Public Culture and Islam in Modern Egypt: Media, Intellectuals and Society 9781350987630, 9780857727602

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Hatsuki Aishima is Lecturer in Modern Islam at the University of Manchester. She holds a DPhil in Oriental Studies from St Antony’s College, University of Oxford.

“Abd al-Halim Mahmud is in many respects a pivotal figure. Aishima could easily have produced a solid “life and times” biography with a few forays into social context. Instead, she situates her treatment of Mahmud firmly into the contexts of intellectual sociology and a finely tuned understanding of how successful religious figures have had to navigate the hazardous currents of public recognition.’ Dale F. Eickelman, Ralph and Richard Lazarus Professor of Anthropology and Human Relations, Dartmouth College ‘By considering the intersection between public, media technologies and self, Aishima effectively proposes a new model for the study of intellectuals. What is at stake is not anymore the life history of intellectuals, nor the social milieu that produced them, but the ways in which a process of subject formation encounters technological forms in relation to an audience.’ Setrag Manoukian, Associate Professor of Islamic Studies and Anthropology, McGill University ‘Public Culture and Islam in Modern Egypt uses the life and work of one of Egypt’s most important Islamic scholars, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, to investigate some of modern Egypt’s most important issues. The book uses an innovative mixture of methodologies to lead the reader on an amazing tour of Egypt’s present and recent past, taking in everything from the relationship between Islam and the state to the symbolic role of Paris, from the politics of Islamic television soap operas to the status of Sufism. Hatsuki Aishima knows these and other issues well, and does an excellent job of sharing her understandings.’ Mark Sedgwick, Professor of Arabic and Islamic Studies, Aarhus University

PUBLIC CULTURE AND ISLAM IN MODERN EGYPT Media, Intellectuals and Society

HATSUKI AISHIMA

Published in 2016 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright q 2016 Hatsuki Aishima The right of Hatsuki Aishima to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Every attempt has been made to gain permission for the use of the images in this book. Any omissions will be rectified in future editions. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. Library of Modern Middle East Studies 141 ISBN: 978 1 78076 621 8 eISBN: 978 0 85772 964 4 ePDF: 978 0 85772 760 2 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset in Garamond Three by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

To the memory of my grandfather, Sakan Aishima (1913– 2001)

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations Acknowledgements Note on Transliteration Glossary

viii ix xi xii

Introduction 1. Al-Azhar Reforms and the Transformation of Islamic Learning 2. From European Suits to Azharite Garb 3. Cultivating a Market for Sufism 4. Between ‘Public’ Islam and ‘Private’ Sufism 5. The Aesthetics of Hadith Narration 6. Being a Credible Scholar Conclusions

1 15 29 61 83 109 129 149

Notes Bibliography Index

157 185 195

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 2.1 The cover of a Muslim Brotherhood monthly, al-I’tisam, published shortly after ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s death in November 1978. The cover says ‘The Grand Imam is dead and the entire Islamic world shakes in grief’.

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Figure 2.2 A poster of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud posthumously created by his followers to celebrate his legacy. On top a verse of the Qur’an says ‘But for those who are on God’s side there is no fear, nor shall they grieve’ [10:62]. Bottom left is a photo with Jimmy Carter and Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi.

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Figure 2.3 ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s mosque in his native village on the day of his birthday celebration, 1 May 2008. Photograph by the author.

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Figure 4.1 Cairo landscape of rooftops with numerous satellite dishes. Photograph by the author.

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Figure 6.1 A book shelf at Cairo Book Fair, 2008, dedicated to ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work. Photograph by the author.

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Figure 6.2 An illustration from the culture section of Egyptian women’s magazine, Nisf al-Dunya.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Even after his death, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (1910– 78) continues to give spiritual guidance to his followers through various mediums, including dreams. He is yet to appear in mine. Hence, the completion of this work owes great debt to numerous individuals who supported me over the decade of an intellectual trajectory bringing me to Kyoto, Oxford and Cairo as a graduate student, then to Berlin and Osaka as a research fellow, and finally to Manchester as a lecturer. My special thanks go to the family members of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, especially Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, Hussein Abdel-Halim and Malak Reda for their patience and generous support. It is deeply regretful that Dr Mani‘ will not see the final product of this research project. The seeds of this study were sown at Kyoto University. I am grateful to Yasushi Kosugi and Yasushi Tonaga for encouraging me to write on this Egyptian Sufi scholar. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was certainly ‘the topic with wings’ which brought me much further than expected. During my fieldwork years in Egypt, I received academic support from al-Azhar University and Cairo University. I would like to thank Hatem and Samer El-Karanshawy, Ahmad al-Tayyib and ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Sayf al-Nasr for facilitating my work at al-Azhar. At Cairo University, Hassan Hanafi, Ahmed Zayed, Isam Hamza and Karim Elsaiad provided me with assistance as well as company. My studies at Cairo University was supported by the Rotary International Ambassadorial Scholarship. I am grateful to Rotarians in Cairo as well as in Saitama for encouraging me to pursue my ambitions.

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Many thanks to my friends and colleagues who have provided me not only intellectual but also spiritual strength to carry on thinking about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and his audiences: Hanan Shawky, Shereen Abdelfatah, Mohab Attia, Amr Farouk, Hany Hassan, Lucie Ryzova, Dominic Coldwell, Hilary Kalmbach, Raja Adal, Jana Holla, Vit Sisler, Aymon Kreil, Marcello Machı`, Kieko Obuse, Yuki Imoto, Hassan Ko Nakata, Kenichiro Takao and Samuli Schielke. The key ideas of this work were inspired by the discussions I had at the University of Oxford with my thesis advisors Walter Armbrust and Ronald Nettler. Their supervision was superb in allowing me to experiment on the analytical frameworks as well as preventing me from losing my way in the ocean of knowledge. I am equally grateful to my examiners, Jessica Winegar and Andreas Christmann for their valuable comments and criticisms. While it is indeed a relief to see the end of my student days, I will always miss the comfort of having somebody to turn to for advice. My fellowship years at the Centre for Modern Oriental Studies in Berlin (ZMO, 2010– 11) and the National Museum of Ethnology in Osaka (MINPAKU, 2011– 12) provided me with the opportunity to thoroughly revise and edit the manuscript. I am indebted to Gudrun Kra¨mer and Ulrike Freitag for hosting me in Berlin. I would also like to express my gratitude to Tetsuo Nishio, Akiko Mori, Minoru Mio, Hironao Kawai, Mari Miyamoto, Atsuko Tsubakihara and Kenji Kuroda for making my time in Osaka intellectually rewarding. I must also acknowledge my debt to my reviewers – Dale F. Eickelman, Setrag Manoukian and Mark Sedgwick. Since my appointment to lectureship in 2012, my colleagues and students at the University of Manchester, especially Alexander Samely and Christian Goeschel, helped me think through my work. I am thankful to my copyeditor James Disley who managed to thoroughly polish up my writing. Although a number of friends and colleagues contributed to realising this project, the responsibility of any omissions or errors are entirely mine. Last, but not least, I wish to thank all of those who had faith in me to complete this project. Armando Salvatore has been my closest interlocutor, providing me with food for thought (and the tummy), for which I will be eternally grateful. Without the skills and confidence to explore the world that my parents equipped me with, this work would not have come to fruition. I am truly grateful to their love and support in spite of my long absence from Saitama, Japan.

NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

I have used a simplified transliteration system based on the International Journal of Middle East Studies for Arabic words and names. Diacritical marks are omitted except for the ‘ayn (‘) and hamza (’). Anglicised spelling is retained for well-known names of personalities (i.e. Gamal Abdel Nasser) and cities (i.e. Cairo, Alexandria) as well as plurals (i.e. fatwas, hadiths). The authors who write in European languages have retained their own spelling (i.e. Taha Hussein). Expressions derived from Egyptian colloquial Arabic are rendered phonetically (i.e. muhaggaba) in order to distinguish them from modern standard Arabic.

GLOSSARY

‘alim (scholar, pl. ‘ulama) ‘alim salih (authentic scholar) ‘alimiya (the certificate of an Azharite ‘alim) awliya’ allah (God’s friends, equivalent to saints in Islam, sing. wali’) basira (an internal vision of reality achieved through the heart without the intervention of reasoning or sense perception) da‘wa (‘call’ to Islam, public outreach) du‘a’ (personal supplication) dhikr (Sufi ritual for ‘remembering’ God) fatwa (non-binding legal opinion) fusha (literary Arabic) galabiya (dress-like long robe for men) hadith (accounts of the Prophet Muhammad) hadra (Sufi order gathering) hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca, one of the prescribed duties for Muslims) halqa (a ‘circle’ surrounding a pillar in the mosques where professors gave lectures; an ‘episode’ of a television or radio programme) ijaza (a ‘permission’ to teach a text) jihad (an endeavour for divine causes) khutba (a sermon delivered at Friday Prayer) kuttab (elementary Qur’anic school) manhaj al-ittiba‘ (the way of following) mawlid (annual ‘birthday’ festival for awliya’) mufti (an Islamic law expert who is entitled to issue fatwas) muta‘allim (apprentice, learner, the educated)

GLOSSARY

muthaqqaf (intellectual, the cultured) qadi (judge) ru’ya (dream-like vision) Shari‘a (divine inspired law) silsila (personalised ‘chain’ of transmitting knowledge) Al-tasawwuf al-islami (Islamic mysticism or Islamic Sufism) thaqafa (culture) uslub (style of expression) waqf (pious endowment) ziyara (a ‘visitation’ of saint’s tombs)

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INTRODUCTION

Soon after I arrived in Cairo in April 2006 for my field research, I began to realise that I had gone there to ‘excavate’ intellectuals. Whenever I told the locals that my research project concerned intellectuals in contemporary Egypt, the first thing they would ask was ‘where are the intellectuals (muthaqqafun) in Egypt?’ I used to reply, ‘In sha’allah haktashafu-hum (if God wills, I will discover them)’. On the other hand, I received praise whenever I told them that I was working on the Grand Imam of al-Azhar Mosque-University, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (1910– 78) because most people agreed that he was a distinguished scholar (‘alim). What, then, are the elements which distinguish the profile of a ‘scholar’ from an ‘intellectual’? Would a man of religion like ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud not be considered cultured enough to qualify as a muthaqqaf (cultured person, intellectual)? How is the relationship between the knowledge of ‘culture’ (thaqafa) and ‘religion’ (din) defined? Is ‘Abd al-Halim admired for his intellectual ingenuity or for his religious devotion? In this book, I investigate what it means to be an intellectual in the eyes of the educated middle classes of contemporary Egyptian society. In particular, I explore the factors that are seen as bestowing the credentials of an ‘authentic scholar’ (‘alim salih) upon a public figure. My study traces the precarious currents ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud navigated to gain public recognition as an authentic scholar, as well as the various ways in which his audiences make use of his publications and radio lectures as a means of shaping their modern and pious self as a member of the Egyptian middle class. I look at public contests arising

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out of the processes of authentication of Islamic scholarship through the prism of the life, work and the public appreciation of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. As a French-trained scholar of Sufism, former Grand Imam of al-Azhar Mosque-University (1973– 8) and Sufi celebrity, he continues to feature prominently in the Egyptian media. However, in contrast to Muhammad al-Ghazali (1917–98)1 and Muhammad Mutawalli alSha‘rawi (1911– 96),2 whose popularity extends well beyond Egyptian borders, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s fame is locally embedded. With the exception of scholars of Sufism who tend to know his name through his editions of Sufi classics or his interactions with the prominent French Sufi thinker Rene´ Gue´non (1886– 1951) it is quite rare to encounter anyone outside of Egypt who has ever heard of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. Nevertheless, in Egypt, he continues to appear in popular magazines and newspapers with the honorific title ‘the Ghazali of the Twentieth Century’,3 and a state television station broadcast a biographical series during the Ramadan of 1429 AH (1– 30 September 2008). Chiefly due to this media presence, even three decades after his death, his name resonates in the mind of many Egyptians, conveying an image of a distinguished scholar and Sufi master of the Sadat era (1970– 81). A composite Egyptian public remembers this Sufi scholar for his dedication to al-Azhar Mosque-University in restoring its dignity as the pinnacle of the Sunni scholarly world, and from his passionate work in reintroducing the Sufi intellectual tradition to educated audiences outside of Sufi circles. Yet his fame is a double-edged sword. As with many public intellectuals, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud is an empty signifier whose profile is constantly redefined in relation to the desire of those who pronounce his name. When narrating the political climate of 1970s Egypt, for instance, some claim that ‘Abd al-Halim was a yes-man for President Sadat, while others assert that he is a role model, an ‘alim salih (authentic scholar) who was assassinated for refusing to cooperate with the regime. Egyptian Orientalists, university professors and graduate students specialising in subjects related to Islamic studies (i.e. Islamic law, philosophy or Sufism) who I interviewed often expressed their discomfort in regard to the high praise he receives from non-specialist audiences, although this is the community that ‘Abd al-Halim supposedly represents. Regardless of their positionality to the Islamic faith, similar to their non-Muslim counterparts in Western academia, Egyptian Orientalists approach Islam as a field of the humanities and social sciences. In their view, ‘Abd

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al-Halim Mahmud is a pseudo-scholar who gained public fame by cleverly manipulating his symbolic capital, i.e. his doctoral degree from the Sorbonne and the ‘alimiya degree from al-Azhar, although he did not possess credentials as an authentic scholar. Thus, instead of presupposing who ‘Abd al-Halim was simply from his curriculum vitae, I scrutinise multiple images of this public figure produced in various forms, including ‘Abd al-Halim’s self-image, his mass-mediated representations, and conflicting evaluations among his composite audiences. In March 2010, after the sudden demise of the much criticised Grand Imam of al-Azhar, Muhammad Tantawi (1928–2010), the Egyptian president appointed an internationally renowned Sufi scholar, Ahmad alTayyib (b. 1946). This was a belated attempt by Hosni Mubarak to regain the support of his people, just like his predecessor Anwar al-Sadat had hoped to acquire legitimacy as ‘the Believing President’ by having a distinguished Sufi scholar, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, on his side. It was not accidental that Egyptian national television had produced a biographical serial celebrating the legacy of this intellectual figure in 2008. The events triggered by the January 25 Revolution of 2011 underline the significance of al-Azhar and other religious authorities in mediating social relations, shaping political aspirations and expressing emotional solidarities within the nation. While the international media coverage of the Arab Spring, and the academic literature that followed suit, highlighted the role of social media in bringing ‘change’ to the contemporary Middle East, such work fails to clarify the ways in which these technologies had profoundly transformed social relationships in earlier decades. Through an ethnography of the urban middle class, I bring the lifeworlds of these actors to the centre of analysis and explore the various ways in which they consume the Islamic knowledge produced through the mass media as a means by which to perform their cultured self.

Longing for Culture Although economic conditions certainly affect one’s lifestyle and social status, defining the Egyptian middle class according to their income is an arbitrary exercise, since many people have two or three jobs at the same time in order to make a living. Rather, I employ the term ‘middle class’ as an aspirational category materialised through embodied

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practices triggered by the politics of difference where consumption plays a significant role (Bourdieu 1986; Liechty 2003). This aspiration is bound up with the wish to live the life of a ‘cultured’ person, which is the exact meaning of the key-word muthaqqaf, a term that has been ubiquitous in the Egyptian public sphere ever since the colonial era.4 Such a romantic perception of culture as symbolic capital that is necessary to live a modern civilised life and for being up to date on what is good and reasonable facilitates a positive sense of self-identification with the middle class irrespective of income. As Bourdieu (1986) reminded us, social class is practised through habitus and the judgement of taste. Displaying an appreciation (or disapproval) of certain cultural goods, including those from the religious domain, play a key role in one’s affiliation with the middle class.5 While Charles Hirschkind (2006) focused on Islamic learning activities among religiously devout (mutadayyin) circles, or those who strive to lead a pious lifestyle that can be investigated as a singular field site, I approach a more transversal sample of ‘cultured’ audiences who seek metaphysical and spiritual justifications, in parallel to an (ideally, if not always literally) materially successful life. The term ‘transversal’ designates my field strategy as consciously cutting through rigid distinctions between the ‘religious’ and the ‘secular’ dimensions of living as good Muslims in a highly cosmopolitan and urban Umm al-Dunya (the mother of the world vis-a`-vis Cairo). Aspiration to a morally sanctioned or at least Islamically compatible good life is a key component motivating audiences (some of which might crosscut mutadayyin circles) to potentially participate in the task of authenticating (or dis-authenticating) ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s scholarship and public teaching. Michael Gilsenan suggested that some members of the Egyptian middle class, who were fairly successful in their professions, became attracted to Sufism in the 1960s as an attempt to frame their lives philosophically and spiritually (Gilsenan 2000: 244–50). The bulk of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s admirers are from this type of social background. They have BAs or even Master’s degrees in various subjects, which were instrumental in securing jobs. After hectic five- or six-day working weeks, they turn to books, radio or television for opportunities to be ‘cultured’. The sociological profile of ‘cultured’ audiences in educational terms generally includes access to higher education (i.e. high schools, national and private universities, or the Azharite system of

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higher education), where ‘culture’ is supposedly transmitted.6 This includes, notably, Arabic language schools for non-native speakers, which often facilitate interface with educated middle-class visitors from North American, European and East Asian business and academic circles – a crucial type of encounter in ensuring that segments of the Egyptian middle classes feel up to date with the global world. I do not intend to suggest that university graduates are homogeneous in any empirical sense; the point is that, similar to Norbert Elias’s German middle class, at the level of public discourse, muta‘allimun (the educated) of Egypt are regarded as distinct from those who are noneducated in terms of their values, language, manners, and dress codes (Elias 2000). The process of authenticating scholarship in broader cultural terms through a composite educated middle-class ‘public’ can only be accessed through a strategy of transversal penetration of multiple, often overlapping, lifeworlds. If ‘class’ is an arbitrary construct that depends on the aspirations and self-identification of social groups, then ‘public’ is an even more sociologically evanescent category. The idea of a public is sustained by the hopes and desires of scattered actors, who imagine the shared values of a good, cultured life, nurtured by authentic public teaching, and based on sound scholarship. Such a public, therefore, is more accessible through a combination of ethnographic snapshots, which may succeed in capturing the aspirations that nurture discussion, appreciation, judgement and critique, than through sociological surveys or statistics. Surprisingly perhaps, the main cleavage in the public process of the authentication and dis-authentication of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s scholarly credentials was not between the ‘secular’ and ‘religious’ camps but between a group of Egyptian Orientalists of various disciplinary locations and career stages and an assortment of nonspecialist muthaqqafun (also including some academics). ‘Public Islam’ seems to cater to the latter much more than to the former. The vital context for studying the life and thought of public intellectuals like ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud is mass mediation, which contributed to the formation of what Armando Salvatore calls ‘public Islam’. In contemporary Egypt, ‘religious knowledge and modes of disciplining are restyled in public form through increasingly standardized (and marketable) communicative patterns, and are used in various ways by the political or cultural agents of domination within

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society’ (Salvatore 1998: 91). ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was one of a handful of Azharite scholars who successfully employed their cultural capital to take part in ‘the modern construction of Islam as a public norm’ (ibid. 87). Starting from print technology, the mass media significantly transformed and complicated the distinction between the public and private domains of personal lives: [W]ith the development of mass communication, the publicness (visibility) of events or individuals in the public and private domains is no longer linked directly with the sharing of a common locale, and hence events or individuals can acquire a publicness which is independent of their capacity to be observed or heard directly by a plurality of individuals. (Thompson 1990: 241, emphasis in original) Whereas the public for the ancient Greeks meant elites gathering in an open space to hold a discussion on communal affairs (ibid. 246), mass media technologies enable Egyptian Muslims to contemplate and sympathise with their brothers and sisters of an Islamic umma (community of believers) while sitting at home reading newspapers or watching television. The introduction of the internet further facilitated the participation of those with computer literacy in public debates without the need for face-to-face contact with other members of the ‘imagined communities’ (Anderson 1991). Later in this book I will illustrate the mass-mediated ways in which ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud managed to establish his status as an authentic scholar within ‘public Islam’ through his scholarly performances.

Mass-Mediated Islam and the Authorship of Ideas In contemporary Egyptian society, mass-mediated religious performance occupies a significant sphere within religious discourse. This challenges standard modes of analysing ‘modern Islamic thought’, modes that seek to locate the authorship of ideas in verbal expressions. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work is an excellent example of how difficult it is for an outsider to find elements of originality in his speech, although his distinctiveness is quickly perceived by Egyptian audiences. Since his publications and radio lectures are in a type of fusha (literary Arabic) addressed to the educated masses rather than to scholarly audiences, they

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are not difficult to transcribe and analyse as ‘texts’. However, to understand how ‘Abd al-Halim transmits his originality in spite of the conventional content of the speech, one must approach these works as an ongoing dialogue with his intended audience, rather than a monologue. Although the importance of studying the audience or reception of a work has been discussed in media studies as well as literary theory and criticism, studies of modern Islamic thought continue to emphasise textual analysis, as if the ideas of a public intellectual are self-contained in the text.7 After studying the publications and televised lectures of Muhammad Mutawalli al-Sha‘rawi, Hava Lazarus-Yafeh (1983) expresses her puzzlement that a scholar with such an apparently superficial knowledge of Islamic sciences compared to those from the earlier generation and a poor mastery of Arabic could gain so much popularity. Daniel W. Brown laments that, although Muhammad alGhazali’s Al-Sunna al-Nabawiya (the prophetic Sunna) was celebrated for being the ‘Islamic Perestroika’ when it was published in 1989, he does not see any new theory or argument in it compared to al-Ghazali’s predecessors (Brown 1996: 108–32). A similar tone is repeated in the recent publication on another Egyptian star media preacher, Yusuf alQaradawi (b. 1926). In its introduction, the editors of the volume warn their readers: ‘al-Qaradawi’s work is impressive in terms of its scope and clarity. Still, many of the books cannot be called particularly innovative’ (Gra¨f and Skovgaard-Petersen 2009: 6). The quick survey of the study of modern Islamic thought seems to confirm my interlocutors’ assertion that there is no vibrant intellectual culture in Egypt. Kate Zebiri states in her work on a Shaykh al-Azhar and the radio star of the 1950s Mahmud Shaltut (1893–1963) that one of the reasons the value of studying the works of an ‘alim has been underestimated is that ‘it has been thought that any original, creative thinking is far more likely to come from outside the ranks of the ‘ulama’ (Zebiri 1993: 2). This is an accurate observation in terms of existing studies of modern Islamic thought, but tautological insofar as it simply excludes studies of Azharite scholars after Muhammad ‘Abduh (1849– 1905). Zebiri and other scholars of modern Islamic thought presuppose ‘originality’ or ‘creativity’ as a universally cherished intellectual value and overlook the socio-culturally situated nature of such notions within a hierarchy of performance modes. ‘Creative thinking’ lies not only in the ‘creative’ mind of the author but also in the audiences to whom the author strives

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to communicate his or her ideas. In the publications and radio lectures prepared for the general public, the ‘newness’ of knowledge is less important than the author’s performative interpretation of existing textual sources. What audiences crave is the confirmation of their faith, rather than new information. I approach ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s writings as ‘open’ texts, in the sense that their meanings are not seen as conclusively stated within the texts themselves but are instead continuously in the process of being negotiated and reproduced. The existing investigations on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, similar to those on other Egyptian public intellectuals, are limited to introducing his work to the Western scholarly community8 because researchers sought for the meaning of his writings in the texts themselves without examining the social life of those texts.9 Their examinations lack a sense of the audience to whom the author was trying to convey his ideas. The starting point of my study is provided by the ideas and arguments formulated in those books by the author, but my actual research goal targets knowledge about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud reproduced both through the mass media and through the fragmented perceptions and images of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud reconstructed in everyday conversations among his multiple audiences. This last point – an exploration of ‘Abd al-Halim’s readership – is one of the main objectives of this work. When ‘Abd al-Halim was carrying out Sufi da‘wa (public outreach)10 in the 1960s and 1970s, he was certainly aware of the contested discourses on Sufism within Egyptian society as well as the needs of his respective audiences. In order to gain a more accurate understanding of his work, we first need to understand the composition of ‘Abd al-Halim’s audience. I moved to Cairo to learn more about his readership, or, using Stanley Fish’s term, the ‘interpretive communities’ of Egypt, instead of delivering a mere philological analysis of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s writings. According to Fish, the actual meaning of a text is embedded neither in the text nor in the reader, but resides within: Interpretive communities [which] are made up of those who share interpretive strategies for not reading but for writing texts, for constituting their properties. In other words these strategies exist prior to the act of reading and therefore determine the shape

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of what is read rather than, as is usually assumed, the other way around. (Fish 1980: 14) Fish’s thesis is stimulating. However, as a literary critic, he does not perceive the necessity of coming down from the ivory tower to further his inquiries into ‘interpretive communities’ in the mundane world as, for example, Dominic Boyer (2005) did in his anthropological study of Hegelian philosophy and the manners in which his dialectic continues to serve as the key symbol in generating the sense of ‘Germanness’ that bound the intellectual elites in post-unification Germany. Hence, while taking theoretical inspiration from Fish, methodologically my research follows the path formed by Boyer, combining ethnography with a sociocultural and intellectual history approach in examining ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work. The core argument of my work has been inspired by a combination of studies on expressive art in Egypt (Frishkopf 2003; Winegar 2006) and Islamic scholarly culture (Eickelman 1978; Messick 1993; Hirschkind 2006), as they pointed out interesting yet underappreciated affinities between public discourses on what constitutes good scholarship and the performing arts. While Western artists strive to gain authenticity by emphasising their originality in relation to the works of others, Egyptian artists and musicians stress continuity with their predecessors in order to demonstrate the authentic roots of their artistic inspirations (Danielson 1997; Winegar 2006). As in other fields of expressive culture, the value of Islamic scholarship is determined by the way the author performs his/ her scholarly credentials by reorganising established sources. My intention is not to reconfirm a cliche´ in the study of modern Islamic thought, namely that the Middle East no longer produces any ‘great thinkers’ with original and creative ideas. Rather, I want to emphasise the significance of approaching Islamic intellectual fields as markets for producing specific cultural commodities, which result from dynamic interactions between public intellectuals and the way their intended audiences understand good, sound scholarship. In this regard, I examine ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s works as a type of classical performing art in the sense that they should be understood as embodiments of a genre of formalised expressive culture. When delivering public lectures, Azharite scholars perform their scholarly credentials based on the socio-culturally specific demands of their

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audiences. In the context of Western cultural production, the same type of creativity and audience responses are expected in live performances of classical artistic modes such as orchestral concerts, classical ballet or opera. In classical performing arts, the narrative is already known to the audience yet the most skilled performers negotiate their originality in relation to the established aesthetic forms and audiences’ prior knowledge of the performed piece. To correctly appreciate the performances, therefore, audiences are required to possess knowledge of the genre. Ballet enthusiasts, for example, continue to go to see Romeo and Juliet even though the performance of the basic narrative and the music will always be the same. No matter how many times they have seen the show, they still want to see the signature scene at the balcony in which the young couple secretly meet in the night. The audiences’ applause for dancers who display high standards of technique demonstrates their knowledge about this genre of performing arts. Details of the choreography might vary, but the stage director never eliminates the balcony scene, because this is a key narrative element that distinguishes Romeo and Juliet from other works. As in other fields of expressive culture, the value of Islamic scholarship is determined by the way the author performs his/her scholarly credentials by reorganising established sources. The definition of uslub (style of expression), which I am going to further explore in Chapter 6, illustrates the issue of how one should position ‘self-expression’ in relation to the formal aestheticism of the genre within the hierarchy of performance modes.

The Metamorphosis of Islamic Learning As indicated in frequent citations of such hadiths (accounts of the Prophet Muhammad) as ‘Seek knowledge even unto China, as the quest for knowledge is indeed the obligation for all the Muslims’, modern Islam encourages every Muslim to increase his/her knowledge, thereby making learning one of the significant conditions of faith. Enthusiasm for accumulating knowledge about one’s faith is demonstrated in the proliferation of teach-yourself-Islam products, including publications, DVDs and audio recordings of lectures by prominent preachers, many of which are marketed using photos of the authors on their covers. When flipping between satellite channels in Egypt, it is not difficult to find lively talk shows on Islamic creeds. However, the question remains: if

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one were not to become a theologian or a specialist in Islamic law, what ought s/he to know? For instance, memorisation of the Qur’an has been promoted as a pious act since the early history of Islam, and even now its full accomplishment is still considered a sign of God’s blessing. Yet the social meaning of memorised knowledge has changed dramatically from the early days of Islam (when the embodiment of knowledge was the only possible means of accessing God’s words) to the 1970s (when alAzhar started to print the Qur’an) or the recent decade (when anyone can browse the internet for a Qur’anic verse and its interpretation). Needless to say, the content of the Qur’an, the fundamental source of Islamic knowledge, does not differ from one age to another. Yet the ‘end-use’ of such once-embodied knowledge differs greatly if one compares a time when children learned the text from their masters orally to nowadays, when printed copies or audio-supported materials are readily available. The dramatic improvement in the literacy rate enables forms of individualised study that played no part in the pre-modern patterns of acquiring Islamic knowledge. We cannot understand ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work and public impact without considering this enduring tension between such individualised learning patterns and the wish to recuperate a sense of connection between speaker and audiences of a more ‘traditional’ kind. This is a wish shared by ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and other traditionalist leaders among Azharite scholars seeking to revive the role of the personalised chain of transmitting knowledge – notably (though not paradoxically, as I will attempt to show) with the help of new and even electronic media. Since Timothy Mitchell’s Colonising Egypt (1988), several seminal works have focused on the metamorphosis of Islamic learning in the modern Middle East. The challenge launched by Mitchell consisted in exemplifying how the sense of order validated by colonial power in late nineteenth-century Egypt was crucial in distinguishing what constituted valid knowledge and what did not. This ‘power-knowledge syndrome’ or the dilemma of discourse and representation provides a major background to the analysis of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s reformism, which could be characterised as an alternative modern understanding of how Islamic learning, by reabsorbing some of its purportedly ‘traditional’ features, could fit into the collective goals of the Egyptian nation. This study illustrates how, although the role of the personalised chain of transmitting knowledge (silsila) was eliminated

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from Islamic learning as the modern education system gradually nullified the existing intellectual order of al-Azhar, the commodification of Islamic knowledge paradoxically strengthened the imaginary connection between the author/speaker and the audience(s). This is largely attributable to the process of dual massification that took place in schooling and in the mass media. This connection between the author and the audience is sustained by public discourses surrounding appreciation of the individual style of expression and the formal aestheticism of scholarship (i.e. fluency in literary Arabic and quotation of Qur’anic verses and hadiths in appropriate contexts). In other words, my work addresses the significance of the performative aspects of scholarly knowledge of Islam as a crucial element of the conditions that predetermine the mannerisms of an Azharite scholar when s/he is relating to audiences. However, by characterising the formal aestheticism of Islamic scholarship as ‘performance’, I do not intend to suggest that there is a discrepancy between the external appearance and the inner self in the sense that scholars are merely pretending to play their roles. Rather, I want to stress that this public discourse is based on an understanding which equates the mastering of an aesthetic form with the accomplishment of a moral self (Mahmood 2001; Nelson 1982). To this end, the main differences between Islamic learning at mosques and religious education in schools lies in the purpose of teaching. In mosque-based learning, scholarship consisting of artisanal skills to be acquired and worship mutually enhanced one’s ability to be a better practitioner of Islam. While there was a shared system of learning, its content and style differed between scholars, mosques and regions; however, as stressed by Mitchell, ‘it was not the purpose of any distinct individual or organisation to give organised instruction’ (Mitchell 1988: 87). On the other hand, for the purpose of education in modern schools, learning was uncoupled from practice, and accumulation of knowledge became a means rather than a self-sufficient end: ‘Schooling was to be an autonomous field, defined not by its subject or method, but as an activity that took place in a specialised location, among a specific group of people of a particular place’ (ibid. 88 –9). Therefore, the gradual incorporation of Islam into the Egyptian educational curriculum required a drastic modification of the scope of Islamic knowledge, so that it could be taught in classrooms by, and to, non-specialists. Furthermore, because the aim of education was now to produce ‘reliably local subjects’

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(Appadurai 1996: 181), for the state to achieve its national political and economic agendas, standardisation of not only the content and style of teaching but also of the physical setting of the ‘school’ had to take place in order to reify a sense of national identity. In order for Islam to become a productive tool for achieving nationalist goals, Islamic knowledge had to go through two interrelated processes: objectification and functionalisation (Starrett 1998). In spite of Orientalist assertions and Islamic reformists’ seamless quest for a society fully governed by Shariʽa (divine inspired law), it is difficult to locate an Islamic state beyond intellectual discourses. Yet there is a ‘growing consciousness on the part of Muslims that Islam is a coherent system of practices and beliefs, rather than merely an unexamined and unexaminable way of life’, a type of consciousness that is the outcome of a process of ‘objectification’ of Islam (ibid. 8 – 9). As a concept corresponding to objectification, ‘functionalisation’ is a process of making Islam useful to the nationstate by removing its knowledge from the original context and manipulating its meaning (ibid.). The emphasis on the religion as a discipline to be explained in modern education is deeply at odds with traditional Islamic learning, which regarded the memorisation of the Qur’an as the foundation of all knowledge, such that a student’s understanding of the content was judged on the basis of his ability to quote verses in appropriate contexts (Eickelman 1978: 494). On the one hand, mass education prepares students to have access to the multiple channels provided by mass mediation. A major effect of this dual massification, somewhat paradoxically, is that people can learn about Islam in more individualised ways. On the other hand, in an age of massification the forms of producing Islamic knowledge had to change drastically so as to make sense to any literate individual seeking access to the body of scholarly knowledge. For instance, gathering information on Islamic law can be regarded as the starting point of an observant life. This is a very different understanding of knowledge to that held by generations of scholars trained in Islamic sciences directly from their seniors, where learners had much less control over the sequence of learning. While Islamic knowledge in the pre-modern context was synonymous with the craft of law practitioners in the sense that it was transmitted from master to disciple, Islam as it is taught at school is sustained by an anonymous authority based on ‘scientifically’

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encoded proofs. Emphasis was shifted to the usefulness of knowing about Islamic law in organising various aspects of daily life. As a result of this objectification, accumulation of Islamic knowledge became regarded as an indispensable means for entering a cultured lifestyle of the middle class.

Outline of the Book The chapters of this volume are organised thematically rather than chronologically, tracing ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s biography and the reproduction of his image after his death. In Chapter 1, I analyse the history of al-Azhar reforms during the colonial era so as to address the processes by which Islamic learning at mosques was gradually transformed into a ‘subject’ taught at public schools. This transformation was crucial in order to reformulate scholarly knowledge of Islam as a commodity tailored for mass consumers in the teachyourself market. Chapters 2 to 4 explore how ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was known to the Egyptian public and why he was successful in cultivating his place in the media industry. These chapters also discuss the ways in which ‘Abd al-Halim’s image as an al-Azhar-trained Sufi scholar has been constructed in relation to his representation of Sufism and anti-Sufi discourses. Chapters 5 and 6 discuss ‘Abd al-Halim’s style of expression when communicating with his audiences by reflecting upon the discussions I had with the educated middle classes of Egypt during my fieldwork about his writing and radio lectures. The mass media provided an arena for ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud to lecture beyond universities and mosques, yet his success was largely down to aesthetic conventions he mastered during his scholarly training at al-Azhar.

CHAPTER 1 AL-AZHAR REFORMS AND THE TRANSFORMATION OF ISLAMIC LEARNING

Before discussing the life and thought of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud in detail, the present chapter analyses debates surrounding the educational and institutional reforms of al-Azhar Mosque-University in the period from 1872 to 1932, i.e. from the beginning of the reform era to the point at which ‘Abd al-Halim was initiated into a path of scholarly training. These reforms were geared towards gradually removing the role of the personal dimensions of knowledge transmission in traditional Islamic learning, paving the way to the transformation of Islamic knowledge into a commodity which could be individually acquired without the intermediation of specific authority figures. As learning and worship in Islam gradually came to be separated from each other, Islamic knowledge was transformed into a functional component of Egyptian nation building. It is useful here also to consider the intellectual order that prevailed at al-Azhar Mosque before these reforms were carried out, particularly in order to understand how the practice of dividing the world into categories of ‘order’ and ‘disorder’ caused some Azharite scholars to sense the ‘necessity’ of reforming Islamic learning at their institution. Indeed, this sense was somewhat paradoxically shared, in a reverse way, by those leaders from al-Azhar who, like ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud years later, intended to redirect the reform impetus into more ‘traditional’ channels.

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Projecting Chaos Founded in 970, al-Azhar Mosque has been one of the major focal points for those who pursue the path of knowledge in the Sunni Islamic world. The waqf (pious endowment) of al-Azhar provided its dwellers with a place to learn, work as well as to live for centuries. Those who received scholarly training at al-Azhar made their living in various public administration positions of all sorts, as well as in trade and commerce. As the only intellectual class, the ‘ulama ‘were ubiquitous, and fulfilled functions on all social levels and had an entere´e into every nook and cranny of society’ (Marsot 1972: 157). In conventional historiography this situation began to change after the rise to power of Muhammad ‘Ali (r. 1805– 48), who was asked by the ‘ulama to take the place of the Ottoman governor-designate Kurshid Pasha in 1805 (Crecelius 1967: 96). The modernisation policies ‘Ali Pasha launched involved removing, dividing and redistributing the socio-economic roles that scholars had monopolised for centuries: ‘What was required was tanzim, a word often translated as “modernisation” for this period, though it means something more like “organisation” or “regulation”’ (Mitchell 1988: 67). A series of operations to concentrate economic and political power in Cairo necessitated a complete reorganisation of the social system and the national landscape. As Muhammad ‘Ali advanced his modernisation policies, a social order modelled on European standards began to permeate various aspects of Egyptian public life. While he took initiatives to institutionalise Sufi orders, he did not attempt to interfere with the affairs of the scholarly communities affiliated to important mosques. What attracted him were simply the revenues from pious endowments, which ensured al-Azhar’s autonomy. Hence in 1815 he confiscated the waqf properties of al-Azhar, while promising Azharites a lifetime pension scheme which was never fulfilled (Crecelius 1967: 124). Instead of depending on intellectuals trained at al-Azhar, he decided to cultivate future elites on his own by sending some students to Europe as early as 1810 and by establishing his own schools to train the type of men he needed. In Indira Falk Gesink’s words, ‘Muhammad ‘Ali, by locating administrative education outside of religious schools, began a process of removing the training of government employees, educators, and legal personnel from the province of the independent religious schools into an environment of

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state control’ (Gesink 2000: 89). The first military school was founded in 1816 in the Citadel. When the British occupied Egypt in 1882, they decided that al-Azhar was ‘a nest of “Mohammedan fanaticism” best ignored’ (Reid 1977: 351). In this way, when the new social order started to establish a foothold in Cairo, al-Azhar became increasingly perceived as an enclave of Islamic tradition out of step with contemporary society. Eventually, al-Azhar – and some aspects of Islam itself in the eyes of modernist elites – started to stand out as an archaic entity. After outlining European accounts of al-Azhar in travelogues of visitors to Egypt in the nineteenth century, Michael Reimer points out how little they were interested in this most important mosque of Islamic scholarship located in the heart of Cairo. Because the majority of tourists were more attracted to biblical sites and ancient Egyptian monuments, or perhaps to Islamic architecture that they thought had an artistic value,1 al-Azhar completely slipped from their attention (Reimer 1998: 268– 9).2 Nevertheless, al-Azhar might have begun to stimulate a kind of voyeurism when an Orientalist painting of its inner courtyard was presented to European audiences for the first time in 1855 (Dodge 1974: 115). While recent photos of the al-Azhar Mosque sponsored by the Egyptian government focus on its architectural aspects,3 the illustrator here seems to have been fascinated with the picturesque lifeworld of Azharites studying in the inner courtyard. A photo of al-Azhar included in the catalogue of the world exhibition of 1889 in Paris captures a similar view (Mitchell 1988: 80).4 Such European views of al-Azhar – where the purportedly immanent chaos (or lack of an intrinsic ‘order’) is matched by a sense of warmth that strikes the eye – should be compared with the solemn image the Egyptian government now strives to construct of al-Azhar as ‘the citadel of Islamic knowledge’ or ‘the lighthouse of Islamic faith’. In Edward Lane’s An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, al-Azhar is introduced as ‘the principal university of the East’ (Lane 1890 [1842]: 191). However, representations of al-Azhar, including images transmitted through Orientalist paintings as well as the carnivalesque accounts of European travellers, appear quite unlike what we now understand as a university lecture hall or school classroom. ‘“What is astonishing at al-Azhar is the crowd that throngs in its halls”, we are told by the Inspector-General. “A thousand students of every age, of every colour. . . scattered into groups, the diversity of costumes”’ (qtd in Mitchell 1988: 80). Further,

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Valentine Chirol, an English journalist visiting Cairo in 1919,5 characterised the lessons at al-Azhar Mosque in the following manner: In the great courtyard the students lie about on mats, some sleeping, some eating, some reciting aloud from their text-books in a rhythmical sort of chant to which their swaying bodies keep time. Water carriers and itinerant food sellers have hawkers of all kinds move freely amongst them, swelling the din of voices with their traditional street cries. (Chirol 1920: 235) Most significant in how European visitors viewed al-Azhar was that they focused less on the architecture but on the view of people who are simply filling the space; this was part of a broader practice of representation that increasingly eliminated whatever was ‘unsightly’ according to the logic of European colonists and Egyptian modernists. As such, for the European colonial gaze al-Azhar was not just disorderly but rather a space that prepared observers to see in it the reflection of a social and, more specifically, educational order still trapped in ‘traditional’ settings. It was therefore a world that could only be made sense of in terms of deficits, deviations and delays, in contrast to a triumphant modern order that was inevitably the highly valorised preserve of Europe and its world hegemony. Not only at alAzhar but also at other sites of mosque learning, foreign visitors to Egypt were disturbed when observing ‘children’s occasional involvement in economic pursuits (e.g. plaiting straw mats for the teacher’s use, or for sale) during lessons’, since, in their minds, education was supposed to take place in an autonomous space dedicated solely to that purpose (Starrett 1998: 35). They despised the noise, yet were equally amused by the view of children squatting on a mat around a shaykhly figure, rocking their bodies back and forth while reciting verses of the Qur’an. Such sites were photographed and presented in Europe as the exact reflection of a typically Islamic way of learning. While the picturesque lifeworld of the al-Azhar courtyard could still appear pleasantly exotic to its European visitors, Egyptian elites who had travelled abroad learned to find it distasteful. In their eyes, the existing cultural conditions of al-Azhar Mosque manifested the backward state of their country and religion. A former Shaykh al-Azhar, Hasan al-‘Attar (1766– 1834), was one of the high-ranking scholars of al-Azhar who

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became enchanted with the natural science subjects of the West that he learned through his interactions with the French during their occupation of Egypt (1798– 1801). After exploring the academic environments of Syria and Istanbul, Shaykh al-‘Attar announced disparagingly that the problems of al-Azhar were rooted in the difficulties students had in accessing the original texts. He asserted that Azharite scholars ‘limited themselves to reading and teaching the accepted, traditional commentaries on the great works of Islamic law and have elevated these commentaries (as opposed to the original works) to a status they did not deserve’ (Gesink 2000: 97). Al-‘Attar’s disciple, Rifa‘a al-Tahtawi (1801– 73), who is known for his autobiography narrating his experiences in France, was also critical of the pedagogical style of mosque learning in Egypt. He was one of the three Azharites Muhammad ‘Ali sent to Paris on his student mission programme in 1826 (Eccel 1984: 35). Al-Tahtawi’s autobiography is full of praise for France, which was intended to problematise the status quo in Egypt. For instance, he viewed language instruction in French elementary school education as the main reason for the success in bringing progress to their society. In contrast to Egyptian children who started learning Arabic by reciting verses of the Qur’an without understanding their meaning, French children acquired reading and writings skills through vocabularies that were familiar to them through their everyday environment. He despaired that the majority of Egyptian children left the kuttab (elementary Qur’anic school) before gaining basic literacy because the Arabic language was not taught to them in a clear manner (Gesink 2000: 117– 20). Al-Tahtawi’s criticism resonates with that of Muhammad ‘Abduh (1849– 1905), who aspired to bring modernity to al-Azhar. As he famously said, ‘if the Azhar were reformed, Islam would be reformed’ (Adams 1933: 70 –1). ‘Abduh narrated in his autobiography that he ran away from the Ahmadi mosque in Tanta two weeks after he started learning Arabic grammar because he was not able to endure the suffering of listening to lectures without understanding their meaning. Although he eventually resumed his studies and obtained the ‘alimiya, the highest degree of Azharite scholarship, ‘Abduh often mentioned that he had continuously struggled to protect his intellect from the allegedly devastating impact of backward Azharite methods, but with mixed results (ibid. 31). Keeping such a background in mind, one can better

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understand why ‘Abduh’s reform faced strong opposition among elite scholars of al-Azhar but gained a significant number of followers among young students (Gesink 2000: 328– 466). By the time of ‘Abduh, publicly berating al-Azhar in one way or another had become almost a rite of passage for those seeking to display their modernist credentials. Criticisms of al-Azhar signified a conscious breaking with ‘tradition’ and commitment to a modernist reform ethos. Another frequent discursive strategy for representing al-Azhar as backward was to erase its social role. For instance, the entry on al-Azhar in the encyclopaedia of Egypt by ‘Ali Mubarak Pasha (1823/4– 93) is lengthy and rich in historical and architectural description (Reimer 1997). In contrast to the exoticism displayed in travelogues by European visitors, Mubarak does not mention the ‘chaos’ in the inner courtyard, but instead concentrates on the architectural aspects and historical development of the institution. As a technocrat who went through a civil education, Mubarak’s appreciation of the role of al-Azhar was limited to its status as athar – a set of historical monuments which may evoke a sense of national pride in Egyptian history (ibid. 61). In other words, for self-consciously modern Egyptians at the end of the nineteenth century, al-Azhar had become a symbol of the glorious past of Islam but was something to be excluded from the future of Egypt.

The Intellectual Order of al-Azhar before the Reform Throughout its long and dynamic history, the raison d’eˆtre of al-Azhar consisted in governing a cohort of learned men who were fulfilling a wide range of academic, social and political roles in society. Education was merely a process of self-reproduction of the ‘ulama as a heterogeneous social rank, and it was only of secondary importance to al-Azhar itself as an educational institution (Kosugi 1985: 963). It is important to note that the ‘education’ Al-Azhar provided was different from modern schooling, the aim of which consists in inculcating students with a type of knowledge abstracted from the actual context of its production and usage. On one hand, al-Azhar was a training hall for those pursuing a legal profession but on the other it was also, if not primarily, the place where law as a profession was actually practised. Those who wanted to enter the Azharite career path started by emulating the behaviour of their seniors, learning in the process to practise

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authority on their juniors. The intellectual order of the ‘ulama, or the traditional system of Islamic scholarship, was characterised by a relational system of authority in which the distinction between the learner and the learned functioned only on a relative scale, meaning that each individual was a master, senior or junior of the other. Both the ‘alim (scholar, sing. of ‘ulama) and the muta‘allim (apprentice, learner) lived upon bread distributed by the mosque. In this sense, al-Azhar was a community of men at different stages of learning and professional experience, starting with young boys who learned to read and write by memorising the Qur’an in the first instance, in kuttabs located throughout Egypt; continuing through novice scholars, both Egyptian and from elsewhere (e.g. those visiting Cairo on the way to hajj or came to al-Azhar to further Islamic learning begun in their own communities); and, finally, including erudite men with established careers. Timothy Mitchell’s notion of ‘the Order of Text’ is also helpful in discerning the outlines of the order prevailing in al-Azhar before its ‘reform’ in the late nineteenth century. In his analysis, this is a sequence of hermeneutic endeavours unfolding in a circular manner, as indicated in the layout of the classical scholarly texts of Islam: The sequence of learning was also the sequence of scholarship. A scholar at al-Azhar, we are told, would prepare a legal opinion, a lesson, or a disputation, by placing all the books which discussed the question he wanted to elucidate on a low table in front of him, arranging them in sequences radiating from the middle: ‘at the centre is the original text (matn), then the commentary (sharh) on this text, then the gloss on the commentary (hashiya) and finally the explication of the gloss (takrir)’. (Qtd in Mitchell 1988: 83) Scholars built their case by juxtaposing quotes from authoritative sources, the strongest of which were the Qur’an and hadiths, but also commentaries on them, in order to strengthen their arguments. ‘In this way,’ Skovgaard-Petersen writes, ‘there was the same proceeding at the macro and micro level, following a qualitative and cosmological scheme. The Order of Text was the order of the world, as experienced by the ‘alim’ (Skovgaard-Petersen 1997: 48). Most importantly, this relational system of authority ‘relied upon the specific human links between intellectual generations’ (Messick 1993: 15).

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The lessons given by ‘ulama were largely based on lecture notes that students recited by dictation from their masters (ibid. 88). When the master recognised his disciple’s mastery of a text, he granted him an ijaza, the permission to teach the text to the others. This institutional process of transmission regenerated the value of knowledge by providing knowledge to the muta‘allim, while the ‘alim received an acknowledgement of his authority in return. The process supported the idea that knowledge is validated by a web of personal relationships, underscoring the complementary relation of knowledge and power. Legitimacy was bestowed upon embodied knowledge via a system of learning that excluded non-members of al-Azhar from having access to the body of Islamic knowledge. The authority of Azharite scholars to define Islam was thus given indefinite extension and legitimacy. Self-conscious moderns often opposed themselves strongly to such practices. Taha Hussein (1890– 1973), who studied at al-Azhar in the early twentieth century, recalls his days there in the following manner: It was a life of unrelieved repetition, with never a new thing, from the time the study year began until it was over. After the dawn prayer came the study of tauhid, the doctrine of divine unity; then fiqh, or jurisprudence, after sunrise; then the study of Arabic grammar in the wake of the noon prayer. After this came a grudging bit of leisure and then, again, another snatch of wearisome food until, the evening prayer performed, I preceded to the logic class which some shaikh or other would conduct. (Hussein 1997 [1976]: 245) This ‘stream of days’ (as the English translation glosses al-Ayyam, the title of his famous memoir) without any novel excitement, which Taha Hussein found painful, was based on ‘the Order of Text’, the model of the ‘ulama type of intellectual order which was starting to fall apart by the time of Hussein’s youth.

