Shi‘i Islam and Identity: Religion, Politics and Change in the Global Muslim Community 9780755625666, 9780755630912

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book has emerged from two workshops that were held at the Universities of Exeter and St Andrews. Thanks are due to Robert Gleave and Ali Ansari who hosted these workshops with their usual efficiency, warmth and hospitality. A conference was then held at the University of Glasgow, in which a number of excellent papers were presented from a host of international scholars. This publication presents a selection of ideas which originated as the papers presented at the conference that reflect the theme of Shi‘ite identity in an age of globalisation and transnationalism. Many papers from the conference are not included here, but the organising committee (Messieurs Ansari, Gleave, Luft and Ridgeon) would like to extend their gratitude to all participants who offered their advice and suggestions on all papers over the three days of presentations. The workshops and conference took place as a result of the generous support from the British Academy Sponsored Institutes and Societies (BASIS) and the British Institute of Persian Studies (BIPS).

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THE CONTRIBUTORS

Zahar Barth-Manzoori is a PhD student at the University of Kiel, Germany. Matthijs van den Bos is Lecturer in International Studies in the Department of Politics at Birkbeck, University of London. Elvire Corboz holds a D.Phil in Oriental Studies from the University of Oxford. Seyed Sadegh Haghighat is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science at Mofid University, Qum, Iran. Mara Leichtman is Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology, Muslim Studies Program at Michigan State University. Alessandro Monsutti is Research Associate and Lecturer at the South Asian Studies Council at the MacMillan Center for International and Area Studies at Yale University. Lloyd Ridgeon is Lecturer in Islamic Studies at the University of Glasgow. He is the author of Persian Metaphysics and Mysticism (2002), Religion and Politics in Modern Iran: A Reader (I.B.Tauris, 2005) and Sufi Castigator: Ahmad Kasravi and the Iranian Mystical Tradition (2005). David Shankland is Reader in Social Anthropology in the Department of Archaeology and Anthropology at the University of Bristol.

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Yuri Stoyanov is affiliated to the Department of the Near and Middle East in the Faculty of Languages and Cultures at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London, and to the W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research, Jerusalem. David Thurfjell is Senior Lecturer and Research Fellow in the Department for the Study of Religions at Södertörn University, Stockholm. Reidar Visser is Research Fellow at the Norwegian Institute of International Affairs.

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INTRODUCTION Lloyd Ridgeon

With the break-up of the world order at the end of the twentieth century, the collapse of communism and the dismantling of many nation states, scholars have paid closer attention to the concept of identity creation and its relation with how individuals and communities organise and think of themselves. The complex nature of these processes has been nowhere more apparent than among Shi‘ite communities which have experienced a bewildering number of challenges that have impacted on the formation, creation and re-creation of Shi‘ite identities. Over the past 25 years, these communities have suffered intolerable wars, revolutions, and diverse forms of post-colonial interference. A brief sample can illustrate this: the civil war in Lebanon, which commenced in the mid 1970s; the Iranian revolution of 1978–79 and the subsequent war with Iraq; the dismantling of the Ba‘athist regime in Iraq and the virtual splintering of the country; the chaos in Afghanistan and the victimisation of the Hazara Shi‘ite community by the Taliban; and the emigration of Shi‘ite communities from traditional Islamic regions to Western Europe. To the less careful observer it might seem that Shi‘ism was the cause of all of these problems, but of course, the reality involved a configuration of complicated events, a heritage of historical factors and international power politics that defy simplistic explanations. At times Shi‘ite groups were marginalised because of their weakness, and at other times communities sought to ‘flex their muscles’ as they became aware of the potential for change. But one constant among the communities was a commitment

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to Shi‘ism. Of course, it would be wrong to claim that such a commitment contributed to an essentialised version of Shi‘ism. It is patently obvious that this has not been the case. However, it is an indication that religion (whether understood in its conventional ‘spiritual’ sense or as a form of cultural expression) remained a potent factor in the world, which in the West was rapidly demystifying and secularising. Moreover, the past 25 years have seen dramatic changes in the global orders, and Shi‘ite communities have not been immune from this. Interesting questions arise from the emergence of greater knowledge between ‘East and West’ through the increasing ease of travel, greater levels of literacy and access to information technology. The impact of these developments on Shi‘ite communities whether in traditional Islamic heartlands or in Western Europe or Africa is still being played out. In an attempt to make sense of these changes and challenges a colloquium was organised at Glasgow University. A number of recognised experts in the field were invited to present papers over three days, and this book presents a selection of the best ideas that arose from these papers. The composition reflects well the geographical diversity of Shi‘ism, as there are three chapters specifically detailing issues relating to Iran (perhaps the most influential of all Shi‘ite regions), one on ‘radical’ Shi‘ism in Iraq (which could not be more timely), in addition to chapters on Afghanistan, the Balkans, Turkey and Senegal. Yet it would be wrong to consider the aforementioned chapters merely as case studies of individual countries in which Shi‘ism is lived. It should be no surprise then that this book also includes chapters that defy easy geographical categorisation as the Shi‘ism presented therein oscillates between European and North American centres of Shi‘ism and the more ‘traditional’ heartlands. Chapter One immediately sets the tone of the book by problematising the nature of identity. In his survey of modern mourning rituals, David Thurfjell shows how the rituals may not merely be a free expression of emotions, but a disciplined rehearsal of ‘right attitudes’. In other words, although the Islamic regime in Iran may wish to present a specific image of Shi‘ism in which participation is considered a form of legitimation for that regime, it is also necessary to consider

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the individual motives that contribute to such participation. Based on extensive fieldwork, Thurfjell demonstrates that participation offers the possibility for cathartic, emotional relief and that ‘personal engagement in congregational Shi‘ite religiosity can be approached as an expression of individual agency’. While individual motivation is emphasised in the first chapter, it is the attempt to construct a historical memory of Iranian identity that assumes significance in Chapter Two. Zahar Barth-Manzoori’s study of Iranian schoolbooks investigates how the authorities of postrevolutionary Iran have attempted to inculcate an ‘objective’ view of history that promotes Shi‘ism as normative Islam and at the same time supports sentiments of nationalism. The two may appear contradictory as Islam is supposed to transcend boundaries, whether these be linguistic, geographic or cultural, yet the schoolbooks refer to Iranian national heroes including Sana’i, Rumi and Hafez (who, ironically, were all Sunni Muslims). The article demonstrates the wisdom in Benedict Anderson’s argument that nationalism is nothing more than an ‘imagined community’, which, as a historically construed collective memory, plays a significant part in the construction of individual identity. The difficulty of comprehending Iranian identity is highlighted further in Chapter Three by Seyed Sadegh Haghighat, who has perceived four components of contemporary Iranian identity: the pre-Islamic legacy; Islam, or Shi‘ism; the collective imaginaire; and the Persian language. Haghighat argues that identities are always in flux. Iranians in the West, in particular, who emphasise varying degrees of sympathy towards Iranian, Islamic, liberal or socialist identities, perhaps face greater challenges than many other people when constructing their identities. This is because the collective identity is an amalgamation of a cosmopolitan heritage, and also because of the new challenges that are faced in North America where globalisation erodes linguistic, religious and nationalist attachments. The identity that emerges for the second generation of Iranians living in the West will inevitably be of a hybrid character, but it is perhaps too soon to speculate on the extent to which it absorbs or abandons Western elements and preserves or rejects the Iranian–Islamic heritage.

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Shi‘ite identity in the UK is the focus of Chapter Four, and provides an example of an attempt to strengthen the authority of politicised Shi‘ism in a top-down model. In particular, Matthijs van den Bos investigates the Ettehadiyeh, or the Union of Islamic Students Associations (in Europe) which emerged in the 1960s as an opponent of the Pahlavi regime and advocated the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah Khomeini. Leading clerical figures believed that the Ettehadiyeh played a crucial role in maintaining ‘Islamic authenticity’ that rejected the ‘plague’ of the West. The extent to which those associated with the Ettehadiyeh have been influenced by Western thought and norms, and therefore influenced their own identity as Shi‘ites, is a matter for dispute. However it is of note that there has been a shift in the form of Shi‘ism advocated by the students, most noticeably during the ‘reform’ period under President Khatami’s leadership. Whether this is due to the increasing familiarity of students with notions of liberalism, democracy and the kind of freedoms advocated in the West, or whether this was a result of the influence of epic ‘reform’ politics emanating from Iran, is unclear. It is interesting that proponents of reform, such as Mohammad Mojtahed-Shabestari and Khatami himself had been involved in the student associations in Hamburg. Although the top-down model of power described in Chapter Four is contrasted with a hierarchical model in which the power is balanced a little more evenly in a similar hierarchical structure, that is to say, more care and consideration are paid to the identities and wishes of those individuals who do not hold the reins of power. Thus, Chapter Five focuses on the al-Khoei Foundation, and the author, Elvire Corboz, shows how this institution promotes a level of diversity by employing the nationals of various countries in senior positions on its board of trustees. However, such individuals, ranging from Kuwaiti, Iraqi, Pakistani and Iranian, have usually had very close connections in one way or another with Ayatollah al-Khu’i, yet the multi-ethnic and multi-national board permits the Foundation to be aware of the specific needs of Shi‘ites worldwide, and perhaps the very different identities of the ‘Shi‘ite worlds’. Even after his death, the al-Khoei Foundation has attempted to maintain a degree of independence, even though it recognises that marja‘iyya now rests elsewhere. Importantly,

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Corboz demonstrates the truly transnational character of this form of Shi‘ism, which is not simply limited to Iran and Iraq but to a much wider geographical range, from Pakistan, Africa and America. The tension of the top-down nature of authority within traditional Shi‘ism and the creation of identities (Islamic or nationalist or otherwise) informs the contents of Chapter Six. Reidar Visser discusses the case of the controversial Iraqi Shi‘ite cleric, Muqtada al-Sadr, whose apparent ambivalence to the mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy has created space for various interpretations to emerge concerning Shi‘ite authority. This has resulted in speculation about whether it is appropriate to consider his emergence a reflection of a form of neo-Akhbarism (which would undermine the whole structure of Usuli ‘orthodoxy’) or perhaps more dramatically a turn to Mahdism, in which ‘the rules of the game are essentially abandoned’. It seems more likely that Muqtada al-Sadr’s various pronouncements and actions reflect a certain degree of opportunism and pragmatism in extreme circumstances. His more recent studies in Qum position him, however, back within the traditional framework of Usuli Shi‘ite scholastic activity in which deference is paid to those higher in the hierarchy. In addition, it seems that he does favour a form of Iraqi nationalism as opposed to the more regional claims for power. Nevertheless, his presence in Iraqi religion and politics and his various perspectives have certainly impacted on the way that Shi‘ites have viewed themselves and their situation. It is difficult to make definitive statements about the emergence of various Shi‘ite groups that have emerged since the war in Iraq, certainly as Vissar comments ‘the borders between these groups appear to be in a state of flux’. Shifts in identity over the past 30 years have been clearly evident among the Hazaras, the predominant group of Shi‘ites in Afghanistan. Having been marginalised and persecuted in the late nineteenth century, the Hazara representation in Afghanistan was largely in the hands of an ethnic elite, but Shi‘ism came to the fore following the socialist revolution in Afghanistan and the neighbouring Islamic revolution in Iran. The new demands of radical Islam transcended the claims of ethnicity, yet the various factions within the indigenous ranks of the educated religious scholars failed to unite the Hazara community.

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Facing the challenges from an emerging Pashtun bloc, a compromise was forged in which religious sentiment fused with ethnic solidarity so that the Hazaras ‘have achieved the greatest cohesion of any ethnic group in Afghanistan’. From being marginalised and ignored in the early twentieth century the Hazaras have gained recognition at the national level and participate in politics on a level equal with other groups. Alessandro Monsutti’s chapter clearly demonstrates the complex and contingent nature of identity formation, that it is constantly renewed and negotiated among a number of players (regional and international) and that it is influenced by ideological and pragmatic forces. One of the features that unites Shi‘ites is the commemoration of ‘Ashura, when Imam Husayn was murdered by Yazid and the Umayyad forces at Karbala. This commemoration is usually sombre where participants mourn the death of Husayn. However, the situation of Shi‘ites in Senegal in West Africa demands that ‘Ashura is remembered in a rather different fashion. The focus is one of education (through conferences) where attempts are made to popularise Shi‘ism in a predominantly Sunni country. The remembrance of ‘Ashura in Senegal clearly manifests the influence of local culture, as ‘Ashura falls of the same day as Tamkharit (a Senegalese local holiday which resembles a carnival). The ‘celebration’ of ‘Ashura may therefore have something to do with the indigenous African tradition. The contemporary identity of Shi‘ites in Senegal reflects a Senegalese or African version in which the influences of Arab or Iranian Shi‘ism are minimised. The tensions of politics and change became nowhere more apparent than in the break-up of the Balkans in the final decade of the twentieth century. But the processes of identity creation among Shi‘ites within Anatolia and the Balkan regions has a long history. Yuri Stoyanov depicts the ways that identities have been negotiated and portrayed in the region, and pays attention to the development of Bektashi identity in Albania. For more than a century the Bektashis have attempted to distinguish themselves from a Sunni majority, and so have adopted a number of different strategies to promote their cause, such as emphasising a connection to Christianity in their origins, the promotion of a secular and humane form of Islam during the nationalist period (as opposed to ‘fanatical’ Sunni Islam), and a flirtation with Islamic Iran.

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The political manoeuvrings of the Bektashis, and their creation and recreation of identities over the past century demonstrates the constant need to respond to the shifting ideological sands in order to maintain a semblance of balance. Currently the Bektashis are being pulled by nationalist sentiments, the ‘civilisational’ dialogue with the West, and the Twelver Shi‘ite pole of Iran. Whether scripturalisation leads the Bektashis to respond positively to the ‘normative religious mainstream’ of Shi‘ite Iran remains to be seen. The Alevis are a heterodox minority who derive from Turkey and have often been thought of as Shi‘ite. Yet many Alevis today would vehemently deny that they have any connection with Shi‘ism, and have for much of their recent history negotiated a compromise between their own particular creed and Ottoman Sunnism, the secular politics of the Turkish Republic, and more recently in secular Germany. There has emerged of late a significant, intellectual movement amongst the diaspora Alevi community which seeks to define Alevlik in contrast to Islam as a whole, saying that the Alevis possess a distinct faith in their own right. The picture is rendered even more complicated by the emergence since the 1990s, albeit in very small numbers, of a group of converts from Alevism to an explicitly recognisable form of Twelver Shi‘ism, often linked to an association known as the Ehli-Beyt Vakfı, seemingly funded by Iran. In the final chapter of this book David Shankland argues that given the historical contours of Alevi attempts to negotiate space for themselves in various societies, it is unwise to pin identifying labels on the Alevis. Indeed, ‘we may witness a flow of spirituality which does not fit in neatly to either category [of Sunni or Shi‘ite]’. Shankland’s chapter, in which the very notion of identity and labelling is questioned, is a fitting end to this book, as all of the chapters herein have argued that identities are becoming increasingly flexible, fluid and transcending traditional patterns of social organisation, such as the nation state. It is true that the modern nation-state has never rested comfortably in the Middle East, and forms of ‘transnational’ social grouping is not a modern phenomenon. However the progressive erosion of boundaries associated with the nation state, advances in technology and new political circumstances have resulted in a more visible flow across borders of diverse forms of Shi‘ism. The diversity of

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Shi‘ite belief and practice must be considered along with the attempts of some powerful centres (such as Tehran) which struggle to establish a ‘normative’ version (which itself is questioned by many). It is fortunate that scholars are becoming increasingly aware of the importance of Shi‘ism in the contemporary age, and it is hoped that this book contributes to this development and promotes a perspective that focuses beyond a Shi‘ite Crescent (stretching from Iran into Iraq, Syria and Lebanon) and instead views the diverse ‘Shi‘a worlds’1 that exist right in the heart of Europe and the West, as well as in Africa, Central Asia, and the traditional ‘heartlands’ of Shi‘ite Islam. Finally, I must confess that the transliteration system has proved to be a headache for this particular volume that includes chapters which deal in Arabic, Persian and Turkish. The simple solution was to represent technical terms in the local vernacular apart from those that are familiar in English. Names of individuals and books do not appear with diacritics, which only appear for technical terms.

Notes 1. A term borrowed from Sabrina Mervin (ed), The Shi‘a Worlds and Iran (London: Saqi, 2011).

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CHAPTER ONE EMOTION AND SELFCONTROL: A FR A MEWOR K FOR ANALYSIS OF SHI‘ITE MOUR NING R ITUALS IN IR AN David Thurfjell

As few will have failed to notice, Shi‘ite ritual life is imbued with expressions of emotion. For many people, the spectacular commemoration rituals performed on the tenth of Muarram have become the most well known feature of this form of Islam. But, it is not only in connection to the ‘Ashura-festivals that pious Shi‘ites engage in emotionally charged rituals. On the contrary, mourning rituals are for many one of the foremost expression of religious engagement year-round. In Iran it is, for instance, common that religiously active people gather regularly to say supplications. Thus, on Thursday nights, shab-e jomeh, people gather in mosques, oseyniyas or in cemeteries to listen to often very emotional recitations of a supplication known as dow’a-ye kumayl. On Friday mornings and Tuesday evenings dow’a-ye nodbeh and dow’aye tawassol are recited in a similar fashion. Privately arranged rowehgatherings are also a significant feature of everyday religious life in Iran. On all these occasions the rendering of tragic stories, moībat, from

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the lives of the fourteen infallibles constitute an important element. Often, the prayer leader will blend his preaching or recitation with short anecdotes from the tragic lives of the Imams. Traditionally, this will be done in a tone that is increasingly charged with emotion. And towards the end of the supplication the prayer leader will often be crying loudly. The congregation that has gathered to listen will also be increasingly inflamed. Step by step people will start weeping, moaning and beating their chests (sīneh-zanī) as an expression of grief. Now, how should we interpret the social and personal meanings of these mourning rituals? In this chapter I shall in brief present two ways of approaching these rituals which I believe to be fruitful. The first approach (1) is a sociological one where the rituals are seen as expressions of a certain ‘emotional regime’ in the Islamic republic of today. The second approach (2) focuses on the individual level and views the emotional rituals as means through which individual believers may be helped to achieve different and very individual ends. The discussions are based on field material gathered in Isfahan between 1996–2002. Some of this has been more elaborately discussed in my book: Living Shiism: Instances of ritualisation among islamist men in contemporary Iran.1

A General Outlook on Emotions Before going into a discussion about the specific material, let me just say a few words on emotions and the study of emotions in general. Since Durkheim published his Rules of the Sociological Method in 1895, scholars of sociology, anthropology and religion have discussed the impact that the surrounding society has upon the behaviour and thoughts of individuals. The concept of symbolic universe in the work of Peter Berger and Tomas Luckman, the concept of discourse in the work of Michel Foucault, or the concept of habitus in the work of Pierre Bourdieu, are all contributions to the endeavour of pinpointing how we, as humans, are created by our social surroundings. Since the very beginning, the role of emotions has been a much debated issue in these discussions. This is so because, unlike values, ritual systems and other cultural practices, emotions are difficult to fit totally into any social

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constructivist system. Emotions are bodily at the same time as they are cultural. They are bodily because we experience them in our bodies and because they cause the body to change: to shed tears, to writhe in pain, to laugh and so on. But they are cultural in so far as they are triggered by reasons specific to culture and expressed by culturally defined modes of conduct. This is especially true when it comes to the kind of institutionalised and ritualised displays of emotion that we find among Shi‘ites in Iran. Take, for instance, the tears shed by those gathered to listen to dow’a-ye kumayl or some roweh-meeting. Anyone can understand that the story of Hosayn is sad, but for it to actually trigger the emotional reactions that it does the individual needs to be socialised into the specific religious and cultural context in which the story is told. Just as one can only feel nostalgia in relation to something that one has experienced in a previous period of one’s life; or just as what is considered funny varies between different cultural contexts. Through this in-between position, then, emotions seem to have the ability to connect individuals to their social communities in a very physical way. Now, what does this mean? Are ritualised emotions really only cultural structures that have been engraved in our bodies? Emile Durkheim would have answered ‘yes’ to that question. When he studied the ritual weeping of Australian aboriginals he saw nothing but culture-imposed behaviour. If the relatives of someone who has died weep, lament or mutilate themselves, it is not because they feel themselves personally affected by the death of their kinsman . . . but because it is a duty imposed by the group.2 (Durkheim 1965: 442–443) A similar view is expressed by Alfred Radcliffe-Brown in his famous work on the Andaman Islanders3 as well as by Stanley Tambiah who holds that ritual as conventionalised behaviour is not intended to express emotion in a spontaneous or natural manner since that would threaten the order which he sees as a central aspect of ritual.4 Tambiah argues that the stereotyped emotions expressed in rituals should therefore not be understood as a ‘free expression of emotions, but a

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disciplined rehearsal of “right attitudes”’.5 In my opinion, the position of these scholars is very problematic. In order to understand emotional rituals, in my opinion, we need to pay attention to both cultural structures and the insiders’ comprehensions of what it is they do. This has to be done with consideration for the assumption that the relation between conventional behaviour and individual emotion is not fixed, but rather something that fluctuates in individuals and in time. Many performance and embodiment theorists have argued that physical and bodily experiences are also crucial for our understanding of reality. Dissociating themselves from a Cartesian dichotomisation of mind and body, they have shown that the human ‘mode of presence and engagement in the world’6 cannot be easily divided into these two separate categories, instead these two are constantly interconnected.7 From a phenomenological perspective, emotions can be seen as inherent to the human condition. Reality does not disclose itself to us in clear-cut categories. In our everyday lives we constantly perceive, sense, feel, think and learn different things on many different levels of experience. We form our ways of being in the world through processes of interpretation and conglomeration of these.

Shi‘ite Religiosity and the Regime in Iran Let me now move on to discuss the mourning rituals that are carried out by many pious Shi‘ites in contemporary Iran. I will begin with the first approach which is sociological in character. The variety of mourning rituals that I have mentioned (roweh khānī, dow’a-ye kumayl, etc.) today take place within a religious framework that is strongly politicised. The mosques, oseynias and cemeteries (golestān-e shahīdān, martyr-gardens) where these rituals are carried out are, by means of organisation and symbolic reference, directly linked to the political establishment in the Islamic republic. Arguably, it is today very difficult, or maybe even impossible, to be ritually active within the Shi‘ite institutions without contributing to the authorisation of the present regime. By entering a mosque during prayer one will, whether one wants it or not, add to the impression that one is

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loyal to the version of Islam that is proclaimed by the person whose portrait will be found on the front wall and whose ideology will, most likely, be the ideology of the rūānī who leads the prayer. There is of course some room for political discussion within the religious institutions but never so much as to allow for dissidence with the general system. This means that also the sorrow rituals have become expressions of loyalty to the regime. And, hence, that the feelings and, in a very concrete sense, the bodies of the individuals who participate in these rituals have become display places for political authority. To cry at dow’a-ye kumayl has, whether one likes it or not, become a way of expressing loyalty to the religious ideology proposed by the government. The feelings of individual subjects, hence, have become directly linked to the preservation of the present state of affairs and for the maintained authority of the ‘ulama and the velāyat-e faqīh-system. To pinpoint this situation we may use the term emotional regime. This concept was coined by the British historian and anthropologist William Reddy in an attempt to denote the form of politicised discourse that defines how people should both express their feelings and actually feel. According to Reddy, ‘Emotions are of the highest political significance. Any enduring political regime must establish, as an essential element, a normative order for emotions.’8 In Reddy’s understanding ‘Emotional control is the real site of the exercise of power’.9 The emotional regime defines the boundaries of emotional expression and in doing so imposes the order of the political power on the bodily experiences of its subordinates. It seems reasonable to use this analytical category on the case of the Islamic Republic and its politicised mourning rituals. What we need to do, then, is to pinpoint what emotions it is that people are expected to feel and how they are expected to display them in public. In my study I followed a mosque-community in Isfahan. The people who came to this particular mosque were predominantly the so called hardliners in the city, people who were unhappy with the reformist tendencies of the Friday-Imam Ayatollah Taheri. Many of them were ollāb, young students of the local madrasehs or basīj, that is members of the mobilising force of resistance, Niru-ye Moqavamat-e Basij, which is

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an Islamic Republic’s homeguard-movement, closely connected to the Pasdaran and the Supreme leader. During a period of four years I regularly visited this community and followed the very ambitious ritual programme that was offered. Among other things, I listened to the teachings conveyed to the young believers through lectures, sermons, roweh-readings and Qur’an-classes. Now, I believe that some core elements in these teachings are the main constituents of an emotional regime that may be representative for certain conservative layers in the Iranian Islamist movement. I will now go on to say something about the teachings that constitute the regime. Central to the teachings in the mosque, then, are the notions of humility and virtue, taqvā. In one lecture, the charismatic Ayatollah of the mosque explains this notion in the following words: Taqvā is when one gets to a point where one subconsciously and automatically avoids committing sins and when one always asks for God’s forgiveness. When one considers oneself and what one does as trivial, as nothing. And finally, when one subconsciously knows that one is guilty before God and therefore is ashamed. This is the meaning of taqvā . But it is not easy to reach the state that this quote describes. There are many obstacles that threaten to lead the believers astray from the straight path, as shown in this quote from the same Ayatollah: People! These four things are very important: the Zionist problem, the criminal America, bad friends and sexual desires. Who can withstand them? What is significant in this quote is that problems on many different levels of human experience are brought together. This, I believe, is characteristic for the Islamist discourse. In sermons and roweh-readings, global politics is mixed with problems found on a very personal level. An often repeated phrase that describes this is that the enemy is both external and internal (khārej o dākhel). Of course, external and internal

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can be understood as referring to enemies outside and inside the country, but it can also be construed as a blending of political problems, such as Iran’s relation to the USA, and individual struggles such as those with bad friends or sexual desires. There can be no doubt that the political conflicts of the Islamic republic are ever-present in the ritual life of the mosque. At the end of every evening prayer all the members of the community recite a political slogan-prayer, referred to as takbīr (because it begins with Allāhu akbar). The rhyme can vaguely be divided into two separate parts of which the former is more politically charged and the latter is more prayer-like and pronounced with hands raised as in prayer. In full, the takbīr reads as follows: God is greater! God is greater! God is greater! Khameneh’i is the leader. Death to the enemies of the government of the jurisprudent! Greetings to the fighters of Islam! Peace upon the martyrs! Death to America! Death to England! Death to the hypocrites and Saddam! Death to Israel! O God! O God! Until the revolution of Mahdi, protect the movement of Khomeini. Khameneh’i is the leader, keep him in your mercy. For the sake of the honour of Mahdi. Amen, O God of the worlds. But the external politics is not separate from every individual’s struggle with his or her own personal impurity. In lectures and prayers the importance of personal morality and piety is constantly intertwined with the greater political game. Cruelty, materialism and backbiting (ghaybat) are frequently mentioned as especially problematic sins. And advice on how to avoid them is mixed with comments on the recent political development in Palestine or Saudi Arabia. Quite expectedly, the liberalisation of Iranian society, with special regard to clothing and intersexual relations, is seen also as a great threat to the possibilities of becoming virtuous.

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Satan tells the women their fringe should be uncovered and says that chador is outdated and narrow-minded, that one should be innovative. In this way he fools them. So, the goal of outer and inner virtue is threatened by outer and inner enemies. Needless to say, Islam, in the teachings of the mosque, is the solution to the problem. Islam here becomes a method to stay on the straight path and to achieve taqvā both in one’s own life and in society. The struggle to do this is the jihād al-nafs by which the individual struggles with his own personal impurity as well as with the impurities of society at large. The vājebāt (obligatory duties) and other rules of Islam set a framework in which it is easier to succeed in this struggle. Now, this is when we come to the regime. Because it is the ‘ulama, who, through their role as deputies for the absent Imam, define these rules and hence the framework within which individuals are to complete their struggle for virtue. One way of reinforcing the authority of the ‘ulama is to stress the continuity between the historical leadership of the Imams and the contemporary leadership of the Islamic republic. This is often done by mixing allusions to the historical Imams or Imam Mahdi with references to the Supreme leader of the revolution, ‘Ali Khameneh’i. It is perhaps most apparent in the invocations that usually conclude the prayer sessions: God! Let us have a life and death like Hosayn. Make Imam Zaman appear soon. Make him satisfied with us. Let us be his followers and friends. God! Protect the leader [‘Ali Khameneh’i], who is the son of Fatemeh and ‘Ali. Until the appearance of Mahdi, let us be the best followers of Sayyed ‘Ali [Khameneh’i]. O God! Remove the leader’s enemies! The authority of the political regime in Iran shows itself as an emotional regime when it becomes integrated into the personal lives of its subjects. This is what happens when it, as in this quote, is directly linked to the Ahl-e bayt. When someone expresses his loyalty and cries for the Ahl-e bayt, he will also confirm his loyalty to those who claim to be their representatives today. In this way a normative order for

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emotions that contribute to the authorisation of the present leadership is established. In ‘Ashura, Hosayn cried aloud. You can also cry loudly. When did he cry aloud? When he was lying on the ground, bleeding and thirsty. When his friends had died. / . . . / He wanted to stand but he had no energy. Sometimes he stood up with difficulty and then fell down, and here it is written that he cried loudly. You should cry loudly too! When religious leaders, who are sanctioned by the system of velāyat-e faqīh, ask people to cry for Hosayn, they do not only offer a possibility for emotional relief, but create a situation in which their own authority is anchored in the very bodies of those who listen. Focusing this is one way to approach the mourning rituals of contemporary Shi‘ism in Iran. But, individuals are not mere puppets. Humans actively use the social worlds in which they find themselves in order to understand and express their own individual characters and situations in life. To emphasise the above given structural and political aspect of institutionalised mourning rituals only is therefore problematic. If we instead approach the issue on an individual level a quite different picture will emerge. I will now elaborate a little on this.

The Individual Cases In my study in the mosque I also got to know several young men who were ritually active there. It soon became clear to me that they all participated in the rituals for quite different reasons and that the emotional regime that I have described above was used also in order to fit into very personal agendas. Let me just briefly introduce you to two young men whom I got to know in Isfahan. The first one is ‘Ali Bakhtiyari. Born in the year of the Islamic revolution he grew up in one of the small Bakhtiyari villages found in the mountains of western Iran. He remembers his childhood as a time of great hardship. Being the oldest of eight children ‘Ali worked

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at his father’s side from a young age and helped provide for the family during the difficult years of the war. During his high school years he came to Isfahan where he finished his studies while surviving as a construction worker. ‘Ali Bakhtiyari’s life-story is a tale of distress, maltreatment and helplessness. He remembers his childhood as a period of constant sorrow and suffering. When we first became acquainted, he told me he was recovering from a long period of depression. In his early years at high school he had developed what he himself describes as a sickness of the soul (bīmārī-ye rū). For four years, ‘Ali suffered from severe anxiety. He remembers that during this time he could not function properly in society. He could not focus on his studies; he wanted to be alone all the time; he felt as if he had some problem with his heart and neck but doctors could not find anything. ‘Ali remembers this time as a period in his life when everything was falling apart. On several occasions he told me that he did not get any help in solving his problems. His parents were illiterate and did not understand what was going on and his teachers at school did not bother to help him either. ‘Ali cried in secret and did not reveal his suffering. It was during his military service that things begun to change. At that time a āleb from Qum came to visit the regiment where ‘Ali was placed. ‘Ali got to know the āleb and was inspired by him to lead a more religious life himself. This, he told me, was the beginning of a new life. Living a proper religious life made him feel self-confident and good in a way he had not previously experienced. ‘Ali became a basīj, a political activist and a zealous follower of Islamic regulations. The years I met him, his feelings of anxiety were still there but he felt that things were improving day-by-day and that he was confident that he would soon overcome even what was left of his old sickness in the soul. To ‘Ali, Islam had become a method to deal with his problems and a language that enabled him to speak and explain them: The soul has its own food and that is worship, prayer (namāz)! . . . Let me summarise: all problems, spiritual (rūī) or psychological (ravānī) or dangerous, spiritual illnesses, especially within the family, find their medicine in prayer. If there is no prayer, there

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will be disintegration. Prayer feels like flying, it is the flight of the spirit. It is a great joy that can save a person. The second young man is Amir. He was born in the early 1980’s. He grew up during the war and because his father was wounded by shrapnel on the battlefield the family earned some economic and social privileges in society. Amir was the only child in his family and was trying to live up to the expectations of his parents. He had always been a hard-working and successful student and his future plans were to leave Iran and try to make a living in the USA or Canada. Throughout the period of the study, my conversations with Amir were greatly focused on problems and I think it is safe to say that his ritual activity was directly triggered by the different problems he has had to deal with. This, at least, was the way he saw it himself. Amir had a problematic relationship with his father. He did not have any siblings and he was angry and disappointed with his father because of this. Although he understood that his parents could not have done anything about it, he felt that his loneliness has caused him to become different and somewhat unsociable with other people. This saddened him and it has become a matter of dispute between him and his parents. Another problem that Amir often returned to in our discussions was related to sexuality. During the time of my study, Amir was in his late teens. Quite expectedly, sexual thoughts and feelings had become prevalent in his life. For Amir this was the cause of feelings of shame and impurity. Once he described the change which he has experienced with the following words: Children have their habits, which are innocent. They like to play and laugh and jump, but they do not understand anything. When you get older you understand more and things start to get difficult. You get bad experiences. For instance, you start to look at girls, get bad habits . . . I was religious when I was a kid, until I was fourteen, then what happened? There is something within all of us, something which wants to break free: to look at girls, to tease them. I even have friends who talk to girls.

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Amir feels that his own inclination to look at girls estranges him from the religion and therefore it is problematic. To a certain extent his ritual activity is a direct response to this experience. ‘I want to talk to God’, he said when I first met him crying in the mosque, But he will not listen, because I am not clean, I look at women, I have done bad things. God helps those who are pure, I have to improve, have to get closer to God, have to live right! Amir became a member of the basīj-organisation in school but his ritual activity is restrained to participating in various sorrow rituals. If we focus our analysis on the individual cases of ‘Ali and Amir, quite a different picture of the emotional mourning rituals arise. These people go to the mourning rituals to be helped in their lives with quite different problems. Despite the very politicised context in which they are performed, the meaning of the rituals varies greatly between different individuals. The cases of ‘Ali and Amir show how the ritual programme connects to personal motivations which only partly coincide with the official image. How, then, can we theorise about the meaning of the ritualised emotions on this individual level? William James’ work on emotion is a classic within the psychology of religion. According to his famous definition an emotion is the perception of an alteration in the body rather than, vice versa, something that causes the body to change. In order words, we do not cry because we are sad but rather we are sad because we cry. we feel sorry because we cry, angry because we strike, afraid because we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble, because we are sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be.10 A consequence of this understanding is that we, as humans, can provoke emotion by superficially and mechanically expressing it. We can, at least momentarily, create feelings of joy by forcing ourselves to laugh or plunge into feelings of sadness by listening to funeral music and pretend to sob. Actors do this kind of self manipulation all the time. By means of self suggestion we can change, build, hide or

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intensify emotions. In this way we can steer our engagement in different directions. Another way to create an emotion by means of suggestion is, of course, to say it. In an essay written in 1992, Vincent Crapanzano notes that there is something special about first person present tense utterings about feelings. Expressions like ‘I am so sad’, ‘I love you’ or ‘I am very angry’ are similar to performative speech insofar as they bring about a change of the context in which they have been uttered. Yet they stand out by having a strangely looped self-referentiality that differs from other performatives.11 William Reddy has developed and conceptualised Crapanzano’s observation. Taking his departure from J. L. Austin’s Speech Act theory, he has chosen the word Emotives to pinpoint the specific characteristic of these ‘first person present tense emotion claims’. Emotives, Reddy means, constitute a category of speech that falls between performative and affirmative speech. One specific quality of the emotives is that they are self-exploring or self-changing. This means that they change the emotional state of the speaker who utters them. Hence, when a person says ‘I love you’ to his lover, this uttering is seen as the symptom of the speaker’s emotional state. But, at the same time it contributes to creating that very emotional state. Now, since emotives have this special characteristic, they can be used as tools to change, build, hide or intensify emotions and motivations that we have decided that we want to feel. Individuals and groups, hence, can make use of emotive speech in order to control their motivations or to steer their engagement in different directions. Reddy labels the endeavour to do this ‘emotional navigation’.12 We can use Reddy’s terminology in order to conceptualise the ritual engagement of individuals. Humans form and express their way of being in the world through a constant process of evaluation, interpretation and conglomeration of different experiences. In their lives they are stuck between different levels of experience and they constantly need to negotiate between these. In doing so they may understand that all levels of experience do not combine smoothly. Their intentions and motivations on one level may lead away from what they have decided upon.

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Most people, I suppose, experience this kind of internal interest-conflict quite regularly (for example, when getting up in the morning). Emotive speech provides a tool which can help navigate through these conflicts. It can help to change, build, hide or intensify emotions and motivations that individuals have decided that they want to feel. This is so in profane circumstances – such as when, for instance, a married couple repeatedly express their love for each other in order to uphold and recreate a feeling that is in line with their decision to be married – but also when they are expressed in a religious context as in the case presented in this chapter. Also personal engagement in congregational Shi‘ite religiosity can be approached as an expression of individual agency. An individual can choose to situate himself in the ritualised and strongly emotionally imbued situation of a Shi‘ite roweh-meeting in order to help himself to stay on a certain path in life when motivated to do something difficult. In the case of Amir the motivation was to restrain sexual thoughts. In order to do this he needed a method to uphold the motivation in order not to slip. The mourning rituals in which he participated so intensively provided such a method. The rituals provided a context which triggered emotions that, in their turn, helped upholding a pure lifestyle. On this individual level, hence, these rituals can be seen as tool of self-suggestion that can help individuals reach whatever personal goal they may have. To choose this way of emotional navigation is not essentially different from choosing different profane ones. Shi‘ite and other emotional religious rituals, hence, need to be approached, not only as imposed modes of conduct, but also as expressions of individuals’ struggle with the ambiguous and incongruent existential condition that is common to all humans, whether religious or not.

Notes 1. David Thurfjell, Living Shiism: Instances of ritualisation among islamist men in contemporary Iran (Leiden and New York: Brill 2006). 2. Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (New York: FreePress, 1965), pp. 442–443.

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3. Radcliffe-Brown, The Andaman Islanders. Expanded edition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1933), pp. 239–40. 4. Stanley Tambiah, Culture, Thought and Social Action (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 132. 5. Ibid., p. 134. 6. Thomas Csordas, ‘Introduction: the Body as Representation and Beingin-the-world’, in Thomas Csordas (ed), Embodiment and Experience: The Existential Ground of Culture and Self, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 12. 7. These two words, mind and body, are in themselves misleading since they insinuate that there exists a dichotomy of human experience. Lately, much research has sought to get away from this Cartesian dichotomy in arguing that human experience, rather than existing in two separate layers consists of a number of layers, which are unavoidably interconnected. 8. William Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling: a framework for the history of emotions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), p. 124. 9. William Reddy, ‘Against Constructionism: The Historical Ethnography of Emotions’, Current Anthropology 38 (June 1997), p. 335. 10. William James. 1884. ‘What is an Emotion?’, Mind, 9, 188–205. Retrievable from http://psychclassics.yorku.ca/James/emotion.htm 11. Vincent Crapanzano, Hermes’ dilemma and Hamlet’s desire: on the epistemology of interpretation (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), p. 234–5. 12. Reddy, The Navigation of Feeling, p. 322.

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CHAPTER T WO THE CONSTRUCTION OF NATIONALISTIC AND SHI‘ITE IDENTITIES IN IR ANIAN SCHOOLBOOK S Zahar Barth-Manzoori

The Construction of Identities via Schoolbooks The question of identities seems to give an answer to cultural-based conflicts in societies. The reason for this is that it is through identities that contended communities of interests are established. Based on this assumption, conflicts are the result of construed boundaries between groups of interests which lead to defining identity concepts by contrasting them with ‘others’. Although it is easy to classify identities as a generally accepted model of collective behaviour, the research of this phenomenon is very complicated. Because of the complex and hybrid character of identities which are integrated in extensive symbolic systems, scientists from different branches of studies have tried to find superior categories with regard to the identity-building process to approach a general definition. The construction of identities is described as the result of self-reflection: who am I, where do I come from and where will I go to?1 These questions emphasise the dimension of identities from the past,

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present and future of one’s imagination. Therefore somebody has to define his attitude through memories, information given from others and personal experiences to find answers to those questions. In this process it is not important to find out what ‘really’ happened, because the imagination is based on stories which sometimes reflect ‘historical knowledge’ and in other cases special interests with a view to influence the awareness of people. Pierre Bourdieu, to mention only one social scientist, has ascertained that someone’s identity is affected by both objective and subjective criteria. These criteria consist of a biographic (individual) and a historically construed (collective) memory which in fact construes identities.2 To quote Bourdieu: ‘one’s identity interacts with one’s economic and cultural resources’.3 The question now is: how is it possible to classify forms of identities in societies? School education in general has far reaching consequences for the construction of the historical memory of people, which is why analysing the educational system of a country is one of the possible ways to find out how collective identities can be influenced. For the examination of collective identities in the Islamic Republic of Iran I decided to use Iranian schoolbooks as an essential source. The reason for the limitation of the sources to schoolbooks teaching history and religion for high school pupils as a part of this micro-analysis is that these classes give pupils an answer to the question of where they come from explicitly in terms of the historical identity-building process. The construction of a Shi‘ite and/or a national identity via schoolbooks needs justification in the historical dimension because of the aforementioned reflective process. Children usually get information about their past through educational material and especially through history schoolbooks. Additionally, for analysing the origin of self-images in the Islamic Republic of Iran it is necessary to examine schoolbooks teaching religion to see how Shi‘ite values are conveyed in order to discover ways of describing the historical past of Shi‘ites living in Iran.4 Furthermore education is more than just a way to give pupils information about their nation’s history, for instance. Teachers as employees of a public institution have a ‘symbolic power’,5 which means that they have the potential not only to cause their attitude to be perceived but also to achieve its acknowledgement. Although this thesis seems to

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be radical, it is important to note that especially through the nationalisation of the educational system (in Iran since the constitutional revolution in 1906–11) the relation between teachers and pupils can not be seen as equal. Values offered by teachers to pupils seem to be ‘naturally given’.6

Belonging to a Group: People in Collective Cultures In order to emphasise the importance of educational material in Iran it is necessary to take a closer look at the character of Iranian society. Although each community consists of individuals, it is possible to classify different kinds of generalised behaviour patterns in societies. One theory posits the existence of independent and interdependent self-concepts, which means that the members of societies have a tendency to define themselves either as individuals or as a part of a group of interest.7 Although these categories can never be defined exactly, this classification is important for analysing the general social basis of communities at least to find out how identities are construed. But a collective identity cannot exist apart from a person’s identity. Both dimensions of identities interact with each other and are subject to change anytime because of new information, impressions and socialisations. Considering the biographic or individual identity of each pupil, predominantly the schoolbooks try to address them individually. In a poem ‘Ali Musavi Garmarudi says that his love for Imam ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib is like a love for one’s mother.8 This comparison shows how religious values are conveyed on a personal level; pupils are addressed directly, because the identity-building process is a reflective effort, which means that people can only refer to feelings that have already existed. The love for one’s mother is translated into the love for ‘Ali, which united Shi‘ites. Considering this, it is necessary that an individual realises unconsciously his self-image and images of ‘others’ to have a feeling of belonging to a group like a nation or a religion.9 The description of collective identities in societies is much more complicated than the research of one’s individual identity. Between the eighteenth and the twentieth

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centuries collective identities were classified in characteristics such as race, language, religion or any other national character (volksgeist). In the meantime the characteristics of identities are considered as cultural constructions and possibilities which are created through certain symbolic systems and ideals.10 Social scientists classify Iran usually as an interdependent model of society because the reference to groups of interests among Iranian people is very high. The schoolbooks under consideration confirm this thesis. As an example for the significance of group membership demonstrated by Iranian educational material, the schoolbook Din va zendegi vol. 2 describes society as a body. Its author writes that somatic cells cause the circulation of the blood which in turn involves the efficiency of a human body. After this description the following results are summarised: 1. Each part of the body is responsible not only for itself, but also for the whole body. 2. Each element has its own aims, but these aims cannot achieve the superior goal, because they are not independent. 3. The right combination of all components creates the body’s unity.11 This given image of the function of people in a society emphasises the responsibility of people with each other and the significance of superior values. In the schoolbook Din va zendegi vol. 2 the following hadith is quoted: A community is like the passengers of a ship. If somebody destroys his own place (because it is his place to destroy), he will drown not only himself, but also all other passengers.12 After this quotation pupils are asked who has the highest responsibility within a group and how important is the behaviour of people in difficult situations. Using metaphors is a common way in the schoolbooks to point out religiously based values. Therefore in this case pupils are addressed to accept the responsibility of people for each other as a

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principle of Islam. The intention of this metaphor is to make people living in Iran aware of being part of a Muslim society. In terms of independent and interdependent societies, one can say that the schoolbooks try to convey a feeling of responsibility among pupils which in turn means establishing a collective culture. Furthermore this example is referred to the Muslim community worldwide by mentioning that they have to unite because they are sitting in the same boat.13

The Compatibility of National and Shi‘ite Self-Images Since the feeling of group membership has been described above, it is now necessary to analyse what the nature of the group of interest is. The given examples address Muslims in general and not specifically Shi‘ites. Taking a closer look at the quotations made in the schoolbooks under consideration the ideal of collective identities in Iran becomes clear. One of the most frequently quoted individuals in schoolbooks teaching history is the 6th Imam Ja‘far Sadeq, who is of special importance for Twelver Shi‘ites, because he is considered in the later Shi‘ite tradition as the founder of Shi‘ite law.14 In order to emphasise the responsibility of people in a faithful society the following hadith from Imam Sadeq is quoted: Be one of those who invite people (da‘wa), not through words, but through the fear of God, effort, prayer and goodness, because these behaviour patterns invite [others] in themselves.15 The principle of da‘wa shows the responsibility and commitment of people towards each other. Furthermore pupils are addressed not only to invite other people, but also to live a faithful life. Additionally the reference to Shi‘ite hadith-literature – such as the Nahj al-balagha16 – in the schoolbooks characterises the described collective identity as a Shi‘ite identity. These two examples define the group of interest as Shi‘ite because of the sources. Otherwise the demonstrated values apply not only for all Muslims, but for all religions. The content of current Iranian schoolbooks teaching history and religion to high school pupils has also shown that there is a strong

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nationalistic tendency. Benedict Anderson defines nationalism as an imagined community with the character to create solidarity among its members. In this definition nationalism serves as a construed and affected common feeling of togetherness. Hence nationalism is more than just a natural love for one’s homeland, but means the construction of an affected feeling.17 Such a consideration means that nationalism can be replaced by any other value in society as an affected feeling to form a cultural conceivability. Therefore, a Shi‘ite identity could also evoke an imagined community. The negotiated common Shi‘ite past of all Iranian citizens in history books and the reference to the socalled Shi‘ite heritage among Iranian people in schoolbooks teaching religion are only some examples for the construction of ‘Shi‘ism’ as an imagined community. The important denotation of national Iranian heroes such as Khomeini, Rumi (1207–73), Sana’i (1048–1141), Sa‘di (1184–1292) and Hafiz (1330–89) in schoolbooks teaching religion indicate the mediation of a national Iranian identity. Speaking of the creation of identities it is important to add that one’s self-image depends on one’s image of other people. The definition of one’s values results in the exclusion of people outside the created boundaries. A Shi‘ite self-positioning would integrate all Shi‘ites irrespective of their social or national background. An Iranian nationalistic self-concept means, however, to construe common values among all Iranians, feeling themselves as a part of the Iranian nation. Considering the ethnic and religious minorities in Iran one could ask how they are addressed by the educational system in order to become a part of the presented collective identity. The key question now is how these two concepts – conveying a Shi‘ite self-image and nationalistic values respectively – can be seen in relation to those who cannot be integrated into a Shi‘ite and into a nationalistic self-concept at the same time. Speaking of nationalism and Shi‘ism it is interesting to discover if it is possible to combine values of both concepts in Iranian schoolbooks. To find an answer to this question an analysis must be made of the mechanisms that construe a collective identity and which are used to influence Iranian pupils to feel either as members of the so called ‘Iranian nation’ or as members a Shi‘ite society. According to

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this the analysis of schoolbooks is supposed to answer whether the Islamic Republic of Iran has achieved its goal to Islamicise the institutions or to enhance the love of pupils for their nation. Considering Shi‘ism and nationalism as values of imagined communities and not objectively measurable criteria, it is possible that non-Iranian people consider themselves as Iranians or Sunnis as part of a Shi‘ite community. This article tries to understand this complex topic, and on the basis of which arguments the schoolbooks define the collective identity.

