessarily derived from it in the last instance, and is it thus an Islamic concept? This seemed difficult to answer, and Salim stuck with what he had stated before. It was true indeed, he said, that the ultimate reliable distinction between good and bad could only be found in the Qur’an as the only imaginable source of criteria for moral goodness. On the other hand, he insisted that utu was not a religious concept as such, while there was an overlap between utu and Islam. Two brothers On another occasion, I asked two friends to explain utu to me. They were two brothers in their late twenties from an Arab family background and they highlighted two things initially. Firstly, they said that utu marks the equality of all people: watu wote ni sawasawa (all people are equal). Secondly, statements made about the utu of a person (yeye ana utu, i.e. he/she has utu) were positive acknowledgements, a declaration that the respective person was honourable (yule ni mwungwana). Utu was described as a kind of religious (or religiously originated) command of Islam, to respect others (kuwaheshimu wengine) and to treat them as human beings. People following this command would show their utu. They insisted that utu was equally applicable to people from all parts of the world, no matter what religion they adhered to. Utu was thus presented as a universal moral concept. Even though it was conceded that the specific rules of behaviour that counted as utu-like were determined from within the Swahili context, it was claimed that in principle utu was still applicable to people from other cultures and religions. To say that someone has utu is to highlight that person as reliable and trustworthy. I then referred to the two possible layers of meaning and ways of under-

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standing utu which are inherent in the saying mtu ni utu. I asked the brothers whether I was correct in thinking that utu can be understood descriptively, in regard to the totality of all human beings as living creatures, as well as normatively, referring to the quality of moral goodness, linked to the group of proven good moral actors. They said that both these levels exist, but it was emphasised that the second, moral, connotation dominates common usage of utu. In everyday life, the whole point of using the term is in regard to the moral order: advising people to behave better, or praising others for having done good and holding them up as an example to others. As one of the brothers pointed out very clearly, ‘there is no bad utu’ (hakuna utu mbaya). If the first, descriptive, connotation prevailed, bad utu would be conceivable in everyday usage, but since the moral understanding dominates, it usually makes no sense to speak of bad utu. In fact, it was stated, bad actions which grossly violated the principle of utu, would relegate the doer from the realm of humanity (utu) to the sphere of animals, bestiality (unyama). Thus in popular discourse, people committing atrocities10 or gross evil are situated outside the human sphere and are referred to as animals (wanyama) rather than as human beings (watu). But this might not only be a dismissive label used out of contempt and disgust. Again, the principle of vitendo (agency, actions) can be applied: one could also say unyama ni vitendo. By committing such a gross violation of moral rules, the perpetrators situate themselves outside of humanity, beyond the community of mutual moral obligation. Outside the moral sphere of humanity, there is only bestiality (unyama), the sphere of creatures deemed incapable of distinguishing good from bad. By contrast, human beings were endowed by God with the capacity to distinguish good and evil. From this point, it seems logical that the performance of bad actions indicates an earlier choice to do bad, i.e. an intention to violate the moral principles governing human life. At this point one can say that performers of evil have situated themselves outside the moral community of which they should have been part. Thus the issue of responsibility for one’s own wrongdoing is touched upon. This might be crucial for a more detailed discussion of morality in popular (and also intellectual) discourse, since it establishes a link to the concept of freedom which again marks a difference between morality and custom.11 My friends finally gave me two positive characterisations of utu as a moral concept, which I will call utu as command and utu as reward. As a moral command, all human beings are subject to utu in the same way. They are required to do good, i.e. to treat all other human beings with respect (heshima). Thus goodness would be expressed by their actions and be observable in actions that comply with the command.12 Another aspect of utu is highlighted when viewing it as reward or praise. Then it is the outcome of the compliance with the moral command that is referred to. Utu

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here marks the achievement of moral status, which is expressed in the praise ana utu (he/she has utu). Not all human beings earn this praise but only those who performed good deeds, who followed the ‘command of God’ (amri ya Mungu), as one of my friends said, or, one could say, who followed utu as moral command. Thus it seems to be the notion of vitendo that links the two relevant levels highlighted in this discussion of utu. Good moral conduct in every performed action is firstly demanded, and secondly rewarded, by utu. And the moral praise also leads to social recognition, since, as I was told, an increase of respect (heshima) is the outcome. Both levels, of course, are also strongly linked to religion. It is God who demands morality and sets the standards for it, accessible for human beings via Prophet Muhammad and the Qur’an. Also, the moral reward, which is achieved by following God’s word, ultimately secures a higher position, according to my friends, not only religiously, in the eyes of God, but also socially, in terms of respect and recognition. Salum Salum, my third informant on this issue, was roughly forty years old, from an old and well-respected Swahili clan of Mombasa. He spoke English well, so that he had the tendency frequently to use English words in his Kiswahili when talking to me. His immediate characterisation of utu was to call it ‘Swahili humanism’. Along with this he emphasised that there was no such thing as bad utu. But while utu was always good and somehow marked a shared condition of human beings (which he did not develop further), he claimed that there were various levels of utu. This would imply a further qualification of moral goodness, beyond the simple fact of having or not having it, implied in the act of praising someone for having (shown) utu when saying ana utu (he/she has utu). When asked about the possibility of a descriptive usage of utu, i.e. referring to humanity not in a moral but rather in a biological sense, as a species, he responded that this was very unusual in everyday life. For such intention, one would rather make use of the term binadamu (literally ‘descendant of Adam’, commonly used as a generic term for human beings). For utu, the moral connotation dominated and was of universal validity, he claimed. Utu was applicable to all human beings, whether they were Muslims or not, or even not religious at all.13 On the other hand, being religious, and especially being a Muslim, helped human beings to lead a good and morally correct life, and therefore, he said, to gain utu (kupata utu) in the sense of moral recognition. This acquisition of utu, again, can be understood as a kind of shorthand for speaking of the moral praise that is earned, as in the common saying sifa ya mtu ni utu (the praise of a human being is humanity). The praises of utu are actually gained. From Salum’s perspective, utu should be contrasted to two other

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important social concepts in the Swahili world: uungwana and ustaraabu. Utu, he said, was very much like uungwana as an abstract quality, meaning good manners and the qualities of being a gentleman. However, he explained, the historical pair of uungwana and utumwa (nobility and slavery) that characterised Swahili social structure for a long time did not apply to utu at all. While uungwana, through its link to the social institution of slavery (or serfdom), is a historically compromised category, this is not so for utu, a moral category which, according to Salum, has always been applicable to all people irrespective of their social background and origin. The other contrasting concept, ustaarabu, is also associated with fine manners and respectable behaviour, as with uungwana. But, he said, ustaarabu differed from utu since it means ‘civilisation’ in a more technological sense, while the emphasis of utu lies on its moral character. To illustrate this characterisation of ustaarabu, he pointed out the example of Egypt, and more specifically the city of Cairo.14 This place would have to be called very civilised as far as technological development (in comparison to Kenya) is concerned. However – and here he was following a common prejudice in Mombasa – there were many conmen, thieves and crooks around in Cairo. The people in Cairo, he said, had a lot of civilisation, but many of them have no morality or goodness (watu wana ustaarabu, lakini wengi hawana utu). This exemplary statement illustrates the distinction between technological aspects of civilisation, ustaarabu, and the moral aspect of humanity, utu. As I stated above, Salum insisted on differentiating uungwana and ustaarabu from utu since they were often superficially confounded in popular usage.

Common basics: utu in the dimension of social knowledge Perhaps the most striking commonality in all these different elaborations of utu by young men of Kibokoni is the claim to its universality as a moral concept. Utu is not regarded as simply a local notion restricted to the Swahili context. On the contrary, it was continually and forcefully said that the Swahili model of utu is applicable to the evaluation of morality in human actions anywhere in the world. But still, this can be clarified some more. Here the characterisations so far given are summarised, before introducing and discussing further information on the popular social conception of utu. While making a case for a moral theory that transcends the Swahili context from which it is formulated, all the positions looked at so far have emphasised a link with religion, and particularly Islam. Religion, and God as an ultimate point of reference, are at the basis of this universalism. The moral equality of human creatures is secured by a God who created them as equal. And a universalist position is made possible by the fact that utu itself is a formal, abstract concept, referring to a moral quality (goodness) that can be recognised or assessed in any concrete action performed. People

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would argue that in every case, viewing the action in context, it is possible to say whether the action was a morally good one or not. The criteria for what is morally good then have to be part of the understanding of utu itself. But this understanding seems already presumed as part of common knowledge in society: the criteria for a morally good action are not explicated, but the morally good way of acting is expected to be known or identified intuitively within the context of social action. Members of society are supposed to know what good moral behaviour is, and the only criteria that have been given so far, namely to act out of inner good faith and to respect everybody, seem to be regarded as ample guidelines for this. If this is correct, it seems as if serious moral conflict between opposed and even incompatible views that are all equally based on the sources of good faith and respect is not reckoned with. Does this mean that the moral qualities of utu are, after all, regarded as inherently culture-specific (goodness depending on the concrete specifics of the Swahili area), although the reported statements emphasise that utu applies to all human beings? Summarising, the claim of utu as a valid moral concept for all human beings could be observed in all the collected statements. This seems based on the particularly human quality of knowing the distinction between good and evil, and the ability to orient one’s actions accordingly. The moral equality of all human beings has also been stressed: goodness has firmly been linked to the performance of good actions irrespective of the social or economic status of the actor. Finally, some differing but not exclusive bits of further information can be summarised from the three different explanations: 1. Utu has been characterised as mediating between an inner (possibly religiously inspired) motivating force for action, the imani (good faith) within the individual, and the subsequent outer sphere of social recognition expressed through heshima (respect). As such, the action-bound moral sphere can be understood to mediate between the personal and the social. 2. As a sign of moral equality among human beings, utu has been linked to a general command to show respect to everyone; as a sign of acknowledgement of good deeds, utu has been characterised as a reward, to earn respect from everyone (having followed the command). This can be called a kind of moral circle of humanity from which each individual actor can expel himself at any time through ignoring or violating the moral demands; he will no longer belong to utu (humanity, the moral sphere) any more, but consign himself to unyama (the sphere of bestiality). 3. Several different levels of utu are said to exist. This would mean that moral goodness is not understood rigidly as an absolute quality which is there or not, but is seen as a matter of degree (one can be more and less

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moral). Furthermore, utu as a moral concept is distinguished from the socially and historically determined notions of uungwana and ustaraabu.

Mtu ni watu: sociality Another popular saying, already mentioned above, might be relevant for a fuller understanding of utu, and that is mtu ni watu, literally ‘a human being is human beings’. This expresses a general anthropological15 assumption about the character of human beings which seems related to Aristotle’s conception of man as a ‘social animal’:16 in order to live, to survive and succeed in leading a life, human beings need the company of other human beings. Maryamu Abudu, in her collection of Swahili sayings, gives the following explanation: ‘There is not a single human being who can live on her/his own without other people, or who can be enough for her/himself (satisfy her/himself) in every respect without needing the help of other people’ (1978: 15).17 She adds that this saying is used to make it clear to conceited people who believe they do not need anyone else that they cannot really be counted as human beings if they do not mix with other human beings and engage with them (kama hatangamani (hachanganyiki) na watu wengine, akashirikiana nao, haihesabiwi kuwa ni mtu; ibid.). This saying, then, marks human beings as fundamentally social creatures. Sociality, i.e. other people (watu), is one thing that marks a human being as a human being: mtu ni watu. There is another usage of the term mtu or watu that signifies people whom one respects and with whom one wants to communicate and interact seriously. In this way, the statement kuna watu (there are people [coming]), can be used as a short notification between friends in a public space, meaning as much as ‘Watch out, behave yourself, there are important people coming (who should have a good impression of us)’. Not everyone is a person in such an emphatic sense.18 This marks a discourse of insiders, and the criteria of excluding others might be ethnic, cultural, religious or racial. For this reason, the mzungu (European foreigner), the Christian Luo, the Indian Bohora merchant, the Mjikenda worker, even when present in the same public space, might not be referred to by local Swahili people as an mtu in this sense, a person who matters socially. This was pointed out to me by several elders, and it seemed as if this usage and some of those sometimes subtle differentiations it entails (one person still emphasised the difference between the Swahili and the various groups of local Arabs) are fading out nowadays in favour of a general group identity of coastal Muslims. In another twist of almost the same expression, comments such as huyu si mtu (that one is not a human being) or huyu si mtu tena (... no more a human being) are made about people who violate moral rules of social conduct. This marks the fact that they are no longer seen as worthy of the respect that one would be obliged to give to honourable human beings. Consequently,

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this would mean that utu can be forfeited, just as it must be earned. These comments are closely related to what was talked about above as catapulting oneself out of the moral sphere. Someone, through their own actions, may no longer have humanity (hana utu tena) and thus may lose the right to be morally respected by others. All in all, morality and sociality have been highlighted as constitutive features of human beings, i.e. as anthropological features in the philosophical sense, as is indicated in the sayings mtu ni utu and mtu ni watu. Both of these statements are reinforced by the saying mtu si kitu. Mtu si kitu stresses opposition against reductive materialist or instrumental conceptions of human beings, underlining that they must not be treated as things, as quantities that can be calculated, taken advantage of, utilised. In effect, this saying is often used to criticise the impersonal or even inhumane conditions of living in the ‘modern world’ where economic principles and criteria are seen to dominate life. In that sense, people criticise living conditions in the USA or Western Europe, often because of their personal experience. The criticism I repeatedly came across was that in such a world people would have no utu (or would not show utu), would not care about others but treat them only as things. But the same features of disrespect for other people and univalent focus on a material level would also be criticised and condemned when displayed by fellow countrymen or kinsmen in Mombasa. These criticisms were often linked to the ‘land-grabbing’ scandals of local politicians and businessmen, as well as reports of corruption on the local as well as the national level in business and politics. Thus, insisting on the fact that human beings should never be treated as devoid of morality, the saying mtu si kitu is a negative enforcement of the positive saying mtu ni utu. Finally, for the explanation of utu, the saying utu ni kitendo situates goodness in the performance of the action itself, emphasising that only good deeds can be counted as a true indicator of the goodness of the actor. All of this links in with Parkin’s observation about the Swahili context that human beings ‘are remade constantly’ in terms of their moral character (or they remake themselves), while their ‘humoral makeup’ is principally fixed (Parkin 2000b: 64). No one is intrinsically bad, and people have the freedom and opportunity to reshape themselves morally according to the example of the Prophet Muhammad (cf. Parkin 1984). For this, moral discourses as provided in religious sermons, for example on the occasion of maulidi celebrations or during Ramadhan, can be used as starting points. But so can sayings or poems, as I have shown.19 A H M A D N A S S I R ’S P O E T I C A L T H E O R Y O F U T U

I now turn to investigate in depth an elaboration of utu as formulated in a poem by Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo, a well-known poet and healer from

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Kuze in the Old Town who also has a home in Kibokoni. Nassir, who is also often called Ustadh Bhalo, was in his early sixties at the time of my fieldwork, but he composed the poem when he was barely in his mid-twenties. His elaborations of utu are rooted in the same social discourse as those of his contemporaries in Mombasa, but his poetical imagery, his reference to the Islamic historical background, and the versatile breadth of his language, give his poetic explanation a unique status. Furthermore, and most significantly for a theoretical and critical interpretation of utu, Nassir does not simply repeat commonly mentioned characteristics of utu, but he constructs his own theory of it. He does this, for example, by formulating an internal order of sub-concepts that create and enforce utu, and by largely arguing for an understanding of moral goodness that is both global in perspective and grounded in the Swahili context. In what follows, the reconstruction and analysis of Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu will take up a lot of space. This needs to be so, however, since the specific points of the interpretation of utu as coined by Ahmad Nassir have to be carved out against a background of social knowledge that is largely similar in its basic aspects. The specifics of individual theorising will only become visible when worked out in detail, in contrast to general features that are already known and can be taken for granted as a starting point. A cursory summary presentation of the major arguments is inappropriate, as it would not take seriously the artistic form used and the theoretical argument made by the author, or the reader as a person of independent judgement. As simplification must be avoided, the reconstruction of the poem and its moral theory has to be developed from within the text itself. Rather than imposing an interpretation from outside, a detailed account of the poem will be provided, using many illustrative quotations (in the original and translation). This procedure does seem crucial, particularly as problems of an imposed reading have just been discussed in the previous chapter (with regard to Brown and Nabhany).

Introducing the author Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo was born in Mombasa in 1936, into a Swahili family of partly Indian background20 which has a remarkable variety of healers, poets and some scholars in its ranks. Most notable in this respect is his younger brother Abdilatif Abdalla who became famous for his collection of poems, Sauti ya Dhiki (1973), written when he was imprisoned by the Kenyatta regime for political criticism.21 Nassir’s cousin, Juma Bhalo, is among the most famous t’arab-singers along the Swahili coast; many of his songs were written by Ahmad Nassir. His older brother, Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir (see Chapter 6), was a successful politician in the late 1950s and is among the most well-known and respected yet controversial religious scholars of Mombasa. His mother, the late Maryam Ahmad (who died in

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Figure 5.1 Ahmad Nassir (Juma Bhalo), 1999 Picture by the author

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2000) was a well-known healer who also had a profound knowledge of Swahili culture and language. Apart from being a poet, Ahmad Nassir also stepped into her shoes as a healer, another profession in which he enjoys a high reputation. He spends long hours with patients who come to visit him at his home. Furthermore, Nassir is also a talented painter. Impressive proof of this activity still adorns his living-room, and it is documented that in his youth he had worked ‘as a sign painter in the docks of Mombasa’ (Harries 1966: xvii). Ahmad Nassir himself is one of the most notable current Swahili poets, and there is not enough space here to do justice to his poetical work overall. His most famous collection of poems is Malenga wa Mvita (1971) for which he received the national Kenyatta Prize for Literature in 1972. Earlier, Lyndon Harries had edited, translated and published a volume of his poems under the title Poems from Kenya (1966), and an epic poem with the title Utenzi wa Irshadi had been published locally on a small scale by Ahmad Nassir himself. Finally, another selection of his poems was edited by Abdilatif Abdalla and published as Taa ya Umalenga (1978). As already mentioned, Ahmad Nassir is not only an accomplished poet, but also a much sought-after traditional healer. Many of the intellectually active people that I got to know in Mombasa and the Swahili coast at large made a point of emphasising how much they appreciated the verbal artistry of Ahmad Nassir. His dazzling constructions, the wide scope of his language (drawing from the many dialects of Kiswahili, and knowing the antique form of Kiswahili, Kingozi) and the depth of meaning of his poems are among the most lauded elements of his poetry. But not only the intellectuals cherish his verses. Popularised by the voice of singer Juma Bhalo and his t’arab band, many of the wimbo of Ahmad Nassir have become the favourite lines of young and old in Mombasa, and especially the female population, the t’arab specialists. Truly a child of Mombasa, he often emphasises his patriotic feeling for the city, and especially the township of Kuze where he was born. Naturally, his favourite poet is Muyaka, who in his own work literally documented Mombasa life of the nineteenth century, and partly personified its literary history.22

Reconstructing the poem Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu was composed in 1960, during Ramadhan,23 when Ahmad Nassir was only 24 years old (Nassir 1979: 3). This is an astonishingly young age for such a mature poem, giving thorough advice on many aspects of life, even on the relations between spouses. As far as I can tell, the poem is not widely known in the Old Town, but everyone I showed it to highly appreciated it, often indicating that all the important meanings of utu had been successfully encapsulated (completeness seemed an important criterion when judging intellectual work). Such comments suggest that

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there is a given sum-total of the common Swahili folk-knowledge of utu, which everybody could or should know.24 As Ahmad Nassir says in his preface, ‘the intention for composing it is to explain in a pleasing and decorative way those things that will be of profit to the reader and listener’ (p. 1). Here again the poet puts himself at the service of society as a conscious and conscientious teacher of social values who uses his personal talents that he was fortunate to have from God (ibid.) for the benefit of society. The poem itself has 457 stanzas, organised in the following sub-sections: chanzo (beginning), dhamiri (intention), upendano (mutual love), mazingatio (things to remember), unyumba (the domestic sphere), pendekezo (opinion), mbasi mwema (a good friend), zinduka (wake up), mtunzi (composer), umalizo (end). The general patterns of the utenzi form are followed: the classical rhyme scheme is kept throughout the poem, and so is the usual order of compository parts, i.e. starting with an invocation of God and ending with a short self-description and the date of the composition. Before an interpretation and discussion of the central passages, each section needs to be recounted. Chanzo, the beginning, opens by praising God and his unique and unbounded qualities (stanzas 1–9), to which the poet then compares his own limited capacities. Being dependent on God’s goodwill for his own success, he asks God to support his efforts to provide his fellow human beings with good advice about life. A blessing is requested to strengthen and spread the poet’s word so that it travels far, reaches many people and lasts long (10–16). The narrator confidently tells men and women to stop their endeavours, assemble in front of him and listen (17–18). He asks the people for a chair to sit on so that he can recite his poem and provide them with his advice. This is a well-established motif at the beginning of Swahili poems, and much time is spent describing the chair required, pointing out that the very special message brought by a virtuous poet needs to be delivered from a very special chair (19–27). Valuable cloths, diamonds and other decorations are demanded: the chair itself must be made of ebony, and its craftsman from Japan, or at least from China or India (24–25). The poet asks to be called only after the chair is completed, so that he can finally convey his message to the people in an adequate setting. Once he is seated, the people must sit down calmly and listen attentively. They should bring their books, valuable paper and black ink to write down (and even decorate with saffron!) the words that the poet is about to say (28–33). Obviously, this whole passage serves to build up tension and expectations in the audience. All this underlines the importance and the value of the advice about to be given, and the supposed quality of the poem itself. It points to an accomplished poet as its source. But the poet is not the ultimate source; he needs God’s support in order to succeed, and so finally

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everything points to God who provided the poet with the talents to convey a message so valuable that it almost seems to come from God himself. Within these stanzas that play in an imaginative realm, before the poem and yet already part of the poem itself, the poet introduces himself almost as a messenger of God while conveying insights into human life and its problems to his fellow human beings: ‘I would like to tell them in a poem / that worldly affairs can spoil lives / and the world is twisted / they should not depend on it’ (Nambe wao kwa utenzi / maliwengu ni mazinzi / na duniya ni upinzi / wache kuitegemeya, 14). Dhamiri (intention), the second part, marks the actual beginning of the poem that has only been announced so far. This is clear, as it begins by saying ‘And now I will start’ (Na sasa ‘taandiliza, 34). But what starts here is a declaration of intent, about the reasons for writing the poem, and even the obligation to do so (34–57). As Nassir says at the end of this section, this is still part of the introduction (dibaji, 57) preceding the actual explanation of utu. The most important thing here is the social value of knowledge and the obligation to share it. ‘Therefore my real intention in my heart’, writes Nassir, ‘is to inform others (my friends/peers) about that which is befitting/ proper to tell them’ (41). Although this news concerns the way things work in this world in general (36), and thus there is a risk of repeating what has already been said, Nassir makes the argument that repeating important things is fine, because it is like reminding each other how to behave, while bad or negative things should not be repeated (37–40). For everyone with wisdom (mwenye busara, 42) it is enriching to receive good news which will be useful later. The poem about to be presented is a treasure assembled by the poet, and anyone can make use of it (43). When thinking that this is not good enough, he goes on, we should be aware that our human lives are limited, and that teaching each other about life, and writing our insights down for our children to profit from in the future, might be the best that we can do (44–7) to pass on knowledge so that it can be used is an inherently good thing in our community. If people show each other the way in important matters, they will become well known and their praises will spread. On the other hand, he points out, it is despicable to know something and not pass it on. Thus he urges people to engage in mutual teaching, warnings and the exchange of information. This is the right way to behave in society, even if some people do not want to listen. Na mtu alo mwelevu hateti na mpumbavu Hushika unyenyekevu Si hasira kujitiya (54) And someone who is clever does not quarrel with someone who is stupid

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he will act in humility and not put himself into anger The section ends with a reminder that human beings have not been created as perfect beings; only God alone is perfect (56). Finally, the long awaited elaboration of utu is announced (57). Upendano (mutual love) is the headline of the next section. This is the first main part of the poem and gives an in-depth description of utu in various aspects (58–187). Now the real teaching begins, and the poet appeals to the audience to listen carefully so that they will learn to distinguish good from bad, mujuwe jema na baya (59). Also, they should take their time to ponder about the advantages of love that is about to be described. In the first topical sub-passage (60–9), love (mapenzi) is initially characterised, emphatically, as the starting point of all unity between human beings, a thing that is needed (kitu cha haja, 68) for them to live together, even in religious respect (hata kwa dini, 69). The love that the author talks about is a better kind of love (pendo bora) that everyone should have (62); it is defined by people being concerned about each other from their hearts, and this is why they can be as one (ni kuswafiyana nyoyo / tuwe ni kitu kimoya, 61). However, such love is so rare that no example can be given (63). The next passage (70–8) argues against bad things: uchuki (hatred), fitina (discord) and ubaguzi (discrimination). They are like poison to human peace and unity, which is why people have to put in much effort in order to unite against them. The poet launches an appeal for utu as the source for such unification: Hakika swifa ya mtu ni kusifiwa kwa utu kwa hivyo tusithubutu kutenda matendo mabaya (74) Surely the distinction of a human being is to be commended for his humanity thus we should not dare to do bad things Bad things have to be fought against, things such as oppressing the poor and disadvantaged, which Nassir refers to, making use of another Swahili saying, mnyonge msonge (press/push the poor one, 78). Now, positive qualities are dealt with which build up and strengthen utu: imani (trust, faith), and love in three different expressions, upendano, mapenzi and pendo (79–94). Imani is highlighted as the quality that worthy people give each other, furthering love and unity (80). Upendano, mutual love, is called the wall that shields humans from war (82), while mapenzi

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is equated with peace and light on earth (83). Love is no present for only a privileged few, but is there for all, a good and just love based on equality (pendo la sawa, 84); love which is choosy has no meaning (85). This egalitarian notion is enforced when underlining that goodness is no prerogative of someone special. Rather, everyone faces the task of separating themselves from bad things (87). This can be done by choosing and following the good, thus gaining blessings and peace (88–90). With increasing trust among people who share mutual love, this world comes to be like a paradise (92). And just as goodness is characterised as something achieved by actors through their own effort, the responsibility for something bad is also linked back to each of us (ubaya ni wetu sisi, 95). More emphasis is put on the strength of upendano and the need to pass on the practice of mutual love. Upendano is like light (neema), compassion (rehema) and peace (salama, 97). The need for the right mindset or will for morally good action is emphasised in consecutive stanzas: niya, which can be translated as determination and mental strength (98, 99, 100). All enmity and anger from past grievances should be let go and forgotten, since otherwise the danger of losing ourselves would become even greater (tutazidi kupotea, 102). Ukabila, ‘tribalism’ or discrimination according to ethnic identity, should be renounced in order to achieve unity (104). Here Nassir points at a unity which is understood in global terms: the unity of human beings, of intelligent and sensible people. The strength of this unity is without parallel (105). It has the freedom to proceed as it sees fit, it spreads out, it is feared and drives away all evil. Furthermore, unity has the voice, time and the good fortune to direct its matters in the right way, and it has great value everywhere in the world since it itself is peace of a very strong kind (106–8). Again, ukabila is condemned as a danger to the peace and unity that people strive for (109–11), before a more general reflection on difference and unity is presented. While it is most important to understand that human beings are one people of the same blood – that is why in Kiswahili they are also called wana-Adamu (112), children of Adam – it is equally important to know that God has had good reasons for creating human beings of different shapes, groups and nations (113–14). As Nassir tells us, God wanted us human beings to get to know each other (and for this, we have to start off being different); also, God wanted us to worship him and so he made it clear that good people are those who follow him (115–16). God does not favour the masharifu, the descendants of Prophet Muhammad, nor any famous sheikh, but it is action that matters (117). Being created differently and into different groups is a ‘tough test’ (mtihani mkali, 118) that God has loaded upon human beings. But this is all for the better: it is a kind of education, teaching us about the world (119). It would have been easy for God to create the human world as one, but God has intentionally built

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things differently so that human beings have to make an effort to avoid evil and discord (120–1). In the end, it has to be remembered that all human beings are equal (watu ni sawa, 122), which can already be seen from the fact that they all stem from Adam and Eve. It is, says Nassir, up to us to decorate ourselves with praises of utu (123). This brings us to the differences in gifts and talents among human beings. All are given intelligence, or reason (akili, 124), and hearts (nyoyo, 125). While the mind is occupied with different thoughts, the heart enables us to participate in what we like and to endure suffering. We are provided with patience, eyes to see and distinguish, and even education to explain to us what we cannot understand immediately, pointing to the Qur’an that God has given to human beings (126–8). But despite all this, Nassir points out, it is crucial to be aware that education or knowledge without action is not worth one shilling (ilimu bila amali haifai pesa moya, 129). The poet gives us a vivid illustration of this: Ilimu isiyotenda ni kama mtu kupanda mti usio matunda wala majani kumeya (130) knowledge that is not enacted is like a person planting25 a tree without any fruit nor any leaves growing from it Turning to the region of East Africa, Nassir goes on, rights should be cared for, there should be no hatred but a blessed unity (132). Then the region and its people could be known for their love and unity, and their wellmeaning cooperation with neighbouring countries, despite existing differences (134). Unification throughout the world, says Nassir, is an investment in the future. God gives those who live well together a resting place and a release from anxiety so that their hearts can relax (135–6). Goodness will be with those who unite, and the people who stand out through their trust, good faith (imani) and good manners (tabiya) will increase their value and praises (137–9). What follows is a lengthy description of what good manners consist of and what must be avoided, in other words how to behave as mwungwana, as a gentleman or a lady. For this the notion of heshima (respect) is central: it guides social behaviour, especially in regard to seniors, elders and parents. To illustrate this, Nassir warns us against several negative human qualities as follows (140–4): dharau (contempt), kiburi (arrogance), hiyana (meanness of spirit) and fitina (causing discord and mistrust). He also reminds us that a good person can be identified by his speech, his way of talking (ulimi, 145). It is important to laugh with one’s peers, but not to mock them too

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much since that leads to quarrels (146–7). The best guideline for behaviour is heshima, due respect, leading to appropriate behaviour in relation to all different kinds of people in society. There are certain ways to deal correctly and politely with people on the street, neighbours, friends and children, as well as elders; whoever does so will be welcome wherever he goes (148–53). If we see anyone, a friend, or our parents, do something wrong, we should warn and remind them of what is right, in a well-mannered way and with polite insistence, until they change for the better (154–60). This advice directly concerns the practice of moral knowledge and the obligation of mutual reminding about it which is important for a peaceful social life. It dwells on concrete examples of how to put knowledge into good practice. An insistent but pleasant way of alerting wrongdoers (whoever they are) to their mistakes right away is crucial for social peace (161). The relationship between the generations merits careful attention, since parents and the elderly deserve special respect. Their orders and their advice should be followed. If parents have been wronged, forgiveness must be asked for formally at their feet, sincerely and unreservedly. Then the parents are required to accept and forgive (162–7). Serving and taking care of one’s parents should not be seen as burdensome, since one was raised by them in the first place, putting them through much trouble in the process. In this passage (as in other parts of the poem), Nassir addresses the audience directly for an increased emotional identification with the examples. He recounts how having given ‘you’ birth, helpless little thing, under much pain, having cared for you in all different ways (feeding, cleaning, dressing) until you finally started to get to know the world and experience joy and pain, your parents had taken all kinds of trouble on board. Even then, religious and secular education still had to be organised and paid for (168–79). Thus think of your God and the perseverance of your mother, and do not give her any trouble; if you do, God will punish you on the day of resurrection, and cast his judgement upon you (180–2). Do not offend or turn against your parents or foster parents,26 it is God alone who judges (183–4). Nassir ends this section with a final reminder to take good care of parents, old people and friends, and to give them what they need (185–7). Mazingatio (things to remember) constitutes the following section (a kind of interlude). This passage serves as a reminder and summary of the teachings given so far. Its focus is mainly on the relation between the individual human actor and God who is in ultimate charge of everything. The first advice is a warning against material greed, whether it is eyeing the wealth of others or disregarding others because of their poorer status (188– 98). We are reminded that it is God who gives and takes, and since either can happen to anyone, we should always be honourable and not seek friends

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or allies out of economic considerations. In fact, the rich and poor should live together in trust (kite) and kindness (hisani). In times of trouble, one should persevere. God gives all people their lot to carry, and one should not lament. God is always watching, and after periods of suffering he will bring about joy. Thus it is good to show patience and calm even when hurt. In the world, there is happiness and pain, and God provides for and takes from human beings (199–205). Remember, says the poet, that you can go back and forth, but do not long for anything that is too big for you. If you obtain something, thank God for it, even if it is small, and use it carefully (206–7). In a final stanza against greed and self-interest, Nassir illustrates the point at which dignity is lost. If you are not satisfied with what God gives to you, he points out, be aware that you are a creature that cannot be satisfied with anything (Na iwapo hutosheki / kwa akupecho Khaliki / elewa na makhuluki / hawezi kukutosheya, 208). In contradistinction to such despicable behaviour, the right thing to do (jambo bora, 209) is to perform your actions with your best efforts while asking God for assistance. This is what is expected from us as human beings. If we do not act like this, we should know that we are lost (Hivi ndivyo ipasavyo / nasi na tutende vivyo / tukitotenda vilivyo / tujuwe tutapotea, 210). This last stanza of the passage highlights a central feature of Nassir’s moral theory, namely self-reliance and responsibility for one’s actions: Kwa hivyo ni juu yetu kupamba wakati wetu kwa vitendo vya kiutu tujuwe jema na baya. (211) Thus it is upon ourselves to decorate our time with deeds of utu we should know good and bad. Here freedom of action is put into central focus. Such a conception of freedom leads to an understanding of responsibility (and guilt), since it presupposes consciousness of an alternative choice of action that could have been made by the actor. This explicitly excludes a deterministic position. From now on, in dealing with Ahmad Nassir’s poetic elaborations as a theory of humanity (utu), we are talking about moral theory in a stricter sense, based on a conception of freedom of action. Nassir stresses that it is up to each individual actor to decide whether to act in a way that takes utu, i.e. humanity in a strong moral sense, as a guideline. Unyumba (the domestic sphere) is the second major sub-concept of utu, and is treated at length (212–80). Almost exclusively, this section is concerned with the relations between husband and wife. Nassir starts off

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with general encouragements to understand each other (214), to be sensitive and to cooperate (215). Soon, he turns to the men, urging them to be good husbands and take care of their wives. First, he highlights the responsibility that husbands should shoulder, both in a financial and in a moral sense. They should be aware that ‘a wife is like a child’ (221), she needs to be guided. However, much care should be taken to investigate any allegations of wrongdoing, for an unwarranted reproach can undermine trust and the relationship itself just as much as mischievous rumours coming from the outside. Addressing wives, the poet points out five major blessings (radhi, 228–30) as the key personal reference points for orientation in life: God, the Prophet Muhammad, father and mother, and husband. But relatives, neighbours and peers should also be regarded as treasures and treated accordingly (231). The husband especially should not be given any trouble throughout the life-long relationship; after death, God will reward or punish the wife according to the husband’s plea (in heaven or hell).27 Even if the husband gets angry, a wife should not respond in kind, since quarrels lead to bad outcomes (232–8). The couple should devote themselves to each other and not follow the ways of Iblisi28 who is busy destroying the world (239). Further advice is that the woman should take good care of her husband (241), never quarrel with him in front of others (242), and value him and his wishes. She should be obedient, follow his orders and requests, ask his permission (for leaving the house and similar liberties) and be sensitive to his moods (244–53). This inevitably reminds the Swahili audience of the famous nineteenth century poem, Utenzi wa Mwana Kupona, mentioned above. But there are limits to obedience, i.e. when the husband asks something bad, forbidden by the Qur’an. Here the wife must resist and try to talk him into good sense again (254–5). Before turning to other wifely duties, it is stated that human beings are knowledgeable creatures who remember good deeds performed for them, implying the perspective of being paid back later in kind: Na maadamu ni mtu wa kujuwa killa kitu ukimpa ya kiutu hurudi ‘kazingatiya (256) And since he is a person who has the ability to know everything if you give him something humane (out of utu) he will continue remember it In short, humanity pays off. This claim is linked to the human faculty of knowledge and memory; knowledge to distinguish good from bad, and