Defining Teachers and Students Modernisation policies based on European models could take effect only by invalidating or negating the existing social order. Al-Azhar became

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first the centre of religious sciences and then its role was specified as an educational institution in the course of further reorganisation. The aspects of al-Azhar which did not fit the definition of ‘educational institution’ in the view of modernists started to be classified as ‘backward’ elements to be eventually eliminated. The notion of orderliness served to legitimise the disruption of the existing social order even when there was not much correlation between the existing order and the new one. Khedive Isma‘il (r. 1863–79), who envisioned modernising al-Azhar based on an European model, initiated a number of reform projects in cooperation with high-ranking scholars of al-Azhar. Having studied at the Egyptian school in Paris, Isma‘il ‘dreamed of modernising the social and cultural life of his people, so as to make Egypt like “a corner of Europe”’ (Dodge 1974: 115). As I suggested earlier in this chapter, there was a growing crystallisation of opinion among some of the elite scholars of al-Azhar that if the institution was to retain an important place in modern Egyptian society something had to be done with its educational and administrative system. Due to the understandably disruptive effects of the growing tension between enrolment figures and structural measures, there was an increasing acknowledgement even by Azharites of the association of their institution with ‘disorder’. There were two main issues at stake in transforming al-Azhar. First was the production of an educational curriculum capable of making alAzhar graduates competitive in a ‘job market’ (which was a novel concept in itself) that was far more diverse than had been the case in precolonial times. This market was completely separated from the religious knowledge that had been not just a staple but the condition of access to literacy and so to all higher education and the career opportunities opened by it. Azharites gradually started to lose their monopoly over government-related jobs that required literacy, including the legal profession and the teaching of Arabic, when Dar al-‘Ulum first opened in 1872, followed first by the School of Judges and then, in 1908, by the Egyptian University. The inauguration of various types of professional and public schools6 initially expanded the employment opportunities of Azharites since the first generation of teachers was recruited from among Azharite scholars, who also staffed teaching positions at public schools. Until the 1920s, when ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud attended secondary school, an elementary school diploma together with a certificate from a vocational training school could qualify an Azharite to become a public

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school teacher. Although the number of al-Azhar students exceeded by far that of newly founded schools, those who went through the new educational system became more competitive in the newly rationalised job market than the Azharites because they had ‘certificates’ and ‘qualifications’, while Azharites did not. An ijaza earned from an Azharite shaykh or large body of texts memorised through mosque learning could no longer show that one belonged to the intellectual elite. Also, the notion of ‘graduation’ was alien to the Azharite system, as the amount of time spent studying was open-ended: one could begin at different ages and continue for a short or long period. Since each learner’s accomplishment was only measurable relative to the knowledge of other scholars, there was no way al-Azhar could issue a ‘degree’, reflecting a predefined, abstract ‘level’ distinct from the content of the knowledge acquired by specific individuals. However, jobs in the civil service were also defined in the idiom of ‘levels’ or ‘grades’. Hence not only the educational curriculum but also the administrative body of al-Azhar had to be reorganised in accordance with the new system in order to be acknowledged as ‘modern’. In order to show the public that the ‘alim was a standardised qualification, on a par with that of modern lawyers or medical doctors, in 1872 an official diploma called al-shahada al-‘alimiya (certificate of the ‘alim) was instituted at al-Azhar. The 1872 Reform Law introduced a standardised examination system that anybody who sought a teaching position at al-Azhar had to satisfy in order to obtain such a position, via proof of having completed 11 subjects7 and having studied at al-Azhar for 12 years (Dodge 1974: 116). To operationalise this system, the Shaykh al-Azhar selected six examiners from among the scholars of alAzhar (Heyworth-Dunne 1938: 400). Due to the great difficulties in earning the ‘alimiya degree, the law of 1896 introduced a new examination, al-shahada al-ahliya (certificate of aptitude), for those who studied for eight years, completed eight subjects and passed the exam to become an imam or khatib (the one who delivers a sermon at Friday prayer) (Dodge 1974: 136). In 1902, 251 out of 310 instructors at alAzhar held the ‘alimiya degree (ibid. 137). Furthermore, in 1904 mosque employees were classified into seven levels and their monthly salary was differentiated between those who possessed ‘alimiya, ahliya, or neither (Gaffney 1991: 35 – 6). In this manner, the process of professionalising the Azharite ‘alim proceeded steadily.

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Gesink’s study of anti-reformist ideas among Azharites convincingly demonstrates that it took several decades until the ‘ulama started to accept the idea of issuing certificates based on an oral exam. Some of them were concerned that students would lose interest in studying anything other than the 11 subjects required for the ‘alimiya. In fact, the Reform Law of 1872 resulted in a decrease in the field of studies offered at al-Azhar, as students’ interests did indeed shift to the 11 subjects required in the examination (Crecelius 1967: 211).8 It should be noted that before the introduction of ‘alimiya and ahliya, an apprentice had to obtain an ijaza from his master for each branch of Islamic sciences in order to start teaching. For this reason, the conservative shaykhs of alAzhar ‘looked upon the new law as robbing them of a good deal of their traditional scholastic authority of granting ijazas’ (Heyworth-Dunne 1938: 401). As I noted earlier, the innovativeness of the reform lay in its moving the intellectual order away from the ‘[specific] human links’ between ‘alim and muta‘allim to an anonymous public matter (Messick 1993: 15) and toward a new system defined by essentially arbitrary ‘levels’ consisting of predefined standardised content. In the latter system human links between scholars became irrelevant – a historical relic at best. For the first time, knowledge transmitted at al-Azhar was articulated as something that could be disclosed and made comprehensible to the public, and the ijaza had to meet an abstract standard set by an agency external to its intellectual genealogy. The second major issue at stake was the shortage of funding and accommodation due to a somewhat paradoxical (given the erosion of alAzhar’s power) increase in the number of students. This caused serious deterioration in its hygienic conditions, which by that time were widely taken as a secure indicator of either progress or backwardness. Throughout the middle of the nineteenth century al-Azhar was faced with a flood of students from rural Egypt, even as its position in the emerging national hierarchy was eroding. In fact, these students sought refuge in al-Azhar less to seek knowledge than to avoid government conscription, knowing that students of religion would be exempted from military service. Although the overall number of troops decreased after the 1840s under the reign of ‘Abbas Hilmi (r. 1848–54), troop levels at around 100,000 were maintained (Gesink 2000: 143). In spite of the fact that there was no student registration system before 1885, according to Gesink’s estimates in the early nineteenth century around

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3,000 students were studying at al-Azhar. This figure should be compared with the following ones: in 1853, when Muhammad Sa‘id Pasha (r. 1854 – 63) was preparing to send 20,000 troops to support the Ottoman Empire in the Crimean War, the number of students increased to 7,403, but went down to 2,817 by 1865 (ibid.). Since there were no official standards to admit or reject incoming students, the number of students was able to double and then to triple towards the end of the nineteenth century. By 1872, when the first reform law was enacted, 9,423 students were enrolled (ibid.). This high figure resulted in a serious deterioration of educational standards as well as in a severe shortage of funding and student accommodation (riwaq). In this sense, complaints about the poor hygienic conditions were obviously affected by events connected to modernity rather than to ‘tradition’. The discourse of order/disorder (vis-a-vis modernity/ tradition) could therefore take on an aura of common sense. Hence after deciding who could qualify as an ‘alim, the next step in reform focused on ‘the student’ or, more specifically, on the standardisation of admission procedures. Delimiting and reorganising students according to their specialisation and stages of learning decisively fragmented the Order of Text. In 1896, for the first time in the history of al-Azhar, the admission standard of students was set by age. The Reform Law stipulated that al-Azhar would only admit boys over 15 who had memorised at least half of the Qur’an and possessed basic reading and writing skills (Dodge 1974: 135). In 1911, the age was reduced to ten (ibid. 141) but in 1922 students were obliged to have memorised the entire Qur’an as a criterion of admittance (Crecelius 1967: 271). After students were selected, they had to be divided and registered. In order to incorporate students into a new social order, registering them according to the new divisions was essential. Before this reform the members of al-Azhar were administered by mufti-riwaq systems. This system organised cohorts of scholars under the jurisdiction of four muftis from each of the orthodox schools of law in Sunni Islam. Scholars governed their disciples by riwaq – accommodation quarters – by dividing them according to their affiliated schools of law, places of origin and ethnic background (Kosugi 1985: 965). In 1885, a formal system to register students according to their riwaqs and to record lecture attendance was established. Under this system, a ‘fresher’ at al-Azhar was

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required to complete two books on Islamic law and non-religious subjects in the first two years, before starting to receive his daily portion of bread (Dodge 1974: 132). The mufti-riwaq system fell apart when university-level education was divided into three colleges in 1930,9 and the students and faculty members were to be registered according to departments (ibid. 149). Lastly, by spatially distinguishing students according to their level of education and subjects, the order of modernity was reified in a concrete sense. A lesson at al-Azhar was organised around the halqa, a circle surrounding a pillar in the mosque where professors gave lectures. Students were allowed to move freely between the circles to attend whichever lessons they wished. There was heated competition between scholars when establishing their circles (Gesink 2000). In order to eradicate severe territorial feuds over lesson circles, the state issued a decree to produce a timetable determining when and where lectures for given subjects were to be delivered. Such state intervention was deeply unpopular among Azharite scholars and students; as a result, it took a while until this policy was put into effect (ibid.). In 1908, students registered at al-Azhar were classified into elementary, secondary and higher levels according to their age, just as at public schools (Dodge 1974: 140). Then, in 1930, elementary and secondary-level students were transferred from the main mosque to designated institutions affiliated to al-Azhar (ibid. 149). Further transformations of the learning environment introduced printed textbooks, desks, chairs and blackboards. The comprehensive package of changes had a profound impact on the social organisation of knowledge production: what used to be an art gained through the specific human nexus between ‘alim and muta‘allim became instead a systematically abstracted knowledge to be acquired individually.10 A series of reforms were carried out in the name of improving the teaching quality at al-Azhar so that its students could compete with graduates from other professional schools. It is important to note that the rhetoric of ‘improving quality’ in order to compete in a job market was actually about enabling Azharites to fit into the ranks of the emergent modern colonial state, as the reform did not necessarily ‘improve’ their knowledge in the broader religious field, which of course was the raison d’eˆtre of the institution. The ongoing reforms of al-Azhar illustrate a process by which communal activities that had revolved

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around the Order of Text and mufti-riwaq system were eventually divided up and reclassified into a new intellectual order. The reform of al-Azhar, therefore, marked the beginning of a ‘functionalising’ agenda on the part of the state. Religion had to be made ‘useful’ for the common good of the public (Starrett 1998). Such ‘reforms’ (as the proponents of these laws saw them) empowered the state to institute its control over the religious field, thus transforming Islamic knowledge into one subject among others that could be taught as a ‘religious education’ curriculum in the framework of modern schooling. In spite of the confiscation of waqf by Muhammad ‘Ali in 1815, which devastated the economic foundations of al-Azhar, the institution’s general institutional integrity remained intact until the last quarter of the nineteenth century. In this regard it was particularly helpful when ‘Abbas Hilmi returned al-Azhar its waqf properties in 1851. Although it is rather difficult to estimate the number of students before a formal registration system was established in 1885, there is little doubt that the number of al-Azhar graduates far exceeded those of other professional schools or private educational institutions in quantitative terms. Compared to other professional schools, al-Azhar seems to have been regarded as a more secure career path for boys from rural backgrounds. By the time ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud moved to Cairo in 1923 to enter the Azharite path of learning, al-Azhar in theory had formal rules for admitting students, appointing professors, setting examinations and issuing certificates, just like any other educational institution. Yet al-Azhar could not retain its past centrality as it was increasingly marginalised in the life strategies of the powerful and of those who aspired toward upward mobility.

CHAPTER 2 FROM EUROPEAN SUITS TO AZHARITE GARB

The Two Autobiographies of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Autobiography lies in between the literary genre of fiction and nonfiction, as its authors retrospectively modify their life stories in order to justify the accomplishments made in their lives. They edit out many of the ‘historical facts’, as well as adding and accentuating others, in relation to the self portrait they attempt to construct. I approach ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiographies as key texts for studying ‘the self’ that the author intended to represent to the public, before moving on to examine how public knowledge and images of him have been reproduced in the mass media. This chapter outlines the biography of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud from his childhood to student days and into his professional life, in order to examine the discursive patterns he employed to represent his intellectual profile to the Egyptian public. My main source of information will be the two autobiographies that ‘Abd al-Halim produced, narrating his intellectual and spiritual life experiences. Praise be to God, This is My Life (Mahmud 2001 [1976]) narrates accomplishments in his personal life in order to endorse his reformist agendas, while The School of the Shadhili (Mahmud 2003b)1 illustrates the ways through which he was initiated into a path of Sufism for the purpose of introducing what Sufi experiences are like to the wider public. Because his autobiographies do not tell us much about his professional career after returning from France in 1940, I have attempted to reconstruct it by combining the main biographies of

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‘Abd al-Halim (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 284– 461; Shalabi, R. 1982)2 and newspaper articles reporting his public activities3 with data collected through interviews with those who knew him personally.4 In his intellectual autobiography, Praise be to God, This is My Life, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud narrates his life, which is nothing more nor less than the success story of an Azharite elite, as an example of God’s grace.5 According to his narration, in October 1975, during a flight to India, he felt overwhelmed with his gratefulness to God for giving him such a wonderful life. He thus decided to record an account of his life in order to express his praise for the Lord. At that time, he was at the height of his professional career – his third year in the office of the Grand Imam of al-Azhar. Firmly situating himself within the autobiographical tradition of modernist intellectuals,6 he focuses on his early life, from his birth in 1910 to 1940, when he returned from France as a PhD holder from the Sorbonne. The book tells the story of an average village boy who moves to Cairo and then to Paris, in search for the best knowledge in the world. His success is explained as a result of his coming to realise that the Muslim way of life is manhaj al-ittiba‘, meaning ‘the way of following’ the Qur’an and the Sunna of the Prophet Muhammad as the ultimate model of one’s life. ‘Abd al-Halim’s narration of his student days exemplifies how traditional tropes of Islamic learning (e.g. memorisation of the Qur’an, moving from rural Egypt to Cairo) coexisted with the new standards (e.g. age and levels of education, passing the exams) introduced through a series of al-Azhar reforms (discussed in Chapter 1). The narrative pattern of the autobiography, particularly his intellectual crisis in France and a return to Islam, shows ‘Abd al-Halim’s attempt to present himself as part of the autobiographical tradition of the renowned Sufi scholars al-Muhasibi (781 – 857)7 and al-Ghazali (1058 – 1111). However, in terms of the content, his focus on his youth and student days rather than professional career as the foundation of his moral and intellectual formation should be regarded as the discursive performance of a modern intellectual. While this autobiography gives an overall view of how ‘Abd alHalim’s life evolved, the author is not overly concerned about giving his readers the historical details of the narrated accounts. In fact, he states in the introduction that ‘[this book] is not [about] the details of my material life (hayati al-maddiya). Indeed [the narration of] material life

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is nothing but a small portion [of this book]. Rather, it is a history of my intellectual life (hayati al-fikriya) in particular’ (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 10). Large parts of the book are a ‘postscript’ to his earlier writings, explaining how they were related to his fundamental ideas, rather than chronological explanations of his life. It also gives the impression that the author carefully selected episodes from his life story to endorse arguments made in previous writings. As Lucie Ryzova (2014:145) has argued, standard narrative categories in Egyptian autobiographies covering this period such as ‘the struggle for knowledge’ are included in order to legitimise matters the author had accomplished at the point of writing, to the extent of justifying the effort of producing an autobiography. In spite of such an apparently fictional nature, Praise be to God has contributed to formulating public knowledge about who ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was. Hence I approach ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiography – a recollection of what he considered the significant events that made him who he was at the age of 65 – as the key text for understanding the roots of various images associated with this public intellectual. While ‘Abd al-Halim is known for his commitment to Sufism, Praise Be to God does not explain how he came to embrace this spiritual path. His doctoral thesis on an early Sufi figure, Harith al-Muhasibi (781 – 857), opened the door for him to a brilliant academic career,8 yet the selection of the topic was actually French Orientalist Louis Massignon’s. Massignon was ‘Abd al-Halim’s thesis advisor at the Sorbonne. When ‘Abd al-Halim started studying Sufism, his Muslim heritage was largely alien to this spiritual tradition. He recalls, ‘This was the first formal connection I had with al-tasawwuf al-islami (Islamic mysticism)’ (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 125). A large part of his study was based on the private collection of al-Muhasibi’s manuscripts owned by Massignon (ibid. 126). It is likely that before ‘Abd al-Halim met Massignon he had never heard of al-Muhasibi, as his writing was available only in manuscripts which were scattered around libraries in the Middle East,9 including al-Azhar University Library and at the Egyptian National Library (Dar al-Kutub) in Cairo (ibid. 125). Indeed, his autobiography does not provide any indication of his involvement in the practices of Sufi orders.10 Although the texts from The School of the Shadhili were published in 1967, nine years before Praise Be to God, This is My Life, this work should be regarded as ‘Abd al-Halim’s spiritual autobiography,

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narrating the unfolding of his life after returning from France in 1940. The Modern School of Shadhili includes chapters on his interaction with the French Sufi thinker Rene´ Gue´non (1886 – 1951),11 as well as his long-awaited meeting with his Sufi master, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi (1899 – 1964), after a ceaseless search for a spiritual guide (Mahmud 2003b: 363 – 9), in addition to a chapter on how Abu alHasan al-Shadhili (ca. 1196 – 1258) directed ‘Abd al-Halim to produce a book about this Sufi order. This chapter illustrates how ‘Abd al-Halim’s dedication to al-Azhar was complementary to his commitment to the Sufi path. His enthusiasm for reforming al-Azhar – which aimed at restoring what he considered the artificial divide between worship and learning by reintroducing the ‘ulama type of intellectual order – was a part of his endeavours to cultivate a place for Sufism in contemporary Egyptian society. Although ‘Abd al-Halim could be labelled a ‘reformist’, his aspirations for al-Azhar resonate more with the critics of al-Azhar reform who appear in Indira Falk Gesink’s work than with modernist or reformist thinkers who have been studied by scholars of modern Islamic thought (e.g. Hourani 1983). In this sense, ‘Abd al-Halim is a ‘reformer’ in the post-reform era who strove to bring back the al-Azhar he had known in his youth.

Student Days in Egypt (1910 –32) Family Background ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud opens his life story by describing his parents and native village so as to establish the significance of his family in bringing him up as an upright Muslim. Detailed accounts of rural life give authenticity to the author as an ibn al-balad (a ‘son of the country’), who goes on to live in France and leads a modern lifestyle in Cairo. Readers thus understand that, while he appears to be cosmopolitan, his roots are in a small village in the Nile Delta. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud ‘Ali was born in 1910 in al-Salam village, near Bilbays, in the Nile Delta of Sharqiya Governate. He was born into an affluent family of ‘village notables’ (‘ayan al-rif), distinguished for its social status, economic wealth and spiritual lineage (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 30). Al-Salam village used to be called ‘Izbat Abu Ahmad,12 a name which was taken from ‘Abd al-Halim’s great grandfather.

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‘Abu Ahmad’ fled from his native village in the south of Egypt in the nineteenth century to save himself from a family feud. He settled near Bilbays with his family and cultivated the area by the canal as farmland.13 ‘Abd al-Halim’s father, Mahmud ‘Ali, was a qadi (judge) whom villagers sought for advice and mediation in various issues. Although Shaykh Mahmud did not have a chance to complete his studies at al-Azhar due to financial hardships that befell his family, he took pleasure in talking to his children about the lectures and works of the famed Azharite reformer Muhammad ‘Abduh (1849– 1905). ‘Abd alHalim recalls how he ‘grew up in a family which was characterised by its piety in terms of external deeds (al-zahir) and the inner state of faith (al-batin)’ (ibid. 170). He learned the correct principles of Islam through the exemplary practices of his parents, which are ‘not odd to find. . . among pure descendant of sharif. Indeed he was a husayni’ (ibid. 30).14 He recalls that ‘among many things for which I am grateful to God, the greatest would be that I was brought up as a Muslim’ (ibid. 46).

Memorisation of the Qur’an at Kuttab (1914– 23) When he reached the age of four, his father sent him to a neighbourhood kuttab to learn to memorise the Qur’an and to acquire basic reading and writing skills with other boys and girls from the village. While most of his classmates stopped attending the lessons before progressing very far for the sake of helping their parents in the field, ‘Abd al-Halim managed to become a hafiz, the title given to those who learn the Qur’an by heart. He recalls how his parents were filled with joy (ibid. 38 – 9). This was brought about by the combined efforts of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, who did not want to let down his parents, and his teacher at the kuttab, ‘Sayyidna (our master)’, who was receiving generous donations from ‘Abd al-Halim’s father (Matar 2001a: 53).15 His autobiography contains a detailed description of the day of the feast offered in celebration of ‘Abd al-Halim’s completion of his feat of memorisation, yet an episode wherein he and his father took gifts to Sayyidna and his wife was omitted. ‘Abd al-Halim does not state what year this was, although becoming a hafiz must have been one of the most significant events in his intellectual life. He simply mentions that he was still too young to enter al-Azhar (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 39). Considering the conditions stipulated by the al-Azhar Reform Law of 1911, which stated that a boy

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must reach the age of ten to be considered eligible for starting elementary school education (Dodge 1974: 141), one can assume that ‘Abd al-Halim became a hafiz at nine years old or younger. Because memorisation of the Qur’an was regarded in such a relatively non-urbane setting as al-Salam village as the most credible standard for measuring one’s intellectual achievement, ‘Abd al-Halim was sure to have been treated as a sort of child genius in his native village. His father thought of sending ‘Abd al-Halim away to a remote place to learn tajwid (the art of reciting the Qur’an). However, thanks to his mother’s intervention he was able to remain at home (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 39). He began to study at a local elementary school, while waiting to be admitted to al-Azhar (Shalabi, R. 1982: 28). It should be noted that if ‘Abd al-Halim had been born a few years earlier, his parents might have managed to smuggle their gifted boy into al-Azhar without worrying about his age. The divisions between elementary, secondary, and higherlevel education at al-Azhar were introduced only after the 1908 Reform Law (Dodge 1974: 140).

Entering the Path of an Azharite Scholar (1923– 8) ‘Abd al-Halim moved to Cairo to enter the Azharite path of learning during the formative period of Egyptian national history. In 1923, his father brought him to the Ibrahim Agha Mosque in Islamic Cairo (Matar 2001a: 53), when the capital was filled with the excitement of gaining independence from the British colonial authorities. In his autobiography, ‘Abd al-Halim claims to have witnessed two historically significant incidents, which had a profound effect on his socio-political imagination. The first of these was the return of Sa‘d Zaghlul (1859– 1927) to Egypt from exile. The second was the demonstrations by Azharite students to show solidarity with Zaghlul, in which ‘Abd alHalim participated (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 78 – 9).16 As ‘Abd al-Halim started to enjoy his student life in Cairo, his father called him back to alSalam village in order to get him engaged to marry a local girl. The 13year-old was quite perplexed, yet at that age he felt he had no choice but to accept his father’s wish. Later in the year, the wedding took place in his native village, together with the celebration of him having passed his final examination (ibid. 76 – 7). In 1925, ‘Abd al-Halim was transferred to Zaqaziq, a city near his native village, to continue his studies at a newly established educational

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institute affiliated to al-Azhar (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 291). While the content of learning did not differ much from his previous experience, moving from a mosque to a school building signified the separation of learning from worship: In the third year [of my studies at al-Azhar], a considerable transformation took place in an unexpected manner. We were moved from a mosque – where we were used to studying, and for which we had affection – to a room in a building, which had none of the holiness and spirituality of the mosque. We were moved to the ‘Zaqaziq College’, which was founded as a branch of al-Azhar in Sharqiya Governate. (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 80) Two years later, ‘Abd al-Halim completed the elementary-level course and moved on to the secondary-level of the college. However, it did not take him long to realise that there was nothing more to learn at Zaqaziq College. The lessons seemed redundant, just repeating things he had learnt in previous years. Therefore, in order not to waste his time, he decided to take the examination to obtain a high school diploma, which would allow him to start the university level of education. If successful, he could save three years of learning at Zaqaziq College and enter al-Azhar University from the following year. Without seeking the consent of his father, he left secondary school. He spent day and night studying for the examination. After the exam, only one name appeared on the list of successful applicants – it was ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (ibid. 88). However, ‘Abd al-Halim does not mention in his autobiography ‘the tribulation’ (al-ibtla’) he faced (Matar 2001a: 53) in choosing his career paths after obtaining the diploma of elementary school education in 1927. These events were omitted, possibly because he considered such quandaries unsuitable for the profile of an elite Azharite scholar. He had two other career options, both of which seemed more attractive than continuing his studies at a branch of the Azharite high school in Zaqaziq. The first was to take up a teaching position in an elementary school. When ‘Abd al-Halim was completing the elementary-level course at the College, an evening school to train elementary school teachers was established in Zaqaziq. This school attracted many students of the college, as they regarded it

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as an opportunity to shorten the years of study at al-Azhar and more quickly find a job (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 291). ‘Abd al-Halim was admitted to this school together with many of his classmates and offered a job at the end of his training. His second option was the newly opened preparatory school of Dar al-‘Ulum which attracted intellectually ambitious students (Shalabi, R. 1982: 29). However, his father was vehemently opposed the idea of ‘Abd al-Halim leaving the Azharite path, as it would put an end to his dream of making his son an ‘alim (ibid). After the foundation of Dar al-‘Ulum in 1872, al-Azhar gradually lost its long-held monopolies over jobs related to public bureaucracy and Arabic language instruction. By 1925, Dar al-‘Ulum was absorbed into the Azharite system (Dodge 1974: 146), yet Azharites probably regarded them as distinct, as their programmes were under the supervision of the Ministry of Education. The combined efforts of Khedives as well as reformist Azharites (e.g. Muhammad ‘Abduh, Mustafa al-Maraghi) since the late nineteenth century to introduce new subjects and a new system of teaching at al-Azhar failed to gain the support of mainstream scholars due to their fear and suspicion that this would be tantamount to collaboration with the colonial authorities (Gesink 2000). When ‘Abd al-Halim started his studies, al-Azhar was at the end of its days of struggling against the hegemony of modernity: As an indication of the slow pace of actual reform beneath al-Azhar’s public espousal of reform, one can mention that English, which first appeared in the curriculum as early as in 1901 and which King Faruq ordered to be taught. . . was not taught at al-Azhar until 1958. (Crecelius 1967: 34) If ‘Abd al-Halim had experienced a modern system of education at Dar al-‘Ulum, like his contemporary, Hasan al-Banna (1906 – 49), who was also the son of an Azharite ‘alim (Mitchell 1969: 2 – 3), his life might well have taken a completely different path. ‘Abd al-Halim’s father was one of the remaining local elites who still believed in the value of training received at al-Azhar. Shaykh Mahmud sent all of his three sons to al-Azhar, despite many families choosing different schools for each son. Career opportunities for al-Azhar graduates were thinning

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year by year as graduates from the professional schools took over positions which the Azharites used to monopolise. Many local elites started sending their sons to public schools rather than to al-Azhar, but ‘Abd al-Halim’s father had no reservations about sending his sons17 to al-Azhar-affiliated institutions.

From Cairo to Paris (1928– 32) In 1928 ‘Abd al-Halim proceeded to the higher-level division of al-Azhar Mosque-University in Cairo. Unlike another Sorbonne graduate, Taha Hussein, who recalled his days at al-Azhar with disgust, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud evaluated his college life as an intellectually fruitful time.18 In addition to his studies at the university, ‘Abd al-Halim frequented the Muslim Youth Association (Jam‘iyat al-Shubban al-Muslimin) and the Association of Islamic Guidance (Jam‘iyat al-Hidaya al-Islamiya), attending public lectures delivered by leading scholars of the time (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 109 – 12).19 ‘Abd al-Halim went to al-Azhar before higher education was divided into three colleges: Al-Azhar specialised in preserving the language of religion, its principles, and the spread of its message. It was not possible to divide the three. . . In the interior of al-Azhar mosque people lived in the environment of faith, the environment of knowledge, and the environment of endeavour for divine causes ( jihad). (Shalabi, R. 1982: 31) ‘Abd al-Halim emphasises in his autobiography that when he started receiving his scholarly training, learning and worship were not yet completely separated from each other. In 1932, he obtained the ‘alimiya certificate, which was the highest degree at al-Azhar. Passing this examination nine years after entering the Azharite path of learning in 1923 was incredibly fast compared to other students.20 In this year, based on the al-Azhar Reform Law of 1930, the higher-level division at al-Azhar was divided into three colleges – the Colleges of Islamic Law, Arabic Language, and the Fundamentals of the Religion. Consequently, ‘Abd al-Halim became one of the last generation of Azharite scholars to receive comprehensive training as an ‘alim.

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Although ‘Abd al-Halim was satisfied with the quality of learning he was receiving at al-Azhar, towards the end of his time there he came to wish to pursue further studies in France (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 114). Initially, as would be the case with many parents, ‘Abd al-Halim’s father was taken aback by his son’s sudden decision. Mahmud ‘Ali had numerous reasons to be delighted by his son earning the ‘alimiya certificate. ‘Abd al-Halim was not only the youngest among those who passed the exam, but had also achieved an outstanding mark which would guarantee him a teaching position at al-Azhar Mosque-University (Shalabi, R. 1982: 38). In spite of such a promising future and his father’s expectations, ‘Abd al-Halim insisted on travelling to France. He boarded the steamship from Alexandria with 12 Egyptian pounds in his pocket.21 After observing his son’s firm intention, Mahmud ‘Ali agreed to financially support his stay in France. His father continued to fund him until 1938, when ‘Abd al-Halim joined the al-Azhar Study Abroad Programme (al-ba‘that al-Azhar) in France (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 125). ‘Abd al-Halim does not explain in further detail his reasons for deciding to earn a degree in France. His aspiration to join French academia might have sprung from an unrequited romance with the Western sciences, due to his not being allowed to attend Dar al-‘Ulum. In the early twentieth century, Dar al-‘Ulum had started to attract aspiring Egyptian effendis; Taha Hussein vividly illustrates how inspiring the students from that school appeared to him when he was still studying at al-Azhar (Reid 1990). Otherwise, ‘Abd al-Halim’s attraction to France might have come from another Sorbonne-trained Azharite, the leading rationalist thinker of the time Mustafa ‘Abd alRaziq (1885– 1947), who delivered stimulating lectures on philosophy. When King Faruq appointed Mustafa ‘Abd al-Raziq to the position of Grand Imam of al-Azhar in 1945, he was a professor of philosophy at Cairo University. Hence, Azharites considered him a complete outsider and he was faced with great difficulties in winning the support of his colleagues (Crecelius 1967: 329– 30). However, in his autobiography ‘Abd al-Halim dedicates a long section to Mustafa ‘Abd al-Raziq, summarising the main points of his philosophy and theology (‘ilm alkalam) (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 92 –102).22 Knowing ‘Abd al-Halim’s critical approaches towards these two fields of scholarship, it is quite surprising to read his praise for Mustafa ‘Abd al-Raziq.

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Encounters with Islam in Europe (1932–40) In October 1932, ‘Abd al-Halim reached France, not even knowing its language. The trip between Alexandria and Marseille was his first journey on a steamship. The 22-year-old effendi was soon enchanted with the cleanliness and vitality of French cities, like many other Egyptian travellers in modern times who went abroad for the first time. He reports that he felt sad when thinking of the state of Egyptian cities and regarded the cleanliness of French cities as an example of ‘the realisation of Islam’, since Islam was supposed to be a religion of cleanliness.23 His student life in Paris did not start out smoothly. ‘Abd al-Halim did not mention it in his autobiography, but his family and sister later joined him in France.24 In addition to ‘Abd al-Halim being a full-time student at the Sorbonne, his entire family were students at all levels. His two children attended a local elementary school. His wife was enrolled in a diploma course in the Arabic language and his sister in French. In addition to the allowances he was receiving from his father, ‘Abd alHalim tried to make ends meet by providing tutorials to the children of wealthy Egyptian expatriates married to French partners.25 The BBC radio service offered him a job as a presenter, but his father opposed the idea of working for ‘the state occupying his country’ (Ragab n.d.: 15).26 After six years of struggle, in 1938 he started to receive financial support from al-Azhar, which allowed him to concentrate on his studies. He mentioned in his autobiography that when he arrived in Paris there were times when he was so perplexed at not being able to find his way that he thought of taking a ship back to Egypt (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 121). On such days, Friday prayers at the Paris mosque provided him more spiritual comfort than ever. He gained confidence as he witnessed the spread of Islam in Europe, reuniting the Muslim brothers and sisters from all over the world (ibid).27 ‘Abd al-Halim was pleased to encounter European Muslims, yet when they met outside the mosque he felt culturally alienated from Islam as practised in France. Because many of them were converts who had not been brought up in an ‘Islamic environment’ but rather embraced this religion as a result of intellectual or spiritual pursuits, they seemed to be Muslims in heart but not in form in the eyes of this young Azharite ‘alim. For instance, one day ‘Abd alHalim attended a public lecture held at a splendid palace in a suburb of

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Paris by an English woman who had married a prince of Sarawak (in Malaysia).28 She was known for her publications, which narrated her conversion to Islam. ‘Abd al-Halim was baffled when observing her shaking hands with men other than her husband (ibid. 122– 3). At the Sorbonne, he came to know two Orientalists – Louis Massignon (1883 – 1962)29 and ‘Musset’30 – who had a good command of not only classical Arabic but also regional dialects from various Arab countries. Observing ‘Abd al-Halim’s struggle with French, ‘Musset’ proposed that he have language exchange sessions with one of his female students from the Arabic studies programme. ‘Abd al-Halim was baffled, as he thought that being alone with a woman in a secluded environment would go against the rules of his religion. He declined the offer and instead started to attend language school in the evening (Shalabi, R. 1982: 40). Clearly, Orientalists were interested in meeting a real Azhari ‘alim. Yet it was rather ironic that even the Frenchmen with whom ‘Abd al-Halim could converse in his mother tongue did not have a fine grasp of the customary rules with which Egyptian Muslims were brought up. They knew Islam in principle, but not in practice. Perhaps they expected this young Azhari to embrace French culture, as he was studying at their university. In any case, these incidents serve to illustrate the cultural gap and possible sense of isolation that ‘Abd al-Halim experienced during his time in France.

Realisation of the Muslim Way of Life After a prolonged sojourn in Paris, however, ‘Abd al-Halim narrated that doubts about the value system that underpinned Western civilisation started to surface in his mind. He fell into a state of scepticism, torn between purportedly Western and Islamic values, which had first appeared equally important to him upon his arrival in France. But now ‘Abd al-Halim feared that the spread of scepticism, materialism and atheism, which he regarded as the bases of Western social sciences, might lead to the destruction of fundamental social values: I spoke to myself: if ethics were relative, then would the time come when we would believe that truth is vice, or cleverness is sin, or courage is evil, or virtue is a crime. . . and etc. etc. . .? Then I returned to myself and said: Never! I asked again in relation to

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faith: Would the day come when we do not speak about Him as the only God, or about His Will or Knowledge?! And I returned to myself and said: Never! (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 176) Later, when ‘Abd al-Halim revisited the days when he was absorbed in such thoughts, he claimed that he had gained an absolute trust in God. He decided to live as God’s servant and write a doctoral thesis on Islamic mysticism. He recalls: ‘[When] I finished my doctoral studies, I became clearly aware of the Muslim way of life. This was manhaj al-ittiba‘, “the way of following” the Qur’an and hadiths’ (ibid. 178). Needless to say, this narration of an intellectual crisis may remind some readers of other Sufi philosophers such as Abu Hamid al-Ghazali, whose The Deliverance from Error ‘Abd al-Halim admired greatly (Mahmud 2003c).31 Harith Ibn Asad al-Muhasibi, whose work ‘Abd al-Halim studied in his doctoral thesis, had also reached Sufism at the end of his scholarly career after trying out various fields of Islamic sciences (Massignon 1997: 161).32 However, it is not clear whether ‘Abd al-Halim actually lost confidence in Western social sciences during his stay in Paris. Sufism was not yet at the top of his intellectual priorities in 1938, when he was looking for a supervisor for his doctoral thesis. Rather, his choice of such a topic was the result of a realistic decision he had to make in order to successfully obtain his doctoral degree. Initially he wanted to write his doctoral thesis on topics related to psychology or aesthetics, as he had studied sociology, the history of religions and psychology for his licence at the Faculty of Letters (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 135). However, he was advised by faculty members to change his topic because he was not qualified enough to write a doctoral thesis in either of these fields. In the end, Massignon, who was familiar with ‘Abd al-Halim’s background – Egypt and Islam – took ‘Abd al-Halim under his wing.33 ‘Abd al-Halim recalled in radio programmes how he felt relieved to meet Massignon, and through him he was able to overcome his sense of cultural alienation.34 It is probably not unfair to hypothesise that this drama of intellectual crisis in France might have been revised or adjusted in later stages of his life in order to justify ‘Abd al-Halim’s career path and his trajectory in pursuing knowledge, in coordination with the development of his criticism of Western social sciences.

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On 8 June 1940, ‘Abd al-Halim’s defence of his doctoral thesis was held at the Sorbonne. While his mind was preoccupied with the ‘intellectual battle’ he was about to face, Paris was filled with fears of real battle, as German troops were encroaching upon French territory (ibid. 161). As soon as the successful result of his defence was delivered, he purchased tickets to Marseille and started his journey back to Egypt the following day (Shalabi, R. 1982: 45). When World War II erupted in September 1939, Massignon was conscripted into military service and it became increasingly difficult to make an appointment with him. Many international students he had known at the Sorbonne had already returned to their home countries (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 293). ‘Abd al-Halim’s family was urging him to leave Paris as soon as possible. When he was finally leaving Marseille, however, as Italy invaded France on 10 June 1940, ‘Abd al-Halim’s family became stranded in the Mediterranean. After a half-year detour in Spain and North African ports, they reached Alexandria towards the end of 1940 (Shalabi, R. 1982: 45 – 6).

Back in Cairo (1940–68) A Foreigner at al-Azhar (1940– 51) Once ‘Abd al-Halim returned from France, al-Azhar welcomed the Sorbonne-trained duktur with a lectureship in psychology at the College of Arabic Language. However, he was not content with being a mere educator who transmits knowledge to the next generation but rather aspired to be a reformer. Through his interactions with Muslims in the West, ‘Abd al-Halim had come to realise the significant duties with which al-Azhar was entrusted for building the future of Islam (Mahmud 1993). In his eyes, his colleagues had no insights into the responsibility al-Azhar had in leading the Islamic world. In 1942 he submitted a proposal titled ‘al-Azhar in a State of Demise’, stating his reform plans to ‘Abd al-Rahman Hasan, rector of al-Azhar University.35 ‘Abd al-Halim criticised Azharite scholars for having lost the dignity they once had. In his eyes, they had become a burden on ordinary citizens, making their living by receiving alms without fulfilling their duties (Shalabi, R. 1982: 50). His critique upset high-ranking scholars36 to the extent that, on 28 January 1945, the Disciplinary Board of the Supreme Council of

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al-Azhar decided to hold a tribunal to prosecute him (ibid. 52). On 3 March 1945, ‘Abd al-Halim went to court to defend his ideas, and fortunately his case was dismissed without serious penalty, meaning he could keep his lectureship at the college. There is no record of how ‘Abd al-Halim’s life unfolded in the next few years at the College of Arabic Language until 1951, when he was offered his ‘dream job’ in the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. He recalls the promotion as follows: One day, on my way back to Cairo from Luxor, I was surprised to find a newspaper article announcing that I would be transferred to the College of Fundamentals of the Religion as a professor of philosophy. . . This was a huge promotion for me because the College of Fundamentals of the Religion had been my dream ever since I was a student at al-Azhar University. . . [However] I did not ask for this transfer. In fact I was forced to move from the College of Arabic Language to the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. (Ibid. 55 –6) Although the credibility of ‘Abd al-Halim’s account could be questionable, this transfer might be an indication of how some of the faculty members of the College of Arabic Language were distressed by this overly enthusiastic novice duktur dressed like a khawaga (foreigner). In 1951, when the two other colleges moved to new buildings, the College of Fundamentals of the Religion was left behind in the old building. These modern structures ‘changed the atmosphere of the institution from that of a mosque-college to the much freer spirit of a modern university. It also turned nostalgia for the past into dreams of the future’ (Dodge 1974: 156). Dodge does not state the reason why the building of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion was not renovated on this occasion. Nevertheless, while it is possible to hypothesise that this transfer was a de facto relegation, ‘Abd al-Halim was pleased with his new post. Whether intended or not, the transfer brought a fortunate outcome for both parties. It took two more decades until the building of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion was renovated. The main entrance to the College of Fundamentals of the Religion bears the name of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud together with the date of construction, 6 April 1972. There is also a large assembly hall

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within the college dedicated to him. These are small but solid indications that his dedication to the College of Fundamentals of the Religion was cherished.

Meeting with Rene´ Gue´non After returning from Paris, ‘Abd al-Halim was gradually introduced to Francophone communities in Egypt. He formed friendships with distinguished Orientalists of the Dominican Order residing in Cairo, such as Jacques Jomier (1914 – 2008) and George Anawati (1905 – 94). Among all such European intellectuals in residence in Egypt, however, it was ‘Abd al-Halim’s interactions with Rene´ Gue´non (1886 – 1951) that had the most profound impact on his conceptualisation of Sufism, as much as they probably did on Gue´non’s understanding of Islam.37 Gue´non often appears in ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings or radio talk shows when he discussed the spread of Islam in Europe (Mahmud 1993: 72 –7) or the Islamic roots of Sufism (e.g. Mahmud 2003c: 262). He argued that because Western civilisation was in a state of demise due to the spread of atheism, materialism and existentialism, Europeans were turning to the Orient as a source of spirituality. In this context, ‘Abd alHalim referred to Gue´non as the prime example of an European intellectual who chose to lead an austere life, dedicating himself to the Sufi path in Egypt, after achieving a successful career as a philosophy professor in France. On the day of ‘Abd al-Halim’s defence of his doctoral thesis, a Russian friend had brought him a book titled The Mysticism of Dante (by Henry C. Sartorio, published in 1940) to deliver to ‘Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya’ in Egypt (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 161). This was the Muslim name of Gue´non, who was becoming increasingly popular among devotees of mysticism in Europe through his writings.38 Gue´non had received Orientalist training in Hinduism at the Sorbonne. In spite of his enthusiasm, however, his studies did not take him too far in terms of an academic career (Sedgwick 2004). By the time ‘Abd al-Halim arrived in Paris, Gue´non was already in Cairo. ‘Abd al-Halim seems to have been familiar with Gue´non’s work, but was not aware of his emigration to Egypt. Due to the tense circumstances, ‘Abd al-Halim parted with his friend without asking who this shaykh was. In the course of his ceaseless spiritual search, Gue´non was introduced to the Shadhiliya ‘Arabiya order in 1912 (ibid. 60). He left

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Paris in 1930 for a short business trip to Egypt but in Cairo he discovered living Islam and decided to stay longer. In 1934, he made a lifetime commitment to Egypt by marrying Karima, a daughter of Shaykh Muhammad Ibrahim, who provided Gue´non with various kinds of support that he needed in Egypt (Mahmud 2003b: 298). Gue´non was 48 years old. For the first time he was able to have a family life, which he had never had in France. Upon his return to Cairo, ‘Abd al-Halim searched for ‘Shaykh ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya’ in Doqqi to deliver the book with which he had been entrusted. It was probably not so difficult to find Gue´non’s villa on Nawwal Street, as he was well known to the locals as ‘the French Shaykh’39 in a galabiya (long robe).40 ‘Abd al-Halim brought the book to his door but was told to come back at 11 o’clock the following day. He returned at the appointed hour, yet the shaykh refused to see his guest. When Gue´non fell ill in 1937 he interpreted his malady as ‘a magical attack from a European visitor’ (Sedgwick 2004: 77).41 Subsequently, he had stopped meeting most visitors from abroad and even many of Gue´non’s followers and journalists visiting from overseas did not succeed in meeting him. This is most likely the reason why Gue´non initially avoided seeing ‘Abd al-Halim. However, such obstacles stimulated ‘Abd al-Halim’s curiosity about who this shaykh was. After a series of attempts, he succeeded in meeting the shaykh through the introduction of ‘Hiktur Madiro’, a Minister Plenipotentiary of Argentina to Egypt. ‘As we stood before the door. . .’ ‘Abd al-Halim recalls, ‘Our hearts were beating fast. In a short while, a tall shaykh with a respectful manner, and dignified character opened the door and appeared before us. His face was almost emitting light’ (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 164). He learned from ‘Hiktur Madiro’ that Shaykh ‘Abd alWahid was the renowned French thinker Rene´ Gue´non (ibid) and afterwards ‘Abd al-Halim became a regular guest at Gue´non’s place, even after his death.42 Gue´non spoke very little, and yet when they attended the mawlid of Sultan Abu al-‘Ala in Cairo ‘Abd al-Halim was impressed with the way the French shaykh immersed himself in the rhythm of the dhikr just like other participants in the event, shaking his body right and left (ibid. 165– 6).43 In 1954, ‘Abd al-Halim wrote a book celebrating Gue´non’s life and work titled The Muslim Philosopher, ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya or Rene´ Gue´non, commemorating his dear friend who passed away in 1951.

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The Rise of Nasserism and the Nationalisation of al-Azhar On 23 July 1952, the Free Officers took over the government of Egypt. As King Faruq was forced to abdicate, the authority to appoint the Shaykh al-Azhar was transferred to the president of the state (Kosugi 1985: 964). Grand imams of al-Azhar resigned one after another during this period, unable to accept belittlement by the Revolutionary Command Council (RCC). Gamal Abdel Nasser ‘appear[ed] to be trying to replace the Islamic basis of Arab identity for Egypt with an indigenous revolutionary socialism’, yet he was fully aware of the potential value of al-Azhar as a symbol of Muslim unity in international politics (Vatikiotis 1965: 120). Crecelius writes that, ‘Domestically religion is rigidly controlled, and the Ikhwan and ulama kept under close surveillance. Internationally, however, the regime uses Islam as one of its calls to the Arab or Afro-Asian worlds’ (Crecelius 1967: 386). Year after year, Nasser issued a series of laws that stripped away al-Azhar’s sources of legitimacy and financial bases, striving to remodel al-Azhar as an institution useful to the national polity: The revolutionary regime needed religious legitimacy embodied in religious specialists in order to oppose the political influence of the Muslim Brothers and counterbalance the weight of the Islamic Saudi regime in the Muslim world. Al-Azhar, with its religious scholars, could fulfil this political need if the institution was properly reformed. (Zeghal 1999: 374) As a part of the state’s increasingly socialist policies aimed at dissolving the financial basis of the ancien re´gime, the properties’ pious endowments, which had been the sole source of income to al-Azhar, were nationalised. In an atmosphere of revulsion against the shaykhly class, especially created by the government press when the police arrested two qadis who were giving favorable judgements in return for favors from their women litigants, the government announced in September 1955 the abolition of all religious courts as of January 1st 1956. (Crecelius 1967: 342)44 When this decision was announced, Azharites did not express any complaints officially, even though abolition of Shariʽa courts would have

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a decisive impact on the job prospects of its graduates. They had no means to protest against government decisions. More specifically, ‘To further allay shaykhly fears, the RCC emphasized that shari‘ah law had not been abolished; the shari‘ah system had been “absorbed” into the national system where shari‘ah “principles” would still be applied’ (ibid. 36). Since the establishment of the judicial system ciefly based on the Napoleonic Codes (i.e. Mixed Courts in 1872 and the National Courts in 1883), Shari‘a was reduced to a ‘personal status law’, in the sense its function was limited to private affairs such as legal problems related to marriage or inheritance (Asad 2003: 211). Yet for the Islamic law experts, the abolition of Shari‘a courts must have felt like the final blow to their job market, which had been constantly contracting since the nineteenth century. In 1960, the Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs was established within the Ministry of Pious Endowments to tame the influence of Shaykh al-Azhar over religious matters. In June 1961, Nasser nationalised al-Azhar as part of his general socialist policies. Al-Azhar’s full incorporation into the state reinforced the general public’s idea of the ‘ulama’s inability to cope with current affairs and further undermined their legitimacy as religious authorities.

Initiation to the Shadhili Path of Sufism During the heights of Nasserism, a large number of Egyptian intellectuals who later became known as ‘Islamic thinkers’ (mufakkir islami) became strong supporters of socialism or even Marxism (e.g. Mustafa Mahmud).45 In contrast, ‘Abd al-Halim stated that he had never been a supporter of socialism, fearing that the spread of socialist policies would destroy the ethical values of Egyptian Muslims. In the midst of his struggles against socialism, ‘Abd al-Halim found his spiritual master, ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi. Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah was the founder of the al-Qadiya al-Shadhiliya order46 in Shiblanga, a small village in the Nile Delta near Banha. Theoretically speaking, having a shaykh is the essential condition for ‘becoming a Sufi’. In this sense, those who participate in Sufism-related activities such as a hadra (Sufi order gathering), ziyara (visiting tombs of awliya’)47 or mawlid might only be muhibbun (Sufism sympathisers, admirers).48 Even if a Muslim seeks a Sufi path, however, one cannot decide his/her master, because only the master can choose his/her disciple.