‘Shi‘itising’ Minorities in Iran One possible explanation for the compatibility of nationalist and Shi‘ite self-images is that the existence of different religious groups in Iran is ignored in schoolbooks. If all Iranian citizens were Shi‘ites, the presentation of Shi‘ite-nationalistic self-images would not give rise to obstacles. Considering the significance of education altogether, it is important to note that the influence of religious values arises not only from the schoolbooks teaching religion. In addition to the effect of personal background, the aforementioned politics of Islamicisation has influenced the whole educational system. The new Iranian government coming to power after 1979 was well aware of the significance of school education. Therefore, the former Minister of Education delivered a speech in 1983 about the importance of education, which had to be well planned and based on the rich Islamic ideology, because one quarter of the Iranian population consisted of school-children.18 Hence, the aim of this kind of Islamicisation is to construe a collective Islamic identity among Iranian pupils. Although special classes are provided for Christian minorities in Iran and Sunni pupils for a part of each school year, these pupils are also influenced by Shi‘ite values. So, for most of the time all children attend Shi‘ite-inspired classes. Taking a closer look at the Iranian schoolbooks teaching religion, it is conspicuous that although the majority of Muslims worldwide are Sunnis, the aforementioned schoolbooks present Shi‘ites as the only

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Muslim religion, especially in Iran. The Sunnis are mentioned only a few times. In these few cases the given image of Sunnis serves to legitimate why Shi‘ism is the ‘true’ Islam. In Din va zendegi vol. 3 it is written that Shi‘ites have true hadith in contrast to Sunnis, because Shi‘ite Imams have recorded early information about Islam in ancient chronicles in unaltered form.19 Consequently Sunnis have falsified sources in contrast to Shi‘ites. Sunni theological rules are not discussed in the schoolbooks at all. As a result Sunni Islam seems to be based on incorrect sources, which makes Shi‘ism the legitimate religion. In a chapter about the significance of a Messiah in Islam it is mentioned that Sunnis believe in a descendant of Muhammad and Fatima who will be the liberator of the faithful. Subsequently the author argues that belief in this is ‘dubious’ because it is not clear when and where he was born. Contrariwise the belief in the 12th Imam of the Shi‘ites is generally admitted and clear-cut because it is known that he is the son of the 11th Imam and named after the Prophet.20 Also in this case Shi‘ites have proof, while Sunnis have only assumptions. Except for these examples, Sunni doctrines and beliefs are not argued. In reference to this many chapters of the schoolbooks called Din va zendegi begin with the introduction: ‘Mā Mosalmānān’, ‘We Muslims’. In most cases the following descriptions apply to Shi‘ites alone and not Sunnis. Describing Shi‘ite doctrines as a generalised Islamic base is an indication for Shi‘itising Islam. The construction of an apparent common Shi‘ite identity for pupils in Iran is the result of the fact that Sunni doctrines are disregarded in the schoolbooks. In this case it is possible to integrate Sunnis in a Shi‘ite self-image, because the diversity of beliefs among Muslims is substituted for a standardised representation of the Iranian nation. Accordingly ‘Shi‘itising’ means ignoring ‘others’ and presenting Shi‘ite values as generally accepted Muslim doctrines. Having shown how Sunnis are portrayed in Iranian schoolbooks, it is now necessary to examine the description of other religions. In contrast to Sunni Islam, Christianity, Judaism and Zoroastrianism are mentioned more frequently. Schoolbooks teaching religion refer to these religions with the intention of showing the homogeneity of belief. One chapter of Din va zendegi argues that the veiling of women has been very important for Christians and Zoroastrians in former

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times and for Jews until today.21 With a view to other religions, the following common points are listed: Belief in one God, denial of shirk Belief in the hereafter Creation of the world based on justice Belief in holy prophets Belief in God, and the need to pray and to fast Yielding positive things like true belief and purity of soul To distance oneself from committing wrong acts and from adopting qualities such as lying and deceitfulness 8. Desire for a society based on justice.22 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

The schoolbooks describe one monotheistic religion and one God who has sent prophets to the peoples of the earth. Muhammad was the last prophet and that is why Islam is the only right religion. As a result, the denotation of other religions gives the impression of a historical chronology which led to Islam. The fact that there are also Christian, Jewish and Zoroastrian minorities living in Iran is not mentioned in this context.

Nationalism or Shi‘ism? One interesting fact concerning the educational system in Iran is that between the revolution in 1979 and 1981 only 10 per cent of the schoolbooks were rewritten and 90 per cent adapted.23 As a result nationalistic ideas from the Pahlavi era were adopted by the new republic. The main difference between schoolbooks before and after the revolution is that the principle of westernisation was substituted for Islamicisation. The question now is, which ideology is used to convey to the pupils a collective culture? Representatives of the Islamic Republic of Iran introduced at the 46th session of the International Conference on Education (Geneva, September 2001)24 the educational goals of their country. These are • to explain Islamic and Shi‘ite principles and culture on the basis of the Holy Qur’an, the Prophet’s tradition and the actions of his family members;

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• to enhance, survey and research all Islamic, scientific, technical and cultural issues; • to promote science and technology for the scientific and technical development of the country, notably in agriculture, industry and military matters; • to promote lifelong education; • to ensure social, economic and cultural justice; • to observe laws and regulations and develop desired habits among people; • to unify all Islamic nations, to exert a continuous effort to obtain political, economic and cultural unity among Muslims; and • to maintain the country’s independence and sovereignty.25 These principles contain several Shi‘ite ambitions of the government. Additionally the content of current Iranian schoolbooks teaching history and religion to high school pupils has confirmed that there is a strong national tendency, which is not easy to separate from religious tendencies. To show the significance of nationalistic values in the Iranian schoolbooks, I will quote an example from a history book. Each schoolbook published in Iran begins with a general introduction which addresses students and teachers. In the introduction of Tarikh-e mo‛asser-e Iran the Ministry of Education lists the main objectives of history classes. It is written that teachers should nurture in students the sense of history in order to enhance their national identity. Another goal is to appreciate Iranian public servants.26 Both points can be seen as attempts to convey national self-concepts to students. But why do nationalistic concepts still exist in the Islamic Republic of Iran at all? Based on the assumption that the educational system not only acts as a mouthpiece of the Islamic Republic of Iran but is also a standardising body to stabilise its political message, it is important for the government to address the mainstream of Iranian society. Sometimes such a pragmatic aim prevails over an ideological interest. Although at first view the reference to religious values in the schoolbooks seems to play the most significant role, a closer examination will show that Shi‘ite concepts cannot be considered apart from nationalistic tendencies.

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Shi‘ism is used by representatives of the Islamic Republic of Iran in schoolbooks to justify their existence and nationalism provides people the reason for being an active member of Iranian society. One example for the dependency of religious concepts on nationalistic tendencies is the representation of the revolution in Iran 1979 as one special event in Iranian history. In one chapter of the history book Tarikh-e mo’asser-e Iran, Khomeini equates the victims of the battle of Karbala with the people who lost their lives during the revolution of 1979. Furthermore Hosayn and Khomeini are compared with each other as well as their enemies Yazid and Muhammad Reza Shah.27 This analogy suggests that these two events both marked the beginning of a new Shi‘ite era. The fact that there were also people in the opposition who were not religiously motivated is completely ignored. All members of oppositional groups are considered members of the so called ‘Iranian nation’ who fought for their homeland to achieve Iran’s sovereignty.28 Another chapter of the same history schoolbook states that the revolution of 1979 was the beginning of a new age in the history of the Iranian nation and of Muslims worldwide.29 As a result one can summarise the following significant roles of the revolution in 1979 presented by the Iranian schoolbooks: 1. Because of the comparison of the battle of Karbala with the revolution in 1979 Khomeini as the founder of the Islamic Republic of Iran is glorified as a Shi‘ite hero in the collective memory of the Iranian people and on equal terms with the Twelver Shi‘ite imams. 2. The significance of the revolution in the schoolbooks serves as a creation of an affected consciousness among the people living in Iran. The schoolbooks convey a common national identity to Iranians by telling them that the revolution caused Iranians to achieve sovereignty. Although these examples show the significance of nationalism in Iranian schoolbooks, they are strongly connected with religious values. In most cases it is impossible to characterise Khomeini as a national hero or a Shi‘ite Imam.

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Shi‘ism as an Iranian Version of Islam? Popular western media and sometimes Sunni opinions characterise Twelver Shi‘ite Islam as an Iranian version of Islam. The reason for this is that Twelver Shi‘ism has been the state religion in Iran since the sixteenth century. In addition, this attitude can be seen as a result of Iranian-Shi‘ite and Arabian-Sunni discourses which have existed throughout the Muslim world from the beginning of Shi‘ism until the present age. Although this discussion is very interesting and important for the research of Muslim identities in general, and Sunni as well as Shi‘ite identities in particular, it can not be considered here. The schoolbooks under consideration do not refer to Twelver Shi‘ism as an Iranian version of Islam directly, because, as mentioned above, other religious denominations are disregarded and therefore it is only possible to classify the sole version of Islam as depicted in the schoolbooks. However there are certain indications in the schoolbooks of a combination between Iranian nationalism and Twelver Shi‘ism. Speaking of ‘Iranian Shi‘ites’ the status of Khomeini, which has already been discussed, is very important in the national identitybuilding process. He is more than a national hero and the founder of the Islamic Republic of Iran. He is quoted in the same breath with Muhammad the Prophet and the Twelve Imams, which renders him an important theological figure as well. In the schoolbook Din va zendegi vol. 3 characteristics of an adequate leader of the Islamic society are listed. Thus the former leaders always had to establish themselves in times of difficulties. It is written that especially Khomeini had to struggle against the supremacy of the USA and the regim-e āgūt (the rule of the evil) during the Pahlavi era.30 Khomeini is characterised as an ‘adept of Islamic culture who knew Iranian society very well’.31 To legitimate Khomeini as the leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran Imam Baqer is quoted who describes the five pillars of Islam as prayer (namāz), paying the alms tax (zakāt), fasting (rūzeh), pilgrimage (ajj) and velāyat. Additionally velāyat is described as the most important principle of Islam.32 As we know, for both Sunni and Shi‘ite Muslims the five pillars of Islam consist of the first four mentioned rules and the shahāda. Speaking of an Iranian version of Islam, one could say

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that in this case the schoolbooks show another version of Islam. The reference to the Iranian political system of the velāyat-e faqīh-e ‘ādil adds an Iranian rule to Islamic law. The reference of people to existing historical information is the gist of one’s historical identity building process.33 Considering the fact that a nation’s historical memory affects its identity, one could ask how the schoolbooks deal with the fact that most of the inhabitants of the Iranian plateau did not become Shi‘ites until the sixteenth century during the reign of the Safavids? In the chapter called ‘The entrance of Islam in Iran’ it is written that Iranians were significantly involved in the development and circulation of Islam in the world. Furthermore, Iranian culture had influenced the Islamic civilisation so that the published books of Iranians in the early days of Islam were a great help for the geographical expansion of that religion. Additionally it is written that many Shi‘ites were Iranians.34 The given image of the development of Islam in Iran appears as the history of a homogeneous Iranian-Shi‘ite culture until today. The special role of the Persian language and the Iranian people concerning the Islamicisation of the Middle East can be seen as a historical myth with the aim to convey a collective identity among Iranians. Speaking of the creation of myths it is important to note that people would rather believe in a myth than in historical science.35 With regard to the identity of pupils it is not important what really has happened in history. According to what the authors of the schoolbooks say Iranian children get the impression that 1. being Iranian depends on being Shi‘ite; 2. Iran and Iranians as members of a nation had always existed; and 3. contemporary Shi‘ism in Iran is part of the Iranian heritage.

Conclusion Shi‘ite identities in Iran cannot be considered apart from nationalistic tendencies. The schoolbooks analysed in this chapter describe the revolution of 1979 as a religious victory of the Iranian nation. With reference to the question of whether nationalism outweighs Shi‘ite concepts, it is necessary to compare the significance of both kinds of

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values. I would argue that nationalism is the main feeling conveyed in which a Shi‘ite identity is integrated. The reason for prioritising nationalism is that arguments that are predominantly based on the Shi‘ite religion are not convincing in the case of the revolution because the latter should be regarded as a social movement of various groups with different aims, a point of view which is not accepted by representatives of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Additionally, one’s identity is also a product of a reflective historical and social self-positioning. Due to this observation the information which people gain from their past is very important for creating their identity. As we know, in the early days of Islam, Arabs dominated its development. With the aim to construe a glorious past for Iranians, the schoolbooks accentuate the history of Persians in the ancient world and the beauty of the Persian language. In this case a nationalistic or rather an ethnic identity is easier to justify and also more convincing. The educational system of the Islamic Republic of Iran has been reformed qualitatively and quantitatively after 1979. In June 1980 all universities were closed for two years because of the so-called Cultural Revolution. Additionally, about 25,000 lecturers who were employed at universities and school were dismissed. The new selected educators sympathised with the new government and pushed ahead the Islamicisation of science and education. This shows the dependency of education on politics, which means that education is also used to mobilise students as future voters. This analysis has shown that on the one hand Islamicisation means Shi‘itising the presentation of all religions in schoolbooks, and on the other hand that a Shi‘ite identity in Iran is connected with Iranian nationalism. Discussing the compatibility of two identities, Shi‘ism and nationalism, one can say that they exist together because Shi‘ism is presented in these schoolbooks as an Iranian and sometimes nationalist version of Islam. This study cannot ascertain to what extent Iranian pupils adopt the conveyed values. The aforementioned arguments cannot serve as a legitimation for jumping to conclusions concerning the perspective of all Iranians. Clifford Geertz described culture as a grid which is able to modify its values and in which everybody is involved. Regarding

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culture as a closed model of societies seems to make the complicated concept of cultures more comprehensive. But such an examination ignores the hybridity and diversity of cultures.

Notes 1. Shingo Shimada, Identitätskonstruktion und Übersetzung, in: Assmann, Aleida/ Friese, Heidrun (ed.), Identitäten. Erinnerung, Geschichte, Identität 3 (Frankfurt/ a.M. 1998), p. 138. 2. Gebauer, Gunter/Krais, Beate: Habitus, (Bielefeld 2002), pp. 22–24. 3. Heiko Geiling, ‘Klassenunterschiede des Alltags: “Die feinen Unterschiede”’ in Margarete Steinrücke (ed.) Pierre Bourdieu. Politisches Forschen, Denken und Eingreifen (Hamburg 2004), pp. 35–46, see here p. 38. 4. The schoolbooks under consideration are: Din va zendegi. Qor’an va ta’limat-e dini (١). Sal-e avval-e dabirestan, (Tehran 2005/06 / 1384sh); Din va zendegi. Qur’an va ta’limat-e dini (٢). Sal-e dovvom-e dabirestan, (Tehran, 2006/07 / 1385sh.); Din va zendegi. Qur’an va ta’limat-e dini (٣). Sal-e sevvom-e dabirestan, (Tehran, 2005/06 / 1384sh.); Tarikh-e Iran va Jahan (١). Nazri (reshteh-ye adabiyat va ‘ulum-e ensani). Sal-e dovvom-e Amuzesh-e motevassete, (Tehran, 2005/06 / 1384sh.); Tarikh-e Iran va Jahan (٢). Nazri (reshteh-ye adabiyat va ‘ulum-e ensani). Sal-e sevvom-e amuzesh-e motevassete, (Tehran, 2003/04 / 1382sh.); Tarikh-e mo‛asser-e Iran. Kolliye-ye reshteh-ha (be estena-ye reshteh-ha-ye adabiyat va ‘ulum-e ensani – ‘ulum va ma’arif-e eslami). Sal-e sevvom-e amuzesh-e motevassete, (Tehran, 2006/07 / 1385sh.). 5. Fuchs-Heinritz, Werner/König, Alexandra: Pierre Bourdieu. Eine Einführung (Konstanz, 2005), p. 207. 6. Ibid., p. 208. 7. Anne Springer, Wie das Selbst das Denken steuert. Der Einfluss independenten und interdependenten Selbstwissens auf die Anwendung exekutiver Funktionen zur Steuerung und Kontrolle der Informationsverarbeitung, (Berlin 2004), p. 9. 8. Din va zendegi (١), p. 15. 9. Jan Assman, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München 1992), p. 131. 10. Aleida Assmann, Einführung in die Kulturwissenschaft. Grundbegriffe, Themen, Fragestellungen (Berlin 2006), p. 219. 11. Din va zendegi (٢), p. 22.

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12. Ibid., p. 153. 13. Ibid., p. 156. 14. Monika Gronke, Geschichte Irans. Von der Islamisierung bis zur Gegenwart (München 2003), p. 19. 15. Din va zendegi (٢), p. 157. 16. See for example Din va zendegi (٢), p. 158. 17. Benedict Anderson, Die Erfindung der Nation. Zur Karriere eines folgenreichen Konzepts, 2nd ed. (Frankfurt 2005), p. 16; Jean-Luc Chabot, Le nationalisme, (Paris 1993), p. 3. 18. Moustafa Balaghi-Mobayen, Die Bildungs- und Erziehungspolitik der Islamischen Republik Iran, in Arbeitspapiere des Fachbereiches Wirtschaftswissenschaften (ed.) (Wuppertal 2000), p. 20. 19. Din va zendegi (٣), p. 84. 20. Ibid., p. 120. 21. Din va zendegi (٢), p. 144. 22. Din va zendegi (٣), p. 23. 23. Ulrich Marzolph, ‘Die Revolution im Schulbuch. Die Grundschulbücher ‘Persisch’’ vor und nach 1979’, Spektrum Iran 3/4 (1994), pp. 36–56, see here p. 36. 24. The data of 2001 are the latest published information of the International Bureau of Education. 25. UNESCO, International Bureau of Education: World Data on Education, 5th ed. (Geneva 2001). 26. Introduction of Tarikh-e mo‛asser-e Iran. 27. Tarikh-e mo‛asser-e Iran, p. 118. 28. Ibid., p. 266. 29. Ibid., p. 154. 30. Tarikh-e Iran va Jahan (٢), p. 260. 31. Ibid., p. 268. 32. Din va zendegi (٣), p. 53. 33. Emil Angehrn, ‘Vom Sinn der Geschichte’, in Depkat, Volker/Müller, Matthias/Sommer, Andreas Urs (ed.), Wozu Geschichte(n)? Geschichtswissenschaft und Geschichtsphilosophie im Widerstreit (Stuttgart 2004), p. 15. 34. Tarikh-e mo‛asser-e Iran, p. 5. 35. Willi Gautschi, Mythos und Macht der Geschichte: Über historische Grundfragen (München 2001), p. 9.

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CHAPTER THR EE IR ANIAN IDENTIT Y IN THE WEST: A DISCUR SIVE APPROACH Seyed Sadegh Haghighat

How would the proponents of Iranian identity in Western countries be defined today? Is it limited to those living within the ‘nation-state’ called Iran, or does it also encompass extra implications? Considering that the identity of Iranians in the civilised countries is not well explained for a number of reasons, such as less information and poor theoretical frameworks, how could we understand the proponents of Iranian identity in the West, i.e. Europe and the USA? Identity has played a pivotal role in social movements. In sociology and political science, the notion of ‘social identity’ is defined as the way that individuals label themselves as members of particular groups (e.g., nation, social class, subculture, ethnicity, gender, etc.). It is in this sense that sociologists and historians speak of the national identity of a particular country, and feminist theorists speak of gender identity. Identity, here, is regarded as a social phenomenon, not as a philosophical one.1 Symbolic Interactionism (SI) attempts to show how identity can influence, and be influenced by, social reality at large.2 Every identity is unfixed and in flux, and Iranian identity in Western countries with its components (Iranian or national/Islamic/

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liberal and socialist) has faced crisis. The relative weight to be given to each of these, partially overlapping, elements in defining the Iranian national identity has generated much controversy among the successive generations of modern intellectuals in Iran, particularly since the last decades of the nineteenth century when the question of national identity moved to the centre stage of political discourse. Secular intellectuals have relied on a romantic conception of nationhood that considers language as the hallmark of the community and the source of national identity. Whilst the duality of Iranian/Islamic is rooted in the emergence of the Islamic empire and its expansion to other parts of the world, the triple concept of Iranian/Islamic/modern (including liberal and socialist) dates back to the Constitutional Movement (mashrūeh) of 1905. Iranian identity crisis originates from some historical paradoxes. First, the 2,500 year old Iranian culture has a dual influence: a deep national heritage which shapes a social imaginary on the one hand, and an authoritarian and political culture on the other. Secondly, Islamic culture was merged into an Iranian one, but in practice there were a lot of difficulties. The Safavid dynasty (1502–1736) offered Shi‘ite Islam as the main pillar of Iranians’ collective identity. Thirdly, liberal ideology as the hegemonic discourse in Europe and the USA penetrated into Iranian culture especially in recent centuries. It goes without saying that this factor is more influential for Iranians residing in Western countries. Finally and most importantly, socialist culture from the communist countries, especially from the Soviet Union, affected the non-harmonised Iranian culture. This new culture transferred new signifiers, such as the notion of revolution, into the traditional and religious culture of Iranians. The left, i.e. the socialist, signifiers made Iranian culture more complicated, specifically when these signifiers transferred to Islamism as a new discourse in 1960s. The Soviet Union collapsed in 1989, however it had already left its influence on political Islam in Iran, at least in the reading of ‘Ali Shari‘ati and MKO3. Although the Islamic government in Iran has defined its principles on political Islam, Iranians incline towards cultural Islam.4 Establishing Islamic government is considered the principal goal of political Islam (Islamism), while Iranians live with their religion as a

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‘culture’. The Revolution in 1979, influenced by the socialist discourse, tried to intensify Islamic aspects of the Iranian culture and to marginalise modern ones. Michel Foucault called the Islamic Revolution a postmodern one, and he was right when he called it an anti-modern movement. However, it can not be considered a postmodern one since it returned to Islamic and pre-modern principles. The more Iranians (in the West) are distanced from 1979, the more their identity becomes complicated. The Islamic Revolution brought cultural preoccupations to the forefront of deliberations among scholars of Iranian studies. Motahhari’s view on the collaboration between Iran and Islam5 on the one hand, and Doustar’s dīn-khū’ī6 (religious temperament) on the other hand demonstrate diverse and insufficient endeavour to identify Iranian identity. Significantly, these deliberations not only lack harmony in themselves but produce a chasm between the four mentioned proponents of contesting views of Iranian national identity. It is argued here that discourse as a method can explain the characteristics of Iranians in First World countries. Identity is shaped based on the other. But who is the other of Iranian identity in the west? The point is that Iranian-Identity crisis originates from different sources of the self and their other. They do not know exactly if their other is nonIranian, non-Muslim, non-Shi‘ite, or non-political Islam. Because I have addressed ‘Iranian Identity’ in general in an earlier work,7 in this chapter I will concentrate on the identity crisis of Iranians in Western countries. To discuss Iranian identity, this article draws on the insights of discourse theory of Ernesto Laclau and Chantal Mouffe. The postmodernists render problematic the traditional model of history as the ‘study of the past as it was’. Meanwhile, Eric J. Hobsbawm and Benedict Anderson argue that nation is neither natural nor eternal; that national identity is an assortment of ‘invented traditions’; that nationalism is nothing more than a cultural artefact, invented by collective imagination; and that nationality is more rooted in subjective beliefs than objective realities.8 They argue that the basic assumptions historians make about the past are more often than not ideological constructions; that historians are bounded within their own cultural identities; that the nature of history is discontinuous; and that historical ‘knowledge’ is a form of discourse. Moreover, they claim that subjective identity is itself a myth, a

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construct of language and society. In other words, national identity and consciousness is neither inbred biologically nor transcendent but rather manufactured.9 According to Bayat-Philipp: ‘the different expressions of Iranian national consciousness today, be they secular or religious, reveal a similar tendency to conceive the present as insubstantial and imperfect in comparison with the past’.10

Discourse as a Method Every theory may engage some methods.11 In their book, Jorgensen and Phillips talk about Discourse Analysis as Theory and Method.12 According to them, ‘Discourse Analysis’ as a method is the analysis of patterns identified in discourse as a theory. While Norman Fairclaugh made a bridge between social studies and linguistics in his discursive analysis, Laclau and Mouffe attempted to employ Foucault’s genealogy in politico-social issues. In this article, I try to show the relationship between text and context as Fairclaugh does. Furthermore, I will use some statistics to confirm the idea developed here. As David Howarth puts it, we can utilise discourse theory as a method: ‘Laclau and Mouffe oppose traditional conceptions of social conflict in which antagonisms are understood as the clash of social agents with fully constituted identities and interests. Hegemonic practices are important to Laclau and Mouffe’s political theory of discourse, as they are an exemplary form of political practice, which involves the linking together of different identities and political forces into a common project, and the creation of new social orders from a variety of dispersed elements. Their aim is thus to affirm the meaningfulness of all objects and practices; to show that all social meaning is contingent, contextual and relational.’13 Laclau and Mouffe call articulation any practice establishing a relation among elements such that their identity is modified as a result of the articulatory practice. The structured totality resulting from the articulatory practice, they call discourse.14 In the terms of their theory, the discourse establishes a closure, a temporary stop to the fluctuations in the meaning of the signs.15 Foucault writes: ‘I am supposing that in every society the production of discourse is at once controlled,

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selected, organized and redistributed according to a certain number of procedures.’16 One of the best employments of discourse as a theory and method is Edward Said’s analysis of colonialism. At times he emphasises a linguistic analysis as a methodology, the type similar to that found in linguistic departments. His Orientalism, broadly speaking, is a critical analysis of colonial ideology in Western literary texts. Said’s unimaginably deep knowledge of literary texts, colonial history, geopolitics, his powerful and yet accurate language, and most importantly his critical reading of classic literary texts have made it an influential scholarly book which impacts not only contemporary studies on the Middle East but sets a framework for critical works in post-structuralism, anti-colonialism, and anti-imperialism. Having a broad notion of critical discourse analysis (CDA) as an approach, ‘Orientalism’ can be classified as a ‘CDA study’ in deconstructing and analysing how a macro ideology – Orientalism – has been incorporated into literary texts. Said, of course, considers the crucial element in the proliferation of the ideology differently from what is referred to as ‘discourse’ among CDA researchers. He considers language as one element of such hegemonic characterisation. He argues that; ‘Orient is an idea that has a history and a tradition of thought, imaginary, and vocabulary that have given it reality and presence in and for the West.’17 In short, discourse analysis can explain Iranian identity very well, since it is formed by Iranian/Islamic/liberal and socialist discourses based on non-essentialism. Being influenced by different sources, the identity of Iranians has changed during time. Therefore there is no unique identity for them.

Discourse and Identity Based on the formal and relational theory of language that Saussure advocates, the identity of any element is a product of the differences and oppositions established by the elements of the linguistic system. He charts this conception at the levels of signification – the relationships between signifiers and signified – and with respect to the values of linguistic terms such as words.18 Essentialism alludes to a strong identity politics, without which there can be no basis for political calculation and action.

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But that essentialism is only strategic – that is it points, at the very moment of its constitution, to its own contingency and its own limits.19 As discourses are relational entities whose identities depend on their differentiation from other discourses, they are themselves dependent and vulnerable to those meanings that are necessarily excluded in any discursive articulation.20 Identity according to the discourse theory is a relative and unstable phenomenon, and since there is no meta-discursive truth, every identity is produced in its discourse. For Laclau and Mouffe, collective identity or group formation is understood according to the same principles as individual identity. They reject the position that collective identity (in Marxist theory, primarily classes) is determined by economic and material factors. In such cases, the subject is overdetermined. That means that he or she is positioned by several conflicting discourses among which a conflict arises. For Laclau and Mouffe, the subject is always overdetermined because the discourses are always contingent; there is no objective logic that points to a single subject position. Subject positions that are not in visible conflict with other positions are the outcome of hegemonic processes. Therefore: • The subject is fundamentally split, it never quite becomes itself. • It acquires its identity by being represented discursively. • Identity is thus identification with a subject position in a discursive structure. • Identity is always relationally organised; the subject is something because it is contrasted with something that it is not. • Identity is changeable just as discourses are. • The subject is fragmented or decentred; it has different identities according to those discourses of which it forms part. • The subject is overdetermined; in principle, it always has the possibility to identify differently in specific situations. Therefore, a given identity is contingent – that is, possible but not necessary.21 The system is what is required for the differential identities to be constituted, but the only thing – exclusion – which can constitute the system and thus make possible those identities, is also what subverts them. Contexts have to be internally subverted in order to become

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possible. The system is that which the very logic of the context requires but which is, however, impossible. It is present, if you want, through its absence. But this means two things. First, that all differential identity will be constitutively split and undecidable. Second, that although the fullness and universality of society is unachievable, its need does not disappear: it will always show itself through the presence of its absence. Finally, if that impossible object – the system – cannot be represented but needs, however, to show itself within the field of representation, the means of that representation will be constitutively inadequate.22

Iranian Identity The word ‘Iran’ is derived from Ariana and means Arian’s land. The word ‘aria’ has been used in Avesta, ancient Persian, and Sanskrit languages. The original meaning of this word is āzādeh (i.e. free). In works done during the Sassanid period, Iranians called their land Iran. During the medieval ages, Westerners called the Iranian’s land Persia, which is derived from the Greek word ‘persis’, which is the name is given to the Fars province of Iran. The national identity is one of the most important issues for young generation and theorists, in the time of globalisation, especially for Iranians who have one of the most influential cultures and civilisations of the world. Societies with a historical mentality are directed toward the past. In the early 1960s, Gavin Hambly recognised this tendency among Iranian intellectuals: ‘almost invariably, the intellectual takes great pride in early Iranian civilization, although he may not know very much about it. It is enough for him to remember the conquests of Cyrus the Great or Darius I, and the glories of Persepolis.’23 The role of Iran in history is highly significant; hence the German philosopher Georg W. F. Hegel considered the ancient Persians to be ‘the first historic people’ and stated thus: ‘in Persia first arises that light which shines itself and illuminates what is around . . . The principle of development begins with the history of Persia; this constitutes therefore the beginning of history.’24 And Frye adds: ‘few nations in the world present more of a justification for the study of history than Iran’.25

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The Samanid dynasty was the first fully native dynasty to rule Iran since the Muslim conquest, and led the revival of Persian culture. The first important Persian poet after the arrival of Islam, Rudaki, was born during this era and was praised by Samanid kings. Their successor, the Ghaznawids, who were of non-Iranian Turkic origin, also became instrumental in the revival of Persian. The culmination of the Persianisation movement was the Shahnameh (1010 ce), the national epic of Iran, written almost entirely in Persian by Ferdowsi. Language plays a pivotal role within the discourse of Iranian cultural heritage. Many of Iran’s cultural historians and literary critics start with the premise that the Iranian nation is defined primarily by the Persian language. For these scholars, language is the manifestation of a nation’s thoughts, experiences, and ambitions.26 Some suggest that the safeguarding of the Persian language is the most effective weapon that Iranians have to stop the encroachment of Western civilisation. Others, such as Behruz have gone further, conceptualising language as the reflection of the Iranian nation’s racial and mental structure.27 Maskub, a contemporary cultural historian and translator, offers the most sophisticated view of the relationship between language and national identity. In Iranian Nationality and Persian Language, he contends that Iranians are different from other Muslims due to their history and language. Devoting much of his book to language, he asserts: ‘we maintained one nationality or, perhaps better put, our national identity, our Iranianness, through the blessing of language’. He considers the Shahnameh, the epic masterpiece of the eleventh-century Persian poet Ferdowsi, the very cornerstone of his own thinking and sense of personal identity’.28 Of the various elements that constitute Iran’s cultural identity, four have traditionally been judged the most salient. These are: (1) the country’s pre-Islamic legacy, which took shape over a period of more than a millennium, from the time of Achaemenians to the defeat of the last Persian dynasty (the Sassanids) by the invading Arab armies in the middle of the seventh century; (2) Islam, or, more specifically, Shi‘ism, the religion of over 90 per cent of the country’s presentday inhabitants, with an all-encompassing impact on every facet of Iranian culture and thought; (3) the more diffuse bonds, fictive or

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real, established among peoples who have inhabited roughly the same territory, with the same name, faced the same enemies, struggled under the same despotic rulers and conquerors, and otherwise shared the same historical destiny for over two millennia; and finally (4) the Persian language, currently the mother tongue of a bare majority of the population, but long the literary and ‘national language’ in Iran (as well as in parts of Afghanistan, Central Asia, and parts of the Indian subcontinent). The focus of the present work is on the last of the above elements – i.e. the Persian language – and its role in forming and sustaining Iranian national identity. Maskub maintains that with the political and social changes that took place in the closing decades of the nineteenth century, and with Persia’s increasing contact with the West, the three social groups on which his analysis is focused lost their significance as the principal guardians, practitioners and promoters of the Persian language. In all these capacities they were gradually replaced by a new social group in the Iranian society, i.e. a secular intelligentsia consisting of journalists, writers, poets, etc. According to Boroujerdi, Maskub’s assertions and inferences are problematic for a number of reasons. First, his view of language – epitomised in such phrases as ‘refuge for the soul’ and ‘substance of thought’ – is more romantic than factual. Scholars of Iranian studies should realise that while language antedates and constructs subjectivity, it is never a ‘tabula rasa’. Furthermore, while overemphasising the role of language, Maskub underestimates the function of imagination. Besides language such previously critical factors as race, religion and common history no longer by themselves can be considered the principal determinants of national identity. In the age of modernity, ‘national identity’ should no longer be conceived as something essential, tangible, integrated, settled and fundamentally unchanging. Language, after all, is a product of social reality, and as such, the internal logic of cultural discourse must be situated within the field of social practices and relationships. Although language shapes culture, culture also shapes the development of language.29 It seems that Boroujerdi’s view is more compatible with the idea developed here, since – based on discourse analysis – personal and collective identities are becoming more self-reflexive, ambulatory, multiple and fragile.

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Farsi, as the official language, has become hegemonic for the majority of Iranians. Although Persians form the majority of the population, Iran is considered an ethnically diverse country. The point is that the interethnic relations amongst minorities including Azeris, Kurds, Lurs, Arabs, Baluchis, Turkmen, Armenians, Assyrians, Jews and Georgians are more or less harmonious. According to Article 19 of the Iranian constitution, ‘All people of Iran, whatever the ethnic group or tribe to which they belong, enjoy equal rights; color, race, language, and the like, do not bestow any privilege’. In fact, it explains the mystery of the failure of projects for the separation of some provinces, like Khuzestan from Iran. Saddam Hussein had wrongly expected the Iranian Arabs to join the Arab Iraqi forces in 1980 and win a quick victory. According to the Seymour Hersh report in April 2006, US troops in Iran were ‘recruiting local ethnic populations to encourage local tensions that could undermine the regime’.30 Nayereh Tohidi sees the settlement between the Persian majority and the ethnic minorities under pressure, in ways that are putting the country’s political future into question. First, minority politics in Iran – whether related to gender, religion or ethnicity – in an age of increasing globalisation are influenced by global–local interplay. Second, an uneven and over-centralised strategy of development in Iran has resulted in a wide socio-economic gap between the centre and the peripheries. And third, none of the guaranteed rights in Iran’s constitution have been implemented.31 Every thing is contingent, though, the experience of more than three decades since the victory of the Islamic Revolution reveals that the tensions mentioned above have remained potential. Most minorities who speak non-Persian languages perceive their ethnic identity as a complement to their national identity. Yet, having no substance, Iranian identity is not rigid, prearranged and predetermined. In brief, although the Iranian language and customs may survive by and large amongst first generation Iranians in the West, they would be weakened amongst the second generation. Children of Iranians abroad do not have enough motivation to speak Farsi or to follow Iranian customs, since they will lose their special symbolic meanings over time.

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The Duality of the Iranian/Islamic Identity The duality of Iranian/Islamic element in Iranian identity emerged after the advent of Islam into Iran, however it is one of our main problems nowadays too. In Reza Shah’s era (1925–45), this duality was intensified by quasi-modernism and secularism. Under his reign, Iran began to modernise and to secularise politics, and the central government reasserted its authority over tribes and provinces. Stressing dīn-khū’ī (religious temperament) as the most influential factor of the Iranian identity crisis, Doustar criticises Al-e Ahmad for advocating Islam and Arabs.32 Those following the Iranian approach are of the opinion that the golden age of Iran is the pre-Islamic era, and that the fall of the Sassanid system was the result of the Arab invasion of Iran. They believe the Arab culture destroyed their national Iranian culture. These individuals think the main elements of Iranian identity originate from pre-Islam civilisation and Iranian culture. For instance, Mirza Aqa-Khan Kermani and Akhundzadeh had a negative attitude to Arabic culture and its impact on Iran.33 Maskub stressed the fact that following the Arab conquest of Persia in the seventh century ce, it took Persians well over two centuries to recover from their humiliating defeat, which entailed not only the crumbling of their political order and their subjugation to foreign rule, but also the imposition of a new religion and language on them.34 According to Bernard Lewis, ‘Iran was indeed Islamized, but it was not Arabized. Persians remained Persians. And after an interval of silence, Iran reemerged as a separate, different and distinctive element within Islam, eventually adding a new element even to Islam itself. Culturally, politically, and most remarkable of all even religiously, the Iranian contribution to this new Islamic civilization is of immense importance.’35 Only about 10 per cent of Iran converted to Islam during the relatively Arab-centric Umayyad period. Beginning in the Abbasid period, with its mix of Persian as well as Arab rulers, the Muslim percentage of the population rose. As Persian Muslims consolidated their rule of the country, the Muslim population rose from approximately 40 per cent in the mid ninth century to close to 100 per cent by the end of eleventh century. Seyyed Hossein Nasr suggests that the rapid increase in conversion was aided by the Persian nationality of the rulers. Although

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Persians adopted the religion of their conquerors, over the centuries they worked to protect and revive their distinctive language and culture, a process known as Persianisation. Arabs and Turks participated in this attempt.36 In contrast, the followers of the religious approach believe that Iran’s pre-Islamic history is a period of social injustice and ignorance, and it was during the post-Islamic age, especially in the Safavid period, that Iran achieved glory. They believe that Iranian identity is based on Islamic culture and civilisation only. To demonstrate Iran–Islam cooperation, Motahhari puts less importance on some elements such as race and language.37 Two points should be noted here. First, antiIslamism as a project ignores some parts of history to magnify others. Second is the necessity of distinguishing Islam as Muslim behaviour in history (Islam 3) from Islam as holy texts (Islam 1) and reading of Islam (Islam 2). The third sense of Islam does not necessarily imply any sanctity. There is no reason to justify all Muslim behaviour in any case during time. Contingency and relativity of Iranian identity does not contradict the holiness of Islamic texts, because here we talk about the Iranian/Muslim identity as a social phenomenon. From the Safavid era, Shi‘ism became one of the formal components of Iranian identity. In fact, Iranian identity depends on Shi‘ism rather than Islamic culture in general. Iranian identity would not be understood except with regard to the antagonism between Shi‘ism and Sunnism. Shi‘ite Muslims believe that the descendants from Muhammad through his daughter Fatima Zahra and his son-in-law ‘Ali were the best source of knowledge of the Qur’an and Islam, the most trusted carriers and protectors of Muhammad’s sunnah (traditions), and the most worthy of emulation. The Safavid dynasty is of importance because it established Shi‘ism as the formal religion. Shah Isma‘il I initiated a religious policy to recognise Shi‘ite Islam as the official religion of the Safavid Empire, and the fact that modern Iran remains an officially Shi‘ite state is a direct result of Isma‘il’s actions. He had to enforce official Shi‘ism violently, since most of his subjects were Sunni. But it is safe to say that the majority of the population was probably genuinely Shi‘ite by the end of the Safavid period in the eighteenth century, and most Iranians today are Shi‘ite, although

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small Sunni populations do exist in that country. Following the establishment of Safavid religious scholars (‘ulama) were invited to Iran. This led to a wide gap between Iran and its Sunni neighbours which has lasted to the present. Iranian identity in this period was partially shaped by antagonism with the Ottoman Empire. Since there was no essence in the identity of new government, signifiers of the Safavid discourse articulated around the nodal point of the Shah, whereas the Ottoman discourse’s nodal point was the Caliph. Although the antagonism between Shi‘ite and Sunnis developed in the Safavid era, during the early days of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Khomeini endeavoured to bridge the gap between Shi‘ites and Sunnis by forbidding criticism of the Caliphs who preceded ‘Ali – an issue that causes much animosity between the two sects. In addition, he declared it permissible for Shi‘ites to pray behind Sunni imams.

The Tripartite Concept of Identity: Iranian/Islamic/Liberal The Constitutional movement at the turn of the twentieth century was a turning point for Iranians to become familiar with modernity and liberalism. Iranian intellectuals were the carriers of new ideologies. Hajjarian categorised them into three main groups: the Nontraditionalists (from the Constitutional Movement to the 1940s), the revivalists of tradition (from the 1940s to the Islamic Revolution), and the synthesisers (in the Islamic republic era).38 Although his typology cannot explain all contemporary intellectual approaches, it correctly shows that the first was modernist, while the second, which was considered as the mainstream for political Islam, was anti-modernist and traditionalist in general. Because Iranian identity did not harmonise with the duality of Iran/Islam, it encountered in some ways a crisis in engaging with the triple concept of Iranian/Islamic/modern (liberal and socialist). In the nineteenth century Malkam Khan and Freemasonry’s ‘social order’ were based on ten principles: liberty, individual security, security of properties, equal rights, freedom of thought and religion, freedom of speech, freedom to write, and system of merits.39 While Mostashar alDowleh tried to justify the Iranian Constitution, which was taken from

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the French, with Islamic teachings, conservatives (such as Fadlallah Nuri and S. Ali Sistani) called constitutionalism paganism! Mostashar al-Dowleh wrote in his letter to the monarch Mozaffar al-Din Shah: ‘regarding the new glorious progress in Europe, Iran will necessarily accept constitutionalism’.40 Meanwhile, Na’ini was more successful in justifying Constitutionalism based on Shari‘a rules.41 Tabataba’i calls the Constitutional Movement the end of the Iranian Middle Ages.42 Based on the discursive analysis, nothing was stable, and facing the hegemonic modern discourse, the Iranian identity was in flux. Stressing ‘constitutionalism based on Shari‘a’, Nuri was hanged because of his opposition to the Constitutional Movement, while it seems that his opponents, like Na’ini, tried to synthesise constitutional and religious teachings! During the Constitutional Movement, some modern concepts such as liberty entered into the Iranian discourse, but with some distortion since they could not articulate with other signifiers in the new discourse. It was the same story in the reform period between 1998–2006. According to Laclau and Fairclaugh, every event (such as the Constitutional Movement, here) should be understood with regard to the primacy of politics, power and language. Modernity may be recognised by a couple of characteristics such as humanism, rationalism, individualism and technology. The nodal point of liberalism, as the hegemonic discourse in the western modernity, is liberty. Facing liberal culture, Iranians in Western countries compare this modern culture with their homeland. First, they might try to synthesise the new culture with Iranian and Islamic culture. The result would be a harmonic synthesis or eclectic product. Then they might put one of the triple cultures, or some aspects of one of them, aside. It is argued here that most Iranians would somehow encounter crisis. The increasing number of migrants to Europe and the USA has increased the significance of the dilemma. ‘The deterioration of Iranian political thinking’, according to Tabataba’i, is rooted in a couple of tensions: between religion and culture, between Iranians and the dictator governors, between Iranians and non-Iranians (such as Afghans and Turks), between national culture and foreign cultures, between the political and the economic, and

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between Iranians and Iran. In the last case, he points out the issue of emigration.43 In fact, there has been some migration to Europe and the USA by Iranians who were studying overseas at the time of the Revolution of 1979. The community expanded predominantly in the early 1980s in the wake of the Iranian Revolution and the fall of the former regime. The Iranian-American community has produced a sizable number of individuals notable in many fields, including medicine, engineering and business. Migration and a brain drain to First World countries are due to the acquisition by Iranians of managerial careers, jobs in medicine and health, professional occupations, clerical jobs, jobs in communication, commercial jobs, university students and financial jobs.44 About $9.2 billion fled from Iran after the Islamic revolution. Iranian’s capital abroad is estimated at more than $800 billion, half of it in the USA, $40 billion in the UK and £42 billion in Germany. Between 5 to 6 million Iranians live overseas, 300 thousand enjoy higher education. 46 per cent of Iranians in America have educated higher than BA or BS. From every Olympiad Iranian student, 90 people live in the USA. The brain drain has lost between $8 to 11 billion. According to Moein, the education minister in Khatami’s time, 150,000–180,000 educated individuals emigrate to foreign countries every year.45 Statistical Overview of Iranian Foreigners shows: • The Iranian foreign born are a relatively new population whose migration to the USA was concentrated around the years of the Islamic Revolution (1978–9). • Between 1980 and 1990, the number of foreign born from Iran in the USA increased by 74 per cent. • The number of Iranians granted lawful permanent residence peaked in 1990. • From 1980 to 2004, more than one out of every four Iranian immigrants was a refugee. • There were about 280,000 Iranian born in the USA in 2000. • Immigrants from Iran accounted for less than 1 per cent of the total foreign-born population.

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Peak in 1990 (24,9777)

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19 7 19 0 72 19 74 19 76 19 7 19 8 80 19 82 19 8 19 4 86 19 8 19 8 90 19 92 19 9 19 4 9 19 6 98 20 0 20 0 0 20 2 04

0

Figure 1.