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memory to recall the good deeds, are described as the basis of moral reciprocity. Further wifely duties are the concrete tasks of keeping the domestic sphere (rooms, oneself, food) clean and pleasant. Firstly, food is highlighted, stressing that culinary knowledge and the ability to cook well is important for every wife. Good food and the common enjoyment of meals can seal domestic peace, while failure to provide it can cause serious trouble (257– 62). Then, women are reminded to always keep their own bodies clean, beautiful and smelling favourably (264–6). Also the house and all clothes should be kept in a clean and pleasing state (267–70). A wife should never talk back or compete with the husband, but follow his wishes and attempt to please him in every way. This includes their sexual relationship. Mutual sexual desire and activity, Nassir points out, is indeed also part of utu (nyege ni kunyegezana/ ndicho kiutu sikiya, 272).29 A well-mannered wife will be praised by everyone, and a place in heaven is certain for her (276). As a final general reminder, the world is characterised as having a poisonous taste for someone who is overly hasty and eager. Also, the world is a shadow that does not stand fixed in the way; bad days will pass (and better days will always emerge afterwards), so the woman is advised not to lose her mind over this: Usipoteze akili ulimwengu ni kivuli hakisimami na ndiya (279) Do not lose your mind the world is a shadow that does not stand in the way. Pendekezo (opinion, guidance) focuses on one piece of advice: if you go to a strange land, adapt to the local customs. This is expressed in a popular Swahili saying, and Nassir quotes a version of it: ‘If you go to the blind, close your eyes tightly’ (286).30 During my stay in Mombasa, this was often quoted to me. Possibly its popularity points at the long intercultural history of Swahili society, with the integration of outsiders as one of its central features. Thus the consciousness of the importance of this saying for a balanced social life is very high. Concretely, people are advised not to quarrel, and to be cautious and polite in how they air their wishes and opinions so that no offence is caused. Adults and children should take care to behave well, so that respect (heshima) will be shown to them (287–90). Even if you are shown disrespect and contempt, says Nassir, you should not react with hatred, but rather increase your kindness so that the other will finally agree with you (291). Such kindness is important, since as a stranger one is inexperienced and

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vulnerable. If actions are taking place which one cannot tolerate or endure, one should stay away. And it is not advisable to interfere with other people’s business. That way one cannot be hurt. If asked for advice or opinion, the poet advises, think and answer very carefully; likewise, if something troubles you, think a thousand times before acting about it (292–6). Mbasi mwema (a good friend) provides us with ten criteria of how to recognise a real friend who can be trusted. Introducing this, Nassir points out how important it is to be able to assess the moral character of a person (297–8). If you want to find out the real character of someone, you have to observe and assess that person carefully. The first criterion for a sincere friend is help and assistance in urgent and difficult matters (300). The second is that for services no payment would be asked for or accepted (301). As a third, Nassir mentions that valuable things can be given to that person and will not get lost (303). The fourth one is a trick: pretend to seek assistance for something bad; if you obtain it, you can be sure that is not the right person. A real friend would warn you and stop you (305–7). The fifth trait is when someone supports you in discussion and stands by you (308), and the sixth is friendly awareness: if danger is seen, you will be warned and protected (309–10). The seventh is that your economic state does not matter for the friendship: a true friend would never avoid you on the street if you became poor (310). The eighth sign is being able to keep a secret (311), while the ninth is worried concern in case you are sick (312). The tenth and final criterion for a good friend is the way a person speaks: examine it secretly; if he/she does not twist his/her words (but speaks straightforwardly), that is good (315). Nassir finishes this section saying: Hizi ndizo mashuhuri alama zilo dhahiri nanyi fanyani nadhari mupeleleze duniya (316) These are well-known signs that are evident so take care, all of you do check out the world Zinduka (wake up!) is the second longest part of the poem; it invokes Islam and Islamic history while also engaging in criticism of social life in Mombasa. Yaani ubora wetu kwa killa aliye mtu ni kujipamba kwa utu akasifiwa twabiya. (318)

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It means our goodness for anyone who is a human being is to decorate oneself with utu then they will be praised for their manners Such manners and moral qualities are called up in the following. Human life is a test that we are submitted to by God (320), and since God is aware of everything that we do, we should never do bad things, not even secretly (321–2). Keep in mind, Nassir tells the audience, that it is moral action that matters to God for calling someone a good person (Mtukufu kwa Rabbana/ ni atendae ya ndiya, 323). Thus one should not present oneself as good; that is the decision of the infallible God alone (324). Human beings are advised to live well, in love and solidarity with others, not bothering about their status or wealth (325). In religious worship, they must not succumb to the temptations of the devil (327); otherwise, the qualities of having respect (hishima, 328) and being truthful (tuwe na ukweli, 329) are highlighted. One should never be conceited about the possession of wealth or beauty: both are easily lost (330–1). Now, before starting off a long series of invocations of immaculate examples of moral heroes in the history of Islam, the poet asks the listener in which direction he is moving: considering the fact that, like everyone, he will also stay with his friends, will he lose direction, go astray and take the wrong way? He asks whether any current examples of outstanding moral behaviour can be named, before exclaiming that all of them have died (333). He calls out the famous names of Mukh’tari (a praise-name of the Prophet himself), Abubakar and Ali, and also of Uthman, Ali’s sons Hassan and Hussein, and Miqdad and his wife who were following Prophet Muhammad and fighting for the cause of Islam (334–40). He asks where all of them are today (when there is a new need for them), and he even recalls Antari, a pre-Islamic hero who was known for his courage (341; cf. ibid., p. 40). In contrast, contemporary life (in 1960) is said to be dominated by immorality, and Nassir asks where the ministers and rich people are; has the ‘arrow of death’ secretly pierced them and made them vanish (344)? Provocatively, he also asks how many religious scholars still follow God’s orders, where the praiseworthy religious leaders of today are, how many good sheikhs and sharifs have left the earth, and how many violent persons are around committing crime and sin (345–8).31 These questions cast contemporary morals in a very bad light, even and especially its religious leaders. Utu is lacking everywhere. Public criticism of such leaders by laymen (i.e. not formally trained ulama or wanavyoni) is extremely rare. Here Nassir makes his disquiet (which is probably widely shared) clear, while not attacking anyone in particular. Appropriately for a poem that dwells on utu in general, the allusions are used by Nassir to raise

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awareness about the current bad situation, indirectly encouraging his peers to do something about it themselves and thus to fill the dearth of moral heroes. Nassir goes on to mention the ancient Egyptian Pharaoh who chased Moses, as well as several other cruel opponents of religion, highlighting that in the end all of them had to take the ‘long journey’ (safari ndefu, 354) of death that everyone has to face. Further reflections on death follow, reminding the audience that no one can escape from it (355–7). Now an explicit call to awaken follows: wake up and know yourself! (Zingatiye ujijue); where will you be tomorrow in front of your God, asks Nassir (358)? Nassir combines a reminder that after death waits God’s reward or punishment for one’s deeds on earth with yet another appeal to behave well in life. The good deeds in life will serve as torchlights afterwards in the dark of the grave (376–8). It is here that the angels will come and interview you on your life (380). With further admonition to do good, the poem proceeds with detailed descriptions of local Islamic burial practices that await each member of the audience (the washing of the corpse, the mourning, the sewing in, etc.; 387–413). Finally, the family, relatives, neighbours and friends of the deceased are presented in their grief (415–20). The listener is asked to ponder on this occasion which will surely come, and to take it as a starting point to lead a good life in the face of God’s decision on the day of resurrection. ‘Better follow religion’ (ubora andama dini, 430) is the last saying that Nassir coins in this part, before illustrating this point in the poem’s final meaningful picture: Ushikapo mausio na kuabudu Molao juwa umepata ngao ya akhira na duniya. (431) When you have taken in the commands and worship your God know that you have obtained a shield in this world and thereafter32 This was the last substantial section of this poem, and the two concluding sections are a short description of the composer, Mtunzi (432–44), and a conventional ending of an utenzi, Umalizo, giving a brief characterisation of the poem and its agenda, the number of stanzas and the date of its composition (445–57). In his self-description, Nassir presents his full name, Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo, as well as his artist name, Ustadh Bhalo, and he adds information on his DP award (the ‘Diploma of Poesy’, awarded to him in the 1950s).33 He states that he is from Kuze, Mombasa, which itself was earlier called Kongoweya (435).34 The remaining stanzas of this part are spent in praising God and asking for his blessings for human peace (436–

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44). This begins with an affirmation that it was Ahmad Nassir himself who wrote this poem and named it. While this sounds quite superfluous, it might be considered as a kind of copyright procedure: if these statements are part of the poem itself, any performer who would attempt to present the poem as his own would have an incomplete composition.35 Nassir also points out that he has presented his teachings respectfully, with good conscience and in the best knowledge; in case he has made any mistakes he asks not to be scorned, since as a human being he is prone to make mistakes. But again he stresses that, as far as he can tell, everything is correct, and he would not change one bit of it (447–8). Finally, he gives the number of stanzas (449– 51) and the date of composition in terms of the Islamic and the Christian calendar (452–6). Nassir closes in saying ‘let us ask for peace, in this world and thereafter’ (Sasa tuombe salama / ya akhira na duniya, 457). N A S S I R ’S M O R A L T H E O R Y I N C O N T E X T : A R G U M E N T S A N D LINKS

A remarkable feature of this whole consideration of morality in a Swahili context has been the ahistorical character of utu as it has been presented, even when illustrations are contextualised. This appears familiar as it concurs with certain traditions in Western philosophy: values are conceived of, or meant to be, timeless or, rather, valid beyond time. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile to reflect on the relevance of historicity to the topic of morality, and for the poem, before summarising the main features of Ahmad Nassir’s theory in a final discussion. It is noteworthy that Ahmad Nassir still agrees wholly with this explication of utu that he wrote almost forty years ago; he confirmed this to me repeatedly during our conversations. Of course, this does not mean that he sees society itself as static, nor that he regards life in Mombasa, or its standards of acceptable behaviour within the Muslim community, as unchanging. But the general orientation of his thinking about moral values has stayed the same; it is not (and was not) formulated as a contingent or passing idea, but as resting on basic principles that were found and shaped within his thinking. Still, as has been seen, a number of aspects of utu were elaborated in concrete descriptions which were indeed part of historically changing aspects of society that have more to do with morals than morality. These parts, I think, can be quite easily identified as the weaker sections of Nassir’s poem, notably the section on unyumba, the domestic sphere. The projected ideal of the relationship between husband and wife is less convincing because it remains so closely bound to the contingent Swahili context. History and culture mark two aspects of this contingency. What might look balanced and acceptable overall from a Swahili perspective looks very male-centred and biased from another; and this discredits the poem’s claim to universal validity. What might have looked progressive and balanced then might

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be much less acceptable now, and this undermines the claim to a lasting theoretical value. For his description, Nassir draws from (more or less) conventional Swahili gender roles and their power relationships, and even if his position was progressive for 1960, and for some might still be so today, Nassir’s reflections at this point become entangled in a discourse of patriarchal power. (After all, he reminds his audience that ‘a wife is like a child’ (221), still a rather standard view among Swahili men.) And while he insists that the husband should take good care of his wife, he also insists on the wife’s submission as the only morally correct attitude. To please and comfort the husband and to serve him (as long as he does not ask for anything immoral) is a wife’s task. At her husband’s disposal, clean and adorned, she must follow his directions. This includes dependency on her husband’s permission to leave the house or to follow a profession of her own. Now such requirements were already partly out of date in Mombasa during the late 1990s. Even though these rules are still largely followed, discontent with the male-centred vision of life that formulated them is evident among women. Some of them, not always successfully, press to attain higher education, to choose their future spouse themselves and even to have a job. Women do walk through the streets of the Old Town during the day and in the evenings, mostly in groups but also alone, and husbands, brothers and fathers might not always be successful in trying to hinder them from doing so; more significantly, they would not always try. This, on the level of principle, would not have to be seen as indications of moral decay, while at the level of practice it easily is. Even men, because they too seek to choose their spouse themselves or simply have a different idea of the marriage relationship, would nowadays not always agree on the poem’s basic characterisation of unyumba. Nevertheless, it is conceivable that a majority of men and women would still assent to this model. In sum, the regulative picture that Nassir casts in this section is of much more limited value and validity than the rest of his elaborations on utu, where a more abstract and theoretical approach sustains the overall argument. The section Upendano, mutual love (or ‘loving another’), is fundamentally relevant for the theory of moral goodness developed in the poem. In this part, basic conceptions of human equality, moral knowledge, freedom of action and moral responsibility are established as parts of utu. Nassir sketches out an ideal kind of love (pendo bora, 62) that all human beings should have for one another. Marked by true mutual concern for each other, this is the precondition for human beings to live as one (kitu kimoja, 61). But the author admits not being able to give any existing example of such love (63). Love is thus used as a regulative principle. Rather than being an empirical fact of human life it is a moral demand on individual human

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Utu: from human potential to do good to the distinction of ‘having done good’

UNITY umoja

acquisition of

knowledge of ujuzi

UTU

EQUALITY usawa

obligation to

showing performance of

ACTION kitendo

FREEDOM (responsibility)

Putting moral knowledge into action, or realising moral knowledge Figure 5.2 Utu – the cycle of demand and reward beings. As such, love characterises a task that is inherent in the hypothetical statement that has just been related: if you want to live in peace with others, you have to give such love. The bottom line is: if you want the ideal world to have a chance to come about, you have to act as if you were already part of it (somewhat like Kant’s regulative idea of goodness). Nassir aims at this when he says of love that it is a necessary thing and the beginning of unity (mapenzi kitu cha haja/ ndicho kitu kimoja, 68). This conveys what could be called a circle of the moral sphere: what is aspired to in the end already has to be presupposed in the beginning; to become part of the morally good world one has to act as if one were already living in it. In such a way, through our moral imagination, we can be aware of an ideal love and use it for our orientation without yet having experienced it. Such love presupposes the equality of all human beings, as it is pendo la sawa, an egalitarian love (84). Love that is selective, we are told, has no meaning (halina maana) but causes bad things (kuzusha ubaya, 85). This shows a fundamental conception of human equality that Nassir’s elaboration of utu works with. This does not mean that all people are the same, or

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that there are no differences between them. Nassir regards the differences in appearance of human beings as a ‘tough test’ of God which is good for them because it poses a challenge (117–23). The moral equality of all entails egalitarian love as a precondition if discord, hatred, discrimination, jealousy and quarrels are to be surmounted (70–8). Again and again, as part of utu, Nassir emphasises the necessity to imagine and create an all-embracing, truly global human unity, without any ukabila (ethnocentrism, tribalism). He has reconfirmed this point emphatically in several interviews, pointing to the fact that ethnicity is simply an identification card (kabila ni kitambulisho tu). Accordingly, utu is not a concept exclusively for and by Swahili people or Swahili speakers, but for all human beings who show their utu as part of such a moral unity. However, it is up to us to realise our potential membership in the moral community, to decorate ourselves with utu (123). This underlines the moral responsibility of us individually as moral agents. We are responsible for good and bad actions (95), because as human beings ‘we should know good and bad’ (tujuwe jema na baya; 211; my emphasis). Moral knowledge is the basis of responsibility. We human beings have this knowledge because God taught it to us (explicitly in the Qur’an), together with his recommendations to follow the good way.36 We are, however, says Nassir, not determined by God to perform in the morally good way (if we were, we would not need any moral advice at all), but free to decide for ourselves. This seems why, both in the folk theories and in Nassir’s poem itself, the emphasis on the actual performance of good deeds that correspond to utu is crucial. Performing good actions is the only way of becoming part of the moral community which we are assumed to be part of from the beginning: utu ni kitendo. But if we choose to violate the demands of utu, we put ourselves outside the moral sphere that as humans we are considered a part of. This is when we deserve comments such as hana utu (tena) (he/she does not have any utu [anymore]) or even ni mnyama, huyu (that one is an animal). Violating the moral demand of upendano, as the demand to love or respect all other human beings as much as oneself, results in the loss of utu as a punishment, socially enacted by the community of successfully performing moral agents. Such punishment is possible because fundamental moral knowledge, freedom of action and, subsequently, moral responsibility are all assumed as part of utu. This punishment is also reasonable since it deprives one of the recognition by and communication with others, a fundamental human need. The sphere of sociality is crucial to the human condition (cf. mtu ni watu); but temporary deprivation of it might reform the offenders because of their wish for reintegration. Thus we have a web of interrelated concepts that constitute utu as the exclusively human moral sphere. These concepts signify basic anthropological assumptions, i.e. qualities that are part of the human character,

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globally. Utu, then, is understood as a universal moral concept formulated from within the Swahili framework. Having those basic characteristics of fundamental equality, of moral knowledge, freedom and responsibility, the poem Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu displays the features of classical moral theory. Indeed, there are striking similarities with such deontological moral theories as that of Kant37 in the history of Western philosophy. Such moral universalism from the African context refutes simple dismissals of all universalist positions as unjustifiable grand narratives of Eurocentric origin. With Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu, we are not dealing with a mere Swahili version of this, but rather with an individual thinker’s attempt to describe the general moral character of human nature from within the context of Swahili culture and language. As has been shown, this description and its proposals can well be understood, related to, discussed and considered from a different cultural context. Ahmad Nassir himself would surely explain this with utu. While the basic theoretical statements of a theory of utu are made in the Upendano section of the poem, issues of concrete practical, social and religious context linked to utu are treated in Zinduka. This is already indicated by its title itself: a call to wake up. The poet sees a huge lack of utu and moral commitment around him; people are morally asleep, as if they do not care. Here Nassir attempts to raise his listeners’ sensitivity, their moral consciousness, but most of all their practical readiness to act. As seen above, all goodness manifests itself only in action: utu ni kitendo. By increasing awareness of the lack of utu in social life, Nassir wants to instigate vitendo vyema (good actions) and thus help to increase the amount of utu. Reduced to its essentials, Nassir emphasised in an interview, utu hinges on good actions: utu, kwa jumla, ni vitendo vyema (‘utu, in general, means good actions’).38 The poet proceeds with his practical concern by referring to heroes of Islamic history and pointing out the lack of similarly morally committed people in Mombasa. The town is pictured as saturated with hypocrisy. Nassir thematises this in rhetorical questions: about the wealthy and respected who enrich themselves from the deceased, about whether there are still religious scholars who follow God’s orders and about the high rate of crime and violence (344–8). The example of religious heroes is meant to encourage the listeners to follow such a path in doing something against the further spread of moral decay. Importantly, it also marks a sharp distinction between the pure doctrine of Islam (recommended as a guideline for the individual listener) and the sad state of affairs of current Muslim society. Such criticism underlines, according to Nassir, that no one is above the law, that social status offers no guarantee of moral standing. This may encourage the listeners to become less status-focused and more free and self-reliant in evaluating their own actions. The direct relation between the individual and God is stressed in terms of moral orientation and accountability for

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one’s actions. Life is seen as a testing of individuals by God. Being advised to live according to God’s wishes, they are also reminded that God is aware of everything they do. Thus they should never do any bad things, not even secretly, since nothing can be hidden from God (320–4). Ultimately, death is portrayed as the point of moral judgment on life: each human being individually has to account for his/her past life in front of God, and reward for good actions (utu) and punishment for bad ones (violations of utu) follow. While this sketch of God as advisor, ultimate judge and permanent observer is convincing, it also remains somehow hypothetical, with the possible effect of not gaining as many active recruits to utu as wished. Perhaps for this reason, Nassir puts emphasis on the scenario of mortality, with a long description of the grave (362–82) and the whole burial process (392–421). These concrete illustrations may evoke a commitment to utu more forcefully, but at the cost of invoking fear and social pressure. After all, the dark interior of the grave where one is to be questioned about one’s life is not a comfortable place to stay in, and one is only allowed to leave it after sincerely repenting all sins. Also, the thought of all one’s relatives and friends being at one’s funeral may significantly increase the desire to be rightfully remembered as a good person. Here the argument reconnects with the earlier part of Zinduka: everyone aspires to be remembered and be cast as a positive example, just like the Islamic heroes mentioned before. Islam and its history play a more prominent role here than in any other part of the poem, and the relation between goodness and Islam is summed up at the end: it is better to follow religion (ubora andama dini, 430). But this, as Nassir assured me, does not mean that utu is itself a religious term or that it is exclusively modelled around Islam; it should be understood as universally valid and globally applicable.39 To say that it is better to follow religion rather confirms the conviction that true religion always leads to good actions and never to bad ones, which is why religion – not simply the word of religious scholars – is seen as a reliable moral guideline for the individual human being. Nassir pointed out to me that in Islam, as in any other religion, there are good and bad people, and what the Swahili call utu (goodness, humanity) distinguishes the good from the bad, no matter what religion they have or whether they subscribe to any religion at all. Thus nominal religious faith, whether of Muslims, Christians or Hindus, does not lead to moral goodness, whereas consciously embraced and enacted religious faith leads to the performance of deeds which testify to goodness. Again, utu ni kitendo. With this, Nassir opposes common and sometimes ideologically enhanced or exploited beliefs in Mombasa that Muslims were intrinsically better moral beings than Christians (and contrary claims by the Christians). While for Nassir, as he confirmed to me in interviews, utu is not a religious or Islamic concept, the conceptual framework here is nevertheless

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reliant on a conception of God for the full explication of utu, and in this respect he concurs with common social knowledge. Such reliance is obvious in the basic conception of moral knowledge, providing the possibility of distinction between good and bad. According to Nassir, this knowledge originates in God and has been given to human beings (via messengers, in revelations). This is taken for granted, without any further attempts at explication, as they would be expected and performed in secular moral philosophy. Here, on the whole, human beings are understood as creatures of an almighty and benevolent God. What distinguishes them from animals – moral knowledge and freedom of action – is linked back to their creator. This points to a local general anthropology, or doctrine of human nature, which inherently includes the religious sphere. Nassir’s practical concern in the poetical execution of Zinduka, to arouse the moral consciousness of the people of Mombasa, is related to a final component of utu which has so far not been commented upon: the relevance of knowledge and education for utu and the moral improvement of society. The obligation to share knowledge (42–55), the necessity for knowledge to have practical consequences (129–30), the importance of knowledge and mutual teaching (154–60), these points are highlighted by the author and have to be related back to his own exercise of educating his fellow human beings on utu. Knowledge is consistently portrayed as a treasure that human beings have access to, which should be increased, stored, exchanged and always kept accessible. In his introductory reflections, Nassir relates the poem that he is about to present to this image: the poem is a treasure that is open to any one who will make use of it (43). In his verses he has formulated knowledge which he finds valuable and which he passes on, so that it may be used and further improved. Heeding this principle gives people the chance to improve themselves and society as a whole. Those who keep their knowledge to themselves are regarded as selfish and shameless (50–1). Nassir deals with a difficult practical example of how moral knowledge has to be put into action by assisting people who are in the wrong to return to the path of utu (154–61).You must, he tells the audience, attempt to correct anyone’s bad behaviour, from little children in the street to old people and even your parents. Though you have to treat your elders with respect, that must not mean that you should ignore or condone their violations of utu. This rule refers back to the principle of the fundamental moral equality of all people. Of course, this presents a real challenge. Not only is favouritism forbidden when it comes to the moral failings of one’s social inferiors or dependants, but one’s social superiors also have to be directed towards the right way. This task has to be achieved with much patience, politeness and respect, though with an insistence that the moral demand of utu counts more than personal solidarity with the errant. This passage underlines Nassir’s

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awareness of the social difficulties that can arise when following the principle of utu. Since adherence to utu also means going beyond the understanding that the boundaries between right and wrong are defined by particularistic bonds of any kind,40 this may include conflict with those people who expect support on that basis. The criteria for moral goodness cannot be found in the outside social world, but only in the moral consciousness of the actor himself. Thus there is a liberating effect in taking utu as the guideline to one’s actions instead of social constraints, such as customs and traditions, that are often opposed to it. Such a liberation is linked to rationalisation, since consistent, generally accessible criteria replace intuitive solidarity and bonding. Moral knowledge, instead of affections, becomes decisive. This means moral freedom, but also the obligation of moral action. Thus there is an emphasis on the obligation to turn moral knowledge into action. This link between knowledge and action relates to two aspects of utu itself: the specification of what constitutes moral goodness (cf. pendo la sawa) and the conscious performance of good actions (cf. vitendo vyema) according to such a specification. In utu, moral knowledge and action, consciousness and performance, always have to be thought of together. This is why Nassir is so insistent that no special cases can be granted outside of utu. Ignoring immoral deeds knowingly, whether of a family member or of a total stranger, is morally not permissible and is itself already a violation of utu. Surely, this makes much sense far beyond the Swahili context. It will be agreed that a society in which each individual actively attempts to ensure that the moral principle of treating all human beings with equal respect is upheld at all times and by everybody will be regarded as more balanced than a society where people do not care about what others do, where they condone malpractices because they are committed by friends or relatives, or where violations of respect can take place without any intervention on the part of individual witnesses. Nassir’s memorable verse that knowledge without action is not worth one shilling (129) has already been quoted, and also his comparison of knowledge that does not lead to action with a person planting a tree which bears neither leaves nor fruits (130). This picture points out that knowledge should have practical consequences (as acquiring knowledge should have practical impetus), but it also treats theoretical investigation for its own sake as a futile exercise. Trees are planted by human beings in order to benefit from the fruit and leaves they grow, that is their use and value for human beings. Knowledge is there for the sake of action, for practical application, for sharing and further distribution; otherwise, it has no value. Thus knowledge is and should be part of an ongoing cycle, passed on within society and between generations, linked to the practical needs of social life and aimed at its improvement. Theoretical reflections, in conclusion, are to be developed as contributions to social improvement.

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Ahmad Nassir himself strictly adhered to this position and defended it in practice, even if this meant causing disruption to social events or a dispute with acknowledged scholars or people of high standing. For instance, he told me that once, when he was attending a religious lecture in a mosque, the speaker had erred. Talking about ablutions before prayers, the scholar had pointed out that it was haramu (wrong according to Islam) for a wife to be kissed by her husband after having washed herself for prayers; she would now have to wash herself again, so as to be pure when praying. Not agreeing with this, Nassir interrupted the speaker, objected and asked why this should be haramu. The speaker refused to accept any questions and wanted to continue with his lecture, saying that this was not an occasion to ask each other questions (hii si ya kuulizana). However, Nassir was not hushed by this and spoke up. He asked the man who he thought he was, a follower of the Prophet Muhammad or of God. When the scholar answered the first, Nassir replied that for the Prophet Muhammad there had not been one instance where he would have declined answering a question when people approached him wishing to be enlightened by his knowledge. In fact, Nassir pointed out, the meaning of madrasa itself was fundamentally linked to the asking and answering of questions. How otherwise was education possible? On the matter in question itself, Nassir said that the Prophet himself had given his wife a kiss before she went to pray, so there could be nothing wrong with this. Interestingly, this whole narration had been sparked off when I visited Ahmad Nassir while he was watching an Islamic programme on TV where a sheikh and his students were discussing similar issues. After I had come in, Ahmad Nassir told me that he and his wife had just been discussing this specific matter of ablution, raised in the programme. This episode illustrates Nassir’s practical insistence on principles that he has found to be true, including the belief that knowledge should under all possible circumstances be sought after and given, and should prove to be of practical value. To be sustained and effective in social life, however, this principle needs intellectually agile people who are ready to step in when, for matters of convenience, knowledge is not to be ascertained through common discourse, or when it is used as a superficial label of status and undeserved ‘excellence’ that tries to impress without really teaching. Nassir told me a number of similar episodes in which he had been involved, each time pointing not only to the need for debate and communication so that knowledge can proceed to be practically meaningful, but also to the responsibility of the knowledgeable (but basically everyone) to ascertain knowledge through critical questioning and to apply it in practice, for the good of the community. This is a moral obligation linked to utu, and practising it often means to take the initiative and go against or beyond customs and practices that were established without conscious reasoning.

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Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu has to be understood in this vein. The poem presents theoretical reflections on utu to members of society in order to boost moral consciousness and contribute to an improvement of society itself. The author uses his specific talents in the use of language to formulate a general theory of goodness, applicable to all, in a way that is both informative and entertaining – after all, this is still a poem. While the theory of utu in the poem is Ahmad Nassir’s own, it is inextricably linked to the common social knowledge from which it stems. Nassir refers to many popular sayings that embody the main principles of utu, to Islam and examples of moral fortitude in its history, and to a number of further Swahili concepts that order social behaviour and structure social life (e.g. heshima, adabu, tabia).41 In these respects, the presence of popular social and cultural influences in Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu is evident. However, all of these areas are still open to a variety of different, and possibly mutually exclusive, interpretations. The theoretical considerations on utu as they appear in the poem are the product of Nassir’s personal intellectual and artistic creativity. As he presents his view of utu to the public, he makes his personal reflections part of public discourse, and thus potentially of social knowledge. Nassir, like other intellectuals and commoners I have spoken to on this matter, regards the poet as a ‘teacher of society’.42 Though poets cannot be considered necessarily better persons than others, their advanced knowledge can help to improve social life in general. Poets, according to Nassir, display their utu, and gain more of it, by contributing with their art to the development of the social good. Their particular vitendo vyema (good deeds) lie in helping, advising and teaching other human beings through their poetry. As Ahmad Nassir told me, good acts are good because they are in principle directed at all human beings.

6 THE RAMADHAN LECTURES OF SHEIKH ABDILAHI NASSIR: THE SOCIAL CRITIQUE OF A POLITICALLY MINDED ISLAMIC SCHOLAR1 R A M A D H A N I N M O M B A S A , 1998–99

In December 1998, there was a heated argument between different Muslim factions in Mombasa about the exact determination of the beginning of Ramadhan. As a consequence, Muslims started their fast on two different days, the nineteenth and the twentieth of December. This, of course, should not have happened, and people were very upset. The beginning of the long awaited holy month was now marked by disunity. Ramadhan, the fourth pillar of Islam and the month of peace, reconciliation and Muslim unity, started off on the wrong foot, and it left many feeling uncomfortable. After all, if Muslims in one town could not manage to agree on such a basic aspect of their religion, something seemed fundamentally wrong, and aspirations for the realisation of a global unity of Muslims – itself also a necessary assumption of Islam – may have felt rather distant and unrealistic. Up until about twenty years earlier, many people told me, such a disagreement about the beginning of Ramadhan would not have occurred in Mombasa.2 The disagreement was the outcome of important social and religious changes that took place during the twentieth century (cf. Chapter 3). These changes also affected the character of the intellectual scene along the East African coast and East Africa as a whole, especially in terms of Islamic scholarship.3 Most importantly, the long established regional network of Islamic teaching and scholarship that used to guarantee a regional consensus on such declarations could no longer fulfil its function. By granting scholarships to universities in Saudi Arabia and other financial assistance to coastal Muslims, the Saudi-led Salafiyya reformism had gained strong doctrinal influence, locally decried as ‘Wahhabism’ by its opponents (cf. Chapter 3). It became established as a powerful regional counter-position to the locally dominant Shafiis during the 1970s and 1980s. In the meantime, further similar connections were built up or developed between local Islamic groups and their respective counterparts from countries like Egypt, Kuwait, Iran and Pakistan. This increased the contours of the internal pluralism of Islam in the Swahili context, in terms of scholarly positions as well as sectarian competition. The creation of material dependencies led to new, or enforced, ideological

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loyalties, and thus local support for the so-called ‘Wahhabi’ reformism grew, as did disunity among local Muslims. Many people believed that the disunity was exacerbated by the viciousness with which the bid’a debate was conducted by both camps. Concerning the beginning of Ramadhan, ‘Wahhabi’ influence increased the split which undermined local consensus on general Islamic issues. The reformists had also introduced a calendar from Saudi Arabia in which important dates were predetermined, based on calculations and ignoring the traditionally crucial feature of the actual sighting of the moon. For 1419 AH (1998/99), the calendar had assigned 19 December as the first day of fasting, so the local Wahhabis and their allies4 pressed for this day as the starting point while many other Muslims waited for the actual sighting of the moon. But even on this point no unanimous decision could be reached, as some groups who claimed to have sighted the moon started their fast the following day without consultation with the Chief Kadhi of Kenya who declared Ramadhan to begin a day later. The Chief Kadhi is the ultimate Muslim judge and his official announcement of the beginning and end of Ramadhan should be binding on all Muslims in Kenya. There were similar arguments about the end of Ramadhan leading to the festive day of Idd-el-Fitr. In several areas of Mombasa, Idd celebrations were held on 19 January despite the fact that the date officially endorsed by the Chief Kadhi was the 20th. Disputes about the sighting of the moon were again cited as the reason for this. However, the fact is, as the Kenyan newspaper Daily Nation put it, that ‘confusion over the sighting of the moon towards the end of Ramadhan has become common’ (19 January 1999).5 This rather expresses the state of rivalry among various Muslim groups in Mombasa and Kenya as a whole. Sheikh Abdilahi stressed in one of his Ramadhan lectures that a situation of this kind had not arisen before the newly established reformist groups claimed supremacy. Before, the long-grown network of East African Islamic teaching and scholarship had assured amicable relations, mutual respect and interdependence over the supply and exchange of teachers and students. Under such conditions, the Sheikh said, a consensus among Muslims was always aimed at, and a cordial relationship was maintained, even if leading figures had significant differences on some issues of interpretation. Sheikh Abdilahi referred to such renowned examples as Sheikh alAmin Mazrui and Sayyid Omar bin Sumayt. He recalled an incident when the two had been engaged in intense intellectual argument, yet despite their differing opinions they helped each other into their sandals before leaving the mosque. As local solidarity faded, conflict became public and personal, to the dismay of ordinary Muslims who, as I was often told, were confused by the lack of clear directions for religious practice. Idd-el-Fitr is one of the most important religious holidays (sikukuu), and the social element of celebrating it together with family, neighbours, friends and the Muslim

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community as a whole is central to it. Failure to agree on its timing creates a serious obstacle to the celebration. The need for unity was also the topical highlight at the mayor’s festive Idd Baraza (see Chapter 4).