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‘Abd al-Halim’s hagiography of his Shaykh underscores the fact that, by the 1960s, he had become a Sufi by finding his spiritual master. His attraction to the Shaykh is described in some detail. In October 1960, on his way to attend the mawlid of Ahmad al-Badawi in Tanta,49 ‘Abd al-Halim met Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi on a crowded train. His participation in the mawlid can be regarded as an indication of his search for a spiritual master. He recalls the moment with intense emotion: ‘When I first saw the Shaykh’s face, I could not take my eyes away from it because of the radiantly beautiful features it had’ (Mahmud 2003b: 363). Then the Shaykh told ‘Abd al-Halim that he would be able to go on the hajj (i.e. the pilgrimage to Mecca, one of the prescribed duties for Muslims) that year. On the sixth morning of waiting for his place on the hajj to be announced, he received a phone call from a friend saying that the Minister of the Economy, Hasan ‘Abbas Zaki, wanted to purchase some or all of the books by Rene´ Gue´non and was looking for somebody who knew the titles (ibid. 365). As previously mentioned, ‘Abd al-Halim had published a small book in memory of Gue´non in 1954, so this was probably the reason why Hasan ‘Abbas Zaki had contacted ‘Abd al-Halim, who was then Professor of Philosophy at the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. In that year, the minister happened to be the head of the Egyptian hajj delegation, so he asked ‘Abd al-Halim if he needed anything from the Hijaz. ‘Abd al-Halim replied ‘I would like you to stand by the Noble Tomb [of the Prophet Muhammad in Medina] and say “‘Abd al-Halim kisses the noble hand, and sends his greetings, his longing reaches his master, God’s Messenger. . .”’ (ibid. 366). Consequently, a few days before leaving for Saudi Arabia, the minister invited ‘Abd al-Halim for lunch at his residence, where he met Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi again. This story is intended to explain the ability of Shaykh ‘Abd alFattah to foresee the future through basira (i.e. an internal vision achieved by the heart without the intervention of reasoning or sense perception), which is an indispensable condition of being a Sufi master. Because the Saudi government sets hajj visa quotas in order to restrict the number of pilgrims from each country, together with the financial burden of travelling to Mecca, an average Egyptian Muslim needs to exert quite an effort to perform this duty. Hence, it is legally permissible to ask a pigrim who has already fulfilled his or her duty to

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perform hajj on behalf of others. In this sense, although ‘Abd al-Halim did not physically participate in the hajj that year, he managed to have no less than minister Hasan ‘Abbas Zaki, the head of the Egyptian delegation, as his representative. The fateful encounter with Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi marked the beginning of ‘Abd al-Halim’s second life as a committed Muslim. As he continued to thrive in his career at al-Azhar, he gradually started to stand out as a unique ‘alim. Before becoming a practising Sufi, ‘Abd al-Halim’s publications on Sufism were still in line with his Orientalist training, mainly consisting of editing classical manuscripts on Sufism50 or translating French books on philosophy and religious studies.51 However, from the 1960s onwards he started producing literature on Sufi figures for the general public, in which he also included vivid descriptions of his spiritual interactions with the Shadhili awliya’. When the al-Azhar Reform Law of 1961 nationalised al-Azhar Mosque-University and affiliated institutions, Azharites had no choice but to accept the new reality. In July 1961, a month after the decree, in order to justify the nationalisation of al-Azhar, Nasser made the slanderous comment, ‘[Azharite ‘ulama] issue fatwas (non-binding legal opinion) for the chicken they eat’.52 Soon thereafter, at a time when many Azharites began leaving behind their distinctive garb in favour of Western clothes, ‘Abd al-Halim changed his personal dress code the other way – from his fancy European suits to a black kaftan and red tarbush with white muslin, which he regarded as the symbol of a dignified Azharite scholar. His wife respected his decision, and took the veil after him.53 Since this was a period preceding the rise of the Islamic revivalist movement by at least a decade, the couple probably stood out considerably in the public eye due to their thendistinctive fashion. As he was promoted to Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion on 23 July 1963, ‘Abd al-Halim organised the Salafiya Committee (lajnat al-salafiya) with his colleagues from the College. The objectives of this committee were to deal with public concerns related to Islamic affairs and give answers that conformed to the doctrinal fundamentals of Islam (Shalabi, R. 1982: 57 – 8). He issued a number of fatwas in the name of this committee, criticising Nasserist policies as violation of Islamic law.54

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Reaching the Pinnacle of Sunni Islam (1968 –78) In spite of his critical attitude towards both the high-ranking ‘ulama of al-Azhar and the political authorities, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud continued to rise in the hierarchy of al-Azhar. In 1968, he became Secretary General of the Islamic Research Academy. Among various accomplishments during his tenure in the office,55 the most famous was producing a draft of an Islamic Constitution, which was published in 1979.56 ‘Abd al-Halim felt a strong necessity to urge the Egyptian state to reintroduce the study of Islamic law in colleges, and to codify a constitution based on Islamic law. Because human beings are products of their environment (Mahmud 1998 [1966]: 223), he strongly believed society should be responsible for guiding them by instituting the correct law. He considered the very existence of faculties of Western law (kulliyat al-huquq) at Egyptian universities to be a vestige (‘athar) of colonialism (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 179– 80). The codification of Islamic Law was the key to awakening the Muslim consciousness of Egyptians, and making them realise the significance of living according to the correct principles designed by God. Shortly before Gamal Abdel Nasser’s death in September1970, ‘Abd al-Halim was appointed Vice Rector (wakil) of al-Azhar (i.e. rector of alAzhar University). When Anwar al-Sadat came to power, ‘Abd al-Halim was promoted to Minister of Pious Endowments in January 1972 and then to Grand Imam of al-Azhar Mosque-University in March 1973. To Sadat’s regime, ‘Abd al-Halim ‘was both a welcome support and a source of most unwelcome criticism, even challenge, on grounds that many supporters of the government would certainly not accept’ (Gilsenan 2000: 244). Nevertheless, Sadat had hoped that ‘Abd alHalim’s popularity would give legitimacy to his performances as ‘the Believer President’ (al-ra’is al-mu’min), in contrast to his predecessor Nasser. The scenes of Sadat performing Friday prayers with ‘Abd alHalim and other high-ranking ‘ulama were repeatedly broadcast on national television (Tonaga 1998: 211). When Sadat went into the October War with Israel in 1973, he firmly stated that this was a battle for a divine cause and consequently sought advice from the Shaykh of al-Azhar. He is said to have replied that, ‘because I had a vision (ru’ya) in which the Messenger of God was fighting alongside the Egyptian marines crossing the Suez Canal, this

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war should bring positive results to Egypt’.57 After the commencement of the war, ‘Abd al-Halim mentioned this ru’ya during a Friday sermon at al-Azhar Mosque to encourage the Egyptian public. However, when it was reported that Egyptian troops were struggling on the battlefront, he started to receive severe criticism from journalists. They attacked him for telling a false story about God’s Messenger. Then the Prophet Muhammad appeared in a dream of ‘Abd al-Halim’s friend, with the Prophet admonishing ‘Abd al-Halim not to retract what he said during the khutba.58 When Egypt regained its national pride, as its soldiers recovered the Sinai, photographs of ‘Abd al-Halim with the Egyptian army appeared on the front cover of numerous magazines and newspapers to celebrate this long-awaited victory. However, the experimental alliance between Sadat and ‘Abd al-Halim did not last very long. Shortly after the October War triumph, when Sadat’s regime started to face subsequent challenges from militant Islamist groups that ultimately attempted to overthrow the state, a series of events proved the difficulty of even the president having control over this daring Shaykh of al-Azhar. In April 1974, Shabab Muhammad took over the Technical Military Academy in Cairo (Eccel 1984: 517). After learning that their objective was to assassinate the president, Sadat was desperate to bring religious affairs under state control (Zeghal 1999: 383). On 8 July 1974, the government issued a decree to relegate alAzhar under the auspices of the Ministry of Pious Endowments, thereby limiting the authority of the Grand Imam of al-Azhar (Shalabi, R. 1982: 312). To ‘Abd al-Halim, what was stipulated in this law was nothing but the degradation of al-Azhar. He handed in a letter of resignation to the presidential palace, stating his reasons for doing so in great detail (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 356). It was rather ironic that he had to build his argument upon the much detested 1961 Reform Law, which stated that the Shaykh of al-Azhar was equal in rank to other ministers, except for the president; therefore, al-Azhar cannot come under the jurisdiction of Ministry of Pious Endowments (Zeghal 1999: 383). In the end the decree was cancelled and ‘Abd al-Halim returned to his office in December 1974.59 In July 1977, while ‘Abd al-Halim was attending the Islamic World Festival in London, the memorable Muslim extremist attack occurred in Egypt. The members of the so-called al-Takfir wa al-Hijra (charge of disbelief and emigration) Group kidnapped the former Minister of Pious

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Endowments, Muhammad Husayn al-Dhahabi, who had previously criticised their activities. The militants demanded that the state release imprisoned members of the group and deliver LE 200,000 (£17,500) of ransom in return for the safe return of the hostage (Kepel 1985: 96). To make matters worse, this occurred during the absence of Sadat from Egypt, and the incident culminated in the murder of Minister al-Dhahabi as the government refused to negotiate with the terrorist group. A journalist from the daily newspaper al-Ahram interviewed ‘Abd al-Halim upon his return from London. In this article, when asked about the causes which gave rise to this group, ‘Abd al-Halim replied: [This was due to] the absence of sound spiritual guidance over a prolonged period of time. Youth have been under the influence of philosophies which are not rooted in our culture, history and religion. In such an environment, which lacks in sound spirituality, hearts become thirsty for spiritual opinion springing from the religious values of Islam. . . The only solution is to provide the correct spiritual guidance at all levels of schools and through various types of mass media.60 He denounced the ideology of the group, yet he also implied the state’s responsibility for sowing the seeds of extremism by disregarding the principles of Islam in political affairs and in shaping the educational environment for youth (Kepel 1985: 100). The Military Court avoided challenging the Shaykh of al-Azhar and requested that other highranking scholars of al-Azhar review the publications of the al-Takfir wa al-Hijra Group. The media called the group so because they denounced the Egyptian government as an infidel (takfir) and called for the emigration (hijra) by spiritually distancing onself from the society and eventually building a state ruled by Islamic law. In their view, modern Egypt was synonymous to the pagan Mecca the Prophet Muhammad and nacent Muslim community had to flee from in 622 (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 394). When the lawyer of the group’s leader, Shukri Mustafa, requested ‘in his opening statement on 23 October, to summon ‘Abd al-Halim to testify at the trial’, his request was declined (Kepel 1985: 101). The court was desperate to have statements from the experts of Islamic sciences declaring that the ideology of this terrorist group was not Islamic. However, none of the scholars gave satisfactory replies to the

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court. The Secretary General of the Islamic Research Academy produced a lengthy report from an investigation of 100 pages of al-Takfir wa al-Hijra documents. He stated what was correct and incorrect in this group’s ideology from the experts’ point of view (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 395). The court was so upset that it attacked al-Azhar and its scholars for being absorbed in purely academic matters, thereby neglecting to execute the divine message of differentiating good and evil (ibid. 395– 6). ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was outraged at this criticism and sent his response to newspapers. Although the mainstream national daily press was prohibited from publishing his response, the opposition press managed to get it out in print (ibid. 396). In his response ‘Abd al-Halim argued that ‘there is no doubt that in considering the issue of the [alTakfir wa al-Hijra] Group, it is desirable to distinguish the issue of murder from the issue of thought’ (ibid. 397). On the issue of murder, the scholars of al-Azhar would not hesitate for a moment to express their opinions; however, as for the issue of thought, they needed to examine the material carefully before deciding between right and wrong. If necessary, it was held that the examiner (i.e. Azharite scholars) should discuss the matter with the author – al-Takfir wa al-Hijra (ibid. 398). In any case, one should ‘confront thought with thought’ and engage in dialogue, instead of declaring the opposition party disbelievers (Zeghal 1999: 384). The incidents from 1974 and 1977 had a decisive impact in encouraging those legendary accounts of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as an exceptionally courageous Shaykh of alAzhar who was never reticent about expressing his ideas, even when he was confronting the head of the state.61

Restoring the Landscape of Islamic Learning A series of al-Azhar reforms that ‘Abd al-Halim carried out during his time as the Shaykh of al-Azhar was geared towards restoring the ties between learning and worship by reviving the role of the mosque as an educational institution. As we saw in Chapter 1, the modernisation projects of al-Azhar aimed at spatially separating education from religion. The mosque de facto became a place of worship through the construction of a new space called a ‘school’, which was dedicated to learning. The mosque was – throughout the past centuries, since the beginning of Islam, to the recent era – strongly connected with a college

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(ma‘had) – meaning connected with learning knowledge. The college of ‘knowledge’ was strongly connected with the mosque. We had already lost an idea of ‘mosque-college’ or ‘college-mosque’ and we must revive it again, and we must return to it. (Mahmud 2001[1976]: 75) In his autobiography, ‘Abd al-Halim reaffirms the value of the type of learning he went through – learning centred on the embodiment of texts through authoritative figures. This was, however, for the purpose of advocating the usefulness of Islamic learning in modern life and the role of Azharite scholars as the transmitter of Islamic knowledge. This aspect of his reform plans might have looked rather archaic to members of the educated classes in urban Egypt. In April 1975, ‘Abd al-Halim announced a new regulation that students, faculty members of al-Azhar, and religious functionaries must wear ‘Muslim garments’, namely a black kaftan and red tarbush with white muslin (Eccel 1984: 372), which he considered to be the attire of a dignified ‘alim. When the College of Islamic Preaching was established in August 1978, lectures were given in the circle (halqa) style, by a pillar (‘amud) of the mosque (Zeghal 1996: 175). These attempts show his intention to restore the legitimacy of al-Azhar by reawakening the visual image of al-Azhar before the mufti-riwaq system ceased to function, as well as bringing back the idea of the mosque as a place of learning. Moreover, ‘Abd al-Halim attempted to revive the central role alAzhar used to play in education by increasing the number of schools affiliated to al-Azhar. While mass dissemination of the Qur’an and compilation of hadith collections – both intended to broaden public access to texts formerly monopolised by trained scholars – were among the main projects ‘Abd al-Halim initiated during his office as the Secretary General of the Islamic Research Academy, he simultaneously emphasised the significance of learning the Qur’an by heart, a nominally traditionalist element of Islamic learning. But instead of encouraging memorisation through individual learning, he actively contributed to the expansion of schools for memorising the Noble Qur’an (makatib tahafiz al-Qur’an al-Karim) by raising funds and setting up incentives for memorisation. Malika Zeghal (1999: 378) introduces ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as ‘a fund-raiser’, as he was remarkably successful in convincing Arab states to donate to al-Azhar in the name of improving the quality of Islamic learning and scholarship. When the government subsidy supporting schools for memorising the Qur’an in 1978 was LE 200,000

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(£17,500), for instance, he succeeded in raising an additional LE 99,875 (£8,700) for 5,866 schools (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 421). Those who completed the memorisation could receive a promotion in their jobs or a rise in their pension (ibid). As for the students, they could gain an extra twenty points in the nationwide final examinations for secondary school graduates (al-thanawiyat al-‘amma) when applying for one of the colleges of al-Azhar University (ibid). The number of al-Azhar-affiliated schools in Egypt and abroad increased significantly during his office. For instance, the number of middle schools (al-ma‘had al-i‘dadiya) increased from 79 in 1973/4 to 264 in 1977/8 (Shalabi, R. 1982: 413). Today, alAzhar-affiliated schools are regarded as schools for the poor, as wealthy families or parents with some income to spare prefer sending their children to private schools. However, considering the neglected state of those schools before ‘Abd al-Halim’s reforms, they might have ceased to exist by now without his intervention. Just as when ‘Abd al-Halim himself went to a kuttab in his native village, al-Azhar-affiliated schools still provide opportunities for children in rural areas to gain rudimentary reading and writing skills.

Last Days and the Three Decades After Until the very end of his life, ‘Abd al-Halim flew all over the globe, attending international conferences, talking to heads of Arab states to raise funds for al-Azhar and engaging in dialogues between different faiths. In November 1977, on the occasion of a visit to the USA, he was received by President Jimmy Carter in Washington DC.62 Before delivering a lecture to Congress, ‘Abd al-Halim asked the prominent Qur’an reciter Shaykh Mahmud Khalil al-Husari (1917–80) to recite the Chapter of Miryam there. Carter was said to have been impressed with ‘Abd al-Halim’s discussion of the common ground between the Islamic and Christian faiths. This event is often regarded as one of the brightest highlights of his career, and he remains still the only Shaykh of al-Azhar to meet an American president. While the official press reported that the purpose of this trip was to seek support from the American state in regard to the Camp David agreement Sadat was trying to pursue,63 in fact ‘Abd alHalim promised the president he would issue fatwas to prevent the spread of communism in the Islamic World in return for improving public understanding of Islam in the USA.64 In June 1978, ‘Abd al-Halim

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accepted an invitation from the Pope to visit the Vatican City for a Christian–Muslim dialogue event. Two months before this visit to the Vatican, ‘Abd al-Halim met representatives from the Vatican in Cairo, the first visit of its kind in the history of Muslim–Christian relations.65 There are not many sources telling us about ‘Abd al-Halim’s last days. The last newspaper article before his obituary reported his support for President Sadat’s decision to agree to the Camp David Accord.66 Two weeks later, the same press reported that ‘Abd al-Halim had received a small medical operation which went well,67 yet the condition suddenly worsened overnight and he passed away on 16 October 1978.68 Newspapers published numerous telegrams sent from leaders of the Islamic World to commemorate their colleague’s death as well as photos of a large crowd attending his funeral. The Noble Qur’an Radio broadcast a special programme on the late imam, in which his friends and colleagues celebrated his distinguished service to Egypt and to al-Azhar. ‘Abd al-Halim was said to have wished to be buried beside Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandari (d. 1309), one of the three Shadhili aqtab (sing. qutb, ‘spiritual pole’, the most venerated saints) who asked ‘Abd al-Halim to reconstruct his mosque in the City of the Dead in Cairo.69 His and Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah’s mausoleums stand beside each other but ‘Abd al-Halim’s tomb is kept empty, as his family brought his body back to al-Salam village. Besides his mawlid, in which his admirers and colleagues congregate annually to celebrate his life, ‘Abd al-Halim’s mausoleum does not receive many visitors. His native village is not too far from greater Cairo and can be reached in an hour and a half by car or two to three hours by public transport. Yet it possesses the unremarkable characteristics of any other village in the Nile Delta – unpaved roads, irrigation canals and village men riding donkeys between the fields. Producing a Grand Imam of al-Azhar from such a small village was no doubt an extraordinary event. In the place where ‘Abd al-Halim spent his childhood, a mosque named after him and his mausoleum are built sideby-side. At the back of the mosque, there are three al-Azhar-affiliated schools built by the funds raised by ‘Abd al-Halim. The mosque holds his collection of more than 5,000 books and magazines on various subjects; yet nobody in the village is in need of such material. The library is kept in a state of complete neglect, after his family fired the librarian and locked away the books in recent years. The last son of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, passed away in June 2009 after

Figure 2.1 The cover of a Muslim Brotherhood monthly, al-I’tisam, published shortly after ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s death in November 1978. The cover says ‘The Grand Imam is dead and the entire Islamic world shakes in grief’.

Figure 2.2 A poster of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud posthumously created by his followers to celebrate his legacy. On top a verse of the Qur’an says ‘But for those who are on God’s side there is no fear, nor shall they grieve’ [10:62]. Bottom left is a photo with Jimmy Carter and Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi.

Figure 2.3 ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s mosque in his native village on the day of his birthday celebration, 1 May 2008.

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celebrating his father’s 30th mawlid in April. Three decades after ‘Abd al-Halim’s death, when not even his belongings can speak for him, his legend has been gradually crystallised through the memories of his family and followers, as well as audiences who continue to interact with him through mass-mediated products.

CHAPTER 3 CULTIVATING A MARKET FOR SUFISM

Aspects of ‘Abd al-Halim’s reformist projects (e.g. the drafting of an Islamic constitution and his promotion of the memorisation of the Qur’an) as well as his criticism of Western social sciences as mentioned in Chapter 2 might have made him appear a conservative or antimodernist shaykh. In spite of his writing which is carefully crafted to situate himself in a mainstream scholarship, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was quite progressive in terms of reaching out and cultivating new audiences. He was one of the first Azharite scholars to actively assert a consciously public role and a method of self-representation associated with newly developing communication technologies. His success in developing a new market for Sufism-related literature was rooted in the writing style as well as the media he employed in connecting with his readership. Being fascinated with the potential of the mass media for representing their object as both modern and authentic, he integrated them into his Sufi da‘wa activities in order to elevate the public image of Sufism from an archaic village custom to an authentic Islamic tradition. As will become clear from his choice of rhetorical expressions and writing style, the majority of ‘Abd al-Halim’s publications was not produced for his colleagues in the field but for educated ‘lay’ Muslims. They were intended to provide polemical arguments for practising Sufis to defend their faith, as well as to improve the overall understanding of Sufism by those who are not familiar with this spiritual tradition. As a prolific writer on Sufism,1 the back cover of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s

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books from the leading public-sector publishing house Dar al-Ma‘arif introduce him as ‘the leader of Islamic thought . . . who holds the title of father of Sufism in the modern age’, and as an essential source for those seeking knowledge in this field. Many of his works were collections of essays which were initially prepared as magazine or newspaper articles and later compiled into a single volume. Nowadays, reprints of his books come out mainly from Dar al-Ma‘arif. They are relatively cheap as they are in a simple paperback format with ‘Abd al-Halim’s portrait on the cover. This marketing style enables his work to serve as da‘wa to non-Sufis and as a vehicle of tanwir (enlightenment) or tathqif (en-culturation, Bildung) for practising Sufis. There were several well-reputed Sufi shaykhs among government officials and high-ranking ‘ulama. However, they usually did not expend particular efforts in improving the overall public understanding of Sufism by speaking about their personal experiences to the mass media. This was probably due to the elitist nature of Sufi communities, as well as to the desire on the part of some public personalities to avoid being associated with the stereotyped image of the backward and superstitious dervish. For this reason, information about government officials’ affiliations to Sufi orders is generally restricted to within Sufi circles. A representative case would be the current Grand Mufti of the Republic ‘Ali Gum‘a (b. 1952), who is admired as a high-ranking shaykh of the Shadhili and Naqshbandi orders among practising Sufis. A leading member of the al-Qadiya alShadhiliya order (the Sufi order to which ‘Abd al-Halim was initiated) proudly mentioned that he went to Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili’s mawlid with ‘Ali Gum‘a and the former Minister of the Economy Hasan ‘Abbas Zaki. In contrast, when I met Hamid Tahir (b. 1943), a Professor of Islamic philosophy at Cairo Univeristy who supervised ‘Ali Gum‘a’s Master’s dissertation, he enthusiastically showed me his photo with the Grand Mufti from the day of the defence. However, when I said, ‘‘Ali Gum‘a of the Naqshbandi?’ Hamid Tahir quickly replied ‘Yes, but he is not serious about that’, as if an affiliation to a Sufi order was a shameful thing for a public personality.2 In contrast, ‘Abd alHalim openly talked about his Sufi experiences in his publications and radio programmes in order to provide knowledge of Sufism to the general public. His presence in the media thus gave him fame as a unique ‘alim mutasawwif (Sufi scholar).

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Sufism as the Inauthentic Other ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s intention in writing and speaking about Sufism to non-specialists becomes clear when one considers the sociocultural climate of Egypt, which is far from ideal for improving the understanding of Sufism in public culture, though of course millions of Egyptians participate in some form of Sufi practice. In the late 1960s and 1970s, when many Egyptian Muslims started to turn to Islam as an alternative to Western modernity, it may have been possible to promote Sufism through a steadily growing market of self-study materials. Egypt’s devastating defeat in the June War of 1967 against Israel signified the failure of Nasserist socialism. Since then, the Egyptian public have embarked on the ceaseless search for ‘authenticity’ (al-‘asala) in an attempt to reformulate a version of modernity which is original to their national culture (Salvatore 1995). This intellectual task involved the surgical operation of handpicking some elements from the body of ‘tradition’ (taqlid), which was perceived as having been blindly brought forward from the past, to creatively reconstruct the Arab or Islamic (or Arab-Islamic) ‘heritage’ (turath).3 While turath was the resource for building the nation’s future, taqlid represented the embarrassing aspects of their culture which needed to be left behind. Once the objectified and functionalised version of Sunni Islam qualified as turath, Sufism came under the further scrutiny of Egyptian modernists. Due to a sentiment that was widespread among many self-consciously modern Egyptians, Sufi practices were denigrated as a backward village custom, deviating from what they understand to be the authentic Sunna (the correct practices of Islam acknowledged as the model incarnated by the Messenger of God). Therefore, in public culture, Sufism was a ‘hard sell’ compared to more rationalist positions on religion. In contemporary Egyptian society, knowledge of the history of Islamic thought in general, and of Sufism in particular, is regarded as a part of ‘high culture’, reserved for either specialists in the field or muthaqqafun who are willing to learn beyond the level of education provided in school. My Arabic teacher Ihsan (b. 1981), who is a university graduate and a muhaggaba (veiled woman),4 asserted that her European and American students were more familiar with al-tasawwuf al-islami (‘Islamic mysticism’ rather than Sufism)5 than any Egyptian Muslim she knew. She clearly made this comment somewhat flippantly,

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but there is nonetheless no doubt that in spite of her passion for accumulating Islamic knowledge, her knowledge of Sufism is much scantier than her familiarity with Islamic law related matters. Ihsan’s enthusiasm for accumulating knowledge of Islamic law should be contrasted with her lack of interest in learning about Sufism. She attributed her lack of familiarity with Sufism to not having had opportunities to learn about it, since this was not an area covered by her school curriculum and nobody in her family practises Sufism. Practising Sufis, on the other hand, explain this vacuum of understanding as a result of the exclusive nature of their knowledge. The acquisition of ultimate truth is reserved only for the spiritually elect who dedicate themselves to Sufi practices. A conventional type of ‘introduction to Sufism’ that many practising Sufis give reflects this elitist tendency. According to them, Sufism is the highest and the most complete of the three stages of piety. First is al-islam – fulfilment of the prescribed duties known as the five pillars of Islam (profession of faith, ritual prayers, Ramadan fasting, hajj pilgrimage and alms giving). Second is al-iman, or having faith in the six articles of belief (God, angels, prophets and messengers, revealed books, the Destiny and the Day of Resurrection). In contrast to al-islam, which is the external performance of faith, al-Iman is the completion of inner faith. Third is al-ihsan (doing what is good) vis-a`-vis tasawwuf, the stage at which the heart of the believer is occupied by nothing but God. This is a concept supported by a hadith: ‘you should worship God as if you see Him’, because even if you do not see Him, He sees you. Annemarie Schimmel confirms the view that while theological discussion of faith contrasts islam and iman, Sufis added ihsan as ‘the complete interiorization of Islam’ (Schimmel 1975: 29). In this sense, since Sufi path is open only for the spiritual elect, it is not surprising for devout Sufis that the general public of Egypt are ignorant of Sufism. In contrast, many Egyptian modernists outside Sufi circles, such as my Arabic teacher Ihsan, feel that Sufism is something not worth knowing about. I characterise the self-consciously rationalist/modern educated Egyptians’ unfamiliarity or attempts to dissociate themselves from practised Sufism as ill-defined ‘feelings’ rather than diluted versions of reformist discourse (i.e. Wahhabism or Salafism) because their aversion could not be divorced from the issue of taste or aesthetic values of the middle class. Inpsired by modernist projects, the educated middle

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class define Islam, or the correct way of worshipping God, as that represented in constrained bodily movement and display of a rational state of mind in public, matched by commitment to social welfare and common good (Schielke 2003: 161). In this regard, they criticise Sufism based on the assumption that Sufis lack a work ethic, as represented in their estatic rituals using musical instruments. When educated Egyptian Muslims denounce Sufism as un-Islamic, their ideas of Sufism are constructed in relation to their understanding of what constitutes the authentic tradition of Islam and modernity. In such a context, Sufism is simply defined as the opposite of the two, exemplifying the unauthentic and backward aspects of popular culture in Egypt (Schielke 2006: 78 – 80). Regardless of the current of thought (i.e. Islamic reformism, secular modernism, Hanbali traditionalism, etc.) to which my interlocutors may subscribe, Sufism has been symbolically employed as a means of delineating the causes of the stagnation of Egyptian society (such as poverty, corruption, ignorance, etc.) in contrast to the imagined advancement of ‘the West’. In this sense, it is more fruitful to look at critical views on Sufism as a discursive construct conveniently utilised by various religious and political movements – whether calling for piety, modernisation or national progress – to differentiate themselves from ‘the inauthentic other’ within their society, rather than to classify them according to their intellectual roots. It is worth emphasising that practising Sufis from educated middle class backgrounds also profess the values of modernism and national progress, as much as their opponents. In other words, in reality ‘Egyptian modernists’ should not be opposed just to practising Sufis but more broadly to the imagined other who hinders the development of their society.

A Typology of Anti-Sufi Sentiments Anti-Sufi discourses do not criticise Sufi teachings per se but only certain ritual practices performed by Sufi orders in the public. Although some muthaqqafun who read books on the subject do acknowledge the ‘spiritual’ and ‘philosophical’ aspects of Sufism as a form of ‘high culture’ derived from the authentic intellectual heritage of Islam, they are nevertheless suspicious of certain rituals they believe to take place at Sufi gatherings. Some expressions of anti-Sufism are built on class difference or centre– periphery distinctions that see Sufism as a residue of backward

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village customs or as the superstitious deeds of the uneducated lower classes. Among the various heretical things Sufis are believed to do is the veneration of awliya’ as holy men with special powers of intercession and blessing (baraka), particularly as manifested in the visitation of their tombs (ziyara) and the celebrating of their mawlids (annual birthday festivals). In contrast, awliya’ do not play any role in modernist versions of Islam because they emphasise the direct and individual relationship to God without any personal mediation. Sufi order gatherings (such as dhikr and hadra) are criticised for the use of musical instruments and the chanting of shaykhs’ poetry (qasida) with excessive bodily movements to reach an ecstatic state of mind. ‘Strange’ rituals which Sufis are believed to perform include, for instance, putting snakes in the mouth or piercing each other with swords. In this regard, Sufism is synonymous to the backward custom of the uneducated who take part in strange rituals because of their ignorance of modern sciences as well as the correct teachings of Sunni Islam. Anti-Sufi sentiments shared by Egyptian modernists outside Sufi circles vary in content but are all characterised by the claim that the ascetic practices of Sufism is a proof of its deviation from the authentic Sunna. They believe that this spiritual tradition became alienated from the Straight Path, due to the influence of a variable list of ‘others’ including Shi‘ite Islam of Iran, ancient Greece, European Christianity, and the Hinduism or Buddhism of India. In other words, the roots of Sufism have to be located outside the national borders of Egypt. A conversation I had with Yusuf, a young representative of an internet service provider company,6 summarises this view: Sufis are un-Islamic because they place too much emphasis on asceticism. While Christianity and Hinduism encourage asceticism (zuhd), Islam does not prevent believers from pursuing material wealth and physical desires. The Prophet Muhammad mentioned that Muslims should maintain substantial wealth in order to keep themselves clean, yet Sufis roam around in dirty clothes, claiming that they are serving God. They are completely wrong! His definition of ‘asceticism’ was that it amounted to a philosophy of being poor, the literal meaning of the other term for a Sufi, faqir. The ascetic practices of Sufis appear ‘deviant’ to Yusuf because, for those who

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sympathise with Islam framed in a public discourse of modernity, a philosophical tradition which cherishes individual spiritual pursuit over the common good of the society seems out of place. Critical views towards Sufism are not a novelty; indeed, the status of Sufism within Islam has been constantly debated throughout Islamic history.7 However, when anti-Sufi sentiments were combined with the emerging European-inspired work ethic of the middle classes – which urges one to be a productive individual and useful to the nation – Sufi practice reduced to asceticism increasingly became perceived as impeding social progress. Just like critical perspectives on peasants ( fallahin),8 Egyptian modernists started to view Sufis as unproductive individuals hindering the development of their nation. Not only nonspecialists but also many scholars from the Arab world regard asceticism as the essential practice of Sufism, to the extent that some authors associate the notion of zuhd in Sufism with ‘apathy and laziness’ (Johansen 1996: 4). Sufi practice – when reduced to asceticism – was negatively interpreted as being responsible for making Sufis passive in relation to social reality. This provides the political authorities with considerable scope to use Sufism for their own ends: [Sufi orders were] taken to be too close to powerful, ‘feudal’ rural class interests, too open to manipulation of the ignorant masses by the British, or the palace (the regime of King Farouk), or the upper bourgeoisie. They were too liable to mystify the people and divert them. Popular Sufism was accused of substituting non-Islamic ecstatic rituals for the political mobilization and consciousness that the revolution sought to achieve in the name of the independent nation. (Gilsenan 2000: 231) Although more than half a century has passed since Gilsenan carried out his field research, this view is still common; in my own research I also encountered a number of educated Egyptians and intellectual elites who are convinced that their government propagates Sufism specifically to numb the critical capacities of its citizens, so that they are unable to revolt against a state identified by them as responsible for injustice.9 For instance, Hassan Hanafi (b. 1935), a professor of philosophy at Cairo University known for his former affiliation with the Muslim Brotherhood, criticises this tendency to manipulate Sufism’s ‘passivity’.

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He asserts that, ‘In the midst of political crises like in Iraq and Palestine, one needs concepts such as revolution, resistance, and opposition, not “contentedness of the soul” (rida’) as Sufis claim. We need more than ethics and contemplations. We need actions!’10 During my fieldwork in Cairo, I came to understand that the two aspects of Sufism non-Sufis found most problematic were, firstly, what they saw as blind submission to the shaykh and, secondly, the bodily movements exhibited in Sufi rituals. While Gilsenan witnessed a historical moment in the 1960s at which Sufi shaykhs had the potential to become ‘a renewed part of the experience of religion for some members of the middle classes’ (Gilsenan 2000: 244), many Egyptian modernists nevertheless remain sceptical of the traditional authority epitomised in shaykhly figures. For instance, in 1975, a university student in Cairo contributed an article to a national newspaper titled ‘Is this Islam?’ He was deeply distressed after seeing a passage in ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s book which states the role of shaykhly figures in Sufism as the one who is intended to transmit baraka to his disciples. He argues that this excerpt demonstrates how the word ‘shaykh’ entails a special meaning in Sufi language (Ramzi 1975).11 In the same breath, Egyptian modernists who abhor Sufism are critical also of ecstatic images they have of Sufi dhikrs12 or hadra gatherings,13 which are very different to the sober and composed congregational prayers that other Muslims perform.14 While there are Sufi orders that organise hadra gatherings without specific bodily movements, as well as orders in which members are recommended to perform dhikr by themselves, the shaykh plays a central role whenever individuals want to access the Sufi path. The significance of having the spiritual guide is represented in a saying, ‘a man must have a Sheikh to guide him, and that one who has no Sheikh has the Devil as his guide’ (qtd in Johansen 1996: 163). Can one be a Sufi by simply reading a book, without having a shaykh or following a specific tariqa? Theoretically speaking, Sufi knowledge should be acquired through mystical experiences rather than intellectual exercises. How can individuals obtain such ‘esoteric’ knowledge by buying a paperback from a bookstand?

Expanding the Readership of Sufi Literature As I mentioned earlier, most of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s books on Sufism are collections of essays initially written as lecture notes and

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magazine or newspaper articles. Their purpose is to refute conventional anti-Sufi arguments. When concluding the preface to his book on The Deliverance from Error of al-Ghazali, for instance, ‘Abd al-Halim states that, ‘Perhaps by this, we have removed most of the misunderstandings that swarm around Sufism due to ignorance.’ (Mahmud 2003c: 25). He was fully aware of the critical discourses on Sufism, as he reminds the reader before explaining what he considers true Sufism, stating that, ‘the conflict between fuqaha’ (jurists) and Sufis is as old as Sufism itself’ (ibid. 237). Recognising the problematic image of the shaykh as a traditional authority in contemporary Egyptian society, ‘Abd al-Halim presents Sufism as an individual spiritual pursuit without emphasising the role of Sufi orders and the murshid, the spiritual guide to the Sufi path. As most of the Sufis who appear in his writings are from the classical period before the rise of Sufi orders in the twelfth century, they are portrayed as spiritual elites who have accessed the Sufi path by individual effort and God’s grace (e.g. al-Muhasibi or al-Ghazali).15 In fact, the profile of an ideal Sufi that ‘Abd al-Halim constructs is surprisingly similar to what opponents of Sufism would imagine as an authentic scholar or upright Muslim. As such, the Sufis who appear in ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings are established scholars well versed in the Qur’an, hadiths and authoritative sources of Islamic scholarship. For instance, ‘Abd al-Halim introduces al-Muhasibi in the following manner: Al-Harith al-Muhasibi was versed in (muthaqqafan fi) religious sciences and the Arabic language, as he was the best intellectual (muthaqqaf) [of the time]. Indeed he was a scholar of law, hadith, theology and ethics, in addition to being a Sufi. He strove [to solve] every problem found in his age, as a researcher (bahith), a spiritual guide (murshid) and the one who leads debates to the truth. His notion of the truth was that which had resided with God’s Messenger and his Companions. (Ibid. 19) In this way, when introducing al-Muhasibi to his readers, ‘Abd al-Halim emphasises his firm understanding of the authentic sources of Islam (i.e. the Qur’an and hadith) and his adherence to the Shari‘a. By using the verbal noun of thaqqaf (to be educated, cultured), muthaqqaf, he manages to employ the positive connotation that ‘culture’ (thaqafa) entails in the modern Egyptian context to highlight al-Muhasibi’s intellectual profile

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as a ‘cultured man’, thus distinguishing Sufis from ignorant and backward dervishes. In this vein, Sufism is a field of science, which these scholars reached after searching for the way to attain ultimate truth. Like many authors of Sufi literature, ‘Abd al-Halim demonstrates the Islamic roots of Sufism by constantly connecting his ideas to verses of the Qur’an, hadiths and other textual sources produced by distinguished scholars of the Islamic sciences. However, because his books were intended for non-specialist audiences, he selects hadiths or du‘as (personal supplications) familiar to members of the general public. It was striking to observe that while my Egyptian interlocutors did not know most of the names of the Sufis, scholars and literature which appeared in ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings, the hadiths and du‘a’ he cited immediately brought a sense of affinity. For instance, when I asked my Arabic teacher ‘Ashur (b. 1973)16 about the hadith ‘Islam was begun in exile (ghariban), and it will be exiled again as in the beginning. Happy are the expatriates of the nation of Muhammad’ (Mahmud 2003a: 10),17 he said that this was a hadith which all Egyptians would know. Then, to test his theory, he asked the waiters at an average pasta restaurant in downtown Cairo, with two out of three immediately recognising it as a well-known hadith. Likewise, when an Azharite theologian, Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz (b. 1936)18 encountered a du‘a’, ‘Oh God please make the world in our hands, but do not make it in our hearts’, he could instantly associate himself with the gist of this supplication (Mahmud 2003c: 21). This was because his mother used to recite it for him when he was a child. He delightfully explained to me that: The central meaning of this aphorism is: When the money is in your heart, it will become its owner and take you over. Hence, you should own the money so that money does not own you and you should spend money for the sake of God. According to Julian Johansen, this was a line from a famous Sufi aphorism ascribed to ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani (1077/8–1166) (Johansen 1996: 5). However, since Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz and his mother were not Sufis, his emotional response to this du‘a’ demonstrates that Muslims in more general contexts also cherish the message that this aphorism communicates, regardless of it initially being ascribed to a famous Sufi.

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Thus, ‘Abd al-Halim incorporated the vocabularies of Islamic discourse generally known to non-specialist audience into his discussion of Sufism in an attempt to shorten the emotional distance between public Islam and Sufism. By demonstrating the common ground between the two, he urges his readers to acknowledge that Sufism was part of the authentic tradition of Islam, and that Sufis seriously observe those duties prescribed to all Muslims. He combines famous hadiths and personal supplication with examples of legendary Sufi scholars so that those who are not familiar with Sufism nevertheless feel a sense of affinity. In a similar vein, by relocating the vocabularies of reformist Islam (Salafism) in Sufi contexts, ‘Abd al-Halim illustrates how Sufism is derived from the core principles of Islam. He argues that jihad, Shari‘a (divine law) and ‘ilm (knowledge of Shari‘a) are the three essential elements which constitute Sufism, rather than the notions of zuhd or karama (miracle) as claimed by critics of Sufism. Needless to say, these are also key words frequently used in reformist discourse to define the correct Sunna; as such, we can see that ‘Abd al-Halim redefines the dictionary of reformist Islam in a Sufi context in order to present Sufism as an authentic tradition integral to the Sunna. In order to refute critical views of Sufism reduced to asceticism or jihad al-nafs (struggle of the soul), ‘Abd al-Halim provides historical examples of jihad carried out by great Sufis to defend their country (Mahmud 2003c: 10 – 13). Jihad means to struggle for divinely sanctioned objectives, which may well justify military action to defend the umma (community of believers) or the principles one strongly believes in. This concept became increasingly prominent in the writings of modern Muslim intellectuals as the security of their homelands was perceived as being threatened by Western colonialism. ‘Abd al-Halim emphasises the significance of carrying out jihad, which he introduces as the equivalent of a sixth pillar of Islam (Mahmud 1981).19 Indeed jihad is fard ‘ain (individual obligation) for the entire Islamic umma without exception but this does not mean that all the Muslims have to take up a weapon and leave their jobs to go to the battle field. Rather every state and each individual should direct their lives towards victory. (Mahmud 2002 [1983]: 105)

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He continues that the duty to defend one’s homeland could be fulfilled by contributing to economic or industrial development of the country. Needless to say, the hypothetical enemy in this context is Israel. His favourite examples of Sufi mujahids (those who carry out jihad) are Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili (1196–1258),20 who fought against the Crusades despite being old and blind, and ‘Abd al-Qadir Jaza’iri (1807– 83), who fought in defence of Algeria against French colonial occupation (Mahmud 2003c: 11– 13). Such commitments to defend the homeland are stressed in order to overcome the conventional understanding that Sufis are unresponsive to their surrounding environment and forget about others by devoting themselves to contemplation. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud distinguished Sufism from what he considered ‘mysticism (mistisisumu)’ in the Western sense of the term, which strives to unite with God by practising a type of asceticism which urges one to lead the life of a recluse (ibid. 115). In contrast, true asceticism in his understanding has nothing to do with renouncing one’s social ties or material gains; unlike its critics claim, the Sufi path enables its followers to improve their spiritual status while maintaining a socially and economically successful lifestyle. For the purpose of overcoming the images of Sufis as reclusive, he gives an example of alMuhasibi and al-Junayd (d. 910).21 ‘Abd al-Halim often employed alMuhasibi in his writings as a role model of a Sufi master who defended Sufism against Mutazilites and Ahmad Ibn Hanbal, citing his absolute faith in God (taqwa) and profound knowledge of Islamic law (ibid. 231). One evening, al-Muhasibi calls at al-Junayd’s residence to take him out for a walk in the desert in order to demonstrate that an individual with strong faith in God does not need to keep themselves away from worldly affairs (Mahmud 2003a: 6 –7). In the beginning al-Junayd refuses to leave his house, claiming that ‘solitude is my content’, out of fear that he would have to face ‘harmful and seductive’ things such as thieves and prostitutes on the streets (ibid. 6). Then al-Muhasibi replies, ‘If half of mankind came close to me then I would not be happy because of them, and if another half of God’s creatures went distant from me then I would not long for their remoteness’ (ibid.), arguing that, since his happiness and sorrow are only because of God, he is not to be influenced by the presence or absence of others. Al-Junayd recalls that, when he went outside, nothing bothered him anymore because of the influence of alMuhasibi’s strong personality. Al-Muhasibi’s example is intended to

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illustrate that great Sufis did not isolate themselves from society in order to practise Sufism. In fact, ‘Abd al-Halim shares the critical perspectives of Egyptian modernists that an extreme form of asceticism deviates from the correct principles of Islam. Ascetics are represented as bad Muslims who were tempted by the enemies of Sunna, who trick believers by showing unlawful innovation (bid‘a) as the correct Sunna: The enemies [of Sunna]22 invite one to unlawfully innovate (ibtida‘) his zuhd, rida’ and tawakkul (pious fear) by contradicting the zuhd, rida’ and tawakkul of the predecessors [of Sufism], and by making them believe that conduct which contradicts Sunna and creeds are [correct] Sunna, just like ascetics (qawm al-zuhd) who believed in deserting children and leaving behind the duties of looking after parents and dependants, and in neglecting the acquisition [of sustenance] for the family and children, and in going on a trip without food, and being satisfied with misfortune when it occurred to Muslims, and with prohibiting medication, and with giving up as fate when tragedy occurred. [They claim to be] occupied with God by neglecting prescribed duties and supererogatory duties. They claim to have mental perceptions (albasa’ir) and to enlighten the heart by hidden knowledge that they allegedly possess. (Ibid. 19) In this passage, ‘Abd al-Halim denounces ascetics as bad Muslims because of their fatalist attitudes towards various issues and their neglect of familial and social obligations. What is worse, these ‘enemies of Sunna’ claim that they have supernatural power, although they do not even perform their prescribed duties. In order to make evident that true asceticism is about purification of the inner soul, which has nothing to do with being abstinent from material wealth, ‘Abd al-Halim introduces episodes about Sufi masters who reached an elevated status of spirituality without renouncing their material wealth. For instance, he gave an example of two brothers, one of whom was a sultan living in a palace and the other an abstinent, living by fishing in a village (ibid. 21 –3). The sultan sends a message to his younger brother, ‘How much does this world concern you? How much of your heart is occupied by it, although you are trying to keep yourself

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away from such desires?’ (Ibid. 22) When he hears these words, the abstinent started to cry: ‘My brother said the truth. God has washed his heart in this world and put it in his hand, in spite of his appearance. Yet I have it in my hand, and I still have attachments to this-worldly affairs’ (ibid. 23). This episode illustrates that the elevated state of spirituality Sufis seek to achieve is not connected to the material wealth individuals have accumulated or renounced; regardless of one’s profession or social status, anybody can access the Sufi path, as long as they have control over this-worldly affairs rather than being taken over by them. Egyptian modernists who are critical of Sufism believe that Sufis are fanatical about miracles and the blessing of shaykhs because they lack correct knowledge of Shari‘a. Gilsenan observed that the performance of miracles was seen as an essential condition of being the shaykh of a Sufi order by ‘the popular’ or less educated segments of society (Gilsenan 2000: 75 –94).23 Sufis are believed to venerate their shaykh as a holy man based on the superstitious belief that he can perform supernatural deeds, such as talking to someone in a different place or meditating without sleeping or eating for an extensive period of time. It is generally understood that many practising Sufis tend to emphasise not miracles and blessings but the superiority of ma‘rifa – intuitive knowledge gained through Sufi practices – over ‘ilm, knowledge acquired through books and rational thinking.24 Valerie Hoffman mentions in her ethnography on Sufism in modern Egypt how her shaykh used to reproach her for approaching Sufism through intellectualism (Hoffman 1995). I occasionally received similar responses when posing questions to practising Sufis. ‘Abd al-Halim defined ‘ilm as God’s mercy, which He bestows upon those who faithfully follow the Shari‘a. In this context, he often narrated an episode from the Qur’an in which Moses travelled long distances to acquire the finest knowledge on earth: ‘Ilm is what God grants to those who realised servitude (‘ubudiya) to Him. Although this knowledge was the last goal [of Moses and his servants], it was achieved only by truly devoting one’s worship to God. For the purpose of [achieving] the sincere devotion (ikhlas al-‘ubudiya) to God, one had to be immersed in deeds from the essential foundation of human life: prayer, dhikr, and fasting. (Mahmud 2003c: 19)

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‘Abd al-Halim repeats the centrality of accumulating ‘ilm and living according to the Shari‘a in the Sufi path, aiming to eliminate the misconception that Sufis are ignorant of the divine law: Verily Imam al-Ghazali in his behaviour and in his words, in his private and public life, adhered to the Shari‘a [and he used to say]: Indeed the people of truth and realisation said: ‘If you saw a person who was flying in the air, and walking on water, and giving an order which is contradictory to Shari‘a, then know that it is the devil (Shaytan)’. (Ibid. 16) The words of Abu Hamid al-Ghazali are expected to reinforce ‘Abd alHalim’s claim that the essence of Sufism lies not in performing supernatural deeds but in controlling one’s nafs (soul, ego) and observing the Shari‘a. His book includes a long excerpt from Abu Hamid alGhazali’s The Revival of Sciences of the Religion in which the author cites a hadith narrating that God would bless those who acted according to their knowledge of law – no matter how ignorant they might be – but would punish those who ignored the law in spite of their knowledge (ibid. 311). Increasing one’s knowledge of Islamic law is encouraged then, but what is equally important is to put into practice what one knows. As I mentioned in Chapter 2, manhaj al-ittiba‘ – the way of attentively following the Qur’an and God’s Messenger as the ultimate model of life – represents the core of ‘Abd al-Halim’s philosophy (Mahmud 1998 [1966]: 11). This expression appears in a book in which he criticises the theory of evolution when applied to issues related to metaphysical truth or morality: The word evolution (al-tatawwur) was a magical talisman, which attempted to hide the weakness of the human mind (‘aql) and consciousness (damir). This was to hide the absolute weakness of mind, which would let human beings go astray in matters of metaphysics and ethics. (Ibid. 225–6) In this context, ‘Abd al-Halim is criticising what he considers as the rationalist tendency to believe that human societies have evolved through centuries and people will eventually grow out of religion when their society reaches a higher state. Both in radio lectures and in

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publications, ‘Abd al-Halim discussed the limitations of the rational or cognitive capacities of the human mind in solving problems related to law, morality and metaphysical truth.25 This is because the mind is restricted to understanding tangible objects and thus cannot grasp intangible matters, which cannot be felt through sense perceptions. God revealed religion to guide the human mind in these three domains so that His creatures would not go astray (ibid. 15 –18).26 In May 1976, in order to persuade the government to ban alcohol sales in Egypt, ‘Abd al-Halim stated in a letter addressed to the head of People’s Assembly and ministers that: Indeed, when a human being has a shar‘i (divinely revealed) text, there is no need to formulate an independent judgement (ijtihad), as believers are not permitted to present its [results] before God and His Messenger, and to raise their voices higher than the Prophet. This is the decisive divide between the consultative decision making process (shura) in democracy on the earth and Islam. (Mahmud 1976a: 734) In his definition, ‘ijtihad is the ceaseless serious endeavour to reach where the Prophet was, for the sake of following him (min ajl ittiba‘i-hi) and introducing a new question beneath the classical foundation derived from the words of the Prophet and the Qur’an’ (Mahmud 1998 [1966]: 230). Hence, debates over ‘the gate of ijtihad’ should not be mistakenly seen as a method to adopt the Shari‘a to particular socio-historical circumstances, because divine law is eternal and perfect as it is (ibid.). Thus, because of the limited nature of the human intellect, people have no choice but to follow the Qur’an and hadiths when dealing with issues related to law, morality and metaphysical truth. In the end, ‘Abd al-Halim develops a sort of humanist discourse on tasawwuf by defining Sufism as an intellectual current integral to human nature. This is because a primordial version of Sufism developed even before Islam, at the onset of human civilisation on earth.27 In his eyes, the history of Islamic thought is a ceaseless debate between two different hermeneutical approaches to revelation – rationalists (‘aqliyun, i.e. theologians, philosophers) versus scripturalists (nassiyun, i.e. fuqaha’, hadith scholars). While rationalists emphasise man’s intellectual capacity to comprehend the meaning of revelation, scripturalists claim the significance

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of meticulously following the revelation as stated in the Qur’an and hadith. History continues to unfold in this manner because every individual is born with a different innate disposition ( fitra) and consequently thinks differently (Mahmud 2003c: 229–34). Yet he laments the contemporary situation in which Muslims from different philosophical currents refute each other. He sees this as a crisis that would eventually fragment the umma. In order to overcome this crisis and face the real enemy (i.e. communists, Zionists, Western imperialists, etc.), he promotes Sufism as the ‘third path’ between rationalism and scripturalism – and the ultimate means to reunite Muslims under the banner of God’s love: I hope that the truth has become clear in the conflict between Sufis and non-Sufis, and indeed I am almost certain that a view of fairness will remove the anger which is in the minds of their opponents so that they can meet together – in the vastness of love into which Sufis invite them – as brothers loving each other in God. (Ibid. 265) In this way, ‘Abd al-Halim stresses that Sufism is the only way of bringing together Muslims with different hermeneutical approaches to revelation. He attempted to establish a common ground between Sufism and Salafism, which appeared as opposite poles to the Egyptian public, by combining the notion of following (al-ittiba‘) God’s Messenger and his companions with the love (al-hubb) for God to redefine Sufism (Mahmud 1976b).28 He urges his readers to reassess the value of Sufism in modern society because, to him, ‘tasawwuf is not only ethics or asceticism or worship, it is also a complete metaphysical and practical doctrine whose aim is a fundamental transformation in both intrinsic and extrinsic behaviours of man in society’ (Abu-Rabi‘ 1988a: 224). Human beings are not capable of identifying the truth, as the ultimate truth resides with God alone. Egyptian society needs to engender an Islamic mode of thinking – that is to recognise one’s helplessness before the Absolute – so that Muslims can appreciate their differences and unite.

‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s Readership In this section, I will discuss how the images of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud reproduced through the mass media are processed and consumed by

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Egyptian audiences. His reputation as an ‘alim was divided between the general public (practising Sufis and non-Sufi Muslims) and Egyptian Orientalists. As Hoffman has shown in her work, ‘Abd al-Halim’s legacy is narrated among members of the Shadhili Sufi order with a strong sense of admiration (Hoffman 1995: 268). Many Egyptian Sufis from educated backgrounds have shared with me their impression of ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing, stating that, when they read his books, they feel as if the author is talking to them personally. On the other hand, his outstanding fame as an Azharite scholar compared to his colleagues seems to have created opposition groups, who are critical of his success in popularising knowledge of the Islamic sciences. They claim that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s books are merely good for popular audiences but have no scholarly value. In what follows, I give examples of both parties’ arguments. First, let us consider the case of an Azharite theologian, Dr ‘Abd al‘Aziz Sayf al-Nasr,29 with whom I was reading ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s study of al-Ghazali’s The Deliverance from Error. When I visited al-Ahzar University in May 2006 to seek assistance, the rector of the time, Dr Ahmad al-Tayyib (b. 1946, Shaykh al-Azhar since 2010), appointed Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz as my tutor. He is an emeritus professor at the Girls College of al-Azhar University who holds the title ustadh kursi (chair professor), which is given to distinguished professors who are entitled to deliver public lectures at al-Azhar Mosque. The professor suggested reading this book in our weekly tutorial because, being a former student of ‘Abd al-Halim, he maintained that Abu Hamid al-Ghazali was his professor’s favourite. Accordingly, by this logic, I had to start from this book in order to understand the essential ideas of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. He also added that ‘Abd al-Halim actually occupied the position of al-Ghazali in the intellectual history of modern Egypt. However, three months later, I came to realise that Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz was not only sceptical of the scholarly value of ‘Abd alHalim’s writings but also regarded him as responsible for ruining the educational quality of al-Azhar University by reforming the curriculum of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion in the 1960s, when he was the dean. As a specialist of Islamic theology (‘ilm al-kalam), he firmly believes that his specialisation – classical logic and atomism30 – should be the foundation of all Islamic learning. However, nowadays when he gives lectures on classical logic at al-Azhar Mosque he has to start from

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the textbooks he read in his high school days because no students have basic training in this subject. This is because ‘Abd al-Halim refused to teach the classics of Islamic theology and pruned related subjects from the curriculum during his tenure as the college dean.31 The professor was suspicious of ‘Abd al-Halim’s credentials as an authentic scholar not because of the knowledge contained in his books but because of the rhetorical style of his writing. ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings occasionally irritated Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz because, according to him, ‘Abd al-Halim neglected the rhetorical rules of classical Arabic. For instance, the professor repeatedly stressed that ‘if one were to write in a scholarly manner, s/he ought to end the first paragraph of the preface with amma ba‘du, and start the following sentence with fa’.32 On the contrary, ‘Abd al-Halim ended the paragraph with wa ba‘du and started the next one with fa (e.g. Mahmud 2003c: 7, 17). Likewise, when we encountered a phrase ‘‘ala marri al-zaman’ (the course of time) Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz asserted that, when producing writing on philosophical or theological subjects, a professional scholar should use a term al-zamaan (the time) in contrast to al-makaan (the place) to discuss the temporal and spatial order of the universe. Although ‘wa ba‘du. . . fa’ or ‘zaman’ were grammatically correct, and rather synonymous expressions, this was unheard of for a man who went through the scholarly training of alAzhar; they represented instead a style conventionally used by ‘common people’ rather than scholars. Consequently, he recommended that I look into The Philosophy of the Kalam by Harry A. Wolfson, which had been a key work for him ever since he discovered it in the library of the School of Oriental and African Studies in London, so that I would not waste more time on the writing of this pseudo-scholar. Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz once said to me that ‘Dr ‘Abd al-Halim was a learned man, but because he was in France for too long, he had forgotten these basic rules of Arabic’. Although specialists of Arabic literature may find ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings rather dry, and lacking in ‘artistic’ quality (Rooke 1997: 96), Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz claimed that they were too ‘literary’, whereas he preferred a ‘logical’ approach to discussing particular issues. For instance, in order to demonstrate how brave certain Sufis were in battles, ‘Abd al-Halim used the phrase ‘his soul was not perplexed by the heroes [of his enemies]’ (ma kanat nafsu-hu tatairu shu‘a‘an min al-abtali), meaning the man was not afraid of his enemies (Mahmud 2003c: 11). According to Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, this was a type of expression which would speak more to people’s emotions

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than to their rational capacity. He was also critical when ‘Abd al-Halim introduced heroic figures such as ‘Abd al-Qadir al-Jaza‘iri when narrating the history of Sufism. According to him, ‘Abd al-Halim was using a ‘Christian style of preaching’ to propagate Sufism to the general public. Although Christian priests speak to the hearts of the common people by narrating tales, Muslim scholars should preach to their minds by using a logical and intellectual style. I confess that the professor’s criticisms sounded to me like trivial matters. Nonetheless, similar conversations took place when I interviewed other Egyptian Orientalists to further my understanding of where ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work stands in the Egyptian scholarly community. As in the case with Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, initially they would sound delighted to meet a foreign scholar interested in the intellectual culture of contemporary Egypt. Yet many of them attempted to steer my interests toward other intellectual figures, as they were perplexed to see me approaching ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing – contained in simple paperbacks without proper footnotes or reference lists – as a serious scholarly subject. Such conversations reconfirmed my hypothesis that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud intended his works to be read by nonspecialist audiences, rather than only by his colleagues at al-Azhar. My second example of how opponents and proponents discussed ‘Abd al-Halim centres on the case of a Cairo University graduate, ‘Ashur (b. 1972), who aspires to become a professional Arabic teacher for nonnative speakers. Having written on Jahiliya (pre-Islamic) poetry in his Master’s dissertation, he likes to read in private, particularly literature with a philosophical bent, including Sufism. My initial encounter with him was at an Arabic language school but then, surprisingly, we met again at a Thursday evening hadra gathering of the Burhaniya alDissuqiya al-Shadhiliya order.33 Learning of his love for Sufism, I asked him to read with me ‘Abd al-Halim’s preface to The Book of Observance of the Rights of God by Harith al-Muhasibi. ‘Abd al-Halim’s books had been on Ashur’s reading list, but the title I suggested was not. His response to ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing was remarkably positive compared to that of Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz. In our first meeting, ‘Ashur told me that: The way Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim develops his argument is entirely French, meaning that he starts from the minor points and at the

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end he explores the most important points at great length. He employs Islamic expressions so that his message reaches a Muslim audience but his ideas are very French. When I heard his lectures on the radio and saw his photos afterwards, I could not believe that he was a man in Azhari garb. It seems as if he was simply wearing it as a costume for performance. What he meant by the ‘French style’ of ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing34 was that, for instance, when introducing al-Muhasibi to his readers, he started from what he considered minor matters such as biographical data and a brief description of his father, then moved on to discuss the main point, in this case al-Junayd’s account of al-Muhasibi’s strong personality (Mahmud 2003a: 5– 7). When we came across the section in which ‘Abd al-Halim explains al-Muhasibi’s interpretation of how a believer should prioritise the fulfilling of prescribed duties when faced with two duties at the same time, ‘Ashur pointed out that the way ‘Abd al-Halim listed examples demonstrated his skill as a ‘modern writer’ (ibid. 20 –1). He develops his argument by starting from a general principle (i.e. duties with time constraints or without) to more specific issues (i.e. financially supporting one’s parents is more important than going on a hajj, but one should fight for the nation even if one’s parents disagree) to make sure that his readers would understand what priorities Muslims should consider when fulfilling their duties. ‘Ashur explained to me that in the traditional style of learning, students were expected to orally receive these explanations from a shaykh or his seniors as they go through a text, but nowadays readers need books from which they can learn by themselves. Shortly after we met at the hadra gathering in June 2006, ‘Ashur stopped attending because he started to feel uncomfortable in respecting a corporeal person as his shaykh, a spiritual guide to the ultimate truth. After reading Sufi literature, ‘Ashur started to search for a shaykh or Sufi order yet he could not find any that would conform to his idea of piety. In fact, ‘Ashur is not an isolated case. I have encountered quite a few educated Egyptians from middle-class backgrounds who left Sufi orders with dismay after trying them out for a short period of time. They were attracted to the idea of having a shaykh after reading some books on Sufism, yet the shaykhs they met in real life were never as holy or spiritual as they expected them to be. As we went through the legendary

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activities of ‘Abd al-Halim listed in his obituary published in a Muslim Brotherhood monthly Al-I‘tisam,35 ‘Ashur said that he would not have any problem in regarding somebody like him as his spiritual master. However, this is not to say that, in my understanding, he wants to be guided by ‘Abd al-Halim in person. While ‘Abd al-Halim’s ideas are appealing to him, he would still prefer to enjoy the comfortable distance between murshid and murid (disciple) created by the mediation of printed texts. Thus, together with his writings about Sufism in a type of fusha (literary Arabic) addressed to non-scholarly audiences, it was the intervention of mass media that helped make ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud an authentic scholar for those classes of Egyptians who learned about Islam in a modern educational environment.

Conclusion The aim of this chapter has been to analyse ‘Abd al-Halim’s strategy in expanding the readership of Sufi literature to non-specialist audiences. With the help of the mass media and a grasp of the suitable linguistic register associated with it, he succeeded in marketing the idea of Sufism as a form of cultural knowledge rooted in the authentic traditions of Islam. Chapter 1 described the process by which the Islamic knowledge transmitted at al-Azhar Mosque was transformed into a subject taught as mass education, at the expense of the personalised chain of transmitting knowledge from a master to a disciple. Although Egyptian modernists are sceptical about the role of shaykhs in Sufism, the discussions I had with ‘Abd al-Halim’s audiences illustrated how they might be willing to construct a master–disciple relationship via a printed text. In other words, an appreciation for knowledge with sound silsila was retained in mass-mediated forms of Islamic learning in the name of authorship.

CHAPTER 4 `

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BETWEEN PUBLIC' ISLAM AND PRIVATE' SUFISM

Three decades after his death, during the Ramadan of 1429 AH (1–30 September 2008), ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was resurrected from his grave to join the fierce competition of dramatic television series’. His biographical serial, al-‘Arif billah al-Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, was broadcast on national television channels. Among its 30 episodes, the first ten illustrated, first, how ‘Abd al-Halim became interested in God’s knowledge as a child and, second, his student days at al-Azhar. The next eight episodes were partially filmed in Paris, focusing on his encounters with nonMuslims and his efforts to spread the Islamic faith in France. The last 12 episodes depicted the challenges he faced back in Egypt in combating communism and attempting to reform education at al-Azhar. I approach this television serial as a mass-mediated hagiography to explore the ways in which media professionals dealt with the Sufi elements in ‘Abd al-Halim’s biography, especially his Sufi practices and interaction with shaykhs. I argue that, while ‘Abd al-Halim’s strategy of employing the mass media for marketing Sufism to educated audiences succeeded in establishing the idea that knowledge of Sufism was a form of cultural capital and consequently expanded the readership of Sufi literature, his da‘wa could not fully remove their suspicion towards practised Sufism and the role of Sufi shaykhs. Unsurprisingly, the serial depicts ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as an exceptional individual who enlightens his surroundings by advocating the straight path of Islam. His dedication to al-Azhar and the Islamic umma were carefully translated into the vocabularies of ‘struggles for the

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homeland’ which was most likely to have been the reason why he was selected as the protagonist of this Ramadan entertainment. As the title Al-‘Arif billah (the knower of God – equivalent to the status of saint in Islam) indicates, this is the story of a pious Muslim who takes a long journey to seek the highest knowledge of God, driven by his devotion to Him. The protagonist’s saintliness is emphasised not by his power to perform supernatural deeds but by his ability to realise the fundamental principles of Islam – al-‘amal wa al-iman (action and faith). His strong faith in God generates the capacity to accumulate profound knowledge of Islam and to carry out the correct deeds he believes in. His endeavours to defend Islam against non-Muslims in France and communists in Egypt, as well as his reformist activities for al-Azhar, are carefully placed within the public discourse of modernity, which urges the nation to be enlightened and the individual to be productive. This serial demonstrated the delicate nature of exposing Sufi practices in public Islam. In contrast to ‘Abd al-Halim’s career path leading up to the level of a high-ranking scholar of al-Azhar, which was presented with more historical accuracy than his autobiography, the Sufi aspects of his life were modified to correspond to the audiences’ expectation of correct Sufism, or at least the producers’ estimation of their expectations. The production crew of the serial must have been faced with a dilemma. ‘Abd al-Halim could certainly fit into the national media’s agenda of producing an iconic figure from recent Egyptian history who could buttress the public discourse of modernity by highlighting the contributions he made during the 1960s and 1970s. Yet that hero could not be associated with controversial Sufi rites, such as performing dhikr with bodily movements at hadra gatherings or evoking the intersession of saints at a maqam (mausoleum which enshrines saintly figures) rather than imploring God alone. Nonetheless, as ‘Abd al-Halim’s status as an ‘alim mutasawwif constituted the significant part of his fame, the issue was centred on how to visually transmit the legacy of this Sufi master, considering the sensitive place that Sufism occupies in Egypt’s public Islam.

Television Serials in Ramadan There is, of course, much more to this blessed month than watching television programmes. Nonetheless, television has come to occupy a

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significant part of Ramadan rituals for many Egyptian Muslims, who strive to fulfil the mentally and physically exhausting duty of fasting as prescribed by God. Since the rationale of this fasting ritual is to learn to control one’s physical and psychological desires by renouncing them, she is supposed to maintain the usual work rhythm of the non-ritual times of the year. However, during Ramadan the work rhythm of the country slows down as office hours for governmental and school employees get reduced, the work shifts of many shops and companies are changed, and many restaurants and other businesses are closed. By two hours before the sunset prayer, the traffic congestion in central Cairo becomes unbearable, as hungry and exhausted individuals rush home for their first meal of the day. As the sun slowly sets on the Nile, the city looks completely deserted. The stereotypical image would be that after breaking the fast with the iftar meal, men get together in cafes with their friends and women gather in front of television.1 But even for those who go out, it is difficult to avoid television. Televisions are everywhere in Cairo – cafes, shops and work places. Even if one works at an office without one, colleagues are still likely to talk about the show they watched the evening before.

Figure 4.1

Cairo landscape of rooftops with numerous satellite dishes.

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Musalsals (dramatic serials) produced for television broadcast during the month of Ramadan are almost a genre in themselves, in terms of their length and variety. While television serials broadcast during the rest of the year generally consist of 15 episodes screened over two weeks, Ramadan musalsals have 30, to fill the entire month. During this particular Ramadan the musalsal of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was one of approximately 50 titles available to Egyptian viewers who had television sets with satellite channels. In recent decade, satellite dishes have mushroomed over the rooftops of apartment buildings in Cairo as well as in rural Egypt (see figure 4.1). As subscription fees went down, television became the most affordable entertainment medium to many Egyptian households to the extent that it would be more difficult to find televisions with terrestrial programming only. During Ramadan, the same title can be aired on several channels at different times; the more popular the serial, the more stations it is shown on. Whether in the early morning, daytime, or late in the evening, one can always find musalsals on television. State media made some attempt to generate the sense that the production of ‘Abd al-Halim’s serial was some sort of public event, by regularly reporting its progress though national newspaper al-Ahram.2 In offering LE 8 million (£702,500) of funding to the production team of this serial, Ibrahim al-‘Aqbawi, the president of Sawt al-Qahira (SonoCairo), stated that ‘I advised [funding of] the musalsal that deals with the life story of Shaykh al-Azhar al-Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud because he would be an excellent model for today’s young generation’.3 Only a small number of musalsals receive state funding for television production, and this small number consists entirely of Ramadan programming. The normal mode of production for everything else is that private companies make television shows which are then broadcast on state-owned channels as well as private channels. It has been a while since the state television was involved in the production of musalsals which were widely talked about and 2008 was not an exception. Other titles besides Al-‘Arif billah which were lined up for that year appeared much more promising to the general public, starting with another ‘historical’ musalsal (musalsal tarikhi), featuring the life of Gamal Abdel Nasser (1956– 70). Historical musalsals featuring biographies of famous people have been a fashion in the past few years, partly due to pressure from well-received Syrian historical productions. The main rival of

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Nasser in 2008 was not al-Imam ‘Abd al-Halim but rather a Syrian serial, Asmahan, which attempted to address the contested biography of SyrianEgyptian singer and actress Amal al-Atrash (1918– 44), who died in a mysterious accident. In contrast to the very well publicised serial Nasser, which was featured on the front cover of the national television and radio broadcast magazine at the beginning of Ramadan, the low budget serial on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was completely out of the spotlight. There was not even an article inside the magazine introducing the ‘Abd alHalim show. Hence, I had to call Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim and the scenario writer Bahi al-Din Ibrahim two days before the beginning of Ramadan to find out on which stations the musalsal would be aired on. It seemed as if I was the only one waiting for the show to start, besides the family members of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud.4 During Ramadan, television not only provides entertainment but also punctuates the daily rhythm of life; ‘The daily change in social status between fasting and nonfasting defines the ritual, but it is also an opportunity for the state to act as master of the ceremony’ (Armbrust 2006: 208). As much as the call to prayers that one hears from the local mosques, people pay attention to the adhan announcements flashed on television screens. Television and radio broadcast schedules during Ramadan are set around prayer times, especially the maghrib (sunset), as this marks the end of the fasting ritual and the return to normalised time. While shows in any other time period can be cut shorter or interrupted by commercials and news programmes, the time organised by the maghrib is almost sacred and must be preserved only for the announcement of the call to prayer. As Walter Armbrust points out, this is the ‘reset point’ of the entire broadcast scheduling during the month of Ramadan (ibid. 215). In this way, television programming is intended to facilitate rather than hinder the self-disciplining ritual of the Muslim nation, even though the programmes themselves are for the most part anything but religious in nature. The broadcast schedule of programmes is published on a weekly basis. However, since this schedule only indicates the broadcast time of the first day of the week, the viewer assumes responsibility for predicting the broadcast time of programmes according to the sunset prayer time of the day. While the programme sequence stays mostly the same throughout the month, it would be rather stressful if one tried to watch every episode regularly, since the broadcast time of a programme is never

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punctual. I usually sat before the television at least half an hour before the scheduled starting time in order to not miss the start of the show. Therefore, except for the most popular titles (which are never religious programmes) aired right after the iftar meal time, the majority of the shows are produced with the intention of being consumed by those who flip through several channels to occupy their minds for a moment, as not all viewers have the luxury of waiting in front of the television for a given programme. The television broadcast schedule seems to demonstrate the media professionals’ intention to make the hours before the maghrib sacred by isolating programmes with religious content from the rest (Abu-Lughod 1993: 501) or maintaining the ‘flow’ of the pious hours of the day.5 In contrast, the programmes after the iftar mealtime are more secular and entertaining. ‘Abd al-Halim’s serial was available mainly on two channels6 – Channel 1 (one of the two terrestrial national channels) and the Egyptian Satellite Channel (ESC). Its broadcast time was set during extremely exhausting times of the day in the still-summer-like month of September – 2:30 pm on ESC and 5:05 pm on Channel 1. Each episode was 40 minutes long, with approximately ten minutes of opening and closing music, which was adjusted on a daily basis. Since religious musalsals are never the most popular genre, their broadcast was usually set during the ‘garbage time’ to fill up the less viewed hours of television programming. Nonetheless, they contribute to ensuring the television schedule before the iftar is somewhat sacred. Both stations coupled ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal with a daily lecture by state religious authorities which led in to the call for prayer. The ESC airing of the ‘Abd al-Halim musalsal was initially broadcast after a lecture by then Shaykh al-Azhar Muhammad al-Tantawi (1928– 2010), but as the call to afternoon prayer became earlier as the month of Ramadan progressed, the musalsal was moved to before the lecture. On the other hand, Channel 1 had scheduled a sitcom before ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal and a lecture by then the State Mufti ‘Ali Gum‘a after. When Channel 1 had ‘Ali Gum‘a, the ESC had a lecture by then the rector of al-Azhar University Ahmad alTayyib in the same time slot. This was the time when women were busy preparing the iftar meal and men were counting down the minutes to adhan (in other words, not by any means peak television-watching time). These half-hour lectures were subsequently followed by the call to the maghrib prayer.

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The Representation of Piety in Religious Musalsals What marks the distinctness of the religious musalsals compared to other television serial genres is not only the language and costume used in the drama, but also the appearance of actors who are known as ‘repentant artists’ ( fannanun ta’ibun).7 Public knowledge of actors’ religious convictions generates a sense of realism in the roles played by the actors who specialise in religious musalsals. ‘Repentant artist’ is an expression generally applied to actresses who donned the hijab and ‘retired’ (i‘tizal) from the acting profession due to their religious convictions or restricted themselves to playing the roles of historical religious figures. Hasan Yusuf (b. 1934), who starred in al-‘Arif billah as the protagonist, is a rare example of a male actor who currently appears only in musalsals with historical and religious themes after ‘retiring’ from the mainstream film industry. The scenario writer of the serial, Bahi al-Din Ibrahim, stated in an interview that, ‘Hasan Yusuf is the best in playing the role of ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud because he is actually religiously committed in his real life, so he would give satisfaction to the viewers’.8 The actresses with hijab who played the roles of ‘Abd al-Halim’s mother, sister and wife are known for appearing only in this genre of television serial. When Hasan Yusuf’s wife Shams al-Barudi (b. 1946) publicly declared her retirement from the film industry in 1982, this appeared to be an isolated case.9 However, toward the late 1980s and peaking around the 1992 earthquake, the Egyptian public was deeply perplexed when witnessing the growing number of religiously committed actors, dancers and singers leaving their profession (Van Nieuwkerk 2008). Hasan Yusuf and the actors who played the roles of ‘Abd al-Halim’s mother (Madiha Hamdi) and wife (‘Afaf Shu‘aib) belong to this generation of ‘repentant artists’.10 Many of them found a second career in television programmes with Islamic content, as demand for such shows has increased in the past decade. Some reappeared as moderators or even preachers in Islamic talk shows, and many as characters in historical and religious musalsals. Repentant actors may not consider acting per se as a shameful profession but they refuse to play characters or appear in a film with themes which they think would ‘pollute’ public morality by displaying inappropriate desires (e.g. sexuality or violence).11 For those actresses who decided to adopt the Islamic dress code (libsa shar‘iya, wearing a

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headscarf and loose outfit, exposing only hands and feet) outside of their home environment in the late 1980s, there was no choice but to give up their career, as female characters in productions staged in contemporary urban setting are conventionally not veiled. The only women who appear with headscarves on the screen are those representing spheres that modernity has putatively not reached – religious or historical settings, and characters from lower social classes or rural backgrounds. Other than a handful of these ‘repentant’ actors, however, those who appear in ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal are familiar faces from other not necessarily religious programmes. For instance, Muhammad Wafiq, who played the role of ‘Abd al-Halim’s supervisor at the Sorbonne (‘Dr Fre´de´ric’), also appeared in the much more avidly watched Nasser as Gamal Abdel Nasser’s father, and Ahmad Siyam, the son of Shaykh alBalad in Al-‘Arif billah (‘Salah Badrawi’), appeared as Nasser’s comrade in the military academy. As Gamal Abdel Nasser and ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud were contemporaries, the two musalsals were staged in a similar socio-historical context. However, when actors performed religious rituals in Nasser (e.g. in episode 1 a young Nasser was awakened to perform the dawn prayer), the audience no doubt perceived such scenes as staged; yet by the logic of commitment often touted as immanent in religious programming, the same action should generate a sense of realism in Al-‘Arif billah. For instance, when I asked Bahi al-Din Ibrahim why female members of ‘Abd al-Halim’s family were constantly depicted wearing headscarves, even in their beds, he replied that the viewer would actually not regard such images as overt impositions of religiosity because such depictions correspond to the public image of these actresses leading ‘pious’ lifestyles.12 In this way, ‘repentant’ actors play a crucial ‘exception that proves the rule’ role (i.e. of ‘normative’ society not being Islamically marked in media as it in fact is in real life) in defining the religiosity of religious musalsals. After a successful 30-year career in comic and romantic films since his debut in 1959, Hasan Yusuf publicly declared retirement from his artistic career in 1990. Before this retirement the Egyptian public had known him as the walad shaqi (‘naughty boy’) of the 1960s.13 He was typecast as a morally lax character, usually playing ‘youth’ roles because even well into adulthood he had a rather youthful demeanour. He often tells journalists that he came to know Shaykh Muhammad Mutawalli al-Sha‘rawi after returning from his first ‘umra (out of hajj-season

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pilgrimage to Mecca) in 1981 (Hamad 2001). By 1988 he became one of al-Sha‘rawi’s closest disciples14 and, although his Shaykh was never opposed to acting per se, two years later Hasan Yusuf decided to withdraw from the cinema industry in order to seek conformity between his public role and his personal beliefs.15 After a decade of experimenting in different professions (ibid. 25), in 2001 he returned to acting with a determination to spread the correct Islam through television serials. He made his debut in religious musalsals by starring as the compiler of an authoritative hadith collection, Ibn Maja (824–87). The Egyptian public was both astonished and amused to see Hasan Yusuf in turban and galabiya, speaking classical Arabic, rather than a wild and often, immoral youth, wearing flashy Western clothes and flirting with young ladies, as he had been in his previous acting career. In the year following his Ibn Maja portrayal, he had the honour of playing the role of his dear Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi. Imam al-Du‘a’ Muhammad al-Sha‘rawi became the breakthrough hit for this never-before successful genre, thanks to the real-life charisma of the recently deceased protagonist and the public attention accruing from Hasan Yusuf’s return to the television screen. Since his success in the Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi serial, Hasan Yusuf (and his crew) became household names in the production of Ramadan religious musalsals in Egypt. While the company produced two conventional religious musalsals staged in the context of early Islamic history16 – the story of hadith collection compilers Ibn Maja (2001) and al-Nisa’i (2004) – it also produced serials on contemporary figures such as the prominent Qur’an reciter Mahmud Khalil al-Husari (2003) and the interwar reformist Shaykh al-Azhar Mustafa al-Maraghi (2006). Among the six serials that Hasan Yusuf’s crew has produced so far, the one depicting al-Sha‘rawi (2002) was an incomparable hit. In public, unsurprisingly, Hasan Yusuf does not necessarily recognise the variable success of his Islamic productions, and said in an interview that he chose ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as the motif of his new production in order to carry on this project of ‘elevating Islam through the caravan of religious musalsals’ (‘Alam and ‘Abd al-Fadil 2008): Initially ‘Abd al-Halim’s style of expression (uslub) appeared strange to me, [but] then I got hooked to the extent that when I grabbed his book, I could not even sleep before finishing it. I thought of presenting this personality because the people (sha‘b)

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are completely ignorant of him, in spite of the significant contribution he had made to Islamic knowledge. (Ibid.) Hasan Yusuf’s ambition to unearth heroes from the modern history of Islam in order to present correct Islam to the general public has achieved a breakthrough in this genre, and yet his oeuvre challenges the illusionary ‘secular zone’ that normative media professionals seek to construct by presenting Islam as a relic of the past. Across most Egyptian media (but particularly state-controlled media) Islamic markings on both men and women are suppressed, except of the portrayal of pious people who are Islamically marked (hijab for women, beard or zabiba – the prayer mark on the forehead – for men), but only in religious and historical contexts. What are not permitted are depictions of contemporary society in which people are Islamically marked for no purpose. In musalsals this has to be a conscious choice: everything that enters the frame has to be thought about carefully. And yet there is no ‘office of hijab suppression’ to enforce this convention. While it is not difficult to observe numerous signs of Islamic resurgence in the ‘real’ world, mainstream film and television programmes continue to transmit images of secular modernity as the public norm. For instance, while many of the female staff members at the Television Building wear hijab, actresses appearing in television shows do not cover their hair, except when playing historical ‘Islamic’ figures. So, depiction of Islamically marked people in religious contexts is permitted, but characters in a mainstream musalsal cannot ‘just happen’ to look like they actually do in real life without the narrative trying to make any point about the significance of historical or religious markings: The thematic strategies [TV makers] adopt relegate religion to a colorful but a safely remote past. By invoking the valiant struggle of early 20th century Damascenes against foreign occupiers and the golden ages of Islamic empire, television creators promote a back-door secularism, incorporating Islamic imagery while avoiding direct contemporary political or social reference. Islam is often folklorized as bygone custom and tradition or aestheticized as costume history. (Salamandra 2008: 1)

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In the worst-case scenario, those religiously committed individuals that do appear in dramatic serials or films staged in contemporary urban settings are portrayed as a threat to society. In this case they are inevitably from lower social strata (or are subject to marginalising circumstances) and become Islamists at some point during the programme.17 Those who work in the media industry might very well be pious in their private life, but they wish to separate the sacred from the profane in the public sphere, communicating the idea that religious elements are relics of the past, from which Egyptians have moved away (Abu-Lughod 1993). By contrast, the musalsal of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud demonstrates the creative efforts of the production crew in negotiating elements of modernity and religiosity while reconstructing the life story of a Shaykh al-Azhar from Egypt’s recent past.

The Authentic Roots of Sound Knowledge Compared to al-Sha‘rawi who putatively represents the public Islam of the sha‘b (popular, people), the central issue in producing a serial on ‘Abd al-Halim was how to reproduce Sufi elements in the paradoxical life narrative of an Azharite scholar who was known for his Sufi devotion. While practising Sufis claim that al-Sha‘rawi was a distinguished Sufi master, this element of his persona is not highlighted in his biography as it is known to the general public. By contrast, Sufi elements in ‘Abd alHalim’s biography figured prominently in a number of newspaper and magazine articles reporting on his musalsal. For instance, Bahi al-Din Ibrahim mentioned that his work strove to present Sufism in a ‘positive manner’ (tariqa ijabiya) because, while Sufis stereotypically tend to withdraw themselves from people and society, for ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Sufism was the driving force behind his social actions (Yasin 2008). When a journalist asked ‘Dr ‘Abd al-Halim blended Sunni thought with Sufism – don’t you fear being criticised from both sides?’ Hasan Yusuf replied that ‘Dr ‘Abd al-Halim was a leading thinker of contemporary Islam and Sufism, presenting Sufism in its correct form (al-sura al-sahiha)’ (‘Alam and ‘Abd al-Fadil 2008). Yet the article leaves the readers free to speculate on what Hasan Yusuf means by the correct and incorrect forms of Sufism. Despite this cautious embrace of Sufism, however, within the serial ‘Abd al-Halim’s ideas and practices are never defined explicitly as

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‘Sufism’ and he is never called a ‘Sufi’. His Sufism-related practices are defined as acts of piety or expressions of religiosity. Those who are familiar with scholarly discourses of Sufism may be able to trace Sufi roots in certain lines pronounced by ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud in the musalsal. However, his Sufi practices are very distinct from the Orientalist or Egyptian modernist imagining of Sufi rites (ranging from the proverbial ‘whirling dervish’ to such carnivalesque acts as snake handling while in a trance state or bodily torments which miraculously leave no trace). In the serial, the Sufi rituals he performs are limited to extra prayers in private and he never attends hadra gatherings or mawlids. His prayers do not involve any bodily movements, chanting, or musical instruments, as many would imagine of Sufi rites. Rather, he sits straight on his prayer mat, presumably facing Mecca, and pronounces personal supplication (du‘a’).18 When he is performing presumably Sufi rites, he is always shown alone in his study, late in the evening, possibly to frame them as tahajjud (keeping a vigil)19 or salat al-nawafil (or al-nafila, supererogatory prayers outside of the five daily prayers) rooted in the Sunna.20 In this way, the protagonist escapes demarcation as a ‘Sufi’; he is portrayed simply as an upright Muslim who follows the principles of Islam as they are stated in the Qur’an and hadiths. In the musalsal, ‘Abd al-Halim is almost an orphan as a Sufi, as he does not have a master to ask for spiritual guidance and seeks help from God alone. He discovers true Sufism as a result of his ceaseless search for God’s knowledge, without the spiritual guidance of a shaykhly figure. He is introduced to an early Sufi figure Harith al-Muhasibi through a French scholar of religious studies, ‘Dr Fre´de´ric’, when studying at the Sorbonne. While Sufism in modern Egypt was considered tainted with local customs and tradition, in France it remained in a pure form, intellectualised by scholars, without pertaining to any particular form of practice. It is rather ironic that a Sufism reduced to ‘texts’ and ‘thought’ by Western Orientalists is depicted in such a positive manner in an Egyptian serial groping for a strategy to avoid depicting a form of Islam popularly connected more to practice than to thought. Just before ‘Abd al-Halim starts to deepen his knowledge of Sufism at the Sorbonne (episode 12), he receives a letter from his father lamenting the superstitious beliefs held by villagers about their local sorcerer, Misayyida (episode 11). Juxtaposition of scenes from France and Egypt

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emphasise the backwardness of the Sufism practised in his native village, compared to the intellectual approach to Sufism in France. The backwardness of the villagers, especially women, is epitomised by their trust in Misayyida. While ‘Abd al-Halim’s family vehemently denies her power to control jinn or curse people, she continues to have great influence over the villagers who are ignorant of the correct practices of Islam. In the first episode of the serial, when ‘Abd al-Halim asks adults how he can see God, his aunt Khadija brings him to Misayyida. The sorcerer throws ashes into the fire and asks, ‘How can ‘Abd al-Halim see God?’ ‘Abd al-Halim gets extremely angry at her and shouts, ‘God cannot be in such a place!’ He leaves immediately and never returns to her again. This scene symbolises ‘Abd al-Halim’s refusal of superstitious practices glossed as ‘tradition’, underlining the authenticity of his knowledge of Islam. In the serial, young ‘Abd al-Halim is depicted as a sort of infant prodigy who is on the verge of going astray from the straight path due to his passion for God’s knowledge (ma‘rifat Allah). This representation seems to reflect the Egyptian modernists’ understanding of Sufis as ‘strange’ or socially abnormal people. Yet ‘Abd al-Halim manages to become an upright Muslim, chiefly because of his family. ‘Abd alHalim’s love for God motivates him to learn more and more about Him. From the first episode, ‘Abd al-Halim upsets the surrounding adults (i.e. his father and shaykh of the kuttab) by asking them ‘How can I see God? I want to see God because I love Him so much’. One evening, his family gets terribly worried by him not coming back from the kuttab until late in the evening. After a long and exhausting search, his father and the villagers find him standing in the pitch-dark graveyard. When his father angrily asks him what he is doing there, ‘Abd al-Halim replies calmly that he thought he would be able to see God in the graveyard because of verses of the Qur’an he had learned that day at the kuttab. On the one hand, ‘Abd al-Halim receives admiration from the villagers for learning the Qur’an by heart at an incredible speed; on the other, they are wary of his socially inept behaviour, which could be characterised as that of a kafir (disbeliever). He lacks the usual characteristics of being a child, such as laughing with other children or mingling with them in the playing field, as he occupies his time solely in studying. Although he is intellectually outstanding and well informed

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on social issues beyond his village, he is completely useless in terms of practical matters such as searching for jobs and financially supporting his family. From the beginning, his life is dedicated to Islam, and his love for knowledge is defined as for the sake of God alone. The serial celebrates the role of ‘Abd al-Halim’s family as much as his individual effort in achieving a high status of spirituality and knowledge. The correctness of ‘Abd al-Halim and his family is constantly contrasted with the incorrect examples of other characters who are deemed to have gone astray because of not serving God in the legally prescribed manner. Dialogues between ‘Abd al-Halim and his family members are in Egyptian colloquial Arabic (in keeping with the convention of the vast majority of musalsals), but they frequently quote verses from the Qur’an and hadiths, as well as pronounce salutations to the Messenger of God and supplications in order to support their arguments. At home, they hang calligraphies of Qur’anic verses or the names of God and His Messenger on the walls. In contrast, the negative model of authority in the musalsal, Shaykh al-Balad’s family (i.e. the local authority in ‘Abd al-Halim’s village), has carpets with camels and pyramids, like those sold in the souvenir shops of the Khan al-Khalili market in Islamic Cairo. In the musalsal, ‘Abd al-Halim’s father Mahmud ‘Ali is portrayed as an immensely popular qadi among the village farmers, by virtue of his being just and a man of his word. He is often called in to mediate in disputes between villagers. Although he was prevented from completing his studies at al-Azhar due to economic hardship, he continues to culture himself through reading newspapers and books. Mahmud ‘Ali’s correctness is contrasted with the Shaykh al-Balad, Badrawi, who occupies this position simply through his family inheritance. Badrawi epitomises the corrupted and backward nature of traditional authority, which is incapable of coping with modernity. Such rivalries between the rising middle class (effendis) and an oppressive and corrupted traditional authority (shaykh al-balad or ‘umda) are standard tropes in Egyptian autobiographies (Ryzova 2014). However, the musalsal completely disregards the historical fact that ‘Abd al-Halim’s family is the ‘umdas of his native village. Their differences are highlighted especially when each man marries a second wife. Mahmud does so with the consent of his first wife, Subha, but Badrawi marries secretly and hides away his second wife in a

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nearby hamlet. Mahmud marries ‘Azza, a daughter of one of the village farmers, because he promised her father that ‘Abd al-Halim would marry her. ‘Abd al-Halim’s decision to instead marry his cousin Zaynab brings great distress to Mahmud, because he does not want to disappoint either his son or the man to whom he had made a promise. Subha asks Mahmud if he had promised that ‘Abd al-Halim would marry her. He replies, ‘No, I simply said she is reserved for us’. She suggests that he should marry ‘Azza to keep the word between men. Mahmud gets terribly shocked in hearing this advice yet he realises he has no other choice. The family decides to hold two weddings, one for ‘Abd al-Halim and the other for Shaykh Mahmud. On the contrary, Badrawi’s marriage is full of deceit and greed. Observing Mahmud’s second marriage, Badrawi starts to desire to marry a younger woman. Since his wife Tahiya would never agree to this, he takes advantage of his duties as the head of the Agricultural Association in the nearby town of Bilbays as an occasion to look for a new woman. When he finally marries one, he pretends to be seriously ill in front of Tahiya and claims that he has to visit Cairo for medical treatments, although he is in fact staying with his new wife. Female members of ‘Abd al-Halim’s family are also shown as enlightened individuals who know the correct principles of Islam and practise them accordingly. They are always shown in the colourful headscarf with flowers done in peasant style, although in reality no women in ‘Abd al-Halim’s family used to cover their hair in those days. Even if they put on a headscarf for certain occasions, they would not have worn it in the peasant style. However, they are deliberately placed in contrast with the village women, who are portrayed as backward and superstitious by definition because they are ignorant of Islamic principles and believe in the power of Misayyida. In episode 4, ‘Abd al-Halim’s wife Zaynab gets outraged as she discovers that the village women do not know how to pray or to perform ablutions. Female members of the family decide to invite these women for meals at their home to teach them some basic principles of Islam. As they start to take lessons from Zaynab, they stop visiting Misayyida. Out of jealousy, Misayyida practises witchcraft on ‘Abd al-Halim’s home and ‘Azza, the second wife of Shaykh Mahmud, falls seriously ill. Mahmud gets upset as Subha reports that ‘Azza’s illness was due to a curse, and says she is ill because of not having complete trust in God.

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In spite of his socially inept character, ‘Abd al-Halim does not transgress from the straight path of Islam, owing greatly to the support of his father Shaykh Mahmud and the learned men of al-Azhar, to whom he is intellectually connected through his father. Worried at the unworldly mindset of his son, Shaykh Mahmud asks several friends to give guidance to ‘Abd al-Halim. First is his fellow villager, Islam, who is the first to earn the ‘alimiya certificate of al-Azhar in ‘Izbat Abu Ahmad. Second is his old friend from al-Azhar, Hamid al-Magaish, who happens to be ‘Abd al-Halim’s teacher at the Ibrahim Agha Mosque in Cairo. Both of them willingly accept their roles and successfully convince ‘Abd al-Halim that the believer does not see God using his eyes, but can interact with Him through his heart. They encourage him to pursue the path of learning, by suggesting that one can find out everything about God by studying the Qur’an. In this drama, not everybody is as lucky as ‘Abd al-Halim in receiving correct guidance from senior male figures. His former classmate from the kuttab and the son of Shaykh al-Balad, Salah Badrawi, ends up being brainwashed as a communist after reading Marxist literature. Salah drops out from the kuttab because of his inability to memorise the entire Qur’an at the age of 15, whereas ‘Abd al-Halim had completed the memorisation at the age of nine. Salah stays at home, reading books and newspapers alone for pleasure. He finds the articles written by a communist writer named Isma‘il Fathi particularly illuminating. Badrawi, Salah’s father, tries to stop his son from reading books so that he can concentrate on his duties at the Agricultural Association. Badrawi is an uncultured man who has no knowledge of Islam, communism, or current affairs and is merely concerned with gaining profits through cotton production. However, through his business interactions with a foreign tradesman named ‘Henry’, Salah becomes involved in a project to spread communism in Egypt, with the aim of sparking a revolution. In the serial, ‘Abd al-Halim expresses distress at Salah’s reading communist literature, fearing that without solid knowledge of Islam he might start actually believing in communism. However, when comparing ‘Abd al-Halim with Salah, the serial suggests that, as well as the content of what one reads, the social environment in which one reads it is equally important in terms of ‘correctly’ shaping the personality of an individual. In this sense, not only is Salah at fault but also his father Badrawi, who does not provide

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the requisite moral guidance to his son and who prevents him from finishing his Qur’anic education because of shame at Salah’s slow progress compared to ‘Abd al-Halim. The uncultured Badrawi thus could not have realised the grave error his son was making due to his ignorance and lack of responsibility as a father.

The Curious Absence of Sufi Practice Although ‘Abd al-Halim mentions in the musalsal that Sufism is about mystical experience which cannot be attained through books, his Sufism as it is depicted on the screen appears strictly intellectual, involving reading and meditation, as well as performing extra prayers in his study. In the 30 episodes of the musalsal, there are only a handful of scenes which may remind some viewers of ‘Abd al-Halim’s connection to Sufism. For instance, there is a mysterious scene in which a small boy visits ‘Abd al-Halim’s flat at dawn with a piece of paper (episode 28). When ‘Abd al-Halim’s wife Zaynab answers the door, the boy leaves a note with her and disappears. The note contains phrases of supplication. As ‘Abd al-Halim recites them, his mind drifts away and a bright light starts to emanate from the paper. Although it is not explicitly mentioned, this boy mostly likely represents Khidr, the master of all the Islamic mystics. Another reference to Sufism comes as a result of ‘Abd al-Halim’s spiritual training. Towards the end of his life, ‘Abd al-Halim gains the capacity to foresee the future (basira). Thanks to this ability, he is able to visit his mother on her deathbed (episode 24). Similarly, he is depicted as having been in Tunis when his beloved wife Zaynab passes away. Clearly aware of the event, he strives to find a plane ticket back to Cairo (episode 30). Although his worldviews are not clearly identified as Sufism, those who are familiar with Sufi discourses may be able to trace elements of Sufism in these scenes. The most controversial scene in the musalsal might be one that infers him visiting Ahmad al-Badawi’s mausoleum in Tanta after the June War of 1967 to seek spiritual guidance (episode 24). ‘Abd alHalim expresses his wish to visit Tanta to Zaynab yet his ziyara is represented by the blurry close up of the shrine glowing green in the dark. Whatever Sufi ritual he might have performed at the shrine is left to the audience to speculate. This is quite an astonishing representation of one of the most influential Sufi figures in twentieth-century Egypt.