Iranian-Born Immigrants Admitted to the USA, 1970–200460

• Between 1990 and 2000, the number of Iranian foreign born increased over 34 per cent. • During 2005, about 5,314 immigrant visas were issued to Iranians. • In the last five years, the most commonly issued non-immigrant visas for Iranian nationals have been the student (F), temporary worker (H), and foreign government representative (G) visas. • Three in every five Iranian immigrants were naturalised US citizens. • Over 90 per cent of the Iranian foreign born spoke a language other than English at home. • The majority of the Iranian born had a bachelor’s degree or higher. • More than half of the Iranian immigrant population was employed in management, professional and related occupations. • In 2000, the median income for Iranian-born males and females who were full-time, year-round workers was $52,333 and $36,422, respectively.46 Iranian-Americans are also prominent in academia. According to a preliminary list compiled by ISG, there are more than 500 Iranian-

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Other 10%

J 12%

F 20%

G = foreign govt. rep. K = fiancé J = exchange visitor

K 18%

H 21% G 19%

Figure 2. Non-immigrant US Visas Issued to Iranian Nationals, 2000 to 200561

American professors teaching and doing research at top-ranked US universities. Iranians have achieved a high level of success in the USA because, unlike many immigrants, most left their homeland for social, political, or religious reasons, rather than in search of economic opportunity. The majority of Iranian refugees are upper-middle class and others are wealthy. They have comparatively liberal political opinions and westernized lifestyles due in part to American acculturation. IranianAmericans thus tend to be moderate in their practice of religion.47 Some practise Islam, however this may diminish in the second generation. Will their dual identities as Americans and Iranian Muslims be complementary or contradictory? Will they accept or reject the Islamist programme of changing the USA? More broadly, will they agree to adapt Islam to the USA? Few things are clear. It seems that Iranian identity’s components in the West will not be the same. While liberal culture as a crucial factor might flourish, the Iranian and the Islamic traditions might perish since the identity of Iranians in Western countries is a dependent variable to the Euro-American particularism, globalisation and universalisation. Hence Iranian identity in the West, especially for the second generation, might encounter some crisis. The

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new generation of Iranians abroad tend to speak English, as the international language, rather than their mother language. They might forget Farsi and Iranian culture during time due to globalisation and the explosion of information. Yet, it is not necessarily a general rule. I will mention the exceptions below.

Socialism and Political Islam Socialism, as one of the modern ideologies, travelled to Iran during the Constitutional Movement, though its weight was less than liberalism. Social-democrats considered themselves as the real advocates of Islam. When Akhundzadeh considers a ‘liberalist’ a person who is free from revelation and holy texts, he does not distinguish the sociopolitical meaning because he advocates socialism.48 As Ajudani puts it, the idea of political assassination entered Iranian culture during the Constitutional Movement.49 Leftist-Islamic thought peaked in the 1960s and 1970s. The most famous intellectual to transfer and articulate socialist elements in Iranian culture was Shari‘arti. He identified Abu Zar, the Prophet’s companion, as ‘the socialist theist’, Shi‘ism as ‘the fully-fledged party’, and Islamic philosophy and history as dialectic ones. Tabataba’i believes Shari‘ati along with Al-e Ahmad, as two prominent ideologists of sociology, weakened Iranian tradition.50 Political Islam in Iran cannot be identified except by recognising elements transferred from socialism as new moments. Conspiracy theory, as one of the notions mentioned above, has roots in the leftist ideologies which tried to form their identities in antagonism to capitalism and colonialism. Iranian nationalist intellectuals and lay people have developed an appetite for ‘conspiracy theories’ in understanding their history and particularly their collective traumas.51 According to Edward Said: ‘“imperialism” means the practices, the theory, and the attitudes of a dominating metropolitan centre ruling a distant territory; “colonialism” which is always a consequence of imperialism, the implanting of settlements on distant territory; as Michael Doyle puts it: “empire is a relationship, formal or informal, in which one state controls the effective political sovereignty of another political society. It can be achieved by force, by political collaboration, by

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economic, social, or cultural dependence. Imperialism is simply the process or policy of establishing or maintaining an empire.”’52 Political Islam in Iran has identified itself based on antagonism with Western colonialism and imperialism conspiracies. Antagonism with the West, especially with the USA, has its roots in a couple of events in Iranian history. First, during World War II, Iran was a vital oil-supply source and link in the Allied supply line for lend-lease supplies to the Soviet Union. Reza Shah’s tacit pro-German sympathies led to British and Indian forces from Iraq and Soviet forces from the north occupying Iran in August 1941. Secondly, in 1951 Prime Minister Mohammed Mosaddeq received the vote required from the parliament to nationalise the British-owned oil industry. Despite British pressure, including an economic blockade, the nationalisation continued. A military coup headed by Shah’s former Minister of the Interior and retired army general Zahedi, with the active support of the intelligence services of the British (MI6) and the USA (CIA) overthrew the new government. Thirdly, after the victory of the Islamic revolution, Western influences were banned, and Iran’s relations with the USA became deeply antagonistic during the Revolution. On 4 November 1979, Iranian students seized US embassy personnel, labelling the embassy a ‘den of spies’. Finally, antagonism with the West developed in the Iraq–Iran war. Tens of thousands of Iranian civilians and military personnel were killed when Iraq used chemical weapons in its warfare during the eight-year war. Fortman holds that: ‘generally, identity politics is informed by collective memories of injustice or shared experiences of prosecution or fear of those groups that they perceive as a challenge to a way of life, heritage and set of values and beliefs unique to them. Religious identity is also boosted by similar fears, although originally it draws its edifice from the practiced and non-practiced values of a community of believers.’53 Islamism and Muslim extremism might be considered as a reaction to the colonialist attitudes.

Conclusion Based on non-essentialism, Iranian identity with its complex components (Iranian/Islamic/liberal/socialist) has been shaped by antagonism

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with the other. Since the exteriority determines the identity, it is contingent, decentred and in change. Iranian identity should be understood with regard to ancient Iranian culture dating back 2,500 years, Islamic culture and its relationship with the former, modern-facing civilisation including liberalism and socialism, political Islam (and the Islamic revolution) and the socialist influence on it, and antagonism with the West. Similarly, Shaygan considers Iranian identity as a split and juxtaposed one.54 According to Tabataba’i, because Iranians engage the ‘deterioration of political thinking’, they have lost their ability to present new questions.55 Unlike the structuralist approaches to determinism, Laclau and Mouffe place great importance on the concepts of subjectivity and agency in developing their conception of discourse. They emphasise the way in which social actors acquire and live out their identities, and stress the role of agency in challenging and transforming social structures. Their perspective on the question of structure and agency has resolutely attempted to find a middle path between the two critical positions.56 Since Iranian identity in the West consists of four diverse elements, it faces not only opportunity, but threat. If the components are harmonised, Iranians might put all the positive aspects of different cultures together, because tradition, comprising religion, and modernity seem compatible. They need to rethink their tradition critically, recognise modernity with its positive and negative aspects, adapt it to their tradition and condition, and synthesise opposite issues. Otherwise, if they try to choose the components arbitrarily or hastily, the result might be eclecticism and identity crisis. In this case, Iranians in Western countries may need to develop a coordinated approach to tradition and modern civilisation. The difference between Iranians and westerners is that the latter experienced modernity along with its foundations unconsciously, while Iranians want to practise it intentionally without its foundations. Laclau and Mouffe hold that ‘the logic of hegemony, as a logic of articulation and contingency, has come to determine the very identity of the hegemonic subjects. Unfixity has become the condition of every social identity. There is no logical and necessary relation between socialist objectives and the positions of social agents in the relations of production; and that the articulation between them is external and does not

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proceed from any natural movement of each to unite with the other. In other words, their articulation must be regarded as a hegemonic relation.’57 Iranians in the West should be aware of their Iranian identity, Islamic culture and modernity. Not all history before Islam was an era of darkness and thus should be discarded, nor was Islam a foreign, Arabic, imposed faith.58 The question of Iranian identity in Western countries, especially of the second generation, has to be problematised in accordance with the axioms and imperatives of the age of modernity on the one hand and with Islam and political Islam on the other. Iranian secular intellectuals insist on nationhood and modernity, while Islamists stress Islamic notions. ‘If Iranian intellectuals in general, and scholars of Iranian studies in particular, are to seek the correct answers to the question of national identity, they must not imprison themselves in the torturous labyrinth of arcane problematics, antediluvian ideas, ruminations of the past, mnemonic conjecturing, and esoteric altercations. They need to realise that aversion to new theoretical approaches, fetishisation of the past, pompous bravado about ancestors, conspiratorial and chiliastic views of history, and cult of patriotism are futile strategies.’59 Political Islam has divided Iranians overseas and at home into two groups: radicals who believe in Islamic government based on Shari‘a, and the masses who live with cultural Islam. Feeling nostalgia, like other Muslims, some Iranians might tend to Iranian traditions or extremist groups. While Iranian/Islamic components (of Iranian identity in the West) vs. the liberal one might be weakened in future, Islamism and fundamentalism may possibly be strengthened in some exceptional cases.

Notes 1. Robert Audi, The Cambridge Dictionary of Philosophy (Cambridge: University Press, 1999), p. 415. 2. SI has two schools of thought: the Iowa School and the Chicago School. SI researchers in the Chicago School argue that social reality is emergent and is constructed from personal, ‘situated’ interaction, i.e. from the process of impression management. To observe identity scientifically, the Chicago school opts for ethnomethodology and qualitative observation techniques.

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3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

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Iowa School researchers attempt to show that personal and social identities are representations of, or are otherwise connected to, social structures, and tend to use quantitative surveys. For example, McCall and Simmons make use of the notion of role-identity, and Sheldon Stryker’s theory of structural interactionism explains identity in terms of interaction density and interaction opportunities. Of particular concern to sociologists who subscribe to the theories of Émile Durkheim is the question of how social phenomena such as mass anomie relate to the identity-formation strategies. MKO is the abbreviation of the Mujaheddin-e-Khalq Organization. For a comparison between political Islam and cultural Islam, see: Bassam Tibi, Islam between Culture and Politics, (Palgrave Macmillan, 2001). Mortaza Motahhari, Khadamat Motaqabel Iran va Islam (Cooperation between Iran and Islam), (Qum: Daftar Entesharat Eslami, 1983). Aramesh Doustar, Derakhshesh-ha-ye Tireh (‘Dark Brightness’) (Paris, Khavaran, 1998). S. Sadegh Haghighat, ‘Iranian Identity: a Discursive Analysis’ (in Persian), 3rd International Conference on Human Rights, Mofid University, 2005. See: Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983). Mehrzad Boroujerdi, ‘Contesting Nationalist Constructions of Iranian Identity’, Critique: Journal for Critical Studies of the Middle East, no. 12 (Spring 1998); reprinted in Persian in Kiyan, no. 47 (June-July 1999), pp. 44–52. Mangol Bayat-Philipp, ‘A Phoenix Too Frequent: The Concept of Historical Continuity in Modern Iranian Thought’, Asian and African Studies, no. 12 (1978), p. 203. David Marsh (and Jerry Stocker), Theory and Methods in Political Science, 2nd Edition, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002). M. Jorgensen (and L. Phillips), Discourse Analysis as Theory and Method, (London, Sage Publications, 2002). David Howarth, Discourse, (Open University Press, 2000), pp. 105, 109, 113. Ernesto Laclau (and Chantal Moufee), Hegemony and Social Strategy: Towards a Radical Democratic Politics, p. 105. Jorgensen (and Phillips), ibid., pp. 26–8. Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language (New York: Pantheon Books, 1972), p. 216. Edward Said, Orientalism (New York, Vintage, 1979), pp. 5, 235–7. Howarth, ibid., p. 22. Laclau, ibid., p. 51. Howarth, ibid., p. 103. Jorgensen (and Phillips), op. cit., pp. 41–3.

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22. Laclau, op. cit., pp 52–3. 23. Boroujerdi, op.cit. 24. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Philosophy of History (trans.) J. Sibree, (Buffalo, 1991), p. 173. 25. Richard Nelson Frye, The Heritage of Persia (London, Weisenfeld and Nicholson, 1962), p. 243. 26. For instance, Yarshater has written the most eloquent statement of this view: ‘a more promising defense against the sense of anonymity that accompanies a submerged identity is a restorative and sustaining element that Persia has cherished and preserved against all odds: the shared experience of a rich and rewarding past. It finds its expression primarily through the Persian language, not simply as a medium of comprehension but also as the chief carrier of the Persian world view and Persian culture. The Persian language is a reservoir of Iranian thought, sentiment, and values, and a repository of its literary arts. It is only by loving, learning, teaching, and above all enriching this language that the Persian identity may continue to survive’: Ehsan Yarshater, ‘Persian Identity in Historical Perspective’, Iranian Studies, vol. 26, nos. 1–2 (1993): pp. 141–2. 27. See the following two works of Zabih Behruz, Zaban-e Iran, Farsi ya Arabi? (Tehran, Mihr, 1313 [1934–5]); and Khat va Farhang, second edition (Tehran, Furuhar, 1363 [1984–5]). 28. Shahrokh Maskub, Iranian Nationality and the Persian Language, translated by Michael C. Hillmann (Washington, DC, Mage Publishers, 1992), pp. 13, 31. 29. Boroujerdi, op. cit. 30. Seymour M. Hersh, ‘The Iran Plan’, The New Yorker (April 2006). 31. Nayereh Tohidi, ‘Iran: regionalism, ethnicity and democracy’, http://www. opendemocracy.net/democracy-irandemocracy/regionalism_3695.jsp. 32. Doustar, op. cit., p. 43. 33. Mirza Fath ‘Ali Akhundzadeh, Seh Maktoub (in Persian) (Paris, 1987), p. 32. 34. Maskub, op. cit. 35. .http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islamization_in_Iran 36. Frye, op. cit., p. 243. 37. Motahhari, op. cit, pp. 12–23. 38. Said Hajjarian, ‘The Intellectual Currents in contemporary Iran’, Nameh Pazhuhesh, no 7 (winter 1998), pp. 23–40. 39. Shaul Bakhash, Iran: Monarchy, Bureaucracy & Reform Under Qajars: 1896 (London, Ithaca Press, 1978), p. 19. 40. Javad Tabataba’i, Constitutionalism in Iran (in Persian) (Tehran, Sotudeh, 2008), pp. 11, 373.

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41. Mashallah Ajudani, Iranian Constitutional Movement (in Persian) (Tehran, Akhtaran, 2003), pp. 198–9. 42. Tabataba’i, op. cit. p 527. 43. Javad Tabataba’i, Dibachee bar nazaree enhetat dar Iran (‘An Introduction to the Deterioration Theory in Iran’), (Tehran, Negah-e Mo’asser,) 2001. 44. See Mahdiyeh Entezaekheir, ‘Why is Iran Experiencing Migration and Brain Drain to Canada?’, University of Waterloo, 2005. 45. Mostafa Moein, http://cdhriran.blogspot.com/2005_09_01_archive.html. 46. Ibid, and Shirin Hakimzadeh (and David Dixon), ‘Spotlight on the Iranian Foreign Born’, Migration Policy Institute, 2006. 47. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iranian-American 48. Tabataba’i, op. cit., p. 102. 49. Ajudani, op. cit., pp. 424, 431. 50. Javad Tabataba’i, ‘My Project’, Iran Daily, (7–9/7/1382). 51. For an analysis of conspiracy theories in Iran, see Ahmad Ashraf, ‘Conspiracy Theories’ in Encyclopedia Iranica, edited by Ehsan Yarshater, vol. VI, fascicle 2, Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 1992, pp 138–147. 52. Said, op. cit. 53. Bas de Gaay Fortman, ‘Islam and the West: the Sacred Realm, Domain of New Threats and Challenges’, The 56th Pugwash Conference on Science and World Affairs, Egypt, 11–15 November 2006. 54. Daryush Shaygan, Afsunzadegi Jadid (Ex Occidente Lux), Trans: F. Valiani (Tehran, Farzan, 2001). 55. Javad Tabatabaee, Zaval Andisheh Siasi dar Iran (‘The Deterioration of Political Thought in Iran’), (Tehran, Kavir, 1994). 56. Howarth, op. cit., pp. 108, 121. 57. Laclau, op. cit., pp. 87–8. 58. Paolo Bassi, ‘The Iranian Identity Crisis: Islam v. Iranian Identity’, March 2006: http://www.marzeporgohar.org/index.p . . . cat=&artid=869. 59. Boroujerdi, op. cit. 60. Source: US Department of Homeland Security, Office of Immigration Statistics, Yearbook of Immigration Statistics, 1970–2004. 61. Source: US Department of State, Report of the Visa Office, 2000–2005.

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CHAPTER FOUR ‘EUROPEAN ISL A M’ IN THE IR ANIAN ETTEHADIYEH Matthijs van den Bos

Underlying many studies of Islam in Europe is the question whether it evolves into particular European forms. The matter of ‘European Islam’ has priority for Shi‘ite studies, because of the global resurgence of Shi‘ism since the Iraq war and its almost total neglect in research on Islam in Europe. Which Shi‘ism in Europe, however? Considering organisational life, Shi‘ism appears ethnically fragmented in Europe. A survey of Dutch and British Shi‘ite organisations conducted in 2007 and 2008 indicated about a dozen ethnic profiles, while multiethnic boards accounted for less than a quarter.1 But ethnic plurality is offset by four core identities contained within two oppositions regarding religious authority and political ideology. These positions include adherence to or rejection of supreme, this-worldly religious authority on the one hand, and adherence to or rejection of politicised readings of the religion on the other. Only few organisations reject the marja‘iyya, but a considerable number favour varieties of political Shi‘ism, particularly the Khomeinist tradition.2 This article examines an Iranian representative of overall pro-velāyat-e faqīh and thus pro-marja‘iyya Shi‘ism in Europe: the Union of Islamic Students Associations (In Europe) or Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye

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daneshjuyan dar Orupa (which from here onwards shall be referred to as Union of Islamic Students Associations (UISA) or Ettehadiyeh). The first section sketches the views of several Iranian religious dignitaries on, and institutional practices of, Shi‘ism in Europe to specify the question of European Shi‘ism; the second scratches the surface of Ettehadiyeh history, based particularly on three interviews with UISA members, internal documents kindly put at my disposal, and recent commemorative publications on the Union;3 and the third reconsiders these materials in light of ‘European Islam’.

1 The clerical mainstream notion of Shi‘ism that conceives of it as a ‘hierocracy’ indicates directionality along the vertical axis of authority, top-down, but also implies it horizontally, in geographical space. For European migrants and post-migrants, and given the concentration of Shi‘ite sees in Iraq and Iran, the religious authority that emanates from marāje‘ (sources of emulation) and towards moqalledīn (followers of the marāje‘) implies East–West transfer as well. In his last testament of 3 mehr 1385/25 September 2006, the prominent Iranian Grand Ayatollah Fazel-Lankerani (1931–2007) stated his wish for a Shi‘ite centre in London, calling London ‘the gate of the world and the second home of all countries’.4 A follower of the Grand Ayatollah who had visited him in a London hospital during his last days and with whom he had discussed the centre, explained it to me thus: [W]hen he passed away he insisted to have a kind of an institution in London [ . . . ] Great Ayatollah Fazel personally explained to me why London is the place to have this kind of institution and the reason was that [ . . . ] London is the place [where] different religions are [ . . . ] face to [face with] each other, so if [Shi‘ism] has a good safe place here, then we can promote his thought and we can grasp [ . . . ] the needs of human beings in the current century [;] he was thinking very deliberately [about] the future, maybe a hundred years later [:] how can we [bring] people, in

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terms of religion, closer to each other. I told [him:] I am at your service to do everything to promote your idea [ . . . ].5 For all his apparent cosmopolitanism, the Ayatollah was not a liberal. He kept the hardline Jomhuri-ye Islami newspaper as his favourite media outlet, in his first will of June 2005 reconfirmed Khomeini’s fatwa against Salman Rushdie,6 in a fatwa of August 2006 rejected Sufis and Sufism,7 and in November 2006 called for the killing of an Azeri writer and his publisher who were accused of insulting Islam.8 These facts contextualise the quotation above and underline that the Ayatollah’s idea was inspired not from ecumenical concerns but rather to ‘promote his thought’. While the reported aim to bring ‘people, in terms of religion, closer to each other’ may suggest an interest in cross-fertilisation, his last testament makes explicit that he regarded the Western centre as a unique opportunity for conversion: ‘I would like an institution to be established in London [ . . . ], for the propagation of the school of the Ahl-e Beyt, peace be upon them, and the dissemination of Twelver Shiite learning’.9 One has an authoritative Iranian Shi‘ite view here, in other words, conceiving of religious relocation as transmission, top-down and East– West. Such was also the view of Hojjatolislam ‘Abdolhoseyn Mo‘ezi, the Representative (nemāyandeh) of Ayatollah Khameneh’i in Britain who directs the Islamic Centre of England (Markaz-e islami-ye Englis – ICEL). In an interview, Mo‘ezi rejected the suggestion that Shi‘ites’ Western presence might change the identity of Shi‘ism. He contested the notion of geography as a determinant of religiosity by stating that there were discotheques in Lebanon too, and that questions on their legitimacy were posed there as well. Shi‘ite identity (hovviyat) was contained in the universal tenets of the faith.10 Looking at actual processes of religious relocation, however, even where top-down and East–West as in the case of ICEL, may reveal transformations of religion rather than straightforward replications. ICEL has existed since December 1995,11 was registered as a charity in 1996 and opened its doors in 1998. It was founded in light of ‘the needs of the Muslim communities in the West, [and] under the

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instructions of [ . . . ] Khameneh’i’.12 The Western particularity of ICEL and Mo‘ezi’s representation has it roots in the fact that Khameneh’i’s marja‘iyyat since late 1994 is explicitly a trans-Iranian institution as officially, and uniquely, its jurisdiction is ‘Shi‘ites abroad’ (relative to Iran).13 On 23–4 June 2007, ICEL organised a conference on ‘Proximity among Islamic Schools of Thought’ that hosted a range of Islamist speakers from both Sunni and Shi‘ite backgrounds. Khameneh’i had designated 2007–8 (21 March to 20 March) the Year of Islamic Cohesion,14 and while ICEL organised it, the conference’s real owner was the Majma‘ al-taqrīb.15 The ecumenical, intra-faith Majma‘ builds on Khomeini’s revolutionary ideology of Islamic unity (vadat-e islāmī). It was founded by Khameneh’i in 1990, is guided by him16 and probably financed in part through his khoms.17 Just as Khameneh’i’s marja‘iyyat applies to ‘foreign Shi‘ites’, so the Majma‘ stands in tension to the traditionalist sectarian agenda within Iran and is regarded as an instrument of Iranian ‘foreign policy’.18 ICEL, among its other functions, may be seen as a Western-European extension of both, particular to Iran’s ‘Shi‘ism abroad’. Similar questions complicating the notion of ‘European Islam’ may be posed for the Ettehadiyeh, another organisation tied to the Iranian state: does it represent a European identity, and if so, how does it relate to the nature of authority flow? If, in other words, forms of Islam are evident in the organisation that are particular to its European environment, do they also signify autochthonous European developments?

2 The Ettehadiyeh is a federate organisation with sub-branches on national levels (indicated by ‘region’ – maneqeh, as in ISA-UK) and sub-sub-branches on local levels (with city designation, as in ISALondon). The organisation’s former president, Sa‘id Razavi-Faqih, related in 2006 that the UISA had 55 member organisations throughout Western, Central and Eastern Europe, among which 21 are in Britain, 11 in France, 13 in Belgium and Germany, 1 in Austria and a remainder (i.e., 9) in Ukraine, Russia and Belarus.19 Another source

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mentions 14 French associations present during the national gathering of 2006 (from Paris, Strasbourg, Bordeaux, Nantes, Lyon, Amiens, Aix-en-Provence, Montpellier, Grenoble, Toulouse, Limoges, Metz, Nancy, and Cannes).20 A London leader mentioned that the Ettehadiyeh claimed 4,000 members but stated that active members rather amounted to about 400.21 The UISA membership contrasts with that of student currents within Iran, Razavi-Faqih felt, in that its members often included older students close to achieving their doctorates. The German branch of the UISA in particular had been active before the revolution, whereas an active stance was nowadays specifically evident with the French and British organisations.22 The Islamic student societies were a part of the revolutionary student movement in Europe and the USA that conspired in toppling the Shah’s regime. In 1962, the Confederation of Iranian Students, National Union or World Federation was established, which included Islamist activists such as Abo’l-Hasan Bani-Sadr, Sadeq Qotbzadeh and Mostafa Chamran23 (the latter two of whom were also founding members of the Freedom Movement (Nehzat-e Azadi) – Abroad). All three would play important roles in the Revolution and the Islamic Republic, but they represented a minority in the World Federation.24 The perceived failure of the World Federation to respond adequately to the June 1963 uprising in Iran (‘pānzdah-e khordād’), which had been prompted by Khomeini’s arrest, subsequently led most [activist] Muslims to leave the organisation in 1964.25 In that year, Chamran and another Freedom Movement leader and organiser of Iranian Islamic students abroad – Ibrahim Yazdi – founded the Islamic Students Association[s] [of America and Canada]. The organisation was joined with the multiethnic Muslim Students’ Association of the United States and Canada as its ‘Persian-speaking group’.26 The US organisation had its European equivalent in the UISA, which was founded in 196627 in Germany and developed into ‘the loudest voice of the Islamic movement of Iran abroad’.28 Just as in the USA, there had been a like-named but broader-based organisation of Muslim students in Germany, abbreviated UMSO, for United Muslim Students Organization in Europe. UMSO was founded in

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1340/1961–62,29 incorporated different nationalities (Turks, Arabs, Indonesians, Malaysians, Afghans and Iranians) and did not adopt the political line held by its Iranian students. These students went on to establish the Ettehadiyeh, as an Iranian Islamic organisation with a political profile, then named UMSO-PG, for ‘Persian Group’30 (their Persian name mentioning ‘Persian-speaking’ – fārsī-zabān). Founders of the Ettehadiyeh31 such as Mostafa Haqiqi had already been politically active while in the UMSO – which in fact he had cofounded as well.32 Before moving to Germany, Haqiqi and co-founder of the Ettehadiyeh Asadollah Khaledi had participated in the sessions of Sheikh Halabi,33 the founder of the ultraconservative Anti-Baha’i (later Hojjatiyeh) Society in Iran. (An Islamic Students Association had similarly emerged in Tehran in the 1940s to counter Baha’i and communist Tudeh party activities at the University).34 In Germany, their political activism emerged, for instance, during a hunger strike in front of a courtroom in Hanover that lasted for six days, in protest over Khomeini’s exile to Turkey in 1964.35 (In 1964–5, the World Federation too, called for Khomeini’s return to Iran from his Iraqi exile.36) This event has been identified as the first political action of Iranian students within UMSO.37 It does not appear from accounts of UMSO-PG, that the US student organisers or other ex-Confederation Islamists were actively involved in its establishment or later on dominated it. At its second gathering in 1966, Yazdi was elected as ‘publications advisor’ (moshāver-e enteshārāt) for his help in publishing the Ettehadiyeh journal Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez.38 Qotbzadeh was seen as useful by the UISA because of his political experience, but neither he nor Chamran or Bani-Sadr had ‘organic’ ties to it.39 Qotbzadeh and another dignitary-to-be of the Islamic Republic, Hasan Habibi, were briefly appointed as ‘political advisors’ in 1969 but remained nonmembers.40 Thereafter, Chamran at times lectured UISA members on events in Lebanon and the Shi‘ite AMAL movement, which he had co-founded and was headed by the influential Lebanese Shi‘ite cleric of Iranian descent Musa al-Sadr. The Ettehadiyeh had ‘good contact’ with Sadr through Sadeq Tabataba’i, his first cousin and their liaison with Khomeini.41 Tabataba’i

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had been a student activist in Germany since 1340/1961–2 – before UMSO-PG was founded – and his mediation was facilitated, one speculates, not only through descent from a highly respected religious family but also the marriage of Khomeini’s son Ahmad to his sister Fatemeh in 1969.42 The UISA’s relation with Khomeini, in other words, was ‘indigenous’. It does emerge from accounts of UMSO-PG’s establishment, that the organisation was a grassroots initiative by pious and revolutionary Iranian students abroad such as Haqiqi,43 but organic ties were forged from the outset with important institutions of and personalities in the politicised clergy, among whom Ayatollah Beheshti in particular.44 Beheshti directed the Islamic Centre of Hamburg in the period 1965– 70 and his close relation with the UISA was apparent, for instance, in that all articles in Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez required his confirmation.45 Beheshti was succeeded by Mohammad Mojtahed-Shabestari, who had published in Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez, and directed the Hamburg Centre from 1970 to 1978. During the fifth UISA congress in Germany in 1968, the Ettehadiyeh appointed Beheshti as their ‘ideological advisor’ (moshāver-e ide’olozhīk). Since then, the latter guided their ‘ideological seminars’,46 in which Mojtahed-Shabestari, too, would teach the Ettehadiyeh Islām-shenāsī.47 Beheshti was sometimes perceived as overcautious in Hamburg, ‘concentrating on purely religious issues’, and he is alleged to have disallowed ‘written criticism of the Shah to appear in a newspaper published by the Islamic student associations’.48 His words make clear, however, that Beheshti, also known to have been a wily operator, geared the Ettehadiyeh towards his vision of world Islamic order from the outset. Steps towards that goal were mentioned in a written communication to the Ettehadiyeh of September 1966. These included the assembly of all Muslim youth in a large Islamic organisation, and creating links and indestructible solidarity between all of the world’s Muslims.49 In Beheshti’s speech (in Arabic) to their fifth congress on 31 December 1966, he indicated that the concept of nationality, in the sense of international law or that enshrined in the political or civil rights of nations, existed in Islam, too, but, for the large nation (ommat) of Islam. ‘The

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book of God and the traditions of the prophet of God make abundantly clear that Islam is the only axis for all political and civil rights, whether in the realm of foreign or domestic politics’.50 The stress on sectarian divisions was another cause of Muslims’ current, global disunity, according to Beheshti51 – and his downplaying of Shi‘ite sectarian identity led some in Iran to accuse Beheshti himself of actually being a Sunni Muslim.52 The duty for Muslims, generally, was to be involved with the lives of other Muslims and this meant ultimately that ‘all Muslims in the world must have a common Islamic government, or something like that, such as a real federation [ . . . ]’.53 The members of the Ettehadiyeh, in Beheshti’s view, ought not to conceive of themselves as initiators and leaders of such a movement, but as essential contributors to it, who later in life would be able to assume leadership positions54 – a scenario which materialised over a decade later. The Ettehadiyeh published Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez from September 1966 and its global vision was apparent from the first issue in a revolutionary anti-imperialist stance: ‘Dear student, [ . . . .] we hope for your cooperation [ . . . ] and that of all the noble people who strive to establish a better world [ . . . ] and have no fear in sacrificing their life and good to overturn the instruments of despotism and colonialism, and Yazid-like governments’.55 Another Ettehadiyeh publication since 1970, Majmu‘eh-ye Karameh, was dedicated to the Palestinian struggle and contained news concerning Islamic countries – the first issue published anonymously in fear of reprisals.56 Furthermore, the global vision of the Ettehadiyeh extended to the West: ‘[o]ur newborn [Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez] will be developing and we hope to contribute in deeds to the wish of Bernard Shaw, the famous late English writer, who writes [ . . . ] ››This I forecast, and already now its signs have become apparent, that the faith of Muhammad will be embraced by the Europe of tomorrow‹‹’.57 The latter passage resonates with Beheshti’s September 1966 letter to the UISA, which said: ‘[h]ow good it is that faithful and active youth are able [ . . . ] to be a herald for this religion in Europe, particularly among the younger and educated class’.58 The West proper, however, did not dominate Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez. When the here-and-now was involved, it related closely to

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Union matters, as in the publication in number 7 of the reply it received from German police, who had withheld permission for a protest demonstration against setting fire to the al-Aqsa Mosque in 1969.59 Besides indifference to the West, and its earmarking for an Islamic future, the Ettehadiyeh was also characterised from an early stage by anti-Western ideology. Beheshti told the Islamic students: ‘the things which Western technique now uses as means of study are not another instance of Weststruckness [gharbzādegī]: their usage is rational and use must be made of them [ . . . ] Science and knowledge do not know East or West, Muslim or non-Muslim’.60 But he also indicated that it was the duty of the Ettehadiyeh to preserve the ‘Islamic authenticity’ (esālat-e islāmī) of Muslim students in Europe, and to protect them in the face of the ‘plague’ (āfat) of ‘Weststruckness’, weakness and carelessness of faith, hedonism, and egotism.61 This meant among other things that knowledge of Arabic should be stimulated among the members, for Muslims from different countries to be able to understand one another62 – English did not enter into this consideration. The third issue of Maktab-e Mobarez from 1967 contained an article by Mohammad Mojtahed-Shabestari – who is nowadays in the centre of the religious reform movement in Iran – which similarly presented ‘Weststruckness’ as a ‘plague’,63 as had other Iranian intellectuals before him. Khomeini addressed the Union in 1971 by stating – the context is unclear – that ‘hopefully, God willing, the stain of shame that the propaganda of the Church has brought on throughout time, will be rubbed off the forehead of the Weststruck [gharbzādehhā]’.64 The previous year, his message stated that: ‘you, the young generation are obliged to wake the Weststruck from [their] sleep’.65 The Ettehadiyeh was guided in practice by Beheshti, but their overall orientation was towards Khomeini. They sent Khomeini messages and Haqiqi, after his hunger strike, in 1964 or 1965 travelled to Turkey in a vain attempt to meet with him. After Khomeini was asked to leave Turkey and settled in Najaf from October 1965, the American and European UISAs established direct links with him.66 The Manifesto (qat‘-nāmeh) of UMSO-PG’s fourth congress in Trier, Germany in 1968 hails Khomeini as ‘leader of the world’s Shi‘ites’ (pishvā-ye shī ‘ayān-e jahān).67

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Khomeini is believed to have responded in writing for the first time in 1970 to a letter by the Ettehadiyeh. This message is claimed by a UISA documentalist to also constitute the first letter that Khomeini wrote to an organisation.68 Khomeini told the UISA that: ‘I am now spending the last days of my life and I hope that God almighty will grant you, the educated class, success so that you may strive in the way of the Islamic aims, one of which is cutting off the hands of the oppressor and uprooting colonialism’.69 In 1970, the situation had become such that ‘[f]or an Ettehadiyeh which had accepted [Khomeini’s] leadership (rahbarī) and marja‘iyat in its manifestos and positions, the integral multiplication and distribution of his words, whether political or otherwise, [and] without questioning, was a natural issue’.70 The UISA’s first session in early 1966 had brought together student societies from Würtzburg, Braunschweig, Giessen, Berlin, and Hanover. The associate societies soon increased in number and the UISA expanded quickly beyond Germany. Besides German and Austrian branches, there were Islamic societies from Paris, Brussels and London during the sixth congress in 1970. The seventh congress in 1971 was also attended by the British Muslim Youth Association, ‘many of [whose] forces [ . . . ] became members of the Ettehadiyeh after the foundation of the London anjoman-e islami’71 – it remains unclear whether this refers to the aforementioned society. A reference in UISA proceedings to Muslim students in Britain conveys the impression of active and effective organisers. During the fifth congress of 1969, a representative of the Islamic Society of London related to the Ettehadiyeh that ‘the England unit’ had collected £40,000 to aid the victims of an earthquake in Khorasan, which had been put at the disposal of Ayatollah Milani in Mashhad.72 However, the present-day Islamic Society of London traces its history to a later date. The organisation’s online ‘brief history’ (tārīkhcheh) mentions that Muslim students in London started organising in private homes from 1973 and that these activities later evolved into the Islamic Students Society in London (Anjoman-e islami-ye daneshjuyan Landan).73 The Society is currently the most important local associate of the Ettehadiyeh, for reasons to be indicated below. The Islamic students

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met in a new place, an emāmbāreh in West London, from 1976.74 In 1977, the former organiser of Islamic students in Paris ‘Ali Shari‘ati, who had published in Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez and been in contact with Haqiqi,75 ‘joined [this] group of Iranian Muslim students’. They held their meetings in the ‘building [ . . . ] where Shari‘ati’s funeral service [would also be] held’.76 A current Islamic society student reflected that Shari‘ati’s ‘corpse was washed there [ . . . ], and the funeral started from there. He was very, very important at Kanoon Towhid, and still is’.77 Kanoon Towhid was also the place ‘where [Ayatollah] Motahhari spoke when he came to London’. Erstwhile Islamist revolutionary and current icon of the reform movement, ‘Abdolkarim Sorush, who was ‘close to both men’, was ‘a regular speaker there’ too.78 After Khomeini’s entry into Paris in October 1978, the Ettehadiyeh started publicity campaigns in over 25 European cities to expose the Shah’s regime through lectures and photo and film exhibitions about events in Iran, among which ‘Black Friday’79 – the killing of dozens of anti-regime demonstrators on Tehran’s Jaleh (Zhāleh) Square on 8 September 1978. Reportedly, many of its members returned to Iran when the revolution unfolded and several who were incarcerated as political prisoners were freed.80 One prominent affiliate, Tabataba’i, accompanied Khomeini on his return to Iran on 1 February 1979 and was appointed as spokesman of the provisional government.81 After the revolution, many ‘former members [of the European and American Ettehadiyehs] rose to positions of prominence in the Islamic Republic’.82 After the revolution, contrasting both its initial and its presentday low-profile European presence, the Ettehadiyeh emerged into the public eye because of its involvement in a series of events that were often covered by world press. For instance, the UISA was involved in organising the yearly Qods Day demonstrations in European capitals,83 Berlin and London in particular, which had been called by Khomeini in August 1979 to protest Israel’s suzerainty over Jerusalem. The Ettehadiyeh also played a role in events surrounding the seizure of the Iranian embassy in London by Ahvazi separatists in April 1980. Three of its members, ‘the martyrs of Kanoon-e Towhid London’, had attempted to liberate the embassy personnel and were killed as a result

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of their intervention.84 In 1989, the UISA issued a statement which declared that all should and would be done to implement Khomeini’s fatwa against Salman Rushdie,85 which led to the deportation of Ettehadiyeh members from Britain.86 Furthermore, one of the UISA leaders in Germany was involved as an organiser in the Mykonos affair in Berlin in 1992 in which four Kurdish opposition politicians were murdered. Before that, it appeared from the trial, he had been engaged in surveillance of and violence against opponents of the Islamic Republic in Germany.87 In the context of the Mykonos events, a German official testified to cooperation between the UISA and Lebanese Hezbollah in Europe.88 The Ettehadiyeh has not disowned the Mykonos episode, it appeared after the release of Kazem Darabi Kazeruni from a German prison in December 2007. On 12 January 2008 (22 Dey 1386), the UISA issued a statement of its plans for the next year, which included honouring the ‘years of misery’ of the ‘former member of the Ettehadiyeh and the German Chapter,’ the ‘old friend of the Union’ and ‘dear brother [. . .] Darabi’.89 Before the revolution, the UISA functioned as vanguard of the Iranian Islamist movement, but afterwards it related to the Islamic Republic as a Western extension. The Islamic Republic affects the Ettehadiyeh most visibly through a ‘Representative’ (nemāyandeh). During Khomeini’s lifetime, Ayatollah Mohi’eddin Fazel-Harandi was appointed by Khomeini’s deputy, Ayatollah Hoseyn ‘Ali Montazeri, as ‘Representative for Affairs of Iranian Students Abroad’,90 and as Representative in the UISA.91 The UISA in turn has a ‘Representative of the Union in Tehran’ – Hamzeh Nurmohammadi since October 2008, previously Dr Seyyed Sa‘id Fazel.92 After Khomeini’s demise, and immediately after his assumption of office, Supreme Leader Khameneh’i appointed a new Representative, Beheshti’s son-inlaw93 Hojjatolislam Dr Javad Ezheh’i. Ezheh’i retains that position, of Representative of the Leader in the Union (nemāyandeh-ye maqam-e rahbarī dar ettehādiyeh), to the present day. Besides representation in the Ettehadiyeh, the Islamic Republic exerts control over its funds and assets. The Islamic students in Britain gather in religious centres, many of which are called ‘Kanoon Towhid’

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(in Cardiff, Liverpool, and London), after their namesake in Tehran on Towhid Square, originally headed by Ayatollah Musavi-Ardabili (presently a marja‘ in Qum). There are additional centres in Glasgow, Manchester and Newcastle. The buildings of the centres are owned by the Iranian state.94 The Iranian government bought London’s Kanoon Towhid, which has been the Ettehadiyeh’s main centre, in 1984. It established Towhid Universal Charity Foundation in 1993, to take charge of the maintenance of all Kanoons worldwide.95 The Ettehadiyeh endorsed financial independence before the Revolution96 and debates ensued afterwards as to whether it should be maintained. Former UISA president Razavi-Faqih stated in 2006 that while the UISA had not received monies from other foreign countries, a substantial part of UISA income is currently derived from Iran’s state budget. He found this situation, which had grown gradually after the revolution, undesirable.97 Another reformist claimed that the UISA’s independence was inversely affected also by Iran’s state’s funding of individual student members: [S]tudent autonomy is not there [ . . . ] I’m telling you one of the main reasons that [the] Ettehadiyeh never can be [ . . . ] an independent organization, [is] because most of the students [who] come out of Iran to do their [mostly postgraduate] studies are actually financially supported by the government [ . . . .] They take their scholarships from [the] government. [I]deologically, whether they want it or not, they have to follow [ . . . ] certain rules. They can’t be a follower of Khatami very, for example, straightforwardly [ . . . .] They are not allowed to do that [ . . . .] I have a friend that was very active in Kanoon Towhid, and he was [on] the Reformist side [N]ow he is having troubles with finding jobs [in Iran]. They don’t give him jobs [ . . . .] Because once he was here, he was Reformist [ . . . .] [T]hey clearly said to him that, “This is a result of what you did [when] you were out of Iran.” [ . . . .] And, actually, he was [warned] two or three times, that you know, “Just watch yourself and watch what you’re doing. You know, there will be bad consequences for what you’re doing.” But he didn’t care.98

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In spite of the UISA’s intimate relation with the Iranian state leadership, it also provided space, often unwillingly, for the internal, Islamic critique of the Islamic Republic – which, moreover, was not necessarily of a reformist tendency. There are minor signs of internal divisions and imminent change in an internal document from 1994/5, which reminded members of their duties and of the fact that their movement was, as Khomeini had stated, a part of the movement of the Imam of Time99 – there were apparently concerns over internal slack. In the same vein, the brochure took Mr Musaviyan to task, the Islamic Republic’s ambassador to Germany, who had pleaded for the resumption of ties with Egypt and had stated relativising opinions on Israel. The Ettehadiyeh condemned these lines, quoting the Imam once more, who had said that the only way was for Israel to vanish (Esrā’īl bāyad az beyn be-ravad).100 Divisions come to the fore more clearly in the struggle from the mid 1990s regarding the Kanoon Towhid lectures of Sorush, who had transformed from regime ideologue into religious reformer. The Centre was seen as fairly reformist from the outset because of its association with Shari‘ati,101 which deepened symbolic stakes. In June 1996, the British Ettehadiyeh chapter issued a statement against Sorush and his lectures in England. It praised Khameneh’i’s leadership, presented velāyat-e faqīh as the glorious manifestation of Shi‘ite government during the Occultation, and indicated that it was in danger of US attack. The statement went on to ask whether ‘[i]n these circumstances’ it was ‘right to [ . . . ] irresponsibly start attacking the foundations of the revolution, the religious regime and the leadership of the valī-ye faqīh, under the rubric of “debate and the exchange of opinions”, which are also required by our religious law, revolution and culture?’ The writers then stated their duty to ‘dissociate’ (tabarrā) themselves from Sorush – a Shi‘ite term usually reserved for the cursing of the enemies of the Ahl-e Bayt – in light of Khomeini’s call to ‘be a supporter of velāyat-e faqīh so that harm will not come to our country’.102 The erstwhile reformist nature of Kanoon Towhid is further indicated by the fact that many in the Dovvom-e Khordad movement which brought Khatami to power in 1997, and particularly Jebheh-ye mosharekat party members,103 had participated in the Centre. ‘Most of

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the well known scholars and social activists and political activists who were coming to London, the only place that they were ready to talk was just Kanoon Towhid’.104 Among these personalities were Khatami’s brother, the politician Mohammad-Reza, Mosharekat leader and former hostage taker of American embassy personnel Mohsen Mirdamadi, academic, journalist, and publisher Hamid-Reza Jala’ipur, and former Welfare Minister, Mohammad Hoseyn Sharifzadegan.105 Other ongoing debates in the Ettehadiyeh involved the nature of its public statements (bayāniyehhā). Reformist students stood opposed to the reproduction of declarations from Iran’s Leader, or of other official statements such as those about 22 Bahman – the victory day of the Iranian revolution on 22 Bahman 1357/11 February 1979, or Daheh-ye fajr – 1–11 February 1979, the days leading up to that day from Khomeini’s return from France. For religious statements, reformist students preferred passages from Imam ‘Ali.106 Another aspect of their ascent to power in the London Kanoon Towhid involved their attempt to break through insular attitudes – although even the reformists’ orientation remained overwhelmingly towards Iran’s internal affairs – and reach out to Western audiences through an English programme.107 The struggle over these differences often pivoted on the role of the Leader’s Representative. The UISA’s board structure contains an element of tension between the Representative and the students’ chairman (‘Secretary’/dabīr), and the relation has been subject to political dynamics. A former UISA chairman explained in 2008 that ‘[u]ntil ten years ago [lots of people] were very revolutionary, so the Representative was almost [ . . . ] God [ . . . ] He could do everything, he’d say ok, I don’t like you, go away [ . . . .] In the Rafsanjani era, the [ . . . ] osulgarāhā [fundamentalists] were in the majority’. But this situation changed with the ascent of the reform movement in Iran, after which: ‘[ . . . ] the reformists were a majority, so they changed the constitution [ . . . .] After 1999, the reformists were a majority in the UISA and this was the case until 2007.’108 A reformist reflected that ideally, there would not be a Leader’s Representative in the UISA, but did not believe that his function could actually be cancelled.109 Despite their majority and the changes that the reformists had managed to effect, they were unsuccessful

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in removing passages from the constitution that demanded obedience to velāyat-e faqīh – ‘they are too powerful’.110 Since the institutional changes, the Representative was seen as ‘just a kind of, say, person who brings money [ . . . ] to the dabīr, and on the basis of the constitution doesn’t have anything to say [about] current policies’. The Representative was then regarded as ‘a kind of watchdog [to see] whether activities [take place] on the basis of [ . . . ] whatever the Supreme Leader [commands]’, notwithstanding the fact that ‘the Representative has been powerful all the time because he has the support of the Supreme Leader, as the first and most powerful person in the country’.111 Once the board composition and the constitution had been altered and reform-oriented students had reached a majority, many conflicts with the Representative resulted. In 2007, however, two years after the start of Ahmadinejad’s presidency, the situation again reversed, and radical, pro-Ahmadinejad students, led by British branches,112 ended up on top – with the Representative’s status reinstalled as well. ‘The UISA reflects developments in Iran’, the former chairman concluded, ‘but with a two-year delay’.113 A reformist activist similarly observed that ‘when the president in Iran is changed, the policies in the Ettehadiyeh and in London, everywhere, actually change’.114 In Kanoon Towid, however, change had actually preceded Iran’s electoral landslide of the mid 1990s. The Ettehadiyeh, once again in radicals’ hands, tried to impose its identity on the local branches and found a particular challenge in the London Kanoon, ‘the most powerful local organization [in] the Ettehadiyeh’, ‘because the Reformist students were very active there’. Tensions came close to physical confrontation when portraits of Khomeini and Khameneh’i were taken down. Reformists had removed the portraits when they were in power and felt that after their adversaries had taken over, they had been restored unconstitutionally. There had not been a board meeting during which the issue was discussed and voted on, because of ‘too much force from [the] Embassy and Mr Ezheh’i, that the picture, the image, should be there’.115 The initial removal of the portraits had preceded a visit to Kanoon Towhid London by then ex-President Khatami in 2006. Khatami’s