Saumu: days of fasting Saumu, taken over from the Arabic into Kiswahili, means ‘to fast’ and also ‘the fast’; kufunga is another Kiswahili expression. It is the central term for Muslims during Ramadhan, as it marks the fourth of the five pillars of Islam, the month of fasting. I learned from various friends and neighbours, and from local educational Islamic booklets on Ramadhan, that saumu was taken as a guiding principle which referred to much more than the actual act of fasting itself, i.e. not eating or drinking. Saumu in the wider sense is understood to refer to a whole frame of mind of ‘refraining’, of disciplining one’s own body and mind, refraining from raising one’s voice or voicing bad words, consciously ‘cleaning’ oneself from within, a process which is supposedly supported by or even initiated with the help of fasting in the strict sense. In an educational Swahili pamphlet on the matter, Sheikh Abidilahi himself states as much.6 As one of my neighbours explained to me, the body is cleansed when fasting. All the bad fluids, he said, the dirt and ‘poisons’ get a chance to get washed out of the body. He claimed that this could be scientifically proven, adding that although people feel weak as the fasting proceeds, after Ramadhan is over the body recovers fully and will be much stronger than before. Fasting was described to me as an important test of one’s mental will (niya) over bodily desires. Just as consumption of food is forbidden during the daylight hours of Ramadhan, so is sexual intercourse, and thoughts and feelings of lust and desire should be abstained from by a good Muslim. On top of this, the difficult test of fasting also enforces a solidarity with the poorest of society. At least for this one month Muslims of a higher social and economic status experience what real hunger and thirst feel like. The common experience of fasting by all Muslims reinforces communal unity on different levels. As Muslims in Mombasa take fasting and its notion of self-cleansing very seriously, they try to reshape themselves according to their ideal role-model, the Prophet Muhammad. They show themselves at their most pious and moral. The main task therefore is to build up a conscious will (niya) of moral purity that leads the way to overcome any obstacles to impeccable behaviour. In this vein, people overcome or leave aside their grudges with others. They are more ready to forgive and forget, and many will, as far as possible, not respond to anything that irritates them.This is particularly difficult when fasting, as the natural susceptibility to aggressive feelings rises when people become weak and hungry. Indeed I witnessed a few incidents where people fasting could no longer control their emotions and erupted in outbreaks of

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shouting, complaints or even insults. But these were not representative, as the large majority succeeded – at least in public – in keeping up a calm inner focus and expressively peaceful relations with other people. As I experienced myself when trying to fast during Ramadhan, it was difficult to keep calm during the fast, especially in the humid December heat of Mombasa (with temperatures at around 35 degrees Celsius). But this is clearly the task, and people put much effort into exhibiting their moral self-discipline as good religious practice to others. This is apparent in the visual and acoustic experience of Old Town Mombasa during Ramadhan compared to other times of the year. In terms of clothing, for instance, young women wear their long black buibui in a more conservative manner than during other times of the year, carefully closed and covering everything that is worn underneath, and not, as otherwise, allowing a view of their often very fashionable and colourful long dresses. Also, the casual way some young women wear the veil, where it is stylishly hung over the back of the head while exposing much of the hair, is hardly seen or tolerated during Ramadhan. During these days, many people adopt an inner mission to observe right conduct in public, and posters warning against women dressing provocatively, drinking alcohol, etc. appeared anonymously on walls around Kibokoni. Before dawn and the call to early morning prayers, a particularly resolute religious partisan marched through the streets of the Old Town calling out loud to awaken Muslims early in time to prepare for their religious duties, and reciting passages of how to observe saumu correctly. Overall, a much larger number of men would be seen wearing the white kanzu (considered to be the appropriate Muslim dress, just like the black buibui for women). Many would normally wear it only on Fridays, but during Ramadhan it became the norm. Also the common sounds in the street changed remarkably in comparison to other months of the year: unlike the usual tunes of Swahili t’arab, Congolese lingala and Western or Indian pop music, these days were dominated by recitations of the Qur’an that were played on domestic tape recorders as well as in shops. In the Old Town, many shops would be open, though they would often operate within more limited business hours, except for little cafés, most foodshops and bakeries, and all local restaurants, which would be closed during the daytime and open up after sunset when it was time to break the fast. In the business centre of Mombasa, not many signs would reveal Ramadhan to the untrained observer when looking at the shops, offices and even restaurants or other services. However, going through the Mackinnon Market and along the busy Digo Road, which leads from the centre past the northern parts of the Old Town towards Nyali Bridge and the north coast, a very special conglomeration of food stalls would be visible. Every late afternoon during Ramadhan, small wooden tables were put up and vendors, singly or in twos, offered special items of food that Muslims yearn for in this

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month. One of the most popular foodstuffs sold were dried imported dates which were taken out of their large tin containers and sold by weight in small amounts. As the recommended food for breaking the fast by the Prophet Muhammad, this was possibly the most important item. Equally sought after were young coconuts, madafu, for their refreshing juice. This regular item of the street sellers was particularly popular during Ramadhan. Radish seemed to be another special food item for Ramadhan, as it was usually hardly seen in Mombasa’s markets. Otherwise, a large range of snacks (samosas, ricecakes, etc.), side dishes (chapatis, etc.), and small savoury delicacies which had been cooked and prepared at home were sold to crowds of people who came in the early evenings before sunset. Ramadhan is a special time for food and at home it is customary for families to prepare as many different festive dishes as possible (and affordable) for the family meal eaten after the evening prayers. Among them would commonly be one or more rice dishes, like pilau, and other delicacies, often tambi (thin noodles, like vermicelli), samosas and katlesi (potato croquettes, stuffed with spiced meat or fish), chapati (flatbread) and various sorts of fruit. After sunset, the fast is broken together, if possible with the family at home. For those who have no chance of being in their homes at this time of the day, groups of Muslim men, many of them with Somali features, share fresh water and dates (as was the sunna of the Prophet) along the streets of Mombasa before going to the mosque for evening prayers. Food should be generously shared by those who have adequate supplies. According to the Qur’an, people are supposed to work as normal during Ramadhan (except for hard manual labour). But many people, especially the elderly, need a bit of an extra rest at home, since the fast is very tiring and otherwise they would not have the energy to perform their usual tasks. The women spend much of the day cooking at home, and the heat of the hearth on top of the warmth of the day also adds to the strain. For many, however, it is a challenge and a matter of pride to work as usual, no matter how difficult the circumstances. One friend of mine, for instance, continued working his shifts as a matatu-driver (from five in the morning to around two in the afternoon) pretty much as usual, despite the combined heat of sun and engine that he was subjected to on his drives, while he fully observed his fast. Pious people distinguish themselves by being especially productive. As we have seen above (Chapters 4 and 5), poets particularly use this month to write religious and moral poetry, and the outstanding Islamic scholar Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui is said to have produced more work during the month of Ramadhan than during the rest of the year (Mazrui 1970: 42). All in all, people considered Ramadhan to be a time to be at home with their families, and many would plan their personal business so that they could be at home throughout the month. This meant they would avoid travelling, if possible, and those who were working in another town would often

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take leave so that they could spend Ramadhan in Mombasa. Among them, for instance, was a middle-aged man who had emigrated to Canada and who tried to visit his home town regularly, every year, during Ramadhan. While the Kibokoni neighbourhood was much quieter than usual during the daytime, it became very busy in the evenings and particularly at night, after dinner and isha-prayers. People (almost exclusively men, during this month) met up in front of the houses or in cafés and local restaurants, to chat and catch up on the events of the day until late at night. The street life would include young children playing about for a while longer than usual. I was told that children could be left playing without any worries during Ramadhan, since during this holy month one did not have to fear any evil jinns that might be out in the streets. Indian men spent much of the night playing karata (cards) and carrom (an Indian board game) with their relatives and sons in front of their favourite cafés. Life on the streets was also enhanced by further religious activities when groups of men and, separately, women went to mosques and meeting places for late night tarawehe prayers, unique to Ramadhan. The Swahili restaurant around the corner from where I lived was open until 1 or even 2 a.m., since a number of people came in to have a second dinner in preparation for the next day’s fast. It was here and particularly during this month that many friends and neighbours taught me much about Islam and tried to convince me to become a Muslim. In Mombasa, both the official beginning and end of Ramadhan are marked by the firing of cannons at Fort Jesus. When, at the end of the month, this sound went through the air of the Old Town to announce Iddel-Fitr for the next day, hundreds of children’s voices greeted it, shouting with joy. These shouts were multiplied within a split second, answers and echoes lingering over the houses for some minutes, as the children went running through the streets, spreading the good news to everyone, so that laughter and gleeful shouts could be heard from almost every home. The children, who are not obliged to fast but are encouraged to become used to it (in relation to their constitution and ability), have specific reason for joy. On the following day – if at all affordable – they are presented with new clothes for Idd, may receive their favourite dishes and are treated like queens and kings. They go around the neighbourhood passing on Idd Mubarak! wishes to all the neighbours and people in the street, and to their relatives whom they visit, collecting little presents and small sums of money on the way. Not only the children, but people of all ages showed much relief and happiness, as the month of fasting that had tested their endurance to the limit came to an end.7

Ramadhan lectures (hotuba za Ramadhan) For many Muslim men, part of the daily routine during Ramadhan was attending the lectures of their favourite local sheikh. Within the daily

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framework of fasting, we could call these lectures the ‘food for the spirit’ of the pious fasting Muslims. Called hotuba za Ramadhan, the lectures are given daily by selected popular sheikhs, mostly in the mosque that the sheikhs are attached to, or in other venues such as educational halls, which is where Sheikh Abdilahi gave his. It seems that these lectures were introduced to the Swahili context by Sheikh Abdallah Bakathir at the beginning of the twentieth century at Gofu Mosque in Zanzibar, just like the special Ramadhan tarawehe prayers late at night (Farsy 1989: 139; Salim 1985: 43). In Mombasa, the lectures were commonly given either following the noon prayers, as was the case with the popular Sheikh Harith in the Baluchi Mosque, or in the late afternoon so that people would still be able to reach home comfortably before sunset for the breaking of the fast and the evening prayers. The later start was preferred by Sheikh Abdilahi and another popular leader, Sheikh Nassor Khamis, at Sakina Mosque ouside of the Old Town. The topics, it seems, were up to the speakers to decide. Mostly, these lectures dealt with the correct performance of the fast during Ramadhan, with admonitions to live according to correct principles of Islam (which were explained), in regard to legal questions (fiqh, e.g. on inheritance or divorce) and with elaborations on the history of Islam (tariqh). Most speeches of this type that I listened to were doctrinal, in the sense that they prescribed a certain worldview and moral values to the listeners. Sometimes they included ideological attacks against groups that were seen to violate the principles of an ‘Islamic way of life’, these groups being usually cast as external intruders. For instance, the increasing influence of ‘Western values’ in Mombasa and along the coast was criticised, particularly the tourism industry that perpetuated it and posed a danger to ‘Islamic values’.8 In this vein, I witnessed a fierce verbal attack on the ‘Western vice’ of homosexuality, similar to others that I witnessed on other occasions (in Friday sermons and also in speeches during maulidi) against Jews and their supposed dominance of the global economy, and against alcohol and drugs that were supposedly brought into the country from the West in order to destroy Muslim society. One extraordinary speech, a comparative historical analysis of slavery in Africa, was given by Sheikh Harith Swaleh, elaborating the differences between Muslim slave-holding in Africa and the Euro-American trade and its systematic exploitation of slave labour on plantations. He even listed a number of recently published social science studies as evidence to support his argument.9 The point of such Ramadhan lectures consisted mainly in teaching a ‘correct’ religious history and practice, reinforcing the clear antithetical distinctions that already exist between ‘us’ and ‘them’, ‘good’ and ‘bad’. After all, the majority of attendants are followers of the sheikh, and support him for his respective teachings on religious and social issues. Within the performance of such a lecture, the basic ideology of the group is usually

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endorsed by the speaker and the followers, so confirming their religious and social identity, with ‘us’ defined as ‘true Muslims’. Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures, however, were different if not unique, as will be seen below; this concerns their rhetorical style, the topics that were treated, as well as the local setting and the composition of the audience.10 However, before turning to his lectures in detail, Sheikh Abdilahi himself should be introduced. SHEIKH ABDILAHI NASSIR, BIOGRAPHICAL BACKGROUND

Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir is the elder brother of the poet and healer Ahmad Nassir (Chapter 5). On his mother’s side of the family several scholars, poets and healers had emerged over the generations, some of whom built up considerable regional reputations within their respective disciplines. His mother, Maryam Ahmad, was a famous mganga (healer), whose father had been an influential sheikh, who in his time had taught a large number of students who later became religious teachers in Mombasa (especially in Likoni and the southern areas). Her uncle, Ahmed Basheikh, had been a religious teacher and a poet, and was highly admired as a singer and reciter of the Qur’an. Other members of the family were the well-known and influential Sheikh Hyder Kindy, who commented widely on social life in twentieth-century Mombasa,11 Ahmed Matano, a famous healer, and his son Mohamed Ahmed Matano, a well-known religious teacher and scholar.12 The intellectual family tradition is kept up by Sheikh Abdilahi himself, by his brothers Ahmad Nassir (poetry and healing) and Abdilatif Abdalla (poetry, writing and teaching) and through entertainment with much popular success by his cousin Juma Bhalo (composing and performing t’arab).

The past: Sunni religious scholar, politician, and editor13 Sheikh Abdilahi, born in 1932, broke off his primary school education after finishing standard six at the top of his class. In 1949, while working for a British export company in colonial Mombasa, he was invited to study at a colonial institute for higher education in Zanzibar to obtain qualifications to work as a teacher. Almost reluctantly, and due to mild pressure from his British boss – who told the young Abdilahi that he would be fired should he decide against it14 – he went to Zanzibar in 1950. While studying at the secular institute, the young Abdilahi also listened in on classes of the renowned Sayyid Omar Abdallah, an Islamic scholar who ran the Muslim College. The scholar soon took note of this young man, and a special relationship developed between them as mentor and mentee who spent regular hours together discussing matters of Islamic scholarship and worldly affairs. Also in the teachers’ training course, Sheikh Abdilahi was an eager and serious student who came out top of his class in every subject. Returning to Mombasa after several years, he became a teacher at the Arab Boys School, the most reputable school (for ‘non-Europeans’) along the coast during

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Figure 6.1 Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir, 1999 Picture by the author

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colonial times. As junior colleague, he taught alongside several highly respected teachers of the Muslim community, such as Mwalimu Ghazali, Mwalimu Ali Abubakar and Mwalimu Saggaf Alawy. He had attended some religious classes of Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui when he was very young, but the young Abdilahi was intellectually most influenced by Sayyid Omar Abdallah, and by his senior collegues at the Arab Boys School, Ali Abubakar and Mwalimu Ghazali. All three of them were highly educated in both religious and secular matters, with Sayyid Omar and Ali Abubakar being among the first coastal students to have gained a degree from the prestigious University of Makerere in Uganda, and Sayyid Omar proceeding to further studies in Britain.15 The young Abdilahi was encouraged to read as much and as broadly as possible by these mentors, and he was encouraged to be self-reliant in his own thinking. This was also practised in long one-to-one sessions of free discussions about secular and religious issues with each of them. To examine the arguments and rhetoric of others critically was something that he particularly appreciated learning from Mwalimu Ghazali, who had become known in Mombasa for his public criticisms of local sheikhs, including even his own teacher Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui. Ghazali’s energetic verbal attacks on the powerful and, from a Swahili perspective, much resented representative of Omani Arab supremacy in local politics, Sheikh Mbaruk Hinawy,16 are well remembered by Sheikh Abdilahi. Mwalimu Ghazali opened his own madrasa, teaching in Arabic and particularly focusing on the Arabic language proficiency of his students, one of whom was Abdilahi Nassir. Ghazali also integrated recently published Islamic literature from the Middle East into his teachings, and drew from the modernists Muhammad Abduh, Rashid Rida and others. According to Sheikh Abdilahi, Ghazali was a kind of revolutionary intellectual of the time, much adored by the Swahili youth, since he challenged the existing (and colonially enforced) local hierarchy of the Omani Arabs over the Swahili, Yemeni Arab (Washihiri) and African citizens of Mombasa. Abdilahi Nassir had become a close confidant of Ghazali, whose tafsir lectures during Ramadhan he was going to take over after his death in 1960 (Nassir n.d.: vi). Encouraged by this example, he also started to speak up publicly against local ethnic and racial discrimination among Arab, Swahili and Mijikenda citizens, emphasising the underlying religious unity (Islam) and cultural unity (language, clothing and food) among these coastal groups. This activity disregarded, or rather it overcame, the restrictive social rules and etiquettes about local inter-ethnic communication. Sheikh Abdilahi was resented by members of his own community for befriending the Mijikenda and upcountry Africans who, at that time, were often still called washenzi (savages) and regarded as little other than servants and former slaves by the Swahili and Arab communities. In their anger over his disrespect for and challenge to the commonly accepted social rules, Sheikh Abdilahi recalled,

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his Swahili peers developed ostracising strategies against him, to the point where people would deny him even the obligatory exchange of the Muslim greeting, ‘salaam aleikum – aleikum salaam’. Thus, already at an early stage of his life, his critical and active opposition to seemingly unreasonable rules of social conduct marked him as a potential troublemaker within his community (or, alternatively, as a potential leader). He developed as an independent thinker and activist basing his engagement on his own reflexive deliberations. This created tensions vis-à-vis a largely ‘traditionalist’ community which tended to follow existing (and seemingly prescribed) pathways in everyday life. Such tensions were to become a continuous feature of his life. During the late 1950s, he spent much of his time in Majengo, a socalled ‘Swahili’ area of the New Town, populated mostly by newcomers to Mombasa of Mijikenda, upcountry and coastal origin. In this politically tense and unnerving time of pre-independence, with the end of colonial rule and the beginning of an upcountry hegemony in sight, Sheikh Abdilahi had become politically active in the formation of political interest groups with a national outlook on a district level. Here, he was involved in building up the Mombasa Freedom Convention Party and the Mombasa Action Group. His political awareness had been sharpened by the close contact with Mwalimu Ali Abubakar, and now he found the wider field of politics to which he could contribute, underlining his concern for political equality of all citizens from a thoroughly trained Islamic perspective. His linguistic and oratorical skills in Swahili and Arabic were polished under the guidance of Mwalimu Ghazali, whose religious classes he took over in 1960 after Ghazali’s death. His competence in English was much improved through the help of Mwalimu Ali Abubakar, who was said to be a master in the art of English rhetoric and polite combat, and who used to say, ‘If you can kill somebody with a sweet, why shoot him?’ Thus Sheikh Abdilahi’s rhetorical capabilities went far beyond the average language skills of local, educated Muslims. This would later help him tremendously in gaining political support in Mombasa. Once the colonial government allowed the registration of political parties on a national level, he became one of the founding members of the coastal branch of KANU (the Kenyan African National Union), led by Jomo Kenyatta, Odinga Oginga and Tom Mboya. But after realising that KANU was dominated by ‘the two major tribes’ (the Gikuyu and the Luo) which he notably denounced as ‘Luo-Gikuyu imperialism’ (Salim 1970: 221), he disassociated himself from KANU. Unsuccessful in founding a new party and unwilling to cooperate with the conservative CPP (Coastal People’s Party), he stood as an independent candidate for the last colonially administered Kenyan parliament. His rhetorical skills helped him to gain popular support across ethnic boundaries in the Mombasa constituency, so that he was finally elected a Member of Parliament in 1961, against attempts by the KANU machinery to block him. During the election campaign, he had

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impressed voters with his confident vision of Jomo Kenyatta as the future ‘prime minister of a neighbouring country’, in case of independence of the Coastal Strip from Kenya (interview, 27 May 1999). He became the leading figure of the ‘Mwambao movement’, campaigning for such independence. This vision, however, did not become reality. At the Lancaster House Conference in 1962, which decided upon the political future of the Coastal Strip, neither the colonial government nor the Sultan of Zanzibar made any efforts to hinder its integration into the Republic of Kenya, which was to be dominated by the upcountry leadership of the KANU party (cf. Salim 1970). The Sultan handed over his coastal Muslim subjects to Kenyatta’s upcountry Christian government in return for the written assurance that internal religious and judicial affairs of the Muslims in Kenya would be run by Muslims themselves. As mentioned already (Chapter 3), Sheikh Abdilahi attended the Lancaster House Conference as a representative of Old Town Mombasa and refused to sign the agreement. Returning to Kenya, he did not follow the option to support the alternative party KADU (Kenya African Democratic Union) which favoured a federal system of regional governments (majimbo). Instead he turned to support KANU as the only nationally oriented party able to integrate coastal people as equals in a unified Kenya. This decision was largely not understood by the people of Mombasa, and rumours of him selling out coastal interests to KANU quickly spread among the Mombasa community, where they linger until today.17 But Sheikh Abdilahi was politically disillusioned, and made no attempts to stand for Kenya’s first independent parliament. From then on, he told me, politics no longer revolved around argument and debate over key issues. It was the personal interests of a selected few in power that mattered, turning private and ethnic affiliations into the primary criteria of politics. Had he continued in politics, he would have faced severe trouble from the KANU leadership.18 Sheikh Abdilahi briefly went to teach at the newly established Muslim Institute of Modern Education (MIOME) in Mombasa, today called the Polytechnique, before working for the BBC translation monitoring service of English and Arabic in Nairobi. Later, he was appointed editor for Oxford University Press in East Africa (one of the texts he was to edit was Julius Nyerere’s Kiswahili translation of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar). In Nairobi, he was editor until 1974, but soon after resigning, he was called back and offered the position of general manager. After some initial reservations, he accepted the offer and led the publishing house from 1974 until 1977. A number of important books in Kiswahili were published under his editorship, but Sheikh Abdilahi had become frustrated with the fact that the profits made in East Africa could not be reinvested in regional projects, such as the urgent full revision of the dated Standard Swahili–English Dictionary (which has not been done even today); instead OUP’s profits were returned

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to Europe in order to finance publications in England. He resigned and started his own publishing house in Nairobi, Shungwaya Publishers, which he led from 1977 until 1985, again producing important publications in Kiswahili, among them Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui’s translations and commentaries on several suras of the Qur’an.19

The present: Shia religious scholar in Mombasa While living in Nairobi in the 1980s, in the aftermath of the Iranian Islamic Revolution under Ayatollah Khomeni and during the Iran–Iraq war, Sheikh Abdilahi publicly identified himself as a Shia. Before this revelation and its consequences, Sheikh Abdilahi still played a vital role in the mobilisation of general Muslim resistance against plans of the Kenyan government to subject Muslims, like all other citizens, to a secular legal system in all respects of life. This would have meant the abolition of Kenyatta’s pre-independence declaration granting religious freedom to Muslims, including the realm of personal law (covering marriage, inheritance, etc.). Although the government’s plans had already proceeded and the Muslims were late in responding, the Muslim counter-campaign was successful in pressuring the government to withdraw them. During this campaign to persuade Muslims of all factions of the gravity of the situation and to mobilise resistance, Sheikh Abdilahi is said to have been much admired for his discussion of these issues in Jami’a Mosque, Nairobi, ‘before thousands of worshippers’ in 1981 (Oded 2000: 91). He told me that over a long time, at least since the 1960s, he gradually became aware of his own thinking moving nearer to Shia than to Sunni thought. Once announced, his formal switch of religious allegiance within Islam led to verbal attacks and ostracism by the Sunni community, of which he had been a highly respected member. As the East African representative for the Saudi-financed World Assembly of Muslim Youth (WAMY), he had been in a high and financially secure position, with contacts to important sheikhs in Saudi Arabia.20 Furthermore, he had just been nominated for the prestigous and richly endowed King Faisal Award in the same year. And when Sheikh Abdilahi gave a speech, it was said he could fill mosques of any size with listeners. But after declaring his conversion to Shiism, he had to endure attacks from the Sunni community. As he recounted in one Ramadhan lecture, he was verbally abused on several occasions and once even forced out of Jami’a Mosque, the main mosque in town. Some Sunni whom he had known well now avoided all contact with him. At one stage notes were distributed among the Sunni community, advising people to shun him on every occasion. Had it not been for his high social status, said Sheikh Abdilahi, he might have had to face even more trouble from fellow Muslims at that stage.21 He also recounted a more humorous example of the change in behaviour

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towards him in one Ramadhan lecture. He had an accidental encounter with a previous admirer who had gone out of his way to be friendly to the Sheikh when he was still a Sunni. When they met in the street, this person was anxious to know whether it was true that the Sheikh had switched to Shiism, saying that now that he had heard these rumours, he did not know what to think about him any more. When Sheikh Abdilahi confirmed the news, the man exclaimed with emphatic regret that now the Sheikh had become lost (basi umepotea!), and that of course he could now no longer support his views. Sheikh Abdilahi responded with a question, asking him who the more knowledgeable person on religious matters was as between the two of them. The man answered that he was not even qualified to be the student of the student of Sheikh Abdilahi’s student. But then, said the Sheikh, if being Sunni or Shia was a religious issue, why should the man rely on his own ignorance instead of Sheikh Abdilahi’s knowledge; after all, had it been a financial matter, the Sheikh would have sought advice from him who was wealthy and knowledgeable in finance. The man only repeated that Sheikh Abdilahi was wrong to have become a Shia. The Sheikh then asked him which madhhab he followed, and he answered the Hanafi school. Sheikh Abdilahi responded that Abu Hanifa (the founder of that school) had himself been a student of a Shia imam for two years, and had acknowledged that he had learned very much from that teacher, named Imam Jaffar As-Sadiq. Now the man exclaimed that, oh no, Sheikh Abdilahi had been mistaken: that As-Sadiq was a different one from the actual teacher of Abu Hanifa; there were two of them, did he not know that? With a smile, Sheikh Abdilahi concluded his story, saying that he thanked the man for this information (which he branded as incorrect), with the words basi umenishinda! (‘well, you have beaten me now!’) as a final comment – earning laughter and amusement. The extent of animosity shown to him because of his decision also has to be interpreted in relation to the wider context of Islamic competition for hegemony. Sheikh Abdilahi observed that the open hostility of Sunni towards Shia people in East Africa had only arisen since the 1980s, an import from the Middle East where violent clashes between these groups have been common for a long time. He pointed out that graduates from universities of the Middle East, especially Saudi Arabia, took over leading positions in East Africa after their return. They disseminated external doctrines in the local context, introducing new patterns of values and conduct which increased the split in the Muslim community. Historically, Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out, there had been no such problems between the various Sunni and Shia groups along the coast. The Ismaili, Bohora and Ithnaashari had lived peacefully among some few Ibadhi and the dominant Sunni group of the Shafi school. Respect and freedom of religious practice had been mutually granted. But during the Iran–Iraq war, which was perceived as a Persian–Arab war, i.e. an ethnic conflict between Iranian Persians

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against Iraqi Arabs (while an underlying Shia–Sunni antagonism was also ideologically instrumentalised; cf. Esposito 1999: 18), most East African Muslims initially sided with the Arab Iraqis. From the Saudi perspective on this, according to Sheikh Abdilahi, the interest was to stifle the newly emerging Islamic power, Iran, so that they could retain their leading role among Muslim countries (interview, 22 July 1999).22 Thus, he said, the strategy was to cast the Shia as the enemies of ‘true Islam’, and then oppose Iran as a non-Muslim country. East Africa, as a platform for the struggle for hegemony between these two parties, was caught up in this agenda to increase the ideological pressure on Shia Muslims, and Sheikh Abdilahi with his switch from one to the other was right in the middle of this. The following episode gives concrete evidence of this. In three short publications in 1989/1990, Sheikh Abdilahi responded with thorough and lucid riposte to an anti-Shia pamphlet that had recently been published in a Saudi-funded Kiswahili translation, in which Shia Muslims were characterised as the enemies of Islam.23 He used the opportunity not only to disprove such claims, but also to identify positively shared basic features of both groups with regard to the Qur’an and hadith and the status of the Prophet Muhammad’s followers, while pointing out some different interpretations. His main point was to show that there is no need for the Sunni, his main addressees, to regard the Shia in any way other than Muslim siblings who deserve tolerance and respect. Throughout the booklets, the author encourages the reader to read critically and check every statement and quote made (if necessary, with the help of an impartial maalim), in order to think through the issues for themselves and form their own opinion. Sheikh Abdilahi asks his readers to respond (and correspond with him) if they disagree, and to correct him on possible errors. Above all, he asks Sunni readers to come forward and explain why, if his own evaluations were correct, the Sunni community and especially the Wahhabi avoided contact and cooperation with their Muslim brothers, the Shia (1990: 44). Two important characteristics of Sheikh Abdilahi’s intellectual attitude become clearly visible in this story: firstly, he values independent thinking highly and emphasises that everyone is responsible for their own thoughts and actions; secondly, he seeks an exchange of information and arguments in an open and rationally focused discourse. While he has always regarded intellectual debates and arguments as important and has energetically engaged in them, he insists on principles of fair and open discourse in scholarship (clarity of references, statements and arguments). This attitude was already visible in an earlier publication in 1967, when Sheikh Abdilahi produced a stinging response to a fierce attack by an established Lamu sharifu on Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui’s biography of Imam Aly which had raised criticisms of the masharifu.24

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Sheikh Abdilahi also makes a case for the enhancement of written Islamic scholarship and debate in Kiswahili. In the Shia booklets he states clearly that he will only respond to written comments; in this way the exact statement is documented, so that it is indisputable, accessible to all and open to discussion. On the history of Islamic scholarship in Kiswahili, Sheikh Abdilahi regrets that the scholarly level of published books and pamphlets is clearly below the actual standard of scholarship, even in the case of the most famous recent scholars like Sheikh al-Amin Mazrui and Sheikh Abdallah Saleh Farsy. According to Sheikh Abdilahi, this is true even today: people have never been trained in writing serious pieces of scholarship in Kiswahili. On top of this, he says, an additional obstacle has recently arisen. Many of the current, younger scholars of Mombasa who studied in the Middle East using the Arabic language might have lost too much of their Kiswahili skills to put forward complex and refined religious arguments in that language. If the highest standard of Islamic scholarship in Kiswahili has so far really been performed in lectures rather than in writings, most such work of the past has not been documented and never will be. This increased his motivation to proceed with two projects which he aimed to publish in Kiswahili: a Qur’an translation with extensive commentary, and a ‘people’s history’ of Islam. He is critical of all previous Kiswahili translations of the Qur’an, with the possible exception of Sheikh al-Amin’s unfinished one, where thorough comments and explanations were provided; two completed parts of it were published by Sheikh Abdilahi (Mazrui 1980, 1981). Sheikh Abdilahi’s translation will aim to be similarly thorough in its commentary, and will deal in special appendices with issues that are particularly relevant to current social debates. His project for a ‘people’s history of Islam’ may be even more important. His starting point here is that Waislamu hawajijui (Muslims don’t know themselves), and he believes that with better historical knowledge of Islam in the general public, sectional infighting and rivalries will be less sharp and vicious, and less centred around personalities. Most Muslims today lack real education on Islam, and for those who have it, their education is often not properly founded in the local context (wao ni bila misingi). Once the majority of Muslims have an appropriate historical understanding of Islam, locally contextualised, then the issue of unity and common leadership can be positively approached. Nevertheless, he regards the disunity between the ‘Wahhabi’ and other Sunni (e.g. the sharifu faction) as the biggest problem, as there is no real understanding between them (hakuna masikilizano).25 Among the main motives which turned him to Shiism, Sheikh Abdilahi noted the high regard for taking responsibility for one’s own thinking and doing, and the explicit assumption of free will and choice (hiari), in contrast to the dominant position of determinism (kadar) in Sunni thought. All in all, he was optimistic about the future impact that the Kenyan Shia

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community could make, as it contained a high number of intellectuals and professionals, active and successful people, particularly among the younger generation. While Sheikh Abdilahi held no particular office in the community, he saw his role as a motivator and a guide; in this capacity, he gave regular lectures for selected audiences (interview, 22 July 1999). In 1998, however, Sheikh Abdilahi largely retreated from public debate, and after forty consecutive years of public lectures announced that the forthcoming Ramadhan lectures would be his last.26 Over the years, many of his lectures were recorded on tape by his students and followers, as is common for popular local scholars. The tapes are passed around and sometimes even available for sale at stands along the road or in shops, in Mombasa and beyond (notably Lamu, Zanzibar and Nairobi).

Politics and religion Obviously, Sheikh Abdilahi’s life has largely been shaped by involvement in politics and religion, and throughout he has put much intellectual effort into public comment on, and criticism of, the basic principles of political and social life in Kenya, especially in Mombasa and along the coast. As Sheikh Abdilahi emphasised in a widely circulated speech (Kuhusu Demokrasia, Nairobi, 1997), politics and religion are in principle inseparable in Islam, which is why strictly secular politics and Western-style democracy are ultimately not acceptable from a Muslim point of view. In the end, Muslims have the task to establish a ‘Godly’ empire, run according to the rules and laws prescribed in the Qur’an. This kind of government is in opposition to the common Western definition of a democratic government as ‘the government of the people, by the people, for the people’. This topic also featured prominently in Sheikh Abdilahi’s Ramadhan lectures where, in one of the weekend sessions, he extensively dwelt on the question of whether and how Kenyan Muslims should participate in the constitutional review process. Here, due to the largely established politics of ‘tribalism’ (ukabila), he remarked that Kenya was not ready for democracy. Muslims should work and prepare themselves for the emergence of a positive leading figure, a ‘benevolent dictator’.27 These ideas will be dealt with below when discussing the Ramadhan lectures in more detail. At this stage it should be kept in mind that throughout his life Sheikh Abdilahi, as a religious intellectual and political thinker, encountered personal hardships due to personal decisions that he had made with conviction and after much reflection but against socially dominant positions. To follow his own reasoning and its resulting convictions seemed characteristic for him: defying common ethnic prejudice in the 1950s and common religious prejudice in the 1980s, he did what he thought was best. In different ways, both the decision to fight ethnic discrimination in his own society politically and to let his changed religious conviction be publicly known were steps that

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went against the current of his social environment and led to personal difficulties in terms of his social integration and appreciation in his community. On the other hand, Sheikh Abdilahi is doubtless still acknowledged as a man of high repute by some leading Sunni scholars as well as other intellectuals, and also in terms of social status. This was underlined when Sheikh Abdilahi was among the highest local dignitaries at the seating arrangement during the Idd-Baraza (Chapter 4). In academic literature, Sheikh Abdilahi’s concern with social problems and the well-being of Muslims (rather than doctrinal controversies over ritual practices) has been highlighted, together with his socially admired abilities of rhetoric and reasoning (cf. Topan 1991: 50). As a ‘priest-politician’, he is said to have mediated well between the ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ ulama; being ‘equally at home in the secular world’ and the religious sphere, he ‘had a special appeal to the Muslim masses’ [before his turn to Shiism] (Bakari 1995: 188–90). He has also been called ‘a Muslim activist committed to socio-economic and political reform of society’ (Chande 2000: 351). All this underlines his practical orientation with regard to the application of his religious knowledge, and his critical and eloquent talents. It seems that Islam to him is an internalised moral guideline that merges politics and religion and is the only reliable measure to improve social life in the appropriate way and to a sufficient degree. It is worthwhile exploring the peculiar path and richness of Sheikh Abdilahi’s biography. My focus here, however, continues to be on philosophical discourse, i.e. his reflections and critical arguments in selected texts. These oral texts, his lectures, will be contextually described and discussed in the following pages. I will not be able to speculate on related issues, which may be important in their own right and deserve further attention, such as the local dynamics of power in relation to Sheikh Abdilahi’s turn to Shiism or the political ideologies concerned. What follows is how Sheikh Abdilahi reflects on social reality, provides interpretations of the Qur’an, makes an argument and presents it to his audience. This takes place in a specific rhetorical genre, the Ramadhan lectures. S H E I K H A B D I L A H I ’S R A M A D H A N L E C T U R E S

Sheikh Abdilahi’s Ramadhan lectures were given between 23 December 1998 (on the third day after the official beginning of Ramadhan) and 17 January 1999 (three days before Idd). Being invited to attend by Sheikh Abdilahi himself, I did so almost every day, missing only the first lecture. As recording of the lectures was common, I was allowed to record them on my own machine, and I collected 24 lectures on tape as material for analysis. After presenting an overview of the location and the topics that were covered and a summary of some of the most interesting points made, I shall turn to a couple of exemplary lectures for more detailed discussion. I

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will also comment on the response to Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures by some of his followers, members of the audience and other Swahili intellectuals. The venue of Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures was a small and simple educational hall in Floringi, called the Al-Amaan Social Hall. This had been set up in short notice as an emergency alternative venue after an invitation to lecture at the more prominent and publicly accessible Baluchi Hall had been blocked just the night before Ramadhan (Nassir n.d.: vii) – another incident reflecting the ongoing tensions arising from Sheikh Abdilahi’s switch to Shiism. The hall was normally used for providing neighbourhood children with secular and religious education. Floringi is a small and less well-off residential area bordering on the Old Town and consisting of predominantly single-storey houses, mostly stone, partly mud, with some recently built three- and four-storey houses. It is situated just north of the busy Digo Road which separates it from the Old Town to the south. The venue had been built about a year before by some young Muslims living in the area.28 They took the initiative to redesign the open space which was previously being used as a meeting point and hang-out by local so-called wahuni (i.e. young, badly behaved men), some of whom were drug addicts. Since they did not want drug-taking and abusive language to dominate the Floringi neighbourhood, with the help of donations the group of young activists started to build the hall and a small gym next to it in their spare time. They attempted, and partly succeeded, in arousing the interest of some of the wahuni in their project, especially via the small and simple gym, a bench and some weights that could be used by everyone. However, some tensions about the dominance of this space remained, as became obvious during one of the lectures that was wilfully disturbed by a mhuni youth who was then reprimanded by one of the young people in charge of the hall. The hall itself hosted a large classroom (capable of seating about 80– 100 people) which was used for homework assistance and extra classes for primary school work in the afternoons given voluntarily by qualified teachers, and for Islamic madrasa classes in the evenings. Blackboards and some tables, but mostly woven mats (mikeka), were provided on the floor, as well as ventilators on the ceiling. Everything, including a little pocket money for the teachers, was financed by donations from local Muslims. Children from around Floringi were brought by their parents and profited from the lessons. It seemed as if so far the project had certainly succeeded in doing something to improve the character of the neighbourhood. Among the young educational activists were some young parents, and also followers and students of Sheikh Abdilahi. Some of them had, like him (and possibly due to him), become Shia although as Swahili they were of Sunni background; others had remained Sunni but had taken a great liking to Sheikh Abdilahi’s way of lecturing. When they heard of the cancellation of the original venue for this year’s Ramadhan lectures by the Sheikh, they

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invited him to give them in their hall, and he gratefully accepted (Nassir n.d.: vii). Indeed, after Sheikh Abdilahi had publicly sided with Shiism, mosques, halls and other public spaces in Mombasa were no longer easily available to him. The times when he had been able to attract hundreds of listeners and fill mosques of any size were over. On the one hand, the imams of the Sunni mosques would not give their mosque to someone they considered as an ideological opponent. On the other hand, the Ramadhan lectures in the mosque of the Shia Ithnaashari community in Old Town were given in Urdu, as historically the community was of Indian (and Persian) background and the overwhelming majority of the followers were Urdu speakers. For Sheikh Abdilahi’s Ramadhan lectures this also meant that only a relatively small number of people (between thirty and fifty, sometimes up to seventy) of various ethnic origins and madhhab would attend.