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These isolated images of ‘Abd al-Halim’s Sufi practice seems to be intended to resonate with the Egyptian educated public’s suspicious stance on Sufism: that it can be good for society as long as it is whitewashed and quarantined properly. Good Sufism in this context consists of Sufi practices being kept restricted to the private sphere. Cultivation of mystical knowledge and devotion to the Sufi path can be meaningful provided that such piety does not hinder one from having a firm commitment to the common good. Several scenes from the musalsal depict Muhammad al-Ghazali and ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud engaged in heated debates over the status of Sufism in Sunni Islam. These scenes epitomise the patterns of anti-Sufi discourse of the Egyptian modernists as discussed in Chapter 3. It seems that the production crew staged these scenes in order to publicly state their arguments about good and bad Sufism. The lines pronounced by alGhazali represent an anticipation of the possible criticisms that the musalsal might receive from those sections of the viewing public critical of Sufism. ‘Abd al-Halim’s replies to al-Ghazali are thus the answers the production crew had prepared to overcome the viewers’ quandaries about Sufism. The lines spoken by ‘Abd al-Halim in these debates entail some sort of realism, in the sense that he might well have responded formally to al-Ghazali’s criticism in such a way; indeed, they were faithfully reconstructed by Bahi al-Din Ibrahim, who had attentively studied ‘Abd al-Halim’s publications.21 At the end, ‘Abd al-Halim manages to convince al-Ghazali that Sufism is founded on Islamic principles, yet there is no visual image to suggest what rituals one may carry out to access the Sufi path, aside from the duties prescribed to all Muslims. Muhammad al-Ghazali first appears toward the end of the serial as one who is critical of a series of reform plans that ‘Abd al-Halim tried to introduce at al-Azhar University (episode 21).22 Although ‘Abd alHalim had a favourable impression of al-Ghazali based on his publications, they ended up in dispute about the status of Sufism in Islam. When ‘Abd al-Halim was appointed to the Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion in 1964, he proposed introducing a course on Sufism as a part of the undergraduate curriculum. In the musalsal, when he manages to convince his colleagues at his college of his initiative’s merits, other colleges of al-Azhar University decide to follow suit and introduce this subject. But then, a few days later, Shaykh Magahid (a professor from the College of Fundamentals of the Religion,

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‘Abd al-Halim’s loyal disciple) finds a long magazine article in Minbar alIslam, the official mouthpiece of the Ministry of Pious Endowments, criticising ‘Abd al-Halim for attempting to teach Sufism at al-Azhar. ‘Abd al-Halim becomes outraged as Magahid reads the article aloud, as it contains a standard anti-Sufism discourse: Sufis are stereotyped as recluses who renounce social affairs, neglect their prescribed duties, and are backward and ignorant fools obsessed with miracles: Magahid reads: ‘When one is invited to tasawwuf he does not want to deal with this-worldly affairs and cuts himself off from society. This results in following corrupted authority without opposing it’. ‘Abd al-Halim: Sufis fear God and they do not fear anybody except Him. This requires more courage than opposing all the corrupted authority in this world. Magahid smilingly continues: ‘Sufis who practise asceticism are content with little things, and do not work hard to earn living expenses, and cut themselves off from the society’. ‘Abd al-Halim: Yes, Sufis practise asceticism, but in a specific way. They do not stay away from the accumulation of wealth. We have examples, such as Abu Bakr, ‘Uthman ibn ‘Auf, ‘Uthman ibn ‘Affan (i.e. Companions of God’s Messenger). They were all frugal in their lives in spite of the great wealth that they gained through commerce. Magahid: ‘Sufis practise strange rituals which are not related [to Islamic doctrine], and stop practising the religious obligations which God commanded to us. When they pray at the Mosque of God’s Messenger [in Medina], they invoke him as the master of miracles’. ‘Abd al-Halim is speechless: There is no power but God! This man does not know Sufism. He is ignorant. That’s it! (Episode 22) Al-Ghazali’s arguments are based on an understanding that Sufis are tantamount to a threat to the common good of society. They cease being productive at any level because of their ignorance of correct Islam, their backwardness and passive relation to social reality. Although this article was signed by a pen name, Shaykh Magahid finds out that it was written by Muhammad al-Ghazali, who was detained in prison for unknown reasons. In episode 23, ‘Abd al-Halim visits al-Ghazali to ask his opinion about this

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article, without mentioning that he is aware that he is its author. Even after a long and tense debate, they cannot reach any agreement. Later on in the serial, during his tenure as the Minister of Pious Endowments, ‘Abd al-Halim manages to gain al-Ghazali’s confidence by entrusting him with the responsibility to carry out da‘wa at the ‘Amr bin al-‘As Mosque in Old Cairo (episode 26). Al-Ghazali is deeply impressed by ‘Abd al-Halim’s fairness and generosity; that in spite of the conflicts between them, ‘Abd al-Halim had appointed him to this important office. Yet al-Ghazali cannot overcome his suspicions toward Sufism. One evening, he is visiting ‘Abd al-Halim at his home. AlGhazali first compliments ‘Abd al-Halim as the best Shaykh al-Azhar ever, then attempts to convince him to leave behind his Sufi devotion: Al-Ghazali: You should leave behind the ecstatic expressions of Sufism (shatahat al-sufiya), which is making you imperfect, and start adhering to the prophetic Sunna. ‘Abd al-Halim: Do you mean that I have gone astray from your position because of my attitude towards Sufism? Al-Ghazali: Nothing other than that. ‘Abd al-Halim: Will you change your mind if you learn more about Sufism? Al-Ghazali: I have learned enough about Sufism through books, and I don’t agree with it. ‘Abd al-Halim: You don’t know Sufism until you taste it. Al-Ghazali: Aaaaah! That’s a typical phrase from Sufism, which indicates the stagnation ( jumud)! ‘Abd al-Halim: What do you mean by ‘stagnation’? If you were asked about the taste of an apple, would you be able to know it without tasting it? This is Sufism. You don’t know until you taste it. Listen to me, al-Ghazali, if you wanted to know about Sufism, you need to imbibe (yatamaqq‘) it, live it and practise it for years. (Episode 29) Al-Ghazali is convinced that the knowledge of Sufism he has gained through books sufficiently empowers him to denounce this spiritual tradition without practising it or having Sufi experiences. ‘Abd al-Halim continues to emphasise the significance of ‘tasting’ in Sufism yet he does not define what the practices are that al-Ghazali needs to start

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carrying out if he was to ‘experience’ Sufism. The following statements of al-Ghazali are the ‘frequently asked questions’ of anti-Sufi discourses shared by many of the modernist Egyptians outside Sufi circles. ‘Abd alHalim refutes them one by one as he does in his writings: Al-Ghazali: Some Sufis do not pray but claim to have a special relationship to God. ‘Abd al-Halim: Who are those Sufis? On what basis do you believe that they are Sufis? One of the prominent Sufi Shaykhs said ‘If you saw a man flying in the air, and walking on the water and claiming to be performing a miracle, don’t believe in him until you find out his position towards the duties prescribed by God’. (Episode 29) Al-Ghazali claims to have gone through the core literature on Sufism, yet he does not specify his sources when listing the criticisms against it. On the other hand, ‘Abd al-Halim bases his argument upon specific Sufi literature. The sentence he quotes is a famous line by Abu Yazid alBistami (d. 874) demonstrating the legal foundation of Sufism, which ‘Abd al-Halim cites in his book on The Deliverance from Error (Mahmud 1998 [1967]: 16):23 Al-Ghazali: What do great Sufis say about social issues? ‘Abd al-Halim: God does not like those who do bad deeds or do not work. For that reason, we must commit ourselves to social affairs without procrastinating or rejecting them. Among the imams of Sufis, there are those who participated in wars, such as Ahmad al-Badawi and Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili. (Episode 29) As I mentioned in Chapter 3, ‘Abd al-Halim gave the example of Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili in his books to refute the idea that Sufis are indifferent to this-worldly affairs (Mahmud 2003c: 11). The scenario writer replaced ‘Abd al-Qadir Jaza’iri in the original text with Ahmad al-Badawi, one of the most venerated Sufi saints in Egypt, to generate a sense of familiarity among Egyptian audiences. These lines illustrate Bahi al-Din Ibrahim’s efforts to reconstruct ‘Abd al-Halim’s dialogue by reference to his publications. After this long debate, viewers are expected to realise that the divide between Sufis

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and other Muslims is not as wide as they had thought, and that Sufis are not a threat to the common good of society. However, they are not informed about how Sufi practices differ from other Islamic deeds. Nevertheless, in the end, ‘Abd al-Halim and al-Ghazali manage to establish a common ground: Al-Ghazali: Listen! If Sufis adhere to God’s Messenger, then they do not differ from anybody else. ‘Abd al-Halim: Think like that! One who has left the Sunna of God’s Messenger or did not commit to it is not a Sufi, and should not be considered as one. Al-Ghazali: Finally! Finally we agree on one apparent principle. (Episode 29) Throughout the debates, al-Ghazali states that Sufis neglect the prescribed duties of Islam and ‘Abd al-Halim tries to show how Sufism is derived from the correct Sunna. Yet the question remains: Why, then, do Sufis perform different rites to other (non-Sufi) Muslims? What do Sufis do other than those duties prescribed to all Muslims? The serial avoids answering these questions by only discussing the types of Sufi practices that the public can accept by the standard of modernist and hegemonic public Islam.

Positive and Negative Images of Sufism So, the musalsal defines Sufism by demonstrating what is not Sufism before defining what it actually is, which it predominantly strives to do in the portrayal of the ascetic practices of two Sufi shaykhs ‘Abd alHalim meets in Egypt after returning from France. These shaykhs have renounced family ties, social status and material wealth to dedicate their lives to the Sufi path. The first example is Sulayman, a poor old man who lives alone in a hamlet with two goats (episode 13) and who stands for ‘Abd al-Halim’s Sufi master, Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi. Sulayman looks much like a ‘Sufi shaykh’ in the imagination of Egyptian modernists and Orientalist paintings – a senile man with a long white beard, dressed in a simple white galabiya. In addition, as many Egyptian modernists imagine of Sufis, he is nothing but a strange old man. He does not interact with anybody in the village, not even returning their greetings. He is

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illiterate and lives in destitution. ‘Abd al-Halim offers him some meat as a gift, but Sulayman refuses it. When ‘Abd al-Halim tells Sulayman that, ‘Meat is not haram’, he replies, ‘I live only on whatever God brings me. Once the gate of desire is open, it is so difficult to close’. ‘Abd alHalim’s wife and father are wary of his interaction with this strange man. They ask, ‘Why do you need to learn more when you have already obtained the ‘alimiya from al-Azhar and doctorate from the Sorbonne?’ Yet ‘Abd al-Halim is deeply impressed with Sulayman’s restrained manners, which convince him that he must be a ‘knower of God’, and he tries to seek guidance from him. Sulayman laughs at ‘Abd al-Halim for going all the way to France to learn about God and says, ‘What do you need to know other than the Qur’an? I am illiterate and know only a few verses of the Qur’an. I pray, fast and follow the rules that God prescribed’. In the end, Sulayman becomes seriously ill, yet refuses the medical treatment which ‘Abd al-Halim tries to offer. Such materially restrained and socially reclusive manners correspond to the general public’s view of Sufis as strange people who renounce worldly affairs for the spiritual path. A second, completely different example of a Sufi is not a reflex of an Orientalist imagination but rather the icon of Orientalism (indeed, ‘good Orientalism’ from an Egyptian media perspective): it is no less than ‘Abd al-Halim’s professor from the Sorbonne, Dr Fre´de´ric, who embraced Islam after receiving lessons on the Qur’an from ‘Abd alHalim. In return, Fre´de´ric supervises ‘Abd al-Halim’s doctoral research project, and tries to help devise strategies to promote Islam to nonMuslims in Europe. This figure is a stunning combination of Louis Massignon, ‘Abd al-Halim’s thesis advisor at the Sorbonne (who was a devout Catholic), and Rene´ Gue´non, the prominent French Sufi thinker who ‘Abd al-Halim came to know in Cairo. When ‘Abd al-Halim leaves France after successfully defending his thesis, Dr Fre´de´ric enters the army to fight in the war against Germany. ‘Abd al-Halim is deeply concerned that Dr Fre´de´ric never replies to his letters. Later, when ‘Abd al-Halim hears about a great Sufi shaykh who lives in Doqqi, a residential quarter in greater Cairo, he visits his home but does not succeed in meeting him. In episode 29, ‘Abd al-Halim finally manages to meet this Sufi shaykh by accompanying the French consul, who delivers Fre´de´ric, the Sufi shaykh, a passport. As they enter his study, Fre´de´ric is reading presumably a Sufi manuscript in classical

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Arabic and salutes them without raising his face from the book. While he was always in suit and tie in Paris, he is now dressed in a long white gown and a headscarf. He tells ‘Abd al-Halim that after returning from military service, he decided to leave his job at the university, since he could not bear a lonely life in Paris without his wife and children, who died during the war. He moved to Cairo to dedicate his life to accumulating knowledge of Sufism, and was initiated into the Shadhili order. He refuses to meet anybody and occupies himself with prayers and studies, living as Muhammad Yahya, instead of Fre´de´ric. In contrast to Sulayman and Dr Fre´de´ric, ‘Abd al-Halim’s lifestyle represents an enlightened version of the Sufi path,24 and in this sense corrects the ‘Orientalist excesses’ of the other two characters. His asceticism is neatly kept in the private sphere, as demonstrated by his material restraint, with him spending little on food, clothing, and housing, and by his generosity in providing financial support to the needy. Unlike Dr Fre´de´ric, who accumulates knowledge of Sufism to satisfy his intellectual curiosity, ‘Abd al-Halim conducts research to find solutions to social issues. He studies the writings of al-Muhasibi, for instance, in order to understand better ways to bring Islamic faith to those who claim not to believe in God. The musalsal is full of examples of how ‘Abd al-Halim’s devotion to Sufism strengthens his sense of social responsibility as an Azharite ‘alim. ‘Abd al-Halim’s contribution to Egypt during the post-1967 war crisis and the October War of 1973 are emphasised as if to imply that God granted the victory because of ‘Abd al-Halim’s endeavours and devotion to Him. After the defeat in the June War of 1967, he tours the military bases of Egypt to encourage the soldiers. He tries to bring hope to the Egyptian nation by talking to them through radio broadcasts. Just before the October War of 1973, ‘Abd al-Halim is awakened by a ru’ya (vision) during his hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, in which the Egyptian marines are crossing the Sinai with God’s Messenger, who is taking part in the battle against Israel. ‘Abd alHalim hurries back to Cairo to report his vision to President Anwar alSadat. Sadat decides to embark on the war, as he takes it to be divinely sanctioned. Yet, in spite of all the great deeds ‘Abd al-Halim carries out, he constantly fears that God will not accept him on Judgement Day. ‘Abd al-Halim is bold and confident in public, yet his wife

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occasionally finds him crying while praying, seeking repentance and forgiveness from God. As I discussed in Chapter 2, in his actual biography ‘Abd al-Halim in fact followed a Sufi master. Unlike Sulayman, who was poor and illiterate, ‘Abd al-Halim emphasised Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi’s knowledge of the Islamic sciences and his noble family background when writing his hagiography. Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah learned the Qur’an by heart at an early age and became versed in the canonical literatures of the Islamic sciences, in addition to looking after his family farm (Mahmud 2003b: 370– 1). Unlike Sulayman, who lived in isolation, ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi was a socially active Sufi. He was responsible for giving spiritual guidance to many disciples in the Qadiya Shadhiliya Order, some of whom were politically influential. Even after Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah passed away in 1964, ‘Abd al-Halim remained an active member of the order and frequented hadra gatherings held in a small village in the Nile Delta.25 In fact, the ascetic practices of Sulayman, and to some extent Dr Fre´de´ric, correspond to the characteristics of a bad Sufi, who ‘Abd al-Halim denounces as ‘the enemy of the Sunna’ who lures good Muslims into incorrect asceticism and publicises it as ‘Sufism’, such as was introduced in Chapter 3 (Mahmud 2003a: 19). They are the complete opposite type of Sufi to anyone who ‘Abd al-Halim would really have followed as his shaykh. Moreover, in reality ‘Abd al-Halim publicly proclaimed his participation in Sufism-related events (e.g. hadra, mawlid and ziyara), for instance allowing journalists to take photos or conduct interviews at a mawlid.26 He was passionately involved in restoring the shrines of Shadhili aqtab (spiritual poles), such as Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili and Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandari, the knowers of God who built the foundation of the Sufi path that ‘Abd al-Halim was initiated into, in order to encourage the ziyara. However, such aspects of Sufism in his biography were deemed not relevant enough to the profile of the national icon the serial sought to portray. They were therefore eliminated from the mass-mediated hagiography.

Conclusion Examination of the Sufi elements in ‘Abd al-Halim’s biography presented in this musalsal, especially the representation of shaykhly

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figures and the absence of Sufi practices, shows that while intellectual Sufism succeeded in rooting itself in public Islam in the name of tathqif, the actual practice of Sufism remains a sensitive issue. What the production crew feared most was dealing with the issue of the intersession of saints, which, in their logic, may have upset the core viewing public of this show, namely educated middle class Egyptians and those who aspire to such status, and who strive in myriad ways to be both modern and good Muslims. Images of ‘Abd al-Halim seeking God’s help through du‘a’ or salat in private were suitable for public exposure, but not an impression of him following his Sufi shaykh. A materially restrained lifestyle and accumulation of Sufi knowledge is respectable, yet not to the extent of hindering one from being an economically productive individual. ‘Abd al-Halim strove to cultivate a place for Sufism in public Islam by communicating with his audience through newly developing forms of mass media. His publications and radio lectures aimed at demonstrating the authentic Islamic roots of Sufi practices, in order to combat anti-Sufi discourses. Thus, the ‘correct form’ of Sufism that the musalsal presented would no doubt have been rather different from what ‘Abd al-Halim might have expected. When I visited Mani‘ ‘Abd alHalim after the ‘Id al-Fitr (the festival to celebrate the completion of Ramadan), he and his wife were very pleased with the musalsal. Dr Mani‘ emphasised that this was a work of ‘fiction’, not a documentary film. He was not critical at all of the creative twists added to his father’s biography in order to strengthen his case as a national hero. Not being a Sufi himself, he might have been glad to observe that his father’s Sufi practices were not represented in a ‘strange’ way. Ramadan musalsals are, after all, light entertainment produced to help endure this exhausting month. Any risk of stirring up anti-Sufi sentiments had to be avoided when the rationale of the fasting is to reunite Muslim brothers and sisters, not to divide them.

CHAPTER 5 THE AESTHETICS OF HADITH NARRATION

The conversations I had about ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings on Sufism that I discussed in Chapter 3 served to demonstrate how his readership evaluated the quality of a scholarly work by commenting on his writing style. This chapter continues to look at ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s style of speech by examining the ways in which he performed his scholarly credentials and individual creativity when delivering radio lectures on hadiths. My analysis draws on conversations regarding ‘Abd al-Halim’s radio lectures that I had with both staff members of the radio station archive of the Television Building and with non-specialist audiences outside the media industry. By placing these recordings of Islamic programmes in the larger context of mass-mediated cultural production, rather than regarding religious content as an isolated field, my approach will present the prominent roles audiences play in producing the meaning of a mass-mediated lecture. I argue that mastering of the formal aestheticism of Islamic scholarship as indicated by a scholar’s ability to showcase his ‘proper and sound’ interpretation of a specific subject is perceived as one of the most significant elements of being an intellectual in contemporary Egyptian society.

Hadith Lectures as a Performing Art In contemporary Egyptian society, mass-mediated religious performance occupies a significant sphere within religious discourse to the extent that the amature connoissuership of evaluating the quality of

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Islamic programming has entered the daily ritual of performing one’s educated middle class background. During my first month and a half at the radio station archive, I was always accompanied by at least two staff members of the archive or radio station as I listened to the recordings – one to play the tape and the other to keep track of the paperwork. Other shelving staff and security officers also frequented my kabine (small studio to play recordings) to make sure that their foreign guest was well looked after. Many of them were eager to give comments on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s lectures. It was truly surprising for me to see them responding to ‘Abd al-Halim’s words with certain phrases and body movements – for instance, when they heard him pronouncing the name of God’s Messenger or giving du‘a’ in the concluding part of the lecture – as if they were attending a live performance. As time went by, I learned to use the tape player and my presence became less exotic to the staff. However, they continued to stay with me in the studio, chatting to each other. One day, when I was trying desperately to decipher some words from the recording in the midst of various noises, a senior staff member suddenly exclaimed, ‘Did you hear that? Rewind it a little! Oh yes, this is so good! I have never heard this from another scholar.’ Various responses they made to the recordings puzzled me, since to me all the episodes seemed not terribly different from each other. The talk shows with ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud from the General Programme that I had previously listened to had cheerful music and lively dialogue, which would fit my image of ‘entertainment’. In spite of the overtly religious and repetitive content of the shows, Egyptian listeners seemed to enjoy listening to such recordings. Mass-mediated lectures by Azharite scholars are analogous to what Robert A Georges calls storytelling as ‘a communicative event’ in which ‘the storyteller’s duties are to formulate, encode and transmit a message in accordance with socially prescribed rules with which he and other participants in the storytelling are familiar’ (Georges 1968: 318). In other words, to remain credible within the genre of the religious programme, Azharite scholars must ‘encode’ their lectures in language suitable to the genre by using standard sources such as Qu’ranic verses, hadiths and episodes from the biography of the Prophet Muhammad. This communicates their authenticity in relation to a socially established

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frame of familiarity. At the same time, once speakers succeed in framing their arguments within the conventional paradigm, they are relatively free to play within the genre. In order to understand more about the ‘socially prescribed rules’ of performing arts in an Islamic context, it is helpful to take a look at works on expressive culture in the Middle East.1 In his attempt to define the status of authorship in Sufi poetry which is recited by munshids (singers who perform inshad, devotional poetry dedicated to God), Michael Frishkopf notes that, in this genre, ‘Poetic producers never create ex nihilio (a status which in the Islamic sphere, is reserved for God), but rather produce “new” texts by permuting pre-existing recombinant elements’ (Frishkopf 2003: 90). Sufi poets compose a piece in the first instance by quoting authentic sources (i.e. the Qur’an and Sunna) and borrowing from various works produced by prominent Sufis (e.g. Ibn al-‘Arabi, al-Hallaj, Ibn al-Farid).2 While from the point of view of modern Western literature, poetry devoid of a single word composed by the author may lead to critics questioning the creative capacity of the poet, in the context of Sufism such quotes elevate the status of the poet by indicating the poet’s spiritual connection to legendary Sufi masters and legitimising his source of knowledge (ibid. 89– 93).3 It is important to note that the authorship of ideas or expressions is not in question when assessing the poetic capacity of munshids. They are evaluated by their ability to make the inshad that they are performing ‘more memorable and more affective’ (Frishkopf 1999: 291). Likewise, in the case of Qur’anic recitation, Kristina Nelson notes that because of the public’s familiarity with the defined text and rigid rules of Qur’anic recitation (compared to the texts of freely singing musicians), the Egyptian public believe (contrary to Western perceptions) that Qur’an reciters are more ‘creative and innovative’ than singers (Nelson 1982: 42).4 Similarly, the general public in Egypt – the primary audience for the majority of Azharites whether in radio broadcasts, at mosque lessons, or in newspaper articles – does not necessarily measure scholarly authenticity by the uniqueness of the ideas, but rather by their conception of the ‘correctness’ of the knowledge they display (see Chapter 6). As such, studies on popular culture in modern Egypt demonstrate that the public discourse that privileges the mastering of forms over self-expression goes beyond religious performances (Danielson 1997, Armbrust 1996).

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As in other fields of expressive culture, the value of Islamic scholarship is, in this context, determined by the way the author performs his/her scholarly credentials by reorganising established sources.

Religious vs Cultural Programmes While occupying a number of high-ranking offices in or connected to alAzhar, ‘Abd al-Halim focused on cultivating channels to spread Islamic knowledge to the general public. The completion of da‘wa to Muslims as well as non-Muslims was his priority. He was aware of the pivotal role that the rapidly expanding radio broadcast network would play in spreading the correct message of Islam to the Egyptians. In March 1964, for instance, as Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion, ‘Abd al-Halim contributed to founding Idha‘at al-Qur’an al-Karim (Noble Qur’an Radio), the first national radio station which specialised in Islamic education.5 While religious content had not been entirely absent from radio programming before Idha‘at al-Qur’an al-Karim, the establishment of this station made Islam a specialised subject distinct from the other cultural programmes. The main objective of the nationalisation of al-Azhar in 1961 was to bring together the religious and worldly sciences – for instance to produce medical doctors with profound knowledge of Islamic creeds – yet the founding of a radio station solely dedicated to Islamic programmes generated what has now become the self-evident publicly accessible role of Azharite scholars as specialists in religious matters. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s mass-mediated appearances steadily increased and peaked as he became Shaykh al-Azhar in 1973. He spoke regularly on radio broadcasts, including the Hadith al-Sabah (Morning Talk), the first programme on Noble Qur’an Radio,6 which continues to exist today. Although it was and remains a daily talk show of only five to seven minutes, the programme’s significance lies in having renowned scholars go on air to give simple lectures on the Qur’an.7 The production crew of the show were in charge of selecting the guest speakers and a verse of the Qur’an to be discussed. The scholars prepared their talks accordingly. In spite of such a limited setting and the relatively conventional content of the speeches, the individuality of the speakers was transmitted through their styles of speech and started to produce religious radio stars, analogous to commercial entertainment

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personalities in practice but pointedly distinct from them in principle. Many fans of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud recalled that they became attracted to him by listening to his radio lectures. Some claimed that his voice had angelic qualities (sawt malaki). Even Dr ‘Abd al-‘Aziz, who was suspicious of his scholarly credentials (see Chapter 3), insisted that I should listen to ‘Abd al-Halim’s radio shows, as they had a phenomenal impact in constructing his status as a public intellectual. Although my interlocutors made me realise the significance of radio shows in understanding the trajectory of ‘Abd al-Halim’s fame, he was not as prominent in the commercial public media archive as ‘Abd al-Hamid Kishk (1933–98)8 or Muhammad Mutawalli al-Sha‘rawi (1911– 98), whose lecture recordings are available online. Obtaining the recordings of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was, by contrast, not an easy task. While two or three cassette tapes were produced by the public-sector recording company Sawt al-Qahira (SonoCairo), they are no longer available in stores. When I asked Hussein Abdel-Halim, the grandson of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, why there are no recordings on the market, he laughed and said, ‘Since his lectures were not entertaining enough for the masses, there was no commercial value in those recordings’. However, elite staff members of the national radio stations seem to take a different view, as they continue to air ‘Abd al-Halim’s recordings from time to time. In September 2007, I made my first visit to the state TV building to establish initial contact with officials from the Egyptian Radio and Television Union (ERTU).9 This was the beginning of what turned out to be a three-month struggle to gain the entrance permit for the archive. My target was the talk show produced by the General Programme Network (shabakat al-barnamag al-‘amm),10 rather than religious sermons of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, which I was quite certain that the Noble Qur’an Radio would have. When I first approached the reception desk, however, the security officers introduced me to Ibrahim Magahid, the head of the Noble Qur’an Radio, in addition to ‘Abd alRahman Rashad of the General Programme Network. In the minds of security officers and the staff members of the General Programme, since ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was one of the ‘men of religion’ (rijal al-din), the shows he was in must obviously have had something to do with Islam. Thus, they thought his recordings would be classified under the heading ‘religious programmes’ in the archive, whereas according to the

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radio station staff, the talk shows that I had requested from the General Programme would be classified under ‘cultural programmes’ (barnamag thaqafi). This combination of the general public’s images of who ‘Abd al-Halim was and the classificatory categories within the Egyptian mass media industry made the staff members of the TV building certain that there would be no recordings of ‘Abd al-Halim listed under ‘cultural programmes’.

‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s Approach to Hadiths Recordings of radio lectures I studied at the archive were a selection which the generations of radio station staff who had known ‘Abd al-Halim in one way or another thought representative of his lectures. When I applied for permission to enter the radio station archive, I did not intend to focus on hadith lectures. The recordings I listened to – Hadith al-Sabah (Morning Talk), Hadi al-Nubuwa (Prophetic Guidance) and Min Buyut Allah (From the Houses of God) – were based on the list of programmes featuring ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud which the radio station archive staff compiled for me. When considering ‘Abd al-Halim’s approach to hadiths, however, the reason why the archive staff associated him with these programmes becomes apparent. Although the four Sunni schools of law unanimously make hadiths a second source of jurisprudence (behind the Qur’an), the history of Islamic thought shows that the status of hadiths in relation to the Qur’an was continuously debated.11 ‘Abd al-Halim was neither a muhaddith (hadith scholar) nor identified himself as part of a naqli (traditionist, scripturalist) current. In fact, he criticises both naqli and ‘aqli currents and asserts tasawwuf as the third path in approaching the revealed text (Mahmud 2003b). Yet the key concept in his writing, namely the Muslim life as manhaj al-ittiba‘, meaning the ‘way of following’ the Qur’an and Prophetic examples (Mahmud 2001[1976]: 178, Mahmud 1998 [1966]: 11), demonstrates his affinity with the pro-hadith camp. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s position in regard to hadiths is well explained, for instance, in his introduction to a commentary by a fifteenth-century scholar on the Sahih of al-Bukhari (Mahmud 1973). He takes a strictly mainstream Sunni position towards the hadith’s status in Islamic law in the sense that he does not question either the isnad

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(authoritative chain of transmission) or the matn (main text) of the hadiths collected by al-Bukhari and urges his readers to follow them as they are. Similar to taqlid, ittiba‘ is a legal term which came under the scrutiny of the modernist elites of the nineteenth century. In the premodern era, ‘tradition’ (taqlid) was synonymous with the established rulings of the four Sunni schools of law. Ittiba‘ was the positive affirmation of taqlid in the sense that ‘[one] who practices ittiba‘ follows the ruling of his madhab with full knowledge of the reasoning and the evidence upon which the ruling was based’ (Gesink 2010: 62). As mentioned in Chapter 1, starting from Hasan al-‘Attar, Rifa‘a al-Tahtawi and Muhammad ‘Abduh, elite Azharites with a modernist ethos started to question the validity of studying commentaries on scholarly literature and established rulings of legal schools in modern contexts replete with a variety of new issues with which Muslims needed to engage. The ‘ulama who resisted the reform equally understood the urgent need to find solutions to modern issues, yet they feared that a destruction of taqlid by overstating the value of ijtihad would lead to the moral disunity of the umma (Gesink 2003). It is important to note, however, that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud employs the legal vocabularies of nineteenth-century scholars as a conscious attempt to reclaim and embrace his intellectual heritage in the postcolonial Egypt when one’s connection to tradition had become rather difficult to locate. In Chapter 2, I discussed how ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s autobiography demonstrates his intention to locate his intellectual silsila in the reformist school. As Tetz Rooke has observed, his autobiography contains a series of polemical discourses on social systems and philosophies imported from the West, which had become more influential than the Islamic system in the 1970s Egypt. A number of passages allude to ‘the conflict between ittiba‘, the “following of tradition”, and ibtida‘ “innovation”’ in social affairs based on secular modernism (Rooke 1997: 94). His approach to hadith science indicates his affinity to Azharite scholars who resisted the ‘reform’. Much like his endeavours to reintroduce Sufism to the educated public of Egypt, his reform of al-Azhar aimed to reunite the umma by restoring the balance between taqlid and ijtihad in a modern context. He did this both by encouraging the study of Sufism and by putting greater emphasis on the study of hadiths than had been current in Egypt in the mid-twentieth century. Together with his efforts to

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expand the number of Qur’anic schools (Shalabi, R. 1982), he was equally enthusiastic in reforming hadith studies, with the aim of reinstating the role of Azharite scholars as transmitters of Islamic knowledge in modern Egypt. One of the first reforms he carried out when he became Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion in 1963 was to reintroduce both Sufi literature and a branch of hadith science (i.e. ‘ilm al-rijal, the science on hadith reporters) into the undergraduate curriculum.12 The reintroduction of ‘ilm al-rijal demonstrates ‘Abd al-Halim’s attempt to break with taqlid (intended in its negative, modernist understanding) so that students would not blindly follow guidance transmitted from the previous generation, but would instead critically examine each hadith so as to follow only sound principles derived from authentic sources (ittiba‘).

DJing Textual Sources The textual body of hadith collections are like the scripts of a play, waiting to be narrated. Each hadith is recorded in a conversational style (i.e. the transmitter heard God’s Messenger saying. . .) and the longer ones are similar to scenes from a play (as opposed to quotations of individual lines), including an accompanying detailed illustration of the context in which the dialogue took place (e.g. ‘Aisha transmitting the account of how the Messenger received the first revelation from the archangel Jibril on Mount Hira13), which facilitate their narration. Furthermore, reading hadiths in public lectures is one of the occasions for retelling these moral stories. As in Qur’anic recitation, when a skilled lecturer narrates a hadith, listeners re-experience the moment in which the Companions (sahaba) heard those words from the mouth of the Messenger, thereby confirming the meaning of the report. The programmes I listened to – Hadith al-Sabah (Morning Talk), Hadi al-Nubuwa (Prophetic Guidance) and Min Buyut Allah (From the Houses of God) – demonstrated ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s strength in hadith narration. While Hadith al-Sabah was called a ‘Qur’anic programme’ (barnamag al-qur’ani) and Hadi al-Nubuwa a programme on hadiths, such classifications were not important to ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. In both programmes, he proceeded by quoting Qur’anic verses, hadiths, prophetic biography and other scholarly literature. In most episodes, the amount of quotations exceeded ‘Abd al-Halim’s

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own words. As in the case of the munshid who recites Sufi poetry, ‘Abd al-Halim showcased his creativity in a DJ-type skill by producing ‘a new text, by applying collage operations to his poetic repertoire, including juxtaposing, editing, and repeating; embedding a fragment of one poem in another; and occasionally improvising new phrases’ (Frishkopf 2003: 94). Hadi al-Nubuwa was a lecture series on hadith produced during ‘Abd al-Halim’s office as Shaykh al-Azhar (1973 – 8). The show opens with Amin Basyuni (b. 1933)14 reciting a hadith: ‘I left with you the Book of God and my Sunna. If you adhered to them, you will never go astray’. Because this programme was produced by the Voice of the Arabs (sawt al-‘arab),15 unlike those on the Noble Qur’an Radio, there is rather melancholic yet grandiose Western orchestral-style music at the beginning and ending of the show. When the music tones down, he continues ‘His Excellency Grand Imam Dr ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, Shaykh al-Azhar, quotes from the prophetic guidance (qabasin min hadi al-nubuwa)’. When the music finishes, Basyuni recites the main body of the prophetic account, together with the chain of the transmitters. While the reliability of the matn or isnad was not always mentioned, the majority of the hadiths selected for the programme are classified as sound (sahih), at times fair (hasan), but never weak (da‘if).16 Each episode was approximately ten minutes long, but since the opening and ending of the programme took up two to three minutes, depending on the length of the hadith, ‘Abd al-Halim’s lectures lasted approximately seven minutes.17 Hadith lectures given in academic settings usually proceed in the style of a professor reading a hadith collection (e.g. the Sahih collection of al-Bukhari or The Forty Hadiths of al-Nawawi18) from the first page and giving a commentary on it. For instance, al-Nabrawi’s commentary on The Forty Hadiths of al-Nawawi used in al-Azhar high schools in the late 1960s19 organises as follows: 1) historical information about the transmitter’s relationship to the Prophet Muhammad;20 2) grammatical construction of the matn; 3) historical context of the narration; and 4) the lessons to be learned. However, since the Egyptian public school curriculum on Islam gives little emphasis to hadith,21 it would not be realistic to broadcast hadith lessons based on the entire Sahih collection of al-Bukhari and expect listeners to enjoy the show. Hence, the hadiths read on Hadi al-Nubuwa were a selection made by the programme staff, and not

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based on any of the famous collections. In the programme, when ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud gave the commentary, he skipped the background information to the hadith (1–3) and concentrated on its teaching (4). When I was transcribing episodes of varying lengths from the three programmes, I realised that one episode from Hadi al-Nubuwa22 contained exactly the same text as was used in Hadith al-Sabah, except that the former was a little longer. The episode in Hadith al-Sabah was titled ‘the Invitation to Good’ (al-da‘wa ila al-khayr). ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud started by reciting a verse from the Qur’an: ‘Let there arise out of you a band of people inviting to all that is good and enjoining what is right and forbidding what is wrong’ [3:104].23 In Hadi al-Nubuwa he gives a commentary on a well-known hadith: ‘Whoever of you sees an evil action, let him change it with his hand; and if he is not able to do so, then with his tongue; and if he is not able to do so, then with his heart, though this is the weakest of faith’.24 Since the main teaching of this hadith is that each individual is responsible for reprimanding others when witnessing an evil action (munkar), and this Qur’anic verse [3:104] directly states the fundamental principle of ‘commanding right and forbidding wrong’(amr bi al-ma‘ruf wa nahi ‘an al-munkar),25 there is no contradiction in ‘Abd al-Halim using one note for two episodes. However, Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim told me that his father never read notes when he delivered lectures.26 This topic arose after I asked him to show me some of ’Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s handwriting, be it in the form of book manuscripts, letters or lecture notes. When ‘Abd alHalim became extremely busy with administrative duties at al-Azhar in the late 1960s, he had three secretaries working for him to transcribe the manuscripts for articles or books. As he came out from overnight meditation, he orally conveyed his ideas to these secretaries. This was the same time slot reserved for the radio station crew, if they wanted to record a speech by him. In fact, all the manuscripts preserved at Mani’s study were written by his father’s secretaries, except for a small amount of editing ‘Abd al-Halim did himself. This raises the question of whether an individual can reproduce exactly the same text on different occasions, as in the case of these two episodes from radio recordings made by ‘Abd al-Halim without reading from notes. This is perhaps the same type of skill that theatre actors or musicians have that enables them to reproduce identical performances with great precision on different occasions.27

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‘Abd al-Halim may well have had a mental (or physical) catalogue of lecture notes which he drew on according to the subject matter he was asked to discuss. Considering the fact that he had gone through the scholarly training of al-Azhar before the 1930 reform, it might not have been too difficult for ‘Abd al-Halim to reproduce a text by browsing through a large volume of textual sources he knew by heart. As I mentioned in Chapter 1, the 1930 Reform Law was decisive in shaping the modern structure of Islamic education at al-Azhar as it officially divided knowledge of the Islamic sciences into three colleges (Dodge 1974: 149) and removed lessons from the courtyard of al-Azhar Mosque to what remains the Islamic Cairo campus of al-Azhar University. His traditional training thus enabled him to edit the main body of an oral performance, depending on the length of speech he was delivering or article he was preparing.

Connecting with the Audience Towards the end of the lecture on ‘the invitation to goodness’ in Hadith al-Sabah (and on the hadith on munkar in Hadi al-Nubuwa), ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud quotes a long passage from The Prophetic Biography by Ibn Ishaq (d. ca. 768), which he uses to demonstrate what it means to do good in the most difficult situations. The scene unfolds through dialogues in which ‘Abd al-Halim slightly changes the tone of his voice and speed according to the scenes and the characters he is narrating. When members of the Quraysh demanded Abu Talib (Muhammad’s paternal uncle), to surrender his nephew for the second time, Abu Talib becomes emotionally torn between loyalties toward his tribesmen on the one hand and his family member on the other. Seeing his uncle’s suffering, Muhammad reckons that Abu Talib is no longer capable of being his guardian and says: ‘O my uncle, by God, if they put the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left hand28 on condition that I abandon this course, until God has made it victorious, or I perish in therein, I would not abandon it’ (Guillaume 1955: 119). While I was grappling with what was, for me, an unfamiliar type of classical Arabic, my Arabic teacher Salwa (b.1984)29 pointed out that this was a particularly moving scene for believers. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud finishes his quote with this bold statement by the Prophet Muhammad, but in the original text of the biography Muhammad starts

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crying because of the sadness and fear he feels about separation from his beloved uncle. Realising this, Abu Talib calls back his nephew and promises that he would never surrender him to the Quraysh. Although Abu Talib never converted to Islam, he remained Muhammad’s strongest ally until the end of his life. Salwa added, ‘Observing the Prophet Muhammad’s strong attachments to Abu Talib and his wife Khadija, God took them away from him in 619 so that he would seek support in Him only. Hence, this is called ‘am al-huzn, the year of sadness’.30 When quoting these dialogue scenes from The Prophetic Biography, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was aware of the emotional effect these words would have on his listeners. As they heard the lecture, listeners would recall their knowledge of the topic as well as remember the stories behind the narrated scene. Because these stories demonstrate patriarchal love, loyalty, and devotion in an ideal form – social values on which most Egyptians are raised – no matter how many times it is narrated, the audience would not object to listening to it again. The distance between principle and practice – that believers ought to strive toward this level of love even though it is not easy to realise it – increases the value of repeating the story. Again we see why it should be emphasised that the narrations of these stories do not primarily aim at providing entirely new knowledge to the audience. By listening to the same story at different ages, in various emotional states and social situations, the audience may attach different meanings to the story, as in the case of listening to the recitation of the Qur’an or Sufi poetry.

Establishing the Frame to Communicate the Idea Among a number of episodes from Hadi al-Nubuwa, the hadith that ‘Abd al-Halim’s ideas resonated with most clearly is as follows: ‘He who innovates something in this matter of ours that is not of it will have it rejected’.31 In contrast to other episodes, in which ‘Abd al-Halim builds his argument by quoting famous authors, he speaks more or less in his words throughout this lecture. In his Forty Hadiths collection, alNawawi lists this hadith as the fifth. Together with the one listed first (‘Actions are but by intention and every man shall have but that which he intended. . .’),32 he regarded this fifth hadith as the most important one, which all Muslims should memorise.33 The commentary on The Forty Hadiths in the al-Azhar-affiliated high school textbook explains

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this hadith as a lesson to teach the concept of bid‘a (heretical innovation). ‘He who innovates something in this matter of ours that is not of it’ means introducing something contradictory to the principles of Islam, or that previously did not exist in it, be it an action, speech, or belief. Then the textbook cites two standard verses of the Qur’an which support this argument: This day have I perfected your religion for you. [5:3]34 Oh Ye who believe! Put not yourselves forward before Allah and His Messenger; but fear Allah. For Allah He Who hears and knows all things. [49:1]35 The second part of the hadith, which states that he ‘will have it rejected’ ( fa-huwa radd), means unlawfully innovated matters will not be accepted by God or returned to the doer on the Judgement Day. For instance, both exaggerating and breaking the Ramadan fast are equivalent to bid‘a (Al-Gundi 1964: 28– 9). While this is the standard commentary on this hadith for an introductory-level learner, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud uses the narration of this hadith as an occasion to discuss his favourite topic – the status of reasoning (‘aql) in Islam (see Chapter 3). He even wrote a book for teaching this subject at the College of Fundamentals of the Religion titled Islam and Reason (Mahmud 1998 [1966]). Instead of using the concept of bid‘a to explain what one should not do, he emphasises the ability of strong faith to bring one’s self closer to God. Religion was revealed to guide the human mind in specific matters related to metaphysics, morality and law. This is because, when it comes to these three matters, people would be easily divided if they were to use only their reason, because values may differ greatly according to the time and place. ‘Abd al-Halim was able to express his ideas without quoting many textual sources, in contrast with the other topics he addresses in this lecture, because at the beginning he says: According to Imam Muslim, the meaning of this hadith is, Messenger of God (PBUH) said: ‘whosoever performs a deed which does not belong to this matters of ours is to be rejected’, that this hadith defines that all the innovations are to be rejected and the destructions of errors are to be disproved. (83098 nun episode 1)

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By evoking the authority of Imam Muslim (d. 875), the renowned hadith scholar, ‘Abd al-Halim communicates to his audiences that he knows the main teaching of this hadith. This sentence establishes the narrative frame of the lecture and thus allows him to deliver his commentaries without reference to other authoritative sources.

A French Touch? One of the more commonly repeated statements my informants made and one which particularly encouraged me realise the significance of listening to the radio recordings was that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s ideas seemed very ‘French’ to their ears, unlike other scholars in Azharite garb. Because it was rather difficult to decipher ‘the French element’ in ‘Abd al-Halim’s speech, I initially hypothesised that this was really simply down to the public knowing he was a graduate of the Sorbonne. During the interviews, however, I became aware of the profound impact ‘Abd al-Halim’s ‘name-dropping’ performances had on the audience’s imagination in establishing his intellectual profile as ‘a French-trained scholar’ regardless of their knowledge of his academic background. In an episode from Hadi al-Nubuwa explaining the divine nature of the Qur’an, after quoting verses from the Qur’an and hadiths, he lists the names of the leading scholars of religious studies in France: Charles Genevie´re and Charles Quimma were the heads of the History of Religion department at the Sorbonne. Lutes and Gemmon-Pierre had authored various books. They have indeed said that ‘we read the Qur’an now as it was revealed to Muhammad’, peace be upon him. (73098 nun episode 6)36 Such statements brought excitement to Ibrahim, a clerk in his thirties, who was in charge of playing for me the tapes at the archive. He remarked that ‘Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim is a good scholar because his lectures bring scientific knowledge (‘ilm) to religion (din)’. I asked him to elaborate his points because, since it was so self-evident to Muslims that God revealed the Qur’an to the Prophet Muhammad, why would they need the words of Orientalists in this context? He replied:

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Of course, the idea of ‘the Qur’an as God’s speech’ is self-evident to us because we are brought up in such an environment. However, explaining this idea to non-believers requires ‘ilm. Thus, the words of Orientalists are useful to us, as they make the religion scientific. But not all scholars have the capacity to discuss Islam in this way like Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim. In spite of Ibrahim’s lack of awareness of ‘Abd al-Halim’s French educated background, his scholarly credentials are transmitted to his audience by his listing of the names of French scholars and their positions at university. In the recording, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud simply lists their names and says, ‘He is the Head of History of Religion’ or ‘He published many books’ without giving their titles. While he is precise when quoting the Qur’an or hadith, he does not specify his sources when quoting the works of Orientalists. Nevertheless, his oratorical skills in narrating the Qur’an and hadiths, helped by the ephemeral nature of knowledge produced through radio broadcasts, prevent him from receiving criticism for this. Instead, his listing of French scholars conveys an image to the audience that he had mastered both traditional Islamic and modern Western sciences. This account again illustrates that what the audiences are looking for in an Islamic education programme is the confirmation of faith, rather than new knowledge of Islam.

Performative Interpretation of the Text In contrast to the two other shows discussed in this chapter, Min Buyut Allah (From the Houses of God) contained much livelier lectures of half an hour.37 The shows were recorded mostly at mosques and other public places across Egypt (e.g. a lawyer’s club or a sporting club38) before live audiences, but occasionally also at the Noble Qur’an Radio studio in Cairo. The show started with the presenter reading the programme title, with a small echo effect commonly used in musical performance, and then giving an extended introduction of the topic, concluding with the phrase ‘in light of the Noble Qur’an and the guidance of the Great Messenger (PBUH) we live, oh my brothers, with his Excellency, Professor Dr ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’. Throughout the lecture, one can hear the audience responding to ‘Abd al-Halim’s words. Compared to Hadi al-Nubuwa and Hadith

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al-Sabah, the programmes recorded in studio, the vocal quality and linguistic registers that he employs in the lecture are much more varied. He recites the hadiths as if he is narrating a line from a play, changing the speed and tone of his voice. Unlike the studio recording in which he speaks only in fusha, before the live audience he adjusts the level of language according to his audience, occasionally using fusha expressions closer to Egyptian colloquial, as he comments on the verses of the Qur’an or hadiths that he is narrating.39 For instance, in the episode titled ‘Attributes of God’s Friends (sifat awliya’ allah) from the Qur’anic point of view’, in order to illustrate what it means to completely submit oneself to God’s path, ‘Abd al-Halim quotes a hadith saying: ‘One of the Companions was at the service of God’s Messenger (PBUH)’. The audience repeats, ‘Peace be upon him’. ‘Abd al-Halim continues, ‘and God’s Messenger (PBUH) was happy with him (masruru min-hu). So, one day, he said to him “Ask me” (sa’al-ni). “Ask” meaning ask me something (ya‘ni is’al-ni shay min al-ashiya). Ask me to give you money. Ask me to give you food. Ask me to give you clothes. (‘Abd al-Halim pauses a little.) He said to him “Ask me”’. What did the Companion ask? He didn’t ask for clothes. Not for food. Not for money. But indeed he said, (‘Abd al-Halim pauses again and resumes his speech slowly) ‘I ask you for your company in Paradise’. The audience exclaims, ‘Allah’ (how wonderful)! (44118 nun) In this way he narrates the hadith to the end. By comparing his words with the original text of this hadith, it becomes apparent how ‘Abd alHalim rephrases the matn to enhance its meaning without hindering the flow of narration: It is narrated on the authority of Rabi‘a bin Ka‘ba al-Asali, may God be satisfied with him, who said I was with God’s Messenger (PBUH) one evening. I brought him the water and what he required [for ablution], he said to me ‘Ask’ (sa’al). I said, ‘I ask you for your company in Paradise’. He said ‘And anything else?’ I said, ‘That is all’. He said, ‘Then help me [to achieve this for you] by praying a lot’. (Muslim VI no. 990)

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Firstly, although ‘Abd al-Halim abbreviates the transmitter’s name, the audience understands that he was a close companion of the Prophet Muhammad, since he was fond of the man and he was at his service. Secondly, ‘Abd al-Halim replaces the verb ‘ask’ (sa’al) in the original with ‘he said to him “ask me” (sa’al-ni)’ because he is narrating from the third person’s point of view, but the fact that the Prophet Muhammad asked his companion if he needed anything from him will come through. Thirdly, he gives examples of what the Companion could have asked the Prophet in an almost redundant manner, to emphasise the piety of his request. In the abstract there is nothing remarkable about this lecture, since it is a well-known hadith narrating the importance of prayer, and giving an interpretation of such phrases is a standard method of hadith studies. The audience nevertheless applauds ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud for reminding them of this hadith.

Narrating Hadiths for the Nation Min Buyut Allah was the only show among the three for which some recording dates and places were available. As I stated earlier, this programme was recorded all over Egypt before live audiences but occasionally also at the Noble Qur’an Radio studio in Cairo. ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud had rightly assumed that radio would become a powerful medium in educating the Egyptian nation.The centrality of Cairo to Egyptian society is symbolised in the term misr, which means ‘Egypt’ in Arabic. Yet in Egyptian colloquial Arabic, misr is synonymous with the city name of ‘Cairo’. The objective of broadcasting live lectures from public places outside Cairo seems to be an attempt to reduce the centre– periphery divide within the state and thereby spread a more unified sense of national identity. Live broadcasting of a hadith lecture from a mosque in Zaqaziq produces a fictional sense that it should also be the concern of citizens in Cairo, Damanhur, Tanta, and Asyut. Among the 27 episodes of Min Buyut Allah I listened to at the archive, the oldest recording was from 30 May 1968, when ‘Abd al-Halim was Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. This coincides with the period in which ‘Abd al-Halim started to become a public personality. The archive of al-Ahram publishing house holds a collection of newspaper clippings sorted according to the names of public personalities, institutions, incidents, etc. The file of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud starts

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from 23 July 1963, when he was appointed Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. This is an indication that ‘Abd al-Halim’s status as a public personality was established during this period of time. When he became the Secretary General of the Islamic Research Academy in January 1969, national newspaper articles reporting on ‘Abd al-Halim’s daily activities significantly increased. Indeed, when he was appointed Minister of Pious Endowments and al-Azhar Affairs, there were one or two articles in the press every day concerning ‘Abd al-Halim’s trips to various places in Egypt and overseas. One can well imagine the impact these lectures had on the imagination of a youth from Zaqaziq in Sharqiya Governate, who could attend a live lecture by a public personality appearing daily in newspapers and radio shows on various stations. Suddenly, ‘al-Azhar alSharif (the noble Azhar)’, which had seemed a distant presence in a faraway place called ‘Cairo’, was here in the local sporting club. Although Zaqaziq is less than two hours drive from Cairo, and is one of the larger cities located in the Nile Delta, going to Cairo was a major event for the Delta provincials in the 1960s and 1970s. Live radio broadcasts made a Zaqaziq neighbourhood a part of ‘the Houses of God’. As much as the content of the talk, the experience of being part of the show must have been quite a novelty for such audiences.

Conclusion This chapter examined ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s style of speech in his radio lectures on prophetic hadiths in order to understand the aspects of his scholarly performance that impressed on the audiences outside of scholarly communities that he was an authentic scholar. ‘Abd al-Halim’s performances on radio broadcast demonstrated his mastery of literary Arabic by adjusting the level of vocabulary and expressions to the receptivity of his shifting audiences. The soundness of his knowledge was, for massified lay audiences, illustrated by quoting established textual sources (i.e. the Qur’an and hadith) in what they considered an appropriate context. However, ‘Abd al-Halim’s uniqueness was in his occasional mentioning of European authors and their works. These apparently ‘name-dropping’ performances communicated to the audiences a sense of ‘culturedness’ that conventional Azharites lacked. The performatively ‘proper and sound’ interpretation of a specific subject

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was also communicated through the varying tone of the voice and the speed of the speech, as well as the art of pausing when reciting a wellknown episode from the prophetic biography, hadith or Qur’anic verse. In this way ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and his audiences share the task of producing the meaning of the speech via the latter’s appreciation of his style of performance. The embodied nature of textual knowledge in Islamic scholarship has been discussed by historians and anthropologists of the Middle East. An examination of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s radio lectures on hadiths as a genre of expressive culture demonstrates the manners in which this characteristic of Islamic scholarship and the skills that ‘Abd al-Halim had gained through his Azharite training were put into practice. His mastery of the common stock of Islamic knowledge as well as classical Arabic made him a credible scholar in the eyes of his audience and licensed him to communicate his ideas within the framework of the public discourse of formalised aestheticism. As in the other genres of artistic performance in Egypt, what the public expected in ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was the confirmation of what they knew as correct Islamic faith, and he was aware that public lectures on national radio were not occasions to present his personal opinion. Yet his individuality was present in his lectures as what my informants called uslub. Seemingly rigid rules associated with the public discourse on formal aestheticism allowed a performer to express individuality only after she or he had evidenced their mastery of the form. In Chapter 6, I will conclude my study by looking at how educated Egyptians from middle-class backgrounds employ various images and knowledge about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud produced through the mass media when defining their ideas about an authentic scholar.