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indirect relations with the UISA come to the fore in his first Minister of Economic Affairs, Hoseyn Namazi, who had co-founded its Islamic Students Society of Innsbruck, and in Khatami’s succession of Mojtahed-Shabestari (with whom Namazi had collaborated) as Director of the Islamic Centre of Hamburg between 1978 and 1980, on Beheshti’s recommendation.116 After his ascension to the Presidency, Khatami was approached by reformist students in the Ettehadiyeh, who requested a yearly salutation of him in an apparent attempt to provide counterweight to the Leader’s annual message to the UISA. Khatami accepted.117 Reformists in the UISA had pointed out among other arguments that a straightforward representation of the Islamic Republic such as the Islamic Centre of England in London did not have these portraits in its hallway. Why, then, should the Ettehadiyeh, which was much more independent? Only the name of Allah, they felt, not even that of the Imams, should be on display.118 That position had been voted on and adopted, but removing the portraits was still ‘a big issue’ because ‘you’re actually playing with your destiny [ . . . .] It’s very, very dangerous.’ After the second intervention, there was ‘a report that was [ . . . ] sent to the Embassy that [ . . . ], this student, I took his picture and took like the Leader’s picture and everything’.119 Although certainly to be considered a radical move within the milieu of Islamist students, there was no sign of anticlericalism in these interventions – reformist struggle in the Ettehadiyeh as it appears from interviews with UISA members and former leaders, has emerged within the framework of deference to the Iranian (political) Shi‘ite clergy, notwithstanding problems with individuals among its ranks. The reformist iconoclast reflected in January 2009 that ‘there is no head of the Ettehadiyeh, because the head of the Ettehadiyeh is Mr Ezheh’i at this moment’. So he was more powerful than the dabīr? ‘Yes he is, [the] dabīr follows everything [ . . . ] he says.’ Furthermore, the Representative was ‘more powerful than [ . . . ] he actually looks, because he has to push out all those students [who do not] follow [ . . . ] the rules that are set by him’. And this has occurred? ‘Yeah, it happens.’ People were expelled? ‘They don’t do it on the surface

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[ . . . ] they work in a way that they actually [go] out.’120 This situation had notably happened when the reformist students in Kanoon Towhid walked out of a meeting, some two years earlier, and control over the building was restored to students faithful to ‘the system’ (nezām) and Khameneh’i. The new atmosphere reflected the presidency of Ahmadinejad. The President’s gifts to Ettehadiyeh members for the last Persian New Year of 21 March included an Iranian flag and two books, one by Khomeini holding advice to young couples, the other a ‘bestseller among conservatives’ in Iran about Khomeini’s trips throughout the country. There had not been similar gift giving under Khatami, which may be taken as an indication of the importance attached to the Ettehadiyeh by the current government. Accordingly, it was felt by reformist students that ‘we think as long as Ahmadinejad is the President, it’s useless to be too much involved in Kanoon Towhid because we can’t change that much’. Reformist speakers were disinvited from Kanoon Towhid – former culture minister ‘Ata’ollah Mohajerani was ‘kicked out’ in January 2009,121 and a greater emphasis was placed on Shi‘ite, as opposed to generic Islamist identity. This was echoed in the Ettehadiyeh’s latest bayāniyeh, that protested the media representation of Islam, but Shi‘ism in particular, in Britain and Europe.122

3 The East–West and top-down direction in which authority flows in the UISA comes to the fore in the Representative’s decisive role, irrespective of the Board’s political orientation. In revolutionary times, the Representative ‘could do everything’; nowadays, ‘the dabīr follows everything he says’. But he had been ‘powerful all the time’ through the support of Khameneh’i, the ‘first and most powerful person in the country’. In addition, his position was sustained by the government’s supply of the Ettehadiyeh’s funds, funding for individual students and control over its buildings. Even during the reformist interlude, the symbols, ideological positions and functionaries of the Islamic Republic weighed heavily on the organisation. This emerged, for instance, during the opening by Iran’s

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ambassador in France, Dr. ‘Ali Ahani, of the 2006 annual gathering of the French Islamic associations on 27 October of that year. Besides Ahani, other representatives of the Islamic Republic – Iran’s ambassador and vice-ambassador to UNESCO – played an active role in the conference as well.123 Their active presence and the fact of Ahani’s opening of the conference were significant, but particularly the content of the latter’s speech. Khameneh’i in a recent message to the UISA, addressed its members as his ‘dear children’.124 A similar patriarchal conception was seen in Ahani’s statement that the student associations were ‘family of the Islamic Republic’, ‘whether we like it or not’. The familial was the context too in which students’ debates and critiques should have their place, that is, not lessening their mutual bonds. And it was similarly to be avoided for debates having taken place within a familial context, to be dragged into the media. It was furthermore the students’ ‘heavy duty’ to defend the sanctities of the Islamic Republic. Only persons could become members of the Islamic associations who were ‘on the side of the system’ (tarafdār-e nezām) and who believed in ‘defending national interests and the pillars described in the constitution’ and were ‘in total agreement with them’. Moreover, Ahani stated, ‘[e]ach person who doesn’t match that condition must be separated from the organization’. In other words, not only was there no place in the associations for aspirant members questioning velāyat-e faqīh or the Leader’s status and position, but they had to be purged of existing ones too.125 The example of the Islamic Centre of England, however, shows that a flow of religious authority in East–West and top-down direction does not necessarily imply a replication in Europe of Shi‘ism as it is practiced in Iran. Have forms of Islam been evident in the Ettehadiyeh, then, that are particular to its European environment? From Beheshti’s speeches to the UISA and Islam: Maktab-e Mobarez and its critique of gharbzādegī emerges the core meaning of ‘Europe’ for the Islamic students: a place to extract skills and knowledge from, which however was morally corrupt and spiritually void and ultimately would be converted to Islam, and open involvement with which was therefore to be shunned. Palestine rather than Europe was in the focus of their attention. Through Beheshti, the message of world Islamic

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order was conveyed and the Ettehadiyeh adopted Khomeini as ‘leader of the world’s Shi‘ites’, embracing his reading of Shi‘ism in terms of struggle against colonialism and despotism. Contrary to other Islamist groups, particularly the Mojahedin – whom they supported in the beginning126 but nowadays fiercely resist – their orientation has been overwhelmingly towards the leadership of the clergy. They developed intimate ties with intermarried clerical families, those of Khomeini and Sadr, and global Shi‘ite militants and their movements, including AMAL. Students visited Khomeini in Neauphle-le-Château, some participating in the hostage taking in Tehran and several assuming high positions in the Islamic Republic. The issues with which they reached the news in the West after the Revolution, all relate to the Islamic Republic: Qods day, the London embassy siege, Khomeini’s fatwa, and the Mykonos affair. Only the reformist interlude sees re-evaluations of Shi‘ism, a lessening of the emphasis on velāyat-e faqīh and ‘the system’ (nezām), and explorations of ‘religious democracy’. It can be safely stated that anti-Westernism was a core component of Iranian Islamic revolutionary ideology and that the religious reform movement in Iran was instead positively inspired by aspects of Western culture and history. On the other hand, leading participants in that Revolution as well as many of the reformists’ foremen spent significant amounts of time in the West – and often in UISA contexts. The anti-Western ideology of Iranian Muslim students in Europe built on a well-established tradition since the late 1940s in Iran.127 There is some evidence, however, to suggest that the mentioned orientations towards the West in the second group not only coincided with but were also caused by their Western presence in UISA contexts. One has the cases of intimates of the Ettehadiyeh Mohammad Mojtahed-Shabestari and ‘Abdolkarim Sorush, who both transformed from revolutionaries into reformists. ‘In the decade preceding the Islamic Revolution, in London and Hamburg, the influences fostering the non-Jacobin dimensions of modernity – in the form of Karl Popper’s philosophy and Karl Rahner’s theological hermeneutics – had [ . . . ] left their imprint’ on them, while the 1990s saw the ‘coming to fruition of these influences’.128 Lectures that Sorush gave in Kanoon Towhid were later published in book form in Iran.129

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One finds that Kanoon Towhid, an island within the Ettehadiyeh, served as a vanguard of the reform movement, in a way similar to the role played by the Ettehadiyeh at large in propagating political Islam before the revolution. What had distinguished the European and American Ettehadiyehs from the Islamic Student Associations in Iran, if not anti-Westernism, was that they were more overtly political, ‘from their very inception’.130 The European context in both cases provided the UISA with extraterritorial outposts, safe havens in which ideological orientations could gather strength that would in a later phase gain the centre stage in Iran. Despite hosting avant-garde religiosity in Kanoon Towhid, however, several prominent Ettehadiyeh members mentioned that the character of the UISA board reflected, rather than anticipated, developments in Iran, but with a two-year delay. While the Islamist student movement abroad was an anti-regime current in the Shah’s era, the UISA has since been marked by proximity to the Islamic Republic and its supreme leadership. The historical reversal is indicated by its contrast with the major tendency of current Islamic student organisation in Iran, in the oppositional Daftar-e tahkim-e vahdat (although several UISA reformers, most notably Razavi-Faqih, have Daftar backgrounds too). In Iran, Islamic students sharply criticised, heckled and cursed Ahmadinejad upon his visit to Amir Kabir University in December 2006;131 whereas outside Iran, the Ettehadiyeh issued a statement that sharply protested the Iranian president’s hostile reception at Columbia University in September 2007.132 Rather than fostering ‘European Islam’, UISA ideology and practice have overall extended the Iranian nezām, its rahbarī and Shi‘ite state religiosity into Europe. Top-down and East-West authority flow does not preclude a Shi‘ite organisation from adopting a European identity. The cases of ICEL and the UISA show that particular Western manifestations of Shi‘ism may be subordinate elements in a larger hierarchy with Iranian ideas and organisations at the apex. Where it emerges that Shi‘ism assumes different shapes in the West, furthermore, this need not imply change initiated by Shi‘ites from the West. The authority flow in ICEL is embodied by its director, who represents Khameneh’i in Britain. The ecumenical practice that characterises the work of his and related Islamic Centres

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in Europe, however, contrasting with the internal sectarianism of the Iranian state, has not evolved through pluralist realities in London or Hamburg but pan-Islamist policy devised in Tehran. The UISA too has been subject to a top-down and East–West authority flow, but less uncomplicatedly, as the nemāyandeh has had to cope with a reformist dabīr and Kanoon Towhid. Just like ICEL, there are elements to the identity of the UISA that are particular to their Western surroundings: it was more political than Islamic students’ anjomans in Iran at first and became a hotbed of reformism later, and both were predicated on the local political freedoms of organisation and expression. In contrast to ICEL, however, there are indications that these were autochthonous developments in the Ettehadiyeh. It does not appear from documentary literature that the seven founding students were acting on anyone’s orders. Later on, the UISA leadership was unable to prevent the religious reform movement, the early roots of which lie in London and Hamburg, from gaining a stronghold in their organisation. The broad and neutral definition of ‘European Islam’ as ‘forms of Islam particular to their European surroundings’ includes by and large anti-Western and foreign-steered organisations such as the Ettehadiyeh. The Ettehadiyeh has not in the main been a referent, however, for more substantive definitions of European Islam, in terms of, for instance, the independent European organisation, individualisation of religious practices,133 de-ethnicisation,134 or European values135 of Muslims in Europe.

Notes 1. Research for this article was funded by the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. M. van den Bos, forthcoming: European Shiism? Counterpoints from Shiites’ Organization in Europe. The Netherlands data were largely collected by Ms K. Neijenhuis on behalf of my European Shi‘ism research and for her MA thesis. Cross-ethnic boards accounted for 16 per cent of 170 organisations with board data available. 2. In the realm of British Shi‘ism, 152 organisations were taken into account. I found one website arguing against taqlīd, whereas a quick look rendered over ten organisations appreciative of the Khomeinist tradition in the broadest sense.

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3. My interviews included a former UISA president, a UISA central committee member and communication director, and a (ISA-London) Kanoon Towhid general council member and activist (complementing several open source interviews with UISA personalities conducted by others); the internal documents include P. Nurafza. March 2005. Vaqe‘eh-ye garugangiri dar sefarat-e Iran dar Landan va shohada-ye kanun towhid. Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Orupa, UISA [Union of Islamic Students Associations (in Europe)]. Dey/December–January 1373/1994–5. Jozveh-ye dakheli-ye ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Orupa. Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Orupa, and UISA-UK [Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Englestan]. 25 khordad/[14] June 1375/1996. Ettela’iyeh-ye ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Englestan dar mured-e sokhanranihaye akhir-e aqa-ye Sorush dar Englestan. Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islamiye daneshjuyan dar Englestan; and the commemorative literature includes M. Baqer-Nezhad (ed.) 1386/2007–8. Tarikhcheh-ye mobarezat-e islami-ye daneshjuyan-e Irani dar kharej az keshvar. Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islamiye daneshjuyan dar Orupa (1344–60). Tehran: Entesharat-e Ettela’at, and M. Beheshti/Bonyad-e nashr-e asar o andisheha-ye shahid ayatollah doktor Beheshti (ed.) 1386/2007–8. Ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Orupa. Tehran: Boq’eh. These primary materials remain somewhat limited, and this article is conceived as a contribution to the further analysis of the Ettehadiyeh’s social and political history. 4. M. Fazel-Lankerani, M. 1386/2007. Vasiyat-nameh (3 mehr 1385/25 September 2006). Jomhuri-ye Islami, 2 tir/23 June. 5. Interview Fazel-Lankerani confidant, 16 January 2008. 6. Website Ayatollah ol-‘Ozma Mohammad Fazel-Lankerani. 2008. http:// lankarani.com/far/ [ . . . ] (accessed 14 March 2008). 7. Amnesty International. 2007. Iran Report 2007 Amnesty International. http://report2007.amnesty.org/eng/Regions/Middle-East-and-North-Africa/ Iran (accessed 7 February 2009). On a previous occasion, he had ‘accused Sufis of misleading youth’ (RFE/RL Iran Report. 17 October 2006. http:// www.rferl.org/reports/iran-report/2006/10/38–171006.asp (accessed 15 February 2008). 8. Fazel-Lankerani, Vasiyat-nameh. 9. Ibid. 10. Interview Sheykh Mo‘ezi, 19 February 2008. 11. K. Hesse-Lehmann and K. Spellman. 2004. ‘Iranische transnationale religiöse Institutionen in London und Hamburg. Ihr Einfluss auf das interkulturelle Zusammenleben’, in Zuwanderung und Integration. Kulturwissenschaftliche

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14.

15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

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Zugänge und soziale Praxis (eds), C. Köck, A. Moosmüller and K. Roth. Münster [etc.]: Waxmann, pp. 141–62: 144. A. Nura’i-Yeganeh. 1385/2006. ‘Islamic Organizations in England’, Resalat, 31 khordad/21 June: 8. Khameneh’i declared his marja‘iyyat for Shi‘ites outside Iran but some Shi‘ites within Iran nevertheless call him their marja‘ and pay sahm-e emām to him (cf. L.S. Walbridge. 2001, ‘The Counterreformation. Becoming a Marja‘ in the Modern World’, in The most learned of the Shi‘a. The institution of the Marja‘ taqlid (ed.) L.S. Walbridge (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 236–7. ‘A. Mo‘ezi. 19 March 2007. Proximity among Islamic Schools of Thought: A Necessity for Muslims in the Contemporary Era. http://www.icel.org/users/english/english/Proximity%20Moezi.htm (accessed 19 March 2008). I. Siddiqui. 25 February 2007. Approaches to Unity Debated at London Conference. http://myartikel.wordpress.com/2007/07/16/approaches-to-unitydebated-at-london-conference/ (accessed 25 February 2008). W. Buchta. 2001. ‘Tehran’s Ecumenical Society (Majma‘ al-Taqrīb): A Veritable Ecumenical Revival or a Trojan Horse of Iran’, in The Twelver Shia in Modern Times: Religious Culture and Political History (eds) R. Brunner and W. Ende. Leiden [etc.]: Brill, pp. 333–53. Ibid., 341. Ibid., 252–3. Interview Sa‘id Razavi-Faqih, on http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11/ post_6 8.shtml (accessed 10 December 2008). http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11 (accessed 10 December 2008). Interview UISA central committee member and communication director, 26 January 2009. Interview Sa‘id Razavi-Faqih, on http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11/ post_6 8.shtml (accessed 10 December 2008). A. Matin-Asgari. 1991. ‘The Iranian Student Movement Abroad. The Confederation of Iranian Students, National Union’, in Iranian refugees and exiles since Khomeini (ed.) A. Fathi (Costa Mesa, California, Mazda Publishers), pp. 55–74. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh. H. Algar. 1987. ‘Anjoman-e mazhabi’, in Encyclopaedia Iranica (ed.) E. Yarshater. (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul), pp. 80–82: 81. A. Matin. 1378/1999–2000. Konfederasiyun. Tarikh-e jonbesh-e daneshjuyan-e Irani dar kharej az keshvar, 1332–57 (Tehran, Shirazeh), p. 183. UISA (in Europe). 2008. Statement 42/1098/6. http://www.islamicsa. com/manchester/files/20080124-uisa-2008-programmes.pdf (accessed 4 February 2008).

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32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57.

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Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 10. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 349. Ibid., 48. Histories of the Ettehadiyeh mention seven founding members: ‘Ali Abrishami; Karim Khodapanahi; Mostafa Haqiqi; ‘Abdollah Tavasoli; Asadollah Khaledi; Seyyed Hoseyn Sadat Darbandi; and Ayub Shahin (Ibid., 47). Ibid., 349. Ibid. Algar, Anjoman-e mazhabi, 81. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 98. Matin-Asgari, Iranian Student Movement Abroad, 62. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 351. Ibid., 68. Ibid., 198–9. Ibid., 197. Ibid., 198–9, 28. Ettela’at 25 esfand/15 March 1386/2008, ‘Khanevadeh va tarbiyat dar nazar-e yadegar-e emam’. Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 9–10. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 43–4, 47–8, 63. Ibid., 70. Ibid., 131, 35–6. Ibid., 189. Time, 31 March 1980, ‘Beheshti Flows with the Tide’. Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 16–7. Ibid., 30. Ibid., 31. Interview Hojjatolislam Doktor Ezheh’i, on http://www.uisa.ir/index. php?option=com_content&task=view&id=81&Itemid=58 (accessed 20 January 2009). Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 37. Ibid., 37–43. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 69. Ibid., 201. Ibid., 70. The origin of Shaw’s purported words on Islam seem to lie in a reported interview with him by Maulana Abdul Aleem Siddiqui: ‘I have prophesied about the faith of Muhammad that it would be acceptable to the Europe of to-morrow as it is beginning to be acceptable to the Europe of to-day’ (K.S. Anwari, 1936, A Shavian Meets A Theologian, Genuine Islam 1, January (1): 21–25, 21).

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74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85.

86. 87.

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Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 16. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 144. Beheshti, Ettehadiyeh, 96–7. Ibid., 24. Ibid., 28–9. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 91. Ibid., 211. Ibid., 190. Algar, Anjoman-e mazhabi, 81. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 351, 57, 108. Ibid., 142. Ibid., 142–3. Ibid., 189. Ibid., 47, 63, 85, 103, 20, 50, 211. Ibid., 127. Kanoon Towhid ISA-London. 2008. Kholaseh’i az tarikhcheh-ye anjoman-e islami-ye daneshjuyan-e Landan. http://www.kanoontowhid.org/history.php (accessed 22 March 2008). Ibid. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 250, 351. Z. Mir-Hosseini. 1999. Islam and Gender: The Religious Debate in Contemporary Iran (London: I.B.Tauris), p. 218. Interview Kanoon Towhid/UISA activist, 8 January 2009. Mir-Hosseini, Islam and Gender, 218. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 128. Kanoon Towhid ISA-London, Kholaseh’i az tarikhcheh. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 128. Algar, Anjoman-e mazhabi, 82. Cf. the statement by a central committee member of the Ettehadiyeh in Afarinesh 25 mordad/16 August 1385/2006, Hamayesh-e chehelomin salgard-e ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan dar Orupa bar gozar mi-shavad. Nurafza, Vaqe’e-ye garugangiri. BBC SWB Summary of World Broadcasts. 18 February 1989. BBC SWB ME/0389/A/1 Iran in Brief; Islamic Students in Europe pledge to carry out Khomeyni’s decree. Interview UISA central committee member and communication director, 26 January 2009. IHRDC Iran Human Rights Documentation Center. 2007. Murder at Mykonos. Anatomy of a Political Assassination. Iran Human Rights Documentation Center, pp. 7, 18.

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88. Ibid., 25. 89. UISA, Statement 42/1098/6. 90. Cf. Iran Almanac. 2008. Iran Who’s Who: The Echo of Iran, Tehran: http:// www.iranalmanac.com/who/biography.php?id=863&PHPSESSID=9a3370 0b9ec16cecddb7bb5fc249c002 (accessed 29 February 2008). 91. Interview former UISA president, 21 February 2008. 92. http://www.uisa.ir/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=163&It emid=77, accessed 5 November 2008; http://www.farsnews.net/printable. php?nn=8609060727, accessed 5 November 2008. 93. Interview Hojjatolislam Doktor Ezheh’i, on http://www.uisa.ir/index. php?option=com_content&task=view&id=81&Itemid=58 (accessed 20 January 2009). 94. Interview former UISA president, 16 January 2008. 95. Ibid. 96. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 145. 97. Interview Sa‘id Razavi-Faqih, on http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11/ post_6 8.shtml (accessed 10 December 2008). 98. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 99. UISA, Jozveh-ye dakheli, 6. 100. Ibid., 10–1. 101. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 102. UISA-UK, Ettela’iyeh. 103. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 104. Ibid. 105. Interview UISA central committee member and communication director, 26 January 2009. 106. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 107. Interview UISA central committee member and communication director, 26 January 2009, Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. But throughout its 42-year history, the European UISA has retained a very insular, Iran-oriented Islamic orientation. 108. Interview former UISA president, 16 January 2008. 109. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 110. Ibid. 111. Interview former UISA president, 16 January 2008.

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112. Khabargozari-ye Fars/Fars New Agency 7 azar/28 November 1386/2007, Shura-ye markazi-ye jadid-e ettehadiyeh-ye anjomanha-ye islami-ye daneshjuyan-e Orupa entekhab shod. 113. Interview former UISA president, 16 January 2008. 114. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 115. Ibid. 116. Baqer-Nezhad, Tarikhcheh, 248. 117. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. 118. Ibid. 119. Ibid. 120. Ibid. 121. Ibid. Previously, Mr Masoud Behnoud was similarly prevented from holding talks there (Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009). 122. Interview Kanoon Towhid central council member and activist, 8 January 2009. The statement’s summary in Persian on the UISA website was stated in significantly sharper tones than the English text, invoking ‘the daily increasing media propaganda against Muslims and in particular the school of Shiism’ (accessed 17 February 2009). 123. http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11 (accessed 10 December 2008). 124. A. Khameneh’i. 1386/2007, 3 azar 1386/24 November 2007. ‘Dasiseha-ye doshmanan mujeb-e estehkam-e ‘azm-e javanan-e keshvar shodeh ast’ in Khabargozari-ye Fars/Fars New Agency. 125. http://www.roozneveshtha.com/2006/11 (accessed 10 December 2008). 126. Algar, Anjoman-e mazhabi, 81. 127. M. Boroujerdi. 1996. ‘The Other-ing of the West’, in Iranian Intellectuals and the West. The tormented triumph of nativism (Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press), pp. 52–76. 128. S.A. Arjomand. 2003. ‘Modernity, Tradition and the Shi‘ite Reformation in Contemporary Iran’, in The moral fabric in contemporary societies (eds) G. Skąpska, A. Orla-Bukowksa and K. Kowalski (The Annals of the International Institute of Sociology. New series, Leiden, Brill), pp. 241–61. 129. Interview UISA central committee member and communication director, 26 January 2009. 130. Algar, Anjoman-e mazhabi, 81. 131. R. Tait. 2006. ‘Iranian students hide in fear for lives after venting fury at Ahmadinejad’, The Guardian, 18 December.

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132. UISA [Union of Islamic Students Associations (in Europe)]. 2007. UISA statement against Lee Bollinger’s insult to Iranian President. http://www.islamicsa.com/manchester/files/20070927-UISA-statement-lee-bollinger-insultto-iranian-president.pdf (accessed 23 March 2008). 133. Cf. J. Cesari. 2003. ‘Muslim Minorities in Europe: The Silent Revolution’ in Modernizing Islam. Religion in the Public Sphere in the Middle East and Europe (eds) J. Esposito and F. Burgat (London, Hurst), pp. 251–69. 134. Cf. S. Allievi. 2005. ‘Conflicts, Cultures, and Religions: Islam in Europe as a Sign and Symbol of Change in European Societies’ in Islam and the New Europe: Continuities, Changes, Confrontations (eds) S. Nökel and L. Tezcan (Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag), pp. 18–44. 135. Cf. B. Tibi. 2000 [1998]. Europa ohne Identität? Leitkultur oder Wertebeliebigkeit (Berlin: Siedler Verlag).

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CHAPTER FIVE THE AL-KHOEI FOUNDATION AND THE TR ANSNATIONAL INSTITUTIONALISATION OF AYATOLL AH AL-KHU’I’S M ARJA‘IY YA Elvire Corboz

The al-Khoei Foundation is a transnational philanthropic institution that was established in London in 1989 under the patronage of Ayatollah Abu al-Qasim al-Khu’i (1899–1992), the most widely followed marja‘ (source of emulation) of the time. The foundation defines itself as the extension of the functions historically associated with the marja‘iyya.1 To fulfil this role it has provided from its creation religious, educational, social and humanitarian services for Shi‘ites in countries as diverse as Iran, Iraq, India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Thailand, Malaysia, England, France and North America. In this chapter I argue that the extension of the marja‘iyya in the al-Khoei Foundation has been not only a matter of operational performance – the ability to distribute patronage – but also a matter of internal organisation. The clerical and non-clerical networks that developed around the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Khu’i prior to 1989 became a central organisational principle in the formation of the al-Khoei

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Foundation’s leadership. They have been institutionalised and have helped reproduce the legitimacy of the marja‘iyya in the Foundation over time and space. To verify this argument, I will first examine the internal organisation of the al-Khoei Foundation’s decision-making apparatus, its board of trustees. I will identify the members sitting on the board and analyse the nature of their relationship to Ayatollah al-Khu’i prior to their appointment. I will then move on to discuss the al-Khoei Foundation’s strategy for survival after the demise of its founder in order to ascertain that the institution was able to maintain ties with the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s successors.

The Al-Khoei Foundation’s Board of Trustees The board of trustees is the decision-making apparatus of the al-Khoei Foundation. It convenes every six months and takes its decisions with a two-thirds majority.2 The general-secretary presides over the board, a position which, according to Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s will, should be entrusted to one of the Ayatollah’s sons or grandsons who is a cleric.3 Until today, three of al-Khu’i’s sons have successively assumed this function. Muhammad Taqi al-Khu’i (1958–94) was the first. The choice was only natural as the young cleric was behind the idea of the al-Khoei Foundation and supervised its creation. He lived in Najaf and worked with the help of his younger brother ‘Abd al-Majid (1962–2003) who lived in London and was the acting deputy general-secretary of the Foundation. When Muhammad Taqi died in a government-staged car accident on the road between Najaf and Karbala in April 1994, ‘Abd al-Majid replaced him immediately in his function at the head of the Foundation. Following the US intervention in 2003 ‘Abd alMajid al-Khu’i returned to Iraq and it was his turn to be killed. His brother ‘Abd al-Sahib (1955—), then a member of the board of trustees, became the new general-secretary. Muhammad Taqi, ‘Abd al-Majid and ‘Abd al-Sahib al-Khu’i not only based their authority as heads of the foundation on their blood relationship with Ayatollah al-Khu’i. They also capitalised on the prestige of having worked for their father’s marja‘iyya prior to their appointment as general-secretaries. It is indeed quite commonplace

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in high Shi‘ism to see the sons of a marja‘ assist their father in running his affairs, and the al-Khu’i sons were no exception to this general trend.4 As far as Muhammad Taqi was concerned, he became in the early 1980s the right hand of his father in all matters concerning the management and supervision of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s religious and social projects inside and outside Iraq. Based in Najaf, he frequently travelled abroad to visit Shi‘ites living there and coordinated with his father’s local wukalā ‘ (sing. wakīl; representative) to set up services for the people. It was actually during one of his trips to London that he realised the lack of appropriate services for Shi‘ite migrants in the West and thought of establishing a philanthropic institution to provide for their needs.5 For his part, Majid al-Khu’i helped the marja‘iyya of his father with a number of administrative matters related to the hִawza (seminaries) and its community of scholars (visa and residency applications, for instance) until he was forced to leave the country in 1991.6 Before he moved to London, ‘al-Sahib al-Khu’i, the current general-secretary of the foundation, used to work as a trader in Iran. He was not directly involved in the running of his father’s affairs, except when he participated in the delegations sent on his behalf to the hajj (pilgrimage).7 He resumed his theological training after assuming the position of general-secretary and now wears the clerical garb. This brief description of the work of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s sons before their appointment to the al-Khoei Foundation tells us that they worked primarily ‘in the field’. Their role in the social sphere of the marja‘iyya conferred on them a certain visibility among ordinary Shi‘ites and made their work on behalf of the marja‘ known to them. In addition, the al-Khu’i sons gained a valuable experience on which they could promote their future institutional work and inscribe it in the continuity of the Najaf-based marja‘iyya. Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s wish that one of his descendants should act as general-secretary of the al-Khoei Foundation confirms that familial ties were important in the institutionalisation of the marja‘iyya. They were not the only principle used to organise the board of trustees, however. As Table 1 indicates, Ayatollah al-Khu’i entertained a personal relationship with the quasi totality of the personalities he chose to appoint on the board in 1989.

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Table 1 Initial composition of the board of trustees of the al-Khoei Foundation in 198952 Name

1

2

3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Occupation Nationality/ Ethnic origin

Muhammad cleric Taqi al-Khu’i (general-secretary) a Fadil al-Milani b cleric

Muhammad al-Musawi c Yusif ‘Ali al-Nafsi Muhsin ‘Ali al-Najafi Kazim ‘Abd al-Husayn Muhammad ‘Ali al-Shahristani Muhammad Sarwar d ‘Abd al-Majid al-Khu’i

cleric

Iranian (born in Iraq) Iranian (born in Iraq)

cleric

Iraqi (Indian origin) Pakistani

cleric

Pakistani

Relationship to Ayatollah al-Khu’i prior to the appointment to the board of trustees son student aide in the Najaf office student wakīl in Mashhad, Damascus and London indirect marital ties student wakīl in Mumbai wakīl in Karachi

businessman Kuwaiti

student wakīl in Islamabad lay wakīl in Kuwait

engineer

–

cleric cleric

10 Mustafa Gokal e industrialist

Iranian (born in Iraq) Pakistani (US citizen) Iranian (born in Iraq) Pakistani (Khoja Ithna’ Asheri)

student wakīl in the US son student aide in the Najaf office lay wakīl

a

He died in 1994 and was replaced by ‘Abd al-Majid al-Khu’i as general-secretary of the foundation. b He resigned in 1994. c He resigned in 1995 and was replaced by Salman al-Khaqani, a cleric from the Khuzestan province in Iran. Al-Khaqani did not keep his position in the foundation for a long time. d Al-Khu’s sent him as his representative to the USA in 1976. When the al-Khoei Foundation’s New York branch was set up, a dispute emerged between Sarwar and the Foundation’s leadership, leading to a court case. Sarwar was dismissed and Fadil al-Sahlani became head of the branch and a trustee of the Foundation. e Gokal left the board of trustees some time before 1993. This table has been compiled with information from Al-Nur (Safar 1414 / Ab 1993), 11; interview with Fadil al-Sahlani, New York, 10 April 2007; interview with Fadil alMilani, London, 20 July 2007; interviews with Ghanim Jawad, London, 7 February 2007 and 22 November 2007.

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The composition of the board underwent several changes throughout the 1990s. Table 2 provides a list of its members in 1996. Javad ‘Alavi, the grandson of Ayatollah Borujerdi, joined the board some time in the 1990s. This cleric did not have direct scholarly ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i, but he was educated in Qum with some of his former students, such as Mirza Javad al-Tabrizi and Muhammad Ruhani.8 Hajj ‘Abd al-Ilah Marafi also sat on the board of trustees between 2002 and 2005; a businessman, he had no pre-existing personal ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i and his candidacy had been suggested to ‘Abd al-Majid al-Khu’i by Hasan Bahr al-‘Ulum, the former head of Table 2 Composition of the board of trustees of the al-Khoei Foundation in 199653

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 a b c

Name

Occupation Nationality/ Relationship to Ethnic origin Ayatollah al-Khu’i prior to the appointment to the board of trustees

‘Abd al-Majid al-Khu’i (general-secretary) Muhsin ‘Ali al-Najafi Yusif ‘Ali al-Nafsi Majd al-Din al-Mahallatib Fadil al-Sahlani

cleric

Kazim ‘Abd al-Husayn Muhammad ‘Ali al-Shahristanic ‘Abd al-Sahib al-Khu’i

cleric cleric cleric

Iranian (born in son Iraq) student aide in the Najaf office Pakistani student wakīl in Islamabad Pakistani wakīl in Karachia Iranian student

cleric

Iraqi (from Basra)

businessman

Kuwaiti

engineer

Iranian (born in – Iraq) Iranian (born in son Iraq)

trader

son of one of al-Khu’i’s wukalā‘ in Iraq and Syria wakīl in the US lay wakīl

He left Pakistan in the early 2000s and now lives in the United Arab Emirates. He passed away. He resigned some time later.

This table is based on a list provided in Al-Khoei Foundation, Taqrir Mujaz hawla Khidmat wa-Nashata Furu’ wa-Marakiz Mu’assasat al-Imam al-Khu’i al-Khayriyya, 1989–1996 (London): [Al-Khoei Foundation], [n.d. (c)]), p. 176.

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the al-Khoei Foundation’s branch in Canada. At the time of writing, the total number of the Foundation’s trustees has decreased to six and includes: General-Secretary ‘Abd al-Sahib al-Khu’i, Fadil al-Sahlani, Javad al-‘Alavi, Yusif ‘Ali al-Nafsi, Muhsin ‘Ali al-Najafi, and Kazim ‘Abd al-Husayn.9 The nomination of an additional trustee, either a Bahraini or a Lebanese national, is currently being discussed.10 This information tells us that, until today, both clerical and lay trustees have been appointed to the board of trustees, with a predominance of the former group. With regard to their pre-existing personal ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i, the large majority of the trustees with a clerical background were his former students. Furthermore, most of them left Iraq after their religious studies and started to represent their mentor in their new place of residence. They moved for different reasons: a number of the non-Iraqi nationals wanted to return to their home country; others were instructed by Ayatollah al-Khu’i to do so; finally, the rest (Iraqis or non-Iraqis) were compelled to leave Najaf because of state repression and continued their life either in their country of origin or in a third country. The story of Muhammad al-Musawi illustrates this general trend. He was born in a clerical family established in Najaf for several generations. He was educated in the seminaries and studied with Ayatollah al-Khu’i at the advanced level (bath al-khārij). In the late 1970s the marja‘ occasionally sent him on short missions to organise religious and social services for Shi‘ites outside of Iraq. After the Iraqi government executed Ayatollah Muhammad Baqir al-Sadr in April 1980, al-Khu’i felt that al-Musawi was no longer safe to stay in the country. Therefore, he instructed him to settle in India, the country from which his family originally came. He also gave him permission to act as his fully authorised agent, not only in the Indian subcontinent but also in several Asian, African and European countries. A few years later, Ayatollah al-Khu’i appointed al-Musawi to the al-Khoei Foundation’s board of trustees.11 The background of Fadil al-Sahlani is also instructive. This Iraqi cleric never studied with Ayatollah al-Khu’i because he had not reached the advanced level of the religious curriculum before he left Iraq in 1979. However, he was connected to Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s

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marja‘iyya through his father, Muhammad Jawad al-Sahlani, who was one of the Ayatollah’s clerical representatives in Basra until the early 1980s and thereafter in Damascus.12 In addition to this, Fadil al-Sahlani was friends with Muhammad Taqi al-Khu’i. It was precisely Muhammad Taqi who advised his father to appoint Fadil alSahlani as head of the New York branch of the al-Khoei Foundation and to give him a seat on the board of trustees.13 Upon his appointment, al-Sahlani became de facto Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s wakīl in North America.14 A number of lay personalities also sat on the al-Khoei Foundation’s board of trustees. Although these men did not attend the seminaries of Najaf – and hence never developed scholarly ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i – they were generally working for the marja‘iyya long before the creation of the Foundation al-Husayn in 1989. This was the case of Kazim ‘Abd al-Husayn and Mustafa Gokal, two important businessmen who became al-Khu’i’s financial representatives in their respective places of residence. The benefit for the Foundation to have these two men on board was twofold. First, the Foundation could benefit from their managerial skills to help it administer its funds and run its projects. Second, and perhaps more importantly, al-Husayn and Gokal represented Ayatollah al-Khu’i in regions where segments of the Shi‘ite population were extremely wealthy and greatly contributed, through the payment of their religious taxes (the khums) and their donations, to the financial power of the Ayatollah’s marja‘iyya. Al-Husayn, a Kuwaiti national, collected Shi‘ite money in the oil-rich countries of the Gulf region. One should note that, from the 1973 oil-boom onwards, these funds were so considerable that they have been used to finance most of the philanthropic projects set up in the name of Ayatollah al-Khu’i in the Shi‘ite world. For his part, Gokal belonged to the Khoja Ithna ‘Ashari community – the Khojas who had made their fortune in East Africa or in the West were good contributors to the marja‘iyya. It therefore seemed sensible to give these prosperous communities a representation in the al-Khoei Foundation’s decision-making apparatus with the appointment of al-Husayn and Gokal. Today, al-Husayn is still present on the board of trustees, while Gokal left it sometime around 1993.

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Dr Muhammad ‘Ali al-Shahristani was the only person who had no personal ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i prior to his appointment on the foundation’s board of trustees in 1989. Of Iranian origin, alShahristani was born in 1932 in Karbala and graduated in civil engineering in Iraq. He migrated to Iran in 1958 with his family and stayed there until he settled in London in the 1980s. It is unclear how Ayatollah al-Khu’i came to hear about him, but his marja‘iyya undoubtedly benefited from the man’s professional expertise in engineering and architecture. For instance, al-Shahristani worked on the creation of the International Colleges of Islamic Sciences which was set up in 1989 with the Ayatollah’s funds.15 He also designed the al-Khoei Foundation’s schools in London, the al-Zahra School for Girls and the al-Sadiq School for Boys. Clearly the successive compositions of the board of trustees in 1989, in 1996, and in the present day indicate that the leadership of the alKhoei Foundation has been thought to be – and still is – a continuation of Abu al-Qasim al-Khu’i’s marja‘iyya, in that the majority of the trustees had pre-existing personal ties with the Ayatollah, whether as students, aides, representatives or extended family. Furthermore, this organisational principle has helped the Foundation mirror the transnational nature of high Shi‘ism. In other words, in replicating the ‘internationalness’ of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s networks, the Foundation has become structurally transnational. Indeed the background of the trustees tells us that a balance was kept at all times between a number of Iraqi, Iranian, Pakistani and Kuwaiti nationals, although most of the trustees had strong connections with Iraq because they were born or had studied there. In addition to this, the board’s members resided and operated in various areas of the Shi‘ite world: Najaf, Tehran, Bombay, Islamabad, Karachi, Kuwait, London and New York; all these cities had, at one point or another, hosted one of them. The diversity of the trustees’ nationalities and places of residence had at least two benefits for the al-Khoei Foundation. First, it extended the legitimacy of the Foundation in the wide geographical reach of Shi‘ism. Each trustee was able to make the Foundation known to their co-religionists locally and show them its concern for all Shi‘ites, regardless of their national and ethnic backgrounds.

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Second, the creation of a multi-ethnic and multi-national board of trustees had positive repercussions on the Foundation’s operational performance. During their meetings, the trustees discussed the situation of Shi‘ites worldwide and tried to identify ways to improve their religious, social and educational conditions. Each of them was in a position to give input about the specific needs of Shi‘ites they knew the most, i.e. the communities in which they lived or where they came from. Furthermore, their expertise and knowledge of the social and political conditions in the countries where the al-Khoei Foundation distributed its patronage greatly facilitated the implementation of the Foundation’s projects locally. This can explain, for instance, why Pakistani Muhsin ‘Ali al-Najafi, a former wakīl of Ayatollah al-Khu’i and a trustee of the foundation, took on the responsibility in the early 1990s of establishing a vast educational and cultural project in Islamabad on behalf of the foundation. In spite of several setbacks that put the construction of the project into abeyance for five years, the project was eventually inaugurated in June 2001 under the name of Al-Kawthar Islamic University. Al-Najafi has been the university’s director since its inception.16 Overall, we see that the al-Khoei Foundation has not replaced the marja‘iyya’s traditional networks of representatives or their work. The system of representation has not become obsolete, but has been institutionalised to maximise its efficacy; in the view of the al-Khoei Foundation, institutional activities are indeed expected to be more enduring than individual initiatives and serve Shi‘ites better.