Overview: structure and topics Taking place daily, the lectures ended about half an hour before sunset, the breaking of the fast and the evening prayers. They started at five o’clock in the afternoon during weekdays, and at four o’clock over the weekend. In order to attend, a significant number of listeners had to close their businesses early or ask for a couple of hours off every day. This, however, seemed to be a common procedure during Ramadhan. One senior and apparently relatively well-off regular listener, being self-employed, had even decided to devote the whole of his working days and his energy during Ramadhan to good causes. He pursued work for his religious community, raising money, and looking for jobs for some young men whom he regarded as particularly gifted and worthy of support. A number of the younger listeners had no regular income, so the pressing current problem of unemployment in Mombasa was also reflected in the audience. The lectures normally lasted an hour, and extended to one and a half hours during the weekends. This difference of timetable corresponded with a change of theme: while the former dealt with the interpretation of one sura of the Qur’an, sura three, Al-Imraan, the latter were used to treat questions or topics that had been requested by members of the audience. These turned out to be of largely political interest, and over the four weekends Sheikh Abdilahi discussed Islam and the current constitutional debate in Kenya (26/27 December), the current controversy about the beginning of Ramadhan in Mombasa (2/3 January), the relationship between Muslim countries and the USA with reference to the Iran–Iraq war (9/10 January), and, as a sequel to the week before, Euro-American interests in the Middle East, with special focus on the original support for Saddam Hussein and the role of the UN (16/17 January). The weekend lectures included questiontime sessions after the lecture, and these sessions were sometimes continued

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the following weekend if it was felt that there had not been enough time for all the questions. This format already contrasts markedly with the way that Ramadhan lectures or religious speeches were commonly given. Here members of the audience not only provided the topics of discussion for the weekend lectures, they were even granted the opportunity of asking questions and engaging in discussion with the speaker. Thus they played an active part, and had a crucial influence on the weekend lectures. In addition, Sheikh Abdilahi’s way of presenting his ideas (using humour, posing questions, using current examples as illustrations for his points) drew the audience into more active involvement. Obviously, this means that the emphasis was on the interaction between speaker and audience rather than on the total dominance of the speaker, on following open questions rather than restating closed doctrines, on reflecting rather than prescribing. The reflective character as well as the socio-critical aspects of Sheikh Abdilahi’s performances also featured strongly in the lectures during the week, where interpretation of the Qur’an (tafsir) was often linked to a discussion of current social realities in Mombasa in relation to Kenya and the world. Sheikh Abdilahi covered such topics during the normal weekday lectures, while commenting on the sura Al-Imraan. His epistemological lecture early in the month commented on the differentiation between clear and evident statements and dark and hidden ones (Qur’an 3: 7–8), painting a picture of various different levels of knowledge that human beings can acquire and the resultant differential overall understanding of the world. Sheikh Abdilahi invited the listeners to imagine that, in a tall building, the world will look very different from a window on the first floor in comparison to a view from the sixth floor; some things you see from above are simply invisible from further below, while others look much different. Someone from below should not claim to see the outside better than the one upstairs, and both cannot even start to imagine from what perspective God can see the world. Acquiring knowledge, moving up the building in order to see the world and even the dark and hidden things more clearly, is hard work which should be acknowledged accordingly. Life experience is part of such knowledge, and thus youths should take care not to be presumptuous in berating their elders on matters of life when the latter were far more experienced and advanced. This was said with a direct critical reference to young graduates who returned to Mombasa from a university in the Middle East and assumed they could now explain everything to everyone. These young men, he said, mistook their ability to speak Arabic more fluently than others (especially senior Swahili scholars) for an indicator of superior knowledge of the Qur’an, and Sheikh Abdilahi rejected this as a clear misconception. In another lecture, Sheikh Abdilahi portrayed Islam as a religion that can maintain a good balance between intelligence or the rational (akili) and

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soul or the spiritual (roho). He claimed that this potential is often forgotten, both within and outside Islam, and Muslims should take care to find that balance in order to show that Islam is truly a religion of love, contrary to common Christian and Western conceptions of it. In this vein, Sheikh Abdilahi endorsed the inclusion of the spiritual realm (where he explicitly referred to the Sufi practice of dhikri) in the commendable religious practice that was directed at God with the sole motivation of love, not out of fear of hell or calculations of how to get into heaven. Such a ‘worship of free gentlemen’ (ibada ya waungwana) was hardly visible anywhere these days and should be established, instead of the currently dominant two forms – a fearful ‘worship of slaves’ (ibada ya watumwa) or a calculating ‘worship of trade’ (ibada ya biashara). Muslim society now was unfortunately characterised by the last two, and that is why there was disunity, feuding and backbiting, when people of different groups try to oust each other. Instead of attempting to trade their good deeds for a place in heaven, or to follow order out of obedience and fear, Muslims should turn to God out of their own free decision, and out of love only, without any other self-interested motive. They should consciously turn to the insight that ‘to love God is indeed the foundation of Islam’ (kumpenda Mwenyezi Mungu ndio msingi wa Uislamu). This insight and the inclusion of the spiritual element in religious practice is essential in a modern world where, through the dominance of a materialist surrounding, human beings become alienated from their societies and disoriented in their lives. As Sheikh Abdilahi explained, it can be seen from examples in the Western world29 that society is in danger of breakdown if it continuously neglects the spiritual aspect of human nature. Similar signs are visible in the social setting of the Muslim community in Mombasa today, which makes it all the more important to initiate a change of consciousness. A final example of a topic discussed in relation to sura Al-Imraan was yet another criticism of young and conceited scholars who return to the Swahili context from Saudi Arabia feeling an urge to reform the whole East African Muslim society from its foundations up. They encounter what they perceive to be unacceptable religious innovation (bid’a) everywhere. Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out that several things or practices that these young Wahhabi categorise as bid’a (such as maulidi) cannot seriously be portrayed as such. There are, however, other explicit prohibitions mentioned in the Qur’an which are not observed by these young scholars, one of which is that men should not wear gold jewellery (such as rings or necklaces). Sheikh Abdilahi said he found it hard to take young men seriously when they criticise practices like maulidi (which are not explicitly forbidden in the Qur’an) while wearing a golden necklace (which is).

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An example: the lectures on the constitutional reform process in Kenya Before examining a selected weekend lecture in detail, let me evoke the vivid scene of its venue. Inside the hall, the floor was covered with simple mats (mikeka), while the four to five tables usually used for teaching had been moved aside to the far rear corner to the left of the speaker. The speaker sat facing the audience, on a bench with a big cushion placed on a little platform (about 20 cm high), roughly one metre away from the wall. People would sit in rows, facing the speaker, except for those who found a more comfortable place leaning against one of the walls at the side, from which they had a good view of Sheikh Abdilahi. Sandals and shoes were left at the inside of the entrance, a simple small door in the wall to the right-hand side of the speaker. In front of Sheikh Abdilahi was a small wooden stand for holding his books and papers, and a microphone that was linked to several loudspeakers (which were not absolutely necessary, but made both talking and listening easier). On several days a video camera was also set up. During every lecture, a number of tape recorders were operated by people at the front to create recordings that could be passed on or copied for others. Fortunately, electric fans fixed to the ceiling were able to reduce the effect of the season’s humidity and heat. Attendance at the lectures varied between approximately thirty and seventy people. They were a mixture of respectable wazee (elders) and young men, aged between twenty and thirtyfive, and a smaller number of middle-aged men and, sometimes, young boys brought in by their fathers. While the older generation dressed in long white kanzu gowns, the younger men mostly wore long trousers and a shirt; the large majority wore a kofia (cap). The ethnic background of the listeners varied, as did their allegiance to different madhhab (Shia and Sunni), and there were a number of people present whose mother tongue was not Kiswahili but Somali, Gikuyu, Gujarati and possibly others. Each lecture would begin and end with a dua (prayer) that Sheikh Abdilahi would recite himself. On the weekend of 26 and 27 December, the first weekend of Ramadhan, Sheikh Abdilahi dealt with the topic of ‘Islam and the current constitutional debate in Kenya’ (Uislamu na mjadala wa mabadiliko na katiba wa nchi ya Kenya). During the week, he had had several requests for this topic and so for the first weekend lecture Sheikh Abdilahi chose to treat this one. The request had been handed in anonymously, and it sought guidance as to how Kenyan Muslims should behave in the light of imminent possible constitutional reform. The first day’s lecture reflected the basic implications of the questions and sketched out the historical situation. On the second day, Sheikh Abdilahi continued and suggested that, in positive terms, Kenyan Muslims should improve their conduct and prepare themselves and society

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for the future emergence of a ‘benevolent dictator’ (a term he used for want of a better word) who would lead society firmly, but with fairness and justice. On 26 December, Sheikh Abdilahi began his lecture by looking more closely at the question, and stated that if the matter under discussion was really the relation between Islam and the Kenyan constitution, then there would be a short and easy answer. Since Islam does not acknowledge any constitution other than that given by God, as given in the Qur’an (Uislamu haitambui katiba yoyote isipokuwa ya Mwenyezi Mungu) there would be nothing to talk about. Therefore the question must be referring to ‘the Muslims’ instead of ‘Islam’. Rephrasing the question in this way made sense since the Muslims, as Kenyan citizens, would be affected by the outcome of the constitutional talks, whatever it was. Obviously, Muslims in Kenya are in too much of a minority to push for a political establishment of Islamic interests. Thus, he argued, they must try to ensure that the least possible harm be done to Islamic interests (Kama hawataweza kuifanya nia maslaha ya uislamu, angalau waifanye isidhuru maslaha ya Uislamu). Currently, at least the personal laws for Muslims are guaranteed to be run under Muslim authority, according to a binding assurance given by Jomo Kenyatta before Independence when taking over the Coastal Strip as part of Kenya. But this task is not easy, said Sheikh Abdilahi, because the state which should be strictly secular (and thus neutral in religious matters) is actually actively promoting Christianity at the expense of Islam. This can be observed every day, and Sheikh Abdilahi pointed at the national broadcasting corporation KBC, which, especially on TV, permanently featured Christian programmes and interests, giving only a few slots for Islamic programmes. For example, every Sunday President Moi addresses the nation during a service from different churches around the country. Also, he said, on Sundays school buildings are used for church services where there are no churches, although the schools belong to all Kenyan citizens of all religions. Could anybody imagine a Muslim teacher using the school for the Friday prayers of the Muslim pupils and himself? This suggestion earned laughter from the audience. Of course, the Sheikh underlined, such a teacher would be fired immediately. Kenya haina dini lakini ina dini: Kenya has no religion, yet it has a religion. The official proclamation of a secular state does not fit the facts. As Sheikh Abdilahi put it, ‘Kenya is secular but it is Christian’ (English in the original). On the other hand, Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out that Christians frequently warn about the dangers of Islam, and the government often reacts to such calls. For instance, he noted, Christian leaders complained about the construction of mosques along the Nairobi–Mombasa road in the 1990s. And in September 1998 at the Jamia Mosque in Nairobi, big protests were launched when the Muslims wanted to make use of the plot next to it which

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they rightfully owned. The small-scale curio vendors and their stalls which had been tolerated for many years were now asked to leave. The vendors, upset and angry about losing their trading facilities that they had taken for granted, started hassling and insulting Muslims visiting the mosque. Even when they went as far as shaking burning pig-heads on stakes at Muslims, the government did not intervene. Thus, Sheikh Abdilahi concluded again, Kenya is not impartial and secular but religious and biased: it is Christian. Having pointed out this imbalance of the so-called secular state, Sheikh Abdilahi now concerned himself with the question of how, under the given circumstances, Kenyan Muslims can have their interests represented as effectively as possible. This amounted to a critical analysis of the Muslim community and its official representative body, the Supreme Council of Kenyan Muslims (SUPKEM). In contrast to the well-functioning representative bodies of Kenyan Christians, he highlighted the failure of Muslims to organise SUPKEM in accordance with the actual composition of the various Muslim groups in Kenya, and to use it for the actual needs of Muslims on the ground. The fact that SUPKEM was not started from below and remained dominated by a small group of privileged Muslims plays into the hands of the ‘secular’ Kenyan government. Consequently, SUPKEM was politically irrelevant in two respects: firstly, with regard to the majority of Muslims whom it failed to represent, and secondly, in terms of being taken seriously by the Kenyan goverment. It is ‘a toothless bulldog’ (English in the original), as Sheikh Abdilahi said to the amusement of his audience. But this irrelevance plays into the hands of ‘secular’ government politics, since the existence of SUPKEM in its present form guarantees that no relevant or substantial Muslim interests that could threaten or seriously challenge governmental and Christian interests will be voiced through the official channels of representation. Sheikh Abdilahi said it was appalling that Kenyan Muslims had not been able to organise themselves satisfactorily within the legally given framework. He said that this shows that striving for personal and ‘tribal’ interests characterises Muslims in Kenya, rather than a unity in Islam. Sisi si waislamu. Uislamu kwetu sisi ni kabila. (We are not Muslims. Islam for us is tribalism.) This situation, said Sheikh Abdilahi, is disappointing but true, and it has to be surmounted before anything else can be aspired to. Ethnic infighting and the tensions between various madhhab have to cease, otherwise Muslims will continue to be politically paralysed and without influence. While tribalism is a problem for Kenya as a whole, the Christian community seems successful in overcoming this problem. Through the organisational structure of their bodies, the Christians have managed to create, at least in part, an ideological space of unity. Muslims, on the contrary, seem to increase this problem for themselves by engaging in an internal ‘religious tribalism’ on top of the nationally observable ‘ethnic tribalism’. Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out

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that the problem of tribalism (ukabila) was inherited from colonialism as a result of its ‘divide and rule’ politics, which succeeded in increasing ethnic divisions so that central power could be more easily held. Nevertheless, he suggested that Kenyan Muslims could significantly improve their political standing, even under the current conditions. This could be done if they modelled their national representative council, SUPKEM, on the Christian Council of Kenya. After all, he reiterated, all relevant Christian groups worked together on a basis of equality. This Christian model was effective with regard to the most urgent requirement of improving the political culture in Kenya and surmounting ukabila (tribalism, ethnicity, ethnocentrism) as the major factor in political decision-making. Sheikh Abdilahi suggested institutionalising a similar representative body for Kenyan Muslims instead of the SUPKEM (or as a revised SUPKEM). This would be a significant improvement for Kenyan Muslims under the present circumstances or ‘in the short term’, since at least it could assure the Muslim umma of a representative body that indeed represented the will of the Muslim masses and their leaders. On the other hand, it would also be able to integrate and represent the voices of smaller Muslim groups who are in a numerical minority within the umma even though they are economically influential (such as the Ismailis, the Bohora, the Shia Ithnaashari). This short-term aim means securing a meaningful political influence for Kenyan Muslims by establishing true representation of Muslim diversity and Muslim unity in one body, which would become the officially and popularly recognised body, with which the Kenyan government had to consult. On the following day, Sheikh Abdilahi redirected his focus from the particular example of the comparative view of Kenyan Christians, back to a more general discussion, including the ‘long-term’ perspective for Kenyan Muslims in relation to a national constitution and its reform. The pressing immediate question, whether Muslims should participate in the reform process in a nominally democratic and secular state incompatible with the political ideals of Islam, was answered in the positive. Sheikh Abdilahi argued that Muslims should engage in the reform process since they would be affected by its results in any case. Participation could at least help to minimise further political damage to Muslims, and it could hopefully secure the extension of the existing status of Islamic jurisdiction in the area of common law. As pointed out, though, for meaningful participation and influence in the short term, an adequate representation of the whole Muslim umma has to be created through internal pressure from Muslims themselves. For the long-term perspective, Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out that of course the ultimate goal for Muslims remained the establishment of an Islamic state (dola ya kiislamu). In the whole world, he says, there is no constitution based on justice and equality unless it be the constitution provided by God

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(Hakuna katiba ya haki na usawa ulimwenguni isipokuwa katiba ya Mwenyezi Mungu). This is because, he argued, in contrast to all human beings, God has no vested interest and will provide fairly for everyone, whereas human constitutions always embody the interests of those powerful minorities creating them. There is no real democracy anywhere (Hakuna demokrasi mahali popote). To underline this statement, Sheikh Abdilahi referred to the example of the USA, where, he said, no presidential candidate can win an election if he does not secure the support of the influential Jewish minority, about two million people who control higher education, the media (and thus public opinion), and the banking and financial sectors. Rhetorically, he asked what kind of democracy this should be, where only a minority of people is in control, not the people (umma) as they should be according to the definition of democracy, and this minority does not even work for the benefit of the people.30 This fundamental criticism, he said, was applicable to all existing democratic countries. However, for Sheikh Abdilahi this does not mean that all existing democracies are equally bad. His awareness of the different character of various systems of democracy comes out very clearly in his lectures when he returns to the example of Kenya. For the sake of the argument, Sheikh Abdilahi invited his listeners to imagine the possibility of a Muslim president in Kenya right now – and the unlikeliness of this idea provoked disbelieving faces and astonished smiles in the audience. ‘Would all our problems then be solved?’ he asked, before strongly answering in the negative. In fact, Sheikh Abdilahi seemed certain that under the current circumstances ethnicity would prevail over all other factors in regard to the shaping of politics, notably religious allegiance or the spirit of nationalism. This meant, for the case in question, that even the imaginary Muslim president elect would support his ethnic rather than his religious group. A just and fair ruler was extremely unlikely. This is how strongly ukabila is rooted in the minds of Kenyans, so that religious or nationalist conceptions of umoja (unity) are seen not to stand a chance against it. By implication, the question of a Muslim president is currently irrelevant to Kenyan politics. The most important task at the moment was to make sure that the (new) constitution secured the equality of all citizens before the law. With the current conditions of mutual mistrust and rivalry between ethnic groups, this seemed to be the only way to secure at least the legal basis for the possibility of political unity. The democratic principle of ‘one man, one vote’, he said, cannot function under conditions of ukabila in Kenya, where members of the largest ethnic groups (such as the Gikuyu and the Luo) can agree to dominate political decision-making at the cost of ethnic minorities. This applied to the current system of central government in Kenya, but in principle, said Sheikh Abdilahi, it also applied to an envisaged federal system (the so-called majimbo system) which was currently being discussed as an alternative to the former. Under circumstances of majimbo, existing internal

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sub-discourses of mistrust and rivalry within the ethnic groups would come to the fore, and create and perpetuate similar conditions of disunity in the country. Sheikh Abdilahi remarked with regret that, after independence, all true nationalism vanished (or was discarded) in Kenya, while it could have successfully countered the establishment of politics based on ethnicity and provided a basis for national unity. Thus what was lacking more than an ideal constitution, said the Sheikh, is the appropriate mental attitude, the right spirit or will of the people, the way in which people conduct their daily lives and affairs. Even if the Kenyan constitution is not ideal, it is not itself the cause of corruption, disunity and ukabila. Kenya’s problem was not its bad laws but the utter disregard of the law that many Kenyans and even political representatives showed. He pointed out that goodwill or intent (nyoyo, lit. ‘hearts’, pl. of moyo) is rarely visible as a motive in politics, though it should be the major one. Instead self-interest and meanness of spirit (uhiana) seem to dominate political action. This fact fosters an atmosphere of ukabila, which can be changed and overcome only by a radical change of mindset, from uhiana to nyoyo. Ukabila remains the biggest threat to fair politics based on equality, as it always supports the political elite in power and divides the people. This is nothing but a continuation of the colonial principle of ‘divide and rule’ politics initiated by the British: the white man wanted to keep us from uniting (mzungu alitaka kutuzuia kuungana), he emphasised, because unity of the people is dangerous to those in power. This also applies to postcolonial conditions, and it is doubly painful to witness the mechanism of divide-and-rule politics being applied so rigorously after independence – African rulers keeping African citizens from meaningful political participation in their own country. What currently happens under the guise of parliamentary democracy in Kenya, he said, is simply chaos or confusion (vurugu),31 and investing much in a long-term establishment of democracy under current conditions would only be a waste of time (tutapoteza wakati tu). Almost ironically, then, he tended to agree with the colonial assessment: ‘the Europeans know that we are not ready for democracy’ (wazungu wajua kwamba sisi si tayari kwa demokrasi), then he announced his bottom line in English: ‘Democracy in our country is premature’. But a viable solution that Sheikh Abdilahi raised for fair and just political governance is through the emergence of an ultimately positive political leader who is not elected but will simply appear and be recognised by the people as their rightful leader. This figure would be a ‘benevolent dictator’, and Sheikh Abdilahi emphasised that this would have everything to do with the establishment of justice and equality in society but little with ‘democracy’. Within his scenario, the unquestionable authority of this ‘benevolent dictator’ was sketched as the warranty for meaningful change and the defeat of ukabila. The essentially good orders that this ruler

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gives out could bring real nyoyo politics into being – in contrast to the current nyayo politics of President Moi, propagating the prescribed national ideology of ‘peace, love, and unity’ (Moi 1986). The emergence of such a beneficent authoritarian ruler is, of course, envisioned within an Islamic framework, and as such is part of the earlier mentioned ultimate ideal to establish an Islamic state. As far as self-criticism within a social group goes, this is probably as much as is imaginable in contemporary postcolonial Kenya. The basic changes in terms of representation that Sheikh Abdilahi suggests could make a relevant difference to the role that the Supreme Council plays within Kenyan politics. On the other hand, it seems hardly likely that the Muslim community is ready to pick up on the suggestions of this well-known but rather isolated thinker. While Sheikh Abdilahi is respected and admired as an independent thinker among a number of local intellectuals who value his critical mind and sharp tongue very highly, it is unlikely that his thinking will gain much influence among the Muslim community, considering its current disunity. With regard to Sheikh Abdilahi’s call to prepare for the arrival of a ‘benevolent dictator’, if this is seen as the only viable option, is this not a sign of despair as far as belief in politics goes? When I asked him about it, he cast his position in the light of a realism that has become very sceptical over time, and repeated that ‘Kenyans are not yet ready for democracy’. Coming out of the mouth of a staunch, lifelong opponent of tribalism in his own country, I imagine this must have been painful for him to say. Democracy, he went on, follows the principle of equal rights for all individual people, but Kenya is so much entangled in ethnic webs of tribalism that the election system of ‘one man, one vote’ cannot function. Kenya in his view has politically regressed since the time of independence. Today, all political criteria other than ‘ethnic’ or ‘tribal’ (kikabila) do not matter for the majority of the people, inside or outside parliament. Under these conditions, there is no use for democracy (interview, 26 February 1999).

Audience and followers: background, reaction, assessments Sheikh Abdilahi’s audience, as mentioned above, consisted of a wide variety of different people, in terms of age, ethnicity and even religious affiliation. While a number of the Swahili men attending regularly were Shia, I am almost certain that a fair number of the regular listeners were Sunni. For instance, there was a handful of distinguished looking Swahili wazee in their white kanzu robes who always sat against the wall in the front, close to the Sheikh and at his right-hand side. Their long-term familiarity with him was expressed in their extensive greeting rituals in which each of the parties attempted to honour the other by kissing his hand (this is a common way of greeting a highly honourable person, e.g. a sharifu). As I know from

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talks and discussions, older and younger men, Sunni and Shia, regular or occasional listeners, enjoyed the lectures immensely. They felt challenged to think while listening. They appreciated the integration of current social issues into the lectures as much as the wordplay that Sheikh Abdilahi would use from time to time, to liven up his speech or underline an important point. Such wordplay would be delivered in Kiswahili as well as in English (like the ‘toothless bulldog’) since Sheikh Abdilahi was aware that he needed to stimulate and entertain listeners of very different linguistic abilities in Kiswahili. Even if this was their mother tongue, the generational gap in terms of vocabulary was big, and so the Sheikh often repeated an important point twice, once in an older sophisticated Kiswahili expression, and again in a simpler form, possibly using an English expression. Apart from the wazee mentioned above, the core group of regular listeners was formed mostly by younger Swahili men in their twenties and thirties. A handful of close followers of Sheikh Abdilahi, partly younger relatives who took care of the recordings, would complement the regular audience. Though the number of listeners was usually not very high, they covered a diverse variety of social and ethnic origins, and created a ‘mixed unity’ of local Mombasa Muslims that in itself represented Sheikh Abdilahi’s longlasting effort to transcend ethnic or ‘tribal’ barriers in society via Islam. Contrary to the often felt disparities in social life – between rich and poor, coastals and upcountry people, Africans and Asians, the respectable older and the jobless younger generation – members of all of these groups shared the experience of these lectures. Occasionally, fathers would bring their teenage sons to listen, and several university professors of Mombasan origin would also attend. The poet Ahmad Nassir also made a point of visiting one of the lectures of his much respected older brother, even though at that time he was suffering badly from a severe backache. Taking into account that further members of the audience included at least one imam, an Arabic teacher, a secondary school teacher, some highly respected elders and some politically engaged and highly conscious young men, it seems fair to say that the audience was of a high intellectual standard overall. In this respect, as in many others, these Ramadhan lectures were a special case. Finally, the large majority of people who did not attend Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures demonstrates the special case even further. Judging from comments that I came across, many common people in Mombasa remembered Sheikh Abdilahi from his days as a politician and Sunni scholar as a wonderfully convincing speaker. But this was also a dilemma, into which they had been put by their religious guides and superiors. To some extent they were, I think, afraid of listening to Sheikh Abdilahi, fearing that he might be able to convince them through the power of his words, even against their expressed will and that of their sheikhs. This could be read as a remarkable, though indirect, compliment. In any case, they did not want to be associated publicly

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with Shiism, nor with someone who, because of his personal history, was still regarded with suspicion in parts of the Sunni community. CONCLUSION

Wanting ‘to make people think’ is what Sheikh Abdilahi pointed out as his goal as an Islamic scholar. Having looked at the way his Ramadhan lectures are organised and conducted (in contrast to others), and at the way that he talks and the way that he writes when developing an argument, it has to be attested that he surely achieved this goal. One had to concentrate in reading and listening in order to follow, not necessarily because the language is difficult or the sentences complex, but rather because the thoughts presented are original and require the audience’s readiness to follow. Religious texts are interpreted in the light of social contexts, and society is reviewed and critiqued with the help of religious texts. In Sheikh Abdilahi we have been observing someone for whom the label of a ‘thinker’ is emphatically befitting. It almost seems as the one permanent and continuous feature in a colourful and versatile life, in which the other relevant labels of politician, editor, or even Sunni or Shia adherent, were perhaps only of temporary or secondary value. When asked to assess himself as a thinker, he described himself as someone who had always been between fronts. As his primary characteristic features, he mentioned determination and the need for intellectual independence. He would not retreat from a certain position (mimi sirudi nyuma) once he had found it to be true and correct, no matter what others might think about his behaviour or the effects of such a decision. His life indeed underlines the truth of this statement, as he has dissociated himself twice from the social context to which he inextricably and quite prestigiously belonged in terms of ethnic and religious affiliation. Leaving Swahili ethnocentrism behind him for the perspective of national politics, and leaving the Sunni community for his new intellectual home in Shiism, could not have been easy but had to be done if Sheikh Abdilahi was to live up to his own insights, standards and self-expectations. Thus his continuous standpoint (msimamo) is to be ready to change his opinion for anything that he feels to be true; he would never accept following anyone else’s demands, but would follow his own reasoning in all that he does. In the end, he says, he will be accountable to God only, and there the reference to someone else whom one was following would not be acceptable. Mwenyezi Mungu hataki kusikia nimefuata mtu fulani (God does not want to hear that I have followed some other person), he said, referring to his moral consciousness which is defined by a basic Islamic framework. If sagacity is wisdom (or knowledge) put into practice, Sheikh Abdilahi must surely be considered a sage (cf. Oruka 1991). Here we can see how immediately Sheikh Abdilahi’s intellectual concern and effort has always been linked to the problems of the socio-historical contexts in which he has

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been placed. With high political awareness and editorial and managerial experience at the highest levels, Sheikh Abdilahi is qualified for almost anything. And the translation of the Qur’an and a people’s history of Islam are what he has now set himself to achieve. Other members of the Old Town community (certainly not all of them Shia) told me they wished he would become politically active again, as he was still the biggest personal hope that the coastal Muslims could register for serious change. This points to the possibility of a new regional consensus in the reordering of religious factionalism. Sheikh Abdilahi is seen by some as a key to such a possibility, as someone who, at least partly, is acknowledged beyond the borderlines of ukabila because he has never accepted them as borderlines for himself. Furthermore, I think that the example of Sheikh Abdilahi in the Muslim community of Mombasa also points to an emerging coalition between the previously dominant Shafii ulama and the Shia against the growth of reformist ‘Wahhabi’ ideology and influence in East Africa. If this is correct, the current most significant Muslim division in the region is not between Sunni and Shia, but between East African Islamic scholarship and practice (with a novel Shia input), and external uncompromising doctrines of reformism (especially ‘Wahhabism’) which do not care to consider local historical specifics for the development of Islamic practice. Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures and writings have to be considered as part of the philosophical discourse of the region. Processes of fundamental questioning, orienting oneself intellectually, reflecting upon one’s position and involving others in one’s process of re-thinking occur as continuous and significant features of Sheikh Abdilahi’s intellectual practice. They are exercised constantly in close relation with politics and the practical historical circumstances that affect his community, which extends from a neighbourhood quarter of the Old Town, via the city of Mombasa, beyond national politics towards specific ideals of global Muslim unity. Sheikh Abdilahi’s intellectual endeavours can certainly be characterised as conscious efforts of orientation on the basis of one’s own thinking, knowing and doing – characterised as ‘philosophy’ at the very beginning of this study. His reflexive practice is shaped by the scholarly traditions in which he was trained, and practised (in the worldly sense) in the ways in which he develops and formulates his insights in relation to the social discourse in which he is embedded.