CHAPTER 6 BEING A CREDIBLE SCHOLAR

This chapter looks at the function of the mass media in regard to both bestowing and diminishing ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s credentials as an authentic scholar. By drawing on the discussions I had with educated Egyptian Muslims from middle-class backgrounds on what they would expect from an authentic scholar on the one hand, and good scholarship on the other, I shall illustrate the complexity of defining ‘Abd al-Halim’s public intellectual profile. As I discussed in Chapter 3, ‘Abd al-Halim’s success in expanding the readership of Sufi literature to non-Sufi audiences stems from the channels through which he chose to communicate with them. By turning to the mass media, ‘Abd al-Halim managed to generate the notion of Sufism as a culture rooted in the authentic tradition of Islam derived from the Qur’an and sunna. Marketed in the form of print media, Sufism became a cultural commodity, which non-specialists could purchase and acquire on their own and at will, independent of the mediations of shaykhly figures. The idea of Islamic knowledge as culture is well exemplified in the series in Maktabat Misr (later Dar al-Kitab al-‘Arabi) entitled al-Maktabat al-Thaqafiyya (‘cultural library’), which ‘Abd al-Halim published during the 1960s. Although he only published books on Islamic subjects,1 this series is advertised as ‘the first collection that explores the culture of socialism. The series allows all readers to sit at home with a comprehensive library containing all types of knowledge written by professors and specialists’ (Mahmud 1965, 1966: back cover). In the midst of socialist discourse, ‘culture’ is not defined as a form of

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Figure 6.1 A book shelf at Cairo Book Fair, 2008, dedicated to ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud’s work.

abstract knowledge that marks social class distinctions but is equated with practical skills that would collectively bring the nation forward regardless of its content. ‘Knowledge (ma‘rifa) [of national and humanist thought] provides . . . weapons which contribute to the victory in the battle of daily life’ (Mahmud 1968, 1971: back cover). In other words, cultivating knowledge of the Islamic sciences could be one of the many ways of contributing to the development of one’s homeland. Ethnographic insights I gained from interviews demonstrated how imagined relationships the readers construct with the author replaced the intimate nature of knowledge transmitted through a master and disciple relationship. It should be emphasised that the idea of acquiring knowledge of Sufism through ‘self-learning materials’ contradicts the general theory of Sufism, which emphasises the superiority of ma‘rifa (intuitive knowledge gained through Sufi practices) over and against mere ‘ilm (bookish knowledge). Yet practising Sufis from the educated middle classes do seem to consider

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acquiring knowledge about faith through written texts as an acceptable supplement to their shaykh’s teaching. In contrast, readers who are outside of Sufi circles consider reading these books as an occasion to cultivate their cultured self as a marker of class distinction. As we have seen in the case of the Cairo University graduate presented in Chapter 3, since most educated Egyptians are no longer familiar with the master – disciple style of learning prevalent before the al-Azhar reforms discussed in Chapter 1, they tend to be uneasy about seeking spiritual guidance from shaykhly figures in person. However, they might nevertheless be willing to access the teachings of a Sufi shaykh through his publications. ‘Abd al-Halim’s strategy for transmitting his ideas through the mass media corresponded to the demands of educated Egyptian Muslims who were searching for ways to connect their eagerly cultivated and displayed piety with a modern lifestyle. He was able to tune in to the increasing desire of middle-class Egyptians to be ‘cultured’, which was nurtured by the spread of mass education and further shaped by mass-mediated images of a good and modern lifestyle. Such earnest desire for culture as the avenue to citizenship in the modern world, and to a civilised life up to date with what is good and reasonable, is at the foundation of a flourishing teach-yourself market for Islamic learning.

The Ghazali of the Twentieth Century ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was (and, posthumously, remains) a public intellectual who appeared in print media accessible to non-specialists of Islamic sciences. Around the turn of the millennium, for instance, the popular women’s magazine Nisf al-Dunya2 launched a two-part article celebrating him as ‘the Ghazali of the Twentieth Century’. Other magazines and newspapers published similar articles.3 In the history of Islamic thought, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (1058–1111) is distinguished for theoretically bridging the gap between tasawwuf and fiqh (Islamic jurisprudence) as fields of knowledge.4 However, when average educated Egyptians hear the name ‘al-Ghazali’, they tend to associate it with the contemporary ‘alim and preacher Muhammad al-Ghazali rather than with the Hujjat al-Islam (the proof of Islam, a title ascribed to the eleventh-century al-Ghazali). Nevertheless, for the cultured audience (i.e. the readership of this magazine), the name ‘al-Ghazali’ is expected to

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carry the connotation of an indisputably distinguished and intellectually balanced scholar, who could be characterised as a philosopher, a faqih (jurist) or a Sufi, depending on the social context of whoever renderssuch a judgement. ‘Abd al-Halim is a modern ‘Ghazali’ in the eyes of educated Egyptian Muslims because he received his education at the best universities in the Sunni Islamic world and in the West – al-Azhar and the Sorbonne. This association of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud with Abu Hamid alGhazali is also a cumulative result of ‘Abd al-Halim’s methodical endeavour at self-representation in mass-mediated image production. As mentioned above in Chapter 2, ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiography turns on the narration of an intellectual crisis suffered by him at one crucial point in his life, and on his ability to overcome it and regain complete confidence in God. This trope would remind cultured audiences of Abu Hamid al-Ghazali’s The Deliverance from Error. An episode from a radio talk show featuring ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, Ma‘ al-‘Ulama (with scholars), conveyed an image of him as a great ‘alim, who could even be called a wali (saint).5 This programme opened with classical music (a common general convention for marking a show’s ‘high culture’ standing),6 followed by an extended narration of ‘Abd al-Halim’s brilliant academic career as a French-trained Azharite ‘alim. This introduction was prepared by the celebrated writer ‘Ali al-Muwallid. According to one of my interlocutors who spent his youth in the 1970s enthusiastically listening to the radio, in those days this writer’s name would have immediately reminded the listeners that they were about to hear the words of a prestigious person. Such an elaborate introduction was there to remind the listeners of the speaker’s credentials, thereby enhancing the reliability of what ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud would then say. After this introduction, ‘Abd al-Halim would start speaking in fusha (literary Arabic) with a calm and gentle tone of voice, in the name of God the Merciful.7 In this way, the notion of the authentic scholar was produced through a combination of conventions well-known to listeners from other cultural venues (e.g. refined classical music and an elaborate introduction), even before ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud uttered his first word. Together with him being a devout Sufi, the other element which constitutes ‘Abd al-Halim’s fame is his image as an exemplarily ‘alim deeply committed to social justice. He was a celebrity who appeared on

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television with President Sadat, gave lectures on radio, and wrote numerous articles in magazines and newspapers. Yet he was known for his humble lifestyle and reserved personality. For instance, shortly after his death in October 1978, ‘Abd al-Halim’s obituary in the Muslim Brotherhood magazine al-I‘tisam (resistance) praised his keen sense of social justice and kindness towards fellow Muslims from lower social strata.8 The article starts by giving a series of examples to show how modest he was in renting a small apartment in Zaytun, a popular quarter of Northern Cairo, and how generous he was in financially supporting those who were struggling to get by. His private life was contrasted with the stereotypical image of Azharites as opportunists, who would purchase expensive real estate properties while ignoring social welfare issues. This unexpected combination of images of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud – a distinguished ‘alim with a modest lifestyle, in contrast to other religious authorities – makes him a unique model. This obituary played a significant role in producing a heroic aura for ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, as it was reproduced in his main biographies (i.e. Shalabi, R 1982 and Shalabi, M 1982). As we have observed in Chapter 4, his musalsal followed the same narrative, carefully highlighting these elements to reinforce his saintly image. In this way, the mass media contributed to producing the public image of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as a model of the good and modern Muslim, but also – and most importantly – of an example of how a learned man with public responsibilities ought to be.

Nobody’s Shaykh But Everybody’s ‘Abd al-Halim Compared to the numerous people I encountered in Egypt who claimed to know about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, however, it was very rare to find individuals who had had personal interactions with him or even read his books. He seems to be nobody’s shaykh but everybody’s ‘Abd al-Halim at the same time. His name is inscribed on the entrance of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion of al-Azhar University, yet there is no sign of ‘a school of ‘Abd al-Halim’ developing within the university. Furthermore, he took only a handful of disciples (Schleifer 1991: 203)9 and was never the shaykh of a large-scale institutionalised Sufi order. In replying to my question with regard to the place of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud in contemporary Egyptian society, a blind Azharite ‘alim, who studied with him, said ‘Dr ‘Abd al-Halim was a social phenomenon, on a

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par with Muhammad al-Ghazali and Muhammad Mutawalli alSha‘rawi’.10 What these three personalities have in common is that they are leading public intellectuals whose fame was generated and sustained by their constant presence in the mass media – quite apart from any concrete specialist knowledge or experience of them that a given individual might have. This former student gave me one or two titles of books that ‘Abd al-Halim used in his lectures, but had nothing more to tell me about his late professor other than that he was a respectable ‘alim. In this way, although memories of ‘Abd al-Halim in wide sections of the Egyptian public seem well rooted, it is much more difficult to locate those roots with precision. Nevertheless, one thing that my meetings with his former students made me understand was that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was a celebrity to whom members of the general public were eager to claim connections. Most of them did not have more information about their late professor than what I could acquire from newspaper or magazine articles, yet they often asserted that they recognised in him the original station of their personal silsila. The fragmented nature of memories of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud can be explained by what sociologist Saeko Ishita characterises as ‘the nature of a mass media community’ (Ishita 1998: 33 –8). The mass media produces abstract audiences, well before the receiver of the information comes into existence. When speaking of somebody’s fame, we employ this concept as if it is knowledge shared by ‘everybody’. However, in reality, we have never encountered in person specific instances of ‘everybody’, and so this sense of community in the judgement of fame is a product of images we experience through the mass media.11 While the knowledge of ‘fame’ accumulated through media experiences tends to be vague and fragmented, the possession of this knowledge licences us to become a part of the community of judgement. Although there have been very few academic studies done on ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud both inside and outside Egypt, there can be no doubt that he is one of the most well-known religious personalities in his country. For instance, on the front cover of the Encyclopaedia of 1000 Egyptian Personalities, which lists iconic figures of twentieth-century Egypt, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s portrait is in the company of 46 other faces, including Sa‘d Zaghlul, Taha Hussein, ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad, Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi, and others who ‘left tangible imprints on the key matters of modern Egyptian society’ (al-Mut‘i 2006: back cover).

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Visual expressions of an object without verbal explanation (e.g. a photograph of the Eiffel Tower in a travel guide) indicate the highest degree of fame in modern society, in which the mass media is omnipresent. Such representations communicate to the viewer that what s/he is looking at is ‘something famous’ which is widely known to people (Ishita 1998: 25).12 However, ‘fame’ is a double-edged sword (ibid. 3–4). While ‘fame’ represents a symbol of success in contemporary society, it also entails a notion of falsity, as the phrase ‘famous person’ may evoke the perception that s/he is a mere name, and that the praise given to her or him goes beyond the actual ability of the person. This is especially notable when it comes to public intellectuals like ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and others, as the measurement of their ‘fame’ is sustained largely by the frequency of their appearances in the mass media. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s presence in the mass media made his work authentic in the eyes of non-specialist audiences and he became a national hero whose legacy was considered worth celebrating by the production of a biopic musalsal. However, in contrast to the general public, the ‘specialists’ – Egyptian Orientalists – seem to have a different assessment. As I demonstrated in Chapter 3, the recognition of ‘Abd alHalim as ‘a great ‘alim’, equivalent of ‘the Ghazali of the twentieth century’, is limited to non-specialist audiences and is markedly less widespread within the scholarly community. Some high-ranking scholars and Sufi shaykhs I met in Cairo expressed their reservations about the value of studying the work of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as the subject of a doctoral thesis. Some even stated that ‘Abd al-Halim must have been a thief or a liar, who stole the works of other scholars.

The Notion of Uslub in Media Islam When discussing people’s evaluations of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work in relation to other famous preachers or scholars known to the public, the term uslub was frequently mentioned, and it puzzled me. Uslub is an Arabic term conventionally glossed in English as ‘method’, ‘style’, or ‘way’. In this particular context of media Islam, however, uslub means specifically the manner in which one approaches a subject and presents it to an audience. This term was frequently used both to praise and criticise public personalities. My informants would say, for instance, ‘Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim has a good uslub, which makes me want to listen to him

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more, but I cannot stand listening to Shaykh al-Tantawi (d. 2010, former Shaykh al-Azhar) speaking on television because his uslub is awful’. Likewise, when people praised Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi or ‘Amr Khaled13, they claimed it was due to their uslub. The reason why such statements were initially puzzling to me was that I assumed that when listening to Islamic education programmes, the audience would be primarily concerned with the content – i.e. that they were expecting to hear something new that would enrich their knowledge. However, as I demonstrated in Chapter 5, since my interlocutors were all quite familiar with the textual sources performed in these programmes, they did not seem eager to enter scholarly debates over their meanings, and thus preferred to focus on uslub. When I visited Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim one evening, he turned off the television as he welcomed me to his flat. Although I only had a glance at the show, it was obvious that he was watching some sort of a talk show on Islam. Then he lamented: ‘Those preachers on television gained their fame because they acquired a suitable style to talk on programmes. There is nothing new in what they say since they are simply repeating what the scholarly communities had known for centuries’. He continued, averring that his father ‘was different because he always worked on improving the content of his speech’. Nevertheless, as earlier examples showed, ‘Abd al-Halim’s audiences viewed the matter otherwise. While listening to radio recordings of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud with me, my interlocutors would often state that they did not find anything new in his speech. Of course, none of them had received formal training in Islamic sciences but even so they felt confident in expressing the opinion that his lessons did not contain any new knowledge or teaching that they had not previously heard from other scholars. In spite of this lack of ‘newness’ (let alone the more culturally loaded term, ‘originality’), they continued to enjoy listening to the tape recordings with me because they felt that ‘Shaykh ‘Abd alHalim had a good uslub’. When I interviewed the scenario writer, Bahi al-Din Ibrahim, I asked him what the Egyptian public actually meant by uslub, for instance when people said that Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi or ‘Amr Khaled have a good uslub. He replied: Islam is like a cake (keika). Whatever pastry you are baking, you would use the same set of ingredients such as flour, sugar and eggs.

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The end product will vary according to the amount of each ingredient you used. But you will still get a cake.14 In other words, in the perception of the general public, and in the assessment of media professionals, mass-mediated lectures on Islamic faith are based on the same stock of knowledge – but the different layers of meanings are produced through the context in which a verse of the Qur’an or hadith is quoted. Different contexts are produced also by changing the speed and tone of voice or pausing between the lines. For those who are not used to eating this cake, it may seem simply sweet or heavy but once they are familiar with the taste, they can identify the skill of the patissier.

Uslub of Good Scholarship The term uslub also appears in educational or academic environments. Once I asked my friend Ahmad (b. 1980), a doctoral student specialised in classical Sufism, to evaluate the research papers on ‘Abd al-Halim’s book by al-Azhar students from the College of Fundamentals of the Religion.15 I thought my request would not be too much of an imposition because I knew he was used to marking huge numbers of term papers of undergraduate students at Minufiya University where he was enrolled. After rapidly going through approximately 50 papers, he concluded: Some students had good writing skills but none of them had uslub. Besides, there is nothing new in their research. This absence of uslub is the most serious problem of Egyptian scholarship! Unlike the Orientalists of the west, Egyptian scholars don’t have any uslub. I always found it puzzling when Ahmad said Egyptian scholars (including ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud) lacked uslub while Western Orientalists paradoxically ‘had it’, because I never understood what he meant by the uslub of Oriental studies. Rather than depending on a clear-cut methodological theory or resting on a precise analytical framework, the field of Islamic studies is built on the disciplinary assumption that the examination of textual sources in an original

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language, rather than in translation, would bring formidable knowledge to the field. Ahmad was introduced to Sufism as a scholarly field through his mentor, Giuseppe Scattolin (b. 1942), an Italian Catholic Orientalist residing in Cairo for over 30 years. He became enchanted especially with philological techniques demonstrated in the critical editions of Sufi classics. His excitement was comparable to the Azharite reformists of the nineteenth century who travelled abroad, as described in Chapter 1. Philologically guided text analysis is based on mastering a scholarly tradition mainly consisting in restoring and presenting the authenticity of a given text from the past. Yet, due to the evolutionist narrative that underpins modern science, the end product of philological work is regarded as ‘new’. Oriental studies in a philological sense are therefore a mid-way point between a tradition of practice and the modernist bias towards ascertaining and producing newness. Orientalists’ ability to restore manuscripts with great precision by comparing and contrasting various versions, identifying dates and historical epochs, and relating them to one another proved to Ahmad that the study of Sufism was a modern Western science. Ahmad disparages ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s edition of Sufi classics because he did not cite the version of the manuscripts that he used, which is a basic philological requirement.16 Considering the postcolonial context of the 1960s it seemed obvious to me that because ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s objective was to ‘repatriate’ the knowledge of Sufi classics from the hands of Western Orientalists to educated Egyptians and possibly new generations of Egyptian Orientalists, he gave annotations to the main text in the footnote. After all, how many Egyptian academics would have an opportunity to study the manuscripts stored in Egyptian archives, or travel to Europe to verify ‘Abd al-Halim’s edition of Sufi classics from manuscripts preserved in university libraries? However, in Ahmad’s view, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud had completely wasted the opportunity to become a real scientist (the original meaning of ‘alim), in spite of having the experience of studying at the Sorbonne with Louis Massignon. This was an opportunity Ahmad craved. Both Ahmad and ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud were born in the same village in the Nile Delta yet, being from a lower social strata, Ahmad could never imagine going to Europe for his doctoral studies. In this sense, his initiation into the study of Sufism through an Italian Orientalist in Cairo was already a dream scenario for him.

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However, it was still not clear to me what Ahmad meant by saying that the research papers by Azharite students lacked uslub. Hence, I spontaneously replied that: Since these research papers were written for a competition among university students, rather than for academic journals, students are not expected to bring any new knowledge to the field. In the Anglo-American context, such papers would be evaluated by the way students structure an argument and how convincingly the ideas are conveyed. In fact, Hussein Abdel-Halim, who is a committed member of the the Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Association, informed me that they organised this contest to provide an opportunity for Azharite students to learn how to produce a typed research paper in a presentable manner (i.e. with a title page, a table of contents, and a list of bibliographic references, etc.) because this was a kind of training which they rarely received.17 Yet my statement opened up new problems. ‘Having a point and making an argument’, in the sense of taking a clear position on a given issue in one’s writing, is often touted as part of the basic training school children receive in the AngloAmerican context. However, I had great difficulty explaining this idea to many educated Egyptians, including graduate students. Possible Arabic translations of ‘argument’ would be ta‘lil (justification) and qadiya (issue) as these are the expressions used in legal or theological debate, when ‘making a case’. The term uslub, by contrast, can be perhaps better seen as a way of articulating a type of academic skill located somewhere in the middle, somewhere between having an original argument on an issue and having acquired the scholastic formalism to communicate one’s idea. In other words, presenting an academically authenticated ‘newness’ is predicated on mastering a tradition. The newness of one’s idea is indeed cherished, but it has to be framed in a scholarly credible manner. By its focus on uslub, therefore, the general public in Egypt does incorporate a judgement on scholarly capacities and even originality, yet in ways that are different from the general academic practice in an Anglo-American context or, more specifically, from what the philologically oriented Orientalist tradition encourages us to expect.

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Between Correctness and Creativity One evening during the month of Ramadan in 2008, I had an appointment with Karim (b. 1981) in one of the outdoor shisha (water pipe) cafes in Bursa, a pedestrianised area in downtown Cairo. Although he was then a Master’s student, he was perhaps the closest young disciple to Hasan Hanafi, as he was the most trusted Assistant Lecturer (mu‘id) in the Department of Philosophy at Cairo University. When Hasan Hanafi appointed Karim as my tutor, I subsequently became Karim’s English conversation partner. Similar to Ahmad, Karim had the ambition to earn his doctorate from a European or North American university. While Bursa is located at what used to be the heart of both cultural production and financial power in the early twentieth century, as marked by such historic buildings as the Cairo Stock Exchange (bursa) and the first national radio station hiding behind tall palm trees, it is rather difficult to trace its glorious past at first glance. However, the shisha cafes of this newly pedestrianised outdoor mall used to attract would-be intellectuals, artists and writers who flock to this area to meet their peers due to its convenient location and affordable prices until they were closed down in May 2015. Besides his numerous duties at the department, Karim occupies himself in poetry writing. After exchanging updates on my research project and his poetry writing, Karim told me about his experience in Marsa Matruh, a beach resort on the Mediterranean, west of Alexandria, that he went to over the summer with 140 people from Cairo University. When they reached Marsa, he discovered that most of them were salafieen. I said, ‘Oh, the ones with beards like this?’ mimicking a beardstroking gesture. He said ‘Yes, but I really didn’t know until I got there that they were ALL like that! It was one of the toughest weeks in my entire life. They wanted me to pray at dawn, although that was the time I usually went to bed. And, when I didn’t pray, they accused me of being a kafir (unbeliever).’ I empathised with Karim by nodding. He continued: ‘Although they wanted to hear my poems, once I read them, they were really shocked because many of them were about shaytan (the devil).’ Those days, Karim was working on the theme of Faust and the devilish nature of human beings. ‘However, during our stay in Marsa Matruh’, he continued, ‘I managed to make some friends. They admired my poems, saying that they were creative!’

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The word ‘creative’ immediately caught my attention, as I had been contemplating the notion of uslub and the rhetorical differences in expressing good scholarly work in the Anglo-American and Egyptian contexts. I told him that ‘In my experience, Western academics are obsessed by the “originality” and “creativity” of individuals, as represented in expressions such as “groundbreaking” work’. Karim was very shocked to hear this expression and said ‘Do you actually say it like this? “Groundbreaking” sounds violent . . .’ I nodded and continued: This very expression suggests that ‘originality’ is relative to the context because in order to produce an original work, there has to be a solid ‘ground’ to ‘break’. Thus, when Western scholars of Islam study the works of Muslim scholars, they often tried to locate these values by focusing on the concept of ijtihad. However, in my view, ijtihad has nothing to do with creativity or originality in the Anglo-American sense of the word. Karim agreed and said: If one were to praise somebody’s work in the Egyptian academic context, she or he would employ expressions such as ‘correct work’, which would be ‘shakl salim’ or ‘sahih’ in Arabic. In the Egyptian context, this shakl salim stands in complete opposition to ‘creative’, but ‘original’ (asli) can be used as a neutral expression.18 As he said so, he sketched out the following diagram which illustrated an Egyptian view on ‘good’ scholarly work in contrast to what they imagined of the West. It is important to note that regardless of the geographic labels – Egypt and the West – these expressions refer to aesthetic values of educated middle classes in Egypt:19 Egypt / Developing World Correct (salim, sahih) True (haqiqi) Typical (matabi‘a20)

West Personal (shakhsi) Creative (mubd‘i) Special (khass)

Original (asli) Scriptural (naqli)

Rational way of thinking (‘aqli)

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When the salafieen complimented my poetry, they said that it was ‘correct’, meaning that the usage of metaphors, words and forms were accurate [by their standards].21 But my poetry came from my mind, and it should not have anything to do with being ‘correct’ or ‘incorrect’. My friends from artistic circles would never comment on my work in such a way, but use other expressions like personal (shakhsi) or special (khass). In their understanding, a ‘good work’ has to be something unique to the producer. I then went back to my original question to seek his confirmation that ijtihad belonged to the scriptural (naqli) side in his diagram. Karim replied: ‘Yes, but this expression is mainly used to defend one’s position. For instance, when people don’t understand or discredit your work, you would say, “it is an ijtihad”’. I posed another question: ‘Then what happened to the notion of ijtihad so praised in the writings of Jamal al-Din Afghani, Muhammad ‘Abduh or Rashid Rida? Would you say that usage of the term has changed over the decades? How would you, for example, evaluate the work of Dr Hasan Hanafi?’ Karim replied: In order to remain a credible scholar, Dr Hasan has to stay on the scriptural (naqli) side, but his aim is to bring about a revolution in this academic paradigm. For years, he has been trying to write a book called From Scripture to Reasoning (min al-naql ila al-‘aql). He would never characterise his work as the result of ijtihad. Students of Islamic studies are introduced to ijtihad as a technical term within legal theory, which enables qualified experts to seek a solution to legal issues when they have failed to reach a consensus (ijma‘) by applying analogy (qiyas) and individual reasoning. In Egyptian colloquial Arabic, ijtihad is used in a wider context to suggest innovative works in any field of art or science, but the term does not necessarily have positive connotations. While in Islamic legal theory, mujtahid is a title ascribed to an experienced scholar who is qualified to perform ijtihad, the primary meaning of the term in Egyptian colloquial Arabic is merely ‘diligent’. We can see, therefore, that the modernist attempt to redifine ijtihad in relation to self-responsibility has clearly made a dent in the understanding of the general public, yet the term

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does not carry the notion of ‘originality’ which is cherished in the modern West. This conversation with Karim is indicative of a broader issue concerning the way modernist taste is inserted into discussions on what is authentic scholarship. Indeed, there are instances that the praise for personal creativity appear legitimate but they are mostly confined to Westernised elite and often ‘arty’ circles. As I discussed in Chapter 5, appreciation of creative work (be it scholarship or fine art) mostly mobilises the categories of ‘correctness’ and ‘soundness’. The importance of this episode related by Karim is that even when a binary classification is enacted, cross-cutting appreciation can occur, meaning ‘western-style creativity’ can be appreciated in terms of ‘Islamic soundness’. Both Karim’s salafi colleagues and artist friends equally appreciated his poetry. What we are talking about here are therefore registers of judgement, not their actual content. When I previously heard admirers of ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud characterising him as an ‘alim sahih, since it seemed obvious that he was not saying anything incorrect, I did not quite understand what was meant by this judgement. While I was aware that sahih (sound) was the highest criterion of a hadith, it never occurred to me that this expression could also be used to evaluate the quality of scholarship. This expression praises ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud for having acquired his knowledge of the established fields of science and for correctly following scholarly convention. However, this is not to say that the content of the speech is less valuable than the form. As in the art of reciting the Qur’an, there is an underlying assumption that the mastering of the correct form comes about as a result of having an accurate understanding of the subject. While the form and content of the speech thus appear to be two opposing variables, the term uslub embraces both as a unified value.

The Hierarchy of the Knower in the Eyes of the Educated As I discussed in Chapter 5, the assumption of ‘originality’ as a universally cherished value prevents us from detecting the volume and appreciating the importance of a vast range of intellectual activities taking place in mass-mediated Islam. This section attempts to narrow down my previous exploration by examining more closely and dynamically the elements which educated Egyptians value in the public

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intellectuals of their society. In response to one of my questions on the notion of intellectuals in Egypt, ‘Adil (b. 1977) a graduate student from Dar al-‘Ulum, drew for me a diagram representing a grid of types of ‘knowers’, hierarchically ordered according to their level of knowledge: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Mufakkir (thinker) ‘Alim (scholar) Bahith (researcher) Muthaqqaf (cultured one) 6 Muta‘allim (educated one) ‘Ammi (member of the general public) Jahil (ignorant)

This hierarchy of the knower, according to ‘Adil, is graded according to individual abilities to illuminate the deeper meaning of scholarly established sources of knowledge (masadir, sing. masdar). Creativity is demonstrated in one’s intellectual capacity to provide better interpretations of the texts than one’s predecessors. Mufakkir, an Egyptian expression closest to ‘intellectual’ in the Anglo-American sense, designates an individual who can produce original ideas through rational thinking. On the other hand, an ‘alim is the one proven to have a profound knowledge of his field of specialisation, allowing him to present his ideas by referring to textual material. In discussing issues related to Islam, for instance, the Qur’an and hadith would be the foremost credible sources of knowledge, followed by the large volume of scholarly literature on the topic. Knowledge is perceived to have a concrete source, namely texts from which it must have originated. While a mufakkir is credited with an individualist pursuit of knowledge, Egyptians admire an ‘alim for his ability to illuminate the deeper meanings of his predecessors’ works. While a mufakkir’s knowledge is contained within the realm of ‘personal opinion’, which can be correct or incorrect if judged from the viewpoint of other personal opinions, the work of an ‘alim pertains to the domain of truth because of the certainty of the origins of his knowledge. This confidence in scholarly established sources is based on the presupposition that a solid understanding of core texts, far from confining the knower to trite and purely repetitive knowledge, can bring elasticity to one’s cognitive skills. Thus, the ‘originality’ that is not derived from scholarly established texts turns out to be a mere

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imagination (khayal) and can even be, paradoxically perhaps, assimilated to taqlid, blind imitation of thought and practice. While most educated Egyptians with whom I spoke agreed that ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was some sort of an ‘alim, since he worked for alAzhar University, they differed greatly on whether he was also a mufakkir, depending on how they identified themselves, and their quest for true knowledge, with regard to their faith. Perhaps paradoxically, for more religiously committed persons an ‘alim ought to be a mufakkir, hence ‘Abd al-Halim was both; but for those who are more distanced from religion, the mufakkir’s place (as in the above-mentioned hierarchy of subjects of knowledge) is somewhere above an ‘alim. One evening, I listened to a debate between Yusuf, the young representative of an internet service provider mentioned in Chapter 3, and some of his in-laws who are salafi-leaning Azharite preachers. For Yusuf, a mufakkir cannot be an ‘alim because the former is credited with thinking freely, whereas the latter’s mind in entrapped in institutional knowledge. Thus, Mustafa Mahmud (1921–2009) or Gamal al-Ghitani (b. 1945),22 two famous writers and public figures who studied Islam on their own, are prime examples of mufakkir islamis, while ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, who came out of the Azhar establishment, could not be more than an ‘alim. On the contrary, in the view of his in-laws a mufakkir islami has to be a professional scholar trained in the Islamic sciences. For them, while Mustafa Mahmud can be an ‘alim of medical science, he cannot be a mufakkir islami because his understanding of Islamic sources is necessarily limited. In the end, the preachers advised me to study Ibn Taymiyya (1258–1326) as a model of a mufakkir islami because, since ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud is a mutasawwif, he would only provide a distorted image of Islam to a non-Muslim student like me. One can add more nuances to this discussion of the hierarchy of knowers. With regard to education and culture, my Arabic teacher Ihsan pointed out that a mufakkir does not need to be a muta‘allim, indicating ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad (1889– 1964)23 as an example of a selfeducated writer. She stressed that al-‘Aqqad did not even finish elementary school but trained his mind through intensive reading and produced a number of insightful books. While an ‘alim needs intensive training in one specific discipline in order to produce his scholarly works, a self-taught mufakkir is perceived as being able to produce knowledge via individual readings of the sources. Some of the end

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products of a self-taught mufakkir can therefore be as valuable as those produced by a trained ‘alim. However, the work of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, who is both an ‘alim and a mufakkir in her eyes, would be more ‘reassuring’ in terms of truth value because his ideas are supported by the Qur’an and hadith. Referring to ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s autobiography, Ihsan said that he qualifies as a mufakkir islami because he starts with his own ideas (his own motivation to write about his life and God’s grace), and then develops his thoughts by relating them to the Qur’an and hadith. Although the significance of education is repeatedly stressed in various contexts, due to the widespread lack of confidence in the quality of education offered in Egypt many educated middle classes tend to perceive the mass media rather than school education as the de facto sources of ‘culture’. Thus, as in Ihsan’s example of ‘Abbas al-‘Aqqad, the figures of the muthaqqaf and of the muta‘allim may overlap, but are not necessarily synonymous. Some muta‘allimun are also muthaqqafun, yet there are muthaqqafun who did not go to school. Literacy acquired through schooling is certainly a valued skill, but schools are not expected to provide thaqafa (‘culture’ in the sense of enriching one’s personality). Rather, ‘culture’ is something one actively seeks through reading books, listening to the radio, or indeed watching television. The picture here of a muthaqqafa (cultured woman) from Nisf alDunya24 evokes the sense that culture and reading are inseparable (see figure 6.2). A woman in a dark suit with high heels represents an icon of modern secular education. The stack of books connotes her familiarity with a vast variety of cultural matters. A popular definition of muthaqqaf, which I frequently heard during my interviews, is ‘somebody who knows something about everything’. In the above-illustrated hierarchy of the knower, while the range of ideal types from mufakkir to bahith (researcher) include producers of knowledge, muthaqqaf represents a transitional level situated between the producers and the consumers of cultural knowledge. Although the ‘amma (members of the general public) are characterised by passive learning, the muthaqqaf has some personal opinion about, for instance, current affairs, religion, or literature. Reading is strongly connected to the notion of ‘culture’, yet muta‘allim and muthaqqaf are not exact synonyms because there are many university graduates who are unaware of current affairs, having stopped reading after they left school. In this sense, an unschooled carpet weaver

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Figure 6.2 An illustration from the culture section of Egyptian women’s magazine, Nisf al-Dunya.

in Khattamiyya in Islamic Cairo who cites some words of Rifa‘a alTahtawi in a conversation is more cultured than Cairo University students who are just chatting about course assignments during their lunch break.

Conclusion The goal of this chapter was to elaborate on the role the mass media played in both establishing and questioning ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s status as an ‘authentic scholar’ (‘alim salih) by analysing educated Egyptian Muslims’ images of him. When my interlocutors referred to

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him as an authentic scholar, they asserted that this was because he was a scholar in the true or real (haqiqi) sense of the word. For them he incorporated all the qualities of learned men – a mufakkir (thinker), ‘alim, bahith (researcher) and muthaqqaf. Most importantly, as they learned from the mass media, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was a religiously devout and morally upright Muslim. The primary meaning of salih is similar to sahih in the sense that both words connote a proper and sound state of an object. In the Qur’anic context, salih carries the notion of performing good deeds (i.e. the five pillars of Islam) and relating to others in a just manner, which is the defining condition of those who have surrendered before the Absolute (vis-a`-vis a Muslim). (Izutsu 1959: 205 – 10). By studying the ways in which ‘Abd al-Halim’s respective audiences imagined this public figure and evaluated his work, I intended to reveal the socio-cultural mechanism which made him a unique ‘alim by comprehending what they know and think about the intellectuals of their society. While there seems to be a consensus in terms of the definitions of various Egyptian colloquial expressions related to the knower, the evaluation of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s contribution to Islamic scholarship differed greatly between individuals, according to the ways and degrees in which they identified themselves with Islam and with the values reflected in the images that ‘Abd al-Halim produced of himself through the mass media. His efforts to revitalise Sufism by popularising the scholarly knowledge of tasawwuf were well accepted by non-specialist audiences because he narrated this intellectual tradition within the framework of – and vis-a`-vis – Egyptian modernism and public Islam. Although Egyptian Orientalists are deeply resentful of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s success in public Islam, his publications and radio recordings nevertheless continue to facilitate the maintenance of his status as ‘the Ghazali of the twentieth century’ in the Egyptian public sphere.

CONCLUSIONS

The primary objective of this study has been to explore what it means be an intellectual in contemporary Egyptian society. It investigated public contests arising out of the process of authenticating Islamic scholarship through the prism of the life, work and public appreciation of ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud. Instead of simply establishing who ‘Abd al-Halim was based on his writing and biography, I have sought to analyse various images associated with ‘Abd al-Halim as a public personality, for the purpose of delineating a case study of a modern-day ‘authentic scholar’. Considering the vast amount of media attention ‘Abd al-Halim received, especially compared to other Azharite scholars from the twentieth century, I was also interested in investigating what made him a meaningful symbol to lay publics of diverse socio-economic and educational backgrounds, even though he was never so straightforwardly esteemed by his colleagues. My study focused on examining the aspects of his work and life story which made ‘Abd al-Halim appealing to a broad Egyptian public. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud has been an ideal case study for understanding how the fame of public intellectuals is produced in a particular socio-historical milieu. In spite of the enduring popularity he has enjoyed among educated Egyptian Muslims, especially in the generation that vividly remembers the eras of Nasser and Sadat, his fame is generally confined within Egyptian borders. One of the reasons why ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud did not attract the attention of scholars outside of Egypt is the difficulty in locating elements of originality in ‘Abd alHalim’s ideas when placing his work in the context of existing studies on

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the intellectual history of Islam. This may raise questions about the value of studying him as a conventional subject of modern Islamic thought. However, lack of innovativeness in ideas is a common issue observed in existing scholarly investigations of al-Azhar-trained scholars of the Islamic sciences of the twentieth century, who nonetheless acquired fame and prestige in the mass-mediated public sphere. This paradox suggests that standards for assessing scholarly significance in the scholarship of modern Islamic thought seem to be quite disconnected from the public appreciation of scholars. We implicitly equate our own standards for assessing scholarly significance with social impact but my work suggests that the two are not necessarily equivalent. The present study decentred the role of written texts in studying the life and thought of a public intellectual like ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, instead examining the socio-historical conditions which produced and which sustain his fame by employing an ethnographic approach. In other words, I approached ‘Abd al-Halim’s ideas and the images attached to him not strictly as ‘thought’ but also as a commodity. This commodity was produced for a market that was emerging throughout ‘Abd al-Halim’s lifetime – but particularly in the 1960s and 1970s – and which continued to expand as ‘consumers’ of Islamic knowledge evolved after ‘Abd al-Halim’s death. Examining the process by which public knowledge about ‘Abd alHalim was produced and consumed immediately makes it apparent that his writing style was rather simple and straightforward because his books were generally collections of articles originally published in popular magazines or newspapers rather than in academic journals. Much of ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing was intended to be consumed by generally educated people, not by specialists of religious sciences. His readership was those who would browse through newspaper articles on Islamic faith, together with current affairs, economic issues and sports etc., for instance, during office tea breaks or commuting on a packed metro. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s work on Islam and Sufism, which appears to specialists to simply reproduce existing discourses on the subject and to be therefore devoid of fresh insights into the field, was therefore produced for a reading public who were not necessarily looking for new knowledge, but rather for reconfirmation of faith. Although I became aware of the central role the mass media played in sustaining ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s fame from the early stage of my

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research, it was necessary to understand how he was known to the public and why he was successful in cultivating his place in the media industry. For this reason, Chapter 2 reconstructed a biography of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud by specifically drawing on the knowledge about ‘Abd al-Halim generated through the mass media, which subsequently defined who he is and was for the Egyptian public. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud became ‘a social phenomenon’ in the 1970s through his frequent appearance in mass media. His intellectual autobiography carefully highlighted the key tropes of being a modern Egyptian intellectual in juxtaposition with the ‘traditional’ thresholds of going up the ladders of an Azharite career, struggles against colonial authorities, the intellectual ‘crisis’ he experienced in France, and his return to Islam as the ultimate model of his life – and a ‘return’ that was not coincidentally quite intrinsic to his endorsements of further reform plans for al-Azhar. His dominant media presence was not surprisingly a combined result of his own objectives and those of media professionals. Similar to his contemporaries in the performing arts, such as Umm Kulthum and ‘Abd al-Halim Hafez, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s activities were consciously or unconsciously integrated into the Egyptian state’s agenda. His intention was to utilise the fast-developing technologies of mass communication to spread his version of Sufism and Islam to the wider public. Media professionals, who shared the ambitions of elite members of the Egyptian state bureaucracy, were striving to produce an iconic religious figure who could sustain and endorse their discourse of secular modernity. Chapter 3 discussed ‘Abd al-Halim’s efforts to define Sufism as spiritual asceticism, which, however, had nothing to do with being a social recluse or a materially abstinent member of society, and emphasised the significance of contributing to the common good of the homeland. As shown in Chapter 4, the Ramadan musalsal of ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud then contrasted the ‘enlightened Sufism’ of the protagonist with both the superstitious customs of villagers and the ascetic practices of shaykhly figures, clearly demonstrating how the type of Sufism advocated by ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was well accepted among media professionals, as it should be among the urban middle class and its many aspirants. The ethnographic insights which I gained from interviews pointed to the significance of examining the performative aspects of scholarly knowledge of Islam – aspects that exist beyond the meanings stipulated

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in written texts. Being an ‘authentic scholar’ in modern Egyptian society entails negotiations over various types of scholarly formalisms. By comparing and contrasting the diverse ways in which Egyptian Orientalists and non-specialist audiences engage with ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s writings and radio lectures, it became clear that their debates about his work centered upon his styles of expression. While I was trying to find the elements of originality and newness of knowledge that the author brought to his audiences, my interlocutors were evaluating the quality of his scholarship by focusing on his style of speech or on his skills in providing a performatively sound and convincing interpretation of the Islamic faith. In order words, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and his audiences were negotiating formal aestheticism – the manners in which an Azharite scholar was expected to deliver a public lecture on issues related to faith, and the amount of knowledge his audiences were expected to have on the subject. The ability of audiences to appreciate the interpretation ‘Abd al-Halim gave not only through the meaning of words but also in the rhythm of a sentence and the literary expressions he employed were thus the key elements in his manner of producing Islamic knowledge. The mass media provided a stage for ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud to gain audiences beyond the lecture halls of universities, yet his success was a result of the aesthetic forms of Islamic scholarship that he acquired through scholarly training for an Azharite ‘alim before the modernisation. Chapter 1 focused on a close examination of the scholarly training of an Azharite ‘alim before the reform in order to understand the process through which learners of Islamic sciences were expected to master particular sets of aesthetic forms of scholarship. It showed how the production of knowledge within Islamic sciences before the al-Azhar reforms of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was similar to the skills of a craft gained through apprenticeship to a master. Subsequently, the introduction of a mass education system into al-Azhar transformed what had been an embodied form of knowledge learned and transmitted through master– apprentice links into a commodity which could be sold and purchased without the intermediation of specific authority figures – it was instead the more diffused authority of the institution that mattered. Hence the process of commodification devalued the function of a personalised chain of transmitting knowledge (silsila), which had been cherished before the series of reforms that

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reorganised the intellectual orders of al-Azhar. Yet in the imagination of Egyptian Muslims who went through the modern educational system, Islamic knowledge, even when commodified, retained its original authenticity. The personal aspects attached to the notion of silsila, which guaranteed the authenticity of the transmitted knowledge, became attached instead to the idea of authorship, which was transformed with the introduction of print technology. As a result, mass mediation paradoxically strengthened the sense of connectedness between the author and the audience. ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiographies, which I examined in Chapter 2, illustrated how traditional topoi of Islamic learning such as memorisation of the Qur’an or moving from rural Egypt to Cairo coexisted with new standards (e.g. age and levels of education or the passing of exams) in authenticating the Azharite path of learning that he went through. The main narrative of ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiography covering his intellectual crisis in France and return to Islam was modelled on Islamic autobiographical tradition represented by alMuhasibi and al-Ghazali. Yet his focus on his intellectual formation during his student days indicated that he was following a modern style of autobiography, as premodern autobiographies tended to depict one’s accomplishments in adult life. Chapter 3 exemplified how mass mediation strengthened the connection between the author and audiences by analysing the ways in which ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s audiences acknowledge their individual attachment to the author, as if the knowledge was transmitted to them personally. Educated Egyptian Muslims interpret ‘Abd al-Halim’s mastery of the common stock of Islamic knowledge (i.e. the Qur’an and hadiths) and literary Arabic as the proper credentials of an authentic scholar. His skills in giving a performative interpretation of key texts allowed him to construct enduring personal ties with his audiences, surviving the uncertainties of commodification and the dual massification of Islamic learning. Even those of my informants who were uncomfortable with participating in Sufi order activities were at ease in relating to a Sufi master through the medium of print. Chapter 5 further analysed ‘Abd al-Halim’s style of speech in radio lectures which impressed on audiences unfamiliar with ‘direct’ contact with professional-level scholarship the idea that he was an authentic scholar. His mastery of literary Arabic was particularly well demonstrated by his adjusting the level of vocabulary and expressions to the receptivity of his shifting audiences. The soundness of his knowledge

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was, for his massified lay audiences, illustrated by quoting established textual sources (i.e. the Qur’an and hadith) in appropriate contexts. But ‘Abd al-Halim’s personal touch (as it was perceived by his mass audiences) lay also in his occasional citations from literature by European authors, even if only to the extent of giving a brief mention of their names. These citations communicated to the audience a sense of ‘culturedness’ that conventional Azharites lacked. The ‘proper and sound’ (in the perception of his audiences) interpretation of a specific subject was also performed through the varying tone of voice and the speed of the speech, as well as the crucial art of pausing, for example when reciting a well-known episode from the prophetic biography, hadith or Qur’anic verse. Thus, the meaning of the speech was constantly negotiated between ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud and his audiences via the latter’s appreciation of his style of performance. Chapter 6 subsequently elaborated on the ways in which the massification of scholarly knowledge of Sufism both established and simultaneously called into question ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s status as an authentic scholar. Although non-specialist audiences found quite agreeable one of his honourific titles, ‘the Ghazali of the Twentieth Century’, which appeared in popular magazines and newspapers, members of the Egyptian scholarly community remained sceptical in regard to his credibility as a distinguished scholar. Egyptian Orientalists found ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing style lacking in eruditeness, while the very same style appealed to the non-specialist readership as almost definitively ‘scholarly’. Thus, depending on his audiences’ idea of what a learned man ought to be, the appreciation of ‘Abd al-Halim oscillated wildly from the popular view of him as an authentic scholar and Islamic thinker to the specialist image of him as a liar and even thief of scholarly work and fame. Yet, regardless of the criticism ‘Abd al-Halim received from Egyptian Orientalists, his writing and radio lectures facilitated the prevalence of his status as ‘the Ghazali of the twentieth century’ in the wider Egyptian public sphere, tailored for consumers of mass-mediated knowledge of Islam from print to electronic media. At this historical juncture, where the future of the educated middle classes is becoming increasingly uncertain due to the neo-liberal policies of Egyptian governments (an ongoing situation that has hardly been affected by the political developments since the 2011 revolutionary year), accumulation of cultural capital could be understood as one of the

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last resorts of a group seeking to prevent themselves from being completely assimilated by the members of lower socio-economic strata. In such a context, a newspaper article about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud they read on the way to work assists the educated middle classes in engaging in a culture talk – a vital occasion to perform their cultured and pious self. The knowledge about Islam as well as Muslim intellectuals that they have accumulated through the mass media enables them to maintain their ties with a civilised life, comforted by the knowledge that they are up to date on what is good and reasonable.

NOTES

Introduction 1. Muhammad al-Ghazali was a media preacher who was once a prominent member of the Muslim Brotherhood. Even after his expulsion in 1953, alGhazali continued to occupy significant space in publications from the Brotherhood. He dedicated himself to educating the public by occupying a number of important positions related to da‘wa (public outreach) at the Ministry of Pious Endowments in Egypt (Nakata 2002). For Muhammad alGhazali’s ideas on the role of the ‘ulama in the modern state, see Scott (2007). On his work on hadith literature, which was praised as ‘Islamic Perestroika’, see Brown (1996: 108– 22). 2. While many Egyptians regard Shaykh al-Sha‘rawi as the best orator of the twentieth century, the source of his unrivalled popularity has not been thoroughly examined by academics. He was appointed to high-ranking offices related to al-Azhar, including the Minister of Pious Endowments and al-Azhar Affairs between November 1976 and October 1978, when ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud was the Grand Imam of al-Azhar Mosque-University. Al-Sha‘rawi and ‘Abd al-Halim are represented as close friends in the national media. Many Egyptians passionately followed al-Sha‘rawi’s televised tafsir lectures (Qur’anic exegesis), which were broadcast from mosques and showed him sitting on the floor with the audience, explaining the Qur’an verse by verse, using animated gestures and Egyptian colloquial Arabic. For his biography see Lazarus-Yafeh (1983). 3. The original Ghazali, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (1058 – 1111), is a renowned Sufi philosopher and legal theorist who contributed to bridging the theoretical gap between Sufism and Islamic law. 4. Historians of the Middle East have identified the early twentieth century as the formative period of the modern Arab middle class (Ryzova 2014; Watenpaugh 2006). Incidentally, sociological terms such as the middle class (al-tabaqa

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6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

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al-wusta) entered the Arabic language in the 1920s (Watenpaugh 2006: 20); society (mujtama‘) has been used since the 1930s (El Shakry 2007: 8). Social class has not been a favourite topic of anthropologists (Liechty 2003) and those working on the Middle East are not an exception (Schielke 2012). Anouk de Koning (2009) and Mark Allen Peterson (2011) provide valuable insight into how Egyptians from an affluent background acquire and practise their social class identities through the consumption of media and material goods. Universities in Egypt are per se neither on the ‘secular’ nor on the ‘religious’ side of education. Religious subjects are taught at al-Azhar, Cairo University (especially at Dar al-‘Ulum), and elsewhere. Since its nationalisation in 1961, al-Azhar provides university degrees in a wide array of clearly ‘secular’ fields of knowledge, including education, commerce, engineering, medicine, agriculture, and other branches of the natural sciences. When comparing the size of alAzhar’s Nasr City campus with its Islamic Cairo branch, which combines three colleges dedicated to Islamic sciences, it becomes obvious that religious subjects are in the minority at al-Azhar. The main difference between al-Azhar and other Egyptian universities is that students are required to memorise the Qur’an before entering or during university, regardless of the academic subject they are pursuing, because the goal of Azharite education is to produce professionals with religious knowledge. A rare exception is Israel Gershoni’s study on the readership of Husayn Haykal’s biography of the Prophet Muhammad, in which he examined the book reviews published in magazines and periodicals of the 1930s Egypt (Gershoni 1994). Previous studies on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud either address his public role as a high-ranking Azharite scholar (e.g. Zeghal 1999; 1996) or his private devotion as a Sufi-philosopher (e.g. Abu-Rabi‘ 1988a, 1988b, 1987; Al-Rufa‘i 1983). More recently, Moshe Albo (2012) and Augusto Negri (2004) have attempted to combine both aspects of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud to unravel the roots of his popularity in Egypt by framing him as a ‘salafi-Sufi ‘alim’ who managed to gain support from both parties by advocating a shari‘a-based constitution. However, similar to the doctoral thesis of Ibrahim Abu-Rabi‘ (1987), their efforts concentrate on framing ‘Abd al-Halim’s ideas in terms of the history of Islamic thought rather than attempting to contextualise his writing within the wider socio-cultural milieu of modern Egypt. I borrowed this concept from Arjun Appadurai’s The Social Life of Things (1986) in order to emphasise the materiality of Islamic thought. Dale F. Eickelman (2009) gives an excellent example of the social life of texts, demonstrating the various ways in which Clifford Geertz’s writings are read by graduate students and professors of anthropology in Morocco. Da‘wa may be glossed as an invitation, invocation, prayer, or missionary activities, depending on the context in which the word is used. Here, I employ da‘wa as ‘Abd al-Halim’s attempt to connect with his public, in order to engender awareness of the imperative to become a better Muslim.