The Al-Khoei Foundation and its Patrons Ayatollah al-Khu’i lent de facto legitimacy to the al-Khoei Foundation in the administration of the marja‘iyya’s philanthropic services when he personally supported its creation three years before he died. The aging Ayatollah nevertheless took precautions to ensure that the Foundation would live beyond his death and continue to fulfil its mission within the framework of the marja‘iyya in the long term. To this end Article 5 of the Foundation’s by-laws stipulates that, after Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s demise, the foundation will ‘work under the patronage of the marja‘ a‘la of Shi‘ites

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recognised by the majority of ‘ulama’ and endorsed by more than three quarters of the members of the Foundation’s board of trustees’.17 Abu al-Qasim al-Khu’i passed away on 8 August 1992. Before discussing how the al-Khoei Foundation responded to this event, it is worth describing the context in which high Shi‘ism evolved at that time. Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s death put the Shi‘ite community in a serious leadership crisis as there was no obvious and unchallenged candidate to the position of marja‘ a‘la after him. This situation left the door open to state interference with the nomination of a new marja‘ as both the Iraqi and Iranian governments were keen on playing an influential role in the selection process for their own interest. Shortly after Ayatollah al-Khu’i died, Baghdad put pressure on his son Muhammad Taqi to have him endorse a regime-backed candidate.18 The majority of Iraqi Shi‘ites, however, turned to Ayatollah ‘Abd al-Sabziwari, another Najaf-based marja‘. Al-Sabziwari’s demise less than a year later allowed the Iraqi government to openly promote the marja‘iyya of the Arab Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr. In the view of the al-Khoei Foundation, Baghdad was trying to ‘control the spiritual leadership and use him as a front to disguise the injustices done to the Shias’.19 While al-Sadr seemed at first compliant to play the role of governmental marja‘, he became increasingly critical of the regime and was executed in 1998.20 Perhaps more significant was the situation in Iran. Ayatollah Khomeini’s death in 1989 dealt a serious blow to the concept of velāyat-e faqīh envisioned by the Iranian revolutionary. On Khomeini’s recommendation ‘Ali Khameneh’i acceded to the position of Supreme Leader of the Islamic Republic. However, his aspiration to be recognised as the supreme religious authority fell short because he lacked the necessary religious credentials. The Iranian constitution had to be amended, thereby officially institutionalising the separation of the functions of velāyat and marja‘iyya.21 Khameneh’i became the faqīh while another Iranian cleric, Ayatollah Muhammad ‘Ali ‘Araki, emerged as the regime-backed marja‘. ‘Araki had the double advantage of having sufficient religious credentials to be legitimately recognised as a marja‘, and of being complacent enough not to interfere in the country’s political affairs.22 Ayatollah Gulpayegani, another Qumbased marja‘, gradually found himself at odds with the government,

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particularly after he refused to submit a certificate of ijtihād (exercise of independent judgement) to Khameneh’i, a signal that he opposed the Supreme Leader’s claim to the marja‘iyya.23 Nevertheless, observers generally agree on saying that Gulpayegani became the most followed religious authority inside and outside Iran after al-Khu’i died. The ‘war of the ayatollahs’ not only reappeared but also intensified after Ayatollah Gulpayegani passed away on 9 December 1993. Khameneh’i and his supporters had not given up the idea of seeing the Supreme Leader embody again both functions of faqīh and marja‘. In a symbolic move, Khameneh’i’s office prepared a state funeral for the deceased ayatollah with the hope that the Leader’s marja‘iyya would be boosted if he led the funeral ceremony.24 However, Gulpayegani’s family curbed the plan when they refused the offer and promptly organised a funeral in Qum.25 It is in the same period that 51 clerics issued a statement in which they announced their full support for ‘Ali al-Sistani’s marja‘iyya (or alternatively for Ayatollah Ruhani of Qum) – thereby suggesting that Khameneh’i should abandon his claim for the position. Among the signatories of the statement were three trustees of the alKhoei Foundation (Muhammad Taqi al-Khu’i, Fadil al-Milani and Fadil al-Sahlani), as well as a number of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s former associates and wukala’ (‘Ali al-Beheshti, Ja‘far al-Na‘ini, Fakhr al-Din al-Zanjani, Jalal Faqih-Imani, Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah, and Muhammad Mahdi Shams al-Din).26 Open efforts to promote Khameneh’i faded away and Ayatollah ‘Araki remained Iran’s official marja‘. When Ayatollah ‘Araki died less than a year later, the statebacked Association of Qum Seminary Teachers (Jam‘eh-ye Modarressin Howzeh-ye ‘Ilmi-ye Qum) announced that seven mujtahids were eligible for the marja‘iyya: Muhammad Fadil Lankarani, Muhammad Taqi Bahjat, ‘Ali Khameneh’i, Husayn Vahid Khorasani, Mirza Javad Tabrizi, Musa Shubayri Zanjani, and Nasser Makarem Shirazi.27 Overall, this list was ‘an attempt to keep the marja‘iyya in Iran and to marginalize those maraji’ who were critical of the regime’.28 Indeed, more interesting than the names on the list were the ‘ulama’ who were not included in spite of their prominent status in the Shi‘ite community. One can think of Yusuf Sane’i and ‘Abd al-Karim Moussavi Ardebili who had mildly opposed the leadership of Khameneh’i after

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the demise of Khomeini.29 Not surprisingly, Ayatollah Husayn ‘Ali Montazeri was kept off the list as he had lost the favour of Khomeini shortly before his death. The names of the two mujtahids who had received the open backing of 51 Shi‘ite clerics at the time of Ayatollah Gulpaygani’s death, namely Muhammad Ruhani and ‘Ali al-Sistani, were also ignored. Although the former enjoyed vast support among the apolitical clerical milieus of Iran, he was no suitable candidate for the Iranian leadership on several accounts: for his animosity towards Khomeini during his exile in Najaf;30 for the good relationship that his two brothers maintained with Muhammad Reza Shah under the monarchy;31 and for his loyalty to his former mentor, Ayatollah alKhu’i.32 The regime had already placed him under house arrest in the mid 1980s.33 For his part, ‘Ali al-Sistani did not receive the backing of the Association of Qum Seminary Teachers, mainly because he was based not in Iran but in Najaf. It is in this context that the al-Khoei Foundation spoke out against state interference – both Iraqi and Iranian – in the selection of the highest religious authority. In an article published in its newsletter Dialogue, it warned that ‘the inherent dynamism of the Shi‘a tradition’ might not survive if the hawza of Najaf became ‘marginalised in the debate relating to the fateful succession of the mantle of Grand Ayatollahs Golpayegani and al-Khoei’. It went on saying that it was ‘in the interest of all Shia’ Muslims, irrespective of their political leanings, that the independence and sacred rights of all the Hawzas – and especially Najaf – be respected and cherished’.34 Although the al-Khoei Foundation made it clear that it opposed Baghdad’s and Tehran’s attempts to promote their own candidates for the marja‘iyya, the identification of the mujtahid with the largest following worldwide to become its patron was not an easy task. The difficulty owed, in part, to the fact that living marāji‘ do not generally designate a successor. Litvak has documented that nineteenth-century religious leaders tried to campaign on behalf of potential candidates to avoid a leadership vacuum after their death.35 It seems, however, that the practice has not been commonplace in the recent history of the marja‘iyya.36 As far as Ayatollah al-Khu’i was concerned, he was often pressed by other ‘ulama’ to give them a name, but he never overtly

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suggested any mujtahid to replace him at the head of the community.37 Yet rumours about potential contenders frequently whirled among clerical circles, especially regarding a number of clerics who had maintained personal ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i during his lifetime, as former students, associates or relatives through marriage. Among those who were still alive when Ayatollah al-Khu’i passed away was Muhammad Ruhani to whom reference has been made above. He studied in Najaf and became one of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s most eminent students. This Iranian cleric was forced to leave the Iraqi hawza in 1976 after his expulsion from the country by the Ba‘ath regime and settled in Qum. A story says that when Ruhani travelled to London for medical treatment in 1982, Ayatollah al-Khu’i asked him to consider coming back to Najaf. Many interpreted this request as a strong signal that the marja‘iyya was pointing at him as a successor. But the Iranian cleric returned to Iran.38 Attention also turned in the late 1980s to ‘Ali al-Sistani, one of the marja‘’s closest and most eminent students. In the view of many, al-Khu’i’s appointment of al-Sistani as the imam jum‘a at the alKhadra mosque in Najaf in December 1988 was an indicator that he was actively promoting the ascension of his former student to the marja‘iyya.39 A few years later, al-Sistani headed al-Khu’i’s funeral in Najaf, a symbolic act for the succession of the marja‘iyya as we have already noted. One should perhaps note that the relationship between al-Sistani and his mentor was also formalised through the marriage of two of their grand-children in the early 1990s, not long before the death of Ayatollah al-Khu’i. Thus, Ayatollah al-Sistani’s learning credentials, as well as his intimate ties with Ayatollah al-Khu’i, made him a good candidate to succeed his mentor to the marja‘iyya. Another potential candidate was Ayatollah ‘Ali al-Beheshti. He attended the classes of al-Khu’i and worked in his office in Najaf. The ties between the two scholars were further strengthened through the marriage of two of their children, Laya al-Beheshti and Majid al-Khu’i. After Ayatollah al-Khu’i died, Shi‘ite circles regularly courted Ayatollah al-Beheshti to announce his marja‘iyya. He has always refused, preferring to enjoin the believers to follow Ayatollah al-Sistani.40 Finally, it is worth noting that the family of Ayatollah Gulpayegani, the most

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widely followed mujtahid in Iran after Ayatollah al-Khu’i, had marital ties to the al-Khu’i family as two of the Ayatollahs’ grand-children married in the 1960s. In practice, the process through which the al-Khoei Foundation selected its new patron, i.e. the mujtahid with the largest following worldwide, proved a real challenge to its trustees. Before the board had the chance to meet and discuss the matter, one of its clerical trustees gave contradictory instructions with regard to taqlīd after the death of Ayatollah al-Khu’i. He signed statements with his name but used the al-Khoei Foundation’s official letterhead. Mulla Asghar ‘Ali M. M. Jaffer, the President of the World Federation of Khoja Shia IthnaAsheri Muslim Communities, an organisation that followed Ayatollah al-Khu’i during his lifetime, publicly denounced the discrepancy: In his first letter, he said that Ayatollah Seestani was incumbent after the late Ayatollah El Khui, while in his subsequent letter he advised another gentleman to continue with the Taqleed of Ayatollah El Khui. When asked to explain the discrepancy, he wrote a third letter stating that his first letter proposed Ayatollah Seestani for those who were beginners in Taqleed. [He] conveniently forgot that in his first letter, he was answering a questioner who had sought guidance for those who were already [followers of El Khui].41 It is worth noting that, in his instructions, the al-Khoei Foundation’s trustee expressly declared himself in favour of Ayatollah ‘Ali al-Sistani from Najaf as Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s successor. This ‘alim probably acted too precipitously because when all the members of the Foundation’s board of trustees convened on 15 December 1992 in Istanbul, and again a few days later in London, they could not agree on a name.42 Several trustees probably felt that al-Sistani’s candidacy needed to be debated against other mujtahids whose marja‘iyya was more firmly established. At that time indeed, many Islamic bodies in Iran, Lebanon, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Bahrain and India, let alone the World Federation of Khoja Shia Ithna-Asheri Muslim Communities, had already acknowledged the prominence of Ayatollah

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Gulpayegani, not al-Sistani’s.43 The candidacy of the Najaf-based scholar was put on hold for some time when the trustees eventually sent a letter to Ayatollah Gulpayegani in the summer of 1993 – almost a year after Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s death – inviting him to assume the function of the Foundation’s patron.44 The ailing marja‘ agreed but passed away a few months later. His death raised again the question of religious leadership, but this time the trustees rapidly acknowledged the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Sistani, most probably because they had already discussed this eventuality.45 The al-Khoei Foundation officially requested his patronage in a letter dated 26 January 1994, and the Najaf-based marja‘ accepted the offer.46 Critical voices inside the Shi‘ite community felt that the al-Khoei Foundation did not handle the matter well and some started to call it, with regard to its selection of al-Sistani, a marja‘-maker. Although the Foundation’s leadership denies this accusation, it remains true that the al-Khoei Foundation and Ayatollah al-Sistani gained mutual benefits from their association. The former had found a patron whose marja‘iyya followed the line of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s legacy, as well as permission to use half of the religious taxes it collected to finance its projects and services. For al-Sistani, his access to supreme religious leadership status was enhanced through the association of his name with the Londonbased Foundation and its many projects worldwide.47 According to Walbridge, this association ‘quickly spread his reputation throughout the Shi’i world’.48 Although the arrangement was mutually beneficial to both the Foundation and Ayatollah al-Sistani, the relationship between the two parties has not always been smooth and tension rapidly became palpable. For a few months, Muhammad Taqi al-Khu’i, the Foundation’s general-secretary, reported directly to its new patron.49 But, in early April 1994, the marja‘ appointed Muhammad Mahdi Shams al-Din, a former wakīl of Ayatollah al-Khu’i and his own representative in Lebanon, to act on his behalf in the Foundation. In a letter addressed to the foundation’s trustees, al-Sistani requested that ‘they fully cooperate with Shams al-Din to help him undertake his task in the most complete manner’.50 The Lebanese cleric travelled several times to London for discussions with the trustees. Dissension emerged about

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the role the marja‘ should play in the Foundation, however. The trustees understood it as a ceremonial function and had hoped that, with the nomination of al-Sistani, they would be allowed a fair degree of independence. Shams al-Din sought a more active and direct involvement for the patron that did not entail the mere blessing of, but rather control over, the Foundation’s projects. The two sides could not come to an agreement and Shams al-Din eventually resigned. The relationship between the al-Khoei Foundation and its patron remained uneasy in the following years. The Foundation was the target of criticism about its lack of transparency, the mismanagement of its financial resources and the political behaviour of its general-secretary, ‘Abd Majid al-Khu’i. Obviously this did not reflect well on the marja‘. In 2001, the trustees of the Foundation organised a four-day meeting in Amman with Ayatollah al-Fayyad from Najaf to prove to him that these accusations were baseless and have him convey the message to al-Sistani. After the death of Majid al-Khu’i in 2003, his brother Sahib visited al-Sistani in Najaf and offered him the keys of the al-Khoei Foundation. Al-Sistani declined the offer, giving a clear signal that Sahib al-Khu’i could legitimately assume the position of new generalsecretary of the Foundation. While he remains its patron, al-Sistani delegated the direct supervision of the institution to Ishaq al-Fayyad to whom the trustees are now reporting. In a symbolic gesture alFayyad gave his blessing of the Foundation, and al-Sistani renewed his as well.51 Thus, more than 15 years after the demise of Abu al-Qasim al-Khu’i and in spite of the turmoil that marked this period, the alKhoei Foundation has maintained ties with the marja‘iyya in Najaf and still benefits from its moral and financial patronage.

Conclusion In this article I have analysed the organisational principles that were used to inscribe the al-Khoei Foundation as a continuation of the Najaf-based marja‘iyya and to ensure that the community of believers regard it as legitimate. In order to clarify that the authority of the marja‘ reached into the internal structure of this cleric-run institution, we see that this process had both a spatial and temporal dimension.

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Regarding the first dimension, I have explained that the foundation’s board of trustees was composed of Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s sons, former students, associates and representatives. Personal interactions established within the community of learning in the shrine city of Najaf had implications at a transnational level when the al-Khoei Foundation was formed, in that pre-existing ties between the marja‘ and future trustees were reproduced and built upon. With its trustees overseeing projects throughout the Shi‘ite world, the Foundation became an institutionalised intermediary between the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Khu’i and the transnational community of believers. The personal connections between the marja‘ and the persons heading the al-Khoei Foundation symbolically reduced the distance that separates the Shi‘ites from their religious authority in Najaf, no matter how far from the shrine city they lived. The temporal dimension of the marja‘iyya’s extension in the al-Khoei Foundation become apparent in the article of the Foundation’s by-laws that the organisation should be placed under the supervision of the marja‘ a‘la of the time. Following Ayatollah al-Khu’i’s demise, Ayatollah al-Gulpayegani, and shortly afterwards Ayatollah al-Sistani, took on the mantle of patron of the Foundation. To some extent this clause has facilitated the formalisation of the marja‘iyya’s temporal continuity at the institutional level. In practice, the appointment of new patrons did not alter the internal organisation of the Foundation. Today, the composition of the board of trustees is still largely based on the networks associated with the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Khu’i. Indeed, one of the Ayatollah’s sons still acts as the Foundation’s general-secretary, and four out of the five remaining trustees had been personally appointed to this position by Ayatollah al-Khu’i in 1989. In their large majority, the trustees who were wukalā‘ of Ayatollah al-Khu’i during his lifetime are now to be counted among al-Sistani’s representatives. Both spatially and temporally, therefore, the authority of the marja‘iyya has been institutionalised, in part because it provides philanthropic services as well as a form of religious solidarity. But, as we have seen, it has also been institutionalised because of its tight organisational networking – a point that has perhaps been understated in the study of transnational high Shi‘ism.

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Notes 1. Al-Khoei Foundation, Concept and Projects, 1992 ([London]: [Al-Khoei Foundation], [n.d.(a)]), p. 11. 2. Jens-Uwe Rahe, ‘Irakische Schiiten Im Londoner Exil: Eine Bestandsaufnahme ihrer Organisationen und Untersuchung ihrer Selbstdarstellung, 1991–1994’ in Peter Heine (ed.), Al-Rafidayn 4 (Würzburg: Ergon Verlag, 1996), p. 61. 3. Interview with Ghanim Jawad, London, 18 October 2007. 4. For a general discussion on the role of sons and sons-in-law in the marja‘iyya, see Linda S. Walbridge (ed.), The Most Learned of the Shi‘a: The Institution of the Marja‘ Taqlid (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), p. 233. 5. Al-Khoei Foundation, Taqrir Mujaz hawla Ba‘d Khidmat wa Nashatat Furu‘ wa-Marakiz Mu’assasat al-Imam al-Khu’i al-Khairiyya, 1989–2001 ([London:] Al-Khoei Foundation, [n.d. (b)]), pp. 44–5. 6. Interview with Sadiqa al-Khu’i (Umm Zaynab) and Laya Beheshti (Umm Haydar), London, 23 February 2007. 7. Interview with ‘Abd al-Sahib al-Khu’i, London, 27 July 2009. 8. www.alaviboroujerdi.com 9. Interview with Fadil al-Sahlani, New York, 10 April 2007. 10. Interview with Ghanim Jawad, London, 22 November 2007. 11. Interview with Muhammad al-Musawi, London, 4 September 2008. 12. Interview with Ghanim Jawad, London, 26 June 2007. 13. It is worth noting that the New York office is registered as an independent organisation in the USA. However, from the perspective of the al-Khoei Foundation, it is commonly referred to as a branch of the London-based Foundation, in accordance with Shari‘a precepts and the instructions given by Ayatollah al-Khu’i in this regard (interview with Fadil al-Sahlani, New York, 10 April 2007). 14. Interview with Fadil al-Sahlani, New York, 10 April 2007; interview with Ghanim Jawad, London, 26 June 2007. 15. Rahe, ‘Irakische Schiiten Im Londoner Exil’, pp. 67–8. 16. Al-Khoei Foundation ([n.d.(b)]), pp. 141–2; http://www.alkauthar.edu.pk (accessed 13 August 2008); interview with Muhsin ‘Ali al-Najafi, London, 6 February 2009. 17. Al-Khoei Foundation ([n.d.(b)]), p. 58 (my translation). 18. Al-Khoei Foundation private documents, ‘Faxes out of al-Khoei Foundation, 2’ (E13), Letter of Yousif al-Khu’i to Max Van der Stoel (dated 26 September 1992); this document does not mention the name of the candidate, but one can assume that it was Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr. 19. Al-Khoei Foundation private documents, ‘Letters sent out from the al-Khoei Foundation’ [no file number], Letter of Yusif al-Khu’i to John Packer at the UN Human Rights Center in Geneva (dated 12 February 1994).

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20. For more details on Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr’s relationship with Baghdad, see Pierre-Jean Luizard, ‘Les sadristes en Irak: un défi pour l’Amérique, la marja‘iyya et l’Iran’ in Sabrina Mervin (ed.), Les mondes chiites et l’Iran (Paris: Karthala and Beirut: IFPO, 2007), pp. 244–5; International Crisis Group, ‘Iraq’s Muqtada al-Sadr: Spoiler or Stabilizer?’, Middle East Report 55 (11 July 2006). 21. David Menashri, Post-Revolutionary Politics in Iran: Religion, Society and Power (London and Portland: Frank Cass, 2001), p. 17. 22. Ibid. 23. Mehdi Khalaji, ‘The Last Marja: Sistani and the End of Traditional Religious Authority in Shiism’, Policy Focus 59 (Washington: The Washington Institute for Near East Policy, September 2006), pp. 22–3. 24. Prayer over the body of a deceased marja‘ is considered a highly symbolic act having repercussions for the succession of the marja‘iyya (Hamid al-Bayati, Rub‘ Qarn ma‘ al-Shahid al-Mihrab Muhammad Baqir al-Hakim (Baghdad: Mu’assasat Shahid al-Mihrab li-l-Tabligh al-Islami, 2004), p. 85). 25. Rainer Hermann, ‘Von der Wirtschafts- zur Legitimationskrise: Die Ära Khamenei / Rafsanjani in der Islamische Republik Iran’, Orient 35/4 (December 1994), p. 560. 26. For the complete list of signatories, see Al-Hayat, 16 December 1993. 27. For the text of this statement, see Jawdat al-Qazwini, Al-Marja‘iyya alDiniyya al-‘Uliyya ‘inda al-Shi‘a al-Imamiyya: Dirasa fi al-Tatawwur al-Siyasi wa-l-‘Ilmi (Beirut: Dar al-Rafidayn, 2005), pp. 411–2. 28. Houchang E. Chehabi, Distant Relations: Iran and Lebanon in the last 500 years (London and New York: Centre for Lebanese Studies in association with I.B.Tauris, 2006), p. 299. 29. Khalaji, ‘The Last Marja’, p.24. 30. ‘Abbas ‘Ali ‘Amid Zanjani, Rivayati az Enqelab-e Islami-ye Iran: Khaterat-e Hojjat al-Islam va ‘l-Muslimin ‘Abbas ‘Ali ‘Amid Zanjani, edited by Muhammad ‘Ali Hajji Baygi Kundari (Tehran: IRDC, 1379/2000–01), p. 137; ‘Abd al-Vahhab Farati, Tarikh-e Shifahi-ye Enqelab-e Islami (Tehran: IRDC, 1379/2000–01), p. 56; Munir al-Din Husayni Shirazi, Khaterat-e Hojjat al-Islam va ‘l-Muslimin Marhum Sayyed Munir al-Din Husayni Shirazi, edited by IRDC (Tehran: IRDC, 1383/2004–05), p. 216. 31. Muhammad al-Gharawi, Ma‘ ‘Ulama’ al-Najaf al-Ashraf (Beirut: Dar alThaqalayn, 1999), p. 542. 32. Walbridge, The Most Learned of the Shi‘a, p. 236. 33. Amnesty International, ‘Iran: Human Rights Violations against Shi‘a Religious Leaders and their Followers’, AI index: MDE/13/18/97 (3 June 1997), pp. 11–12. 34. Dialogue (January 1994), p. 1.

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35. Meir Litvak, Shi‘i Scholars of Nineteenth-Century Iraq: The ‘Ulama’ of Najaf and Karbala’ (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 70. 36. Khalaji names several reasons explaining why it is not in the interest of living marāji‘ to name a successor (Khalaji, ‘The last Marja’, pp. 18, 33); contrast this view with Western accounts on Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr’s nomination of a successor (Luizard, ‘Les sadristes en Irak’, pp. 244–5; Peter Harling and Hamid Yassin Nasser, ‘La mouvance sadriste: lutte de classe, millénarisme et fitna’, in Mervin (ed.), p. 281). 37. Interview with Mahdi Faqih-Imani, Tehran, 7 November 2006. 38. Ibid. 39. Muhammad al-Gharawi, Al-Marja‘iyya wa-Mawaqifuha al-Siyasiyya fi Madrasat Ahl al-Bayt (Beirut: Dar al-Mahajja al-Bayda’, 2003), pp. 51–2; Khalaji, ‘The Last Marja’, p. 8; al-Bayati, Rub‘ Qarn, p. 85. 40. Muhammad Samami, Khaterat-e Hojjat al-Islam va ‘l-Muslimin Muhammad Samami, edited by ‘Ali Maliki (Tehran: IRDC, 1384/2005–06), p. 165. 41. World Federation of Khoja Shia Ithna-Asheri Muslim Communities, ‘Press Release’ ([n.d]). 42. Al-Nur (August 1993), p. 11. 43. World Federation of Khoja Shia Ithna-Asheri Muslim Communities, Shia World (October 1992), p. 9. 44. Al-Nur (August 1993), p. 11. 45. When the trustees selected Gulpayegani in 1993, they decided that they would recognise ‘al-Sistani as the new marja‘ taqlīd if Gulpayegani rejected the Foundation’s offer (Hermann, ‘Von der Wirtschafts- zur Legitimationskrise’, p. 560). 46. Al-Nur (February 1994), p. 33. 47. More generally, al-Sistani’s marja‘iyya has made extensive use of the networks previously associated with the marja‘iyya of Ayatollah al-Khu’i (Kharaji, ‘The Last Marja’, p. 9). 48. Walbridge, The Most Learned of the Shi‘a, p. 239. 49. Al-Sistani had also given him permission to collect religious taxes (Majma‘ al-‘Alami li-Ahl al-Bayt, Shuhada’ al-‘Ilm wa-l-Fadila fi al-‘Iraq ([Qum]: Al-Mu’awaniyya al-Thaqafiyya li-l-Majma‘ al-‘Alami li-Ahl al-Bayt, 1426/2005–06), p. 201). 50. Al-Nur (May 1994), p. 45 (my translation). 51. Interview with Ghanim Jawad, London, 18 October 2007.

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CHAPTER SIX THE SADR ISTS BET WEEN M AHDISM, NEO-AKHBAR ISM AND USULI ORTHODOX Y: EX A MPLES FROM SOUTHER N IR AQ Reidar Visser

This chapter explores Muqtada al-Sadr’s relationship to the hierarchical principles of orthodox Usuli Shi‘ism. The main argument is that although there has been a good deal of sensationalism in the Western media about Muqtada and his alleged unorthodox practices, his actual public statements and announcements (bayān) tend to suggest a desire to ultimately abide by and uphold the principles of Shi‘ite orthodoxy, even if his supporters and competing Sadrist groups often follow more radical alternatives. Muqtada’s decision to relocate to Qum in Iran in 2007 instead of attempting some kind of Mahdist war of liberation in southern Iraq would seem to corroborate this interpretation. In terms of identity questions, the Sadrist camp as a whole does seem to have a particular affinity to the far south of Iraq, historically the home of several radical (and indeed, unorthodox) socio-political revolutionary movements. But again, Muqtada himself seems to have charted a different course, devoting more time to nationalist pan-Iraqi, pan-Arab,

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pan-Shi‘ite and sometimes pan-Islamic themes than to particularist movements in the south of Iraq.

The Fundamental mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy in Shi‘ism Basically, Shi‘ite Islam divides Muslims into two categories, those who are qualified to interpret Islamic law (mujtahids) and the vast majority who are not (muqallids). Each and every muqallid must select from the class of mujtahids a cleric to follow and emulate in daily life; this cleric becomes his or her marja‘ al-taqlīd or exemplar (literally: source of emulation). The status as mujtahid is normally confirmed by a jurisprudential certificate (ijāza) from one or more individuals already recognised as mujtahids, but this is not always the case: although the jurisprudential certificate remains the primary route to becoming a mujtahid, some scholars acquire widespread recognition as marja‘s without having proper certificates and even in the face of explicit opposition towards their mujtahid status from other clerics. Muhammad Husayn Fadlallah of Lebanon belonged to this category: along with others, he rejected the formalism that comes with a focus on certificates. Clerics in this category may tend to portray the achievement of mujtahid status as a personal journey of learning; some even speak of particular incidents when they ‘became aware of’ their mujtahid status. Others rather abruptly discover certificates awarded in the past – as was the case with Iran’s current leader, ‘Ali Khameneh’i, whose emergence as a marja‘ in the early 1990s was scoffed at by many. There were highranking clerics who questioned Khameneh’i’s mujtahid status and he was forced to publicise rather strained testimonies from relatives of Khomeini who recounted how the leader of the Iranian revolution had supposedly spoken of Khameneh’i as a ‘mujtahid’. And there are those whose marja‘ status has been established under other peculiar circumstances: Sadiq al-Shirazi (based in Qum in Iran but with a large following of Shi‘ites in the Gulf and to some extent in Iraq) uses a handwritten note from his late brother, the widely recognised marja‘ Muhammad al-Shirazi, as the main piece of evidence for marja‘ status; whereas Muhammad Baqir al-Hakim of Iraq was in practice elevated

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to marja‘ status only after his assassination in 2003, when some of his devotees in the Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution in Iraq (SCIRI) began describing him as a past marja‘. In practice, a mujtahid who does not aspire to a religious leadership role as a source of emulation for the Shi‘ite Muslim community (marja‘ al-taqlīd) and instead focuses on other activities (such as seminary teaching) is often called an ‘ayatollah’, whilst a mujtahid seeking to act as a marja‘ will be refered to as a ‘grand ayatollah’ by his followers. But in this area, beyond the key distinction in terms of religious authority (or potential for religious authority) between mujtahids and everyone else (the muqallids), the scale is blurred: the crucial variable is behavioural rather than having anything to do with nomenclature. A cleric who aspires to become a marja‘ will undertake a number of conspicuous changes in his work routine to signal his ambition. Most will already have worked for some time as teachers at the highest level of Shi‘ite studies (known as dars al-khārij); they will now proceed to assume a more public leadership role. This will include publishing one or more major jurisprudential works – seen as key to recognition of marja‘ status because this enables potential followers to acquire a comprehensive and holistic work of reference with the rulings of their chosen marja‘. Particularly ambitious would-be marja‘s may complement the publication of jurisprudential works with establishing an institutional presence of personal representatives (wukalā‘) or charitable societies abroad; some will seek to have their works published in foreign languages as well. And then the aspiring marja‘ – now typically styling himself ‘grand ayatollah’ – will start performing the activity that lies at the heart of the mujtahid/muqallid classification scheme: he will start receiving requests for fatwas (istiftās) from the general public, who have the right to seek the legal opinion of their mujtahid on any question affecting their daily lives (in return they are expected to hand over a considerable sum of money annually). This may well be the best litmus test for marja‘ ambitions: whereas a marja‘ will accept request for fatwas from the general public, a non-marja‘ will defer to someone else – or ask the person who requested the fatwa to indicate a preferred marja‘, reducing his own role to that of a mere courier in the process.1 If all these actions succeed in attracting public attention,

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the mujtahid will have become an established marja‘ – a mujtahid with an active following. Muqtada al-Sadr is currently a student in the Shi‘ite Mulsim seminaries, the hawza. While his adherents refer to him by the honorific title of hujjalulislam wa-al-muslimin, critics claim that Sadr has not studied enough to use this title. Ultimately, however, this dispute has limited significance compared to the more fundamental mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy. Muqtada al-Sadr is certainly not yet a mujtahid, and therefore also his room for political manoeuvre remains limited. Essentially he has three options. Firstly, he could do what Fadlallah did in Lebanon with Amal between 1979 and 1982 and later with Hizb al-Da‘wa: become a mujtahid (or at least claim to be a mujtahid), and establish a special partnership with a political party. Or, he could do what Hasan Nasrallah has done in Lebanon: make an alliance with a mujtahid, or someone who is recognised as a mujtahid (in the Nasrallah case, Khomeini and later Khameneh’i). Finally – and far more radically – he could abandon the whole mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy and instead attack the very system. This in turn could come about in two different forms: either as in neoAkhbarism (which typically accuses the Usulis of ‘being in love with their ulama’ and claim that ‘man was given intellect in order to understand Shari‘a not to draft a new one’), or through a complete change of the rules, as in Mahdism (where the existing rules of the game are essentially abandoned and new rules are introduced ad hoc with reference to the coming of the end of time).

Sadr between mujtahid and muqallid behaviour So far, in the wider family of followers of the late Muhammad al-Sadr (whose mujtahid status was seldom challenged), various approaches to the mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy have been seen. Attempts to become a mujtahid include Mahmud al-Hasani and, perhaps most successfully, Muhammad al-Yaqubi. Sometimes referred to derogatorily as ‘engineer mujtahids’ because of their comparatively young age and their conversion during the 1990s from non-clerical education backgrounds to mature hawza students, both Hasani and Yaqubi play by the rules

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of the game in the sense that they refer to ijāzas as the basis for the authority to which they claim. In the case of Yaqubi, his certificates were obtained during a visit to Iran in around Januray 2004, whence he received ijāzas from two less-known mujtahid clerics. Still in his late 40s at the time – and despite fierce protest from certain interested corners, not least the already-established clerics catering for the followers of the late Sadr such as Kazim al-Hairi in Qum – Yaqubi has had remarkable success in gaining recognition as a marja‘ among at least some segments of the Iraqi Shi‘ite community. Yaqubi is currently the only recognised mujtahid in Iraq who is also in control of his own political party, the Fadila. As for Hasani, despite all the focus on rumours concerning his fliration with Mahdism, his public discourse mostly remains loyal to the trappings of orthodoxy, explicitly situating the present in the ‘age of the ghayba’ when believers are still awaiting the Mahdi.2 He has, however, been far less successful in his mujtahid career than Yaqubi. Together these two men exhibit potential outcomes for Muqtada should he too try to fast-track himself to mujtahid status at an early stage of his career as a scholar. The other and more radical alternatives include neo-Akhbarism as well as the Mahdist path. Traditional Akhbari strongholds are found in the region in Bahrain as well as in the Qurna and Suq al-Shuyukh areas north of Basra (in particular associated with the Jamal al-Din family) and near Muhammra (Khorranshahr) in neighbouring Iran, but the historical tendency within these communities for the past century has increasingly been to seek rapprochement with mainstream Usuli Shi‘ism instead of invoking Akhbari principles to create new forms of political activism that could involve attacks on the monopoly of the Shi‘ite clergy (and therefore parallels to certain forms of Sunni Islamism, as seen for example in the case of the Akhbaris of Hyderabad in India). Rather, in the case of the broad Sadrist trend in post-2003 Iraq (i.e. defined as all the followers of individuals to claim to be the heirs to the scholarship of Muhammad Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr, Muqtada’s father who was assassinated in 1999), it is the Mahdist option that has gained a certain degree of traction. Mahdism has strong historical roots in Iraq, not least due to the frequent references to Iraqi localities in the exisiting Islamic literature on the return

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of the Mahdi, as well as the existence of several medieval precedents linked to Basra and the surrounding region. The nineteenth century saw the emergence of such Mahdi-related cults as the Shaykhis (still strong in Basra), the Babis and the Baha’is; in modern times Muqtada al-Sadr’s own father was prominent in drawing attention to the Hidden Imam and the circumstances surrounding his return (though without creating any outright Mahdist movements as such). After 2003, there are at least two examples of Iraqi religious leaders with certain links to the Sadrist movements ‘going all the way’ in terms of Mahdism, namely the cases of the ‘Soldiers of Heaven’ cult headed by Diya ‘Abd al-Zahra in the central Euphrates area in January 2007 and the movement of Ahmad al-Hasan, ‘the Yemenite’, in Basra and the far south since at least 2005. Both have attacked the very fundamentals of the Shi‘ite religious hierarchy and claim unique legitimacy for themselves instead, citing the coming return of the Mahdi and their own alleged role as his companions. In the case of the ‘Soldiers of Heaven’ this supposedly involved political violence and even a plot to kill the higher ulama of Najaf (though, the Iraqi government’s arrest and subsequent sentencing and execution of several of those involved has been subjected to heavy criticism), whereas the followers of Ahmad al-Hassan in Basra claim to be peaceful (but were nevertheless targeted in government security sweeps during the holy month of Muharram in early 2008).3 As for Muqtada al-Sadr himself, he has for much of the time after 2003 chosen a temporary solution: reliance on the rulings of his late father. This is however problematic because Shi‘ites prefer to emulate a living mujtahid. To compensate, Sadr has also added two other, partially incompatible strategies: allying himself with a mujtahid (as seen with his links with Kazim al-Hairi in 2003 and again, perhaps more tentatively, since 2007) and trying to become one (since 2007 Muqtada has been spending long periods in Qum). On the other hand, the more unorthodox alternatives of neo-Akhbarism and Mahdism have been in the background as far as Muqtada himself has been concerned. True, there seemed to be a certain dose of criticism of the entire scholarly foundation of Shi‘ism back in 2003, when the distinction between the vocal (nātiqa) and the mute (sāmita) hawza was particularly central

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to Sadrist political discourse. But later this element was toned down somewhat (and in any case seems to be a criticism of what is considered a dormant – and therefore incompetent – traditional clergy, rather than a call for a substitute for the ijtihad-based clergy as a category, which the label of neo-Akhbarism would require). As for Mahdism, it is important to distinguish between what Muqtada himself says, and what he just acquiesces in. There is a huge difference between him claiming a special relationship with the Mahdi – for which there has been little proof so far – and his followers making claims of a Mahdist nature (for example, that Muqtada is the son of the Mahdi). By way of parallel, many Iranians thought Khomeini was the Mahdi, but that did not detract from Khomeini’s own choice of avoiding Mahdism. Also, it is import to realise that a certain focus on the Mahdi is an integral part of Shi‘ite Islam. For example, on the YouTube website, there has been much focus on a video clip with Muqtada talking about his goal of ‘establishing the state of the imam mahdi’ (ta’sīs dawlat al-imām al-mahdī) – supposedly a scandalous assertion. But that in itself is not any more radical than what Sadr’s father did, which was also to contemplate the possible character of the state of the Mahdi.4 There is nevertheless a certain tension in Muqtada’s handling of the nomenclature of orthodox Shi‘ism. Sometimes his public statements are impeccable in their loyalty to the established system. A good example is Muqtada’s advice to his followers before the December 2005 parliamentary elections in Iraq, where he essentially deferred to the opinion of the ‘grand marja‘s’ (hence making it clear that he himself did not belong to this group). In his bayān on the subject, Muqtada explicitly referred to the decisions of the ‘grand marja‘s’, making it clear that he did not see himself as having the authority to pass a ruling on these issues.5 However, in some of Muqtada’s other pronouncements, a more assertive tendency can be noted: some of these statements increasingly look like fatwas. A good example is Muqtada’s advice to his followers about the pilgrimage to Karbala in 2008. Here it is Muqtada himself who wields the verb wajaba (indicating the impostion of an obligation in Arabic), complete with instructions as to how guards should behave towards the pilgrims. Many of the recommendations Muqtada makes in this context are perfectly innocuous and unlikely to provoke

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dispute. But the point lies in the form: Muqtada on these occasions seems very close to playing the role of a mujtahid addressing his muqallids. Typical of the ambiguity is that his followers often refer to their letters to Muqtada as ‘requests for fatwas’ (istiftās) whereas Muqtada in a more neutral fashion publishes his answers as ‘bayāns’ or pronouncements of a more general nature.6 Yet another variety of this theme could be seen in bayāns from 2009 in which Sadr claimed to interpret in an authoritative fashion statements from his own father concerning subjects such as the duty to attend Friday prayers.7 Additional ambiguities are found if one delves deeper in Muqtada’s statements and actions. The controversies surrounding the Jaysh alMahdi (JAM – the Sadrist militia) are a good example. In a recent statement, a member of the Office of the Martyr Sadr (OMS) said that Sadr cannot himself dissolve the JAM. It has to be done on the instruction of ‘the marja‘s’.8 Problematically, however, Kazim al-Hairi himself in a fatwa disclaimed any connection with the JAM, saying it had not been created on his orders.9 So who can dissolve it? This hypothetical quandary seems to suggest that Muqtada himself may have decided to form the JAM back in 2003, which would be an extraordinary undertaking by someone who is not a mujtahid. Similarly, yet another grey-zone variant of fatwa-making appeared in September 2009, this time as Muqtada al-Sadr personally signed a bayān which stated that the OMS had arrived at the suitable criteria voters should keep in mind when picking their candidate in the forthcoming Iraqi parliamentary elections. The statement was notable for several reasons. Firstly, the source of authority for the decision appeared to be the elusive OMS rather than Muqtada himself. Secondly, the content was in itself somewhat original, featuring as it did a provision that suitable candidates should not belong to a political party and not don clerical robes (although there should be ‘representatives’ of the higher clergy). Among other things, this is a noteworthy stance on the relationship between the clerical hawza and the legislative branch of government, where Sadr – at the time still based in Qum – now seemed to mark a clearer distinction to the Iranian model than for example his new-found partners in the Islamic Supreme Council of Iraq (ISCI), with whom he had formally entered an electoral alliance

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a few weeks earlier.10 Muqtada now seemed to suggest that clerics should stay away from both the executive as well as the legislative branches of government.11 However, even if Muqtada at times has exposed an uneasy relationship to the mujtahid/muqallid dichotomy, some of the more sensationalist stories surrounding him and his supposed ventures into fatwa-making are exaggerated. Perhaps the best example is the socalled hashish fatwa, which has recently been highlighted by the Israeli researcher Amatzia Baram as supposed proof that Muqtada claims to be in intimate contact with the Mahdi.12 A brief look at the fatwa suggests that it may well be fake, especially with the caricature portrayal of Muqtada’s meetings with the Mahdi, complete with the final PS: ‘Please don’t share this fatwa with anyone’. Additionally, it seems somewhat suspect that the only full-blown fatwas from Muqtada that materialise tend to address highly controversial issues such as drugs or even sexual orgies. They tend to appear on hardline Sunni websites.13

Beyond Orthodoxy: Radical Trends in Sadrist Thought More problematic than Muqtada’s own public statements is what some of his followers say. Back in 2004, for example, some of them allegedly declared jihad against the USA, which seems to be a clear case of non-mujtahids overreaching their prerogatives: according to local Iraqi news agencies, Shaykh Aws al-Khafaji made such a statement in Nasiriyya in mid May 2004.14 Similarly, some have used Friday prayers to fix rewards for those who capture British solders, even suggesting that female soldiers could be kept as slaves. According to a British press report, also from May 2004, ‘in a sermon to thousands of worshippers at Friday prayers in the southern, British-run city, Abdul-Satar al-Bahdali said: “A 250,000 dinar reward will be given to whomever detains a female British soldier. She should be handed to the office of Sadr the martyr, and she will be treated as a concubine”’.15 It is unclear where this authority comes from and it is hard not to see it as a direct attack on the monopoly of the ulama that is so central to Usuli Shi‘ism.

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Another example is the appearance in Basra in late 2003 of an institution known as lajnat al-amr bi-al-ma‘ruf wa al-nahi an al-munkar or the committee for ‘commending the accepted and preventing that which is rejected’. This group came to the fore in earnest during a violent confrontation between students at Basra University in March 2005. Of course, the concept of ‘commending the accepted’, etc. is itself widely used in Shi‘ite Islam, and is sometimes referred to by the top ulama. But the formation of a legal committee that even goes about killing people without any reference to legal authorities seems to be another overt challenge to the mujtahid monopoly: in the wake of the incident, two young Basrawis, Shaykh Murtada al-Hajjaj and Sayyid Haydar al-Jabiri explained to a local newspaper that the incident at Basra University took place after the committee along with Shaykh Abdallah al-Manshadawi had confronted mixed groups of students whose meetings in park areas were deemed un-Islamic ‘in the middle of the months of Muharram and Safar when even marriage is forbidden, in addition to commemorating the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and the intifada of 17 March [sic]’, the latter being a reference to the 1991 uprising for which it is doubtful whether any special Islamic injunctions regarding remembrance observances have been produced in orthodox Islamic fiqh.16 The ambivalence concerning Muqtada al-Sadr’s followers also applies to a certain extent to the second deviance from orthodoxy under review here, namely Mahdism. As discussed above, some instances of fullblown Mahdism have been seen among Sadrists, but mainly among other Sadrist groups that are separate from Muqtada. Still, the point here is that the borders between these groups appear to be in a state of flux, with ideas and individuals still moving from camp to camp. For example, followers of Ahmad al-Hasan of Basra occasionally refer to Muqtada’s father as a source of authority. This was seen for instance in a letter to other Sadrists dated August 2005, in which an Ahmad al-Hasan follower referred to Muhammad Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr’s rulings on defensive jihad, and criticised Muhammad al-Yaqubi (the ‘engineer mujtahid’ referred to above, who operates within an orthodox framework).17 However, for real Mahdism, it is still necessary to look to truly marginal groups, like the followers of Ahmad al-Hasan, who

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have openly seceded from any possible connections with Muqtada. In contrast to Muqtada, these groups go all the way, saying that the Mahdi is about to return, and that the people should stop following the ulama and instead turn to Ahmad al-Hasan, the Guardian of the Mahdi. They routinely quote dreams they have had involving the Mahdi and the other Imams, as an indication that the end of time is near. Finally, with regard to identity and the Sadrists, it is important to note that many of the most radical trends that have manifested themselves are located in the far south of Iraq, around Basra. There is no shortage of conspiracy theories seeing Iranian hands in the rise of Mahdism – perhaps especially the hands of Mahmud Ahmadinejad. But it is probably more significant that this kind of non-conformist Shi‘ite thinking has historical roots precisely in this region. Back in medieval times, there was the Zanj revolt and later the Mushasha emirate based in the neighbouring Huwayza marshes. Today, the followers of Mahmud al-Hasani and some of the most extreme elements among Muqtada’s supporters all come from Basra. It should nevertheless be stressed that in his rhetoric, Muqtada has again been reluctant when it comes to breaking with better-established (and hence ‘more orthodox’) forms of discourse. Ever since 2003 he had tended to favour Iraqi nationalism over more narrow regional frameworks of identity, making a big point of rejecting the ideas favoured by his competitors in the Islamic Supreme Council of Iraq and Fadila party of establishing smaller federal regions limited to the Shi‘ite-inhabited areas south of Basra, the tri-governorate triangle between Basra, Dhi Qar and Maysan, or even Basra on its own.

Notes 1. In a typical examples, Ayatollah Hadi al-Mudarrisi of Karbala redirects requests for fatwas to his brother, Muhammad Taqi, or to Sadiq al-Shirazi. Shi‘ite clearing houses for fatwas – which have multiplied in the age of the internet – always prompt their customers for marja‘ preferences (unless the website is affiliated to a particular scholar). 2. An example is the Friday prayer by Mahmud al-Hasani in Kut on 6 January 2008.

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3. See Reidar Visser, ‘The Sadrists of Basra and the Far South of Iraq: The Most Unpredictable Political Force in the Gulf’s Oil-Belt Region?’ NUPI Paper no. 734 (Oslo: Norwegian Institute of International Affairs, 2008). 4. In particular, Muhammad Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr, Tarikh ma ba‘da al-zuhur. 5. Bayān dated Najaf 8 Dhu al-Qida 1426. 6. Bayān dated 12 Safar 1429. 7. Bayān, published 9 September 2009. For an earlier example of the same phenomenon see bayān dated 1 Dhu al-Hijja 1428. 8. Al-Hayat, 17 April 2008. 9. Undated fatwa from the Hairi website, www.alhaeri.org. 10. Undated Bayān published at the al3marh.net website, 10 September 2009. 11. It should be remembered that both ISCI’s last leading cleric, Muhammad Baqir al-Hakim, as well as Sadr’s own father, Muhammad Muhammad Sadiq, supported the concept of the rule of the jurisprudent or wilāyat al-faqīh, but unlike Hakim (who never challenged Khameneh’i) Sadr emphasised that it should be based in Iraq. In typical fashion, as part of their dalliance with ISCI a couple of years ago, many Western diplomats took at face value the narrative that Abd al-Aziz al-Hakim held no executive office in deference to an ‘Iraqi’ rejection of wilāyat al-faqīh; this interpretation is however flawed since Hakim was not recognised as a mujtahid (which remains the crucial distinction in ‘clerical rule’ as per the Khomeini model – in fact, Iraq saw several junior clerics rise to executive office during the period of monarchy). However, several turbaned ISCI members of the lower-ranking clergy – including Hakim himself – had no reservations about accepting positions in the legislative branch of the Iraqi government, i.e. as members of the Iraqi parliament. 12. Amatzia Baram, ‘Muqtada al-Sadr, the Mahdi and Shi’i Messianic Expectations’, unpublished paper, circa 2008. 13. Fatwa dated 2 Ramadan 1426 and published on the www.fnoor.com website. 14. Karbalanews online, 14 May 2004. 15. The Guardian, 8 May 2004. 16. Al-Manara, 27 March 2005. 17. Undated letter, circa August 2005.

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CHAPTER SEVEN ISL A MISM A MONG THE SHI‘ITES OF AFGHANISTAN: FROM SOCIAL R EVOLUTION TO IDENTIT Y-BUILDING1 Alessandro Monsutti

Social Recomposition and Political Demands Religious labels are very prominent in Afghanistan and often overlap with ethnic designations. The correlation between ethnic and religious identities is particularly strong in the case of the Hazaras,2 an ethnonym that mainly refers to Persian-speaking Shi‘ite groups who used to inhabit the high plateaux and mountains of central Afghanistan but have long since migrated to the towns or to other countries. Their religion marks them off from the Sunni majority, without drawing them closer to their fellow-Shi‘ites.3 In fact, the Shi‘ites of Afghanistan subdivide into quite different groups in respect of their history, social– economic conditions, religious traditions and identity referents, and they can never really be said to have formed a single political and cultural entity.4 Although the Hazaras make up the majority of Shi‘ites, mention should also be made of other groups – sometimes called Farsiwan (literally ‘Persian-speaking’) in the Western literature – who are present near the western frontier with Iran, in Herat and Kandahar,

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as well as the Kızılbaş, who settled especially in Kabul when they went there in the eighteenth century with the armies of Nader Shah. These are prosperous communities, but so unobtrusive and small in size that the terms ‘Shi‘ite’ and ‘Hazara’ are mostly interchangeable in the popular parlance and imagery of Afghan Sunnis.5 The label carries heavy negative connotations of religious heterodoxy, political marginality, geographical remoteness, cultural backwardness and material poverty. The late-nineteenth-century subjugation of the Hazaras by the central Afghan state marked the beginning of a long period of political and economic marginalisation. Paradoxically, however, the recent wars opened up new spaces of freedom for the Hazaras, and more generally for the Shi‘ites of Afghanistan. Their role in the post-Taliban government was greater than any they had before, and they have refused to accept a return to the old Pashtun hegemony. The Islamic revolution in Iran has partly shaped the political discourse of Hazara leaders, but it was given a different interpretation by various forces on the ground. Moreover, the ideological struggles have often masked social conflicts. In the 1980s events in Iran influenced the young clerics, often from a modest background, who took power by ousting the traditional elites. And, in the course of the following decade, the various factions developed a formal, though partial, agreement around an ethnicist discourse. In 1979 the first local revolts were organised around tribal chiefs. Internal conflicts soon broke out, however, and led to a polarisation between secular and religious forces. In a second period, from 1982 to 1984, the most radical Islamist currents inspired by the Iranian revolution took control of the greatest part of Hazarajat; there was thus a pronounced Islamisation of the resistance. At the end of the 1980s, when the Soviets pulled out and new issues came to the fore in the national arena, Hazara leaders understood that they had to move beyond their antagonism and unite with one another: this led to the birth of a new political formation, the Hezb-e Wahdat (Unity Party), whose leaders developed a series of ethnic demands and adopted a compromise between the secular and religious poles. Although Islamism played an essential role in the politicisation of the Shi‘ites of Afghanistan, this

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new turn signalled the end of the revolutionary process in favour of more pragmatic policies.6

Islam, Politics and Modernity The relations between religion and politics in the Islamic world are the subject of much debate among specialists. In his reflections based on the Afghan case, Olivier Roy has helped to clarify this relationship by distinguishing between traditionalism, fundamentalism and Islamism. He defines traditionalism as ‘the desire to freeze society so that it conforms to the memory of what it once was. . . . In this vision history and tradition are merged; the historical development of society is effaced in favour of an imaginary timeless realm under attack from pernicious modernity’.7 For fundamentalism, on the other hand, ‘it is of paramount importance to get back to the scriptures, clearing away the obfuscation of tradition. . . . The enemy is not modernity but tradition. . . . In itself fundamentalism sits uneasily within the political spectrum, for the “return to first things” may take many different forms.’8 Finally, in Roy’s analysis, Islamism is a political ideology that may be traced back to the emergence of the Muslim Brotherhood movement in Egypt in the 1930s; its ambition is to construct the state and society on the principles of Islam.9 A complementary grid may be proposed for the interpretation of three tendencies within Islam, over and above its different branches: legalism; quietism and mysticism; and millenarianism. Legalism represents a form of orthodoxy organised around the practice of law. Quietism embodies the mystical dimension, which mostly goes together with a withdrawal from the life of society. In this analytical grid, millenarianism is the revolutionary and messianic pole. Strictly speaking, it may be defined as the forecast that the end of the world is nigh, though of uncertain date, and that a time of happiness will then follow for the just. More generally, it refers to the numerous movements that have repeatedly developed in response to situations of marked injustice, which have challenged the legitimacy of the established powers and sought to bring about a more equitable society.