PART III RECONSIDERING ETHNOGRAPHY, RECONSIDERING THEORY

7 COUNTERPOINTS AND CONTINUITIES: THE YOUNGER GENERATION INTERGENERATIONAL IDIOMS – EXPERIENCE AND PERSPECTIVES T E X T U A L I T Y, H I S T O R Y A N D C H A N G E

As we look back at the contextual portrayals of Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany, Ahmad Nassir Juma Bhalo and Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir, it is evident that these diverse Swahili intellectuals have produced a corresponding range of texts, some of which are explicitly critical in character. Nabhany’s poetry is, from various standpoints, concerned to assemble and display practically useful information to the audience, in the tradition of didactic Swahili poetry. Whether in regard to religion, forms of handicraft, art or history, his texts are verbal recollections, and sometimes almost instructions, mainly meant to convey culturally specific (and partly specialist) knowledge of the Swahili context to others (insiders and outsiders), and thereby to conserve it for the future. To a certain extent, this also applies to Ahmad Nassir’s poetical explication of utu (a key concept for the understanding of morality here), which is meant to remind his Swahili peers of their basic moral obligations and thereby to revive and uphold their moral values. However, Nassir’s utenzi goes beyond a reproduction of social knowledge; it offers an individual thinker’s elaboration of a culturally specific moral concept, and does so systematically, using several sub-concepts for an overall appreciation of utu. With Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir, we observed a specific way of using a common regional form of Islamic discourse, the Ramadhan lectures, to reflect critically on the current political situation in Kenya from a Muslim perspective. Sheikh Abdilahi’s reflections were self-questioning, dwelling on fundamental questions crucial to the self-understanding of his audience. Are we really Muslims? What kind of Muslims are we? How can we, as Muslims, coexist with and actively cooperate in a political unity with a nonMuslim government? Thus Sheikh Abdilahi gives a critical assessment of current socio-political events and follows a quest for self-evaluation. In different ways, all three thinkers are concerned with social knowledge and its descriptive and normative aspects. For Nabhany, social knowledge is reflected in vocabulary and historical consciousness. To preserve and store both these aspects for him is an ethical obligation since the cultural standards of the past continue to be valuable. They can still be regarded as ideals for the present and future. In Nassir’s poem, social knowledge of

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utu provides the starting point for a thorough and more complex interpretation which is worked out of the description of the Swahili life-world, and presented as a regulative goal for moral behaviour. In Sheikh Abdilahi’s lectures, social knowledge lies in the common shared experience of coastal Muslims in Kenya, and in the basic framework of Islam. Again, this provides a starting point from which the individual thinker shapes a critique of social reality which itself is also a guideline for practical orientation. This guideline, however, is only ever tentative, unlike the usual directives commonly given out by religious scholars to their devoted followers. In the sequence of thinkers as I have presented them, the role of critical reflection increases with each of the thinkers portrayed, and at the same time a more pluralistic, diverse and politically contentious picture of social life emerges. Thematically, the Swahili context has been reflected in the intellectual work of all these thinkers and as far as possible is related to their personal perspectives. Swahili culture and language were at the forefront of Nabhany’s work for preservation; morality, in a Swahili universalist conception, was at the centre of Ahmad Nassir’s utenzi; and politics and religion were at the heart of Sheikh Abdilahi’s Ramadhan lectures. A final point may be made about Nabhany, whose project of preserving language and cultural knowledge is crucially linked to history and motivated by a defensive response to social changes brought about through external domination from upcountry or from the West. Nabhany, not a philosophical thinker himself, operates with an essentialist model of pure and desirable ‘Swahiliness’ that is grounded in the past and still provides a normative standard for the present. His static ideal was expressed in his statement that customs do not change (mila haibadiliki) and that to change customs would be tantamount to violating the given order of things. This implies that people should preserve existing customs simply because they exist, which amounts to the expression of a prototypical ‘traditionalist’ attitude. We do not have an internal critical dimension here, and it is noteworthy that for Nabhany the realm of cultural knowledge is characterised by the Swahili mila (customs), which in local discourse is commonly contrasted to dini (Islam). But although Nabhany endorses a static notion of culture, this is not an opposition he would want to make. Rather, his picture is that Islam does not conflict with past cultural practice, as Swahili society has always been Islamic and the ancestors are cast as pious Muslims who can still be regarded as role models. This is a common argument used by members of the Riyadha school, where Habib Saleh is often taken as the prototypical example of piety. Though Nabhany’s project is characterised by a deep historical knowledge that is reflected in the vast vocabulary he has collected (indicating change, it may be pointed out), he does not make theoretical use of any conception

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of culture that could account for its actual internal changes. This contrasts with his project of istilahi, in which he adapts Kiswahili to the needs of the current world (the Internet, e-mail, the computer, etc.), by coining new words from a pool of existing Swahili vocabulary so that no more loanwords have to be taken over from elsewhere. Here he uses the dynamic features of language for internal innovation, to accommodate and deal with social change. Interestingly, then, the notions of culture and language that he uses – the key notions of his project – almost seem to contradict each other. Nabhany’s strong point surely is his emphasis on the value of cultural knowledge for society, even if only as a heritage. Swahili culture and society is, of course, undergoing constant change, as Nabhany’s creative struggle testifies, and in the social sphere competition for predominance over frameworks of meaning is observable between established habits and views, and influential innovative forces. Those who most consciously (and perhaps most immediately) experience this tension are the members of the younger generation who, as social leaders of the future, represent the flow of history socially. Turning to their experience of social life in Mombasa and their reflection on this experience, we shall see counterpoints and continuities in comparison to the older generation. A key question is: how will philosophical discourse and intellectual practice in the Swahili context continue in the future, in relation to local discourses of knowledge, Islamic debates and the challenges of everyday life? T H E YO U N G E R G E N E R A T I O N : I S L A M I C M I S S I O N S A N D T H E P R A G M A T I C S O F S U R V I VA L 1

As the old Swahili traditions of cultural knowledge and forms of discourse such as classical didactic poetry recede and begin to die out, discourses of knowledge continue to be strongly linked to Islam, perhaps even more explicitly than before and certainly in new ways. Members of the older generation (among them the intellectuals studied here) represent, for a growing number of youths, not only a vague ‘golden age’ out of reach, but also cultural traditions which are now hardly meaningful within their current daily struggles for survival. While some young men have delved deeper into Islam, becoming engaged in local movements or global Islamic networks, others have focused on developing strategies of economic survival, self-support and success. The paths followed can be seen as attempts at self-orientation, which involve various ways of coming to terms with given realities. People may follow their convictions or best interests on an emphatically moral and religious path linked to politics framed in terms of Islamic ideology, or they may follow a pragmatic path of economic progress. Some, indeed, simply give up and surrender to hopelessness and despair, and even end up as drug addicts in the Old Town; in these cases, the downward spiral of addiction and petty crime destroys family networks and the community

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from within. In Mombasa as well as in other coastal towns, economic desperation has led to youths finding themselves between two extreme poles of social life, both imported from the outside and integrated as internal elements of social dynamics: the challenge of political Islamic radicalism and the trap of drug addiction.2 The majority of youths, however, do not actively participate in either of these extremes. Rather, these mark the outer limits towards which the younger members of society, in particular, are likely to be pushed, should socio-economic pressures continue to increase. It is helpful to recall the socio-economic atmosphere that I described in Chapter 2. Unemployment was high, as previous events undermined social peace and economic security in the wider coastal area. Outside Mombasa, the ‘El Niño rains’ and floodings led to homelessness, malaria and cholera in the coastal belt. The Likoni clashes caused many families of upcountry origin to return there, and those who remained lived with persistent fear and suspicion. Both episodes were publicised in the national and international media, and tourism decreased to almost zero. Large parts of the local economy were hit very hard as they were directly or indirectly dependent on tourism. Many employees were either sacked or forced to take unpaid leave until things improved. Such dismissals were not restricted to jobs at the bottom end but affected people at all levels in the hotel business. A previous assistant manager of a luxury hotel was now selling second-hand shoes along the road in Kibokoni. Many people were severely affected, and when things seemed to improve in 1999, every sign of tourists returning to Kenya was enthusiastically celebrated in the local press and in the street. The newspapers featured photographs of almost every planeload of tourists arriving in Mombasa, calculating their prospective spend. Concurrently, the young tourist guides outside Fort Jesus would get back on alert, while shop and restaurant owners were also hopefully expectant. Here I present brief contextual sketches of several individuals of the younger generation. The first three are concerned with different local discourses of Islam and Muslim identity, while the final section shows how young men are engaged in pragmatic everyday struggles for survival. These selective accounts focusing on the discourses and experiences of young men provide counterpoints (as they stand in contrast) to those of the intellectuals of the older generation described so far. They are meant to complement the overall picture of everyday life in Mombasa, and to broaden our take on the local internal pluralism of perspectives within the Muslim community.

Saidi: a religious layman and his local Islamic consciousness movement Some time after Ramadhan, Saidi, a forty-year-old religious layman from Mombasa started a kind of Islamic consciousness movement of coastal Muslims. Though he was the son of a well-known religious scholar, Saidi

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had no formal Islamic education apart from early Qur’anic school. Knowing no Arabic, he only recently began to study Islam seriously, from English and Swahili books. Before this, he had been a professional musician, performing in various bands and on assignments in the East African region. Pushing for a popular movement of Islam from below, he managed to arrange to give public speeches in several mosques in Mombasa and Malindi on regular days of the week. He soon attracted sizeable audiences, mostly made up of young people. At Noor Mosque, for instance, just outside the Old Town, he gave speeches every Monday evening between the magharibi and isha prayers. About a hundred people or so would regularly attend.3 According to Saidi, his group followed a threefold agenda: to develop a popular historical consciousness about Islam in Kenya; to discuss the current national state of affairs with regard to Muslims; and finally, to push for the rights of Kenyan Muslims.4 Saidi’s speeches insisted on the moral duty of Muslims to remind each other (kukumbushana) of the right path, and to educate each other about it (kuelimishana) – as we have also seen expressed in Ahmad Nassir’s utenzi in Chapter 5. These expressions refer to the composition of the group itself, as it consisted of young Muslim laymen who came together in this spirit. Saidi described them as concerned Muslims who had observed many wrongs committed by Muslims in their own community which Muslim leaders had done nothing about. They decided to make these wrongdoings publicly known within the Muslim community and to initiate criticism. Thus Saidi’s group claimed a moral mission within the umma, and concurrently the emphasis lay very much on the equality of all Muslims. It might be overstated to talk of an actual ‘movement’, but this was the implication of Saidi’s speeches. That Saidi, as a religious layman, could gain significant audiences in mosques goes against the usual requirement of scholarly qualifications for someone to become influential within the umma. It also goes against the principle of seniority, i.e. letting older people speak up as representatives and not criticising one’s seniors. Lacking these qualities and not formally deserving public attention, it is very unlikely that Saidi would have attracted such audiences several decades back. This points to the continuous local ‘leadership vacuum of the Muslim community’, which earlier on had already contributed to the popular support for the IPK (The Message, November 1992: 2). Disunity and faction-fighting, and the overall lack of serious orientation in Islamic matters, led to the acceptance of laymen, so-called ‘streetimams’ (ibid.), giving public speeches in the streets and in local mosques. The interest Saidi’s speeches generated reflected the discontent of the umma with the current state of affairs. Saidi addressed this discontent, discussing these problems and sketching out a perspective for the future. He presented himself as an independent pan-Islamic figure, without

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links to any locally established Islamic group, and without affiliation to a madhhab. This must have facilitated his standing, as he could represent what he called for – a Muslim unity which ignored sectarian divisions within Islam. He dismissed sectarian squabbles about the proper length of a kanzu or the exact positions of how to pray as obstacles to a real unity rooted in the common social experience of Muslims. His practical vision was to build a communal network of Muslims, based on mutual support, in which the existent wealth in the umma should be distributed among all so that economic hardship could be surmounted more easily. He suggested regular collection of alms at the Friday prayers (following the example of the Church). These monies should be used for communal projects, such as hospitals or schools, fully funded and run by the umma. Saidi held Kenyan Muslim leaders responsible for the social decay of Muslim society over the last decades; he did not blame the upcountry government as is common among Muslims. In order to improve things, he stated that ‘the big war that [we] Muslims have to wage, even before the government, is against our leaders’ (Noor Mosque, 7 June 1999). Claiming to have documented evidence, he accused local imams of misusing waqf property for their personal benefit (but he did not name them) by renting or selling waqf property without notification or approval. He also bemoaned the fact that some imams were ignorant of the numbers and needs of Muslims in their communities, and that they remained inactive on the drug problem, where at least they could exert pressure on the government and local administration to tighten the control of drug trafficking and abuse. Thus the ‘war’ of Muslims against their leaders that Saidi announced started off with rigorous public criticism, initiating a process of moral self-cleansing of Muslim society. Saidi also reminded his audience of the damage caused to the umma from outside, through ongoing discrimination against Muslims in Kenyan national politics. Here he saw a historical continuity of collaboration between politically weak Muslim leaders and the government. He found the Chief Kadhi suspiciously close to the government, as he was technically employed by it, and he asked how far the Chief Kadhi could actually represent the will of the umma under these circumstances. Overall, Saidi criticised the continuous submission of Kenyan Muslims to outside forces, whether upcountry government or Islamic organisations of the Middle East. A perspective for the future, he said, had rather to be built up from within. Saidi also provided historical background knowledge to support positive self-consciousness among Kenyan Muslims. He emphasised that Islam had been present along the East African coast since the seventh century CE.5 According to him (using selected history books as proof), it was the first ‘religion’ on what was to become ‘Kenyan’ soil. By the seventeenth century, when the Luo and Gikuyu peoples were just migrating into the territory that was to become Kenya, Muslims in Mombasa had already

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long been suffering at the hands of Portuguese invaders. Thus, he argued, if any group had a case for a prerogative to land and political dominance in Kenya, it was the coastal Muslims. He argued this in response to previous statements by upcountry politicians who, ever since election campaigns in pre-independent Kenya, had repeatedly cast the coastal Muslim population as ‘Arabs’ and alien intruders without political rights in Kenya. Reflected here is the stigma of Muslims as supposedly not being ‘true Kenyans’. This stigma also exists in everyday experience, such as when Muslims apply for IDs. Though they are compulsory for every citizen, for Muslims these are often difficult to obtain, as officials categorise Muslim names as ‘Arab’ and demand official documentary evidence of Kenyan ancestry for an application to be processed.6 Thus Saidi’s historically underpinned and politically strengthened notion of ‘Kenyan Muslims’ sought to boost the self-consciousness of coastal Muslims on a level of national comparison. The project of establishing real political equality for Muslims in Kenya entails improving education, health and social security. Muslim welfare groups should establish and finance more schools, hospitals and dispensaries, Saidi said, citing the impressive Christian example in comparison. He also called for Islam to be taught at schools and universities. Saidi suggested that funds for all these projects could be provided through the collection of alms: if all Muslims gave only a shilling every Friday, millions of shillings could be invested for the benefit of the umma every week. For significant changes such as these to take place, the primary task was to surmount internal Muslim divisions. What was needed was a new leadership, untainted by suspicion of corruption, mismanagement and selfinterest. Muslim leaders had to be scrutinised with regard to the moral sincerity of their actions (vitendo), not just their words (maneno). Thus he characterised the relationship between leaders and commoners as interdependent. Saidi’s position depends on Muslims becoming aware that they can exert moral pressure on their fellows and leaders, as encapsulated in the Islamic requirement to command and teach each other (kuamrishana na kuelimishana). Against local Islamic divisions, Saidi emphasised the popular Qur’anic statement that ‘there is no compulsion in religion’, claiming that Muslims were free to practise Islam according to their own understanding. Thus he accepted an internal diversity of Islam from the outset. It seems that the major strength of Saidi’s initiative, independence from groups and institutions, was also a weakness. Though his independence enabled him to criticise the established Muslim leadership and thus attract the attention of many ordinary Muslims, it also ruled out the possibility of a meaningful cooperation with any leading figure who could help initiate his desired changes. Lacking scholarly credentials and serious backing from any side, Saidi’s sweeping verbal attacks on local religious leaders cut him off from potential allies. Thus, though he discussed relevant issues

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and voiced local discontent and criticism vividly, his campaign seemed to have had little real impact or practical consequence. While his listeners in the mosques were initially impressed by his speeches, the speeches soon repeated themselves. None of the practical initiatives he advocated were started within three to four months, not even the weekly collection of alms. Nor did any of the Muslim leaders ever openly respond to Saidi’s criticisms. It was easy for them to ignore Saidi and his claims, and that they did so surprised hardly anyone. This case illustrates the futility of reforming a community without having access to its power centres, be they ideological or economic in nature. Saidi was perhaps naïve to assume that voicing criticism alone could initiate meaningful change, particularly in a society in which, for centuries, political alliances with powers external to the region were common (the Portuguese, the Omani Arabs and, initially, the British). Awareness of this factor might have hindered others, people who could have pushed this project further, from being associated with it. While many Muslims in Mombasa agreed with some of Saidi’s criticisms, few had enough confidence in the success of Saidi’s local initiative to support it actively. It looks like Saidi had been manoeuvering himself into self-isolation as far as any hope for the realisation of his goals was concerned.7

Daudi: young radicals and the global politics of difference Muslim identity is linked to both local and global frameworks at the same time.While the local outlook is one way of emphasising Muslim identity, integration into global networks of Islamic groups is another. This second aspect comes into focus in the case of Daudi, a representative of an Islamic radicalism which is politically oriented and shaped by the assumption of fundamental insurmountable differences between the Western and the Islamic worlds. I first encountered Daudi when I visited the Islamic University of Mbale, in Uganda, while accompanying Ahmed Sheikh Nabhany who was to take up a temporary position there as a lecturer in Kiswahili. By coincidence, a student committee had invited two young Muslim speakers from Mombasa to give talks on the Kosovo crisis while I was visiting. As the NATO forces had just started bombing Serbia, the visiting students gave speeches on these events and their significance for the global position of Islam. I attended and listened to the two young men in their twenties whom I had not seen before but whom I would re-encounter in Mombasa after my return. They were introduced with much respect by a student committee member of roughly the same age. The first speech was in English, and the speaker began by stating that it was the duty of Muslims to conquer the whole world and establish Islam as the ruling authority. He said that this was a binding religious obligation for all Muslims. After the last Caliphate of the Ottoman Empire had been

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destroyed by Western powers, it was now time to re-establish a new global Caliphate. Not addressing the particularities of the Kosovo situation, where NATO forces had actually intervened to the benefit and rescue of local Muslims – in fact, not even mentioning this – the speaker continued with an ideological tirade against ‘the infidel West’, referring to a conspiracy of the West to kill Muslims and extinguish Islam. He used a simple dichotomy between the good Muslim umma and the bad non-Muslims, the kufr (infidels). He stated that the ‘root problem of the world is that Muslims are living under the rule of kufr, and not under the sharia of Allah’. A solution, he said, could only be found in changing the rule of kufr to the global rule of Islam, ending his talk with a call for a global revolution of Muslims. This speech reflects feelings of Muslim bitterness against the Western (and particularly American) domination of global politics, while its radicalism and its advocacy of violence runs counter to common Muslim opinion in East Africa. In contrast to texts and speeches discussed before, the preoccupation here was not with local politics and Muslim division, nor with the disadvantaged position of Muslims in Kenya, but with the global imbalance of power. He expressed frustration, seeing the subjection of his own cause, Islam, to an overpowering enemy, US-led capitalism. The speaker did not earn much applause from the audience of 30–40 students, nor was he given a particularly difficult time in the discussion afterwards, though someone raised concern about his overly crude moral opposition between Muslims and non-Muslims. The docile response to this inflammatory speech perhaps signals some basic acceptance for such ideology among the younger, well-educated Muslims; on the other hand, it might also indicate they did not take him very seriously. The second speaker was Daudi, and he made a similar case about Islam and democracy. Talking eloquently in Kiswahili with some passages in English (I later discovered that his English was very good), he argued that the two were incompatible. He equated democracy with secularism, which again represented unbelief (ukafiri) and thus contradicted Islam. With a good nose for rhetorical effect, he introduced democracy as ‘the opium of the masses’, and characterised ‘African democracy’ as ‘exploitation of the people by some people for some people’. He took corruption in African politics as proof of a general ‘crisis of democracy’, and characterised democracy as bad innovation (bid’a), since the correct Islamic way of determining political leaders was by appointment, not by election. Islam, he emphasised, was not compatible with any other authority. For authoritative evidence underlining the essential difference between Islamic and Western culture, Muslims and Westerners, he referred not only to Muslim sources, but specifically to Samuel Huntington’s popular book The Clash of Civilisations (1996), where fundamental ‘civilisational’ differences between the two are asserted and taken as the new point of departure for world politics.8 This

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shows that Huntington’s simplistic ideology of mutual incompatibility and innate hostility between Islam and the West is not only shared but enthusiastically used as a helpful reference by Islamic radicals who seek power by polarising the Muslim community. In this way, a self-fullfilling prophecy in Muslim society is set in motion: the umma becomes divided into ‘true’ and ‘Westernised’ Muslims, and the latter group becomes unacceptable as they are identified with the ‘infidel’West. As no one wants to be identified as such, an internal social pressure, a cycle of Islamic radicalisation, is initiated. The outcome is that social differences eventually increase between the ‘Islamic’ and ‘Western’ worlds, thus affirming the initial assumption. In the question session afterwards, Daudi firmly clarified his understanding that an Islamic framework does not permit any other view of human society than a bipolar one in which Muslims are poised against non-Muslims: ‘Westerners are not our enemies individually, but ideologically.’ I met Daudi again in Mombasa, where he was a student at the Polytechnical College and also worked as a tour guide. We exchanged greetings, and after I carefully voiced some concerns about his speech in Mbale, we agreed to discuss matters further one day. On our next coincidental meeting in the street, he had a little pink booklet with him which he gave me to read, The American Campaign to Suppress Islam (anonymous 1996), and we decided to meet again to discuss this book after I had had a chance to read it. When we did, we used his speech from Mbale as a starting point. It now seemed as if he had taken all his ideas from the little book, repeating its phrases and using its language and arguments. He fully subscribed to the account of a US campaign to suppress Islam, linked to capitalism, secularism, democracy and unbelief (kufr), as it was described in this booklet. ‘Five pillars’ were at the basis of this suppression – just as Islam itself was based on five pillars. In this case, the five pillars of suppression were characterised as: 1. America’s international political pressure on the Muslim world, ‘forcing Muslims to embrace capitalism’ (1996: 8); 2. the continuous involvement of Muslim states in capitalism; 3. the use of international law and the UN as institutions endorsing the American position; 4. the dominance of the world media which was used for distorted presentations of Islam; and 5. the ‘agent rulers’ of Muslim states, dependent on America, who attempted to separate religion from social life (1996: 9). Furthermore, democracy, pluralism, human rights and freedom (of belief, of expression, of ownership and personal freedom) and free market policies were all characterised as cornerstones of the American way of life. These were diametrically opposed to Islam and in fact ideologically used to

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suppress it. America’s goal, as the booklet put it, was to water down Islam and make it meaningless even to Muslims, while on the other hand establishing capitalism as a new ‘religion’ (1996: 35). The book appeals to the Muslim readers to return to their Islamic framework, and ‘to defend your creed, your deen [religion], and your existence as a [sic] Ummah’ (ibid.). The closing line is that ‘nothing remains except for you to help by rejecting the Kufr of Capitalism, as well as all that it calls for of democracy, pluralism, human rights, and free market policies, and challenge those who promote them’ (37). Our discussion that night in the streets of Kibokoni quickly became frustrated because of Daudi’s insistence that an essential, irreconcilable difference existed between Islamic and Western civilisations, Muslims and Westerners. This was the assumption on which the argument for an inevitable ‘clash’ between the two sides was based. I was not able to convince him of the possibilities, and indeed realities, of at least some mutual understandings, pointing at myself, living in Kibokoni and participating to some extent in the Swahili life-world, and at him, speaking almost perfect English, presenting a coherent critique of capitalism and studying for a technical degree. This case illustrates that insistence on difference ultimately means a shift to another level of discourse, that of power. As meaningful communication and fruitful discussion about each other’s principles became impossible, these principles attained the status of absolute beliefs. They struggle and compete with each other and, as negotiation and compromise are not an option, the only conceivable outcome is the subjection of one to the other, a total victory for one and a total loss for the other. Such forms of argumentation are now locally associated with Wahhabism which, often aggressively, presents itself as the only acceptable position within Islam. Muslim opponents are portrayed as ultimately being ‘one and the same thing’, unbelievers or infidels (Warsha: 9; ni kitu kimoja). Over the previous decades such aggressive Islamic ideology, predominantly funded from Saudi Arabia, has spread along the Swahili coast, setting up a divisive and polarising Muslim discourse (cf. Chapter 3). Daudi’s case shows that a network of globally oriented Islamic ideologies and groups is also active here and has some local influence. Particularly in current times of economic hardship and a lack of an optimistic prospect for Muslims in Kenya, some young men are likely to be attracted to ideas and groups propagating a global stand-off between Islam and the West.

Ali: a young Shia imam and Swahili intellectual My third example leads away from the politics of global confrontation (but remains linked to the issue of global Islamic networks) and focuses on internal continuities and changes in the Islamic character of society. Here we see a combination of local knowledge, rooted in the Swahili context (in

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religious and cultural terms), with Shiism, which was previously linked to the immigrant groups of Persian and South Asian origin, as a new option for Muslim identity. Ali, from Pate Island on the Lamu archipelago, is an exceptional young Islamic scholar with qualities that the younger generation seems to have largely lost: a wide knowledge of the Swahili language, culture and history, and deep insight into religious issues. In his mid-thirties, he had already been an imam for a Shia Ithnaashari community in Malindi for seven years. Attaining this status so early attests to his sharp mind and deep religious knowledge, capabilities for which he was known and admired. He had good knowledge of Swahili poetry (having composed some himself) and an impressive command of Kiswahili, and was also well acquainted with the regional intellectual history of Islamic scholarship. Among the scholars whose work he respected most were Sayyid Omar bin Sumayt, Mwenye Mwanswab, Sayyid Habib Saleh, his son Sayyid Ahmed Badawy, Sharif Haddad, Mzee Kadara, Sayyid Ahmed Adnan and Mwenye Aidarus, many of whom were from Lamu or most influential in Lamu.9 Of these, he regarded Habib Saleh and Omar bin Sumayt as the most important scholars. Ali was one of the younger Swahili Muslims who had become Shia. Though I did not discuss this decision with him, it seemed linked to his inquisitive and critical nature in the search for religious knowledge, and to the process of his religious schooling. He received his basic madrasa education at a mosque in Old Town Mombasa. At the age of fourteen, he decided to leave primary school and dedicate himself to the study of Islam. For this, he went to Riyadha College in Lamu where he studied with much success for seven years. Then he followed his teacher Sayyid Hassan Badawy (a grandson of Habib Saleh) to Swafaa College, which Sayyid Hassan and his brother Mzee Mwenye had established some time after breaking away from Riyadha College earlier on (Africa Events 1987: 30) with financial support (until today) from the Shiite Ahlul-Bayt Foundation, based in Kuwait.10 Ali studied at Swafaa for another four years, turned Shia, and became an active and ambitious scholar within the regional networks of Shiism. He continued to hold Sayyid Hassan Badawy in high intellectual esteem, despite the fact that he had broken with Swafaa and Shiism and established his own local college, called Badru, during the 1990s. Interestingly, Sayyid Hassan was called the ‘Socrates of Lamu’ by some of the locals, apparently because of his scrutinising attitude. Ali maintained that in everyday life following different madhhab should not be problematic for Muslims, and it was regrettable that it often is. In a Friday sermon, he spoke out strongly against divisive sentiments and activities against other Muslims, whether Shia, Wahhabi, Ibadhi or other. With the right will, cooperation could be achieved, and this was essential for Muslim unity and strength. He reminded his congregation that they

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had much more in common with their Muslim brothers and sisters than with those of different faith (e.g. Christian, Hindu) with whom tolerance and good relations were apparently unproblematic. Differences in Islamic practices, like praying or the celebration of maulidi, were insignificant compared to the basic common features of Islam which all Muslims shared. It was crucial to show Muslim solidarity, not only because this was what God wanted from Muslims in their daily worship (ibada), but also because disunity and infighting were what the enemies of Islam wanted: a weak and sick Islam. It was up to Muslims to worship God through their good actions towards all human beings since, as he said, the meaning of ibada was to please God by perfecting one’s behaviour consciously and continuously, through all actions and phases of life. He pointed out that being a Muslim is neither a requirement for nor inherent part of goodness, while there is a constant religious demand in Islam for its performance. There was a specific reference for these remarks. During the same week, at least five Muslims had been shot dead by policemen in a small mosque (and one policeman had also been killed) in Diani, on the coast south of Mombasa. On the day of the sermon, the events that led to the killings had not yet been clarified, and doubt remained about the overall number of victims. The newspapers had reported an initial ‘serious quarrel’ between Sunni and Shia Muslims over a marriage that was about to be sealed in the mosque immediately before the police arrived, but Muslims of both groups in Mombasa were sceptical of these reports.11 It seems that Ali, as a responsible imam, preferred not to speculate on the actual events of that night in Diani, which coincided with the second anniversary of the beginning of the Likoni clashes. Instead he issued a clear call for Muslim unity and against using this event to increase Sunni–Shia divisions, nor to start retaliatory action against the police. He urged his community to stay calm, as in the aftermath of the incident emotion and speculation had naturally begun to run high. In this atmosphere, the old antagonistic oppositions resurged in public discourse, between Muslims and non-Muslims, coastal and upcountry, and the disadvantaged and the government. Some Muslim leaders had quickly threatened counter-measures against the government and called for a Muslim boycott of the national census which was scheduled for the following week. But Ali spoke out against such calls, and urged his community to cooperate with the census, which would benefit Muslims just as all other citizens with its information, and should not be turned into a political instrument. This view was later also adopted by the leaders of SUPKEM, and the census took place as planned. Ali concluded his sermon saying that disunity was like an illness that needed a medicine (ni kama ugonjwa na itakie dawa); this medicine was unity, and religion had come to human beings to bring unity (dini imekuja kuleta umoja). Overall, it seems remarkable how naturally Ali and his biography

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represent a continuity between the old system of East African Islam, with one of its centres at Riyadha, and the increasing influence of Shiism among the Swahili Muslim community after the Iranian Revolution. As one of the last intellectuals of his generation to have gone through and profited from the old system of education, he is also one of the first of his generation to establish himself as a religious leader in the Shia Ithnaashari network which has been expanding beyond the sphere of ethnic immigrant communities in Kenya since the early 1980s.12

The pragmatics of survival: business strategies, and strategies of getting by Though Islam has featured prominently in these examples, it is only one of several channels for social expression. In a Muslim community, those who choose to become morally or politically engaged need to voice their concerns in a religious framework. Reference to Islam is a claim to authority, truth and relevance, and it is used to underpin and endorse one’s own position and agenda. In Mombasa as elsewhere, pressing socio-economic and political problems have caused conditions that encourage acceptance of a more radical Islamic ideology, as local support for the IPK party in the early 1990s illustrated. But this does not mean that the majority of local Muslims have become outspoken Islamic radicals. However, everyone has to develop a strategy of how to get by from day to day, when economic resources have become severely limited. During my fieldwork, Mombasa was still suffering from the after-effects of the Nairobi bomb blast, the El Niño rains and the Likoni clashes, leading to a decline of tourism, outbreaks of cholera, a housing shortage and ethnic tensions, causing in turn unemployment, personal insecurity and economic desperation. The decision to focus on the pragmatics of business in order to earn enough money to feed oneself and one’s family, or even to seek economic success, is not in opposition to religious activity; sometimes it is the outcome of bare necessity. For instance, Fahad, a young man from Lamu, had recently started running a tiny food stall in Kibokoni, where he sold chips and fruit juices, complementing what was offered at a Swahili restaurant next door. He told me that he was qualified as an Islamic teacher after studying at Riyadha, and he had come to Mombasa in order to work for a healer and religious scholar. But, he claimed, the monthly allowance was too little to survive on, and he decided to take the risk and try to finance himself independently, in cooperation with a friend. Even so, his business always remained on the brink of collapse. He had to rely on credit and ask for financial assistance while he was in ongoing danger of losing his small business. Athman, another man in his late twenties, of Yemeni ancestry, had previously been active as a market vendor and IPK supporter. He opened up

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another Swahili restaurant in the Kibokoni neighbourhood, together with his brother and a senior Swahili friend who had business and accountancy experience. All three partners had previously worked on the Arabian peninsula, trying their luck in Yemen and Saudi Arabia, with varying degrees of success. They had first opened a juice shop which did so well that they decided to open a restaurant geared towards the local market, offering lunch and dinner, including home-cooked Swahili dishes at competitive prices. Theirs was the only economic success story that I came across all year. Despite the tight general economic situation, neighbours and residents of the Old Town queued up for tables and take-away food at lunch and dinner times, sometimes coming with the whole family. The small location also developed as a meeting place for tea during the afternoons, and for neighbourhood maskani or baraza meetings during the late evenings. Daily news was discussed here, the latest rumours were passed on, and jokes were shared in small groups. The restaurant had truly become part of the neighbourhood and its social life. It succeeded in meeting the local demand for decent food at low prices, and after several months, the restaurant was enlarged and the interior space was almost doubled.13 In contrast, Omari, the young coffee-seller down the road, who provided some wooden benches on the roadside for his customers, counted every single shilling that he earned. He sold two kinds of coffee for three shillings a cup (approximately 3p), dark black and light red (a sugary mixture), and his place was used as a kind of baraza or maskani meeting point by his friends. Football dominated the nightly discussions there, often focusing on the latest results from the UEFA Champion’s League (which could be watched in households with satellite TV connections) or the upcoming games of favourite national teams like Brazil or Germany. These discussions were as passionate and well-informed as can be imagined anywhere in the world. Occasional temporary crises of friendship would occur after unbridgeable differences over a football game or a player, or after a supporter of a losing team had been teased too severely. In such a case, the code of honour might require someone not to show his face for a number of days, in solidarity with ‘his’ team. Altogether though, these were light-hearted meetings where the normal state of affairs was to joke and tease each other over coffee and biscuits. Omari, the young coffee-seller of Barawa origin, was well-liked in the neighbourhood, and took pride in his work and the small income he made (which went to support his mother and younger sisters). He emphasised he would prefer any work where he was in charge himself to other kinds of work, but that he would do any kind of work rather than not work at all. The latter was said with a hint of contempt for the many jobless young men of the neighbourhood, who hung out aimlessly instead of taking matters into their own hands, finding and creating opportunities for work and to make an income for themselves.