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1. See Colla (2007) for the examples of historical monuments from Ancient Egypt which European visitors perceived as culturally or artistically valuable. 2. According to Gesink (2000: 39– 40), al-Azhar reform debates instigated by the students of Muhammad ‘Abduh in the early twentieth century seem to have stimulated Orientalists’ interests in al-Azhar in seminal works by Arminjon (1907), Adams (1933) and Heyworth-Dunne (1938). 3. For instance, the front cover of al-Azhar Magazine focuses on the images of its minarets and on the central dome of the mosque. The official website of alAzhar University showcases similar images: http://www.azhar.edu.eg/ (accessed 22 December 2009). 4. Mitchell cites a work by a French photographer, Fe´lix Bonfils (1831– 85), from Catalogue des vues photographique de l’Orient (1876) as an example of a European image of the al-Azhar courtyard. Bonfils became widely known in Europe and North America for his work on the Near East, which often appeared in the tourist guidebooks of the region (Renie´ 2008). 5. Chirol was staying in Cairo in 1919, when the Egyptian nationalist movement lead by Sa‘d Zaghlul (d. 1927) was rising to prominence, eventually compelling British troops to leave the country in 1923. His articles were published in The Times from October 1919 to April 1920, and featured various social issues that were prominently observed in Egypt. Chirol strongly doubted that the Egyptian state would be able to manage its government and people after gaining independence. 6. In 1872, the Schools of Law, Medicine and Engineering were established, along with the prestigious Khidiwiyya Preparatory School. The establishment of these educational institutions gradually changed the career path of the Egyptian educated classes. On the historical development of professional schools and other elite schools in Egypt, see Reid (1977, 1983). 7. The following were the 11 subjects selected for the exam, out of 26 taught at al-Azhar: legal theory (usul al-fiqh), theory of divine unity (tawhid), accounts of the Prophet (hadith), exegesis of the Qur’an (tafsir), two types of grammar (nahw and sarf), semantics (ma‘ani), two types of rhetoric (bayan and badi’) and logic (mantiq) (Heyworth-Dunne 1938: 400– 1). 8. Historically speaking, subjects offered at al-Azhar were basically ‘demanddriven’ and fluctuated according to the interests of the students. For instance, those subjects that were not related to Islamic jurisprudence or Arabic grammar were removed from the curriculum when the civil schools opened in the 1830s, as students could then seek such knowledge elsewhere (Gesink 2000: 90). 9. These three colleges – the College of Fundamentals of the Religion (kulliyat usul al-din), the College of Islamic Law (kulliyat al-shari‘a al-islamiya), and the College of Arabic Language (kulliyat al-lugha al-‘arabiya) – are located in Islamic Cairo by al-Azhar Mosque, while the main university campus now operates in a modern neighbourhood in Nasr City, north-western Cairo.

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10. Gesink (2010: 22 – 3) suggests the significant difference between the halqa and modern schooling is in the teacher –student relationship. In contrast to halqa lessons based on oral communication in which the teacher and the students mutually empower each other, the intervention of the printed text transforms their relationship, making it more asymmetrical and coercive. In other words, the meaning of the text was somewhat negotiable at halqa yet the textbook in modern schools generated the idea that the authority to define knowledge rests solely with the teacher. However, the intrinsic fear of the nineteenth-century Azharite scholars was that they would lose their grip over their students’ understanding of the text through the introduction of textbooks.

Chapter 2 From European Suits to Azharite Garb 1. Mahmud (2003b) is the revised edition of The Modern School of the Shadhili and Its Imam Abu Hasan al-Shadhili, which was published in 1967. The texts of two versions are identical except that The School of the Shadhili includes an additional chapter on the second spiritual pole of Shadhilis Abu ‘Abbas al-Mursi (1219– 89). 2. I mainly consulted two biographies of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. The first is ‘Ali ‘Abd al-‘Azim’s Grand Imam of al-Azhar from its Foundation to Now. Although this book features all the Grand Imams of al-Azhar since its establishment, the chapter on ‘Abd al-Halim is exceptionally long and detailed. Little is known about the author except that he was a historian of al-Azhar who claims to have been a close associate of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. The publication received governmental support, as it opens with a short foreword signed by President Anwar al-Sadat, and therefore had wider circulation than Shalabi’s book. The second is ‘Abd al-Halim’s student, Ra’uf Shalabi’s Shaykh al-Islam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud: His Biography and Activities. This is a thick book of 692 pages. As Shalabi also authored a book on Hasan al-Banna (Al-Shaykh Hasan al-Banna wa Madrasatuhu al-Ikhwan al-Muslimin) and published several books through the publishing house of the Muslim Brotherhood, Dar al-I‘tisam, he was most likely affiliated with the Brotherhood in one way or another. Both authors depicted ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as an exceptionally courageous Shaykh al-Azhar who dedicated his life to al-Azhar and Islam but hagiographic elements, such as the performance of miracles (basira, ru‘ya), are removed from the narrative. 3. The newspaper clippings collection stored at the archive of the Al-Ahram newspaper has proven invaluable during this research. The file on ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud contained over 580 articles, stretching from December 1963 when he became Dean of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion to his death in October 1978. Indeed, the files are still growing, as the staff members continue to collect articles on him. 4. My main interviewees are Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim and Hussein Abdel-Halim. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim (1942 – 2009) was ‘Abd al-Halim’s youngest child. He was a professor of Qur’anic sciences and a former Dean of the College of

NOTES

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6.

7. 8.

9.

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Fundamentals of the Religion at al-Azhar. He considered himself a loyal murid (disciple) of his father and was actively involved in the process of creating his father’s legend through such initiatives as promoting ‘Abd al-Halim’s mawlid (annual birthday festival) in his native village. Dr Mani‘ told me that because he was an introverted child, his father was the only friend he had. Hussein Abdel-Halim is the only grandson of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. Because his father, Muhammad ‘Abd al-Halim (d. 1979), passed away at young age, and Dr Mani‘ did not have any children, Hussein is the person who carries the name and memory of his grandfather. He is an entrepreneur in his forties, running a financial consulting company in central Cairo. Aside from his successful career in business, he is dedicated to the charity activities of the Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Association in Alexandria. In this sense, ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiography can be qualified as ‘traditional’ because it expresses his gratitude to God, which had been one of the major objectives for scholars who recorded their lives since early Islam (Rooke 1997: 79–82). Tetz Rooke has carried out an excellent analysis of ‘Abd al-Halim’s autobiography, as a part of his study of Arabic autobiographies (ibid. 92–7). ‘Abd al-Halim’s work is listed as an example of ‘tarjama-reflexes’, which combines the influence of the classics and the modern function of compiling an autobiography (ibid. 92–3). His rhetorical style resembles classical autobiography (i.e. his praises to God, frequent usage of the Qur’anic verses and hadiths, references to his professors at al-Azhar, etc.), yet it shares the common traits of modern Arabic autobiography as it is intended to convey ‘the metaphors of the “self”’ (ibid. 93– 4). In other words, ‘Abd al-Halim has intentionally selected the rhetorical style and episodes from his life story which allowed him to perform the ‘self ’ to which he aspired, in relation to the expectation of the general public that formed the expected readership of this work. According to Lucie Ryzova (2014: 144– 6), pre-modern Arabic autobiographies (tarjama) never focused on childhood but were instead oriented entirely to the accomplishments of adult life. In contrast, since the late nineteenth century, Egyptian autobiographies almost systematically opened with the narrative of the beginning and dedicated a large portion of texts on the author’s childhood as a performance of the modern self. For the biography of al-Muhasibi, see Knysh (2000: 43 – 8), Smith (1935). Following Margaret Smith’s publication on al-Muhasibi in 1935, ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud’s doctoral thesis (Mahmoud 1940) was one of the first studies on this early Sufi figure. Massignon (1954: 317) cited in his endnotes ‘Abd alHalim’s work as the chief reference on al-Muhasibi. Smith (1935: vii – viii) states in her preface the locations of various archives she visited to collect manuscripts of al-Muhasibi, as nothing was available in print. She also borrowed the private collection of Reynold A Nicholson. Her edition of al-Muhasibi’s most celebrated work, The Book of Observance of the Rights of God, was published in 1940.

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10. According to Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, due to the badawi (rural, Bedouin) environment of his native village, al-Salam, no members of the family participated in Sufi order activities. He emphasised the absence of Sufi roots in al-Salam village by asserting that his father’s mawlid (annual birthday festival) was the first of this kind in the village (personal communication, 30 March 2007). However, according to Samuli Schielke, when he visited al-Salam village to attend ‘Abd al-Halim’s mawlid, a local inhabitant informed him that there would again be another mawlid the following week (email communication, 28 March 2007). As Bilbays, the governate centre of al-Salam village, lists two Sufis besides ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as ‘prominent individuals’ (Muhammad Mahmud ‘Alwan and Hashim al-Rifa‘i) this area does not seem as barren of Sufi tradition as Mani‘ claimed. Muhammad Mahmud ‘Alwan (1912 – 70) served as the head of Sufi orders in Egypt from 1956 and Hashim al-Rifa‘i (b. 1935) is a poet and a grandson of Mustafa al-Rifa‘i of Rifa‘i order. Wikipedia, al-Masmuʽa al-Hurra, n.d. ‘Bilbeis’ http://ar.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D8%A8%D9%84% D8%A8%D9%8A%D8%B3 (accessed 14 December 2009). Many scholars claimed that ‘Abd al-Halim was brought up in a Sufi environment. Malika Zeghal mentions that ‘Abd al-Halim used to attend Sufi gatherings with his father Mahmud ‘Ali from a young age (Zeghal 1996: 143). ‘Ali ‘Abd al-‘Azim also states that because Mahmud ‘Ali used to receive Sufi Shaykhs as guests at home, ‘Abd al-Halim started to receive Sufi influences since childhood (‘Abd al-‘Azim 1979: 290–1). Based on the biography of ‘Abd al-Halim written by a Turkish scholar, Thierry Zarcone suggests that ‘Abd alHalim received rudimentary knowledge of Islam and Sufism from his father (Zarcone 2001: 274). However, none of these works specify the source of such information. 11. This chapter was originally published as a book in 1954 commemorating the death of Rene´ Gue´non. Gue´non spent the last two decades of his life in Doqqi, a residential quarter in Greater Cairo. Interestingly, in this chapter ‘Abd alHalim represents Gue´non more as a Sufi master than a philosopher, by changing the title from The Muslim Philosopher: Rene´ Gue´non or ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya (Mahmud 1954) to The Knower of God, ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya (Mahmud 2003b). 12. ‘Izba is country estate or farm, which were built during the nineteenth century as model villages with new types of private land ownership (Mitchell 1988: 92). 13. Hussein Abdel Halim, personal communication, 1 May 2008. Al-Salam village corresponds to the area in which Bedouin tribes started to sedentarise during Muhammad ‘Ali’s reign (Baer 1962: 57). 14. Sharif is the title ascribed to the decendents of Husayn b. ‘Ali (d. 680), the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad. 15. This is a special feature article in two parts from Nisf al-Dunya in January 2001, celebrating ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud as the outstanding Azharite ‘alim of the twentieth century. The author, Muhammad Matar, is ‘Abd al-Halim’s son-inlaw, working as a journalist for the al-Ahram Publishing House. Because Matar wrote these articles based on interviews with ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s family

NOTES

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17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

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members, they give us insights to intimate matters which were not written about in his autobiography. According to Ryzova (2014: 151– 3), nationalist events from 1919 to 1923 related to Sa‘d Zaghlul figure prominently in the autobiographies of those who were born in the late 1910s and early 1920s, with an attempt to construct their life narratives around significant events related to Egyptian national history. Although ‘Abd al-Halim was born in 1910, it is safe to assume that he was following this pattern. Indeed, it is so common that Ryzova calls it a trope. ‘Abd al-Halim’s brothers, ‘Abd al-Ghanni and Mahdi, were also enrolled at alAzhar. However, after his studies ‘Abd al-Ghanni returned to al-Salam village to succeed his father in the office of ‘umda (village mayor). Mahdi worked as a professor of religious sciences at a university in Saudi Arabia. The names listed under the rubric ‘My Professors’ demonstrate ‘Abd al-Halim’s attempt to place himself in a silsila of modernist and reformist Azharites (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 90–108). The list includes Grand Imams of al-Azhar who have been credited with being ‘reformists’, such as Mustafa al-Maraghi (1928–9, 1935–45), and omits ‘conservatives’ such as Muhammad Ahmad alZawahiri (1929–35), who was Shaykh of al-Azhar when ‘Abd al-Halim attended the university (1928–32). The list also includes names of the ‘rationalists’ like Mustafa ‘Abd al-Raziq (1945–7) and Mahmud Shaltut (1958–63). The scholars ‘Abd al-Halim listed in this section are surprisingly similar to those by whom Hasan al-Banna claimed to have been inspired (Mitchell 1969). Ahmad Muhammad al-Ghamrawi gave lectures on science and religion and authored a book titled Islam in the Age of Science. Muhammad al-Khidr Husayn (1952 – 4) was a Tunisian scholar who was exiled to Egypt after leading the anti-colonial resistance movement. He was the first Shaykh of alAzhar after the 1952 Revolution. Muhammad Farid Wajdi (1875 – 1954) is a disciple of Muhammad ‘Abduh in theology, whose criticisms of Western materialism are likely to have shaped ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s philosophical ¨ zervarli 1999: 98). outlook (O When the ‘alimiya examination was instituted in 1872, the law stated that only those who studied within the Azharite system for over 12 years were eligible for this degree (Dodge 1974: 136). With nine years of studies (1923– 32), ‘Abd alHalim should have been qualified to take the examination for the ahliya degree – the certificate to become a mosque preacher. ‘Abd al-Halim had skipped three years of studies at secondary division of the Zaqaziq College, and this might have allowed him to take the ‘alimiya examination before he was technically eligible. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 6 October 2008. According to Dr Mani‘, among the three types of steamship tickets available – first class, second class and the deck – ‘Abd al-Halim and his friend took the last class. On the philosophical influence of Mustafa ‘Abd al-Raziq on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, see Abu-Rabi‘ (1988b).

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23. Interview on the radio talk show Finjan Shay (see endnote no. 58 for the description of this show). 24. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 6 October 2008. 25. Ibid. 26. ‘Abd al-Ghani Ragab is a nephew of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud. He is an al-Azhartrained medical doctor, who left his profession to concentrate on meditation and writing. According to Mahmud Mahdi (1997), the editor of ‘Al-Uswat al-Hasana’ (examples of the good manner), a series in the Al-Ahram daily newspaper, it was ‘Abd al-Halim who rejected the offer for the same reason, and not his father. His article is based on an interview given by an Azharite professor whose former supervisor studied with ‘Abd al-Halim at the Sorbonne. 27. When ‘Abd al-Halim frequented it, the Paris Mosque was almost brand new, as its construction was completed only in 1926. http://www.mosquee-de-paris. org/index.php?option¼com_content&view¼article&id¼26&Itemid¼72 (accessed 1 January 2010). On ‘Abd al-Halim’s account on the spread of Islam in Europe, see Mahmud (1993). 28. ‘Abd al-Halim is referring either to Margaret Brooke (1849– 1936), wife of the second ‘White Raja’ of Sarawak, or the wife of the third Raja, Silvia Brooke (1885 – 1971). Margaret became famous after her autobiography My Life in Sarawak was published in 1913. Silvia published 11 books, including Silvia of Sarawak: An Autobiography (1936). The Brookes were an English family which arrived in Sarawak in 1841 and ruled until it became a British colony in 1946. I could not locate any historical accounts of either Margaret or Silvia converting to Islam. Although there might have been a misunderstanding on ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s side, I mentioned this episode because it was his favourite example when illustrating the difference between Muslims by birth and converts in his writings and radio lectures. For the brief history of White Rajas in Sarawak, see Hooker (2012). 29. Among the various Arab countries that he visited, Massignon had special affection for Egypt. His first stay dates to 1906 (Waardenburg 2005: 314) and he returned from 1912 to 1913 (or 1913– 14 in ibid. 315), when he was invited by King Faruq to teach at the newly established Egyptian University. Later he was appointed a member of the Egyptian Arabic Language Academy (Reid 1990: 40). During the course of his visits, he formed friendships with Egyptian intellectuals and Catholic Orientalists based in Cairo. Massignon’s enthusiasm for Catholicism and Islamic spirituality was crystallised in 1934 as the establishment of Badaliya (substitution) in Egypt. He and his Egyptian Christian friends made a vow to offer their lives to pray to God with and for Muslims. Towards the end of his life, he briefly worked as a priest of the Greek Catholic Church in Cairo from 1950 to 1954 (Waardenburg 2005: 315). 30. I could not ascertain who this was from the Arabic transliteration of his name, which could be read as ‘Musset’ or ‘Musser’. The closest name I could find was ‘Henri Musset’, who published a book on the history of Christianity in the Middle East in 1948.

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31. ‘Abd al-Halim is not the only modern Muslim intellectual who aspired to model his autobiography on al-Ghazali’s. The same pattern is present in the autobiographies of Jamal al-Din al-Afghani (1838/9– 97), Rashid Rida (1865 – 1935) and Hasan al-Banna (1906 – 49). They all claimed how much they are in debt to al-Ghazali, in terms of his shaping of their ideas and attitudes towards life. Accordingly, Nikkie Keddie observed the same narrative of The Deliverance from Error in Afghani’s spiritual autobiography (Johansen 1996: 13). On alBanna, see Mitchell (1969: 3). As for Rida, I would like to thank Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen for suggesting this point (personal communication, 11 September 2007). 32. Both Massignon and ‘Abd al-Halim argue that al-Muhasibi’s The Observance of Divine Rights inspired al-Ghazali. Al-Muhasibi started out as a Mu‘tazilite and when he was initiated into a Sufi path at a later stage of life Ahmad ibn Hanbal expelled him from the mosque in which he was giving lessons. Al-Muhasibi often appears in ‘Abd al-Halim’s writings as an ideal type of a balanced ‘alim who seeks ‘the third path’ vis-a`-vis Sufism, between rationalist (i.e. Mu‘tazilite) and scripturalist (i.e. Hanbalite) interpretations of the Qur’an. For the detailed biography of al-Muhasibi, see Smith (1935). 33. It is not clear, however, how much training ‘Abd al-Halim actually received from Massignon, since the latter was conscripted by the French Army in 1939 (Mahmud 2001 [1976]: 126). 34. Interviews from the very popular radio talk shows on the General Programmes from the 1970s, Finjan Shay (a cup of tea) and Ma‘ al-‘Ulama’ (with a scholar). I obtained tape recordings of these programmes from ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s nephew, Mahmud Salih, who is currently the ‘umda (mayor) of al-Salam village. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim and Mahmud Salih were the two members of the family who share the responsibility of managing ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s intellectual heritage. While Mani‘ dealt with public relations (such as speaking with journalists and writing articles for the press), Mahmud Salih is in charge of its material organisation. He has created private archives of the taped television and radio programmes and of the books owned by his late uncle. 35. ‘Abd al-Halim’s reform plan can be summarised in two points. The first point was to reorganise the curriculum in order to eliminate repetitive subjects. Second was to standardise the qualifications of teachers who are transferred from al-Azhar institutes to university. On this proposal, see Shalabi, R. (1982: 51 – 3). 36. ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal (see Chapter 4) speculates that the reason for the elite Azharite scholars’ wrath is that it was unprecedented for junior members of the faculty, especially somebody like ‘Abd al-Halim who had recently returned from France, to express their ideas to their seniors. 37. On ‘Abd al-Halim’s relationship to Gue´non, see Abu-Rabi‘ (1988a), Hatina (2007), Zarcone (2001). I disagree with the approaches taken by Abu-Rabi‘ and Zarcone, who merely treated ‘Abd al-Halim as the heir of Gue´nonian philosophy in Egypt and pay little regard to ‘Abd al-Halim’s status as a public intellectual

166

38. 39. 40.

41.

42. 43.

44.

45.

46.

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in Egypt. In their studies, ‘Abd al-Halim is employed as an iconic figure to demonstrate how Gue´non’s philosophy, which had a significant following among the European intellectual elite, was appreciated by Muslim scholars. Such a perspective does not differ too much from the producers of ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal, who emphasise ‘Abd al-Halim’s influence on Gue´non based on their nationalist agenda. As Hatina (2007) attempted to address, ‘Abd al-Halim had his own agenda when claiming his silsila to Gue´non, which was to flesh out his critiques on Western modernity and the contribution that the Shadhili order could make in postcolonial Egypt. I do not intend to endorse the position of the musalsal producers, as I have not come across textual sources on Gue´non’s account of ‘Abd al-Halim. Rather, my intention is to address the perspectives of both Gue´nonians and Egyptians as well as ‘Abd al-Halim himself on the issue. For Gue´non’s biography and the influence of his writings on the Traditionalist community, see Sedgwick (2004). ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya, personal communication, 5 March 2007. He is the son of Rene´ Gue´non and a shaykh of a branch of the Shadhili Sufi order. ‘Abd al-Halim must have been astonished to see a French man in a white galabiya, which might have appeared as a symbol of cultural authenticity to Gue´non, but which Egyptians from the upper class or rising middle classes who sought to be modern had stopped wearing outside their homes by the 1940s. After returning from France, ‘Abd al-Halim dressed in afrangi style (European fashion) until 1961. Martin Lings (1995), who was a close friend of Gue´non in Cairo, also supports this point. His friend had difficulties in meeting Gue´non yet they became close friends after the initial encounter, which supports ‘Abd al-Halim’s experience with Gue´non. ‘Abd al-Wahid Yahya, personal communication, 5 March 2007. Bodily movements in Sufi rituals are one of the most prominent attributes of Sufism that Egyptian modernists criticise (see Chapter 3). Hence, young ‘Abd al-Halim, an Azharite scholar in European fashion, was quite surprised to see a French intellectual letting himself go with the rhythm in a public gathering. It is important to note that the dual court system (Shari‘a Courts and National Courts) was introduced by European colonial authorities when Egypt lost control over its financial affairs in the 1870s (Asad 2003: 211). For this reason, it is not surprising that Nasser abolished the Shari‘a Courts together with the Mixed Courts when he came to power, so as to eliminate this colonial vestige. Mustafa Mahmud (1921 – 2009) was a medical doctor and former Marxist who became a renowned public intellectual from the late 1960s through his Qur’anic exegesis and autobiographical writings on how he came to accept the Islamic faith. His ‘wonders of nature’-style religious documentary show on television, al-‘Ilm wa al-Iman (science and faith), was extremely successful in the 1980s. See Salvatore (1998) for his biography. According to Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, al-Qadiya al-Shadhiliya is a Sufi order which branched out from the al-Hisafiya Sufi Order during the twentieth

NOTES

47.

48.

49.

50.

51.

52. 53.

54.

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century (personal communication, 3 March 2007). This is probably why Frederick de Jong and some members of al-Hisafiya al-Shadhiliya claim that ‘Abd al-Halim was a member of this Order (de Jong 1983: 199). Founded in Zaqaziq, al-Hisafiya was the first order which gained independence from the Bakri Family in 1884 (de Jong 1978: 103). Furthermore, Richard Mitchell (1969: 2) mentions that Hasan al-Banna was greatly impressed with the Sufi practices of al-Hisafiya and in 1918 organised the Hisafiya Society of Charity with his brothers from the Order. Although the Muslim Brotherhood’s political conflicts with the government resulted in al-Banna’s expulsion from the Hisafiya, ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud notes that Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah al-Qadi and Hasan al-Banna were in contact until the latter’s assassination in 1949 (de Jong 1983: 199). Awliya’ Alla (sing. wali, ‘saint’) literally means the ones who are near to God because they are loved by Him. Vincent Cornell discusses in detail the issue of glossing ‘wali’ as ‘saint’ in English (Cornell 1998: xvii– xxxv). ‘Abd al-Halim does not state when he started visiting Sufism-related events. However, as his articles started to appear in the Sufi Council’s official magazine, Al-Islam wa al-Tasawwuf (founded in 1955), in October 1958, it is most likely that he was already initiated into Sufi networks before meeting Shaykh ‘Abd al-Fattah in 1960. The mawlid of Ahmad Badawi (1199 –1276) lasts for a week and is estimated to attract a total of 500,000 pilgrims every year. This is one of the most popular and largest public festivals in Egypt (Schielke 2006: 216). For instance, al-Muhasibi’s Al-Ri‘aya li-huquq Allah (Mahmud 2003a), alKalabadhi’s Al-Ta‘arruf li-madhhab ahl al-tasawwuf (1960) and al-Tusi’s Kitab al-lum‘a fi al-tasawwuf (1960). Although the quality of editing has been criticised by specialists of Sufism, these titles are known as critical editions by ‘Abd al-Halim (tahqiq li-duktur ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud). For instance, Andre´ Maurois’s Le Peseur d’Ames (1946), Andre´ Cresson’s Le Proble`me moral et les philosophes (1946) and Etienne Dinet’s La vie de Mohammed, Prophe`te d’Allah (1945 –8). The front covers of these books are designed with ‘Abd al-Halim’s portrait, or with his name larger than the author’s, so that at a first glance it almost seems as if ‘Abd al-Halim is their author. Al-I‘tisam (1978) ‘Mata al-Imam al-Akbar fa-ihtazza al-‘alam al-islami kulluhu huznan ‘alaihi’, vol. 42 no. 2 (November), p. 9. Hussein Abdel Halim, personal communication, 7 March 2007. According to Hussein, no female members in ‘Abd al-Halim’s family wore headscarves during those days. For instance, he issued fatwas on the prohibition of selling beer (Shalabi, R. 1982: 70 – 1) after the nationalisation of al-Ahram Beverages Company in 1963, and the establishment of a breast milk bank (ibid. 59 – 62). I have not found any historical sources further documenting this project of collecting breast milk. However, ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal depicted this incident as the epitome of socialist policies that break down family ties. In it, ‘Abd al-Halim

168

55.

56.

57.

58. 59. 60. 61.

62. 63. 64.

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argued that if infants were fed the breast milk of other mothers, they would start to be confused about who their actual mother was, with this perhaps leading to the adoption of children, which Islam forbids. On the discussions in the modern Middle East on the issue of milk kinship in Islamic law, see Clarke (2007). The six main plans that ‘Abd al-Halim listed are the following: 1) Printing of the Qur’an; 2) drafting of an Islamic constitution encompassing the four Sunni schools of law; 3) establishing a new series of publications on Islamic sciences; 4) compilation of an encyclopaedia of the Sunna; 5) improving the general public’s understanding of the Qur’an by using tafsir; and 6) preparing plans to overcome the conflicted relationship between the Islamic Research Academy and riwaqs. An English translation of this draft was published in: Majallat al-Azhar (1979) ‘English Section: Islamic Research Academy Technical Secretarial Department Draft of the Islamic Constitution’, vol. 51 no. 4 (April), pp. 150– 9. Yahya Yunis, personal interview, 13 March 2007. Yahya Yunis is one of the few disciples of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud known to the author. He is a former military officer and a mechanical engineer who runs a company specialising in instruments for road construction. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim also mentioned this ru’ya during my interview on 26 September 2001. ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal (see Chapter 4) narrates this incident with the same intensity, as if he was the reason for Egypt’s long-awaited victory. An Egyptian journalist introduces this episode as proof of ‘Abd al-Halim’s saintliness (al-‘arif billah) (Shabana 2000). Yahya Yunis, personal interview, 13 March 2007. Al-Ahram (1974) ‘Al-Imam al-Akbar ya‘ud ila ‘amalihi: Istajaba tawjihat alra’is’, 8 December. Al-Ahram (1977) ‘Al-Imam al-Akbar yuwajjihu qadiyat al-Takfir’, 16 July. There are three other incidents in which ‘Abd al-Halim is said to have submitted his resignation letter to the president. The first was to refuse Sadat’s request to jointly produce a textbook for religious education at public schools with Baba Shenuda of the Coptic Church (Khamis 1977). The second was when Jihan Sadat, the wife of the president, proposed to amend the personal status law to prohibit polygamy and to facilitate divorce (Matar 2001b). The third was to persuade Sadat to amend Shariʽa as the primary source of law, instead of the second, in the constitution (Isma‘il 2007). Al-Ahram (1977) ‘Kartir li-Shaykh ‘Abd al-Halim: Sallaitu lil-salam ‘indama kana al-Sadat yazuru al-Quds’, 30 November. Al-Ahram Press Report (1977) 17 November. Yahya Yunis, personal interview, 13 April 2007. ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud has published a trilogy on the relationship between Islam and communism. The first is discussing the difference between asceticism in Islam and materially restrained lifestyle in communism through the biography of the Prophet Muhammad’s Companion, Abu Dharr al-Ghifari (d. 652) and denying the relationship between the two (Mahmud 1985). A series of newspaper articles ‘Abd al-Halim wrote on this subject appeared in Akhbar al-Yawm in 1975 was

NOTES

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66. 67. 68. 69.

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compiled in Mahmud (1983). Mahmud (1986) brought together the fatwas issued by famous scholars demonstrating the threat of communism on Islam. Al-Ahram (1978) ‘Ziyara Shaykh al-Azhar wa al-hiwar al-islami al-masihi’, 24 June. ‘Abd al-Halim’s speech delivered at al-Azhar during the first meeting with the delegates from Vatican is compiled in Mahmud (1993: 188–92). Al-Ahram (1978) ‘Shaykh al-Azhar yuhanni’u al-rai’s bi-ittifaqiya kamb divid’, 1 October. Al-Ahram (1978) ‘Jaraha lil-Imam al-Akbar’, 15 October. Al-Ahram (1978) ‘Al-Ra’is yastafsiru ‘an sahhat al-Imam al-Akbar’, 17 October. Denis Gril, personal communication, 21 April 2003. The reconstruction of Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al-Iskandari’s mosque commenced in 1971 and was completed in 1973 (Tonaga 1998: 211).

Chapter 3 Cultivating a Market for Sufism 1. Starting from his doctoral thesis on al-Muhasibi, ‘Abd al-Halim produced 28 books on Sufi personalities, including the spiritual poles of Shadhili tradition (i.e. Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili, Abu Madiyan) and saintly figures venerated in Egypt (i.e. Ahmad al-Badawi, Dhu al-Nun al-Misri). Among the members of the Shadhili order, ‘Abd al-Halim is praised for his preface to the Hizb al-Barr (the Litany of the Land, generally known as the Great Invocation) of Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili (Mahmud 2002) and his commentaries on Al-Qushayri’s Epistle on Sufism (Mahmud and Bin Al-Sharif 1995 [1966]). 2. Hamid Tahir, personal interview, 1 March 2007. He was the vice rector of Cairo University at the time of the interview. He studied with ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud from 1968 to 1969 when editing classical Sufi manuscripts as part of his Master’s studies at the Dar al-‘Ulum College of Cairo University. After submitting his dissertation on Ibn ‘Arabi, he went to the Sorbonne from 1974 to 1981, where he wrote his doctoral thesis on Ibn Rushd. 3. Schulze (1997) traces the genealogy of how the notion of taqlid, which used to carry the connotation of ‘tradition’ in a positive sense, began to be associated with ‘backwardness’ and ‘blind imitation’, in order to produce the image of ‘modernity’ as a progression and forward movement. 4. Muhaggaba literally means a woman wearing a higab (hijab in modern standard Arabic), which is a headscarf worn in a distinctive style among middle- and upper-class women as a demonstration of their piety and urban, educated background. For working women such as Ihsan, from religiously committed middle-class families, ‘taking the veil’ marks an individual’s social maturity and ‘veiling’ is associated with educated women in offices or modern professions. 5. This expression combines a Western understanding of ‘mysticism’ as the flip side of rational and enlightened religion and Egyptian modernists’ approaches to Islam. For the genealogy of al-tasawwuf al-islami in modern Egypt, see Christmann (2008). According to Christmann, this expression emerged in the

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7. 8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

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1940s and 1950s, when a specific European Oriental Studies approach to Islam started to establish its firm roots in Egyptian academia. After graduating from university with a BA in commerce, Yusuf tried out various professions. He claimed to have renounced his reckless life of flirting with Western women after marrying an Egyptian woman from a pious family background. His brothers-in-law are Azharite preachers and he is striving to become a successful entrepreneur through his business. See Sirriyeh (1999), de Jong and Radtke (1999). See Gasper (2009), Mitchell (2002). Frederick de Jong’s (1999) account of the relationship between the Nasser regime and the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders partially confirms this view. Sufi orders flourished during the Nasser era because the government attempted to use the authority of Sufi shaykhs to subdue the influence of the Muslim Brotherhood. Government involvement with Sufi orders was visible to the public; people saw officials delivering speeches at mawlids and portraits of Nasser often appeared in al-Islam wa al-Tasawwuf, the official magazine of the Supreme Council. Hassan Hanafi, personal communication, 5 June 2007. Hanafi was my supervisor when I was a visiting student at Cairo University. He is one of the most celebrated Arab philosophers of his time. Since earning his doctorate from the Sorbonne in 1966, he has been teaching philosophy at Cairo University. His latest work is a history of Sufism entitled Min al-Fana’ ila al-Baqa’ (From Annihilation to Persistence) as part of his ongoing project on reconstructing the intellectual heritage of Islam. For his biography see Salvatore (1995). The contributor, Hasan Ahmad Ramzi, states that he found this expression in ‘Abd al-Halim’s The Deliverance from Error, which was used as a textbook at the Islamic Studies Institute in Cairo. Dhikr means remembrance or recollection of God. Sufis perform dhikr to remember one’s connection to the Divine by repeating His names or Qur’anic verses. Dhikr is regarded as the first step to accessing the Sufi path. Generally speaking, there is no restriction over when or where dhikr should be performed, but shaykhs are expected to give specific instructions on which phrases to pronounce and how it should be done (i.e. recite aloud, whisper, or without voice). For the historical development of this term, see Schimmel (1975: 167– 78). For different terminologies related to dhikr in the Shadhili context, see McGregor (1997). A literal translation of hadra would be ‘presence’ but in a Sufi context the term refers to the regular meeting of brotherhood members to perform dhikr collectively. A hadra usually takes place after salat (ritual prayers) and lasts for one to two hours. In addition to verses from the Qur’an, some Sufi orders recite poems composed by the shaykh (qasida). The sequence of activities at a hadra differs greatly between Sufi orders. For instance, a hadra of the Burhaniya Dissuqiya Shadhiliya order, which I attended every week, opens with the recitation of the Fatiha (the first chapter of the Qur’an), invocation of the

NOTES

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17. 18.

19.

20.

21.

22. 23.

24.

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names of awliya’ venerated by the order, and then proceeds to dhikr and recitation of qasida. See Starrett (1995) on how modernism figures in relation to discourses on bodily dispositions during ritual prayers. The focus on Sufi figures before the formation of Sufi orders is a standard narrative in the tasawwuf al-islami literatures of Egypt (Christmann 2008). At the time of the interview, Ashur was enrolled in the Master’s programme at the American University of Cairo to obtain the qualification required to teach the Arabic language to non-native speakers. Aside from his studies, he was earning his living by teaching at an Arabic language school in an upper middleclass neighbourhood in greater Cairo. I will discuss him more in the next section of this chapter. The translation of this hadith is by Massignon (1997: 165). ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Sayf al-Nasr is Emeritus Professor of Theology at the Girls’ College of al-Azhar University. I will discuss him further in the last section of this chapter. ‘Abd al-Halim does not use this expression but this is what I inferred from the sequence in which he discusses religious observances (‘ibadat) in Islam. In Al-‘Ibadat: al-ahkam wa al-asrar (legal judgements and secrets of religious observances), jihad is listed right after the five pillars of Islam and explained with the same intensity as other articles of faith, which is a common topos in fiqh-literature (Mahmud 1981). In another context, the subtitle to ‘Abd al-Halim’s book on Abu al-Hasan alShadhili reads ‘the Sufi Warrior and the Knower of God’ (al-sufi al-mujahid wa al-‘arif billah) to emphasise his braveness. It’s worth emphasising that Abu alHasan’s contribution to the battle in Mansura is usually not highlighted in his biography. See, for instance, McGregor (1997: 256– 8). Al-Junayd is distinguished for his contribution to the development of Sufi science (‘ilm al-tasawwuf), as the theorist of the sober type of Sufism (Knysh 2000: 52 –6). ‘Abd al-Halim lists several schools of theology as ‘the enemies of Sunna’: Murji’a, Mu‘tazila, Khawarij and Qadiriya. In the latter part of the same book, Gilsenan contrasts ‘popular Sufism’ with ‘a Sufism of the Elite’, which was the kind of Sufism that the Egyptian middle classes and professionals were looking for (Gilsenan 2000: 229– 50). ‘Abd alHalim’s Sufism is provided as an example of the latter because he told Gilsenan that Sufism was about inner reflection and the purification of the soul, which had nothing to do with abstention from wealth or social success (ibid. 230). The binary opposition between ‘ilm and ma‘rifa developed from an early period of Sufi history, and has been transmitted across generations of Sufis. Dhu al-Nun al-Misri (d. 859) is regarded as the first to theorise ‘ma‘rifa, intuitive knowledge of God as opposed to ‘ilm, knowledge of discursive learning’ (Schimmel 1975: 43). However, historically speaking, Sufis and Azharite scholars in Egypt were able to establish a more harmonious relationship than is generally acknowledged in

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26. 27.

28. 29.

30.

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Islamic history. Yasushi Kosugi defines the intellectual hierarchy of Islam in Egypt as an ‘al-Azhar-Husayn Complex’, meaning that the knowledges of Azharite ‘ulama and Sufis were perceived as complementary to each other (Kosugi 1985). De Jong speculates that the establishment of the Supreme Council of Sufi Orders in 1812 could have been the initial reason for the collapse of the mutual respect between the two parties (de Jong 1978: 23). The role of religion in guiding the human mind was also addressed in ‘Ijtihad and Certainty (thabit) in Islamic Law’ (Mahmud 1981: 555–70), based on a lecture delivered at the Governmental Lawyer’s Club on 23 November 1974 and ‘Religion and Civilisation’ (Mahmud 1981: 571–88), based on a lecture delivered at al-Azhar University on 23 March 1962. Incidentally, this was also the subject of his last article in Majallat al-Azhar (Mahmud 1978). ‘Abd al-Halim’s criticism of the theory of evolution or a rationalist approach to revelation is regarded as one of his main ideas. See, for instance, al-Ba‘thi (1992). See also Mahmud (1998 [1979]: 351– 2) for his fatwa discussing this topic in relation to the status of ijtihad in interpreting the Shari‘a. Interview on a radio programme, Finjan Shay. ‘Abd al-Halim’s humanist approach echoes Nagib Mahfouz’s ‘Socialist Sufism’ (al-tasawwuf al-ishtiraki), which he advocated in the 1960s. According to Yagi (2001), Mahfouz hoped that Sufism would bring Egyptians together so that they would unite to seek God’s love and struggle for Him in building a righteous society. Mahfouz perceived true Islam in Sufism, in contrast to the dogmatism of the Muslim Brotherhood that he despised, but he was not a practising Sufi. My intention is not to infer the possibility of ‘Abd al-Halim being influenced by Mahfouz but rather to suggest how ‘Abd al-Halim might have employed the vocabularies which were in vogue among Egyptian intellectuals of the 1960s and 1970s when producing work on Sufism for larger audiences. This discourse is picked up 30 years later by an Egyptian journalist as one of the representative ideas of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (Hisham 2008). ‘Abd al-‘Aziz Sayf al-Nasr met ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud in 1963 during his lecture on The Philosophical Thought in Islam (Mahmud 1989 [1955]). They seem to have been on good terms, as ‘Abd al-Halim appointed ‘Abd al-‘Aziz as his teaching assistant. In 1967, ‘Abd al-Halim chose the title for ‘Abd al-‘Aziz’s doctoral thesis and upon its completion he was appointed as a lecturer of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. ‘Abd al-‘Aziz speaks English fluently, which is rare for an Azharite scholar. He spent a year in London during his doctoral studies, conducting library research at SOAS, the University of London. He regards the Oriental Studies of the West as a more authentic source of Islamic knowledge than works produced by Egyptian scholars, and encourages his students to learn European languages and study abroad so that they can read those books in their original language. In Islamic theology, atomism – the theory of atoms (the smallest unit of all matter) and accidents – was expected to prove the existence of God by unravelling the ways in which the world came to exist. Accordingly, all of

NOTES

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32.

33.

34.

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existence was composed of an atom and accident, which was not intended to last more than an instant after its creation. The reason why matter could endure was explained as God’s will to sustain its existence. I was not able to verify this point with historical sources. I have obtained the course list from 1969, during ‘Abd al-Halim’s tenure as Dean, yet I could not find any materials to compare with it from the previous years. However, according to Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, his father aspired to make the College of Fundamentals of the Religion more like the liberal arts colleges in Europe. He therefore reduced the hours for theology and increased humanities and social sciences subjects. In addition, he encouraged his students to read books outside the Islamic sciences so that they would have a broader knowledge of the world at large (personal communication, 3 March 2007). ‘Abd al-Halim publicly criticised theology and philosophy (especially Aristotelian and Cartesian logic) in his radio lectures and publications (i.e. Mahmud 1998 [1966]). He stated in a radio talk show on the General Programme, Ma‘ al‘Ulama’, for instance, that these subjects are unproductive, because since the ancient Greek period, philosophers and theologians have been tackling the same issues (i.e. whether the attributes of God are created or not), and yet can never find answers to their questions. According to Hans Wehr, amma ba‘du . . . fa is ‘a formula phrase linking introduction and actual subject of a book or letter’ which could be translated as ‘now to our topic’ (Cowan 1994: 32). Some of ‘Abd al-Halim’s books started with ‘amma ba‘du . . . fa’ rather than its less formal equivalent ‘wa ba‘du . . . fa’ (e.g. Mahmud 1989 [1955]). However, the majority of his publications do not open with either of these formula phrases. The Tariqa Burhaniya is one of the most famous Sufi orders in Egypt, especially because of the controversial book by the founding shaykh Muhammad ‘Uthman al-Burhani (d. 1983), Discharging the Duties of Counselling the Nation, which was published in 1970 (Hoffman 1995: 300–27). Shaykh ‘Uthman was originally from Khartoum, yet the order turned out to be a great success in Cairo and beyond. Burhanis now have bases in the major cities of North America and Western Europe. When I met Jean Abd-al-Wadoud Gouraud, who produced the French translation of ‘Abd al-Halim’s biography of Rene´ Gue´non, I asked about his impression of ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing style. Gouraud confirmed that the way ‘Abd al-Halim organises his argument clearly demonstrates his training at French universities (personal communication, 2 April 2007). I do not have enough knowledge of the rules of academic writing taught in France to verify this discourse. Other informants with whom I read ‘Abd al-Halim’s books were also impressed by the tidy way the arguments unfold in his writing. It is, of course, possible to hypothesise that ‘Abd al-Halim’s writing style was not only a product of his study at the Sorbonne but also a demonstration of the solid scholarly training he received at al-Azhar. But my informants put much greater emphasis on the French training than on that of al-Azhar.

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35. Al-I‘tisam (1978) ‘Mata al-Imam al-Akbar fa-ihtazza al-‘alam al-islami kulluhu huznan ‘alaihi’, vol. 42 no. 2 (November), pp. 8 – 12.

Chapter 4 Between ‘Public’ Islam and ‘Private’ Sufism 1. Kazuo Otsuka’s (2008) ethnography suggests transformation in this stereotyped image of gendered space boundaries. In parallel to the rise in the number of veiled women who have full-time jobs since the 1980s, it became gradually accepted for women to sit at popular coffee shops (’ahwa baladi) or koshari restaurants (an Egyptian fast food dish based on rice, noodles and peas) in central Cairo, in public places conventionally occupied only by men. At the same time, some senior male figures were critical of young male professionals who preferred staying at home to watch television or to read a book, rather than visiting coffee shops to socialise with friends. 2. For example, there are reports on ‘Abd al-Halim’s musalsal in al-Ahram from 3 March 2007, 20 February, 4 April, and 1 May 2008. 3. Al-Masa’iya al-Misriya (2007) ‘Ibrahim al-‘Aqbawi: yadukhulu al-Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud ila musabaqa ramadaniya’, 20 February. According to Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, production of the serial was funded 50 per cent by public funds (i.e. Sawt al-Qahira) and 50 per cent by Nur al-Iman Hasan Yusuf Co. Ltd., a private company owned by Hasan Yusuf that specialises in the production of religious musalsals (personal communication, 6 October 2008). 4. Officially speaking, the Islamic Research Academy of al-Azhar supervised the religious aspects of this musalsal, yet in reality the voice of al-Azhar was represented by Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim. Hasan Yusuf contacted Mani‘ in early 2007 to seek his cooperation (Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 3 March 2007). He assisted Bahi al-Din Ibrahim in providing the biographical details about his father. Both Hasan Yusuf and Bahi al-Din Ibrahim confirmed in interviews that Mani‘ had read the full script. The main actors, Hasan Yusuf and ‘Afaf Shu‘aib, also visited Mani‘’s flat before the commencement of filming (Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 6 October 2008). This was intended to avoid the conflicts that Hasan Yusuf had had with al-Sha‘rawi’s family after the broadcast of that musalsal. See Sayed (2002) for details of the controversy. 5. For the notion of ‘flow’ in the television scheduling during Ramadan, see Armbrust (2006: 211– 17). In a Syrian context, Christmann has also observed the same pattern of a shift in the programmes from religious to secular content before and after the maghrib prayer in the television scheduling during Ramadan (Christmann 2001: 246). 6. It is very likely that the programme was broadcast on other channels that I was not aware of. When I was visiting Islamic Cairo one evening during Ramadan, I unexpectedly came across Al-‘Arif billah being aired on a television in a cafe´ beside the Husayn Mosque, but I did not have a chance to check which station it was on.

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7. They are also known as multazim (religiously committed) or mu‘tazil (‘retired’ from mainstream films and television serials) artists. On the controversies over female repentant artists in Egypt, see Abu-Lughod (1995) and Van Nieuwkerk (2008). 8. Akhbar al-Fann (2008) ‘Saddam bayna al-fannan Hasan Yusuf wa Shaykh alAzhar’, 15 August, http://www.sohbanet.com/vb/showthread.php?t¼38235 (accessed 29 June 2009). 9. Shams al-Barudi is the most famous of the repentant artists. Her decision to retire from acting for the sake of religion shocked the public, as she was the top sex symbol of the Egyptian silver screen for many years. Hasan Yusuf constantly receives questions from journalists who are thirsty for updates on Shams alBarudi, yet he replies that his wife has no intention to return to her former profession. For her biography, see Abu-Lughod (1995) and Van Nieuwkerk (2013: 22 – 9). 10. For the conversion stories of Madiha Hamdi (b. 1941), see Farhat (1993) and for ‘Afaf Shu‘aib (b. 1948), see Van Nieuwkerk (2008). 11. Since the late 1990s, in Egypt, criticisms of ‘dirty’ cinema (i.e. films with scenes of sex and violence that would pollute public morality) gave rise to the idea of ‘clean’ cinema (al-sinima al-nazifa) in which female characters play a significant role in keeping visual entertainment free of moral pollution (Tartoussieh 2007). On clean soap, see Van Nieuwkerk (2013). 12. Not everybody agrees with Bahi al-Din Ibrahim’s position. Karin van Nieuwerk (2013: 248 –52) reports that veiled actors have been criticised by ‘secular’ leaning journalists and audiences for the artificiality or the lack of realistic performance they could offer in order to maintain their morally clean public imagery. For instance, they would not be able to kiss or embrace their son when playing a role of a mother. 13. Wikipedia, al-Mawsu‘a al-Hurra (2012) ‘Hasan Yusuf (al-Mumatthil)’, 2 November, http://ar.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D8%AD%D8%B3%D9%86_%D9 %8A%D9%88%D8%B3%D9%81_(%D9%85%D9%85%D8%AB%D9%84) (accessed 23 December 2012). 14. Saidaonline (2008) ‘Hasan Yusuf: lawla al-tamthil la-asbahtu la‘ib lura bilZamalik!!’, 30 October, http://www.saidaonline.com/news.php?go¼fullnews& newsid¼25709# (accessed 30 May 2009). 15. Jarida Al-Khalij al-Imarat (2005) ‘Al-Fannan Hasan Yusuf. . . Sama‘tu maqula al-Sha‘rawi “Siyahat al-mu’min al-hajj wa al-‘umra”’, 27 October, http://www. ali4.com/vb/showthread.php?t¼1374 (accessed 10 January 2010). 16. The immediate difference that viewers would notice between conventional religious musalsals staged in early-to-middle Islamic history and those featuring modern scholars of religion is the language used in the script. Previously in conventional religious musalsals actors rigorously spoke in fusha. Some of them even retained the declinations (which are not strictly necessary in a fusha speech). Another difference would be the lack of battle scenes. Because many of the heroes of conventional religious musalsals were notable for having rendered

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18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

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services to Islamic history by winning wars, battle scenes were conspicuous. However, in serials featuring modern scholars, the heroes are not distinguished by physical combat, but rather by intellectual and spiritual efforts. For a discussion of Islamists in Egyptian cinema, see Armbrust (2002). On the public discourse from the 1990s associating working-class neighbourhoods in greater Cairo with Muslim terrorists, see Kuppinger (2001). Du‘a’ is a prayer formula derived from Qur’anic verses and used to invoke God’s support in various circumstances of life. Believers are expected to choose a line of supplication based on their knowledge of the Qur’an. Nowadays, du‘a’ manuals are readily available at kiosks or bookstores for those who want to know which supplication to make on a specific occasion. Sufis may receive advice from their shaykhs to learn the du‘a’ that the founding master of the order used to pronounce. The bodily posture of du‘a’ is characterised by closed eyes and raised hands with palms facing upward, often kneeling down on the floor, especially when performed after ritual prayers. Tahajjud means ‘to keep a vigil’ but in this context it means to stay up all night to perform prayers or recite the Qur’an between the night and dawn prayers. A.J. Weinsink, ‘Tahadjdjud’ in: P. Bearman et al. (eds) Encyclopaedia of Islam, Second Edition, BrillOnline, http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/encyclopaediaof-islam-2/tahadjdjud-SIM_7302 (accessed 24 May 2013). In a radio lecture from Hadith al-Sabah (see Chapter 5), ‘Abd al-Halim cites a hadith qudsi (a hadith narrating God’s message reported by the Prophet Muhammad) explaining the benefits of performing du‘a’ very late in the evening, because this is the ‘office hour’ of God to descend from the sky to accept His believers’ supplications. God’s Messenger reports: ‘Our Lord descends from the sky to this world every night, in the last third of the night, and calls out, “Is anyone seeking forgiveness? Then I will forgive him. Is anyone seeking repentance? So I will repent him. Is anyone asking for something? So I will give it to him. Is anyone. . .? Is anyone. . .? Is anyone. . .?” until the breaking of the dawn’. Bahi al-Din Ibrahim mentioned in a number of interviews (e.g. Yasin 2008 and Akhbar al-Fann), including mine, that he studied ‘Abd al-Halim’s publications and radio lectures attentively before writing the script. Akhbar al-Fann (2008) ‘Saddam baina al-fannan Hasan Yusuf wa Shaykh al-Azhar’, 15 August. In the musalsal, Al-Ghazali also objected to ‘Abd al-Halim’s proposal to oblige Azharite students to complete the memorisation of the Qur’an once again before taking the final exam. Al-Ghazali claimed that memorisation was no longer necessary, as nowadays the Qur’an was preserved in printed books and audio tapes. What students needed to learn, in his opinion, was the meaning and interpretation of the Qur’an. ‘Abd al-Halim replied that he did not see how students could study the meaning of the Qur’an without knowing it by heart. Together with al-Hallaj, al-Bistami is known as the representative of the ‘intoxicated’ type of Sufi (Knysh 2000: 68– 82). It is most likely that ‘Abd alHalim quoted the same expression on many other occasions to emphasise that

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Sufis follow Shari‘a, just like other Muslims. The same line, for instance, appears also in a newspaper article (Mahmud 1976b). The content of this article was reproduced 20 years later in a newspaper as the core idea of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (Hisham 2008). 24. The expression ‘enlightened Sufi’ (al-sufi al-mustanir) is used in Egypt to praise a distinguished Sufi master. 25. When I visited this Sufi order in March 2007, for the sake of ‘protecting’ my dignity as a woman, the current shaykh did not permit me to attend the hadra, yet he allowed me to listen to it from a room besides the main hall where the gathering was held. From what I heard, the hadra of this order does not involve excessive bodily movements, hand clapping or musical instruments. Its members sit on the floor and recite the Fatiha (the first chapter of the Qur’an), shahada (profession of faith), and some verses of the Qur’an. All the participants were male. There was no leading vocalist, and everybody chanted together. 26. For instance, there is an article from Al-Ahram announcing that ‘Abd al-Halim would attend the laila kabira (big night, finale of the mawlid) of Ahmad alBadawi’s mawlid (29 March 1972). Al-Idha‘a wa al-tilifiziyun (a weekly radio and television magazine) had photos of ‘Abd al-Halim attending the mawlid of Husayn in the following issue: Al-Idh‘a wa al-tilifiziyun (1974) ‘Fi mawlid al-Imam al-Husayn Abu alShuhada Karbala’’, vol. 6 no. 44 (18 May), p. 17.