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These two typologies (traditionalism–fundamentalism–Islamism, legalism–quietism–millenarianism) should not be conceived of separately from each other; there are many possible overlaps between them. In Afghanistan, for instance, Olivier Roy remarks that individuals who have followed higher religious studies – the ulama and specialists in Islamic law – as well as the organising cadre in mystical fraternities have a rather fundamentalist sensibility. Thus, the anti-colonial struggle drew upon the Sufi movements, fundamentalist references and millenarian discourses so often found in tribal milieux.10 Millenarian hopes inspired a number of political–religious movements and many of the revolts that have punctuated the history of both Sunni and Shi‘ite Islam, from the rebellion of Abu Islam (which brought the Abbassids to power in the middle of the eighth century) through the Qaramitah (late-ninth to early-tenth century) to the sect of the Assassins, or even the Safavids. These movements invariably referred to the original epoch of Islam and Muhammad’s opposition to the Mecca aristocracy as the ideal model of struggle against illegitimate and iniquitous rulers. In Shi‘ism the figure of the Hidden Imam has played a crucial role: he remains alive, though concealed, and might reappear at any moment, no one knows where or when. Beyond their differences (the Qaramitah representing a form of millenarian anarchism and the Assassins a form of millenarian theocracy), all these movements have had charismatic leaders with a messianic message. Claiming to be the Mahdi, or to be directly inspired by him, they have all proclaimed that their power comes from God himself: ‘God has chosen me . . . Recognize the sacred character of my mission and follow me!’ In claiming to bring back social justice and to save men from sin, they have often had temporary success in constituting a community of believers based upon equality and solidarity. In Shi‘ism, in the absence of the Hidden Imam, any form of rule may be called into question. In Iran, the clergy was already in the Safavid period an economic and political force, a veritable counterpower. In contrast to the Ottoman world, numerous oppositional movements were led there by religious figures. In his Westernisation drive, Mohammad Reza Shah conducted severe repression against the Shi‘ite clergy, and this was the context in which Ayatollah Khomeini

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came to prominence as theologian and mystic, jurist and poet, revolutionary and statesman, militant third-worldist and rigorist thinker. A charismatic leader, he knew how to mobilise a long intellectual and doctrinal tradition while giving new life to the fervour and messianic spirit of Shi‘ism. Through his political activism he overturned the attitude of political withdrawal that characterised large segments of the clergy. His declared goal was to restore the divine order destroyed by the rule of the infidels; they would be defeated, and their defeat would usher in an era of peace and justice. At the same time, he defended the rights of the deprived masses (the mustada‘fun). Opponents of the Shah were compared to the martyrs of Karbala, and the Shah himself to Yazid, the impious caliph and murderer of Imam Husayn. The ulama were the legitimate successors of the Prophet Muhammad, of ‘Ali and the Imams; their task was to regain the power that secular governments had usurped over the centuries. It was necessary to unite the temporal and spiritual powers and to establish a theocracy that sacralised the political order. Power should be held by the Supreme Jurist (valī-ye faqīh) – hence the theory of governance or guidance by the jurist, the expert in Islamic law (velāyat-e faqīh).11 This Shi‘ite absolutism was largely based on Khomeini’s personal prestige and charisma and on the popular support he enjoyed. Upon his death in 1989, the second-ranking cleric ‘Ali Khameneh’i was appointed to succeed him. The title ‘Guide of the Islamic Revolution’ was changed to ‘Guide of the Islamic Republic’, which marked a resizing of the regime’s political and religious ambitions and a retreat into a conservative model of society. The very principle of a sanctified government came under criticism from eminent members of the clergy, and many were those who preferred to withdraw from politics. Although the regime remained in clerical hands, the surge of revolutionary messianism had come to an end. Like any revolutionary movement, millenarianism occupies an inevitably ambiguous position. On the one hand, it has a great capacity to mobilise people against social injustice and offers a sacred, unchallengeable mandate to justify the seizure of power. On the other hand, it raises popular expectations to a degree that cannot easily be fulfilled; succession problems become insoluble, as the regime rests upon

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popular recognition of one individual’s charisma, not on established rules for the transmission of power. A series of questions present themselves. How can one be sure that individuals who claim their authority to be sacred are not driven by personal interests? What guarantees that the source of their authority really is transcendent? What can be done about the huge expectations that this kind of legitimacy arouses? The claim to hold a sacred form of power inevitably leads to bitter disappointments. Indeed, contradictions within the modes of regime legitimacy are one of the reasons for the failure of political Islam predicted by Olivier Roy.12

The Hazaras: From One War to Another13 The role of Shi‘ism in actually defining Hazara identity, the openness of Hazaras to Iranian influences, the gradual strengthening of ethnic references and the echo that these have in the population are the result of a social–historical process bound up with two conflicts: the war that ravaged Afghanistan towards the end of the twentieth century, and the campaigns to subdue Hazarajat waged by the emir of Kabul between 1891 and 1893. This latter episode from the past left its mark on people’s minds: it added a dramatic edge to the distinction between Sunnis and Shi‘ites by providing the latter, and especially the Hazaras, with a whole register of symbols associated with suffering. Identity is a construct that is constantly renewed and renegotiated, a political process rather than a cultural fact. More specifically, an ethnic group should not be defined by a set of objective cultural traits: it is a ‘form of social organisation’, in which the determining element is not objective differences but what the actors themselves regard as significant. As Barth put it, ‘ethnic groups are categories of ascription and identification by the actors themselves, and thus have the characteristic of organising interaction between people’.14 The group boundaries are maintained by a number of emblems, or even stereotypes, which display belonging and exclusion and draw upon the registers of religious affiliation, social–occupational category, physical appearance, dress, diet, and so on. Conflict situations are the main setting for the emergence and reinforcement of ethnic distinctions. For

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the old social–economic complementarities have grown less marked, and confrontational dynamics over the control of natural and economic resources have been acquiring a predominant role. A certain division of labour, together with distinct ecological and economic niches, has been dying out. The term hazāra was used by Babur, founder of the Moghul dynasty in India, in the sixteenth century, when it served to designate any nonsubjugated mountain tribe.15 Only later did its meaning narrow to apply specifically to the group now known as the Hazaras. The origins of this group are the subject of controversy,16 as are the conditions under which it converted to Shi‘ism. Even the etymology of the name continues to be debated. As hazāra signifies ‘thousand’ in Persian, it is mostly thought that it alludes to the Mongol word minggan, which has the same meaning. In the age of Genghis Khan, minggan was used to denote the basic thousand-warrior unit of the Mongol armies, and by extension it could also have the sense of ‘tribe’. Most probably, Mongol groups which in the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries were pushed back into the Hindu Kush (from Central Asia in the north and Iran in the west) mingled with local Iranian inhabitants and eventually adopted their language. At the end of this process, hazāra replaced minggan and became an ethnic designation. Afghanistan took shape as a modern state in the eighteenth century (through the action of Pashtun warrior tribesmen) and developed in the nineteenth century as a buffer state between the Russian and British empires. Pashtun monarchs gradually took control of the territory assigned to them by the great powers of the time. Hazarajat was then a long way from being unified; it was a segmented society, with a low degree of horizontal solidarity. Each of its zones was controlled by powerful tribal chiefs, the mīrs, who kept up a latent state of war with one another.17 It was only to confront gradual encroachment by the central government that the first inter-tribal coalitions came into being. During the campaigns waged by Emir ‘Abdur Rahman between 1891 and 1893, there was a clear polarisation between the Shi‘ite population groups of Hazarajat and the Sunni conquerors. Faced with strong resistance, ‘Abdur Rahman obtained the support of the Sunni religious authorities, who issued a fatwa declaring the

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Shi‘ites to be infidels. He then proclaimed a holy war or jihad against them.18 The Hazaras held out for a long time before they were finally crushed and lost their old autonomy. Although ‘Abdur Rahman’s subjugation of Hazarajat helped to consolidate the central power, it confirmed the Afghan state as a Sunni institution and sharpened the fusion of religious and political identities by creating a Sunni bloc on the side of orthodoxy against a Shi‘ite bloc on the side of dissidence.19 The twentieth century was a difficult period for the Hazaras, who were considered second-class citizens by a state apparatus gradually extending its hold to local level.20 The tribal chiefs kept a dominant position by virtue of their wealth and social connections; they functioned as representatives of the population before officials of mostly Pashtun origin. Intermediaries in political affairs (tax collection, army recruitment, etc.), they nevertheless lost any real decision-making power.21 The grip of the central state was evident in other parts of the country too,22 but it seems to have been especially pronounced and untolerated in Hazarajat. On the eve of the Communist coup of April 1978, it was possible to identify four social–political categories among the Hazara elites of Afghanistan:23 the mīrs and the khāns (tribal leaders, large landowners); the sayyeds (descendants of the Prophet forming a kind of largely endogamous religious aristocracy); the shaykhs (individuals with a higher religious education, almost equally known as ruānī or ākhund); the rowshanfekr (lay intellectuals, often Maoist-inspired24). These actors stood out because of their relationship to the religious domain and the pitch of their discourse of political legitimation (local groups, ethnic emancipation, the Islamic community as a whole). As K. B. Harpviken has shown, they could be located along two axes: secular–religious and local–regional–global. The legitimating sources of the power of the mīrs were tribal, or in other words secular and local (a group of villages, a valley or at most a district); the intellectuals engaged in a Marxist-style anti-religious discourse, stressing the need for power-sharing among ethnic groups and advocating an end to social inequalities; the sayyeds, for their part, based themselves on regional networks with a religious complexion that grouped together their congregation (which might come from large areas of

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Hazarajat); and the shaykhs, with their supranational religious sensibility, thought of politics in terms of the umma and oriented towards the great Shi‘ite intellectual centres of Iran and Iraq.25 Whereas many shaykhs were sayyeds, it was very rare for a shaykh or a sayyed also to be a mīr. On the other hand, lay intellectuals often came from the lines of tribal chiefs.26 There was thus a separation between those who were invested with religious prestige (shaykhs and sayyeds) and those who held the political authority and the major economic resources (mīrs and intellectuals). The war was the setting for a profound restructuring of power, both locally, regionally and nationally, and for a reconstruction of politics and identity. In April 1978 the Communists of the PDPA (People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan) took power. Very soon they began to implement their programme of reforms: land redistribution, women’s rights, provision of schooling, and so on. They attacked existing privileges, but failed to attract the support of the poor peasantry. Indeed, through their repressive methods and their overt atheism, they rapidly lost the sympathy of rural layers. Hazarajat became one of the first regions to experience local uprisings, in the spring of 1979, and freed itself from the government’s grip the following summer. In September 1979 a large-scale meeting led to the creation of the Shura-ye enqelabi-ye ettefaq-e islami-ye Afghanistan (Revolutionary Council of the Islamic Alliance of Afghanistan). A religious dignitary, Sayyed ‘Ali Beheshti, was elected to be its leader. This apparent unity concealed grave tensions, which came to light as soon as the external military threat declined. Incapable of holding the area, government troops and then the Red Army lost interest in Hazarajat, which was anyway not a strategic priority; they were content to maintain a post at Bamyan and to use it for occasional expeditions. The Shura was divided into three antagonistic tendencies: a secular pole made up of the mīrs and left-wing intellectuals; an Islamist pole, with the shaykhs influenced by the newly developing Iranian revolution;27 and a traditionalist centre controlled by the sayyeds.28 The mīrs took the initiative for the first revolts, but the sayyeds, in alliance with the Islamists, soon took charge of operations. Mīrs and secular intellectuals were violently eliminated.

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Several factors account for this evolution. First, the religious reference had a great capacity to mobilise people against an openly atheistic regime. Second, as we have seen, the mīrs drew some of their influence from their role as intermediaries between the rural population and the state apparatus, so that their power base dwindled as the state withdrew from sight. Lastly, the sayyeds could rely on larger and more established networks than those of the mīrs, whose authority was confined to tribal segments.29 Dominated by the sayyeds, the Shura put in place a system modelled on a government. The administrative and fiscal burden of this structure exhausted the people’s goodwill and left it open to the activity of the Islamists,30 who by 1982, with support from Iran, were playing their own political and military cards. The Islamists eventually won out and in the spring of 1984 took control of the greatest part of Hazarajat. In fact, this victory initiated a process of political modernisation, as the Islamists, often from modest origins, were champions of a reformed Islam, in contrast to the traditional practices of the sayyeds. Whereas the mīrs and sayyeds evolved into a clientelist network, tribal and local for the former, religious and regional for the latter, the shaykhs insisted that all believers had to make a free choice of a spiritual guide. Horizontal relations took the place of the vertical links formerly predominant. This conception offered the framework for a restructuring of social relations, for an expansion of solidarity and the bases of recruitment: it was thus more suited to the needs of modern warfare, which go well beyond the codified logic of tribal confrontations.31 Furthermore, the religious considerations of the shaykhs were coupled with a social-reform project;32 their aim was to fight against inequalities in a language intelligible to the whole of the Hazara population. The religious figures thus managed to break the power of the old elites, thanks to a discourse that combined references to religion with the liberation of the oppressed masses. Two quite distinct movements, often in competition with each other, shared the stage: the Sazman-e Nasr (Victory Organisation) and the Sepah-e Pasdaran (Army of Guardians). The divisions between them were a reflection of the factional struggles then shaking Iran. The first seemed to be linked to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and

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the entourage around Ayatollah Montazeri (a man close to Khomeini, who would disown him shortly before he died); the second was directly controlled by the Iranian Pasdaran, an elite corps whose activity was as much political as military. Under the influence of Islamic radicalism, it was not long before ever deeper ideological nuances began to emerge: the Nasr movement stuck more to its independence of the great Shi‘ite patron and was more sensitive to the issue of ethnic discrimination;33 the Sepah remained more attached to the establishment of an Islamist state in line with the Khomeini model. In 1989 the Red Army pulled out of Afghanistan, and it was expected that the Communist regime led by President Najibullah would swiftly founder. Yet it maintained itself until April 1992 by taking advantage of the discord among various factions of the resistance. Although the ethnic character of recruitment into the main parties did not show in their explicit ideology, it played a stronger role as they all tried to grab power by linking up with Communist elites in the same ethnic group. The peace talks continued to falter, but all took place under Pakistani sponsorship and disregarded the Shi‘ite component of the Afghan population. Threatened with exclusion, the Shi‘ite political leaders realised that it had become urgent to stop dwelling on their differences. With the active support of Iran – which had been released from the war with Iraq by the ceasefire in 1988 and was seeking to assert itself as a regional power balancing Pakistan – the principal Shi‘ite factions agreed to form a single broad movement, the Hezb-e wahdat-e islami-ye Afghanistan (Islamic Unity Party of Afghanistan). Its foremost figure, ‘Abdul ‘Ali Mazari, was aware of the need to overcome recent rifts, and the party’s discourse of political legitimation swung towards the new ideological terrain of Hazara identity. The reins of power remained in the hands of the ruānī,34 but the Hezb-e wahdat also incorporated numerous lay intellectuals – including former Marxists and Maoists (military men, engineers, doctors, teachers, etc.) as well as nationalists.35 On the margins of this now dominant current were the Islamists (particularly those in the Sepah) who remained faithful to the Khomeinist state model and rejected the ethnic turn, and the non-Hazara Shi‘ites grouped in the Harakat-e islami (Islamic Movement).

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As at the beginning of the war, the majority of Hazaras were now together in a single movement. But the sociological, political and economic conditions had changed quite fundamentally. The old tribal and religious elites had been eliminated and the issues at stake were no longer the same: it was a question of gaining recognition for the Hazaras at national level and securing their participation in politics on an equitable basis. Although mostly coming from the Islamist parties – especially the Nasr – the Wahdat leaders adopted a resolutely ethnic discourse, even if they did not abandon references to religion, as in their persistent demand for Shi‘ism (the Jafari school of law) to be given equal recognition by the state alongside Sunnism (the Hanafite school of law). After the fall of the Najibullah government in 1992, Afghanistan underwent a lasting fragmentation and it is difficult to analyse the constant and unpredictable shifts of alliances that followed. The complex, fissiparous character of the Afghan social–political fabric stands in the way of a real ethnic polarisation. The appearance of the Taliban in the winter of 1994–5 and their spectacular advance towards Kabul in spring 1995, then their capture of Herat in autumn 1995 and of the Afghan capital in September 1996, changed the balance of forces. They mainly recruited Pashtuns, and their idea of Islam was marked by their tribal and rural origins and by the time they had spent in the refugee camps in Pakistan. The discourse of their leaders did not emphasise the ethnic dimension, but their conceptions instilled fear in the urban elites and minorities. For the first time there really was an ethnic polarisation: on the one side Pashtuns, on the other side a fragile coalition of minority groups within the heterogeneous Northern Alliance.36 After the Taliban took Mazar-e Sharif in August, then Bamyan in September 1998, only the US intervention in response to the 9/11 attacks of 2001 would bring a new reversal of the balance of forces. But the sharp tensions surrounding the discussion and adoption of a new Constitution in the winter of 2003–4 show that a common reference to Islam scarcely provides the terrain for agreement about reconstruction of the country. The issue of power-sharing (between different ethnic and religious groups, the urban and rural population, émigré elites and commanders who were based inside Afghanistan,

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etc.), as well as numerous other questions such as the role of women in politics or the choice between a centralised and a federal system, are far from having been settled.

From Islamist Revolution to Pragmatic Politics Internal conflicts resulted in the victory of the Islamists in Hazarajat. One determining factor was the logic of battle itself, which made it necessary to go beyond the local sphere; transverse networks came into being as the parties sought new clients and the resistance commanders scoured around for weapons. The belligerents had to expand their recruitment base if they were to operate more effectively.37 By virtue of their ideological references, their mode of organisation and their contacts with the outside world, the shaykhs were the most able to meet these developing requirements. The circumstances were such, however, that their discourse gradually swung away from Islamism towards a projection of Hazara identity beyond mere ethnicism:38 that is, it went beyond the cultural domain by demanding real political and territorial autonomy and by forming the skeleton of a state.39 The population of central Afghanistan, which had for a long time been independent and split up in the relative isolation of the mountains, was forcibly subjugated by the government in Kabul at the end of the nineteenth century. This conflict brought about the formation of large antagonistic blocs hinging on the religious opposition between Sunnis and Shi‘ites. After their defeat, the Shi‘ites suffered systematic social and economic exclusion during the twentieth century. The war that has ravaged Afghanistan since 1978 has been the opportunity for the Hazaras to regain their lost independence – a development that has gone together with a spectacular modification of the balance of forces and a profound reconstruction of their identity. We have seen that in 1979 the first revolts were organised at local level around the mīrs. It did not take long for internal conflicts to appear, however, as the sayyeds, supported by the shaykhs, rose up against the power of the mīrs. A polarisation ensued between secular and religious forces, and the most radical Islamist forces (Nasr and Pasdaran), drawing inspiration from the Iranian revolution, gained the

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upper hand. There was an Islamisation of the resistance, and members of the clergy were transformed into political leaders at the expense of the old elites. At the end of the 1980s, with the departure of the Soviets and the emergence of new issues on the national stage, the Hazara leaders understood that it was necessary to unite and to silence their mutual hostility: this led to the birth of a new formation, the Hezb-e Wahdat, whose leaders engaged in a highly ethnicist discourse while adopting a compromise between the secular and religious poles. This turn marked the end of the Islamist revolutionary process, in favour of a more pragmatic politics. After a long period of division, the Hazaras seemed to have achieved the greatest political cohesion of any ethnic group in Afghanistan. The Hezb-e Wahdat was the only force in the arena to have an explicitly ethnic set of demands, although it did not go so far as to advocate partition of the country.40 We have also seen that ethnicisation was the outcome of a long process.41 Several factors explain why this was especially advanced among the Hazaras and generated a veritable political project. First, the congruence between the specifically ethnic dimension and the religious dimension facilitated the drawing of ethnic boundaries. Next, the Hazaras were irredeemably confined in their position as a minority, and so long as they were split they could not hope to play a political role. Ethnicist demands enabled their leaders to constitute a relatively united political group beyond ideological divisions, but also – in a changing political context – to free themselves from Iranian, Shi‘ite and Islamist tutelage. Lastly, the war made it possible to challenge the social barriers; there were spectacular instances of ascent or loss of status, and the old elites lost their predominance. The disappearance of these intermediate powers opened the way for an enlargement of identity references and spheres of action. As the local, national and international context changed, the Hazara leaders waged a fierce struggle with one another before they found a formal, if imperfect, agreement around a discourse of ethnicity – one formulated and presented through a vast symbolic apparatus, in which the evocation of past sufferings occupied a premier position. Involving a process of political mobilisation and legitimation, this discourse also corresponded to the aspirations of a people weary from the humiliations of past history. Power strategy

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and popular sentiment thus came together to lend undeniable weight and efficacy to the construction of a new identity referent. No lasting settlement of the Afghan conflict can leave it out of account. The Hazaras – who form the great majority of the Shi‘ites of Afghanistan – had always been a marginal population. All the conditions seemed to be met for the emergence of a protest movement with millenarian overtones: political exclusion, poverty, social injustice, war, and so on. Largely inspired by the Islamic revolution in Iran, many leaders challenged the established order both within Hazarajat society and among the different components of the Afghan nation as a whole. They drew on religious references to legitimate their discourse of social justice and political equality. Once they had taken control of most of Hazarajat, their reform impetus gradually faded in the wider political and military context. This helped to freeze the positions of power achieved in the course of war. The political evolution of the Hazaras after the Communist coup of 1978 cannot be explained without mention of Iran. It was marked by the triumph of Islamism, a revolutionary pole in opposition to more traditional, legalist or quietist, forms of Shi‘ism. In an early phase, the old religious leaders who had been the main intercessors between the faithful and the transcendental realm were ousted by young Khomeinists with a highly politicised vision of Islam, who were bent on leading a social revolution against the old property-owners. In a second phase, these same leaders gradually modified their discourse and tended towards an ideology that was more ethnicist than Islamist. The 1990s were thus characterised by the elaboration of a new discourse, which expressed a relative weakening of Iranian influence and marked the switch from revolutionary demands and militant Islamism to a more pragmatic politics. Islamism was thus the vehicle of a certain political modernisation among the Hazaras and, more generally, the Shi‘ites of Afghanistan. But it seems to have gradually given way to ethnic demands that crystallised the expectations of large and historically marginalised swathes of the Afghan population. Unfortunately, the political expression of these particularisms involved numerous dangers and carried the seeds of future explosions.

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Notes 1. This paper is a revised version of ‘Heurs et malheurs de l’islamisme chez les chiites d’Afghanistan: de la révolution sociale à la construction identitaire’, in Sabrina Mervin (dir), Les mondes chiites et l’Iran, Paris, Karthala/IFPO, pp. 43–60. It has been translated from French by Patrick Camiller and is published here with the kind permission of Sabrina Mervin and Karthala. 2. R. L. Canfield, Faction and Conversion in a Plural Society: Religious Alignments in the Hindu Kush (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan, Anthropological Papers 50, 1973), pp. 4–5, 12. 3. In the absence of a reliable census, the most recent and most credible figures for Afghanistan derive from the US State Department, which puts the size of the population at somewhat more than 20 million for a surface area of 647,500 km2. The main ethnic groups are the Pashtuns (38 per cent), the Tadjiks (25 per cent), the Hazaras (19 per cent) and the Uzbeks (6 per cent). The same source mentions a religious breakdown of 84 per cent Sunni and 15 per cent Shi‘ite (a count in which certain Ismaili and Sunni population groups were considered to be Hazaras): www.adfa.oz.au. 4. D.B. Edwards, ‘The Evolution of Shi’i Political Dissent in Afghanistan’, in J. R. I. Cole and N. R. Keddie (eds.), Shi‘ism and Social Protest (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1986). pp. 201–29. 5. R.L. Tapper, ‘Ethnicity, Order and Meaning in the Anthropology of Iran and Afghanistan’, in J.-P. Digard (ed.), Le fait ethnique en Iran et en Afghanistan (Paris, Éditions du CNRS, 1988), p. 28. 6. This evolution has been well described by K. B. Harpviken, Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan: 1978–1992, Oslo, Department of Sociology/University of Oslo, Report 9, 1996. 7. O. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1990 [1st French edn.: 1985]), p. 3. 8. Ibid. 9. O. Roy, The Failure of Political Islam (London: I.B.Tauris, 1994), pp. 1–3. 10. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan, pp. 6–7. 11. On the uses to which the Karbala events and the figure of the Imam Husayn were put during the Islamic revolution, see M.M.J. Fischer, 1980, Iran: From Religious Dispute to Revolution (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 1980). More generally, on Shi‘ite reform currents and movements, see Y. Richard, L’islam chiite: Croyances et idéologies (Paris, Fayard, 1991). 12. Roy, The Failure of Political Islam.

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13. This section summarises and factually updates, in a different perspective, a number of considerations developed in A. Monsutti, ‘Guerre et ethnicité en Afghanistan’, Tsantsa: Revue de la Société suisse d’ethnologie, 4, 1999, pp. 63–73. 14. F. Barth, ‘Ethnic Groups and Boundaries’, in F. Barth, Process and Form in social Life: Selected Essays of Fredrik Barth (London, Boston & Henley, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981 [1st edn.: 1969]), p. 199. 15. This connotation has not disappeared, and hazāra still serves to designate populations in north-eastern Afghanistan that share with the Hazaras proper only their situation of geographical and political marginality: Centlivres P. and Centlivres-Demont M, Et si on parlait de l’Afghanistan? Terrain et textes 1964–1980, Neuchâtel, Institut d’ethnologie (Paris, Maison des sciences de l’homme Centlivres and Centlivres-Demont, 1988), pp. 50–51. 16. E.E. Bacon, ‘The Inquiry into the History of the Hazara Mongols of Afghanistan’, Southwestern Journal of Anthropology, 7/3, 1951, pp. 230–47; H. F. Schurmann, The Mongols of Afghanistan (The Hague, Mouton, 1962); H. Poladi, The Hazaras (Stockton, Mughal Publishing Co, 1989); S.A. Moussavi S. A. The Hazaras of Afghanistan: An Historical, Cultural, Economic and Political Study (Richmond, Curzon Press, 1998). 17. Social inequalities appear to have been very marked. The mīrs, being large landowners, controlled the means of production: R.L. Canfield, Hazara Integration into the Afghan Nation: Some Changing Relations between Hazaras and Afghan Officials (New York, Afghanistan Council of the Asia Society, Occasional Paper 3, 1971); O. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan, pp. 140–1; S.A. Mousavi, The Hazaras of Afghanistan, p. 91. 18. M.H. Kakar, Afghanistan: A Study in Internal Political Developments, 1880– 1896 (Lahore, Panjab Educational Press, 1971); M.H. Kakar M. H, The Pacification of the Hazaras of Afghanistan, New York, Afghanistan Council of the Asia Society, Occasional Paper 6, 1973. 19. Canfield, Faction and Conversion in a Plural Society, p. 109. 20. Canfield, Hazara Integration into the Afghan Nation. 21. J.-H. Grevemeyer, ‘Ethnicity and National Liberation: the Afghan Hazara between Resistance and Civil War’, in J.-P. Digard (ed.), Le fait ethnique en Iran et en Afghanistan (Paris, Éditions du CNRS, 1988), pp. 212; Harpviken, Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan, p. 28, 55. 22. Centlivres and Centlivres-Demont, Et si on parlait de l’Afghanistan, pp. 229–45. 23. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan; Harpviken, Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan. 24. In fact, except in Kabul, very few Hazara intellectuals turned to the Communist Party, which was dominated by Pashtuns and Tadjiks. The

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25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31.

32.

33. 34.

35.

36. 37. 38.

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great majority preferred to join Maoist-inspired movements such as Sho’la-e melli (‘Eternal Flame’) or Setam-e melli (‘National Oppression’), which echoed the demands of minority groups in the population. Harpviken, Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan, pp. 28–31. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan, pp. 140–2. The upheavals in the two countries were actually contemporaneous, as the fall of the imperial regime in Iran occurred in February 1979. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan, p. 142. R.L. Canfield, ‘Ethnic, Regional, and Sectarian Alignments in Afghanistan’, in A. Banuazizi and M. Weiner (eds.), The State, Religion, and Ethnic Politics: Afghanistan, Iran, and Pakistan (Syracuse, Syracuse University Press, 1986), pp. 75–103; Harpviken Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan, 1996, pp. 55f., 69, 76–7. Roy, Islam and Resistance in Afghanistan, pp. 142f. Roy, L’échec de l’Islam politique (Paris: Seuil, 1992) pp. 185–207; P. Centlivres, ‘Violence légitime et violence illégitime: à propos des pratiques et des représentations dans la crise afghane’, L’Homme, 144, 1997, pp. 51–67. J.-H. Grevemeyer, ‘Ethnicity and National Liberation: the Afghan Hazara between Resistance and Civil War’, in J.-P. Digard (ed.), Le fait ethnique en Iran et en Afghanistan, (Paris, Éditions du CNRS, 1988), p. 215. Harpviken, Political Mobilization among the Hazara of Afghanistan, p. 88. As K. B. Harpviken (ibid., pp. 99–100) put it, ‘the new unity party was not a result of a change in elites, rather it was a strategic decision taken by established elites in a changed situation . . . the Hazara nationality formed the core of Wahdat, and it was that, not Islamism, that gave the partners to the unity a common platform. . . . Wahdat accommodated formerly conflicting groups around a common core of ethnicity, dominated by the Islamic leaders.’ They tried to make themselves indispensable by founding NGOs responsible for public health, education, road construction, and so on. O. Roy, Roy O., 1998, ‘Has Islamism a Future in Afghanistan?’, in W. Maley (ed.), Fundamentalism Reborn? Afghanistan and the Taliban, London, Hurst & Co., 1998), pp. 199–211. W. Maley, (ed.), Fundamentalism Reborn? Afghanistan and the Taliban (London, Hurst & Co., 1998). O. Roy, 1993, ‘La guerre d’Afghanistan: de la guerre idéologique à la guerre ethnique’, L’Homme et la Société, 17, 1993. The meaning of this term as used here is ‘the attachment of high philosophical, ideological or other value to ethnic identity, the (more or less theorized) representation of the ethnic group as the source of values and the guiding

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principle of action’ (J.-F. Gossiaux, ‘Un ethnicisme transnational: la résurgence de l’identité valaque dans les Balkans’, in D. Fabre (dir.), L’Europe entre cultures et nations (Paris, Maison des sciences de l’homme, 1996) p. 191. 39. In official speeches, this programme was expressed in the abandonment of the term Hazarajat in favour of Hazaristan, which was deemed worthier because of its resemblance to the names of major countries in the region. 40. B. Glatzer, ‘Is Afghanistan on the Brink of Ethnic and Tribal Disintegration?’, in W. Maley (ed.), Fundamentalism Reborn? 41. As Olivier Roy wrote, ‘ethnicity is an achievement, not a given fact; it is one of the levels of identity, not the identity; but it increasingly came to be the relevant reference pertaining to political alignment’ (Roy, ‘Has Islamism a Future in Afghanistan?’, p. 206).

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CHAPTER EIGHT THE AFR ICANISATION OF ‘ASHUR A IN SENEGAL Mara Leichtman

‘Ashura – the tenth day of the Islamic month of Muharram during which the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, his family and army is commemorated – is often taken as an essential cultural paradigm for Shi‘ite Islam, both by academics and by Shi‘ite Muslims themselves. More than 1,400 years ago Husayn, the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, was called to Kufa to lead a revolt against the corrupt regime of the Sunni Umayyad Caliph Yazid, but he and his party were intercepted at Karbala. In the battle that ensued, Husayn and his men were vastly outnumbered, and were violently and tragically killed. The surviving women and children, including Husayn’s only remaining son who was too ill to fight, were captured and paraded to Yazid in Damascus. Throughout the Shi‘ite Muslim world, this period of mourning and sadness is commemorated by re-enacting the story of the battle of Karbala. Scholars have written extensively about ‘Ashura practices in the Middle East, Asia, and even in remote areas such as the Caribbean.1 Over the past few years Senegalese converts to Shi‘ite Islam have begun to commemorate ‘Ashura in their own way. The practice of self-flagellation has been most controversial in Western media coverage as well as

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hotly disputed by Shi‘ite Muslim clerics. Senegalese Shi‘ites insist that such Arab or Iranian practices are not essential to Shi‘ite Islam, stressing in contrast their Senegalese or African Shi‘ite identity.2 Converts in Dakar organise public debates that cater to a Senegalese Sunni Muslim audience in a mixture of Wolof, Arabic and French languages. Conferences and television and radio appearances discuss whether ‘Ashura is a celebration or a day of mourning and play up the closeness that African Sufis also feel towards the family of the Prophet. For example, one flyer created for the 2008–9 Muharram season advertised: ‘Be with Husayn or be against Husayn and the family of the Prophet.’ In addition to educating Senegalese about the history of the battle of Karbala, lectures and written publicity also address the origins of the Senegalese holiday Tamkharit, whose carnival-like festivities conflict with the sombre remembrance of the tragic events of Karbala. This chapter focuses on Senegalese Shi‘ite discourse regarding Tamkharit (and does not provide an analysis of Tamkharit rituals) in an examination of the Shi‘ite contribution to Senegal’s religious landscape. This chapter begins with an overview of Islam in Senegal, followed by a discussion of the spread of Lebanese and Iranian Shi‘ite Muslim influences to Senegal and the development of a community of Senegalese Shi‘ite Muslims. It then summarises the theological debates regarding the origins of the Senegalese holiday of Tamkharit against the events which occurred during the battle of Karbala. This chapter will conclude with ethnographic description and discourse analysis of several Senegalese events commemorating ‘Ashura in Dakar.

An Overview of Islam in Senegal Senegal today is more than 90 per cent Sunni Muslim, dominated by a tradition of Sufi orders founded by shaykhs, religious clerics who have become saints, and whose descendants, who inherit the spiritual power or baraka of the founder3, continue to lead each order. The oldest Sufi order in Senegal is the Qadiriyya, with origins in Baghdad. The largest order is the Tijaniyya, which began in Fez, Morocco. The most well-known order is the Muridiyya, whose founder, Amadu Bamba, was Senegalese. Bamba’s black African origin is important for many followers.

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Referred to as marabouts in Senegal, shaykhs teach and guide the talibe, their disciples, who study in Islamic schools called daara,4 where they learn the Qur’an by rote memorisation.5 The ultimate social, political and economic power granted to these marabouts, and their occasional abuses of this power, led some Muslim reformists, both Sunni and Shi‘ite, to contest the hierarchies of the Sufi orders in Senegal. Research on Islam in Senegal has begun to focus on reformist Sunni movements: Hizb al-Tarqiyya in the Murid order,6 the Mustarshidin movement in the Tijani order,7 and the growth of Jama‘at Ibadu Rahman among university students in Dakar.8 Elsewhere in West Africa other reformist movements are also being explored: the Wahhabiyya in French West Africa;9 the Indian influenced Tabligh Jama‘at in The Gambia;10 the Yan Izala movement in Niger11 and Nigeria;12 various reformist movements in Mali13 and Côte d’Ivoire;14 and political Islam in Sub-Saharan Africa.15 Such movements in Africa are not only a recent or foreign phenomenon but also go back several generations to an older Sufi tradition of reform.16 It is therefore surprising that most scholars of Islam in Senegal and Senegalese religious authorities are astonished to hear that Shi‘ite Islam has spread to Africa. The majority of Senegalese Muslims is Sunni, and believes that when the Prophet Muhammad died in the year 632 ce he did not designate a successor or establish a system for his replacement. This question caused a schism between Sunnis and Shi‘ites, who argue that Muhammad designated his cousin and son-in-law ‘Ali to follow him. Those Muslims who supported ‘Ali were known as Shi‘at ‘Ali, the partisans of ‘Ali. The majority of Muslims, however, did not endorse the view that their leader should be a descendant of the Prophet, and call themselves orthodox adherents of the sunna, the Prophetic traditions. Sunni Muslims followed a Caliphate system, led by a series of Caliphs who were the selected or elected successor of the Prophet in political and military leadership, but not religious authority. In contrast, the Shi‘ite Imam was both political leader and religious guide, and the final authoritative interpreter of God’s will as formulated in Islamic law. ‘Ali was passed over three times for the Caliphate before he was elected fourth Caliph while remaining the first Imam to Shi‘ite Muslims; he was then murdered five years later in 661 ce.

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When ‘Ali was assassinated his eldest son Hasan became Imam. Hasan was coerced into a treaty with Mu‘awiya, founder of the Umayyad dynasty in Damascus, who took over the Caliphate while Hasan abdicated and retired to Medina. Mu‘awiya was the son of one of the Prophet’s worst enemies, and his corruption was exceeded by that of his son and successor Yazid. When Hasan died, his brother Husayn became the third Imam, and the martyrdom of Husayn at the hands of Yazid’s army led to the emergence of Shi‘ite Islam as a separate religious movement.17 The question of succession is the main political difference between Sunnis and Shi‘ites, although other minor differentiating practices exist in the required ablutions before prayer, in the position of the arms while bowing in prayer, and in the urba, the small clay tablet representing the earth of the holy Iraqi city of Karbala to which Shi‘ite Muslims touch their foreheads when prostrating instead of to synthetic prayer rugs. The major mourning ritual that distinguishes Shi‘ites from Sunnis is the commemoration of the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, the son of ‘Ali, who was murdered in the battle of Karbala on the tenth day of the Muslim month of Muharram in 680 ce. Senegalese converts accept that Shi‘ite Islam had historically developed in Senegal without people knowing it and that there is a religious conscience in the Senegalese people favourable to Shi‘ite Islam, which shares many attributes of Sufi Islam.18 These ideas were actively promoted through Iranian efforts strategically aimed at combating Saudi Arabian objectives of spreading throughout Africa a ‘Wahhabi’influenced Islam.19 Converts deem that the spread of Shi‘ite Islam is impeded by criticism from the so-called ‘Wahhabis,’ who are far more numerous in Senegal, and who envision their role as restorers of Islam from what are perceived to be innovations, superstitions, deviations, heresies and idolatries, especially inherent in Sufi and Shi‘ite Islam.

The Spread of Shi‘ite Islam to Senegal Shi‘ite Islam was brought to Senegal through the migration of people and the travelling of ideas, and both Lebanese and Iranian influences. Lebanese migrants first arrived in West Africa as the result of a colonial fluke. As early as the 1880s, and especially during the 1920s,

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emigrants left Lebanon because of economic hardship for Marseilles, the transportation hub of the time. They planned to continue on to the USA or South America, where there had been previous Lebanese immigration, but their ships docked at Dakar. The French colonial power convinced the Lebanese to stay in West Africa to work as intermediaries in the peanut trade between the French in the cities and Senegalese peasants in the rural areas. However, the French soon grew concerned about the increasing numbers of Arab immigrants, whose population quickly exceeded that of the Europeans.20 They responded with an anti-Lebanese campaign, and a policy of segregating Lebanese from Senegalese in order to prevent the spread of pan-Islamism, panArabism and anti-colonial sentiments.21 Efforts began to restrict the use of Arabic in the French colonies and to exercise greater control over the importation of publications in Arabic. Lebanese religious practices were also prohibited from conforming to those of the Senegalese.22 Religion, in particular Shi‘ite Islam, had not featured in the Lebanese process of settling in Senegal and forming a new identity. In fact, Shi‘ite Islam in Senegal was not a powerful or identifiable force until the arrival in 1969 of ‘Abdul Mun’am al-Zayn, a shaykh from Lebanon who trained in Najaf, Iraq. He came to Dakar only shortly before two important events in the making of a transnational Shi‘ite movement: the Lebanese Civil War (1975–90) and the Iranian Revolution (1979). There was no formal Shi‘ite religious representation in Senegal until the founding of the Lebanese Islamic Institute in 1978. The Iranian embassy has also played a subtle role in encouraging Shi‘ite Islam in Dakar. Iran has a history of economic cooperation with Senegal from the time of Reza Shah Pahlavi, but the embassy was closed in 1984 for spreading Islamic propaganda. The Iranian embassy re-opened in the early 1990s and has been careful to stress only its economic activities in Senegal. However, certain embassy events continue to promote Shi‘ite Islam. Iranians hold an annual reception for prominent Lebanese and Senegalese Muslims for the anniversary of the Islamic Revolution, and finance Senegalese intellectuals to attend Islamic conferences in Tehran. Iranian president Rafsanjani’s presence at the Organization of the Islamic Conference (OIC) meeting in Dakar in 1991 was highly publicised, as was President Ahmadinejad’s

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attendance at the 2008 OIC conference in Dakar. In 2002, an Iranian shaykh built a traditional Shi‘ite school, Hawza al-Rasul al-Akram, located not far from the University of Dakar, where Senegalese shaykhs trained in Shi‘ite theology in Iran or Lebanon educate a young generation of boys from Arabic texts.23 Senegalese President Wade visited Iran in 2003, 2006 and 2008, including a 2008 meeting with the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Sayyed ‘Ali Khameneh’i.24 During this meeting, Abdoulaye Wade was quoted as saying ‘we always set Iran as our example’.25 These visits strengthened ties between Iran and Senegal, whose bilateral relations form a strong part of a larger comprehensive policy on the part of Ahmadinejad’s government to expand influence through diplomatic, economic and military strategies in Africa and Latin America.26 Although Lebanese Shi‘ites first arrived in Senegal over a century ago, they rarely mixed religiously with Senegalese Muslims. They adapted well to Senegal, learned local languages and customs, and their businesses depended on Senegalese employees and clients, but they were often accused of racism for preferring to marry other Lebanese.27 Only occasionally linked to interactions with the Lebanese community, today’s conversion of Senegalese Shi‘ites was prompted instead by the Iranian Revolution and the circulation of books in Arabic, French and English translation in the 1970s. The Lebanese shaykh also played a role through his efforts to expand his constituency beyond the dwindling Lebanese population by teaching Shi‘ite Islam to the Senegalese.28 Whereas the Islamic Institute in Dakar caters primarily to Lebanese, Shaykh al-Zayn has founded five mosques and approximately 130 madāris (religious schools) located outside Dakar and led by Senegalese religious men whom he trained.29 Senegalese Shi‘ites count on the Lebanese shaykh and prominent Lebanese merchants for financial contributions and hope for more tangible rewards for their faith from Iran than merely the propagation of the Islamic revolution.30 By the mid 1980s, dozens of Senegalese Muslims had converted to Shi‘ite Islam. Despite efforts by the Iranian embassy and the Lebanese shaykh to bring them to Shi‘ite Islam, many Senegalese Shi‘ites came to the religion on their own. Converts are from all ethnic groups in Senegal and also from various Sufi orders. Whereas the majority of the

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movement’s leaders were Tijani before becoming Shi‘ite, others were Murid or Qadiri. Some of them made a Salafi detour before becoming Shi‘ite; others converted directly from Sufi Islam. Converts are from all over Senegal, ranging from the urban areas of Dakar, its suburbs and Saint Louis, to regional hubs such as Kaolack, to the villages of the Fouta and the Casamance. Some converts are well off and had the means to study in Canada or in the Arab world; others lack such financial means, but through dedication to their studies and the right networks, receive scholarships to send them abroad or to educate them in Senegal’s Lebanese-run Islamic schools. The majority of converts are fluent in the Arabic language; a minority is French educated and does not have a firm command of Arabic. They discovered Shi‘ite Islam both in Senegal and in their travels to other countries. They work in foreign embassies and the Senegalese government, and are bankers, artists, functionaries, teachers and scholars, shaykhs and laymen. Senegal’s Shi‘ite converts are an elite community of highly educated intellectuals who frequently speak standard Arabic among themselves and share a minority religion that others do not understand. They are struggling to legitimate Islam in Senegal for themselves by forming a new movement which they lead, based on their own knowledge of Shi‘ite legal texts, and their direct ties to marāja‘, Shi‘ite religious authorities located outside of Senegal in Iran, Iraq or Lebanon.31

‘Ashura or Tamkharit: A Day of Mourning or Celebration? One of the issues that divides Sunnis and Shi‘ites is ‘Ashura, which for some Muslims is a day of celebration while for others is a day of mourning and sadness. In Senegal, ‘Ashura overlaps with Tamkharit.32 Members of Sufi orders fast during the day followed by a feast of couscous with beef. Tamkharit is thought to be a syncretism between Islamic rituals and pre-Islamic popular practices linked to the Lebou ethnic group’s offerings to pagan divinities.33 The name Tamkharit comes from two words: tam, to demonise, and kharit, which means friend. Everything is permitted on this day, even to demonise one’s friend without fear of retribution. Others trace the origin of Tamkharit to the time of the Umayyads, where Yazid the son of Mu‘awiya

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promoted a glorification of this day in celebration of his victory over Imam Husayn and his companions.34 Yet others consider its pagan rituals very far from Islamic prescriptions. Shi‘ite converts have begun to introduce themselves into the geographies of religious ceremonies in Senegal, of which they had not previously been a part, by equating the Shi‘ite day of mourning with the Sufi celebration. Unlike ‘Ashura commemorations elsewhere in the Muslim world, Senegalese focus less on ritual enactments of the tragedies of the battle of Karbala and instead perform ideological and theological comparisons of ‘Ashura and Tamkharit, as if these holidays were one and the same. Mozdahir International, a Shi‘ite Islamic non-governmental organisation which was founded in 2000 in Dakar, organised a conference around the theme of ‘‘Ashura: A Day of Celebration or Mourning?’ The French translation of the proceedings declared the 27 January 2007 conference to be the first such intellectual event in Senegal and in all of Africa in memory of Imam Husayn.35 The speakers, who were from various Sunni and Shi‘ite traditions, came from Senegal, Mauritania, France, and other West African countries, and ranged from religious clerics, university professors of Islamic studies, high school teachers, converts to Shi‘ite Islam, privately funded researchers, and community practitioners. They unanimously declared that ‘Ashura was not a day of celebration, and gave different perspectives about the holiday. Speakers recounted the story of ‘Ashura and the massacre of Imam Husayn and his family at Karbala by Yazid’s army for refusing to declare their allegiance to the Sunni Umayyad Caliph. Speakers also addressed the origins of Tamkharit in Senegal and the fast on the day of ‘Ashura. Conflating the Arabic and Wolof names for the date suggested that Senegalese Sufis were erroneous in their joyful commemoration of the Shi‘ite day of mourning. Translating ‘Ashura as Tamkharit also enabled Shi‘ites to claim their belonging to Senegalese religious space. Many Senegalese maintain that ‘Ashura/Tamkharit celebrates the Muslim new year, albeit on the tenth and not the first of the month of Muharram. ‘Ashura is thought to correspond with other Qur’anic events, including the day God decided to end Adam and Eve’s stay in paradise after they tasted the fruit of the forbidden tree; Noah’s departure by ark to escape the great flood; the exodus of Moses

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and the Israelites from the dictatorship of Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses II; and the arrival of the Prophet Muhammad in Medina after the long journey of his hijra (migration) from Mecca.36 One of the speakers, Yahya ‘Alawi (Christian Bonaud), an Islamic scholar and Shi‘ite convert from France whose explanations of ‘Ashura were so compelling that his speech was reprinted in Mozdahir International’s first quarterly review (October–November–December 2007), best highlighted the contradictions inherent in the Qur’anic explanations of the holiday. He asked the conference audience to imagine that one day, one of their ancestors was freed from prison, and on that same day, their great grandfather had had a child and their father was cured from an illness, but their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were also massacred by terrorists and the survivors were held in captivity that same day. Each year, on the anniversary of that day, what would their spirit be? Which event would be celebrated? He declared that for all humanity sadness and misfortune would prevail over the joys that had arrived to one’s ancestors and mourning would take priority over celebration. According to French Dr. ‘Alawi/Bonaud, several hadith link the fast of ‘Ashura to Moses’ liberation of the Jews from slavery in Egypt, yet the hadith of Bukhari explicitly state that the ‘Ashura fast was a practice of the Quraysh tribe during the Jahiliyya.37 Therefore it is not recommended by the Prophet to fast during ‘Ashura although those who want to can, and the Prophet himself was among those who did not fast.38 Yet other hadith link the ‘Ashura fast to the Jews of Medina and Khaybar, whom the Prophet found fasting when he arrived in Medina. When the Prophet asked the Jews why they were fasting they responded that they were commemorating the day God saved the children of Israel under the guidance of Moses and drowned Pharaoh. But Dr. ‘Alawi/Bonaud points out some problems with these hadith: 1. The categorical contradiction between the first group of hadith that attributed the fast to the Jahiliyya and the second group to the Jews became merged in the bastardised origins of the fast between the Jahiliyya and Judaism, which does not lead to any clarity.