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This was a frequent criticism of local young men raised by the older generation, but also by women, who often seemed quick, practical and decisive when it came to decision-making in times of hardship. Many young women would seek and find tasks and positions through which they could contribute to the economic survival of the family. Even though this went somehow against the traditional conception of gender roles, according to which women should preferably not be working for money in public view (and outside their own domestic sphere), their contributions were necessary and welcome. As shop assistants, salesladies and vendors of various sorts, their efforts were socially acceptable and not too compromising. Besides, they usually handled all the housework and cooking themselves, as few could afford to have servants at home as had been common a generation before. Though it was commonly said, not everyone agreed that unemployment and economic hardship were simply due to the government and its agenda to weaken coastal society (which was generally acknowledged). Some acquaintances of mine, Old Town residents who had succeeded fairly well in their own businesses after lots of struggle, pointed out that they were annoyed with the widespread readiness of many to blame only others, and not themselves, for their own economic failure. Interestingly, they associated this behaviour with what they called a typical ‘Swahili’ mentality among their neighbours and kin, referring to envy of other people’s success, the habit of casting oneself as a victim and the reluctance to accept certain ‘lower’ kinds of work. Thus there was a critical sense in the community of the necessity to get rid of assumptions of social hierarchy which had long become history. Nowadays, rather than being of any use, these would only create obstacles to social and economic success in postcolonial Kenya. INTERGENERATIONAL IDIOMS

Even for those who deal pragmatically with everyday life, struggling to survive or striving for success in their business, Islam is still a major component of self-understanding. It appears that, all in all, their self-definition as a ‘Muslim’ and qualities of being a ‘good Muslim’ are far more relevant than being ‘Swahili’. This might have been so continuously in coastal social history, mostly because of the evident moral implications. With regard to intellectual figures of the older generation, the social relevance of Swahili language, art and cultural history seems to be diminishing as history proceeds. The example of Ali, on the other hand, illustrates that continuities of intellectual tradition do exist and are carried on through the mediation of specifically gifted individuals, even if the form and content of the message and its interpretation may have changed somewhat. Today’s older generation grew up with high cultural self-esteem during colonial times. For them, high social status could still be taken for granted, though in practice it was already precarious; they had profited from the existing high level

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of Islamic education. Cultural assets were passed on through the existing internal educational channels of Swahili coastal society, often and crucially from generation to generation within the same family. Ahmed Nabhany, Ahmad Nassir and Sheikh Abdilahi all grew up then, as sons of waungwana families, within a social climate of self-confidence. They developed their capabilities within a social framework which was politically subordinate but culturally still intact. Such conditions sustained the ascendancy of these local intellectuals, while their individual successes were achieved through their own efforts and determination, often against social constraints and resistance, as we have seen. They stand for the last generation of intellectuals to whom the term ‘Swahili scholar’ applies without question. In the case of Ali, the young Shia imam, we can see an exceptional young scholar still bearing the classical qualities of coastal scholars. These are his proficiency in Swahili language, rhetoric and poetry, as well as his knowledge of the Qur’an and Islamic scholarship and history. Such a combination of features has become extremely rare now, while technically unqualified people increasingly address their fellow Muslims with political and religious speeches, as the examples of Daudi and Saidi show. Against what he saw as the complacency of local Muslim leaders, Saidi tried to create an independent pan-Islamic coastal consciousness movement. Daudi joined a globally oriented network of young Islamic radicals who instrumentalise the idea of ‘civilisational’ antagonism between the Muslim world and the West, in order to seek support for creating an Islamic counterforce to US-American dominance of the global economic and political sphere. With regard to the social value of knowledge and critical discourse, the fact that someone like Saidi is allowed the public space of a mosque and has a significant audience indicates two things. Firstly, his outspoken criticism of local Muslim leadership is welcomed, as he voices the discontent of ordinary Muslims. Secondly, a scholarly standard of Islamic knowledge here is no longer required for someone to address fellow Muslims publicly in a mosque. This may be because of excessive factional infighting, as heated and disrespectful ideological arguments between leaders may have diminished public confidence in local leadership altogether. Ali presents a very different case. A true intellectual in the classical sense of the East African Islamic tradition, as a Shia he also represents a possibility of Islamic orientation that has become an internal option in the Swahili context only recently. As an imam, Ali uses conventional Friday sermons as the main means to guide and admonish his community to adhere to the right path. His rejection of a strict sectarian split between Sunni and Shia has also been noted; here, his conciliatory role is probably facilitated by the connections that he has with both sides. If a Muslim society is to enjoy unity and social peace, the idea that a certain understanding of Islam has to be borne by the consensus of a majority

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is nothing new; neither is the never ending struggle between members of different ideological factions. The field of Islamic discourse in Mombasa currently has no predominant paradigm in the way that a regionally specific Shafii school had been dominant before. The old network of East African Islam (with its internal debates) was gradually undermined and broken up after local discourse became dominated by external influences, mostly from Saudi Arabia. These incoming forces, locally associated with Wahhabism, have been unable to recreate the social unity which they undermined in the first place. In this scenario, Muslim intellectuals are important standard bearers in the internal dynamics of local Islamic discourse, as they, too, need to position themselves in these debates and may be regarded as role models by others. The main characters of this study have done so in different ways, as I will briefly point out. Nabhany’s poems Mwangaza wa Dini (1976, written in 1971) and Utenzi wa Idd-el-Fitr (1999) touch on doctrinal differences and disunity in the umma. In Mwangaza, he admonished Muslims to unite and follow ‘the right path’ of Islam (i.e. Shafii doctrine) and emphasised the dangers of social division in his recent utenzi. Though firmly rooted in the Riyadha tradition, he avoided antagonising opponents. Remarkably, the leading coastal scholars from both camps endorsed Mwangaza, as all of them saw benefits in it for Islam. Since Nabhany was a poet and not an Islamic scholar, and since he addressed the duties of religious practice rather than points of doctrinal disagreement, this overall support was possible. Both of the poems can be read as texts that recommend reconciliation and Muslim unity. As such, they are also non-critical. They reproduce a standard body of knowledge in combination with a plea for Muslim unity. In this context, Nabhany does not emerge as an original thinker but as a composer, responsible for the correct poetical form of a rather straightforward message. In principle, this applies to most of his didactic poetical work. Knowledge that has been collected (sometimes in rich detail) is presented to educate the audience. Within the poems, there is no critical engagement with the issues presented, nor a reflection on their bases. While Nabhany’s poems are important to the discourses of knowledge in the Swahili context in which they are embedded, they are not philosophical in the strict sense, as they do not feature a fundamentally self-reflexive, critical dimension. They seek to present generalised and unproblematic ideal types of Muslim unity and the Swahili worldview to their audiences. For Ahmad Nassir and his Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu, the situation is different. There Nassir has stayed away from explicitly addressing the local factional divisions in Islamic matters in his poetry. While Nabhany adapts a reconciliatory role publicly, in a discourse where he is not, strictly speaking, an expert, Nassir avoids this realm altogether. Nevertheless, as we have seen,

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Islam is implicitly a major point of reference for his characterisation of utu, as his normative descriptions of exemplary moral behaviour are all taken from the Swahili Muslim context and shaped according to specific interpretations of Islam. And in the section Zinduka, the call to wake up, he directly urged his audience to follow the moral examples of selected heroes of Islamic history. For Nassir, the main focus of his poetry lies in expressions of wit and verbal artistry, and on reflections on matters of human relationships (e.g. love, friendship, happiness, and death, pain, envy). His elaborations on utu underline this, as they paint a picture of praiseworthy moral action in society while at the same time commenting upon them from a meta-perspective. In this sense, he is engaged in an original and individual exploration of the sphere of humanity in different dimensions, and this partly takes place in the form of conceptual reflection, as in Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu. Here, then, we do find these critical and self-reflexive dimensions that make the poem part of philosphical discourse, specifically in regard to the moral theory that Nassir develops, where he takes off from the social context of moral discourse. But also, his general reflections on humanity belong to a discourse of philosophical anthropology. While Islam is not a central topic of discussion, it may be regarded as the underlying general framework within which all his specific poetic investigations into human nature take place. With Sheikh Abdilahi in his capacity as an Islamic scholar, we encounter yet another kind of self-positioning in these matters. As we have seen, he studied under proponents of local reformism, such as Sheikh Muhammad Kasim Mazrui, whom he also defended against severe counter-attacks by the Riyadha faction (cf. Nassir 1967). While he was involved with Wahhabism during the 1970s, he rejected it in the early 1980s in favour of Shiism. In his Ramadhan lectures, he displayed a fiercely critical attitude towards the aggressive and dismissive ways in which junior reformist activists attacked senior local scholars of the opposite camp. In contrast, Sheikh Abdilahi highly appreciated the internal balance of the East African scholarly network in the first half of the twentieth century, telling his audience how renowned scholars then had politely and sincerely expressed their mutual respect, despite strong doctrinal differences. Sheikh Abdilahi highly valued the historically prevailing internal pluralism of Islamic discourse along the Swahili coast. According to him, it proved that cross-sectional support was possible and real (e.g. between Sunni and Shia), and showed that ideological differences within the Sunni community could be voiced and debated without jeopardising the primary unity of the structures of regional Islamic education and scholarship. Though Sheikh Abdilahi is hardly active anymore in public debate, he was and still is seen as an important point of intellectual guidance for those local Muslims (ordinary people and intellectuals) who do not simply dismiss him because he is now a Shia. Rather

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than an activist leader, telling others what to do and striving to demolish opponents and increase his own influence, Sheikh Abdilahi plays the role of a guide, scrutinising critically what is left of Islam, of ‘true Islam’ as he imagines it to be, in himself, in his audience, in his society. As he seems to indicate through his lectures, the task of such basic self-questioning is to remind Muslims how to reconnect to the basic Islamic values they really believed in, and for a Muslim society that they would support. This maxim can well be applied across the Islamic factions. In fact, it may well have been at the root of Sheikh Abdilahi’s processes of decision-making when he switched his factional allegiance. As the continuous and conscientious core of a self-reliant thinker, it is somehow reminiscent of Socrates’ daimonion. In an interview, Sheikh Abdilahi stressed this necessary aspect of ultimate moral self-reliance, relating it to the final judgement that God would cast upon him: ‘I believe the decision is mine to make for myself according to my own religious faith, because God will cast judgement on me (for myself alone) […] he does not want to hear that I have followed someone else’ (as a reason or excuse for making a mistake).14 Interestingly, he identifies religious belief with strict adherence to God only, not to other human beings; thus self-reliance for one’s own thought and action here is qualified as religious duty.15 Not only does this position stress the importance of the responsibility of the individual believer, and thereby of rationality and moral sensitivity, but it also takes us away from an exclusive focus on the centrality of power struggles in religious faction fighting.

EPILOGUE APPROACH AND FINDINGS, CONCLUSIONS AND PERSPECTIVES

THE LOCAL DYNAMICS OF PHILOSOPHICAL DISCOURSE

In the preceding chapters, I have shown in detail how philosophical discourse can be approached cross-culturally, from an anthropological perspective that takes philosophy seriously. Apart from documenting local philosophical discourse, an anthropology of philosophy offers the potential to develop a critical perspective on philosophy itself, suggesting ways in which philosophy can expand its self-understanding by integrating self-reflexive intellectual discourses from outside the academic Euro-American centre into mainstream discourse. The point here is also about philosophising as social practice. If philosophy as an academic discipline is to achieve a fuller understanding of the internal dynamics of philosophical reflection, it must not concern itself exclusively with texts, but also with the social debates that individual thinkers refer to, how and from where they get their stimulation, why certain styles of speech are used when giving a talk or lecture, and how biographies link in with texts and discourses. These issues are thought to matter when analysing European classics, but actually they do always matter, especially for reflection on other thinkers and other cultural contexts. Seeing philosophy as social practice performed by individuals leads us to focus more consciously on social contexts, on the particular ways in which thinkers present and defend their arguments, and on the local relevance of their arguments and ways of thinking. I have demonstrated how local debates involve individuals who, from specific biographical backgrounds, engage in philosophical activity as members of society. From here, philosophical discourse and intellectual practice in the region can be investigated further, in relation to local debates and individual intellectual endeavours. As a rule, the more insight we gain into regional intellectual history, discourses of knowledge, social debates and the established practices of theory, the richer the portrayals of philosophical discourses can be. The better these are documented, the more relevant they can become for other people, both within or outside of the society discussed. They can also be seriously taken into consideration as alternatives to theoretical frameworks and ways of thinking that we have been using so far.

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Man thinking in a cafe, Lamu Picture by the author, 1999 This is how anthropology can participate in a timely internal critique within philosophy. It yields the possibility of mutual insight and exchange on a philosophical level across cultures, and of the possible integration of other ways of understanding the world into one’s own. Understanding the understanding of understanding, and making understood here the social and conceptual processes of how understanding is understood elsewhere, is the project for a philosophy that seeks to take the unique internal dynamics of each culture seriously. On a concrete empirical level, this is the task for anthropology. Thus the overall project is viable only through a joint venture between philosophy and anthropology. In this regard, elements of a philosophy of cultures – an open and fundamentally pluralistic philosophical approach to other cultures, ways of thinking and intellectual traditions – have been sketched out recently, building on the foundations of Cassirer’s philosophy of culture (cf. Heise 2003). Such a philosophical project may to some extent be reliant on an anthropology of philosophy. At least, it needs to integrate anthropological methods of research on knowledge, religion and philosophy into the way that it reflects on philosophy in cultural dynamics elsewhere. Philosophy’s intercultural project is the counterpart to a philosophy-oriented project of anthropology. If philosophy is a knowledgebased human activity which can be performed in many styles and idoms, it has to be investigated in situ, within the social field where it is practised

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and acknowledged. Here, I have tried to provide one concrete example of such a study. For the Old Town of Mombasa, and especially the quarter of Kibokoni, I have explored some of these relations. By working with a small number of local intellectuals, I aimed to produce case studies that could illustrate the internal complexities of the intellectual sphere and the relations between the individual thinkers and their social context (Part II). As background to this, I introduced the regional intellectual history and characterised basic conceptual fields and relevant areas of social discourse and debate (Part I). In this way, I followed up on the institutionalised and freely reflexive characteristics of local discourses of knowledge, the ‘scholarly’ and ‘worldly’ aspects (cf. Kant’s Schulbegriff and Weltbegriff; Chapter 1). The locally established Islamic schools of thought and the doctrinal character of their disputes, as well as the genre of utenzi poetry used as a medium for educating society, all refer to the former. They indicate relevant local threads of intellectual orientation in the Kenyan Swahili context, in terms of dominant arguments and positions, and in regard to the transmission and dissemination of knowledge (and particularly moral knowledge) in society. This refers to a ‘scholarly’ or scholastic conception of philosophy (Schulbegriff), to pick up on Kant’s terms: a ‘doctrine of skills’, historical rational knowledge, philosophy that can be learned second-hand, which is helpful but has no inherent moral value as such. More important and valuable is the ‘worldly’ conception of philosophy (Weltbegriff). According to Kant, this is characterised by the activity of a ‘philosophising’ individual and her or his creative original synthesis of thought when reflecting on ‘ultimate’ questions, meaningful to human beings in general but unanswerable in any straightforward way. These questions are directed at theoretical and practical orientations in life, inquiring about the extent of one’s knowledge and about the moral standards that one should adhere to. The understanding that this is what really matters philosophically or in terms of wisdom is a view probably still shared by most of us, and most Mombasans. Thinkers who are able to provide us with original contributions and advice on how to orient ourselves in thinking and acting are especially respected. They engage in the process of constructing, and constantly reconstructing what Kant called a ‘doctrine of wisdom’. Philosophy in this sense cannot be learned but only practised: it is never completely given but remains a continuous task. We may probably find some individuals who are disposed to reflect on such questions in all human societies, and we certainly do find them in the Swahili context, where these questions are taken seriously in social life. Here, a person of this category may be called mwanafalsafa (philosopher) or failousouf (Ar.: philosopher), mwenye hekima (wise person), tafukra or mwenye fikra (thinker), not as a title but as an

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informal marker of respect.1 We have observed above that people usually treat these kinds of persons respectfully, and that some thinkers are admired for the guidance that they provide for others when publicising their reflections on such matters. This is true for Ahmad Nassir who, in his Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu, presents a poetically composed answer to issues of moral orientation and the premisses of good behaviour. He gives an emphatically universalist conceptualisation of goodness, developed from within the Swahili context, using existent social knowledge and discourse (proverbs, sayings) and drawing from a variety of concepts and connotations in established language use. Though his moral theory starts off from common social knowledge and uses many recognisable terms from it, it goes far beyond, with its radical critique of ukabila (‘tribalism’), its strong universalist outlook and the subtlety with which it relates sub-concepts to the main concept, utu. While he uses the utenzi genre as a classic and culturally specific medium of didactic discourse, his verbal artistry enables him to present moral theory in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Nassir’s poem contributes to a social discourse on morality, enriching it with his own interpretation of utu, and so clarifying some issues and expanding others. In this way, it enhances the theoretical framework of moral debate by introducing some new ways of thinking about utu which others may take up and develop in the future. Without any doubt, then, Nassir’s poem is part of Swahili philosophical discourse, presenting an answer to the old question of moral philosophy, ‘What ought I to do?’ Sheikh Abdilahi’s Ramadhan lectures are equally part of local philosophical discourse. As a sequence of speeches, they constitute a remarkable critique of the Kenyan Muslim community and of Kenyan political reality based on the Sheikh’s understanding of Islam, transmitted by religious lectures as Qur’anic tafsir (on weekdays) and free lectures (on weekends). These lectures were notable for their self-critical attitude, which he also encouraged in the audience, and so stand in stark contrast to the usual run of Islamic lectures which tend to be ideologically loaded. These were not empty rhetorical gestures. Sheikh Abdilahi dealt with fundamental questions of self-assertion for Kenyan Muslims, from an individual and social point of view. Furthermore, he was well-known for his stance as a free thinker who reasoned in his own way. I have shown how this was displayed in the Ramadhan lectures, where his audience consisted of intellectually interested Muslims who admired him for these qualities. His weekend lectures provided the audience with a rare opportunity to interact with the speaker, by requesting topics that he would discuss and by raising questions for further discussion after his speeches. Questions and topics requested were concerned with current socio-political issues, regional, national and

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global, on which Sheikh Abdilahi would give his personal evaluation from an Islamic perspective. Thus issues of fundamental socio-political concern were at the centre, which the Sheikh would think through with his audience in response to the questions put to him. If philosophising is essentially the conscious effort to orient oneself intellectually, by means of active reflection on the basics of one’s thinking, knowing and doing, these lectures certainly belong to it. As texts and contributions to ongoing debates, they belong to philosophical discourse, and as socially performed attempts to reflect on life, they belong to local philosophical practice. Though I stress their philosophical character here, they are also, of course, contributions to local discourses of Islam, politics and society. My research, unlike others in the field of African philosophy, has not sought to prove the existence of a regionally specific common ‘philosophy’ of a social group and give a comprehensive overall account of it. An ethnophilosophical project of a ‘Swahili philosophy’ had indeed once been sketched out, by Reverend Lenfers.2 But such an approach is inadaquate for understanding the internal dynamics of philosophical discourse, as it leaves us with the impression of a collective, passive and static philosophy as part of the essential cultural heritage of a people. Like other researchers and missionaries, Lenfers did not focus on individual thinkers, nor on current philosophical discourse.These two points, however, were central to my study here. Still, the aim was not simply to provide evidence for the existence of philosophical thinkers along the Swahili coast (though this may have been a welcome side effect). What philosophy is and who is a philosopher relies on definitions and will always remain contested, so the idea of ‘proving’ the existence of philosophy somewhere (or with someone) answers a moot point. That the dynamics are like this is not a bad thing, because constant intellectual confrontation and negotiation with other positions helps us to clarify our own thoughts. Also, it is fruitful to inquire about philosophical positions, discourses and texts around the world, taking seriously both the internal dynamics of these questions (about philosophy and philosophers) and the social dynamics of the empirical context of actual thinking. As the existence of some kind of knowledge specialists and intellectual leaders (or guides) can almost be taken for granted anywhere, research on these individuals and their input into both discourses of knowledge and social debates is a natural starting point for an anthropology of philosophy. In this research, I set out to investigate some of the ways and forms of critical reflection on society and human life promoted by individual thinkers inside the social and cultural dynamics of the Swahili context. On the ground, a common conceptual framework of understanding (in terms of shared language, religion, folk wisdom and mythology) is inherent in regional history with its intellectual traditions. To situate thinking indi-

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viduals in this, and contextualise them socially, marks a step towards more complex insights into local forms of knowledge and their internal critique. Thus knowing more about the variety of local schools of thought and the choice of discursive genres for the expression of (new) insights grew in importance during the course of this study. Understanding this provides us with a better sense of the internal relevance of certain debates, speeches and poems for members of the local Muslim community. A N T H R O P O L O G Y A N D P H I L O S O P HY

The general interest of an anthropology of philosophy as presented here is not to introduce a new understanding of philosophy, but rather to expand upon one which is broadly accepted within the discipline itself. I argue, with African philosophers like Hountondji, Oruka and Wiredu,3 that there must be no double standards over the way that philosophy is globally perceived, though cultural and social specificities do need to be worked out and understood. This means that philosophy has to do with the quest for self-understanding of human beings, with their basic reflections on life, including theoretical interests in the character of human knowledge and the practical standards of moral behaviour. It is a self-reflexive or ‘auto-critical’ activity performed by theoretically and critically inclined individuals in society. And, to a certain extent, all of us may sometimes be inclined in this way. There are usually knowledge specialists, people who are known as local intellectuals, who are respected as ‘thinkers’ by their peers, persons who are taken as a point of orientation by others. Two components are of major importance when approaching philosophy elsewhere in the social and cultural dynamics of its contexts: firstly, the locally established traditions of knowledge, schools of thought (and perhaps scholarship) and genres of intellectual activity that are characteristic (and perhaps peculiar) to a particular region or society; secondly, the specific ways in which particular thinkers actually philosophise, i.e. how discursive (language-bound) critical reflection upon the basic questions of human self-understanding and orientation proceeds with regard to the original ideas and emphases that individuals bring in. Culturally specific schools of thought, traditions of systematic knowledge, exist everywhere in the world, in all societies, linked to social histories of the various regions. Research in anthropology and other disciplines has exponentially increased our awareness and knowledge of this over the last decades. While this historical and (in a culture-relative way) systematic knowledge is not critical per se, and not philosophical as such, the internal evaluation of local theories and systems of knowledge, their continuation and perspective is, as far as it proceeds via debate, discussion and critical assessment. The dynamism of critical debate on fundamentals characterises philosophy, and this is constituted by a multiplicity of qualified participants

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with differing opinions but a common general framework of knowledge, which itself may be altered or consolidated through such debate. Such an ‘internal pluralism’ of voices can be encountered in all cultural and social contexts, as the existence of traditions of cultural practice does not per se exclude their reasonability nor a continuous and critical evaluation (cf. Hountondji 1983). Thus the preoccupation with local debates, listening to the ways in which arguments and criticisms of society are put forward, in relation to traditions of knowledge and genres of intellectual expression is especially important and worthwhile.4 In these ways anthropology can help to gain insight into the internal debates of societies elsewhere, an understanding of what critical self-assessment means there, and how it is exercised, in culturally specific forms and socially specific genres of philosophical discourse. Anthropology can lead philosophy to gain a wider and more complete understanding of itself and its internal varieties. Traditions of critical inquiry, too, as much as other traditions of social and cultural practice, point at a truly human faculty to be found in the various cultural histories around the world. Philosophy is not an abstract entity, and this kind of investigation ultimately aims at a fuller understanding of humanity and the multiple ways in which human beings reflect on the condition of the world and critically evaluate themselves in society. Currently, more than ever before, philosophy and the social sciences need to review and revise themselves according to a pluralist paradigm of knowledge, taking the various intellectual histories of human societies equally seriously. They need to overcome their Eurocentric bias and integrate relevant theoretical knowledge from other regions and societies productively into their scientific concerns in order to deserve the general labels for their disciplines. For philosophy and the knowledge of philosophical traditions and activities around the world, the answer can only lie in a more conscious pluralism and a disciplinary self-understanding beyond the acknowledgement of different schools within ‘Western philosophy’. Factually, the last decade has seen such moves to pluralise philosophy, visible in a multiplicity of publications under such labels as ‘world philosophies’, ‘intercultural philosophy’ and ‘comparative philosophy’. Also, publications on regional philosophical traditions have soared; in the area of African philosophy, for instance, the output of publications in the last decade might almost match the total of previous publications in this field. This is not just a fashion, and must be seen in context with a critical reassessment of philosophy in the light of the postcolonial era. In the African context particularly, the insistence on the continuation of philosophy as a general critical project, but not the Western one, is an important feature. Such an insistence has been voiced by a range of African philosophers critical of the numerous attempts by African rulers and regimes to prescribe ways of thinking and political participation to their citizens. Often, this is done by using the label

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of ‘philosophy’ to make such prescriptions more appealing, with reference to collective ideals of ‘African’ nationalism, socialism, humanism and the like – even ‘footstepism’ (the ideology of following the leader, always and unquestioningly), if we translated ‘Nyayoism’, the key term of the former Kenyan president Moi’s ‘philosophy’, literally and directly from the Swahili.5 Attempts have been made to sell all this with the reference to the label ‘African philosophy’. As the critics point out, with the Kenyan philosopher Henry Odera Oruka vocal among them (until his untimely death in 1995), philosophy and philosophical inquiry is fundamentally opposed to dogmatic political ideologies, and social freedom and freedom of investigation for any kind of inquiry helps philosophical discourse to flourish. They have frequently characterised the philosopher as a ‘free thinker’; turning this around, we can call free thinkers philosophers, in regions with or without academic traditions. Though in the social sciences awareness has grown about structures and strategies of power actually immanent in discourses presenting themselves as relying on reason, critical inquiry as a methodological tool remains important to provide and sustain normative standards in society. There is little to win for postcolonial societies by exclusively assuming a will to power at work everywhere and dropping the general project of philosophy as rational critique altogether, as has been suggested by recent neo-pragmatist and postmodernist moves. As has been pointed out, the postcolonial situation in Africa cannot be subsumed under, nor voiced by, an aesthetically oriented ‘postmodern’ renaissance of relativism in the West; the former cannot be sensibly approached by the latter (Appiah 1992). While neo-pragmatism claims to be value-neutral and morally and politically passive, such passivity ultimately endorses existing dynamics and relations of power. Dropping the potential influence of philosophy as critical reflection with the attempt to negotiate binding standards also disposes of the possibility to insist on moral standards or to refer to a generally acceptable idea of humanity or justice. The postmodern advocacy of a relativism that makes attempts at debate and serious rational negotiation meaningless (which remain the only basis for political debate and resolution anywhere in the world), ultimately plays into the hands of existing power relations on a global stage. As regards theory, it deprives philosophy and the social sciences of the integration of theoretical knowledge from elsewhere, enriching their perspective and expanding their global scope, and it denies philosophical and sociological reflection from outside the Western Euro-American context serious consideration and comparison.6 There is a project left to pursue for philosophy and anthropology, linked to the epistemological and moral necessity of developing and keeping up intercultural and globally usable standards of reference. It can only be achieved in a difficult and long-term attempt to integrate the existing plurality of

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fundamental conceptions of the world and human values into a whole, able to consider and contextualise theoretical and moral claims from the various regions around the globe. The task of an overall negotiation of human conflicts will never cease to exist, and in order to deal adequately with this task, a network of interrelated compatible standards of value needs to be worked out, from which no culture or society is excluded. Such a process of integration needs to draw from observations and documentations of social debates and philosophical discourses around the world, so that the internal standards of those societies can be worked out, considered and situated within such a web of interrelated references. The idea of a modified, critical universalism – or something of this kind – that can integrate all the various global traditions and conceptions of human knowledge and values equally is the starting point for a critical intercultural philosophy. On such a basis, a pluralistically oriented philosophy of cultures can be developed further, drawing from and building upon anthropological inquiry. Anthropological inquiry is uniquely situated to position itself at the heart of local debates and intellectual endeavours, to listen, and to make the outside world hear and understand what life is all about, what it means to know, and why those who know that they don’t know are actually the most knowledgeable – and the many other such things worthy of our attenton.

APPENDIX 1 AHMED SHEIKH NABHANY

U T E N D I WA B A RA Z A YA I D D U L - L - F I T R I I L I YO A N Z I S H WA N A M E YA WA M O M B A S A S H E I K H N A J I B B A L A L A – 1999 U T E N Z I O F T H E B A RA Z A O F I D D - E L - F I T R I I N I T I A T E D B Y T H E M AYO R O F M O M B A S A , S H E I K H N A J I B B A L A L A – 1999

1 Bisimila rahamani * na arahimi mwishoni na tumwa wetu amini * kipendi chake jaliya In the name of the Lord * the Beneficent, the Merciful and our trustworthy messenger * the Beloved One of God 2 Naanza kudhumu hini * kwa kushukuru manani kumaliza Ramadhani * kwa afua na afiya I am starting this composition * by thanking the Beneficent to have ended Ramadhan * in relief and good health 3 Watukufu karibuni * mulo kuja barazani twaitowa shukurani * kwa nyinyi kuhudhuriya Welcome, honoured persons * who have come to this baraza we are giving thanks * to all present 4 Tunafuraha nyoyoni * kukutana iddi hini na inshallah na mwakani * izidi kuendeleya We are happy in our hearts * to encounter this Idd feast and if God wishes this year * can go on to progress

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5 Twamshukuru Wadudi * hini ni kuu jihadi kwa siku hini ya iddi * kukutanika pamoya We thank God * this event is a big effort for this day of Idd * that we experience together 6 Kwa nyote muliyofika * twamba iddi mbaraka hunu na mngine mwaka * tukutanike kwa niya To all of you who have come * we say ‘Idd Mubarak’ in this year and others * we shall come together with strong will 7 Iddi baraza kurudi * tumekuduka fuwadi aloifanya juhudi * ni Balala wetu meya The Idd-baraza is back * and our hearts are glowing with joy the one who put in effort to achieve this * is our mayor Balala 8 Yeye na wake wendani * wa jopo lake kazini wakatiya akilini * baraza ikaregeya He and his colleagues * in the committee at work they put their minds into it * so that the baraza could come back 9 Ni jambo la furahisha * baraza kuidumisha liendelee maisha * Rabi tatuafikiya This is a thing to be happy about * that the baraza should go on forever that it should go on living * God will agree with us 10 Baraza hini ya Iddi * ni ada ya hapo jadi na kwa sasa imerudi * kwa jitihadi ya meya This Idd-baraza * is a custom from long ago and for now it has returned * due to the effort of the mayor 11 Hili ni jambo muhimu * kwetu sisi Isilamu yataka tulifahamu * tuunganeni pamoya This is an important thing * for us Muslims and it requires that we understand * that we have to unite

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12 Leo tumekutanika * kwa Iddi kufurahika inshalla mngine mwaka * Rabi tatujaaliya Today we have come here together * to enjoy the Idd celebration so that – if God wishes – next year * God will support us 13 Yataka tulifahamu * umoja wa Isilamu kwetu ni jambo muhimu * kwa amri ya jaliya It requires that we understand * the unity of Muslims is an important thing for us * by the order of God 14 Amesema Subuhana * qauli yake Rabana ni sisi kushikamana * kwa kamba yake jaliya The Blessed One has said * in his Godly statement that we should closely hold together * onto God’s gracious rope 15 Muwate kufarikana * Isilamu huungana kwa mahaba kupendana * washikamane pamoya Stop splitting apart from each other * Islam unifies love one another through friendship * and hold closely together 16 Hunu mkutano mwema * ulojaa na neema inshallah tutasimama * tushikamane kwa niya This is a good meeting * full of blessing if God wishes we shall stand up * and hold together with determination 17 Yataka kukumbushana * kwa haya yenye maana la kusomesha zijana * masomo kuendeleya It is necessary to remind each other * with respect of the meaningfulness of teaching the youth * to continue their studies 18 Enyi mulo waumini * mutowe cha mfukoni watoto wa masikini * ilimu kuwapatiya You there, who are believers * take out of your purse something for the poor children * to supply them with education

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19 Mafunzo ya qurani * na hadithi za amini zimeeleza bayani * wanyonge kusaidiya The study of the Qur’an * and the truthful hadith have explained themselves openly * to help those who have nothing 20 Matajiri wa umini * wenye ghera za kidini twaomba jitokezeni * mutowe chenu kwa niya You, rich ones of faith * with special religious effort we ask you to come out * so that you contribute your part with determination 21 Muhishimiwa waziri * wa mila na dasituri bwana sharifu Nassiri * yatizame mambo haya Honourable minister * of customs and traditions (cultural heritage) Bwana Shariff Nassir * look at these matters 22 Semanao matajiri * wenye imani na ari watoto wa mafakiri * ilimu kuwapatiya Speak with those rich ones * who have belief and effort so that the children of the poor * can be provided with education by them 23 Na nyote Waisilamu * muliyo hapa qaumu mwaelewa mwafahamu * shimeni kusaidiya And all you Muslims * who are in this crowd here you understand and agree * let’s put effort into helping them 24 Umewadiya wakati * tusimameni kwa dhati tusije kuilaiti * na kisha kuiyutiya The time has come * that we should stand up with strong will let us not come to blame ourselves * and regret that afterwards 25 Shida zimetukabili * sisi kwetu Waswahili tusimameni tutuli * tuzondowe mara moya Problems confront us * us Swahili, at our own place let us stand up firmly * and push them aside at once

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26 Wana wetu mitaani * wazurura majiyani wakiufanya uhuni * bila ya kuzingatiya Our children in the quarters * idle around in the streets when they behave badly * without being conscious of it 27 Huja zao sikizeni * ati ni umasikini na wazee majumbani * huru wamewaachiya Their reason, listen * is poverty, they say (but is it really?) and their parents at home in their houses * have left them freedom to do anything 28 Isilamu hata lini * nasi tuwe miyongoni kwa duniya na kwa dini * na mbele kutanguliya Muslims, until when will it take * and we will be united together in worldly and religious matters * and we will progress ahead 29 Tuwe na wahadhiri * maprofesa hodari wangine madaktari * na mapisii pamoya We should have presentable people * intelligent professors and some medical doctors * and also Provincial Commissioners (PCs) 30 Yote hayapatikani * mpaka kwenda shuleni uipite mitihani * kwa bidii kuitiya All those are unavailable * until after going to school where you should pass the exams * by putting in effort 31 Tusikaye barazani * tukilaumu wageni watoto tusomesheni * wakati umewadiya Let us not just sit at the baraza * criticising/reproaching the foreigners let us teach the children * time has come for that indeed 32 Asokuwa na ilimu * kazi hapati fahamu ni mpaka akhitimu * kazi ataipatiya One who has no education * does not get any work, you understand it is not until graduation * that he/she will get work

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33 Nawaatiya wendani * umoja tuundeni wa Mombasa kwetu pwani * wa wana kusaidiya I am leaving this to you, friends * let us form a unity of Mombasa people at our place at the coast * of people who help each other 34 Na sasa ni shukurani * ya meya hapa mjini yeye na wake wendani * baraza kutuwekeya And now thanks to * the mayor of this town to him and his friends * for preparing this baraza for us 35 Balala twampongeza * mefaulu kuongoza mji walikuwa giza * na sasa unan’gariya We congratulate Balala * he has succeeded to lead (us) this town was dark * and now it is shining 36 Meya Balala kushika * na mji umegeuka uchafu umeswafika * manukato wanukiya Mayor Balala took over * and the town changed the filth was cleaned * and what was stinking now smells good 37 Zatengezwa busitani * ziliyo barabarani na mauwa yamo ndani * ya pendeza kwangaliya Parks have been built * along the roads and there are flowers in there * pleasurable to watch 38 Ya Rabi mpe salama* mzidishe na hima afuze kutenda mema * umuhifadhi jaliya God, give him peace * and ever more energy so that he may succeed to build up good things * protected by God’s grace 39 Zendeleya shukurani * mbwana na mwenye Hasani ni wamoja kitengoni * umeme kututiliya The thanks still continue * now to Mr Hasan who is among those who prepared this * and provided us with electricity

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40 Na walopamba baraza * Rabi tawapa majaza na wenye kutuhimiza * na waliyo simamiya And those who decorated the baraza * God may give them fulfilment and those who hurried to prepare this * and all who made this possible 41 Nimekoma kikomoni * mwisho nudhumu hini yameweleya wendani * sasa tamati natiya I have come to an end * finally, I am left with this task you have understood my words, friends * now I give you the end 42 Asomao mjuweni * ni mwenenu mtaani Muhamadi Sheibani * utendi kutusomeya The one who recited, know that * is your child of this town Muhamad Sheiban * he read the poem for us 43 Alotunga fahamuni * kwenu nyote si mgeni Ahamadi Nabahani * Iddi njema awambiya The one who composed this, understand * is not a stranger to you Ahmed Nabhany * who wishes you a good Idd umefasiriwa na translated by Kai Kresse with Ahmed Nabhany

APPENDIX 2 SHEIKH ABDILAHI NASSIR

R A M A D H A N L E C T U R E , 26 T H D E C E M B E R 1998 FLOR ING I EDUCATIONAL HALL

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MOMBASA:

Excerpt of the Swahili original […] Sasa, swala hili la katiba, si swala la kuulizwa mtu mmoja, kama mimi, ‘nini maoni yako?’, hili ni swala la jamii yote ya kiislamu, community mzima ya kiislamu. Ni jambo la kushughulikiwa na waislamu wenyewe wote kwa jumla. Kama vile ambayo wakristo hawazungumzi mtu mmoja mmoja, ni vyama vyao vikubwa ndivyo wanavyo shughulika. Christian Council of Kenya, na wakatholic, washirikiana wao kufanya, kuangalia kufanya jambo hili. Na hawashughuliki watu wa aina moja tu. Si mapadri peke yao ambao wana oshughulika. Ni mapadri kwa sababu wao ndio viongozi na wakristo, lakini vilevile wanashughulika na wale maprofessionals, mawakili, kwenye chama cha ukristo watakuwa wamo. Madaktari, maana yake kila sehemu ya maisha wale watalaamu wanaoshughulika na mambo yale watakuwa wamo. Maprofessionals hawawadharau mapadri na mapadri hawawadharau maprofessionals. Wote washirikiana kuangalia maslaha ya ukristo, namna gani wataweza kuyasaidia. Sasa hapa ndipo […] kwa sisi waislamu. Tatizo la waislamu iko hapa. Kwanza, ni kwamba sisi waislamu, hatuna chama kimoja kinachoweza kudai kuwa chaweza kuwasemea waislamu wote kama ambavyo wakristo wana chama kimoja ambacho kinaweza kuwasemea wakristo wote. Supreme Council haiwakilishi waislamu wote, na hicho chama kikubwa ambacho waislamu wajibunia nacho, nacho chaidai kusemea kwa waislamu wote. Kwa sababu Supreme Council haina, haiungwi mkono na umma, wale watu wa kawaida, wa lugha wa kizungu haina ile ‘grass root support’. Chama kiko juu, cheo chenyewe hakikuanza na umma, tarikh ya Supreme Council hai kuanza na umma, ilianzwa na wakubwa na kimebakia vilevile chama cha wakubwa. Huu ndio ukweli. Waislamu wengi hawana utiifu na Supreme Council. Wale wasiojuwa jinsi zetu utiifu wao ni wa jamati zao. Uwongo kama Supreme Council itakuwa na msimamo fulani, na jamati yao ina msimamo mwingine, wao wakawa watafuata msimamo wa Supreme Council. Wakati wote watasikiliza jamati yasemaje. Watakavyoambiwa na