Chapter 5

The Aesthetics of Hadith Narration

1. I am not alone in comparing Islamic learning to classical performing art. It is important to note that in the pre-modern period, music was a type of craft, as musicians were organised into guilds, just like other professions. Eickelman has observed that while Moroccans distinguish ma‘rifa, knowledge of practical skills (i.e. crafts, oral poetry and music) from ‘ilm (knowledge of Islamic sciences), there are striking similarities between the learning processes of the two, since both are regarded as ‘fixed, memorizable truths’ transmitted from master to disciple, and any skills or knowledge gained independently were subject to suspicion (Eickelman 1978: 491– 2). 2. This might be comparable to how novice pop-singers perform the famous songs of professionally successful singers to enhance their credentials (e.g. buskers singing Beatles’ songs in London tube stations). 3. In Abdelfattah Kilito’s (2001) analysis, classical Arab poets were obsessed with fears of plagiarism precisely because the genre required close adherence to the rules of pre-existing works. In other words, the mark of a great poet was not so much to create a work that was unique and stood apart from all others but to create a work that both paid its respects to predecessors and also distinguished itself in some way. 4. Danielson notes that one of the elements which made Egyptians believe in Umm Kulthum’s outstanding capacity to sing was public knowledge of her

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5.

6. 7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

NOTES TO PAGES 111 –117 having received formal training in the Qur’anic recitation (Danielson 1997: 141– 4). Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 26 September 2001. ‘Abd alHalim’s contribution to the founding was remarked on at the 25th anniversary of the radio station: Al-Ahram (1989) ‘Al-Usuwat al-hasana: Idha‘at al-Qur’an al-karim wa mas’uliyat jadida ba‘d rub‘ qarn mada mundh insha’iha’, 31 March. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 13 May 2008. Hadith al-Sabah aims at deepening the listeners’ understanding of Qur’anic teaching. The presenter, Ibrahim Magahid, introduces the topic of the day and the guest speakers discuss it by relating it to a particular verse. Among 28 episodes that I listened to, representative topics were seeking knowledge, the significance of Sunna, the genesis of the world, and believers and unbelievers. ‘Abd al-Halim Kishk is the best example of the anti-establishment activist preacher whose lecture recordings in cassette tape form brought him immense popularity. In spite of his lower social class background, and losing his father and his sight at a young age, Kishk studied at al-Azhar and started preaching in Cairo around 1964. Imprisonment by Nasser (1966 – 8) and Sadat (1981 – 2) did not prevent him from speaking out, and followers continued to gather to listen when he spoke from the minbar (mosque pulpit). Those who could not attend the sermons listened to them on cassette players. For a detailed study of the preaching style and reception of Kishk’s lectures, see Hirschkind (2006). Hirschkind (2012) also reports on how Kishk’s popularity continues in the digital age. The ERTU was founded in 1970, bringing together radio and television stations, broadcast engineers, and a finance department directed by a chairman who worked under the direction of the Minister of Information (Boyd 1993: 43). The General Programme was the first national radio station, established on 31 May 1934. As its name suggests, this station produces various types of entertainment shows such as news, music, and drama. Along with Voice of the Arabs, this was the most important channel before the 1967 war (Boyd 1993: 22). In 1981, when national radio stations were reorganised into seven networks, it remained as the General Programme Network (ibid. 32 – 3). On hadith debates in modern Egypt, see Brown (1996) and Juynboll (1969). Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 6 October 2008. Al-Bukhari, Sahih Book I, no. 3. Amin Basyuni has occupied a number of important positions in Egyptian media industries. Around the period when he was the presenter of Hadi al-Nubuwa, he was the Managing Director then the President of Voice of the Arabs (1976 –87). From 1988, he was the President of the ERTU (Al-Mut‘i 2006:121). He became the first CEO of the Egyptian satellite channel Nilesat in 1996. Voice of the Arabs operated as the ‘mouthpiece’ of the Free Officers. Its radio programmes gained immense popularity throughout the Arab world and became the most significant vehicle for transmitting Nasser’s Arabism.

NOTES

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However, after 1967 its programming was altered drastically, aiming to illuminate its propaganda content (Boyd 1993: 29). Hadiths are generally ‘divided into three main classes, on the basis of their reliability on account of the quality of isnad, the nature of the matn, and their acceptance or rejection by the Companions, the Followers, and the Successors. These three classes are: 1. Sahih, or “sound”; 2. Hasan, or “fair”; and 3. Da‘if, or “weak”’ (Siddiqi 1993: 109). Among the 84 episodes I listened to, representative topics were jihad: ‘I was ordered [by God] to fight against the people until they testified “there is no God but Him, and Muhammad is his Messenger”’ (Al-Bukhari, no. 24); zakat (alms giving): ‘When you paid zakat, you had settled what was destined upon you. The one who accumulated unlawful money then donated it would be free of fee and sin’ (Tirmidhi); and knowledge: ‘For those who followed a path seeking knowledge, God smoothened his path to Paradise’ (Muslim). Yahya ibn Sharf al-Nawawi (1233– 77) is a hadith compiler who is regarded as one of the most important scholars in the Shafi‘i School of Law. His hadith collections, The Garden of the Righteous (riyad al-salihin) and The Forty Hadiths (al-arba’in al-nawawi) are bestsellers even today. In particular, The Forty Hadiths is readily available at street book vendors and metro station kiosks in a palmsize pamphlet, which allows the owner to carry it around. ‘Abdullah bin Shaykh Muhammad al-Shafi‘i al-Nabrawi was a prominent scholar of hadith science at al-Azhar in the early nineteenth century (al-Gundi 1964: 5). ‘Abd al-Rahim Farag al-Gundi, who was an inspector (mufattish) of the Shariʽa sciences at al-Azhar University, states in his preface that he decided to edit al-Nabrawi’s commentary because when Shaykh al-Azhar (Mahmud Shaltut) decided to make this book compulsory reading for the high school division of al-Azhar in 1959, students were complaining regarding its difficulties (ibid. 2). Hadith sciences developed as the branch of scholarship examining the isnad, rather than the matn. If the transmission route was sound, then it was classified as an authentic hadith, and the content was secondary (in scholarship, if not in the social context of a hadith’s usage). However, compared to classical commentary, isnad is remarkably shorter in this textbook, as it only indicates the first transmitter. A commentary on the same hadith (al-Bukhari #1) by the late fifteenth-century scholar, for instance, lists five other transmitters besides ‘Umar ibn al-Khattab, who heard the speech directly from the Prophet Muhammad (‘Ali and ‘Atiya 1973: 37). In public schools, while pupils start to memorise the Qur’an from elementary school, lessons on hadiths start only from high school. In 2005, high school students learned six hadiths a year (Jumhuriya Misr al-‘Arabiya Wizara alTarbiya wa al-Taʽlim 2005), while, for instance, al-Bukhari’s Sahih collection lists 7,275 hadiths. Textbooks try to follow the traditional order of lessons; they first list the hadith with its isnad; then the main vocabulary items and grammatical explanations; then comments on the hadith by part; and finally the

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22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

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lessons students should learn from the hadith. The difference is that while teachers used to give explanations by dividing the hadith into shorter phrases, now students are given the entire hadith at once and receive the explanation by way of subjects such as grammar, commentary, and guidance. Each lesson is centred on acquiring the standard meaning, as there is a title indicating the gist of the hadith on the top of the page and a lesson concludes with a list of topics and questions, which students are then to discuss in the classroom. 83104 nun, episode 1. This is the registration number of the recording stored at the ERTU radio station archive. Nun stands for nisf sa‘a (half an hour). Translation by Abdallah Yusuf Ali. Abu Dawud, Book II, no. 1140. Translation by Ibrahim and Johnson-Davies (2006: 110). See Cook (2001) for the significance of this concept in Islam. Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim, personal communication, 3 March 2007. Bettina Gra¨f mentions that when she was interviewing an Azharite scholar Yusuf al-Qaradawi, she noticed on a number of occasions that he responded to her questions by citing a fairly long passage from his publications without hindering the flow of the conversation (personal communication, 17 November 2009). In other words, to give Muhammad everything in the world. Salwa assisted me with understanding the hadith lectures from Hadi al-Nubuwa. We met in November 2007 at an exclusive three-day da‘wa seminar in English that costs LE250 (£22), when her monthly salary was only LE550 (£48). She knew of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud immediately, which is rare for people her age. Her enthusiasm for accumulating the knowledge of Islam is demonstrated by her having obtained a diploma in Islamic Sciences at the Islamic Studies Institute, in addition to a BA in Commerce from ‘Ain Shams University in Cairo. While holding a full-time job as an accountant, she gives lessons on Islam to children as a volunteer in a charity organisation run by a mosque. For the passage on Khadija and Abu Talib’s death, see Guillaume (1955: 191 – 2). 83098 nun episode 1. Al-Bukhari Book III no.861. Translation by Ibrahim and Johnson-Davies (2006 [1976]: 40). Al-Bukhari Book I #1. Translation by Ibrahim and Johson-Davies (2006 [1976]: 26). Jamal Ahmed Badi (2001) ‘Hadith 5’, in: Commentaries on Imam al-Nawawi’s Forty Hadiths, http://fortyhadith.iiu.edu.my/hadith05.htm (accessed 1 April 2009). Translation by Abdallah Yusuf Ali. Ibid. The main hadith of this episode was ‘You have the recitation of the Qur’an [which would serve] you as the light in this world and hereafter’. Each episode is called a halqa (literally ‘circle’) or dars (lecture), terms which have more academic connotations in contemporary Egypt, rather than khutba (sermon), which is more religious. As in academic lectures, there was also a title (‘unwan), which made the lectures easier for listeners to follow.

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38. In the Egyptian context, sporting clubs play a significant role in social class formation and is generally the preserve of the middle and upper classes. Except of children, majority of the members frequent the club for the purpose of socialising with their family friends rather than playing sports. 39. According to social linguist Clive Holes, the type of language ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud uses in his lectures can only be characterised as almost textbook-like ‘pure fusha’. Compared to Kishk and other preachers who occasionally employed extremely erudite expressions which an ordinary person would not be able to understand, ‘Abd al-Halim only uses expressions which his audience can grasp the meaning of without any further explanation, although when clarification was necessary he provided it. Such linguistic ability to adjust according to his audience illustrates the solid training in Islamic scholarship that he received at al-Azhar. (Holes, personal communication, 16 March 2009).

Chapter 6 Being a Credible Scholar 1. ‘Abd al-Halim’s publications from this series includes al-Rasul (1965), Asrar al‘ibadat fi al-islam (1966), al-Isra’ wa al-mi‘raj (1968) and al-Hajj ila bait allah al-haram (1971). 2. Nisf al-Dunya (half of the world) is a weekly magazine published by al-Ahram Press in Cairo, targeting educated Egyptian women and female professionals. For instance, the issue from 21 January 2001 contained articles on social history, Islam, the latest films, literature, the horoscope, beauty and health. 3. The same expression also appeared in al-Akhbar newspaper when Muhammad bin al-Sharif, a professor of Sufism at al-Azhar, introduced the life and thought of ‘Abd al-Halim (Bin al-Sharif 1990). Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim also used to characterise his father as ‘al-Ghazali’ in his writings (‘Abd al-Halim 1996). ‘Abd al-Fattah Baraka, a former colleague of ‘Abd al-Halim, addressed him as ‘the Ghazali of the Fourteenth Century A.H.’ in his obituary (Shalabi, R. 1982: 641– 58). ‘Abd al-Fattah Baraka was a professor at College of Fundamentals of the Religion at al-Azhar University. Muhammad Zaki Ibrahim, the founding shaykh of ‘Ashira al-Muhammadiya, also stated that ‘Abd al-Halim was ‘the Ghazali of Egypt’ (Ibrahim 2003: 401). 4. Al-Ghazali’s conversion to Sufism and his retirement from al-Nizamiya, as discussed in The Deliverance from Error, is often viewed as the symbolic turning point in his intellectual biography as well as in the history of Islamic thought. For a comprehensive overview of Abu Hamid al-Ghazali’s biography and the significance of his work in the history of Islamic thought, see Knysh (2000: 140– 9). 5. I am grateful to Samer El-Karanshawy for pointing this out to me. 6. According to Walter Armbrust, the cassette tapes of Arab music icon Muhammad ‘Abd al-Wahhab also began with a quasi-Western classical introductory musical segment. ‘Abd al-Wahhab consciously tried to position

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8. 9.

10.

11.

12. 13.

14. 15.

16.

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himself throughout his long career (from the 1920s to his death in 1991) as a ‘highbrow’ artist. The smoothness of his speech was enhanced by the editing techniques of radio producers (i.e. removing the unnecessary pauses, coughing, etc). I was struck by a remarkable difference in terms of the flow when listening to the recordings of ‘Abd al-Halim’s lectures before and after the editing at the radio station archive. Al-I‘tisam (1978) ‘Mata al-Imam al-Akbar fa-ihtazza al-‘alam al-islami kulluhu hazinan ‘alaihi’, vol. 42 no.2 (November), pp. 8 – 12. Although Mani‘ ‘Abd al-Halim was very close to his father, he does not know how many disciples ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud actually had because they were initiated at and often interacted with him on a ‘mystical’ level, including in dreams (personal communication, 7 March 2007). During my stay in Egypt, I had an opportunity to meet one of them, Yahya Yunis, who provided me with the biographical information on ‘Abd al-Halim as a Sufi master used in Chapter 2. Taha Habaishi, personal interview, 13 March 2007. At the time of the interview, he was Head of the Department of Philosophy and Doctrine of the College of Fundamentals of the Religion at al-Azhar University. The nature of the media community described by Ishida is obviously similar to Benedict Anderson’s Imagined Communities (1991), in the sense that this is a community consisting of people who will never actually meet each other, yet nevertheless feel themselves to be connected. On the historical process by which Egyptian public became accustomed to visual media (especially through popular magazines), see Armbrust (2004). ‘Amr Khaled (b. 1967) is a former accountant who became an influential preacher, especially among the educated middle classes, initially through mosque lectures and then through satellite television programmes. Many young female Muslims are said to have adopted the hijab as they listened to his talks. For a detailed analysis of ‘Amr Khaled’s successes in the media industry, see Rock (2010) and Moll (2010). Bahi al-Din Ibrahim, personal interview, 7 October 2008. The Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Association (a charity organisation based in Alexandria) organised this research essay contest, and its award ceremony was held on 4 April 2007 at the lecture hall named after ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud at the College of Fundamentals of the Religion. The contest was advertised in alAhram newspaper and received approximately 120 applications. The assignment that year was to review ‘Abd al-Halim’s book on an early Sufi thinker, Abu Harith al-Muhasibi, who is known as ‘Ustadh Sa’irin’, the master of ascetics. Al-Ahram (2007) ‘Fi dhikri Duktur ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud: Musabaqa hawla shakhsiyat ustadh sa’irin’, 14 February. Specialists of Sufism, both inside and outside Egypt, are critical of the quality of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s editions, yet they remain widely used in the field. For instance, Richard Gramlich who produced a German translation of Risalat alQushayriyya (al-Qushayri’s Epistle) evaluated ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s edition

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19. 20.

21. 22.

23.

24.

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(Mahmud and Bin Al-Sharif 1995 [1966]) as ‘uncritical and full of mistakes, in no way more trustworthy than the previous versions’, yet he used this edition as the main text (Gramlich 1989: 18 – 19). Alexander Knysh gives a similar account in his introduction to an English translation of Al-Qushayri’s Epistle (Knysh 2007: xxvii). The contested evaluation of ‘Abd al-Halim’s legacy was well exemplified when Giuseppe Scattolin gave an interview to an Egyptian popular weekly, Ruz al-Yusuf, in 2007. When Scattolin mentioned that ‘Abd alHalim Mahmud’s work, especially his editions of Sufi classics, are the prime example of the insignificant (mutawadi‘) level of scholarship on Sufism in Egypt, a photo of Scattolin and ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud made the front cover of Ruz al-Yusuf 2 (an internal magazine within Ruz al-Yusuf) together with the sensationalist title ‘Italian Priest specialised in Ibn al-Farid, Father Scattolin [says]: Sufism Studies of ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud are insignificant!’ as if the main topic of the article was about ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud (Al-Hakim 2007: 39). Hussein Abdel-Halim, personal communication, 4 April 2007. Salvatore (1995) reports how, after Egypt’s defeat in the 1967 War against Israel, the search for al-‘asala (authenticity) became the significant issue in the public discourses. Egyptian intellectuals attempted to locate turath (heritage), which is not tamed by hadatha (modernity based on a Western model) as a clue to overcome the crisis. These vocabularies were shared beyond the discourses of Islamic awakening (sahwa al-islamiyya). See Winegar (2006) on the discussions among Egyptian artists. I am grateful to Setrag Manoukian for pointing this out to me. Mutabi‘a was not listed in the Arabic to English dictionaries that I consulted. However, a quick internet search indicates that this word is used in blogs and thread entries as ‘typical’. In Egyptian colloquial Arabic, the prime meaning of tabi‘ is ‘characteristic’ and ‘feature’. For a similar discussion on the elements which constitute ‘creativity’ in Islamic tradition, and especially poetry, see Kilito (2001). Editor-in-chief of Akhbar al-Adab and a prolific writer. His novel Kitab alTajalliyat (The Book of Illumination) narrated the protagonist’s spiritual interactions with legendary Sufis, such as Ibn al-‘Arabi (Knysh 1996). ‘Abbas Mahmud al-‘Aqqad was a self-taught writer, poet, and literary critic, who dedicated his life to spreading liberal and anti-authoritarian views in Egypt. He was briefly elected as a member of parliament (1925 – 30) but was imprisoned in 1930 for criticising the government. He is known for his romantic novel Sarah, based on his personal life, and a 14-volume series ‘Abqariya (geniuses), featuring major figures in Islamic history, including the Prophet Muhammad (Sugita 2002). Nisf al-Dunya (2001) ‘Thaqafa’, vol. 571, p. 80.

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INDEX

‘Abd al-Halim, Mani‘ (d. 2009), 56, 87, 108, 118, 136, 160n.4, 162n.10, 163n.21, 165n.34, 166n.46, 168n.57, 173n.31, 174n.3– 4, 181n.3, 182n.9 ‘Abd al-Raziq, Mustafa (1885 – 1947), 38, 163n.18, 163n.22 Abdel-Halim, Hussein, 113, 139, 160n.4 ‘Abduh, Muhammad (1849 – 1905), 7, 19 – 20, 33, 36, 115, 142, 159n.2 aesthetic form, 10, 12, 152 afrangi style (European fashion), 166n.40 Alexandria, 38 – 9, 42, 140, 161n.4, 182n.15 ‘Ali, Muhammad (r. 1805– 48), 16, 19, 28, 162n.13 ‘alim (scholar), 1, 7, 21 – 2, 24 – 7, 36 – 7, 39 – 40, 49, 54, 78, 106, 131– 5, 138, 143– 6, 148, 152 ‘alim mutasawwif (Sufi scholar), 62, 84 ‘alim salih (authentic scholar), 1, 2, 147 ‘alimiya (the certificate of an Azharite ‘alim), 3, 19, 24 – 5, 37 – 8, 98, 105 Anawati, George (1905 – 94), 44 anti-Sufi discourse, 14, 65, 100– 1, 103, 108 anti-Sufi sentiments, 65 – 8, 108

critical discourse on Sufism, 69 apprentice, 21, 25, 152 ‘aql (mind, reasoning), 75, 121, 142 ‘aqli (rational), 76, 114, 141 ‘Aqqad, ‘Abbas Mahmud al(1889– 1964), 134, 145– 6, 183n.22 aqtab (spiritual ‘poles’, sing. qutb), 56, 107 Arab Spring, 3 Arabic, 7, 39 –40, 69, 79, 91 Arabic grammar, 19, 22, 159n.8 Egyptian colloquial Arabic, 96, 125, 142, 157 n.2 literary Arabic, 12, 126, 132, 153, see also fusha teaching Arabic, 23, 36 Armbrust, Walter, 87, 111, 181n.6 asceticism, 66 – 7, 71 – 3, 77, 101, 106–7, 151, 168n.64, see also zuhd atheism, 40, 44 ‘Atrash, Amal al- (1918– 44), 87 ‘Attar, Hasan al- (1766 –1834), 18– 19, 115 audience, 7, 9, 12, 17, 60 – 1, 78, 81, 83 –4, 90, 99, 103, 108, 111, 119– 20, 122– 7, 129, 136, 153

196

PUBLIC CULTURE

AND ISLAM IN MODERN

abstract audience, 134 cultured audience, 4, 131–2 non-specialist audience, 2, 70 – 1, 82, 109, 135, 148, 152, 154 authentic, 61, 135 authentic scholar, 1, 3, 6, 69, 79, 82, 126– 7, 129, 132, 147– 9, 152– 4 authentic tradition, 65, 71, 82, 129 the inauthentic other, 63 – 5 authenticity (al-‘asala), 9, 32, 63, 95, 110, 111, 138, 153, 183n.18 cultural authenticity, 166n.40 author, 7– 10, 12, 29– 32, 53, 102, 112, 130, 152 authorship, 82, 153 authorship of ideas, 6, 111 authority, 15, 22, 25, 46, 50 – 1, 78, 101, 122, 124, 152, 160n.10, 170n.9 anonymous authority, 13 colonial authorities, 34, 36, 151, 166n.44 the relational system of authority, 21 religious authorities, 3, 47, 88, 133 traditional authority, 68 –9, 96 autobiography, 19, 29 – 31, 33 – 5, 37 – 9, 54, 84, 115, 132, 146, 151, 153, 161n.5, 164n.28, 165n.31 awliya’ (sing. wali), 47, 49, 66, 124, 167n.47, 171n.13 backward, 18 – 20, 23, 25, 62– 3, 65 –6, 70, 95 – 7, 101, 169n.3 Badawi, Ahmad al- (1199– 1276), 48, 99, 103, 169n.1, 177n.26 bahith (researcher), 69, 144, 146, 148 Banna, Hasan al- (1906– 49), 36, 160n.2, 163n.19, 165n.31, 167n.46 Barudi, Shams al- (b. 1946), 89, 175n.9 basira (mental perception), 48, 99, 160n.2

EGYPT

Basyuni, Amin (b. 1933), 117 BBC radio service, 39 bid‘a (unlawful innovation), 73, 121 biography, 14, 29, 83, 93, 107– 8, 149 biographical serial, 3, 83 biography of the Prophet Muhammad, 110, 116, 119– 20, 127, 154 Bistami, Abu Yazid al- (d. 874), 103 bodily movements, 66, 68, 84, 94, 166n.43, 177n.25 Bourdieu, Pierre, 4 Boyer, Dominic, 9 Bukhari al- (810– 70), 114– 15, 117, 179n.21 Burhaniya al-Dissuqiya al-Shadhiliya order, 80, 170n.13, 173n.33 Camp David Accord, 55 – 6 career, 5, 20 – 1, 23, 28 – 31, 35 – 6, 41, 44, 49, 55, 84, 89 – 91, 132, 151, 159n.6, 161n.4 Carter, Jimmy (b. 1924), 55 cassette tapes, 113, 178n.8, 181n.6 celebrity, 2, 132, 134 centre – periphery, 65, 125 certificate, 23 – 5, 28, 37, 163n.20 chaos, 16 – 7, 20 Chirol, Valentine (1852 –1929), 18 civilised life, 4, 131, 155 colonial, 4, 11, 14, 23, 27, 166n.44 colonial authorities, 34, 36, 151, 166n.44 colonial gaze, 18 colonialism, 50, 71 French colonial occupation (of Algeria), 72 postcolonial, 115, 138, 166n.37 commodity, 14– 15, 150, 152 commodification, 12, 152– 3 cultural commodity, 9, 129 common good, 28, 65, 67, 100– 1, 104, 151

INDEX communism, 55, 83, 98, 168n.64 community of judgement, 134 consumer, 14, 146, 150, 154 creative, 7, 9, 111, 140– 1, 143 creativity, 7, 10, 109, 117, 140– 1, 143– 4, 183n.20 cultural alienation, 41 cultural capital, 6, 83, 154 culture (thaqafa), 52, 69, 146– 7 culture and religion, 1 culture as the avenue to citizenship in the modern world, 131 culture talk, 155 expressive culture, 9 – 10, 111– 12, 127 popular culture, 65, 111 public culture, 63 Sufism as a culture, 63, 65, 129, 132 cultured, see also muthaqqaf cultured audience, 4, 131–2 cultured life, 5 cultured lifestyle, 14 cultured self, 3, 131 ‘culturedness’, 126, 154 uncultured, 98 – 9 curriculum, 12, 23 –4, 28, 36, 64, 78 – 9, 100, 116– 17, 159n.8, 165n.35 Dar al-‘Ulum, 23, 36, 38, 144, 158n.6, 169n.2 da‘wa (public outreach), 8, 61 – 2, 83, 102, 112, 118, 157n.1, 158n.10, 180n.29 Dhahabi, Muhammad Husayn al(1915 – 77), 52 dhikr (‘remembering’ God), 45, 66, 68, 74, 84, 170n.12 – 13 din (religion), 1, 122 discourse, 150– 1, 171n.14 discourse and representation, 11 public discourse, 5, 9, 12, 67, 84, 94, 111, 127, 176n.17, 183n.18 socialist discourse, 129

197

du‘a’ (personal supplication), 70, 91, 94, 108, 110, 176n.18, 176n.20 effendi, 38 – 9, 96 Egyptian Radio and Television Union (ERTU), 113 Egyptian University, 23, 164n.29 Eickelman, Dale F., 9, 13 Elias, Nobert, 5 embodiment, 9, 11, 54 enlightenment, 84, 97, 169n.5 the enlightened Sufi (al-sufi al-mustanir), 151, 177n.24 entertainment, 84, 86 – 7, 108, 110, 112, 175n.11, 178n.10 ethics, 40, 68 – 9, 75, 77 Europe, 16, 18, 23, 39, 44, 105, 138, 173n.31 European accounts of al-Azhar, 17 European Muslims, 39 Islam in Europe, 44, 164n.27 evolution, the theory of, 75, 138, 172n.25 examination, 24 – 5, 28, 34 – 5, 37, 55, 163n.20 existentialism, 44 faith, 2, 8, 10, 17, 33, 37, 41, 61, 64, 72, 84, 106, 118, 121, 123, 127, 131, 137, 145, 150, 152, 166n.45, 171n.19 Christian faiths, 55 fame, 2 – 3, 62, 78, 84, 113, 132, 134–6, 149– 50, 154 Faruq (r. 1936– 51), 36, 38, 46, 164n.29 fatwa (non-binding legal opinion), 49, 55, 167n.54, 169n.64, 172n.26 Finjan Shay, 165n.34, 172n.27 Fish, Stanley, 8 – 9 fitra (innate disposition), 77 form, 39, 93, 108, 127, 143 formal aestheticism, 10, 12, 109, 127, 152

198

PUBLIC CULTURE

AND ISLAM IN MODERN

France, 19, 29 – 30, 32, 38 – 42, 44– 45, 79, 84, 94 – 5, 104– 5, 122, 151, 153, 173n.34 French touch, 122 spread of Islamic faith in France, 83 Frishkopf, Michael, 9, 111 functionalisation, 13 fusha (literary Arabic), 6, 132 galabiya (long dress-like robe), 45, 91, 104, 166n.40 General Programme Network (shabakat al-barnamag al-‘amm), 110, 113 genre, 9 – 10, 29, 86, 88 – 9, 91 – 2, 110– 11, 127, 177n.3 Ghazali, Abu Hamid al- (1058 – 1111), 30, 41, 69, 75, 78, 153, 157n.1, 165n.31 – 2, 181n.3– 4 the Ghazali of the twentieth century, 2, 131– 5, 148, 154 Ghazali, Muhammad al- (1917– 98), 2, 7, 100– 4, 131, 134, 157n.1, 176n.22 Ghitani, Gamal al- (b. 1945), 145 Gue´non, Rene´ (1886 – 1951), 2, 32, 44 – 5, 48, 105, 162n.11 Gue`nonian philosophy, 165n.37 Gum‘a, ‘Ali (b. 1952), 62, 88 Hadi al-Nubuwwa, 114, 116– 19, 120, 122– 3, 178n.14, 180n.29 Hadith al-Sabah, 112, 114, 116, 118– 19, 123– 4, 176n.20, 178n.7 hadra (Sufi order gathering), 47, 66, 68, 80 – 1, 84, 94, 107, 170n.13, 177n.25 Hafez, ‘Abd al-Halim (1929 – 77), 151 hafiz (a preserver of the Qur’an), 33 –4 Azharite schools for memorising the Noble Qur’an (makatib tahafiz al-Qur’an al-karim), 54 hagiography, 48, 83, 107 halqa (circle, episode), 27, 54, 160n.10, 180n.37

EGYPT

Hanafi, Hasan (b. 1935), 67, 140, 142 headscarf, 90, 97, 106, 169n.4 heritage, 31, 63, 65, 115, 165n.34, 170n.10, 183n.18 hermeneutical approaches to revelation, 76– 7 Hilmi, ‘Abbas (r. 1848– 54), 25 Hirschkind, Charles, 4, 9, 178n.8 humanist, 76, 130, 172n.27 Husari, Mahmud Khalil al- (1917 –80), 55, 91 Husayn, Muhammad Khidr (1875– 1957), 163 Hussein, Taha (1890 – 1973), 22, 37 – 8, 134 Ibn Ishaq (d. ca. 768), 119 Ibn Taymiyya (1258 – 1326), 145 Ibrahim, Bahi al-Din, 87, 89 – 90, 93, 100, 103, 136, 174n.4 Ibrahim, Muhammad Zaki, 181n.3 ijaza (a ‘permission’ to teach a text), 22, 24 –5 ijtihad (independent judgement), 76, 115, 141– 2, 172n.25– 6 ‘ilm ‘ilm al-kalam (theology), 38, 78 ‘ilm al-rijal (the science of hadith reporters), 116 ‘ilm al-tasawwuf, 171n.21 ‘ilm and ma‘rifa, 74, 130, 171n.24, 177n.1 knowledge of Shari‘a, 71, 75 science, 122– 3, 166n.45 Imam ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud Association, 139 individuality, 112, 127 intellectual (muthaqqaf), 1, 69, 109, 144, 148– 9 intellectual crisis, 41, 132, 134– 5, 151, 153 intellectual heritage, 65, 115, 165n.34, 170n.10

INDEX intellectual order, 12, 15, 20– 2, 25, 28, 32, 153 intellectual Sufism, 108 public intellectual, 9, 113, 131, 144– 5, 149–50, 165n.37, 166n.45 interpretive communities, 8 – 9 Iskandari, Ibn ‘Ata’ Allah al- (d. 1309), 56 Islamic Constitution, 50, 61, 168n.55 – 6 Islamic law, 2, 11, 13 – 4, 19, 27, 47, 49, 50, 52, 64, 75, 114, 168n.54, 172n.25 Sufism and Islamic law, 72, 158n.3 Islamic Research Academy, 50, 53 – 4, 126, 168n.55 – 6, 174n.4 Isma‘il, Khedive (r. 1863– 79), 23 isnad (an authoritative chain of transmission), 114, 117, 179n.16, 179n.20 – 1 Jaza‘iri, ‘Abd al-Qadir (1807–83), 72, 80, 103 jihad (endeavour for divine causes), 37, 71 – 2, 171n.19, 179n.17 Jomier, Jacques (1914– 2008), 44 Junayd, al-(d. 910), 72, 81, 171n.21 June War of 1967, 63, 99, 106 kafir (infidel, disbeliever), 95, 140 kaftan, 49, 54 Khaled, ‘Amr (b. 1967), 136, 182n.13 Khidr, 99 khutba (Friday prayer sermon), 51, 180n.37 Kishk, ‘Abd al-Hamid (1933 – 98), 113, 178n.8, 181n.39 kuttab (elementary Qur’anic school), 19, 21, 33, 55, 95, 98 Lane, Edward William (1801 – 76), 17 legitimacy, 3, 22, 46 – 7, 50, 54 lifestyle, 3, 72, 90, 106, 108, 168n.64

199

cultured lifestyle, 14 materially restrained lifestyle, 108, 133, 168n.64 modern lifestyle, 32, 131 pious lifestyle, 4, 90 lifeworld, 3, 5, 17 – 18 linguistic register, 82, 124 literacy, 6, 11, 19, 23, 146 Magahid, Ibrahim, 36, 113, 178n.7 Mahmud, Mustafa (1921 – 2009), 47, 145, 166n.45 manuscript, 31, 49, 105, 118, 138, 161n.9, 169n.2 Maraghi, Mustafa al- (1881– 1951), 36, 91, 163n.18 ma‘rifa (intuitive knowledge), 74, 130, 171n.24 ma‘rifat allah, 95 market, 9, 23, 61, 63, 113, 150 job market, 23 – 4, 27, 47 marketing, 62, 82 teach-yourself market, 14, 131 Marseille, 39, 42 mass media, 3, 6, 8, 12, 14, 29, 52, 77, 82, 108, 114, 127, 129, 131, 133, 135, 146– 8, 150– 3, 155 electronic media, 11, 154 mass-mediated hagiography, 83, 107 mass-mediated Islam, 6, 143 media preacher, 7, 157n.1 media presence, 2, 62, 134– 5, 151 social media, 3 massification, 12, 154 dual massification, 12– 13, 153 Massignon, Louis (1883– 1962), 31, 40, 105, 138, 161n.8, 164n.29, 165n.32– 33 materialism, 40, 44, 163n.19 matn (main text), 21, 115, 117, 124, 179n.16, 179n.20 mawlid (‘birthday’ festival), 45, 47, 66, 94, 107

200

PUBLIC CULTURE

AND ISLAM IN MODERN

‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud, 56, 60, 161n.4, 162n.10 Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili, 62 Ahmad Badawi, 48, 167n.49, 177n.26 memorisation, 11, 13, 30, 33 – 4, 54 –5, 61, 98, 153, 176n.22 memory, 60, 161n.4 fragmented nature of memories, 134 middle class, 3, 4, 68, 81, 131, 151, 157n.4, 160n.40, 169n.4, 171n.23 aesthetic values of, 64, 141 educated middle class, 1, 5, 14, 65, 108, 110, 127, 129– 30, 141, 146, 154– 5, 182n.13 European-inspired work ethic of, 67 ‘middle class’ as an aspirational category, 3 – 5 Min Buyut Allah, 114, 116, 123, 125 Mitchell, Timothy, 11– 12, 16 – 17, 21 modern Islamic thought, 6 – 7, 9, 32, 150 modernisation, 16, 22, 53, 65, 152 modernist, 17– 18, 20, 23, 30, 32, 63 – 8, 73 – 4, 82, 94 – 5, 100, 103– 4, 115– 6, 138, 142– 3, 163n.18, 166n.43, 169n.5 anti-modernist, 61 modernity, 19, 26 –7, 36, 63, 90, 93, 96 the authentic tradition of Islam and modernity, 65 critiques on Western modernity, 166n.37 definition of, 169n.3, 183n.18 Islam as alternative to Western modernity, 63 modernity/tradition, 26 public discourse of modernity, 67, 84 secular modernism, 65, 115 secular modernity, 92, 151 Moses, 74

EGYPT

Mubarak, ‘Ali (1823/4– 93), 20 mufakkir (thinker), 144–6, 148 mufakkir islami (Islamic thinker), 47 mufti-riwaq system, 26 – 8, 54 muhaggaba (veiled woman), 63, 169n.4 Muhasibi, Harith ibn Asad al(781– 857), 30, 41, 69, 72, 80 – 1, 94, 106, 153, 161n.8 – 9, 165n.32, 182n.15 mujahid (those who carry out jihad), 72, 171n.20 murid (disciple), 82, 161n.4 murshid (the spiritual ‘guide’ to the Sufi path), 69, 82 musalsal (dramatic serial), 86 – 96, 99– 100, 104, 106– 7, 108, 133, 135, 151, 165n.36, 166n.37, 167n.54, 168n.57, 174n.2, 174n.4, 175n.16, 176n.22 music, 10, 88, 110, 117, 132n 177n.1, 178n.10, 181n.6 musical instruments, 65 – 6, 94, 177n.25 musicians, 9, 111, 118 Muslim (Imam, d. 875), 122 Muslim Brotherhood, 57, 67, 82, 133, 158n.1, 160n.2, 167n.46, 170n.9, 172n.27 Mustafa, Shukri (1942 – 78), 52 muta‘allim (the educated, learner, apprentice), 5, 21 – 2, 25, 27, 144–6 muthaqqaf (intellectual, the cultured), 1, 4– 5, 63, 65, 69, 144, 146, 148 mysticism, 31, 41, 44, 63, 72, 169n.5 nafs (soul, ego, self), 71, 75, 79 naqli (traditionist, scriptural), 114, 141–2 Naqshbandi order, 62

INDEX Nasser, Gamal Abdel (1918–70), 46–7, 49–50, 86–7, 90, 149, 166n.44, 170n.9, 178n.8, 178n.15 nassi (scriptural, a literal reading of the text), 76 nation, 67, 70, 125, 130 nationalisation of al-Azhar, 46 – 9, 112, 158n.6 Nawawi, Yahya ibn Sharaf al(1233 –77), 117, 120, 179n.18 neo-liberal policies, 154 newness, 8, 136, 138–9, 152 Noble Qur’an radio (idha‘at al-qur’an al-karim), 56, 112–13, 117, 123, 125 non-specialist, 2, 12, 63, 70 – 1, 82, 109, 129, 131, 135, 148, 152, 154 normative, 90, 92 objectification, 13 – 14 October War (of 1973), 50 – 1, 106 order, 11, 15 disorder, 15, 23, 26 intellectual order, 12, 15, 20– 2, 25, 28, 32, 153 the Order of Text, 21– 2, 26, 28 Orientalism, 105 Orientalist, 13, 31, 40, 44, 49, 94, 106, 122– 3, 137– 9, 159n.2, 164n.29 Egyptian Orientalist, 2, 5, 78, 80, 135, 138, 148, 152, 154 Orientalist painting, 17, 104 originality, 6 – 7, 9 –10, 136, 139, 141, 143– 4, 150, 152 Paris, 17, 19, 23, 30, 40 – 2, 44 – 5, 83, 106 Paris Mosque, 39, 164n.27 performance, 10, 20, 50, 64, 74, 81, 110, 118– 19, 123, 160n.2, 161n.6 discursive performance, 30

201

a hierarchy of performance modes, 7, 10 ‘name-dropping’ performances, 122, 126 religious performance, 6, 109, 111 scholarly performance, 6, 126 style of performance, 127, 154 performative aspects of scholarly knowledge, 12, 151 performative interpretation, 8, 123, 153 performing arts, 9 – 10, 111, 151 personalised chain of transmitting knowledge (silsila), 11, 82, 152 philological, 8, 138 philosophy, 2, 9, 44, 49, 62, 66, 75, 79, 170n.10, 173n.31 professor of philosophy, 38, 43, 48, 67 piety, 33, 64 – 5, 81, 94, 100, 125, 131, 169n.4 the representation of piety, 89 Pope (Paul VI), 55 popular culture, 65, 111 postcolonial, 115, 138, 166n.37 power-knowledge syndrome, 11 print, 6, 11, 53, 129, 131, 153–4, 176n.22 printed text, 82, 160n.10 printing the Qur’an, 168n.54 private, 6, 47, 75, 80, 93 – 4, 100, 106, 108, 133, 158n.8 psychology, 41 – 2 public, 5 – 6, 14 general public, 8, 49, 62, 64, 70, 78, 80, 86, 92 – 3, 111– 12, 134– 5, 137, 139, 142, 144, 146, 146n.5 public appreciation, 2, 149– 50 public image, 61, 90, 133, 175n.12 public intellectual, 7, 31, 113, 129, 131, 150, 165n.37, 166n.45 public Islam, 5 – 6, 71, 84, 93, 104, 108, 148

202

PUBLIC CULTURE

AND ISLAM IN MODERN

public morality, 89, 175n.11 public norm, 6, 92 public sphere, 4, 93, 148, 150, 154 qadi (judge), 33, 46, 96 Qadi, ‘Abd al-Fattah al- (1899– 1964), 32, 47 – 9, 104, 107, 167n.46 Qadiya al-Shadhiliya order, al-, 47, 62, 166n.46 Qaradawi, Yusuf al- (b. 1926), 7, 180n.27 radio, 4, 8, 75, 111– 12, 125 national radio, 112–13, 127, 140, 178n.10 Ramadan, 2, 64, 83– 8, 91, 108, 140, 151, 174n.5, 174n.6 rational, 65, 74, 76, 80, 114, 144, 169n.5, see also ‘aql: ‘aqli readership, 8, 61, 68, 77, 82 – 3, 109, 129, 131, 150, 154, 158n.7, 161n.5 reform, 15, 20 – 1, 23, 27 – 8, 36, 152, 159n.2 the 1872 Reform Law, 24 – 6 the 1908 Reform Law, 34 ‘Abd al-Halim Mahmud’s reformism, 42, 54, 83, 100, 115, 151, 165n.35 al-Azhar Reform Law of 1911, 33 al-Azhar Reform Law of 1930, 37, 119 al-Azhar Reform Law of 1961, 49, 51 critics of al-Azhar reform, 32, 115 the Reform Law (of 1896), 26 reformist, 32, 64, 71 reformist Islam (Salafism), 71 religiosity, 90, 93 – 4 repentant artists, 89 – 90, 175n.7, 175n.9 representation, 11, 18, 95, 107 representation of Sufism, 14, 99 self-representation, 61, 132 unsightly, 18

EGYPT

Rida, Muhammad Rashid (1865– 1935), 142, 165n.31 ru’ya (a dream-like ‘vision’), 51, 106, 168n.57 Sadat, Muhammad Anwar al- (1918 – 81), 2, 3, 50–2, 55 – 6, 106, 133, 149, 160n.2, 168n.61, 178n.8 Sa‘id, Muhammad (r. 1854– 63), 26 Salafiya Committee (lajnat al-salafiya), 49 Salam village, al-, 32, 34, 56, 162n.10, 162n.12, 163n.17, 165n.34 Salvatore, Armando, 5 –6, 63 Sarawak, 40, 164n.28 Sawt al-Qahira (SonoCairo), 86, 113, 174n.3 Scattolin, Giuseppe (b. 1942), 138, 183n.16 scepticism, 40 scholarly credentials, 5, 9 – 10, 109, 112–13, 123 School of Judges, 23 scriptural, 141– 2 secular, 4– 5, 88, 146, 158n.6, 174n.5, 175n.12 illusionary ‘secular’ zone, 92 secular modernism, 65, 115 secular modernity, 92, 151 self, 1, 12, 29, 161n.5 cultured self, 3, 131 pious self, 1, 155 self-expression, 10, 111 self-representation, 61, 132 sha‘b (people, the popular), 91, 93 Shabab Muhammad, 51 Shadhili, Abu al-Hasan al- (ca. 1196– 1258), 32, 62, 72, 103, 107, 169n.1, 171n.20 Shadhiliya ‘Arabiya order, 44 Shaltut, Mahmud (1893– 1963), 7, 163n.18, 179n.19

INDEX Sha‘rawi, Muhammad Mutawalli al- (1911– 96), 2, 7, 58, 90, 113, 134 Shari‘a (divine inspired law), 13, 47, 69, 71, 74 – 6, 158n.8, 172n.26, 177n.23, see also Islamic law silsila (chain), 82, 115 social class, 4, 130, 181n.38 social class in anthropology, 158n.5 social justice, 132– 3 socialism, 46 –7, 63, 129 Sorbonne, 3, 30 – 1, 37 – 40, 42, 44, 90, 94, 105, 122, 132, 138, 169n.2, 170n.10, 173n.34 spirituality, 35, 52, 73 – 4, 96, 164n.29 the Orient as a source of spirituality, 44 style (uslub), 135 French style, 81 rhetorical style, 79, 161n.5 style of expression, 12, 14, 91 style of speech, 109, 126, 152–3 writing style, 61, 79, 109, 150, 154, 172n.34, 173n.34 Suez Canal, 50 Sufi practising Sufi, 49, 61 – 2, 64 – 5, 74, 78, 93, 130, 172n.27 Sufi order, 32, 62, 74, 81, 133 Sufi practices, 63 – 4, 74, 83 – 4, 94, 100, 104, 108, 130, 167n.46 Sufi scholar, 2, 3, 14, 30, 62 supernatural, 73 – 5, 84 superstitious, 62, 66, 74, 94 – 5, 97, 151 Supreme Council of Islamic Affairs, 47 symbolic capital, 3 – 4 Tahtawi, Rifa‘at al- (1801– 73), 19, 115, 147 Takfir wa al-Hijra, al-, 51 – 3 talk shows, 10, 44, 89, 110, 112– 14, 132, 136, 165n.34, 173n.31

203

Tanta, 19, 48, 99, 125 Tantawi, Muhammad al- (1928– 2010), 3, 88, 136 tanwir (enlightenment), 62 taqlid (tradition), 63, 115– 16, 145, 169n.3 tasawwuf (Sufism), 64, 77, 101, 131, 148 humanist discourse 76 ‘ilm al-tasawwuf, 171n.21 al-Islam wa al-tasawwuf, 167n.48, 170n.9 al-tasawwuf al-ishtiraki (Socialist Sufism), 172n.27 al-tasawwuf al-islami, 31, 63, 169n.5, 171n.15 tasawwuf as the third path, 114 taste, 4, 64, 137, 143 tathqif (en-culturation, Bildung), 62, 108 Tayyib, Ahmad al- (b. 1946), 3, 78, 88 teach-yourself, 10, 14, 131 television, 83, 85– 8, 92 national television, 3, 50, 83, 87 satellite television channels, 10 Television Building, 92, 109 television serial, 83 – 6, 89, see also musalsal text, 7 – 8, 11, 19, 94, 111, 117– 19, 123–4, 131, 138, 144, 150, 152–3, 160n.10 ‘open’ texts, 8 the Order of Text, 21 – 2, 26, 28 the social life of texts, 8, 158n.9 textual sources, 8, 70, 116, 119, 121, 126, 136, 138, 154 thaqafa (culture), 1, 69, 146 theology (‘ilm al-kalam), 38, 69, 78– 9, 163n.19, 171n.22, 172n.30– 31 truth, 40, 64, 69, 70, 74 –7, 81, 144, 146, 177n.1 turath (heritage), 63, 183n.18

204

PUBLIC CULTURE

AND ISLAM IN MODERN

‘ubudiya (servitude to God), 74 ‘ulama (scholars, sing. ‘alim), 7, 16, 20 – 2, 25, 32, 46 – 7, 49 – 50, 62, 115, 132, 171n.24 Umm Kulthum (d.1975), 151 umma (the ‘community’ of believers), 6, 71, 77, 83, 115 uslub (style of expression), 10, 91, 127, 135– 43 Vatican, 56, 169n.65 Voice of the Arabs (sawt al-‘arab), 117 Wajdi, Muhammad Farid (1875 –1954), 163n.19

EGYPT

wali (saint, pl. awliya’), 132, 167n.47 Washington DC, 55 Western social sciences, 2, 40 – 1, 61, 173n.31 Yusuf, Hasan (b. 1934), 89 – 93, 174n.3– 4, 175n.9 Zaghlul, Sa‘d (1859 – 1927), 34, 134, 159n.5, 163n.16 Zaki, Hasan ‘Abbas, 48 – 9, 62 Zaqaziq, 34 –5, 125– 6, 163n.20, 167n.46 ziyara (visiting tombs of saints), 47, 66, 99, 107 zuhd (asceticism), 66 – 7, 71, 73