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2. Linking the fast to the Prophet’s arrival in Medina does not link it to Muharram, as he arrived during the Islamic month of Rabi‘a alAwwal, two months after Muharram, so how, then, could he have found the Jews fasting? 3. The tenth day of the Jewish new year is Yom Kippur, which has nothing to do with the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, which is celebrated instead during Passover, when the Jews do not fast; therefore there is much confusion here over the Jewish holidays.39 4. When we compare the Jewish and Muslim calendars during the year the Prophet arrived in Medina, and even the following year, there is no correspondence between Yom Kippur or Passover and ‘Ashura, so the Jews could never have been fasting during the day of ‘Ashura. 5. It could, however, be said that the Jews were fasting on Yom Kippur during the month of Rabi‘a al-Awwal when the Prophet arrived in Medina, however this does not correspond to the day of ‘Ashura or to the exodus of the Jews from Egypt during Passover. Dr. ‘Alawi/Bonaud therefore concludes that the Umayyads wanted to reinstate the ‘Ashura fast from the practices of the Jahiliyya and, as they desired a monotheistic interpretation, they linked the date to the arrival of the Prophet in Medina and to the Jewish fast. However, there is no possibility of correspondence between ‘Ashura and Yom Kippur, between ‘Ashura and Passover, or between Yom Kippur and the exodus from Egypt, so what do we make of the ‘Ashura fast? He replied that Imam Ja‘far al-Sadiq (the sixth Shi‘ite Imam) clearly told us this was the day when Husayn was killed and when those who want to rejoice will fast. The Umayyad family and the people of Syria who helped them kill Husayn declared that if those who rose up against him returned safe and healthy then the Caliphate would return to the family of Abu Sufyan and this day would be declared a holiday where adults fast and where children rejoice.40 Despite such claims, Dr. ‘Alawi/Bonaud and other speakers insisted that commemorating ‘Ashura as a day of mourning should not divide the Muslim community; on the contrary it should unite them. Although there was indeed a division created on that day, this was not between

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Sunnis and Shi‘ites, but between those who fought against Imam Husayn, where some of those who began as his enemies switched in the end to Husayn’s camp. The division was instead one of humanity against inhumanity, where even the Indian Gandhi, who was Hindu, said that he was drawn in the spirit of his revolt against the British to the uprising of Imam Husayn on ‘Ashura in Karbala. It is therefore an obligation to commemorate by mourning the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, and all humanity – including Hindus, Muslims, and Christians – should unite for this purpose. On a similar note, a Sunni speaker suggested that regardless of whether the ‘Ashura celebration is Sunni or Shi‘ite, the holiday recalls the victory of the prophets over their tests and the sharing of Muslim spirituality with other religions (such as Judaism) in a demonstration of the openness of Islam, its tolerance and fidelity to all preceding revelations towards a mutual religious peace. Another Shi‘ite speaker highlighted that the day of Karbala was a victory for Imam Husayn despite the fact that he lost the battle and was killed by Yazid’s men, because it was he the oppressed who was victorious against his oppressor. Everywhere today there are symbols which represent Imam Husayn and his executioners like Yazid, where the gestures of Husayn are glorified while Yazid is held in contempt for eternity.41 Therefore celebrating ‘Ashura is of great benefit for all Muslims through the ‘cultural heritage of the Ummah’, one of the speakers declared. Indeed, Sherif Muhammad ‘Ali ‘Aidara, the head of Mozdahir International, concluded the conference, and the published conference proceedings, with the declaration that it is the responsibility of all Muslims to pass on the message of this debate, as Islam is a religion of peace, dialogue, tolerance and love. If Muslims accept to come together and sincerely discuss the questions that divide them, they will be able to overcome their differences. He stated that the goal of the colloquium was to create a consciousness of the true meaning of ‘Ashura and of the day’s festive practices that do not conform to the spirit of its solemn sacrifice. Members of Senegal’s Sufi orders, like the Shi‘ites, are also attached to the family of the Prophet Muhammad and Imam Husayn. Senegalese Shi‘ite converts hope that through educating the Senegalese population about ‘Ashura they will sensitise them to the sadness of this date and avoid conflict.

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Senegalese ‘Ashura Conferences Such arguments about ‘Ashura/Tamkharit are not only debated, but the results are disseminated through media coverage, the publication of books, and the invitation of speakers to address these topics on television and radio shows. In the past, the holiday was known only as Tamkharit, but I noticed in January 2008 newspapers began to publish front page announcements for a ‘bonne fête d’achoura’, which is evidence of an increased awareness in Senegal of the Shi‘ite day of commemoration, even if ‘happy holidays’ is not the appropriate ‘Ashura greeting.42 Mozdahir International’s 2007 conference had become an ‘annual’ conference by 2008, with even more attendants, and their 2009 plans included caravans which would travel to the north and south of Senegal to distribute flyers to educate Senegalese Sufis about ‘Ashura, in an attempt to reach an even larger base than their widely attended and heavily publicised Dakar conference. As documented on their website, their director remarked that ‘The Prophets inspired by God’s revelation were chosen by Allah because of their means to educate their community and end ignorance and bad morals’43 thereby linking the work of the prophets to the mandate of this Shi‘ite NGO to educate others through such conferences. Other Shi‘ite organisations convened their own conferences as well, perhaps out of competition, or simply the need to spread ‘Ashura knowledge more broadly. I attended three conferences organised by Senegalese Shi‘ites during the first ten days of the Islamic month of Muharram in January 2008, where various religious leaders and teachers publicly debated the meaning of ‘Ashura in a mixture of Wolof, Arabic and French. The message of these conferences is similar to the debates of the first Mozdahir conference. The goal in this section is to set the scene ethnographically for these various debates, in an illustration of the distinct Sénégalité of these manifestations. I Mozdahir International’s Conference at Dakar’s International Fair, 12 January 2008 (4 Muharram) The rows of the large conference facilities of Dakar’s International Fair, which could seat several thousand people, were mostly empty at nine a.m., when I was told the conference would begin. The front of the

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room was fully decorated for ‘Ashura: at the back centre of the stage a banner announced ‘Dakar’s Annual Conference on ‘Ashura (Tamkharit)’ with the title of this year’s topic of debate ‘The Role of the Imams of Ahl al-Bayt (may peace be upon them) in the Preservation of Islam and the Unity of Muslims’. Two signs covered the base of the stage, one in black with the red and yellow words in Arabic ‘Oh Martyr Husayn’, the other in green letters ‘Come Hither Oh Husayn’. Next to these on the far right a banner depicted in pastel colors the battle scene with Husayn’s wounded horse and mourning party. A more central banner read ‘Oh Husayn Who Suffered’. A large banner at the back of the stage portrayed the dome of a mosque with a red flag flying on top proclaiming ‘Ya Husayn’, with the statement in Arabic, ‘Oh Sayyid of the Martyrs, Husayn, Father of ‘Abdallah’. Other banners displayed verses from the Qur’an or Hadith in French and included Mozdahir International’s logo and their website www.mozdahir.org: ‘I am leaving for you two precious and weighty Symbols that if you adhere to both of them you shall not go astray after me. They are: the Book of Allah and my progeny, that is my ahl al-bayt. The Merciful has informed me that these two shall not separate from each other till they come to me by the Pool (of Paradise)’ (The Prophet (pslf)). A second banner read ‘The Prophet (peace and blessings upon him and his holy family) said: “The members of my family (ahl al-bayt) are like the Ark of Noah. Whoever embarked in it was saved, and whoever turned away from it was perished.”’ And a third ‘And hold fast, all together, by the rope which Allah (stretches out for you), and be not divided among yourselves.’44 Centred on the stage was a table with lush office chairs for the speakers. A Senegalese musical troupe was setting up to the right. The musicians were dressed in black trousers and yellow dress-shirts with black ties. A female singer introduced in Arabic the musical programme ‘from the Arab world’, and the band played for two hours as the audience entered the conference hall. They performed classical Arabic music on one lute, two violins, an electric guitar, and several tambourines and tam-tam drums. The male singers dressed in black trousers with pink and blue striped dress-shirts (without ties) and the women wore white embroidered Indian-style tunics with either black trousers and

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matching black sequined veils, or pink trousers and matching pink veils. They sang various religious songs in Arabic about ‘Ashura and the battle of Karbala accompanied by the band’s music. At one point a female performer chanted loudly in Arabic and briefly recounted the story of ‘this day of ‘Ashura’. She sang about the complexities of being Shi‘ite, and she was the only member of the musical troupe who shed tears during her performance, crying ‘how will I raise my child?’! At the height of the conference (by mid day) I estimated approximately 1,000 men, and half that number of women, sitting on separate sides of the room. I was told that there were in fact 5,000 people who came to the conference, but because they outnumbered the room’s capacity, those who had to sit outside left after a while. This was estimated to be three times the number of attendees at the previous year’s conference, and a sign that interest in ‘Ashura was growing. The master of ceremonies made sure to thank the many delegations who had come at the invitation of Mozdahir, in particular various religious groups from Senegal, The Gambia, Cameroon, Mali, Mauritania, France, the Iranian embassy, and even the US embassy, as well as the Senegalese Ministry of Culture and Family, who was thanked several times. Speakers were full of praise for Sherif Muhammad ‘Ali ‘Aidara, head of Mozdahir International, who organised the conference in the hope that such a dialogue with other religions and exchange of ideas about essential questions will lead to greater Muslim unity and a transcendence of differences. One of Sherif’s brothers, noted for his beautiful voice, chanted mournful ‘Ashura lamentations in between the various speakers, to emphatic rounds of applause. The audience was overwhelmingly African. Mostly Senegalese, delegations came from other African countries as well, and there were a few Mauritanians, French converts, and several Iranians sitting in front – one with a camera taking pictures – who had perhaps helped finance the event. Women were dressed in their best African clothing, hair nicely coiffed, makeup fully applied, and flashy gold jewelry on display – some were even wearing sunglasses inside the large conference hall. This was a stark and colourful contrast to ‘Ashura gatherings elsewhere in the Middle East, and even in Dakar Lebanese women dress in sombre black clothing for their Muharram events. In fact,

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Lebanese Shi‘ites in Dakar, with whom I discussed this event afterwards, were appalled that there was live music and applause for those who recounted the story of the fateful battle. II Conference of Conseil des Oulémas d’Ahlul-Bayt, Dakar Plateau, 17 January 2008 (9 Muharram) The Conseil, founded in 2004 by Senegalese Shi‘ites connected with the Lebanese Shaykh al-Zayn, sponsored ‘Ashura recitations daily at 11 a.m. Their 2008 conference was the first by this organisation, with plans to continue such gatherings annually. Approximately 200 students were bussed in from their school in car rapides, Senegal’s characteristically yellow and blue vans for public transportation. Several dozen adults were also in attendance. This particular event was held outside the Lebanese-run Islamic school near Dakar’s central bus station, but the style of the event followed that of Senegal’s Sufi orders: a tent was set up on the street, under which a table with microphones was placed for the speakers and rows of plastic chairs for the audience, comprising a couple of hundred young school children and a few dozen adults. A cassette was playing, amplified by a loudspeaker, during the two hours between the time the event was supposed to start and the time it actually began. If one listened closely, these were not the usual Sufi incantations chanted during religious events in Senegal, but the lyrics were sad, lamenting in Arabic the tragic events which took place during the battle of Karbala in Iraq over 1,400 years ago. This drew the attention of passers-by, as did the curious black banners hanging from the tent and covering the speakers’ table, with images of the battle scene, and verses written in colourful Arabic letters proclaiming the martyrdom of Imam Husayn and his family. The conference was led by Senegalese converts to Shi‘ite Islam, dressed in Senegalese boubous or Shi‘ite robes and turbans, and featured the appearance of the Iranian ambassador and a speech by Senegal’s Lebanese shaykh. A young student opened the conference by reading from the Qur’an. The shaykhs then took turns reciting prayers in Arabic and addressing the audience with speeches about the history and significance of ‘Ashura in Wolof, interspersed with phrases in French and Arabic.

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The first speaker announced that it is important to organise such programmes in order to enlighten those in attendance. We must know more about those we honour as our role models and set as our examples: who were they and what did they stand for? The speaker named the various men chosen by God: Adam, Noah, Abraham, and the Prophet Muhammad and his family. He discussed how Muhammad had suffered while building the foundations of Islam and was attacked by his own people, where his relatives were the first to oppose him and his teachings. He suffered so much in Mecca that he decided to move to Medina and was pursued there as well. He then likened the suffering of Muhammad to that of ‘Ali (using his Wolofized name ‘Alioune), who, like his son Husayn, had many enemies. By beginning with the Prophet Muhammad, a non-controversial figure in the history of Islam, this speaker eased into educating the audience about historical events key to Shi‘ite Muslims. The shaykhs also familiarised the students with the story of the battle of Karbala by using common Wolof sayings, such as ‘It is better to throw firewood in a fire that is lit by God than to try to extinguish it’. They explained: ‘If God chose ‘Alioune then man cannot prevent his greatness before God just like man cannot put out God’s fire. Therefore only by following the path of the family of the Prophet will we be salvaged from punishment on the Day of Judgment.’ Similar to the approach of the Mozdahir conference, Conseil speakers personalised the ‘Ashura story in order to draw in the predominantly Sunni audience. They pointed out that one whose mother or father is killed would not celebrate on that day when the killing took place; it is therefore an irony when you see someone who says he loves the Prophet Muhammad celebrating the day his family was slaughtered. ‘The Prophet Muhammad warned that if anyone sees the right path and decides to follow another path he will be a loser. Who will see pure cassava and decide to go for the impure one?’ This speaker called out to the audience to teach their children to love and follow the Prophet’s family. The shaykhs were periodically interrupted by a student who sang songs in Arabic and occasionally in Wolof, reciting ‘no event will ever be as painful as that of Karbala; it was there where the great grandson

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of the Prophet was assassinated; Husayn’s life ended in Karbala; what happened there was a very ugly incident.’ His recitations in form and tune resembled the songs of the Sufi orders in Senegal, but varied in content, where the singer repeatedly exclaimed ‘If you love ‘Alioune snap your fingers’. Clapping is considered to be un-Islamic and in Senegal Muslims snap their fingers when listening to or singing religious songs. The singer also explained in Wolof to the audience that if he had witnessed the murder of Imam Husayn in Karbala he would have taken a machete or sword and joined the fight even if his life would have ended there. However, since he did not witness those times, he went instead into his room, cried, and came up with this song. He also sang songs of praise for several of the shaykhs leading the conference, and he was not alone in his praise for Lebanese Shaykh alZayn. The griot’s praise song, originally sung to honour ruling families and nobility in Wolof, Haalpulaar, Mande, and other societies of the western Sahel, has also been adapted to praise religious leaders, and is a common feature at both religious and academic conferences. Typically the singing that takes place at religious ceremonies is in Arabic and the singers are not restricted to griots. Drawn from both religious and secular origins, the popular Islamic music performed at these ceremonies constitutes an important aspect of the Sufi ritual,45 and in this case has been adapted to Senegalese Shi‘ite rituals as well. The event concluded with the distribution of snacks to the students – small bags of peanuts, candies and drinks. After these treats the youth cupped their hands to receive the blessing of the concluding prayer. III Conference of ‘Ali Yacine in Guediawaye, 18 January 2008 (10 Muharram) ‘Ali Yacine, the Shi‘ite Islamic Center of Guediawaye, a crowded suburb on the outskirts of Dakar, also organised an ‘Ashura conference. Its small classroom was decorated with a black and red Muharram banner along the back wall and was full of a few dozen young boys and fewer men sitting at long wooden tables on narrow benches. A handful of women and children sat in plastic chairs in a back room. Several men distributed prepackaged plastic bags containing an apple

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and two small tangerines to the audience. This event featured one main guest speaker, a teacher who spoke for about an hour on the battle of Karbala. After summarising the history of the event at length, the teacher ended by addressing the celebration of Tamkharit in the Senegalese context where people fast, drink zamzam (holy water), visit a scholar, and recite verses from the Qur’an. The speaker stated his disagreement with these customs by explaining that they contradict what occurred during ‘Ashura. ‘How can Sunni Muslims urge their followers to visit a scholar during the very day Imam Husayn was killed? . . . The truth is that the enemies are celebrating ‘Ashura because they won. In other words, they killed the family of the Prophet Muhammad and use it as an occasion to celebrate their embarrassing victory. We should not, however, forget this day. We should use it to pray for the Prophet Muhammad, his family, Imam Husayn and his companions.’46 The director of ‘Ali Yacine then pointed out that the problem lies in the way history is narrated. Some Muslims accuse infidels of killing Imam Husayn, who was killed by Muslims, not Christians. Likewise, some Muslims label the Shi‘ites as having a different faith, but they have chosen to follow the Prophet and his family. Privately, the director expressed to me his frustration with the neighboring Tijani gathering, whom he invited to join his congregation for one mutual conference. Initially they agreed, but backed out on short notice, arguing that ‘Ali Yacine had more financial means than they did and stating their preference to conduct their own event. Throughout the evening I could hear religious singing from the competing Sunni event, at times quite loudly, which occasionally overpowered ‘Ali Yacine’s event. Not all of Senegal’s Shi‘ite organisations succeed in reaching out to their Sunni neighbors. This conference targeted the neighborhood of Guediawaye and was not centrally located in Dakar like the other larger events. However, the director of ‘Ali Yacine had a second strategy for educating others about ‘Ashura. He passed around to various schools and Lebanese Shi‘ite businesses a booklet with his version of ‘The Real Meaning of Tamkharit or ‘Ashura: Considered by Some as a Celebration and Others as a Day of Mourning’. The booklet ended with a multiple choice questionnaire with trivia questions from the text, which he

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requested that those interested return to him with their names and addresses as the winners would receive prizes. The same text was published in the newspaper Le Matin on 15 January 2008.

Conclusion In the Middle East, the ‘Karbala paradigm’47 has been reinterpreted to reflect modern political events, such as the Islamic Revolution of Iran and the Iran–Iraq War48 or the Lebanese struggle against Israel.49 Senegalese Shi‘ites have distanced themselves from these ‘Arab’ or ‘Iranian’ applications, transforming the commemoration of ‘Ashura instead into a local campaign to educate West African Sufis about the meaning of the battle of Karbala in order to gain wider appreciation for the family of the Prophet Muhammad. Conference leaders reach out to their audience of predominantly Sunni Muslims and those who are newly discovering Shi‘ite traditions by using formats similar to those of the Sufi orders: tents and loudspeakers, music and praise singing, Wolof proverbs and phrases. Event venues are decorated with ‘Ashura banners typical of those used elsewhere in the Shi‘ite world, yet instead of the sombre black dress of other Shi‘ite women, Dakar’s Shi‘ite conferences are populated with African women wearing their finest fashion – boubous of pure white or bright cheerful colors. As a minority community, Senegalese Shi‘ites aim to teach others in order to gain more followers and to avoid conflict, and doing so necessitates forms of disseminating these new religious ideas in a manner that does not highlight fundamental differences. For that reason the commemoration of ‘Ashura in Dakar does not consist of bodily rituals of selfflagellation (matam) demonstrating individual grief, solidarity with ahl al-bayt, and unison with the wider global Shi‘ite world. Efforts concentrate instead to unite as Senegalese Muslims, who also love the family of the Prophet, through events which orchestrate a new Shi‘ite Islamic message through local Sufi Islamic practices. These events are often marked by the presence (and financial assistance) of the Lebanese shaykh or Iranian diplomats. ‘Ashura conferences are a new and growing phenomenon in Dakar. Therefore it is too soon to judge the success of these events in bringing

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others to the religion. Additional efforts at publicity through radio, television, print media, and the Internet have brought some awareness about the contentious history of the Tamkharit celebrations on the day of ‘Ashura. These holidays are understood differently and distinctly by most Sunnis and Shi‘ites, but Shi‘ite converts conflate the two, using the Wolof and Arabic names interchangeably, in order to bring themselves into the geographies and economies of religious ceremonies and practices in Senegal. Whereas these Shi‘ite conferences have initiated discussion among select publics, and have enabled some recognition of Senegal’s Shi‘ites as a growing community of influence, the Tamkharit celebrations are unlikely to come to an end. However, the educational activities of Senegalese Shi‘ites will also continue, and will add to the long tradition of religious and political debates in Senegal, most recently due to the strong reformist discourse beginning in the 1980s and inspired by the Iranian Revolution.50 The redefinition in the 1990s of the relationship between the Senegalese state and Sufi orders, due to the disenchantment of government functionaries with the established system, generational changes, and economic crisis, have opened up new spaces for alternative Islamic movements.51 Whereas both Sunni and Shi‘ite reformist movements have formed externally to the Sufi order, perhaps the most influential new movements are those growing from within the Sufi orders. They have also blurred the presumed distinction between ‘Sufis’ and ‘reformists’,52 where neither group forms a homogenous movement in Senegal. It is this long tradition of religious pluralism which enables the emerging community of Shi‘ites to carry out their activities amidst a climate of coexistence in Dakar.

Notes 1. Author’s Note: The follow-up research that made this paper possible was funded by the Intramural Research Grants Program and the Muslim Studies Program at Michigan State University. I am grateful to Senegalese Shi‘ites for welcoming me into their community, inviting me to attend their events, and allowing me to record them and/or providing me with DVDs and published conference proceedings. Assan Sarr translated cassette recordings of events in Wolof into English. Firdaous Oueslati assisted me in finding English

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translations of French verses from the Qur’an and Hadith. Mamadou Diouf offered helpful suggestions for improving this chapter. For Iran see K.S. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala: Shi‘i Symbols and Rituals in Modern Iran (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2004); P. Chelkowski, Ta’ziyeh: Ritual and Drama in Iran (New York: New York University Press, 1979); M.J. Fischer, Iran: From Religious Dispute to Revolution (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980); H. Halm, Shi‘a Islam: From Religion to Revolution (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener Publishers, 1997); M.E. Hegland, ‘Two Images of Husain: Accommodation and Revolution in an Iranian Village’, in N.R. Keddie (ed.), Religion and Politics in Iran: Shi‘ism from Quietism to Revolution (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983; 1987); and R. Loeffler, Islam in Practice: Religious Beliefs in a Persian Village (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1988). For Iraq see F.A. Jabar, The Shi‘ite Movement in Iraq (London: Saqi Books, 2003); E.W. Fernea, Guests of the Sheikh: An Ethnography of an Iraqi Village (New York: Anchor Books, 1965); Y. Nakash, The Shi’is of Iraq (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). For Lebanon see L. Deeb, An Enchanted Modern: Gender and Public Piety in Shi’i Lebanon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006); A.R. Norton, ‘Ritual, Blood, and Shiite Identity: Ashura in Nabatiyya, Lebanon’, The Drama Review 49(4), 2005; R. Shaery-Eisenlohr, Shi‘ite Lebanon: Transnational Religion and the Making of National Identities (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008). For South Asia see J.R.I. Cole, Roots of North Indian Shī ’ism in Iran and Iraq: Religion and State in Awadh, 1722–1859 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1988); M.E. Hegland, ‘Flagellation and Fundamentalism: (Trans)forming Meaning, Identity, and Gender Through Pakistani Women’s Rituals of Mourning’, American Ethnologist, vol. 25, 1988; M.E. Hegland, ‘The Power Paradox in Muslim Women’s majales: North-West Pakistani Mourning Rituals as Sites of Contestation over Religious Politics, Ethnicity, and Gender’, Signs, vol. 23, 1988; S.A. Hyder, Reliving Karbala: Martyrdom in South Asian Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), D. Pinault, Horse of Karbala: Muslim Devotional Life in India (New York: Palgrave, 2001), and V. Schubel, Religious Performance in Contemporary Islam: Shi’i Devotional Rituals in South Asia (Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press, 1993). For Trinidad see F.J. Korom, Hosay Trinidad: Muharram Performances in an Indo-Caribbean Diaspora (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003). This is a select bibliography only. 2. M. Leichtman, A Tale of Two Shi‘isms: Lebanese Migrants and Senegalese Converts in Dakar (Ph.D. Dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Brown University, 2006), and ‘Shiite Lebanese Migrants and Senegalese Converts in Dakar’, in S. Mervin (ed), Les mondes chiites et l’Iran (Paris: Editions Karthala

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et Institut français du Proche Orient, 2007). Senegalese converts themselves refer to their practice and application of Shi‘ite Islam as being ‘Senegalese’. I do not use this term to reproduce the Orientalist discourse of Islam noir or ‘African’ Islam, or to enter into the debate about the existence of a universal Islam versus many local ‘Islams’. D. Cruise O’Brien and C. Coulon (eds), Charisma and Brotherhood in African Islam (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988). L. Brenner, Controlling Knowledge: Religion, Power, and Schooling in a Muslim Society (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001); R. Ware III, ‘The Longue Durée of Quran Schooling, Society, and State in Senegambia’, in M. Diouf, and M. Leichtman (eds), New Perspectives on Islam in Senegal: Conversion, Migration, Wealth, Power, and Femininity (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009). The French first used the term marabout in West Africa to refer to members of Muslim lineages who were also clerics, ranging from the obscure to the well-known and including urban and rural imams or prayer leaders, teachers, scholars, preachers, saints and Sufis, amulet confectioners and diviners (B. Soares, Islam and the Prayer Economy: History and Authority in a Malian Town (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2005)). L. Villalón, Islamic Society and State Power in Senegal: Disciples and Citizens in Fatick (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1999). O. Kane and L. Villalón, ‘Entre Confrérisme, Réformisme et Islamisme, Les Mustarshidīn du Sénégal’, Islam et Sociétés au Sud du Sahara 9, 1995; F. Samson, Les Marabouts de l’Islam Politique: Le Dahiratoul Moustarchidina wal Moustarchidaty, un Mouvement Néo-confrérique Sénégalais (Paris: Karthala, 2005); L. Villalón, ‘Generational Changes, Political Stagnation, and the Evolving Dynamics of Religion and Politics in Senegal’, Africa Today 46(3/4), 1999; L. Villalón ‘The Moustarchidine of Senegal: The Family Politics of a Contemporary Tijan Movement’, in J.-L. Triaud and D. Robinson (eds), La Tijâniyya. Une Confrérie Musulmane à la Conquête de l’Afrique (Paris: Karthala, 2000). E.J. Augis, Dakar’s Sunnite Women: The Politics of Person (Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Sociology, The University of Chicago, 2002). J.-L. Amselle, ‘Le Wahabisme à Bamako (1945–1985)’, Canadian Journal of African Studies 19(2), 1985; L. Kaba, The Wahhabiyya: Islamic Reform and Politics in French West Africa (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1974). M. Janson, ‘Roaming about for God’s Sake: The Upsurge of the Tabligh Jama‘at in The Gambia’, Journal of Religion in Africa 35(4), 2005. A. Masquelier, ‘Identity, Alterity and Ambiguity in a Nigerien Community: Competing Definitions of a “True” Islam’, in R. Werbner and T. Ranger (eds), Postcolonial Identities in Africa (London: Zed Books, 1996).

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12. O. Kane, Muslim Modernity in Postcolonial Nigeria: A Study of the Society for the Removal of Innovation and Reinstatement of Tradition (Leiden: Brill, 2003); R. Loimeier, Islamic Reform and Political Change in Northern Nigeria (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1997). 13. Brenner, Controlling Knowledge; R.W. Niezen, ‘The “Community of Helpers of the Sunna”: Islamic Reform among the Songhay of Gao (Mali)’, Africa 60, 1990; D.E. Schulz, ‘(Re)turning to Proper Muslim Practice: Islamic Moral Renewal and Women’s Conflicting Assertions of Sunni Identity in Urban Mali’, Africa Today 54(4), 2008; Soares, Islam and the Prayer Economy. 14. R. Launay, Beyond the Stream: Islam and Society in a West African Town (Long Grove, IL: Waveland Press, 2004); M.N. LeBlanc, ‘Proclaiming Individual Piety: Pilgrims and Religious Renewal in Côte d’Ivoire’, in V. Amit and N. Dyck (eds), Claiming Individuality: The Cultural Politics of Distinction (London: Pluto Press, 2006); M. Miran, Islam, Histoire et Modernité en Côte d’Ivoire (Paris: Karthala, 2006). 15. M. Gomez-Perez, L’islam politique au sud du Sahara: identités, discours et enjeux (Paris: Karthala, 2005); W.F.S. Miles, Political Islam in West Africa: StateSociety Relations Transformed (Boulder & London: Lynne Rienner Publishers, 2007); R. Otayek, Le Radicalisme Islamique au Sud du Sahara: Da‘wa, Arabisation et Critique de l’Occident (Paris: Karthala, 1993). 16. R. Loimeier, ‘Patterns and Peculiarities of Islamic Reform in Africa’, Journal of Religion in Africa 33(3), 2003. 17. See M. Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam: The History and Doctrines of Twelver Shi‘ism (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985) for a detailed history of the development of Shi‘ite Islam. 18. Leichtman, A Tale of Two Shi‘isms, ch. 1 and 9. 19. The term ‘Wahhabi’ refers to an Islamic movement that purports to be orthodox, named after the Saudi founder Muhammad ibn ‘Abd al-Wahhab (1703–92). This name is rarely used by members of the group today, and was first designated by their opponents. Also known as Salafism, the movement accepts the Qur’an and Hadith as fundamental texts and advocates a puritanical and legalistic theology in matters of faith and religious practice. 20. Today there are between 15,000 and 30,000 Lebanese in Senegal. This discrepancy is due to the difficulty of estimating the number of Lebanese in Senegal, as not all have Lebanese nationality, many are not registered with the Lebanese embassy, and it is difficult to categorise children of mixed marriages. The first and second generations are traders and small businessmen, whereas the third and fourth generations have begun to move into industry and the professions.

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21. C. Harrison, France and Islam in West Africa, 1860–1960 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); D. Sene, ‘Un journal à l’assaut des ‘Levantins’, ‘Les Echos Africains’ et le ‘Problème Libanais’ en AOF (1947–1948)’, Revue Africaine de Communication (Centre d’Etudes des Sciences et Techniques de l’Information, Université Cheikh Anta Diop de Dakar) November-December, 1997. 22. Leichtman, A Tale of Two Shi‘isms, Chapter 3. 23. Other Senegalese Shi‘ite schools offer education to women. 24. For more information on the 2003 visit see ‘Wade Wanting Better Ties with Iran’, Iran International, no. 27 (January 2004), http://www.iraninternationalmagazine.com/issue_27/text/wade.htm; on the 2006 visit see Mamadou Sèye, ‘Énergie, Prospection Pétrolière, Industrie: Le Sénégal bénéficie des solutions iraniennes’, Le Soleil, 28 June 2006; ‘Communiqué conjoint de la visite officielle de Son Excellence Me Abdoulaye Wade, président de la République du Sénégal en République Islamique d’Iran: du 26 au 28 juin 2006 (du 5 au 7 Tir 1385 de l’Hégire solaire)’, Le Soleil, 29 June 2006. 25. ‘Stronger OIC Agenda would Better Serve Muslims’, http://www.islam-pure. de/imam/news/news2008/02_2008.htm, 28 February 2008. 26. M. Rubin, ‘Iran’s Global Ambition’, AEI Middle Eastern Outlook, 17 March 2008 http://www.meforum.org/article/1873. See M. Leichtman, ‘(Still) Exporting the Islamic Revolution: Senegal’s Relationship with Iran’, Shi‘a Affairs Journal 1, 2008, for more details on Senegalese–Iranian relations. 27. M. Leichtman, ‘The Legacy of Transnational Lives: Beyond the First Generation of Lebanese in Senegal’, Ethnic and Racial Studies 28(4), 2005. 28. Tension between Arab and Persian schools of Shi‘ite thought results from political views: Iranians believe in Ayatollah Khomeini’s velāyat-e faqīh (Jurist’s guardianship). Khomeini’s argument in favour of Islamic government denounced monarchies and gave religious judges the divine right to rule. Lebanese do not support this view, or the propagation of the Iranian Revolution. Senegalese like the idea of velāyat-e faqīh, hoping one day to find their place in Senegal’s political system, which is currently (and unofficially) dominated by Sufi marabouts. 29. According to an article by Le Messager (A.K. Aïdara, ‘Trente-Quatre Années au Service de l’Islam au Sénégal: Cheikh Abdul Monem El Zein, un Atypique Cheikh Chiite au Sénégal . . .’, Le Messager, vol. 84, Tuesday 2 December, 2003). I have not verified these figures. 30. The shaykh uses the khums tax, the Shi‘ite tax of one fifth, to help fund their institutions and activities. 31. See M. Leichtman, ‘The Authentication of a Discursive Islam: Shi‘a Alternatives to Sufi Orders’, in M. Diouf and M. Leichtman (eds) New Perspectives on Islam in Senegal: Conversion, Migration, Wealth, Power, and

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32.

33.

34. 35. 36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

41.

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Femininity (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009) for more information on the development of a Senegalese Shi‘ite network. A joyful occasion with carnival-like festivities, resulting in a sort of Muslim Halloween where girls dress as boys and boys as girls, and children go door to door to receive gifts to the rhythm of drums. Senegalese Muslims chant nocturnal evocations on the night of the ninth of Muharram, and the holiday also evokes the obligation to give charity to help the most deprived. A view of Rawane Mbaye, a well respected university professor and Tijani Islamic leader. He informed me of a custom to pay offerings to the divinities by filling a calabash with food (typically couscous with beef) on the ninth day of the month of Muharram, and if the calabash is empty the next morning the divinity is believed to have taken his share. Mozdahir, Achoura: Jour de fête ou jour de Deuil? (Dakar: Institut Mozdahir International, 2007), p. 122. I have not confirmed this statement, which other Senegalese Shi‘ites would disagree with. For additional Qur’anic events and a description of other Tamkharit customs see http://www.au-senegal.com/La-Tamxarit.html?var_recherche= tamkharit, accessed 17 September 2007. The collection of Bukhari is one of the six major Hadith collections of Sunni Muslims. The Quraysh was the dominant tribe in Mecca during the appearance of Islam, the tribe to which the Prophet Muhammad belonged, and the tribe which led the initial opposition to his message. Jahiliyya refers to the ‘time of ignorance’, the condition in which Arabs found themselves in preIslamic Arabia, prior to the revelation of the Qur’an to Muhammad. Other speakers believed that the Prophet did fast on this day and recommended that Muslims fast on this day like the Jews, although fasting on ‘Ashura is not an obligation as it is during the month of Ramadan. Jews eat a special diet during Passover, refraining from consuming leavened bread, but this is not a complete fast as is Yom Kippur, when they abstain from all food and drink. Abu Sufyan headed the rival branch of the Quraysh tribe which was one of the staunchest opponents of Muhammad and his followers, fighting against them in several battles. Abu Sufyan later accepted Islam and became a companion of the Prophet. He was the father of Mu‘awiya, and the grandfather of Yazid, and Shi‘ites view him as a hypocrite. See Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala for one example in Iran. Lebanese Shi‘ites also liken Israel to the figure of Yazid.

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42. The Wolof greeting for Tamkharit is deweneti which means ‘may I be in a position to wish you a happy new year next year’. 43. http://www.mozdahir.com/interventions-de-cherif/discours-de-cherifachoura-2008.html, accessed March 1, 2009. 44. Qur’an: ‘Ali ‘Imran verse 3:103. 45. F. McLaughlin, ‘Islam and Popular Music in Senegal: The Emergence of a “New Tradition”’, Africa 67(4), 1997. 46. Butch Ware has pointed out that Sunni Muslims do venerate the family of the Prophet and do not understand the holiday as a Sunni ‘victory’. In fact, Amadu Bamba, founder of the Senegalese Murid order, discussed ‘Ashura in his book Masalik al-Jinan (verses 234–54), offering his own pronouncements based on the overall body of scholarship, where he synthesised the views of Ghazali and Yadali, among other teachers. Bamba was of the opinion that ‘Ashura was ‘the most meritorious of the voluntary fasts’ and one should perform prayers, almsgiving, full ritual bath and self-beautification, visit the sick, visit the scholars, caress the head of a Muslim orphan, recite the Qur’anic verse ikhlas 1,000 times, and prepare an abundant and succulent meal. He understood this day to be the day God forgave Adam; the day Noah’s ark came to rest on the mountain of Judi; the day the sea parted in favour of Moses; the day Jesus was born; the day Pharaoh drowned; the day Jonah came out of the belly of the whale; the day Joseph escaped from the well; the day Ibrahim was saved from being burned by Nimrod; the day of the ascension of Idris (Enoch) and of Jesus the son of Mary; and the day of David’s redemption. I am grateful to Butch Ware for sending me a translation of Bamba’s writings on this topic. 47. Fischer, Iran: From Religious Dispute to Revolution. 48. Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala. 49. Shaery-Eisenlohr, Shi‘ite Lebanon. 50. Loimeier, ‘Patterns and Peculiarities of Islamic Reform in Africa’. 51. Diouf and Leichtman, New Perspectives on Islam in Senegal. 52. E.E. Rosander, ‘Introduction: The Islamization of “Tradition” and “Modernity”’, in D. Westerlund and E.E. Rosander (eds), African Islam and Islam in Africa: Encounters Between Sufis and Islamists (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1997).

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CHAPTER NINE CONTESTED POSTOTTOM AN ALEVI AND BEKTASHI IDENTITIES IN THE BALK ANS AND THEIR SHI‘ITE COMPONENT Yuri Stoyanov1

The development, interaction and occasional conflicts between traditional and ascribed Alevi and Bektashi identities in the Balkans since the late Ottoman period is part of the larger process of the transformation, reconceptualisation and changing politics of identity of heterodox religious communities in the Eastern Mediterranean and Near East following the fragmentation and end of the Ottoman Empire. Indeed, the distinct Alevi revivalism in Turkey and the Alevi diaspora since the late 1980s and its manifold and diverse religious, cultural and social aspects has been deservedly attracting increasing attention of historians, political scientists, theologians, anthropologists, sociologists, ethnomusicologists, etc., some of them coming from within the Alevi community. This academic (and public) rediscovery of Anatolian Alevism (Alevilik) has not been accompanied (with few exceptions) by a comparable interest (or comparable publications output) in the corresponding, if often dissimilar, processes among the

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existing ethno-religious Alevi groups in the Balkans and the extant regional networks and lodges of the Bektashi dervish order which have remained little-known, ‘barely researched’2 communities. This ‘neglect’ of the Balkan wings of Bektashism and Alevilik is certainly regrettable, as a comparative study of the patterns of Alevi and Bektashi interactions with post-Ottoman modernity in Anatolia and the Balkans, for example, could shed further useful light on the manifold effects of the processes of migration, urbanisation and secularisation on their belief and ritual systems or their traditional hierarchical and communal structures. Significantly, the fortunes of the Alevi communities and the Bektashi order in the Balkans during the post-Ottoman, post-World War II and post-Communist periods have followed divergent trajectories from those of their counterparts in Anatolia and were determined by different socio-political circumstances. The lack of sufficient interest and research in Balkan Bektashism and Alevism, which has endured until very recently, was conditioned to a great extent by objective factors such as the difficult access (by West European or Turkish researchers) to these communities, their religious and cultic sites (tekkes, zaviyes, türbes, etc. ), internal written and oral sources throughout much of the Communist period in Eastern Europe, when, moreover, local research on these communities was developing slowly and erratically. Still, the post-Communist restoration of religious freedoms in the last two decades generated not only more public and social visibility for these Alevi and Bektashi groups but brought into sharper focus the need to initiate serious investigations of their history, beliefs and rituals and integrate the resultant material and conclusions into the study of their Anatolian counterparts. At the same time, almost inevitably and varying from one Balkan area to another, the restored presence of Alevism and Bektashism in the various local and regional religious, political and social discourses has also reawakened some of the characteristic theologically, polemically and nationalistically motivated approaches to their identity articulated in the late and early post-Ottoman period. Much of the recent and continuing intense debates about (or within) Anatolian and West European diaspora Alevism have been focused on the question of Alevi identity(ies), including the role of Shi‘ism in its

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formation. The development of these debates, with their far-reaching religio-political implications, can greatly benefit from a closer study of the post-Ottoman identity politics and claims associated with the Balkan Alevis and Bektashis, starting from the establishment of the first modern Balkan nation states to the post-Communist transformations and realignment of religious actors and institutions on the Balkan multi-confessional scene. The various vexed problems posed by the emergence and history in the early Ottoman era of the various Anatolian heterodox groups (which came to be described by the umbrella term Kızılbaş to be largely replaced latterly, while also remaining interchangeable with ‘Alevi’), the roots of some of them in the rebellious Baba’i groups of the Seljuk period and the exact nature of their early interrelations with the Bektashi order, as well as the development of this relationship into the Ottoman era, remain outside the scope of this article. But it is worth noting at this point that the extent and origin of Shi‘ite elements in the beliefs and rites of the early Kızılbaş communities and Bektashi dervishes, as well as the question of whether they pre-date the extension of Safavid proselytism into Anatolia, continue to be under close debate. The borderline between Shi‘ite-influenced and Shi‘ite-leaning heterodox Islamic currents in early Ottoman Anatolia was not always fixed and some of these heterodox circles or dervishes could also adopt Shari‘a-related notions and practices from Sunni Islam. It is also worth noting that the investigation of the diverse evidence for the history of the Bektashi order, its interrelations with the Qalandar dervish groups, its association with the Janissary corps, its links and organisational parallels to the Ottoman craft guilds, the akhis, and its role in the expanding Ottoman dominions from Anatolia into Europe and the Near East, have been undergoing steady, if somewhat (given the nature of the sources) slow, progress. Indeed, recent studies have broken promising new ground in the research on the continuing presence and alliances of the order (and Bektashi-related circles) following its suppression and confiscation of Bekashi property and lodges3 by Sultan Mahmud II (1808–39) in 1826 (along with his abolition of the Janissary corps) in the swiftly changing religious and political arena of the late Ottoman Empire and early Kemalist Turkey.4

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On the other hand, the history of the originally pro-Safavid Anatolian Kızılbaş groups following the Ottoman–Safavid conflicts of the sixteenth century, their persecution by the Ottoman authorities and the deportation of some of these communities to the Balkans in the same century continues to abound in major gaps and uncertainties. Some of the reconstructions and assumptions meant to overcome these gaps and uncertainties, especially in popular literature on Kızılbaşlık/Alevilik, can be very sweeping and go well beyond what the extant and not always critically studied evidence allows for. The post-sixteenth century patterns of modus vivendi reached between the various Anatolian and Balkan Kızılbaş groups and the Ottoman central and local authorities (and the possible role of the Bektashi order in these processes), the extent to which they were marginalised or some of them driven underground, needs a careful and unbiased research which does not seek to project sixteenth-century evidence into later Ottoman centuries or project backwards nineteenth- and twentieth-century Ottoman attitudes and presumptions regarding Kızılbaşlık and the Bektashism. Despite these uncertainties and controversies surrounding some of the crucial problem areas in the study of early Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism, the accumulation of research on and publications of primary written source material (including the scripts of the Alevi doctrinal-catechistic book, the Buyruk (attributed to the sixth Shi‘ite imam, Ja‘far al-Sadiq), the Maqālat, the ‘sayings’ attributed to the eponymous founder of the Bektashi order, Hacı Bektaş Veli (c. 1300 ?), the Menakıbnāmes and Vilāyet-nāmes of Alevi and Bektashi sacred personages, religious hymns, nefes, etc.) as well as field-work explorations of Alevi oral history and rural communities ethnography, clearly indicates that the roots of shared Kızılbaş and Bektashi beliefs and practices need to be sought in the influential syncretistic, antinomian and ghulāt-related currents within early Ottoman Islam, which could generate religious agitations and religio-political movements, challenging the stability of the empire and the ascendancy of Sunni Islam. At the same time, some of the divergences in the sphere of doctrine and ritual between the two groups were evidently determined by their different socio-religious presence and evolution in post-sixteenth century Ottoman society. The Kızılbaş groups in the post-sixteenth-century Balkans and Asia Minor

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generally tended to evolve into rural, peripheral, secluded and largely endogamic ethno-religious communities (with a strong focus on the oral transmission of their esotericised teachings and rites), practising when needed and in varying degrees a Shi‘ite-like dissimulation of their religious affiliation (takiyya), while still being exposed to periodic Sunnification pressures whose intensity could fluctuate from area to area. Bektashiyya was eventually recognised and acted as one of the Ottoman Sufi (arīqat) orders with its increasingly fixed ritual, which developed also an urban network of lodges in the Ottoman provinces in Balkan and Eastern Europe and the Near East, while fostering a literary tradition on its own and remaining receptive to fashionable and influential currents and sub-currents on the Islamic religious and Sufi arīqat scene of the empire.