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jamati, watakavyofanya, potelea mbali Supreme Council, ufikiri utakalo. Na wale jinsi yetu sisi, pia loyalty yao haiko kwa Supreme Council, iko kwa mashekhe. Wale mashekhe wenye suhuba, wenye kusikilizwa na watu. Lau Supreme Council itasema jambo moja na mashekhe watasema lingine, watu watafuata mashekhe au watafuata Supreme Council? – Kwa hivyo Supreme Council ni ‘toothless bulldog’. [laughter …] Hamna. Na hapa ndio pana matatizo kwa kuwa uwongozi wa Supreme Council: ijapokuwa wadai kwamba wao wasemea Kenya nzima, haiwatambui hawa ambao ni jumuiya. Haiwashirikishi katika mambo yao. Haiwashauri, haiwaiti wakazungumza nao wakawaeleza. Debati hii imeanza kitambo, ya katiba, mahali gani ambapo Supreme Council wamewakusanya wale mashekhe wanaosikizwa na watu, Kenya nzima, na waliziweka jamaa za kimataifa mbalimbali, wakawaita wakazungumzia matatizo haya, na wale wakawapa maoni yao? Siku gani waliitwa? … Na bado hawa ndio wenye watu. Hawa ndio wenye watu, Supreme Council haina watu. Sasa Supreme Council lazima iwashirikishe hawa watu. Na maadamu imejiita ni chama cha waislamu wote, basi wawashirikishe waislamu wote wa madhahabi (madhehebu) yote. Kama si hivyo, baadhi wao waseme wao ni madhehebu gani, na wengine ni madhahabi gani, wakristo walivyo: Christian Council of Kenya, ya makatholic; makatholic wana yao, lakini likitokea jambo la ukristo, makatholic na wasiokuwa makatholic washirikiana kutetea maslaha yao ya ukristo. Sasa leo ikiwa Supreme Council itatowa mawazo kuhusu mambo kama haya, alhamdulilahi, siku kama hizi tuna watu wangapi waislamu ambao ni mawakilishi ? Wapi wameshirikishwa? Ikiwa washirikishwa kwa nini washirikishe wale walioko Nairobi? Kwa nini wasiitwe wale na miji mingine? Wakajua matatizo gani yalioko miji mingine. Ikiwa yataka iwe Supreme Council iwe Supreme Council, kwa kuwaita na kuwashirikisha wale wa kila mji. Kwa nini haiiti viongozi wa mataifa mbalimbali ya kiislamu? Lile ni jambo, katiba hii, itawahusia waislamu wote. Waitwe, ikiwa makokni waitwe, mamemon waitwe, maismaelis waitwe, maithnaashari waitwe, mabohora waitwe, kwa sababu bila ya wale, bila ya uwongozi ule wao wa jamati zao, hawatasikiza. sasa na hili ni jambo ambalo tuapigania na serikali. Serikali yatambua – serikali haikulala, serikali ajua vizuri sana kama Supreme Council haiwakilishi waislamu. Inajua vizuri sana. Lakini iwapo maslaha yao kufunga mato ili wakitaka kuitumia wataitumia, wakawaita na hawa nao wakawasikiza maoni yao. Kisha kuatokea na mizozani. […]

English translation […] Now this question about the constitution is not a question which should be put to one person, like me, asking for my opinion. This is a question for the whole Muslim society, the whole Islamic ‘community’ [English in the original]. It is a matter of concern for all Muslims in general. Just like

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the Christians don’t talk about it one to one, but their big councils deal with them. The Christian Council of Kenya, and the catholics, they work together in this, in how this matter should be viewed and treated. And they don’t involve people of only one group. It is not the priests alone who deal with it. The priests are involved since they provide the leaders for the Christians, but also professional advisers are involved, and they would be present in such a council. Doctors and specialists on every aspect of life would be present and concern themselves with these issues. The professionals don’t despise the priests and the priests don’t despise the professionals. All cooperate in guarding the interests of Christianity, in whatever way they can contribute. Now here is a difference […] to us Muslims. The problem for the Muslims lies here. Most of all, it is that we Muslims don’t have such a body that can claim to speak for all Muslims in the same way the Christians have such a body that can speak for all the Christians. The Supreme Council does not represent all Muslims, nor a big convention (council) of such a kind that the Muslims have formed for themselves, and that claims to speak for all Muslims. Since the Supreme Council is not like that, since it does not cooperate with the umma, with the common people, to use an English phrase: it did not have ‘grassroot support’ [English in the original]. The council is above the people, the measure itself was not started by the umma, the history of the Supreme Council did not start with the umma, it started with the ‘big ones’ and it also stayed a council of the big and influential people. This is the truth. Many Muslims have no loyalty to the Supreme Council. For those who do not know our ways, their loyalty is to their mosques. It is untrue to say that in case the Supreme Council had a certain position on an issue, and the mosque has a different one, the people would follow the position of the Supreme Council. In every case they would be listening to the stance of the mosque. What the mosque (the imam) will tell them to do is what they will do, go away Supreme Council, think whatever you want. And such people like ourselves, also their loyalty is not with the Supreme Council, it is with the sheikhs. Those sheikhs with friendship, those who are listened to by the people. Now, if the Supreme Council says one thing and the sheikhs say something different, will the people follow the sheikhs or will they follow the Supreme Council? … (pause) … That is why the Supreme Council is a ‘toothless bulldog’. (laughter) And here is indeed a problem for the leadership of the Supreme Council: although it claims to speak for the whole of Kenya, for all Kenyan Muslims, it does not recognise those who are the community. It does not represent them in their own concerns. The Supreme Council does not consult with them, and it does not call them to talk to them and explain matters. This debate about the constitution began long ago, but when and where did the Supreme Council call those sheikhs that the people listen to, from all over Kenya, for a gathering? When did

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they call sheikhs from various ethnic groups in order to talk about those problems so that the sheikhs could give them their opinion? On which day were the sheikhs called together? Until now, the sheikhs are in charge of the people, the Supreme Council does not have any people. Now, the Supreme Council must involve those people. If it calls itself a council of all Muslims, well, then it should involve all Muslims from all madhhab. If not, at least its members should declare from which different madhhabs they are, just like the Christians have it: there is a Christian Council of Kenya, and a Catholic Council. So the catholics have their own council, but if there is a matter of concern for all Christians, the catholics and those who are not catholic cooperate together to speak out for the interests of Christianity. Now if today the Supreme Council were asked to announce its position on such matters, such as how many of the Muslims these days are supporters of a certain madhhab? Where are they being involved? If they are being involved, why is it that only those from Nairobi are involved? Why are those of other towns not called to participate? Then they would know what problems there are in other towns. If this body wants to be the Supreme Council it should be a Supreme Council in calling and involving people from every town. Why are they not calling the leaders of the different Muslim groups? This constitution is a matter that will affect all Muslims. They should be called, whether they are Makokni, the Memons should be called, the Ismailis, the Ithnaashari should be called, and the Bohoras, all should be called because without them, without the leadership of their mosques, they will not listen. Now this is the something we are fighting about with the government. The government recognises this; the government does not sleep, it knows very well that the Supreme Council does not represent all the Muslims. It knows that very well. But it is in their interest to shut their eyes so that if they want to use it (the Supreme Council), they will use it, they will call the representatives and listen to their opinions. Finally, there will be a disagreement […] (Translated by Kai Kresse)

NOTES

1.

2.

3.

4.

PROLOGUE I consider this categorisation as part of Swahili folk wisdom since later on I came across it again, in different circumstances, at the Kenyan-Ugandan border. A Bajuni maalim and healer from Kizingitini on Pate Island who had moved to that area, settled there and worked as a desperately underpaid imam and healer, told me a similar version of this categorisation. (He had married there for a second time, after his first wife would no longer put up with the hardship of living in this arid and poor area and went back home to the coast.) It is noteworthy that comparable expressions of folk wisdom exist in West Africa as well, linked to Sufi traditions: a similar statement is documented for the historical West African Sufi leader Cerno Bokar: ‘The greatest knowledge is to know one does not know’. This, says Brenner, ‘epitomizes the force of Cerno Bokar’s spiritual search’ (Brenner 1984: 144). I do not have a direct quote of Ahmad Nassir's statement, and I did not discuss all these implications with him in detail. The descriptive explanations that I give above are not the formulations of Ahmad Nassir but they adequately represent his sentiments. See Alena Rettova’s recent article (Rettova 2004) on Kezilahabi’s novels, presented within a wider framework of dealing with ‘Afrophone philosophies’. Kezilahabi himself, of course, has written on African philosophy but not integrated a perspective on Swahili culture (Kezilahabi 1985). Also, Alexander Zukhov presented a paper on philosophical aspects of the work of Shaaban Robert (at the Swahili-Kolloquium 2003, in Bayreuth), making the interesting point that Robert had become a common reference point in Russian intellectual discourse as his translations were readily available. J. O. Hunwick and R. S. O'Fahey (eds), Arabic Literature of Africa (series). Leiden: E. J. Brill. For the Swahili context, volume 4, The Writings of the Muslim Peoples of Eastern Africa (edited by O’Fahey) will be forthcoming soon.

CHAPTER 1 1. My translation; the German original reads: ‘Philosophie ist der Versuch gedanklicher Orientierung im Bereich der Grundsätze unseres Denkens, Erkennens und Handelns’ (Schnädelbach 1988: 215). I will use this characterisation of philosophy as intellectual orientation throughout this study. 2. Here I mean particularly the German tradition of Kulturphilosophie. 3. This notion is developed in his book An Essay on Man from 1944 (Cassirer 1992). 4. This cannot be followed up further here; I have investigated this elsewhere (Kresse 1996). 5. The question of whether philosophy could also be properly expressed and

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performed by languages in a wider sense, as symbolic systems in general, goes beyond the realms of this study. 6. To name some key figures, the Francophone Marcien Towa and Paulin Hountondji, and the Anglophone Kwasi Wiredu and Henry Odera Oruka should be mentioned. 7. The Ugandan poet Okot p’Bitek nevertheless studied Social Anthropology in Oxford and produced at least one ethnographic monograph (p’Bitek 1971). 8. It is, however, ironic, that those anthropologists who refrained from using any contemporary approach of political philosophy as a foundation for their own studies on political systems in Africa (Evans-Pritchard and Fortes 1940: introduction) are now among the first sources of a philosophical article dealing with an evaluation of the consensus principle in African societies (Wiredu 1996: 182– 90). 9. Which he, as is widely known, claimed Africans did not have (cf. Hegel 1928: 135–45). 10. How to understand this passage within the context of Kant’s overall oeuvre is contested within Kant scholarship. I am grateful to Jens Timmermann for this comment. 11. It should be noted that these are also the qualities that Kant describes as being characteristic of an understanding of Enlightenment (Aufklärung) which he endorses as a liberating movement, shifting the responsibility for theoretical orientation and practical performance to the thinking individual (cf. Kant 1970, 1996). 12. My translation; original: ‘Philosophie ist zugleich Kritik und Erfüllung der symbolischen Formen.’ 13. For ‘internal pluralism’ as a central feature to philosophical thought in relation to social life, also see Hountondji 1983 and 1996: especially ch. 7. 14. Cf. Kresse 1996: 151–73. 15. But there are also some studies of functionalist orientation which specifically helped to address such a discursive field, e.g. Comaroff and Roberts 1980. 16. In the meantime, African ethnographies picking up on Hobsbawm and Ranger’s point about the ‘invention of traditions’ (1983) have illustrated tendencies and politics of ‘traditionalisation’ in postcolonial Africa (e.g. Motoji 1998; Geschiere 1997). 17. Yet, in any case, the key informants for Hallen’s and Sodipo’s research (orig. 1986) were diviners. 18. For example, Rosaldo 1980; Fardon 1990; Beidelmann 1993; Johnson 1994; James 1989. 19. Geertz’s essays in general often illustrate overlapping interests of anthropology and philosophy (see also Geertz 2000), and his discussions provide useful interdisciplinary stimulation. 20. Cf. Maupoil 1943; Janzen and MacGaffey 1974; Brenner 1984; Oruka 1991 and Hallen 2000; also articles by Parkin 1984 and Atieno-Odhiambo 2000. 21. Sage philosophy research has been taken further by the works of Gail Presbey (e.g. Presbey 1997, 1999, 2002a, 2002b). 22. For recent, somehow similar portraits of Islamic intellectuals in Zanzibar, see Purpura 1997, 2000. 23. In comparison, see also Eickelman’s rich biographical account of a Moroccan intellectual 1985. 24. While some local scholars do have a profound knowledge of Islamic philosophy, this was not my central focus of investigation. 25. For complementary research to Parkin’s on the Giriama Mijikenda (and their

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relation to the Swahili context), see McIntosh 2002, 2004. 26. For Zanzibar, where the same debates take place, this has been described by Purpura 1997. 27. While I dealt with all three forms during the preparation of my research, I did not study healing during fieldwork, as my background knowledge seemed too limited to produce a significant contribution to this area. Nevertheless, I had regular contact with several healers, in their general capacity as local intellectuals. CHAPTER 2 1. To borrow a phrase from Parkin 1989, referring to the coastal Mijikenda. 2. Cf. Salim 1984. 3. Cf., for example, Eastman 1971, 1994a; Madoshi 1971; Chiraghdin 1974; Arens 1975; Pouwels 1984; Spear 1984; Allen 1993; Mazrui and Shariff 1994. 4. See also Freeman-Grenville 1962. 5. This is also true for the academic discourse which reflects the observation of social dynamics, and which itself is linked to political interests. In Swahili studies, evidence for this is visible, e.g. in a critique of earlier, Eurocentric scholarship (e.g. Shariff 1971, 1984), and on the whole in an underlying debate on the ‘African-ness’ of the origins of Swahili culture and society (cf. Allen 1993; Mazrui and Shariff 1994; Kusimba 1999). 6. Sheikh Yayha Ali Omar, personal communication. 7. For instance, McIntosh 2004 has shown how spirit possession works as a means of enforcing reluctant conversion to Islam by Giriama Mijikenda, in a social context where the Giriama have historically been perceived and treated as inferior by urban Muslims, whether ‘Swahili’ or ‘Arab’. 8. Parkin 1991a shows that losing members of the homestead to the city is still common. 9. Literally, nyika means ‘bush’; thus the Nyika or Wanyika were ‘people of the bush’, people from the coastal hinterland, until about 1940. This term is derogatory and is now obsolete. 10. For further accounts in this vein, see Parkin 1970, 1984, 1989. 11. Cf. Spear 1978; the rigorous Singwaya hypothesis has been questioned by Willis 1993. 12. It is likely that ‘Shirazi’ here does not refer to Persia, and perhaps not even to Persian descent (cf. Chiraghdin 1974). Linked to the debates on Swahili identity, this issue has been treated in many publications (cf., for example, Horton and Middleton 2000; Allen 1981, 1982; Spear 1984; Pouwels 1984). Also the ‘Mombasa chronicle’ mentions the arrival of a Sheikh Mvita from ‘Shiraz’, but this most likely refers to a destination along the Somalian coast (Omar and Frankl 1990). 13. The picture might reflect that there were no local notables of the rank of the other Swahili city-states in Zanzibar; but, perhaps more likely, the artist found it advisable to express a visible difference of status between the Sultan’s clanspeople and the local residents. 14. Cf. the note on the ‘Shirazi’ debate above (note 10). 15. The integration of early Hadhrami immigrants had proceeded much more easily, as the question of political rulership was not involved in the same way as with the Omanis. Kindy’s account means ‘Omani Arabs’ when talking of Arabs. See also Salim 1972 on the creation of socio-economic disunity through colonial politics. 16. In this account, I am largely following Berg 1968 and Strandes 1961 (orig.

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1899). Strandes remarks: ‘Strangely enough the Portuguese sources never refer to the Swahili […] or to the Swahili language which was in use along the whole coast’ (142). This supports the claim that ‘Swahili’ was not an ethnonym until the nineteenth century. 17. The latter version follows a local historian (and healer) in Kibokoni, Mwalimu Jumadari (interview, November 1998). Willis relates a different origin based on a Mijikenda myth: a hunter named ‘Mwandadza’ had tracked down a wounded elephant to the island, and then founded a settlement at the site of the elephant’s death (Willis 1993: 35–6). 18. Quoted from Romero 1998: 223 who is referring to an example of Lamu waungwana who had to leave Lamu due to economic plights in the 1950s. 19. Janmohamed gives different figures from Stren (who refers to the census constantly) for the numbers of upcountry citizens. 20. Nevertheless, it is important to be aware of the fact that the British Colonial Government developed strategies to keep control of or sufficient influence over the supreme representative of Kenyan Muslims, the Chief Kadhi, and to appoint people for this office accordingly. Hassan Mwakimako has worked this out well in a recent study (Mwakimako 2003). 21. See Chapter 6 for a focussed discussion of Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir. 22. This had been given by Jomo Kenyatta to the Prime Minister of Zanzibar in October 1963 (Colonial Office 1963: 4). 23. See, for instance, Allen 1981; Topan 1994; Middleton 1992. 24. Similarly, the study of ‘Swahili villages’ would otherwise strictly speaking not be possible, though it does of course take place (e.g. Caplan 1997). 25. This translation of washenzi (literally ‘wild people’ or ‘barbarians’) leads el-Zein to actually fuse watumwa (serfs) and the hinterland people of the coast, collectively called ‘Wanyika’ (literally ‘people of the bush’), naming them all ‘barbarians’. 26. Swartz claims that this is a feature ‘to be expected’ in any ‘functioning community’ and thus applies also collectively to the ‘Mombasa Swahili’ (Swartz 1991: 3). I find this position doubtful, but cannot discuss this in more detail here. 27. The resonance to Rousseau here only came to my mind while writing this sentence. Eastman 1994b also emphasises that the dichotomy between uungwana and ushenzi is mediated by utumwa. 28. For a variety of internal subdifferentiations of watumwa, see Glassman 1995: 85–96 and Eastman 1994b: 88. 29. M-tum-wa, i.e. a person (sg. m/wa class) – ‘send’ as verb stem (-tuma: to send) – passive indicator. Eastman makes the same point (cf. 1994b: 97). 30. This is where the notion of fitna comes in, meaning strategies of destabilising social relationships and reputations, by sowing distrust through gossip and backbiting. 31. This shows clearly how the label ‘Swahili’ has been used as an ethnonym that is meant to blur or collapse the obvious status differences between watumwa and waungwana. 32. In this, I disagree with Swartz 1991 (also 1979 etc.), who speaks of distinct categories of ‘Mombasa Swahili’ and ‘the Swahili ethnic group’ (1991: 27). He even claims that ‘few Swahili live outside Old Town’ (28), which seems clearly wrong, as the quarters of Majengo, Bondeni and Floringi on the island and Kisauni and Bamburi north of it have a significant proportion of residents fitting the commonly alleged ‘Swahili’ category. 33. I have discussed these at length elsewhere, particularly as semi-public social institutions of intellectual practice (Kresse 2005a). 34. Mombasa District and Mombasa Municipality have identical boundaries.

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35. For 1989, the previous census, the figure is 461,753, in stark difference to the 680,000 of the Provincial Planning Estimate from 1988, quoted in Conservation Plan for the Old Town (CP 1990: 54). 36. See KHRC 1997, 1998; also Human Rights Watch 2002. 37. In this passage I refer to the Somali refugees from Somalia as ‘Somalians’ so as to distinguish them from Kenyan Somalis who are, of course, also present in Mombasa. 38. These are all examples of wages I came across in the field. I did not undertake a systematic investigation into wages. 39. Cf. the works of Strobel and Berg; also Ranger 1974; Kindy 1972; Swartz 1991. 40. The population survey for this plan covered 10 per cent of the estimated figure of residents (7,640). 41. Fights ensued first between IPK supporters and the police, then between IPK and the newly founded UMA (United Muslims of Africa). These were reported widely in the national media and in local Islamic newspapers, like the bilingual The Message and The Milestone. On the IPK and its leader, see Oded 1996 and also Oded 2000. 42. For further documentation, contextualisation and comments, see also KHRC 1998; Human Rights Watch 2002. 43. Christian evangelist newspapers in Kenya provocatively strained these tensions further. For instance, the front-page of Vision (October 1998) presented the headlines ‘From bomb blast to bible blast’ and ‘Are Muslims provoking Christians’ next to each other. 44. It should be added that the Old Town has only one primary school (which is private), and no secondary school; there are, however, sufficient and easily accessible secondary schools in the neighbouring quarters of Ganjoni and Tononoka (DDP 1989: 187–91). 45. Elsewhere, gender perceptions in the Swahili context (e.g. Caplan 1989) and the position of Muslim women in the social history of Mombasa (Strobel 1979, 1976, 1978) have been treated, and contemporary female youth culture in Lamu has been portrayed (Fuglesang 1994), if locally contested (Athman 1995). 46. The area referred to is much wider than the mtaa of Kibokoni in Berg and Walter’s exact map of Mombasa in 1966 (Berg and Walter 1968: 79–81), and what Swartz calls ‘Kibukoni’ on his Map 2 (Swartz 1991: 81). Local reference nowadays often includes the mitaa Mtondooni, Ndia Kuu, Bag(h)ani, Suk(u)na, and Kavani, as listed by those two sources. It is roughly identical with the conservation area of the Old Town referred to above (CP 1990). 47. Mwalimu Jumadari, interview, November 1998. 48. For another study of a neighbourhood as microcosm of the ‘Indian Ocean World’, see Deutsch 2002 on Peshawar in Zanzibar Town. 49. For the grave social effects that tourism had in Malindi, see Peake 1989. 50. On homosexuality in Mombasa, see Shepherd 1987. 51. This, of course, contrasts quite strongly with the history of intersectional violence between these groups in parts of the Middle East. CHAPTER 3 1. Elsewhere, I discussed features of this reformist movement and its features of a dialectic of enlightenment (Kresse 2003). 2. Highly revered founder of Riyadha Mosque; more details below. 3. See Chapter 4. 4. See Chapter 5.

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5. See Chapter 1: Kant’s Philosophie im Weltbegriff. 6. In Tanzania and Zanzibar, maskani is used predominantly for the little huts in each village or township that function as local meeting points of the members or supporters of political parties. It seems the CCM (until the early 1990s Tanzania’s only party) started this, perhaps inspired by Swahili custom. It should also be mentioned that the term baraza has commonly come to be used for public political meetings and rallies all over Kenya (cf. Haugerud 1997), quite unlike its original meaning. 7. Sheikh Yahya Ali Omar, personal communication, London, July 2001. 8. At the time, that would have been the equivalent of 2–3 pence. 9. Interview with Ustadh Harith, January 1999; cf. Strobel 1979. 10. From here, we can also establish a link back to Kant’s ‘worldly’ conception of philosophy as introduced above. Building up on these observations here, I have commented further on these dynamics of the baraza, and a programmatic link to the project of an anthropology of philosophy (Kresse 2005). 11. Lacunza Balda uses the term ‘Swahili Islam’ in a different sense, referring to twentieth-century reformists and their extensive and programmatic use of Kiswahili for Islamic writings (1993: 233). 12. Even when the madhhab (Shafii) is identifed, as in Topan’s case, this does not solve the problem. In this way, even the historically contextualised generalisation about the Swahili coast being Shafii-Sunni remains, necessarily, slightly ambiguous (e.g. Bang 2003: 52). 13. This has also been noted by others (e.g. Bakari 1995;Yassin 2004: ch. 2). Earlier on that would have been a hypothetical possibility only. As mentioned above, Shia Ithnaashari have settled in Mombasa from at least the mid-nineteenth century onwards. But they were basically ethnically defined as immigrant trading groups from India and Persia, and for outsiders crossing the borders of religious cum ethnic difference was apparently not a question. 14. Cf. Janzen’s comparative study of ngoma healing cults, which he investigates in various field sites in Central and South-Eastern Africa, as common phenomena with a (pan-)Bantu linguistic and cultural sphere. Janzen also researched in the Swahili context of Dar es Salaam (Janzen 1992). See also Parkin’s related studies in a Swahili/Mijikenda context (Parkin 1970, 1985a, 1991, 1995b, 2000a). 15. This criticism must be upheld, I think, even after considering Horton and Middleton’s additional comments (2000: 180, footnote 1). Besides, the reference to locals using this term is bound to cause misunderstanding: ‘Swahili religion’ in Kiswahili would be dini ya Waswahili/Kiswahili. This is certainly not a local expression, nor is it clear since dini can refer to religion in general as well as to Islam. 16. For a detailed study of maulidi celebrations in Lamu, cf. Boyd 1981. For more details on the links between Habib Saleh and al-Habshy (al-Hibshi), see Bang 2003: 144–52; on the background in the Hadhramaut, see Freitag 1999. 17. Various people from Mombasa and along the coast confirmed this to me. They said that decades ago maulidi was an unquestioned part of social life and participation in it was conducive to a common Muslim identity. Nowadays though, people have become to feel insecure about the status of maulidi from an Islamic perspective. Even those who participate in it say that due to the fierce public debate, things are not the same anymore, as the thrill of innocent sincerity in the maulidi experience is now gone. 18. This was indicated to me by Sharif Khitamy in 1999, when we talked about the maulidi celeberations in Lamu which I had just attended. I cannot verify the figure, but surely the number of overall visitors was in the thousands.

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19. This date is given by Bang 2003: 3 for the Ba-Alawi. 20. This is the year of birth given by Farsy 1989 and Khitamy 1995; Bang 2003: 27, 100 gives 1853 as his birth year. 21. See Khitamy 1995; Bang 2003. On Riyadha Mosque in Lamu, see also Lienhardt 1959 and el-Zein 1974. 22. This included the use of hand-held drums (even inside the mosque), something that has since become a controversial bone of contention within the discussions of local Muslims. 23. I am drawing from several accounts of Swahili intellectual history – Farsy 1989; Pouwels 1987; Bakari 1995; Bang 2003 – as well as from interviews with Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir and Mwalimu Saggaf Alawy. The above passage on Habib Saleh also draws on information from Khitamy 1995 and el-Zein 1974. 24. For a complete and fascinating account of Ahmad bin Sumayt, see Bang 2003. 25. Yassin’s study here presents an illustrative case study of ideological rivalry and friction, focusing on issues of conflict resolution; in this case, the mediation was conducted by reputable religious scholars. 26. Comment by Sheikh Abdilahi, interview; see also his Ramadhan lecture on this topic (Chapter 6). 27. Issues treated in this section have been covered in more depth and detail in Kresse 2003 and Kresse n.d. 28. On both Sheikh al-Amin and Sheikh Farsy there are substantial accounts of their activities and achievements (e.g. Pouwels 1981; Salim 1985; Salim 1987; Elmasri 1987; Musa 1986; Lacunza Balda 1990, 1993), while hardly any such literature exists on Sheikh Muhammad Kasim. 29. Ustadh Swaleh is an emminent and widely recognised scholar from Lamu residing in Mombasa with madrasa and university education. Furthermore he is a healer of high repute (also named in Parkin 1996). 30. This applies similarly to Zanzibar, where such reformist groups have also become established as powerful features of Islamic discourse (cf. Purpura 1997: ch. 8). 31. This is also documented well in Seesemann n.d. 2001. 32. This is my translation of the Kiswahili original: […] ndiye aliyetufunua macho akatunfungua midomo (Farsy 1989: 125). Note that if this was rendered correctly from Farsy’s manuscript, Pouwels made a grave error in translating fungua (to open) as ‘to close’ (in Kiswahili funga). Nevertheless, he gets the meaning across by making additional comments, apparently spelling out what seems implied by Farsy: ‘[…] who opened our eyes (to new ideas) and closed our lips (i.e. from uttering foolishness)’ (ibid.: 126). But Farsy’s phrasing on the uncovering of eyes and the opening of mouths puts emphasis on the positively empowering connotations of (clear) sight and (open) speech. 33. This is according to the following Internet documentation, which was the only one I could find: http://baalawy.freeyellow.com/al-amin.html. 34. As Sheikh Muhammad Kasim tells us, Sheikh al-Amin would have preferred to keep to his publishing agenda, but he could not turn down his teacher and rearer (mlezi) and the public pressure that wanted him in that position (al-A. Mazrui 1980: x). 35. For example, see Farsy 1942, 1966, 1980, n.d.1, n.d.2; Mazrui 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965. 36. Two translations had been published earlier, the first by the Christian missionary G. Dale in 1923 and the second in 1953 by M. A. Ahmadi of the Ahmadiyya. Farsy’s translation was fiercely attacked by the Lamu masharifu (cf. A. A. Badawy 1970), for the same reasons mentioned here. In response to Dale, Sheikh alAmin started work on a translation with extended commentaries but never

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finished. Completed parts of the translation were published (cf. al-Amin Mazrui 1980, 1981, n.d.). On Swahili Qur’an translations, see Lacunza Balda 1997. 37. On this controversy, see especially Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir’s Al Battaar (1967), in which he defends Sh. Muhammad Kasim against severe criticism of the Riyadha faction of Lamu, voiced by Sayyid Ahmed Ahmed Badawy in his book Dhul Faqaar [1966]; I was not able to get hold of the latter. 38. A well-known Western parallel can be seen in Weber’s description of Christian reformism, where Luther, emphasising an ‘inner calling’ of God for the individual Christians, attacked and undermined the powerful mediatory position of the Catholic clergy and granted more self-reliance and responsibility in religious matters to the individual. Cf. Weber 1993. 39. A third one (with six chapters) was announced in Volume 2, and published afterwards. 40. Cf. Purpura 1997, 349ff; also Purpura 2000: 129; other personal accounts from Zanzibar. 41. The particular sensitivities after the bloody revolution in 1964, the repression of Muslim identity in a socialist one-party state (until 1990) and under an enforced secularist paradigm (thereafter) constitute a unique and complex situation, especially after the emergence and repression of the CUF, a party emphasising issues of Islamic identity and links to the Middle East. This has been treated by Purpura and others (cf., for example, Parkin 1995b). 42. But, as stated above, I have also seen pragmatic acceptance of the ‘Wahhabi’ label in local reformist literature (Mazrui [1970]; Warsha n.d.). CHAPTER 4 1. Cf. Nabhany MS1, P1, P2; Shariff 1988. 2. The case documentation, at the civil court of appeal and against the Waqf Commisioners and the Government of East Africa is listed under CA 12/1913. Many thanks to Abdulkarim Yunus for providing this document. 3. Additional information on this was gained in an interview with Mahmoud Mau in Lamu (June 1999) who also generously provided me with recordings of the kimwondo poems. 4. Sheikh Nabhany contributed to both of them (Nabhany 1971, 1978). 5. This seems somehow in parallel to the central position of poetry in an Egyptian Bedouin society (Abu-Lughod 1986). 6. There is a wealth of published research on forms of t’arab from anthropological and historical perspectives. Two valuable recent studies are Askew 2002 and Fair 2001. 7. I am grateful to Mahmoud Mau for providing me with information and a manuscript of the poem. 8. I am grateful to Thomas Geider, who provided me with helpful references. I had not been aware of some of Geider’s work when initially developing my argument on Nabhany’s project; similarities in our understanding are obvious, and are partly pointed out in the discussion below. 9. With the term ‘cultural scholar’ I mean to denote a local intellectual who is specifically knowledgeable about a variety of fields within his own culture (such as history, customs, religious practice and common beliefs) and their interconnections, because he has been educated in them or has consciously investigated them. This term somewhat corresponds to what Oruka called ‘folk sage’ (Oruka 1991). 10. Cf. Sengo and Mulokozi 1994: 39. 11. The often heard label ‘Swahili carving’ seems to indicate the local appropriation

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and blending of various carving techniques and traditions that the Indian Ocean trade brought here rather than any initial and unique invention of carving in the Swahili area. Often I was told that such a label was incorrect, that one should not talk of ‘Swahili carving’, but rather, as some said, of ‘Arab carving’ or of ‘Indian carving’, as others pointed out, or of ‘Persian carving’ as someone else pointed out. Such comments were mostly linked to the ethnic and cultural background of the speaker. 12. Original: Lengo ni kurekibisha makosa ambayo yamefanywa na watu ambao si Waswahili na hawakufahamu Waswahili ni nini kamili. Interview, October 1998; cf. Nabhany MS1: 167–70. 13. For those, see, for example, Vail and White 1991. 14. For a thorough introduction into the genre, and an overview of some of its classics, see Allen 1971. 15. Cf. preface by Mohamed Y. Haji in Mwangaza (Nabhany 1976); the original reads: Kwa kawaida,Waislamu wengi huwa hawawezi kusoma vyuo vilivyo andikwa kwa lugha ya kiarabu, kwa hivyo Bwana Nabhany amefanya jambo kubwa sana kwa kutunga utenzi huu kwa lugha ya kiswahili, kwa sababu kila mtu anayekaa EAST AFRICA anajua lugha hii, kwa hivyo watafaidika sana kwa kusoma. 16. As referred to above, Thomas Geider provides a thorough discussion of this poem, its process of construction, and its relevance and potential for Swahili ethnography among other examples of Nabhany’s poetic ‘documentary literature’ in German (Geider 1988). My overall argument goes along roughly the same lines as Geider (who also interviewed Nabhany), but was developed independently of it; for the core of his argument, see esp. Geider 1998: 188–91. 17. He mentions Abdalla Mohamed Bakathir (Kadara), Sharifu Mohamed Sharif Said el-Beidhi, Abdalla bin Ali el-Mafazi (Skanda) and Abushiri bin Mohamed Ali (ibid.: 6). 18. This project was an important aspect of the Fulbright scholarship that he obtained in 1996 for UCLA, where he worked on an English manuscript of his Swahili original. 19. On this, see also Geider 1995: 334, 2002: 275–6. 20. This project can be related to the debates about the significance of African languages for literature and philosophy, and the project of decolonising African thought. For this, Shariff’s comments on Nabhany provide a useful point of departure (cf. Shariff 1985: 6–8). For debate and project, see, for example, Ngugi 1981, 1985; Kunene 1992; Wiredu 1995, 1996; Kresse 1999. 21. I have discussed the issues treated in the following passages in more depth and detail elsewhere (Kresse 2005b). 22. Geider also draws attention to the fact that Nabhany himself had worked as a ‘coconut advisor’ in Kwale District during the early 1950s (Geider 1992: 176). 23. Elsewhere, I have dealt with Brown’s discussion of Nabhany in more detail (Kresse 2005b). 24. Brown neglects these basic necessities of interpretation. Thus he shows no interest in Nabhany’s project from his own perspective, and remains indifferent to any concern that the reader might have to form his own judgement on the basis of information about the poem itself (which is not presented in Brown’s article). 25. There are thematically very similar poems, also praising the coconut tree and its usefulness, written in different forms of poetry. An apparently very old example is to be found in Harries 1962: 183, a modern example in A. Nassir 1971: 95–8. 26. In economic respects the secondary school book market is the widest and most secure book market in Kenya, thus it is any publisher’s and editor’s aim to get

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his book on the list of recommended books for secondary schools. The presentation of this edition of the poem is compatible with this aim. It should be kept in mind that in comparison to overall population figures of Kenya, the number of possible mother-tongue readership is minute. 27. I myself experienced this many times, especially in relation to other outsiders or newcomers to Kibokoni, when I would be presented as Mswahili, whereas on other occasions people highlighted my outsiderness. 28. However, against interpretations of this poem indicating female submission, Biersteker has put forward a reading of Mwana Kupona which emphasises aspects of social empowerment of women also inherent in the text (1991: 59– 77). Compare to the poem itself, in Allen 1971. 29. Here, for instance, lies a fundamental difference to the nineteenth-century classic, Al-Inkishafi, where the narrator raises a series of self-reflexive and selfcritical questions. 30. Cf. Salim 1972: 82; Frankl 1996. In parallel, Mayor Balala also held big Baraza events at the same venue for the major holidays of Christians and Hindus, Christmas and Diwali. 31. The issue of ‘land-grabbing’, the aquisition of public property holdings, was a heatedly discussed topic in the national newspapers during my stay, and cases in the coastal region figured prominently. Often it was discovered that politicians or administrative officers were involved in allocating public prime land for themselves, buying it far under market value. Several forgeries of land-ownership documents were also publicised. 32. On this, see, for example, Daily Nation 19 January 1999; East African Standard 20 January 1999 and 21 January 1999. 33. On this, see Moi 1986 and Dumila 1980. ‘Nyayo’ means ‘follow my footsteps’; on the ambiguity and autocratic angle of this postcolonial slogan, see also Ngugi 1986: 86. 34. Its complete text is given in the appendix. 35. Note that this saying provided the title of Swartz’s book on ‘the Mombasa Swahili’, The Way the World Is (1991). 36. At this stage of the interview, Nabhany was responding to questions concerning the introduction of new forms into Swahili poetry (e.g. free verse, which some academically trained scholars have pursued), with a view to the changing lifeworld. 37. They were published by Velten 1905, probably for training colonial officers in German East Africa (cf. also the revised English edition by J. W. T. Allen, 1981). 38. On the whole, research has hinged on local key informants, and continues to do so. Prominent among the more recent ones in the Mombasa/Lamu area, are Sheikh Hyder Kindy (for Berg), Sheikh A. S. Farsy (for Pouwels), Sheikh Yahya Ali Omar (for Swartz, Frankl) and Sheikh Harith Swaleh (for Boyd). 39. Economically, this happened with the building of Kilindini Port and the Uganda Railways, and later the development of commercial tourism; politically during struggles for recognition under British ‘divide and rule’ and Kenyan Africanisation policies. CHAPTER 5 1. This is used as a caption in Ahmad Nassir’s first collection of poems (1966). 2. One can translate mtu as ‘person’, and utu as ‘personhood’, which has more legal than moral undertones; the connotations of humanity and goodness are certainly the more common. 3. A German saying points out the same: Es gibt nichts gutes, ausser man tut es

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(There is nothing good unless it is done/performed). 4. Hallen and Sodipo 1997 (orig. 1986), working on Yoruba language and epistemology, address this problem of translation in a discussion of Quine’s indeterminacy thesis. 5. Thus this understanding of uungwana differs from the common one, based mainly on descent (cf. Chapter 2). 6. This is similar in the English word – e.g. in ‘bestiality’. 7. In fact, Eastman 1994b refers to utu in this way. 8. This is often used to criticise an instrumental point of view on human beings, as it is not permissible to treat human beings simply as things, as means to an end. Thus also an anti-materialist message is brought forward. 9. Cf. the commonly used version of this saying: utu ni kitendo (sg. of vitendo). 10. The Swahili term for atrocity is also unyama. Thus there is a similar double connotation in unyama and utu, as in the English ‘bestiality’ and ‘humanity’. 11. I understand custom as habitualised practice, whereas morality in action is linked to the voluntary and conscious effort of doing good (following Kant as the classical position of moral philosophy). 12. In this case, utu might be understood as a representation of the moral law (in the sense used by Kant), i.e. a categorical imperative to every human being. 13. This surprised me somehow, since other informants had stressed the necessity of some religious belief or creed in order to link a person with utu. 14. Ustaarabu is often simply translated as ‘Arabness’. While there is an etymological link, its primary connotation is surely ‘civilisation’, as it is constructed from the verb staarabika, ‘ to get understanding, be wise, know about things, be civilized’ (Johnson 1989: 436); an Mstaarabu is a civilised person while an Mwarabu is an Arab. My sense is that ‘Arabness’ could more simply be coined as Uarabu. I am grateful to Sheikh Yahya Ali Omar and Ahmed Yassin for helpful comments on this. 15. Anthropological is here meant in the sense of philosophical anthropology: a fundamental characterisation of human beings in general is given. In this sense, characterising the human species as animal rationale, homo faber or homo ludens historically marked different anthropological emphases. 16. However, Aristotle’s conception of man as a zoon politikon includes the claim that man’s full human potential can only be realised in a polis (thanks to J. D. Y. Peel for this comment). A similar claim is not made here. 17. The text here is my own translation. The original is as follows: Hakuna mtu hata mmoja anayeweza kuishi peke yake bila ya watu wengine, au anayejitosha kwa kila kitu bila ya kuhitaji msaada wa watu wengine. 18. I gratefully acknowledge remarks by Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir and Sheikh Yahya Ali Omar, who in their different ways and on different occasions highlighted this point to me. 19. See also Chapters 3 and 6. For further studies on morality in the Swahili context, see for example Swartz 1997 in relation to healing, Knappert 1970 for basic normative conceptions in society, and Townshend 1982 in relation to the board game bao. 20. Ahmad Nassir’s great-grandfather Bhalo, I was told, had been an immigrant captain from India who took a Swahili wife after coming to Mombasa. 21. See Abdilatif Abdalla’s other work as poet (Utenzi wa Adamu na Hawa, 1971), editor (formerly of African Events and several books) and translator (e.g. of Ayi Kwei Armah’s The beautiful ones are not yet born, the Swahili version published in 1976). Currently, he is a lecturer of Swahili at the University of Leipzig, Germany.

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22. This is well documented in Abdulaziz 1979 and Hichens 1940. 23. It is common for poets or scholars to accomplish a specific piece of work, of particular moral or religious value, during the month of Ramadhan. 24. This is to be investigated further, but to me it seemed more as if the people making such comments referred to something like an internalised value pattern with the help of which they would be able to assess actions as good or bad. Thus this would not be a consciously reflective way of arriving at moral judgements but rather an applied trial and error scheme linked to an evaluation of customary practices. 25. The verb -panda in Swahili has multiple connotations: next to ‘planting’, which is seen as dominant here, others (such as ‘growing’ and ‘climbing’) may also provide a useful and sensible meaning to the expression. Elsewhere, Ahmad Nassir composed a complete poem, called Panda, playing with the word’s multiple meanings (Nassir 1971: 76–7). 26. Walezi (184), meaning the persons raising a child. These are not necessarily the biological parents even when they are still alive. Often children might be given to one’s siblings or other relatives to be raised, especially if their economic situation is much better or the locality is regarded as better for the child’s education. The period of the walezi taking over can last from one or two years up to the whole childhood or youth. 27. It is not pointed out whether this also applies vice versa, i.e. the wife deciding the husband’s posthumous fate. 28. Iblisi is the fallen angel who was banned from Paradise by God after he refused to bow down in front of Adam. By his temptations he caused Adam’s and Eve’s rejection from Paradise, and he continues tempting human beings to commit sins. 29. But Nassir also associates more than sexual connotations only to nyege; cf. his poem Nyege in Nassir 1966: 80–3. 30. The original version he quotes is Wendapo kwa wasoona / nawe jito funga sana. Another common version goes Ukienda kwa kipofu, funga jicho lako (if you go to the blind, close your eye). At several occasions in Mombasa, people linked it to the English saying ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’. 31. Note the similarity of the criticism, though, to the verses of the prominent religious Sheikh Muhammad al-Husny in Mombasa in the 1940s and 1950s (cf. Frankl and Omar 1995). 32. Akhira can also be translated by paradise, the next world or future life. 33. This prize was only awarded for a short time, instigated by Sheikh Hyder Kindy, who at that time was in charge of a coastal radio programme Sauti ya Pwani, as an initiative to keep the youth interested in classic Swahili poetry and thus keep those forms alive (cf. Kindy 1972; Harries 1966). 34. Meanwhile, forty years later, one of his two households is in Kibokoni while the other is still in Kuze. 35. During fieldwork I had never thought of this, and I do not know of any published remarks on this common procedure to mention the number of stanzas as well as the composer’s name in the last few stanzas. Also, I cannot say whether attempts to misuse a poem by wrongly presenting oneself as the author is or was ever a problem. But I have heard of cases where it was doubted that the person presenting himself as the author was actually the author. 36. Interview, 2 January 1999. 37. These highlight the concept of moral duty (which means to perform an action for the sake of goodness itself, not out of personal interest), in contradistinction to utilitarian theories which pragmatically focus on the highest possible gain for

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the common good (e.g Bentham). Only the former would speak of morality in the strict sense. 38. Interview, 27 August 1999. 39. Ahmed Nassir made this very clear to me in a separate interview (2 January 1999). 40. In several interviews with me, Ahmed Nassir repeatedly underlined this. With references to ethnic tensions in Kenya, he pointed out the dangers of such positions in politics, which increased divisions between social groups and ultimately made peace and real unity impossible. 41. Here, a link for discussion could be established to the work of Swartz (1988, 1991, 1997, 1998). 42. In an interview, 2 January 1999. Nassir grants this title also to other intellectuals, such as religious scholars. CHAPTER 6 1. Some sections of this chapter have previously been published (in Kresse 2004). This chapter includes a small number of corrections made possible through subsequent information, given to me by Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir in personal communication. 2. However, Trimingham also observed this, about forty years ago (Trimingham 1964: 92). 3. Cf. Chapter 3. The historical background to this was explained by Sheikh Abdilahi Nassir during two Ramadhan lectures (2/3 January 1999). See also Bakari 1995. 4. I am using the term ‘allies’ here since apparently some of the people supporting this stance were not consciously Wahhabi. In one of his Ramadhan lectures, Sheikh Abdilahi made the point that many people were not aware that a different madhhab was actually being involved by the Saudi-educated religious scholars, since the latter themselves did not use the term Wahhabi and instead insisted on following the sunna, the way of the Prophet Muhammad. 5. Cf. also Daily Nation 20 January 1999. 6. See Abdilahi Nassir 1985. A multitude of such pamphlets in Kiswahili (and English), by different groups and authors, is in circulation. 7. On Ramadhan in Mombasa, see also Frankl 1996. 8. This antithetical division between ‘Western values’ and ‘Islamic values’ is very much part of doctrinal public rhetoric but much less part of everyday life or the self-understanding of the common people. 9. Sheikh Harith’s background is traditional schooling at Rodha Mosque, Lamu (taught by scholars from Riyadha) and in Mombasa. He went on to study sociology, psychology and English at Al-Azar University in Egypt. After returning to Kenya in 1964, he initiated educational programmes in Lamu, before undertaking further studies in philosophy (especially modern Western philosophy) in Sudan, at Omdurman University (interview, 3 June 1999); for his writings, see, for example, Swaleh 1994a, 1994b. 10. However, my comparative material on Ramadhan lectures is limited, and I was not able to attend the lectures of a significant variety of sheikhs. 11. See his autobiography Life and Politics in Mombasa (Kindy 1972). 12. Cf. interview of 27 May 1999. 13. These biographical sections are based on recorded interviews held in Kiswahili (26 February 1999, 27 May 1999, 22 July 1999, 19 August 1999, 26 August 1999), and on a large number of informal conversations. 14. He also pulled strings so that Abdilahi could attend the college, since he did

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not meet the usual entry requirements of completed primary education. Cf. interview 26 February 1999. 15. There, he attended the University of London as a student (Roman Loimeier, personal communication), and also had academic links to the University of Oxford (Farouk Topan, personal communication). On Sayyid Omar Abdallah, see the illuminating portrayal by Mohamed Bakari (Bakari 2006). 16. Cf. interview of 26 February 1999. This sentiment among the Swahili of Mombasa Old Town is also well depicted in Salim 1973 and Kindy 1972, though the latter focuses more on the tensions of a generation before (during the 1920s) when the symbol of Arab oppression for the Swahili was Said Ahmed Salim. It should also be noted that Hinawy himself was engaged in research on regional history, customs and poetry (cf. Hinaway 1950, 1964). 17. These rumours may have been revived by ‘Wahhabi’ activists, against whom Sheikh Abdilahi has been taking a stand. 18. Cf. interview, 27 May 1999. 19. Note that the dates in this paragraph (obtained from interviews with Sheikh Abdilahi) are not fully congruent with those given by Bakari 1995. 20. According to Bakari 1995: 192, Sheikh Abdilahi worked for the WAMY between 1986 and 1987. Notably, Bakari never explicitly calls Sheikh Abdilahi a Shia, though he mentions involvements with the Shia community. 21. As recalled in one Ramadhan lecture (5 January 1999). But difficulties resulting from his change of madhhab also came up from the secular side: during the Iran–Iraq war, Sheikh Abdilahi said he was visited and questioned more than forty times by people from the special branch of the Kenyan Police. 22. However, as Mwalimu Saggaf pointed out in an interview, Saudi Arabia had never been in the forefront in terms of Islamic scholarship. 23. Abdilahi Nassir’s booklets are called Shia na Qur’an (1989), Shia na hadith (1989) and Shia na sahaba (1990), all responding to different respective claims of the same book putting the Shia into disrepute: Misingi Mikubwa iliyojengwa dini ya Ushia by Sheikh Muhibbudin al-Khatib, published in this Kiswahili translation in 1988 (by Sheikh Ahmad Msallam; Bakari 1995: 177), after being translated and published in English in 1983. The title of the Arabic original is al-Khututul Aridhwa; its exact date of publication is not given, but approximately it is about 1960. Three further booklets of his on the issue are announced as being in preparation on the back cover of Shia na sahaba. They were called Shia na taqiya, Shia na tawhid and Shia na maimamu. 24. See Abdilahi Nassir, Al Battaar. Sherehe ya dhul faqaar (first part), published in Mombasa in 1967. Sheikh Mohammad Kasim Marui’s book Al-Imam Aly-khalifa wanne was published in Mombasa in 1966. Sayyid Ahmed Ahmed Badawy’s (i.e. Mwenye Baba’s) response, called Dhul Faqaar, was published either in 1966 or 1967. (Cf. Nassir 1967: 1–2.) On Sheikh Muhammad Kasim, see also Kresse 2003. 25. Interview, 19 August 1999. 26. As it turned out, he later accepted an invitation to give Ramadhan lectures in London the following year (1999/2000), and gave another set of lectures in Mombasa, before deciding, in 2001, that he would cease to present Ramadhan lectures on tafsir but would continue his work in writing (Nassir n.d.: vii). 27. This seems very similar to the ‘just despot’ of Muhammad Abduh (Hourani 1983: 158), one of Sheikh Abdilahi’s important intellectual influences. 28. One of the initiators whom I spoke to was a Shia, but as far as I understood the project, it was a combined neighbourhood effort in which members of various Muslim groups participated.

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29. Here, he pointed at the example of the hippies. These were taken to represent Western society’s yearning for spirituality and inner values that had been swept aside by the focus on technological progress and material development. Sheikh Abdilahi understood hippies as rebels in society, who were indications of deeply rooted malcontents. 30. Sheikh Abdilahi uses the classical definition of democracy: ‘a system of government of the people, by the people, for the people’. 31. Interview, 19 August 1999. CHAPTER 7 1. The names of all characters portrayed here are pseudonyms.Yet they refer to real characters whom I encountered during fieldwork. 2. Similarly, Beckerleg built up a dichotomy of ‘brown sugar or Friday prayers’ (Beckerleg 1995). However, in Mombasa Friday prayers as such do not stand for radicalism (though in some mosques they were used as starting points for political rallies by the IPK in the early 1990s), because most men consider it an unquestionable religious duty to attend them. 3. Not all of them came to the mosque for the speeches specifically. 4. Saidi highlighted these issues as the main topics for his agenda using the following Swahili headings: 1. historia fupi ya dini ya Uislamu Kenya; 2. hali ya Waislamu Kenya; 3. haki ya Waislamu Kenya (interview, 10 August 1999). 5. This corresponds quite well to the latest archaeological findings, stating that Islam must have been present along the coast since at least the eighth century CE (cf. Horton and Middleton 2000). 6. Often, this is impossible, and applicants are denied their identification papers. This is particularly dangerous as citizens are required to carry an ID at all times; if it cannot be produced on request, a fine or even imprisonment is the penalty. 7. However, during my recent visit to Mombasa in 2005, it became clear that Saidi, through aligning himself with a popular local Islamic radio station that had recently emerged, had now made good progress in following the same goals, and become a well-respected figure within the community. 8. Huntington’s book develops a thesis initially brought forward in an article of the same name (Huntington 1993). Cf. Esposito’s critical discussion of Huntington’s thesis, its reception in the Muslim world, and its effect of polarising ‘Muslims’ against ‘Westerners’ (Esposito 1999: 228ff). 9. Some of these were mentioned above (Chapter 3) and are listed in Figure 3.9 showing East African intellectuals. 10. Swafaa College was financed with the help of funds from Shia oriented Kuwaiti brothers, but run by Sayyid Hassan and his brother (interview, 27 August 1999; Bakari 1995; Africa Events 1987). 11. See Daily Nation and East African Standard, 14 August 1999 to 18 August 1999. 12. This expansion is testified as much by translations and publications of Islamic literature from Iran (e.g. al-Khomeini 1983a, 1983b) as by running mosques and madrasas. 13. During my recent visit in 2005, I could see how this project had continued to flourish. A new building in the neighbourhood had been taken over, to offer even more space for customers. 14. Naamini uamuzi ni yangu mwenyewe kwa imani yangu ya dini, kwa sababu Mwenyezi Mungu atanihukumu mimi (peke yangu) […] hataki kusikia nimefuata mtu fulani. Interview, 22 July 1999. 15. This might be very well comparable to Luther’s ‘calling’ as part of a liberating rationalisation process (cf. Weber 1983).

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1. 2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

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EPILOGUE I heard these expressions used in various circumstances by different people, among them Swahili scholars like Mwalimu Saggaf and Prof. T. S. Sengo. In his account on ‘Traces of Swahili philosophy’, Lenfers stated that ‘the ancient Swahili must have been wonderfully consistent thinkers’ to leave such a treasure of language and linguistic versatility for later generations to do research on (1971: 40). Nevertheless, he seriously sought a shift for the philosophical study in Tanzania, away from Eurocentrism and towards local conceptions. (For the debate on ethnophilosophy in Africa, see for example Hountondji 1996 and Masolo 1994.) See Hountondji 1996; Oruka 1997; Wiredu 1980. A ‘philosophy of listening’ has been called for, with emphasis on the need for philosophy to occupy itself with non-Western philosophical traditions (Kimmerle 1994). Surely, such a task can only be fulfilled via fieldwork, in the local language, and thus through a cooperation between philosophy and anthropology. ‘Nyayo’ means ‘footsteps’. Cf. Moore 1996.

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INDEX

Abdalla, Abdilatif, 151, 153, 183, 261n Abdallah, Sayyid Omar, 92–3, 183, 264n Abdulaziz, Mohamed, 71 Al-Inkishafi, 71, 137 Alawiyya, 86–7 anthropology and philosophy, 3, 11–29, 231–3, 236–9 of knowledge, 3, 6, 14, 26–9, 34, 125–6 of philosophy, 3, 11–35, 231–9 of religion, 24, 29–31 philosophical, 13, 139, 149–50, 169–72, 229 Appiah, Kwame Anthony, 18, 25 126, 238 Arab, 36, 40–4, 46–8, 62, 64, 68, 76, 83, 144, 149, 185, 217, 253n, 264n Hadhrami, 41–2, 67–8, 253n Omani, 41–4, 67, 82, 86, 98, 185, 218, 253n Arab Boys School, 77, 183, 185 Arab-Swahili, 42–3, 47 Arabic, 35, 55, 66, 70, 76, 83–4, 94, 97, 99, 117–18, 120, 178, 185–7, 191, 196, 205, 215, 264n Asad, Talal, 14–15, 28, 81 Badawy, Sayyid Abdulrahman see Sharif Khitamy Badawy, Sayyid Ahmed, 90, 93, 222 Badawy, Sayyid Ahmed Ahmed see Mwenye Baba Badawy, Sayyid Ali, 90, 93, 117 Badawy, Sayyid Hassan, 222 Bang, Anne, 86, 89, 256n, 257n Bakari, Mohamed, 87–8, 90, 94, 193, 257n, 264n

Bakathir, Abdallah, 89, 93, 96, 182 Balala, Najib (Mayor of Mombasa), 132–5 Baluchi, 64, 68, 143, 182, 194 baraza, 56, 59, 72–80, 83, 102, 225 Idd-Baraza, 114, 132–6, 193 Beckerleg, Susan, 67, 265n Berg, Frederik, 44–7, 71, 82 bid’a, 78, 84, 90, 95, 97, 100–2, 177, 197, 219 Bohora, 64, 68, 75, 87, 149, 189, 201 Brenner, Louis, 32, 96, 251n Caplan, Pat, 83 Cassirer, Ernst, 12–13, 22–4, 130, 232 Chief Kadhi, 67, 70–1, 90, 94, 98, 117, 133, 177, 216, 254n Chiragdin, Shihabbudin, 71 Christian, 61, 66, 68, 78, 133–4, 149, 166, 171, 187, 197, 199–201, 217, 223, 255n, 258n coastal people, 38, 43, 48–9, 53, 55, 61–2, 77, 138, 187 coastal strip, 48–9, 187, 199; see also Mwambao colonial rule, British government, 47, 186–7 administration, 42–4, 48, 68, 71, 76, 138 period, 43–4, 47–9, 70, 77, 226 politics, 40, 42–3, 98, 201, 203 colonial rule, Omani, 47, 49 Comoros, 36, 49, 87, 89, 93 Dar es Salaam, 88, 93, 137 debates, 6, 12, 34 intellectual, 70, 80, 101, 190, 235–7, 238–9 Islamic, 80–1, 86, 94–5, 98, 101–2, 108, 117–18, 191, 213, 228–30

284

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newspaper, 5, 106 on Kenyan constitution, 133, 195, 198–204 social, 79, 174, 231, 233, 235–6, 238–9 democracy and Islam, 192, 219–21 democracy in Kenya, 59, 61, 202–4 dhikri, 73, 79, 87, 100, 102, 197 Digo, 75 dini, 80–6, 94, 116–19, 156, 165, 171, 199, 212, 221, 223, 265n discourse critical, 11, 35, 72 intellectual, 2, 18, 30, 32, 70–1, 78, 145, 231, 233 Islamic, 33–4, 94–102, 211, 213–14, 221, 227–8 moral, 141–50 philosophical, 11–32, 70–2, 80, 193, 207, 213, 229–30, 231–9 reflexive, 14, 26, 31, 72 Eickelman, Dale, 34 Egypt, 89, 93–4, 108, 147, 165, 174, 176, 263n enlightenment, 20, 70, 96, 98, 116–17, 130–1, 252n epistemology, 3, 21, 125–6, 130–1, 196, 238–9 ethics, 166–75, 211 ethnicity, 37, 40, 42, 61, 68, 75, 82, 129, 149, 157, 169, 185–7, 192, 200–6, 224 ethnocentrism, 169 Swahili, 37, 51–5, 129, 206 ethnophilosophy, 17, 235, 266n Farsy, Sheikh Abdallah Saleh, 90, 92–4, 96–7, 100, 117–18, 191, 257n fasting see saumu Floringi, 194 Freitag, Ulrike, 256n Ghazali, Sheikh Muhammad, 72, 93, 185–6 Glassman, Jonathon, 55 goodness, 139–48, 157–8, 164–5, 167– 8, 170–1, 173, 175, 223, 234; see also utu, humanity, morality Gujarati, 66, 75, 198

Habib Saleh, Sayyid (Salih b. Alawi Jamilail), 72, 84, 87–9, 93, 118, 212, 222 Hadhramaut, 36, 49, 84, 89, 93 hadith, 33, 98, 100, 190 Hallen, Barry, 261n haramu, 67, 79, 83, 174 Harith Swaleh, Ustadh (also Sheikh), 93–4, 114, 182, 257n, 263n healing, 30, 33, 35, 82, 122, 128, 150–3; see also uganga Hindi, 66 Hindu, 64, 66, 171, 223 history of East Africa, 36–8, 44, 55, 106–7, 114–16, 120–3, 129–31, 137, 162, 216–17 of Islam in East Africa, 15, 81–2, 86–102, 191, 216–17, 226 of Mombasa see Mombasa of philosophy see philosophy hotuba, 79, 181–1; see also sermon, lectures Hountondji, Paulin J., 5, 18–19, 27, 33–4, 236–7 humanity, 13, 18, 23, 139–75, 229, 237–8; see also utu, goodness, morality Huntington, S., 219 ibada, 84, 197, 223 Ibadhi, 82, 86, 222 Idd-el-Fitr, 114, 132–5, 177, 181 India, 36, 49, 108 Indian, 46–7, 61–2, 64, 66, 68, 75–6, 149, 151, 154, 181 Indian Ocean, 36, 39, 45, 49, 52, 85–6 intellectual history, 3–4, 16, 70–1, 87, 89–94, 96, 222, 231, 233, 236 intellectual practice, 3–4, 11, 20, 27, 29, 35, 72–80, 82–3, 94–102, 139, 145, 153, 175, 207, 213, 232 intellectuals, 15, 70–2, 82, 89–94, 111, 122, 137, 140, 153, 174–5, 192–4, 204, 211–14, 221–4, 226–30, 235 local, 32, 35, 70–2, 233, 236 study of, 5–6, 11, 22, 30–1, 80, 233 internal pluralism, 5, 18, 23, 33, 176, 214, 229, 237

INDEX

285

IPK (Islamic Party of Kenya), 59, 215, 224, 255n, 265n Iran, 81, 93–4, 176, 188–90, 195, 224, 265n Islam and knowledge, 33–5, 73, 78–9, 143–4, 147, 163–5, 170–2, 174, 191, 229–30, 234–5 anthropological study of, 14, 33–5, 81 in East Africa, 15, 33, 50, 59–62, 66–7, 70–1, 80–102, 116–20, 176–7, 189–90, 211, 213–24, 226–30, 234–5 Ismailis, 86, 201 Ithnaasharis (Twelver Shias), 64, 68, 75, 81, 87, 189, 195, 201, 222, 224

traditions of, 6, 11, 22, 26, 31, 74, 80, 112, 115–16, 122, 213, 222, 236–7 Kongowea, 36, 45, 64, 165 Kuwait, 93–4, 176, 222 Kuze, 66, 72–3, 151, 153, 165

Kant, Immanuel, 20–2, 31, 168, 170, 233, 256n KANU (Kenyan African National Union), 186–7 Kenyatta, Jomo, 106–7, 151, 153, 186–8, 199, 254n Kibokoni, 32, 58–9, 62, 64–7, 72–80, 114, 139, 142–7, 151, 179, 181, 214, 221, 224, 233 Kindy, Hyder, 43–4, 183, 260n, 262n, 264n kitendo (pl. vitendo), 140–6, 150, 160, 169–71, 173, 175, 217 knowledge and practice, 6, 14, 17, 20, 30, 34, 80, 82–6, 115–16, 120–2, 126–31, 136–8, 155, 158–62, 172–5 Islamic, 15, 34, 83–6, 94–100, 116–20, 163–5, 171, 174, 191, 193, 222, 227–30 local, 2, 14–16, 26, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34 moral, 131, 136, 139–40, 142, 148, 159–62, 167–75, 233 of the Qur’an, 99–100, 107, 196, 227 preservation of, 111–23, 127–31, 136–8, 211–12 social, 6, 14, 80, 140–2, 147–8, 151, 154, 172–5, 211–12, 234 theory of, 1–4, 6, 22–3, 26, 28, 125–6, 173; see also epistemology

MacGaffey, Wyatt, 18–19, 30 madrasa, 77, 88–9, 112, 118–9, 174, 185, 194, 222 Malindi, 45–7, 88, 117, 215, 222 masharifu (sg. sharifu), 41, 87, 98–9, 117, 142, 157, 190–1 Masolo, D. A., 19 Mau, Mahmoud, 106, 110 maulidi, 83–8, 96, 100, 102, 105–6, 150, 182, 197, 223 Mazrui, Sheikh Al-Amin, 70, 72, 89–90, 93–4, 96–100, 108, 177, 180, 185, 188, 191 Mazrui, Sheikh Ali bin Abdallah, 82 Mazrui, Sheikh Muhammad Kasim, 84, 89, 93–102, 190, 229 memory, 3, 71, 116, 120–1, 128–31, 161–2 Middleton, John, 36, 80, 83, 114 Mijikenda, 15, 33, 38–45, 47–8, 53, 57, 62, 64, 67, 75, 185 mila, 80–1, 82–6, 107, 111, 118–19, 137, 212 Moi, Daniel arap, 106–7, 133, 199, 204, 238, 260n Mombasa history of, 36–50, 53–6, 67–9, 70–1, 74, 153, 165 Old Town, 12, 14, 15–16, 32, 33–5, 36–8, 45–8, 53, 55–69, 72–80, 83, 105, 108–9, 114, 116, 119, 132, 179, 187, 194–5, 207, 213–15, 222, 225–6, 233

Lacunza Balda, Justo, 256n Lambek, Michael, 14–15, 30, 34–5 Lamu, 41, 50, 66, 71, 84–9, 93, 98, 106, 109–10, 112, 115, 117–18, 120–2, 127–9, 190, 192, 222, 224 lectures Islamic, 90, 174, 234: during Ramadhan, 89, 102, 114, 181–3, 193–206, 229–30, 234–5 Likoni clashes, 56, 59–61, 214, 223–4

286

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Moore, Henrietta, 25–6, 266n morality, 18, 21, 28, 139–47, 150, 164, 166–75, 178–9, 193, 206, 211– 12, 234; see also goodness, utu theory of, 139–41, 147, 166–75, 211 Mudimbe, V. Y., 25, 125 Muyaka bin Mwinyi Haji, 36, 45, 68, 71, 137, 153 Mwambao, 48–9, 187 Mwenye Baba (Sayyid Ahmed Ahmed Badawy), 93, 117, 257n, 258n, 264n Mwenye Mwansab, 87, 222 Nabhany, Ahmed Sheikh, 32, 71–2, 105–7, 109–38, 151, 211–13, 218, 227–8 Nairobi, 61, 77, 93, 112, 127, 187–8, 192, 199, 224 Nasir, Said Hussein, 71 Nassir, Ahmad, 1–2, 32, 71–2, 109, 139, 141–2, 150–75, 211–12, 215, 227–9, 234 Nassir, Sheikh Abdilahi, 32, 49, 81, 93, 102, 151, 177, 182–207, 211–12, 227, 229–30, 234–5, 258n niya, 157, 178; see also saumu nyayo politics, 134, 204, 238, 260n Okot p’Bitek, 252n Oman, 36, 41, 47, 49, 82, 93 orality, 80, 100, 109, 122–3, 130, 132 Oruka, Henry Odera, 27, 29, 30, 32, 236, 238 Pakistan, 93–4, 176 pamphlets Islamic, 70, 97–100, 102, 116–19, 191, 263n Parkin, David, 15, 33, 36–7, 50, 84, 150 patricians, 38–41, 49–50, 53, 55, 68, 75; see also waungwana philosophy African, 3, 5, 11, 12, 13, 16–19, 25–7, 33, 125, 235–8, 259n as social practice, 4, 6, 11–12, 14, 70–2, 79–80, 231 cultural, 12, 232 definition of, 2, 4, 11–14, 207 history of, 20, 170 intercultural, 25, 232

scholarly conception of (Philosophie im Schulbegriff), 20–2, 31, 233 Western, 2, 12, 13, 20, 25, 139, 142, 166, 170, 234, 236–8 worldly conception of (Philosophie im Weltbegriff), 20–2, 31, 233 poetry, 5, 31, 35 Swahili, 36, 45, 62, 68, 71–2, 105–11, 137, 139, 141, 150–73, 211, 222, 227–8: didactic; epic, 14, 115–36, 180, 211–13, 233; see also shairi, utenzi praise poetry, 107, 114, 130 politics, 17, 213–21, 238 coastal, 38, 41, 45–6, 74, 106, 108–10, 132–6, 185–7, 224, 227 colonial, 40–4, 47–9, 98, 109, 151, 186–7 postcolonial, 56–62, 68, 77–8, 106–7, 126, 131–6, 138, 150–1, 187, 192–3, 198–204, 215–17, 223, 234–5, 238 Portuguese, 45–7, 64, 74, 217–18 Pouwels, Randall L., 51, 257n proverbs, 136–7, 139–46, 149–50, 156, 162, 165, 175, 234 Qur’an, 33, 67, 73, 83, 96–100, 107–9, 111, 117, 120, 135, 143–4, 146, 158, 161, 169, 179–80, 192–3, 195–7, 199, 207, 217, 227, 234 Ramadhan, 133, 150, 153, 176–83, 193–205, 214 Ranger, Terence, 53 reflexivity, 28, 35, 71, 79, 125, 186, 207 reform constitutional see debates on Kenyan constitution Islamic, 34, 84, 88–90, 94–102, 117–18, 176–7, 197, 207, 229 social, 70, 87–8, 100, 140, 193, 218 religion, 24, 29–30, 33, 37, 41, 47, 61, 82–5, 94, 116–20, 136, 143–4, 146–50, 156, 162–5, 170–2, 192–3, 196–7, 199, 220–1, 223, 232, 236; see also dini rhetoric, 33, 79–80, 94, 100–1, 170, 185–6, 193, 219, 227, 234 Riyadha Mosque and College, 72, 84–5, 87–90, 98, 112, 117–18, 212, 222, 224, 228–9

INDEX

Robert, Shaaban, 4, 71 Ruete, Emily (Princess Salma bin Said), 41, 53 sage, 17, 26, 29, 30, 32, 116, 206, 258n Salafi/ Salafiyya, 34, 84, 176 Salim, Ahmed Idha, 42–3, 74, 98–9 Saudi Arabia, 88, 93–4, 176–7, 188–9, 221, 225, 228, 264n saumu (fasting), 116, 178–81; see also niya Schnädelbach, Herbert, 12 scholars Islamic, 35, 67, 70–1, 84, 86–7, 89–94, 96–8, 101, 108, 117, 151, 164, 170–1, 174, 180, 183–93, 196–7, 205–7, 212, 222, 224, 227–9 sermon, 14, 66, 94, 150, 222–3, 227; see also hotuba Shafii, 82, 86–7, 89, 102, 116–18, 228 shairi (pl. mashairi), 106–8, 110, 126, 130 Sharif Khitamy (Sayyid Abdulrahman Badawy), 72, 86, 88–9, 91, 93, 117 Sheikh Mvita, 44–6, 64 Shia, 66, 68, 75, 81–2, 87, 96, 188–92, 194–5, 198, 201, 204–7, 221–4, 227, 229 Shirazi, 41, 45, 253n slavery, serfdom, 37, 47, 50–5, 147, 182; see also utumwa slaves, 39–40, 43, 45, 47–9, 52–3, 55, 87, 185, 197; see also watumwa Socrates, 2, 222, 230 Somali, 46, 49, 87, 180, 198 Somalians, 57, 68 spirit possession, 30, 34, 82, 102, 108 spirits, 34, 50, 73, 83 Strobel, Margaret, 53–4 Sufism, 2, 73, 78, 87 Sultan Barghash, 82, 109 Sultan Said, 41, 46–7 Sumayt, Sayyid Ahmed bin, 89, 93, 96 Sumayt, Sayyid Omar bin Ahmed, 93, 222 sunna, 88, 100–2, 107, 180 SUPKEM (Supreme Council of Kenyan Muslims), 200–1, 247–50

287

Swahili as ethnic label, 36–44, 253n social ideology, 50–6, 107, 114, 119, 128–9, 136–8 Swartz, Marc, 55, 254n, 260n Tanga, 88 Tanzania, 89, 112 Topan, Farouk, 81, 193 tourism, 55, 60–1, 66–7, 125, 182, 214, 224 Uganda, 89, 112, 185, 218 uganga, 102; see also healing ukabila (ethnocentrism, tribalism), 157, 169, 192, 200–4, 234 umma, 81, 92, 135, 201–2, 215–17, 219–21, 228 upcountry (bara), 48, 55, 57, 68–9, 77, 124, 129, 138, 187, 212, 216 people, 48–9, 56, 61, 76–8, 81, 185–7, 205, 214, 217, 223; see also wabara urbanity, 36–7, 39–40, 46, 49–56 ushenzi, 37, 50–5 ustaarabu, 5, 147, 149 utenzi (pl. tenzi), 109–11, 114–16, 120– 2, 130, 132, 134–5, 139, 141, 153–5, 211–12, 215, 228, 233 Utenzi wa Mtu ni Utu, 141, 151, 153–73, 175, 228–9, 234 Utenzi wa Mwanakupona, 53, 115, 121, 131, 161, 165 utu, 139–75, 211–12, 229, 234; see also goodness, humanity, morality utumwa, 50–5, 75, 147; see also slavery, serfdom uungwana, 37, 50–5, 62, 141–2, 147, 149 verbal artistry, 108, 115, 122, 153 wabara, 48, 76, 129; see also upcountry people Wahhabi/ Wahhabism, 84, 88–9, 91, 94, 102, 118, 221–2, 228–9; see also reform, Salafi watumwa, 39, 48, 50, 52–5, 87, 197; see also slaves waungwana, 39–41, 43, 48, 50–5, 87, 114, 142, 197, 227; see also patricians

288

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Willis, Justin, 37–40, 44, 49, 52 Wiredu, Kwasi, 25, 236 wisdom, 1–4, 17, 20, 22, 24, 155, 206, 233, 236 Yemen, 185, 225

Zanzibar, 41, 49, 66, 74, 87, 89–90, 93, 96, 101, 109, 117, 182–3, 187, 192 zefe, 85–6