Approaches to and Reconstruction of Post-Ottoman Alevism The Anatolian and Balkan Kızılbaş remained thus isolated from the post-sixteenth century developments in the Twelver Shi‘ism Islam of Safavid Persia. The patterns of continuing interaction between these Kızılbaş groups (affected also by the continuous processes of migrations in the Ottoman period) and Bektashiyya could vary on account of the stronger emphasis in some of these groups on their Baba’i pedigree and heritage or whether their links were with one or the other of the two branches of the order, the Ćelebi or the Babăgan. These differing lines of allegiance could have significant implications for the interrelations and overlapping of the structures of religious, spiritual and social authority in the respective Kızılbaş groups, as the Ćelebi branch of the Bektashiyya (known also as yol evlādı, ‘sons of the way’), advocated celibacy for its clerical elite, whereas the hereditary elite of the Babāgan branch (known also as bel evlādı, ‘sons of the loins/sperm’) claimed physical descent from the founder of the order, Hacı Bektaş Veli. In Ottoman Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism one can encounter, therefore, types of and a potential for syncretism, significant patterns of which developed outside mainstream normative Ottoman Sunni and Twelver Shi‘ite Safavid Islam.

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The main trends in recent and current academic and general discourse on Anatolian and Balkan Alevism and Bektashism have evolved in varied religious, theological, socio-political, anthropological and historiographic contexts. A number of scholarly, journalistic, popular, Sunni polemical and Alevi apologist publications on Alevilik since the late 1980s have focused on the manifold challenges to modern Alevi identity, from the implementation of the far-reaching reformist programmes of early Kemalist Turkey to the emergence of influential and vocal Alevi diasporas in Western Europe at the time of the initiation and officialization of the Sunni-based unitarian Türk-İslam sentezi (‘Turkish–Islamic Synthesis’) project in the 1980s followed by the expansion and electoral successes of political Sunni Islam in contemporary Turkey. Since the early Kemalist period Alevi socio-religious organisation (with its distinct institution of hereditary religious leadership, the dedelik) and its traditional religious and liturgical life revolving around the cem ceremonies, the cemevi (Alevi assembly houses of worship) and the Alevi and Bektashi sanctuaries, has experienced the unremitting pressures of Turkish post-Ottoman modernity. These have included the ban on the Sufi orders and closure of their convents in 1925 (which affected both the functioning and status of the Alevi religious leaders, the dedes and the Alevi sacred places), the massive effects of immigration to the cities, secularisation and the emergence of secularised Alevi elites (challenging in a variety of ways the authority of the dedes, also via their journalistic and literary output), the popularity of leftist ideologies among the Alevis in the 1960–70s and the generational conflicts and general politicisation of Alevilik this entailed, and the more recent proliferation of transnational networks of Alevi associations. Research on the impact of these processes has highlighted the resulting changes in such crucial areas for the continuation of Alevism as a socio-religious formation as the office of the dede, weakened by the ideological struggles of the 1960–70s but currently undergoing redefinition and restructuring in new communal and urban contexts, both in Turkey and among West European Alevi diasporas.5 The current and future significance of Alevism in Turkish political life, pluralism and democracy (as conceptualisations in Turkish Alevi, Sunni and

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secularist circles), the role of sectarian anti-Alevi violence in Alevi collective memory and political mobilisation, Alevi perceptions of their own place in the Kemalist reformist and secularist tradition, Alevi electoral preferences and interrelations with the state and its ministries have also received some extensive treatment.6 A separate stream of studies has investigated various facets and stages of the convoluted interrelations of the Kurdish national movement and Kurdish-speaking Alevi communities in Republican Turkey, treating also the crises, dilemmas and shifts these communities have frequently faced over the prioritisation of either their religious or ethnic identities.7 Mass media representations of Alevism (and anti-Alevi prejudice and stereotyping in them), the raison d’être of and changes in the state’s cultural and educational policies regarding Alevism as well as the disputes between oppositional and non-oppositional Alevi sociopolitical groupings on whether the Alevilik should seek its own representation and equal status with Sunni Islam in the state-run Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığ, ‘Directorate of Religious Affairs’ (which would signify its legal recognition as a separate confessional community – an issue raised also in the European Commission recommendations regarding Turkey’s membership negotiations with the European Union), have been of special interest to political and social scientists.8 Important case studies have explored various aspects of the process of community and institution building in West European Alevi diasporas, focusing on their identity and recognition claims as well as the adjustment of their self-images and self-representations to the respective multiculturalist discourse of the host country (including forceful articulations of alternative Alevi Islamic or non-Islamic identities in the framework of Western modernity’s value systems).9 Another significant area of the otherwise increasingly urbanised and secularised Alevi revivalism which has been attracting much scholarly and general attention are the reasons for the revitalisation of the religious vocabulary in current influential Alevi self-representative discourses.10 This process also underlies the debates over the integration of Alevi-related topics into the mandatory religious courses in the Turkish state school system, the successful campaign for the introduction of Alevi religious curricula in German public schools and the

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related plans for the establishment of high schools and modern educational programmes for the Alevi dedes,11 clearly intended to make Alevi clerical leadership more on a par with the formal theological learning criteria required of Sunni and Shi‘ite religious scholarship. Concurrent with these developments runs the trend towards scripturalisation and standardisation of Alevi doctrinal and ritual traditions which also entails its de-esotericisation and transforms the regulation of socio-religious life in Alevism and breaks the monopoly of the oral transmission of knowledge, which was seen as esoteric and the preserve of the hereditary dede elite.12 Significantly, along with the related attempts to ‘modernise’ Alevi/Bektashi theology this represents a process that finds its parallels in similar developments among other heterodox religious groups in the Near East such as the Ahl-e Haqq.13 The post-1980s emergence of Alevism in the Turkish and West European public social and religious arena revived interest in the provenance of its doctrines and rituals as well as its socio-cultural and religio-political predilections vis-à-vis Sunni Islam, Shi‘ite Islam, other heterodox Near Eastern sectarian minorities and indeed secular modernity. From early to current scholarship on Alevism (both in Turkey and Europe) the syncretistic and heterogeneous nature of Alevi beliefs has been repeatedly emphasised14 but since the recent ‘reinvention’ of Alevism as public religion and its ongoing scripturalization in a variety of Alevi milieus, the need to conceptualise this syncretism in relation to a ‘revived’ self-awareness became more pertinent. The scholarly debates on the composition (and the question of what should be considered the core elements) of the Alevi belief system (usually seen as a multi-layered syncretism) thus run parallel to the unfolding identity quests, fault-lines and conflicts within Alevi communities over the cultural and religious markers of modern Alevism. The broadening of scholarly enquiries to differentiate the various suspected Anatolian Christian (including its heterodox/heretical varieties), archaic Turkic and Iranian layers in the pre-Islamic substratum of Alevism and Bektashism and locate the provenance of its Islamic heterodox elements (including the evident crucial influence of Hurufi teachings)15 coincided with and had some impact on the endeavours of

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Alevi intellectuals, activists and religious leaders to reconstruct their own historiography of Alevism (often built on the pattern of Sunni– Alevi religio-political dichotomy and opposition) and define or update its Weltanschauung. The consequent distinct plurality of discourses on the socio-political and religious planes comprises strikingly contrasting visions of modern Alevism and what religious course it should follow, since claims that it epitomises the authentic essence of Islam (or Shi‘ite Islam) have been challenged by counter-claims that it represents a Turkish secular or secularising version of Islam or an extraIslamic faith altogether. Positions on the left spectrum of the Alevi politics can emphasise what is seen as a traditional Alevi anti-establishment, non-conformist and oppositional ethos cultivated in long-drawn struggles against repressive political and religious elites. Such positions can simultaneously de-emphasise the religious and esoteric dimension of Alevism to clothe the Alevi worldview and identity in popular Marxist or liberation theology-like terms (integrating on occasions pro-Kurdish emancipation trends.16 Slightly varying Kemalist-based Alevi attitudes and self-perceptions regarding the Alevi role in the modernising political reforms of Kemalism form an important and influential mainstream in modern Alevi political self-consciousness, sharing a ‘progressivist’ rhetoric highlighting the link between modernity and Alevi values such as humanism, liberalism, promotion of religious open-mindedness and freedom, etc.17 More marginal Alevi groupings have attempted to foster an exclusivist Turkist Alevi ethno-political identity, with a varying appeal to ultra-nationalistic circles and individuals in Turkish society.18 The rivalry over the competing definitions of the ‘true’ nature and religious affinities of Alevism has been stimulated to some extent by the hitherto unprecedented circulation in the public sphere and publication of Alevi doctrinal and devotional traditions (some of which previously have not been accessible even to the Alevi layman), rising interest in world religions (among Alevi activist-intellectuals) and the drive to foster a historical and theological higher learning comparable to that already established among Sunni and Shi‘ite religious and intellectual elites. As a result, Sunni-leaning and tasawwuf-based

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mystical and intellectual trends, seeking to normatise Alevism within the framework of the Ottoman/Turkish strand of the Sunni arīqats19 have co-existed in the Alevi socio-religious space with views which see Alevism as an intentionally well-balanced conglomerate of ancient and medieval Anatolian beliefs and rites, variously prioritising pre-Islamic Turkic or Iranian (in Kurdish- and Zaza-speaking Alevi milieus) as its defining core layers. Attempts to reorientate Alevism in the direction of a legalist Twelver Shi‘ite Islam, as officialised in post-1979 Iran, have included the efforts of the Azeri Turkic-speaking Twelver Shi‘ite proper communities in eastern Turkey (and their urban enclaves) and the proselytism and publishing programmes sponsored for some time by the Islamic Republic of Iran and implemented by Alevis who have received religious training there.20 This politically marginal Twelver Shi‘ite-oriented trend preaches the enforcement of Shari‘a precepts and mosque worship in Alevi religious life, being highly critical of what is seen as the Bektashi impact on Alevism, the cem rituals and their performance at the Alevi cemevi. The Bektashiyya entanglement with the Kızılbaş groups in Ottoman Anatolia is seen thus as a ploy of the Ottoman Sunni establishment to keep in check these Shi‘iteinclined groups and prevent the further spread of Twelver Shi‘ism in the region. An influential, increasingly consensual and academically respectable current in post-1980s Alevi self-definition has been elaborating the view of Alevism as a mystical (tasawwuf-influenced and -leaning), heterogeneous to a degree (comprising as well some pre-Islamic Anatolian and Turkic traditions) version of Islam which has been at some stage of its development influenced by Shi‘ite notions and came to develop a humanistic and secularising value system ahead of its time.21 Among the implications of this reconstruction of Alevism is the potential that a theological cultivation of its tasawwuf-inspired principles and ethos shared with Sunni arīqats such as the Mevlevi should contribute to the harmonisation of the Sunni-Alevi socio-religious polarities in Turkey, and ultimately even build a kind of ‘Sufi bridge’ between Sunnism and Alevism22 and allow it to play a role in the Sunni–Shi‘ite dialogue on the greater Near Eastern scene. Variants of this discourse in Alevi

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West European diaspora can similarly dwell on the convergence of Sufi and humanistic ideals in Alevi religiosity but downplay the Islamic context to portray Alevism on the fashionable model of a world religious philosophy with universal spiritual features and appeal.23

Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism in the Balkans Against the background of these diverse patterns of theologisation, ideologisation and political instrumentalisation of Alevism in postOttoman Turkey, the course of Alevi and Bektashi identity politics in the post-Ottoman Balkans offers some telling parallels and differences. The provenance and the early history of the Kızılbaş communities and the Bektashi order in the Balkans represent one of the most interesting religio-historic problems related to the religious history of the early Ottoman Empire. The continuing research on the Islamic heterodox communities in the eastern Balkans (who variously define themselves as having Baba’i, Bektashi or Kızılbaş roots) has produced some interesting results, indicating that some of these groups most probably descend from Kızılbaş deportees resettled there by the Ottoman authorities in the sixteenth century but some of whom may also originate from heterodox Turkoman groups (at least some of whom may have been dervish- or baba-led) who migrated into the region in earlier periods.24 Significantly, these Kızılbaş communities comprise also descendants of Anatolian Baba’i groups and of followers of Shaykh Badr al-Din (1358–1416) and his eclectic religio-political movement, the Bedrettiniler, which adds further potential sources for syncretistic traditions in eastern Balkan Kızılbaş beliefs.25 The study of the spread and history of the Kızılbaş and the Bektashi order has been made difficult by the substantial destruction or desolation of Kızılbaş/ Alevi and Bektashi cultic sites, and the fragmentation and migrations of Alevi and Bektashi groups throughout the region in the period of the formation of the post-Ottoman Balkan states amid the political and military conflicts in the Balkans in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.26 In the case of the Bektashis the order’s heritage suffered considerable and irretrievable losses also after its suppression and the seizure of its property and its religious and cultic edifices in

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1826, as well as following the general closure of all dervish tekkes as a result of the banning of the Sufi arīqats in Kemalist Turkey in 1925. Still, recent research on Alevi and Bektashi religious and cultic sites in the Balkans (some of which have been reclaimed by the respective communities over the past 20 years), anthropological fieldwork and work on Ottoman source material has made it possible to establish the general outlines of the chronology and at least some aspects of the history of the Kızılbaş groups and the Bektashi order in the Balkans during the Ottoman period.27 One of the successfully researched areas in the history of the early Ottoman Balkans concerns the prominent role played by the dervish orders, including and especially Bektashism, in the advance of the Ottoman colonisation of the Balkans.28 During this process the dervish orders appropriated a number of Christian churches, saints’ tombs and sanctuaries, contributing substantially to the evolving process of Christian–Islamic interaction and syncretism which had already began in Anatolia earlier in the Seljuk period and was to increase its range and acquire new forms and dynamics in the Ottoman Balkans. One of the major and still unresolved questions concerning Bektashism in this context is whether its appropriation of Christian elements represented simply a part of this greater process of syncretism or was indeed a result of a conscious religious policy to make Bektashism a bridge and intermediary between Christianity and Islam.29 Indeed Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism have been frequently implicated in the controversies and unresolved problems related to the development and types of Christian–Islamic syncretism in the Ottoman period and the dervish orders’ involvement in it. The study of Bektashi and Alevi cultic heritage and the records of the various ritual observances performed at the respective sites can doubtless contribute greatly to the evolving study of the interaction and cross-fertilisation between the different local varieties of Christianity and Islam, particularly in the sphere of shared sanctuaries, saints and feasts, or certain superstitious and religious traditions. There is a significant amount of evidence that ordinary and mostly illiterate Christians and Muslims inhabiting rural areas of the Ottoman Empire could amalgamate and synthesise their Christian and Islamic traditions much easier than, and without

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the theological or social bias and reservations of, their respective communal and religious leaders,30 and such interchange could have taken place also in the spheres of religious heterodoxy.31 Another avenue for future investigation relevant to the study of the establishment and spread of Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism in the Balkans (within the frameworks of the related preoccupations of some influential nineteenthcentury Western and subsequently local journalistic, missionary and early scholarly discourse on the two groups) is the phenomenon of crypto-Christianity in the Balkans and Anatolia which could have a number of local variants, some of which could be particularly enduring and long-lasting.32 Determined by various sets of religious, political and social circumstances, the various examples of crypto-Christianity under the Ottomans also highlights the ways in which superstitious attitudes and quasi-magical qualities attributed to religious rites such as Christian baptism or pilgrimages to saints’ shrines could lead to the merging of Christian and Islamic practices and beliefs. Further study is needed to probe the occasionally advanced arguments that Bektashism came to be well established in areas where crypto-Christianity ‘prospered’33 and traditions reported among some Bektashis that their ancestors had been Christian.34 Ottoman Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism can be profitably incorporated into another promising avenue for research in the field of Ottoman religious history: the periodic emergence of attempts at further rapprochement between Christianity and Islam, whether used in a proselytising framework35 or in heterodox Islamic circles (such as the movements of Shaykh Badr al-Din36 in the eastern Balkans and that of Malami Shaykh Hamza in early Ottoman Bosnia)37 or in other circumstances, which contributed further to the creation of an environment particularly conducive to the interaction and synthesis of both high and popular forms of Christianity and Islam. Throughout the Ottoman period the Ottoman ulama could label the Kızılbaş zındık, ‘heretics’, rafızi, ‘schismatic’ (or Shi‘ite), mülhid, ‘atheist’ and even kāfir, unbelievers. Some earlier reports of Western scholars, Protestant missionaries and travellers show awareness of these official Sunni anti-Kızılbaş attitudes and stereotypes and while describing the Kızılbaş as ‘semi-Christian’, ‘debased Christian’, descendants of forcibly

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Islamicised Christians or ‘crypto-Christian’,38 they effectively question or deny their actual belonging to the Islamic tradition. In the case of missionary reports such forging of a nominal Christian identity for the Kızılbaş provided also the needed legitimation and justification of missionary work among such heterodox sectarian groups.39 However, their postulating the question of the relationship between Kızılbaşlık/ Alevilik and Islam in this manner anticipates some of the already mentioned recent debates within contemporary Alevism (naturally, lacking the Christian ancestry preoccupations of the Protestant missionaries), as well as the subsequent scholarly reformulations and probing of what is posed as the methodological problem of whether Islamic identity is compatible with the belief system of Kızılbaşlık or other Near Eastern syncretistic minorities.40 These first records of Western intellectual and theological encounters with Kızılbaşlık and their focus on what they see as a hidden Christian identity behind a quasi-Islamic sectarian mask also foreshadow the subsequent scholarly interest in potential Christian influences on Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism sought mainly in the spheres of their ritual, forms of worship, initiatory ceremonies, veneration of pseudo-Muslim saints and shrines, celebration and adoption of Christian festivals and saints.41

Attitudes to and Interpretations of Alevism and Bektashism in the post-Ottoman Balkans In the post-Ottoman Christian-majority successor states the new elite’s strategies for restructuring collective identities and dealing with the inherited multiconfessional polities in their territories could offer differing models, as exemplified, for example, by those developed in the post-World War II kingdoms of Yugoslavia and Greece. Unsurprisingly, the variously ideologised thesis of the original Christian identity of the Balkan Alevi and Bektashi groups enjoyed an understandable currency in local scholarly and popular discourses42 which also tended to disregard the Islamic dimension (or fundamentals) of their beliefs and rituals. Some of its exaggerations and sweeping generalisations were soon to be countered and invalidated by the unfolding, again locally, less biased research on the Islamic heterodox and Shi‘ite elements in

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Alevi and Bektashi teachings and practices and the evidence it was producing43. Despite the growing evidence to the contrary, the thesis of the pre-Ottoman Christian identity of the Kızılbaş and Bektashi in the Balkans has endured into the post-Communist period and on occasions continues to inspire populist historiographies of the Balkans in the Ottoman period. The abiding vitality of this thesis (apart from its obvious nationalistic ethno-religious underpinning) was reinforced by another theory that since the late Ottoman period has experienced intermittent popularity in the Balkans and Europe in general, according to which Balkan heterodox communities (and specifically, the Bogomils and Paulicians) chose to convert to Islam as a reaction against their suppression by the established church and became thus the ancestors of the modern Slav-speaking Muslim groups in Bosnia, Bulgaria, Serbia, Macedonia and Greece.44 Subsequently accumulating research on and evidence of the Islamisation processes in the early Ottoman Balkans have rendered this model, particularly its extreme forms, obsolete and untenable, but it has retained its appeal and potential to be politically instrumentalised, as demonstrated again during the Yugoslav wars of succession in the 1990s. Evidence-based and -oriented research on the interaction of Islamic and Christian heterodoxies in the Ottoman period can yield some intriguing results, but given the past ideological and political abuses of the problematic, the material needs to be treated with extreme caution. Currently the Balkans still present examples of mixed, dual veneration (Eastern Orthodox and Alevi/Bektashi) sanctuaries and sites, which continues unabated at some, but has attracted socio-religious and even legal controversies at others where these tensions are easily traceable to the interference of political and ideological factors and agendas.45 The ‘Christian’ connection in the scholarly and popular discourse on Alevi and Bektashi identity in the post-Ottoman Balkans could be duly exploited in politically-motivated initiatives or projects to ‘indigenise’ these communities/minorities in local and national contexts. For example, during the Communist authorities’ assimilationist campaigns against the large Turkish minority in Bulgaria (comprising the Alevi groups in the country) in 1984–9 attempts were made to capitalise on the thesis of the Alevis’ postulated Christian origin (and

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their traditionally good relations with the Eastern Orthodox communities) in order to drive a wedge between them and the Sunni Turkish population and weaken the expected resistance to this systematic assault on their Turkish identity.46

Bektashism in Albania Unlike post-Ottoman Turkey where the posited or suspected Christian elements in Alevism and Bektashism did not constitute a major topic in the discourse on their identity, in the post-Ottoman Christianmajority states this Christian connection could be thus exploited in cases in which Alevi/Bektashi identity claims and politics appeared relevant to official (in the Communist period) and populist historiographical or ideological constructs. The ideologisation and politicisation of Bektashi identity took more convoluted and intriguing trajectories in post-Ottoman Muslim-majority Albania where at the time of the establishment of its independence in 1912 the Bektashi order formed a fourth religious group (and third largest) in the country, besides Sunni Islam, Eastern Orthodox and Catholic Christianity, and came to actively seek a full legal separation from the Muslim Sunni community. The history of the entry and early spread of the Bektashi order in Ottoman Albania and adjacent Albanian-populated areas and to what extent it was conditioned by or contributed to local popular Islamic–Christian religious syncretism still presents many uncertainties47 which should decrease with further archival research in Albania and Turkey that should also offer new perspectives on the role of the order in the formation of the culture and spirituality of Albanian Islam through its interchange with the Bektashi networks in Anatolia, the East Mediterranean and the Near East. Opinions vary as to what extent the structures of the Bektashi order in Albania were affected by the Ottoman anti-Bektashi measures after its formal abolition by Sultan Mahmud II in 1826 and whether actually, due to the peripheral position of Albania in the empire, a number of Bektashi refugees from Anatolia regions have found refuge there, strengthening the local network of the arīqat. Be that is it may, it was in the nineteenth century (and especially its last three decades) that

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the Bektashi order rose to real prominence in Albania. This elevation of Bektashism to the centre stage of Albanian political and religious life was determined to a large extent by the close links of Albanian Bektashi circles with the Albanian national movement and their involvement in the fostering of Albanian culture, language and literature in the last stages of the period of the so-called Albanian ‘national awakening’ (Rilindja) between 1878 and 1912.48 The ‘nationalisation’ of Bektashism and a kind of a blueprint for a leading role for Bektashi ‘ecumenism’ in transcending the internal Albanian confessional lines of division and shaping a harmonious Albanian national identity is forcefully articulated by the noted Albanian poet Naim Frashëri (1846–1900), traditionally seen as ‘the apostle-poet of Albanian nationalism’.49 Naim Frashëri was of a lay Bektashi background and also, along with his brothers Abdyl and Sami Frashëri, played a key role in the ‘national awakening’. Frashëri’s vision of a religiously nonpartisan, humanistic and Albanianised Bektashi order is endorsed in his tract, Fletore e Bektashinjet, ‘Bektashi Notebook’, (1896)50; among other things, he proposed to Albanianise the Turkish terms for the hierarchical grades of the order. He further endeavoured to translate his Bektashi project into reality, pushing for reforms within the Albanian Bektashi establishment, which would set the stage for the formation of a Bektashi unity-bringing national confessionalism, a project which remained too elitist and far-reaching in the framework of contemporaneous Albanian political and religious realities.51 Naim Frashëri’s Fletore e Bektashinjet dwells in some detail on the Bektashi practices during the first ten days of the Islamic month of Muharram, commemorating the violent death of ‘Ali’s second son and third Shi‘ite Imam, Husayn at the battle of Karbala and culminating in the morning observances in the tenth day of the ‘Ashura – one of the obvious Shi‘ite complex of beliefs and rites absorbed in Bektashism.52 Significantly, in his well-known and popular epic poem, Qerbelaja (1898) Naim Frashëri transfers this Shi‘ite complex of themes of resistance, suffering and martyrdom also to the perceived injustice and oppression of Ottoman rule over the Albanians, clearly aiming to mobilise anti-Sunni, hence anti-Ottoman sentiments and resistance ethos.53 These paradigmatic Shi‘ite Karbala themes were already treated in an

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Albanian Bektashi framework by the Bektashi dervish Dalip Frashëri (himself a head of a Bektashi tekke) in his (and first Albanian) literary epic, Hadikaja (1842) and in the epic literary effort effort of his brother, Shahin Bey Frashëri, Myhtarnameja (1868) which may have influenced Naim Frashëri’s choice and Albanianised elaboration of the Karbala subject in his classic Qerbelaja.54 Whether these Bektashi writers’ elaborate usage of the Shi‘ite Karbala cluster of notions and imagery, based as it was on Persian literary traditions, amounted to an attempt to ‘reform’ Albanian Bektashism and bring it closer to contemporaneous Iranian Twelver Shi‘ism remains open to debate.55 Naim Frashëri’s brother, Sami Frashëri, known also as Şemseddin Sami Bey (1850–1904), who also served as an Ottoman official, was a prolific author and late in his life wrote the very influential book Albania: What it Was, What It Is, and What Will Become of It (1899) which outlined the governance and fabric of what he saw as a working model of an autonomous Albanian state. In this future state’s nationalised organisation of religion the hierarchy of the Bektashi order was envisaged as evolving into a political-party-like structure56. Apart from such blueprints for the future learned Albanian nationalist Bektashi circles were aware of the importance of mobilising history and could fashion mythic constructs by projecting their strong links with the Albanian national movement back to famed Albanian figures such as the de facto independent ruler of the Ottoman Pashalik of Yanina, ‘Ali Pasha (1741–1822) and even to the paradigmatic national hero of antiOttoman resistance, Skanderbeg (1405–68).57 Although the Balkan Wars of 1912–13 and World War I caused much destruction and devastation of Albanian Bektashi sanctuaries and fragmentation of its property and networks, given its strong association with the national movement, the order remained in a good position to continue to play a major role in the political and religious life of newly independent and multi-confessional inter-war Albania, established by its political elite as a non-denominational state. Entangled in the late Ottoman politics accompanying the build-up to the dissolution of the empire in the early twentieth century, from the Young Turk Revolution of 1908 Bektashi elite circles in Turkey had been progressively drifting away from their Albanian counterparts (despite the substantial number

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of Albanians in the Bektashi tekkes in Anatolia). Following the ban on the dervish orders in Republican Turkey in 1925, the Albanian Bektashi order began manoeuvring to transfer the Bektashi main centre, pīr evi, from Hacıbektaşköy in Anatolia to Albania and establish a Bektashi ‘world centre’ in Tirana. Functioning in practice and in actual fact as an autonomous religious community, the order campaigned actively to achieve full legal recognition of its separate status from Albanian Sunni Islam and its intellectual elite took an active part in the government’s secularist and modernising policies and the debates on the needed ‘reform of Islam’ in the public sphere. The process of socio-political deIslamisation included reorganisation of Sunni Islamic institutions and their relations with state, the eventual suppression of the Shari‘a courts and a ban on the veil.58 The process was enthusiastically promoted by certain Bektashi secularist politicians and intellectuals who could depict Sunnism as a ‘fanatical’ and anti-progress form of Islam, to be contrasted with ‘liberal’ and reform-oriented Bektashism.59 Bektashism could be accordingly depicted as the ‘Protestant element of Islamism’60 and credited with the cultivation of a climate of religious tolerance within Albanian multi-confessional society,61 a discourse which made Albania seem to Protestant missionaries a ‘key’ to the Muslim world and its conversion.62 At the same time, Bektashism retained its specific status in Albanian literary and spiritual life – the latter was characterised by the traditionally strong presence of the other dervish orders such as the Khalwatiyya, Rifa‘iyya, Sa‘diyya and Kadiriyya whose relations with the Abanian Bektashis could vary from rivalry to cooperation; the Bektashi literary output included new reworkings of the Karbala religio-political complex, favoured by nineteenth-century literary Bektashism.63 After several Bektashi congresses which passed the necessary statutes for the restructuring and transformation of the order into an autonomous religious community (which included the Albanianisation of the terms for the ranks in the arīqat), by the early 1940s the order seemed in very good shape, with an impressive number of Bektashi tekkes and babas throughout Albania and Kosovo. The early Communist period in Albania, however, brought as expected the first waves of repression against Bektashism and the other Albanian religious denominations.

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The order was infiltrated by Communist loyalists, then went under the full control of the regime and finally was disbanded and prohibited when in 1967 the Albanian Communist establishment imposed a ban on all religious institutions and activities. In the subsequent ‘cultural revolution’ the Bektashi order suffered the unprecedented systematic demolition or damage to its tekkes and libraries as well as a brutal crackdown on the residues of its functioning hierarchy which made its relatively swift recovery in early post-Communist 1990s Albania all the more noteworthy. But in the 1990s the revived Bektashi order faced a very different religious scene from that of inter-war Albania, as the reaffirmation of Sunni Islam in Albania was backed up by the interest and investment of the Sunni Muslim world in the post-Communist country. Soon after its reconstitution the Bektashi order restarted (against some internal opposition) the process of its legal separate recognition from the Islamic Sunni community in the new changing legislation regarding religious institution in the rapidly changing political and religious climate of 1990s Albania. Amid the various legal ambiguities accompanying this process and the varying levels of support which the order is receiving from the new Albanian political groupings Bektashism was informally granted in 2001 a de facto recognition of its specific status as one of the four ‘traditional’ religious communities of Albania, but still somehow unequal to them.64 However, due partially to financial constraints, the revitalisation of Bektashism in Albania has been a tortuous process, despite the fact that tekkes and türbes have been rebuilt and restored and its congresses after the reinstatement of religious freedoms in 1990 have got under way the administrative and territorial organisation of the arīqat in Albania, Macedonia and Kosovo and taken steps (sometimes, with the help of the Sunni religious institutions) towards establishing some kind of religious education and training for would-be dervishes. But the real problems which plague the proper re-establishment and functioning of the Bektashi order as a proper arīqat are the consequence of the massive blows it suffered in the Communist period (along with the other dervish orders) on its traditions of higher theological and literary learning, its hierarchically ordered network and its structures of transmission of initiatory knowledge and silsilas (spiritual genealogy),

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recovery of which has been far from rapid or straightforward. The loss of so many of the theological and devotional texts of the order has been a particularly painful aspect of the Communist regime’s suppression of the order, while traditional Bektashi and related literature in Arabic, Persian and Ottoman Turkish has remained linguistically inaccessible to the great majority of the babas and dervishes of the restored arīqat. The provisions through which dervishes can enrol simultaneously in the different revived Sufi arīqats in Albania and the activation of the transnational Sufi networks in the country represent ways through which the tradition of Sufi mysticism and learning has been in the process of being shared and making a re-entry on the post-Communist Albanian religious scene. With the Albanian Sunni community being much more efficient and expeditious (and getting international Sunni support) in reviving their own traditions and institutions of religious education and higher learning, the Islamic Republic of Iran has stepped in to ‘redress the balance’ in the Albanian religious arena. Reportedly, a number of Bektashi students have received Iranian grants to undergo Shi‘ite theological and religious training there. The Iranian Sa‘adi Shiraz foundation has been expanding its ambitious programme of translation, publication and circulation of Shi‘ite religious (as well as classical Persian) literature in Albanian, a Sa‘adi College has been set up in Tirana, whereas the Tehran-based Shi‘ite foundation, the World Ahl al-Bayt Assembly, has been trying to maintain close contacts with the current Bektashi elite (as well as with figures from the other arīqats) in Albania.65 The new publications emerging from within Albanian Bektashism show the distinct impact of this newly translated corpus of Shi‘ite literature, whereas the influence of current Shi‘ite (especially, Karbala-related iconography) is discernible in the restored tekkes and türbes.66 Significantly, the most important and trend-setting book on Bektashi doctrines in post World War II Albanian Bektashism, Misticizme Islame dhe Bektashizma, ‘Islamic Mysticism and Bektashism’ (1970),67 written by Baba Rexhebi (who in the early 1950s immigrated to USA where he established a Bektashi tekke at Detroit) tends to dwell on the Shi‘ite elements in the Bektashi version of Sufism. Given the near-‘canonical’ status this book enjoys in contemporary Albanian Bektashi circles, this is perhaps

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another indication that under the impact of the influential trend the book has both stimulated and represents, it may be that the course of Bektashi revival in Albania is one of further rapprochement with the mystical and intellectual forms of Twelver Shi‘ism.68 At the same time, since the early 1990s the Albanian Bektashi elite has re-established links with Alevi and Bektashi elite circles in Turkey (and the Hacı Bektaş Research Centre at Ankara University). Some of the traditional discourses on Albanian Bektashism from the inter-war and ‘national awakening’ periods, extolling the order as a carrier of ‘Albanianism’ and an intermediary between Islam and Christianity have also been revived in the updated geopolitical framework of postCommunist Albania’s dual ‘civilisational’ dialogue with the European Union and Organization of the Islamic Conference.69 Almost inevitably, there have been also attempts to refashion Bektashism along the lines of an universally translatable world religion scheme, and a new religious movement, claiming inspiration and continuation from Bektashism, has already made its appearance.70

Bektashism, Alevism and the Question of their Shi‘ite Component One of the major points of contention in the study of Alevism and Bektashism has always been the problem to what extent the Shi‘ite components in their belief and ritual system make them qualify as part of the larger tradition of Shi‘ite Islam. One of the early and still authoritative approaches to this problem sees Bektashism as being essentially Shi‘ite, partially beneath a Sunni veneer,71 and recognises in Alevism traces of Shi‘ite-related ghulāt trends. An alternative reading of the nature of their ‘Shi‘ism’ regards them as heterodox and syncretistic forms of Islam which eventually came under the impact of Shi‘ite ideas that were incorporated in their teachings and practices.72 But in this view the socio-religious differences between mainstream Shi‘ism (in its Twelver or Sevener varieties) and Alevism/Bektashism are far too substantial to allow their categorisation as Shi‘ite groups.73 Anthropologists working among Alevi communities have periodically encountered their unwillingness to be associated with the modern

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Twelver Shi‘ism tradition of post-1979 Iran,74 which they themselves can see as a deviant form of Islam (along with Sunni Islam). Indeed in their traditional (and esotericised) self-image Alevi groups cultivated a Gnostic-like self-definition, perceiving themselves as ‘those who attained redemption’.75 What is more, recent scholarly arguments that elements of Bektashi and Kızılbaş beliefs and sacral architecture (particularly in the Eastern Balkans) betray some distinct Ismaili (Sevener Shi‘ite) influences76 have not yet entered the public arena, but when and if they do, this will certainly open up another intriguing dimension of the complex encounter between ascribed and inherited Alevi and Bektashi identities. Unfortunately, apart from the evident tasawwuf-based features it is still very problematic to attempt to reconstruct the classical elitist Bektashi mental and spiritual universe (and the associated selfperceptions) before suppression of the order in 1826 and the subsequent destruction and dispersal of so much of its traditional architectural, literary and iconographic heritage. Still, despite the politicisation of Bektashism in varying nineteenth- and twentieth-century contexts, it is possible to discern traits or survival of comparable communal esoteric salvationism which along with the often extensive structures of its lay membership set it apart from the other arīqats. These and similar attitudes and self-definitions, associated among other things with the patterns of the personal and initiatory transmission of knowledge and ritual deemed to be esoteric, inevitably faced (as already mentioned) the challenge of the unfolding public affirmation of collective Alevi identity since the late 1980s and the related politics of claims and recognition. What is more, despite the profusion of articulated discourses and identities, this process was also often characterised by a unitarian search for a singular, doctrinally and ritually defined identity paradigm77 in contrast to the traditional Alevi acknowledgment of a multiplicity of local rural versions as legitimate and somehow representative of Alevism,78 which was established in the multi-lingual milieus of Turkish-, Kurdish-, Slavonic- and Albanianspeakers. Of course, many of these local variants were lost or were in the process of being lost before the onset of this unitarian pressure in the encounter with modernity (including the Communist-enforced secularisation and suppression of religious freedoms in the relevant

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countries). But the drive towards a doctrinal and ritual homogenisation of Alevism will certainly erode further local rural Alevi identities, while some of the main trends in urban Alevism will continue the project of revitalising and systematising its theology and develop structures of higher learning. The transformations of modern Alevism and Bektashism represent thus one of the intriguing facets of the process which Martin van Bruinessen79 aptly defined as ‘restructuring of heterodoxy in the Middle East and Southeast Asias’. As in other cases with Near Eastern heterodox communities in which scripturalisation led to the emergence of currents seeking reconciliations with the normative religious mainstream, it is likely that the Sunni-leaning Alevi circles will be fully or partially assimilated into Sunnism, whereas the Twelver Shi‘ite-inclined trend in Albanian Bektashism will move further in the direction of Twelver Shi‘ite orthodoxy, reproducing the characteristic development which occurred among the Ahl-e Haqq in the early 1960s. While the impact of the Twelver Shi‘ite-related groups in Turkey seems limited, the Balkan scene has already attracted Iranian Shi‘ite proselytism which on occasions is succeeding to bring the Shi‘ite component in their belief system to the fore of the religious and cultural reinterpretations accompanying their current ethno-religious self-reidentification. This process is in its early stages and has already caused debates and divisions but it is clear that it will evolve not in the framework of religious isolationism,80 as was the case during the post-Ottoman period, but will be closely inter-linked with the religious and political processes in the greater world of modern Twelver and Sevener Shi‘ism Islam and the ongoing restructuring of Alevism in Turkey and its transnational West European diasporas.

Notes 1 I acknowledge with gratitude that my field work and visits to and research in regional archives in the Balkans and Turkey in 2001–4 (related to the research on this article) was supported by a Wingate Scholarship for 2001–2, granted by the The Harold Hyam Wingate Foundation, London, and British Academy Research Grants, awarded in 2003 and 2004.

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2 Markus Dressler, ‘The Modern Dede: Changing Parameters for Religious Authority in Contemporary Turkish Alevism’, in Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies, Gudrun Krämer and Sabine Schmidtke (Leiden: Brill, 2006), p. 271. 3 On the confiscation of Bektashi properties and tekkes in and after 1826, see Suraiya Faroqhi, Der Bektaschi-Orden in Anatolien: (vom späten fünfzehnten Jahrhundert bis 1826), (Vienna: Verlag des Institutes für Orientalistik der Universität Wien, 1981), 107–129, passim; John R. Barnes, An Introduction to Religious Foundations in the Ottoman Empire (Leiden: Brill, 1987), pp. 87–102; Strashimir Dimitrov, Sultan Makhmud II i kraiiat na enicharite (Sofia: ‘Sedem Dni’ 1993), pp. 255–269 (with references to relevant Ottoman archival material from the Balkans). 4 See, for example, the earlier study of Ernest E. Ramsaur, Jr., ‘The Bektashi Dervishes and the Young Turks’, Moslim World, 32 (1942), pp. 7–14, and the more recent studies of Irène Mélikoff, ‘L’ordre des Bektasi apres 1826’, Turcica, 15 (1983), pp. 155–178; Thierry Zarcone, Mystiques, philosophes et francs-maçons en Islam: Riza Tevfik, penseur ottoman (1868–1949), du soufisme à la confrérie (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1993); Hülya Küçük, The Role of the Bektashis in Turkey’s National Struggle (Leiden: Brill, 2002). 5 See, for example, Ali Yaman, Dedelik Kurumu Ekseninde Değişim Sürecinde Alevilik, PhD dissertation, Istanbul University, 2001; idem, ‘Anadolu Alevilerinde Otoritenin El Değiştirmesi: Dedelik Kurumundan Kültürel Organizasyonlara’, in İbrahim Bahadır, ed., Bilgi Toplumunda Alevilik (Bielefeld: Bielefeld Alevi Kültür Merkezi, 2003), pp. 329–53; idem, Kızılbaş Alevi Ocakları (Ankara, Elips, 2006); Martin Sökefeld, ‘Alevi Dedes in the German Diaspora: The Transformation of a Religious Institution’, Zeitschrift für Ethnologie 127 (2002), pp. 163–86; Dressler, ‘The Modern Dede’; Özlem Göner, ‘The Transformation of the Alevi Collective Identity’, Cultural Dynamics, 17:2 (2005), pp. 107–34, at 122–4. 6 See, for example, Tahire Erman and Emrah Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, Middle Eastern Studies, 36/4 (2000), pp. 99–118; Harald Schüler, ‘Secularism and Ethnicity: Alevis and Social Democrats in Search of an Alliance’, in S. Yerasimos, G. Seufert and K. Vorhoff, eds., Civil Society in the Grip of Nationalism (Istanbul: Orient-Institut der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft and Institut Français d‘Études Anatoliennes, 2000), pp. 197–250; Markus Dressler, Die civil religion der Türkei. Kemalistische und alevitische Atatürk-Rezeption im Vergleich (Würzburg: Ergon, 1999); idem, Die alevitische Religion. Traditionslinien und Neubestimmungen (Würzburg: Ergon, 2002), pp. 215–43; Joost Jongerden, ‘Violation of Human Rights and the Alevis in Turkey’, in Paul J. White and Joost Jongerden, eds., Turkey’s Alevi

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Enigma. A Comprehensive Overview (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 71–89; David Shankland The Alevis in Turkey. The Emergence of a Secular Islamic Tradition (London: Routledge, 2003), pp. 133–73; Krisztina Kehl-Bodrogi, ‘Ataturk and the Alevis: A Holy Alliance?’, in White and Jongerden Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 53–71; Elise Massicard, ‘Alevism in the 1960s: Social Change and Mobilisation’, in Hege Irène Markussen, ed., Alevis and Alevism. Transformed Identities, ed. (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2005), pp. 109–35; idem, ‘Claiming Difference in an Unitarist Frame’, in Hans-Lukas Kieser, ed., Turkey Beyond Nationalism: towards Post-Nationalist Identities (London: I.B.Tauris, 2006), pp. 74–82. 7 Peter J. Bumke, ‘Kızılbaş-Kurden in Dersim (Tunceli, Türkei). Marginalität und Häresie’, Anthropos 74 (1979), pp. 530–48; idem, ‘The Kurdish Alevis: boundaries and perceptions’, in Peter A. Andrews ed., Ethnic groups in the Republic of Turkey (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1989), pp. 510–8. Hans-Lukas Kieser, Les Kurdes alévis face au nationalisme turc kémaliste. L’alévité du Dersim et son rôle dans le premier soulèvement kurde contre Mustafa Kemal (Koçkiri, 1919–1921), (Amsterdam: MERA [Occasional Paper no. 18], 1993). Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Kurds, Turks and the Alevi Revival in Turkey’, Middle East Report (July/Sept. 1996), pp. 7–10; idem, ‘Aslini Inkar Eden Haramzadedir!: The Debate on the Ethnic Identity of the Kurdish Alevis’, in K. Kehl-Bodrogi, B. KellnerHeinkele and A. Otter-Beaujean, eds., Syncretistic Religious Communities in the Near East (Leiden: Brill, 1997), pp. 1–22; Günter Seufert, ‘Between Religion and Ethnicity: A Kurdish-Alevi Tribe in Globalizing Istanbul’, in A. Oncu and P. Weyland, eds., Space, Culture and Power: New Identities in Globalizing Cities (London and New York: Zed, 1997), pp. 157–76.; Paul J. White, ‘The Debate on the Identity of the Alevi Kurds’, in White and Jongerden, Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 17–33; Michiel Leezenberg, ‘Kurdish Alevis and the Kurdish Nationalist Movement’, in White and Jongerden, Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 197–215. 8 See, for example, Battal Pehlivan, Aleviler ve Diyanet (Istanbul: Pencere, 1993); John D. Norton, ‘The Development of the Annual Festival at Hacıbektaş, 1964–85’, in Alexandre Popovic and Gilles Veinstein, eds., Bektachiyya: études sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektach (Paris: Geuthner, 1993), pp. 191–200; ‘Media Identities for Alevis and Kurds in Turkey’, in Dale F. Eickelman and Jon W. Anderson, New Media in the Muslim World. The Emerging Public Sphere (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 180–99; Elise Massicard, ‘Alevism as a Productive Misunderstanding: The Hacıbektaş Festival’, in White and Jongerden, Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 125–40; Leyla Neyzi, ‘Zazaname: the Alevi Renaissance, Media and Music in the Nineties’, in White and Jongerden.

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Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 111–125; Schüler, ‘Secularism and Ethnicity’, passim; Şehriban Şahin, ‘The Rise of Alevism as a Public Religion’, Current Sociology, 53:3 (2005), pp. 465–485, at 475–481; Markus Dressler, ‘ReligioSecular Metamorphoses: The Re-Making of Turkish Alevism’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 76:2 (2008), pp. 280–311, at 290–292. 10 Ragnar Naess, ‘Being an Alevi Muslim in South-western Anatolia and in Norway: The Impact of Migration on a Heterodox Turkish Community’, in T. Gerholm and Y.G. Lithman, eds., The New Islamic Presence in Western Europe (London: Mansell 1990), pp. 174–95; Ayhan Kaya, ‘Multicultural Clientelism and Alevi Resurgence in the Turkish Diaspora: Berlin Alevis’, New Perspectives on Turkey, 18 (1998), pp. 23–49; Martin Sökefeld, ‘Alevi Dedes in the German Diaspora’; idem., ‘Alevis in Germany and the Politics of Recognition’, New Perspectives on Turkey 28–9 (2003), pp. 133–62; idem, ‘Difficult Identifications: The Debate on Alevism and Islam in Germany’, in Ala Al-Hamarneh and Jörn Thielmann, eds., Islam and Muslims in Germany, (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 267–97; idem, Struggling for Recognition: The Alevi Movement in Germany and in Transnational Space (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2008); Ron Geaves, ‘Religion and Ethnicity: Community Formation in the British Alevi Community’, Numen, 50:1 (2003), pp. 52–70; Isabelle Rigoni, ‘Alevis in Europe: A Narrow Path towards Visibility’, in White and Jongerden, Turkey’s Alevi Enigma, pp. 159–77; Thierry Fayt, Les Alévis. Processus identitaire, stratégies et devenir d’une communauté ‘chiite’ en Turquie et dans l’Union Européenne, (Paris, L’Harmattan, 2003), pp. 123–235; Massicard, Élise, L’Autre Turquie. Le mouvement aléviste et ses territoires (Paris: PUF Proche Orient, 2005), pp. 279–314; Krisztina Kehl-Bodrogi, Von der Kultur zur Religion: Alevitische Identitätspolitik in Deutschland, (Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology Working Papers, vol. 84 (Halle: Max Planck Institute for Social Anthropology, 2006). 11 See, for example, the various dimensions of this process discussed in Reha Çamuroglu, ‘Alevi Revivalism in Turkey’, in Tord Olsson, Elisabeth Özdalga and Catharina Raudvere, eds., Alevi Identity: Cultural, Religious and Social Perspectives (Istanbul: Swedish Research Institute, 1998), pp. 79–85; idem, ‘Some Notes on the Contemporary Process of Restructuring Alevilik in Turkey’, in Kehl-Bodrogi et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 25–33; Şahin, ‘The Rise of Alevism as a Public Religion’; Dressler, ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphoses’, pp. 296–98, 304–5. 12 On these initiatives, see, for example, Şahin, ‘The Rise of Alevism as a Public Religion’, pp. 476 ff.; Dressler, ‘The Modern Dede’, pp. 276–287; idem, ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphoses’, pp. 299–304; Sökefeld, Struggling for Recognition, 147–178, passim. 9

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13 On this process, see, for example, Çamuroglu, ‘Alevi Revivalism in Turkey’, pp. 82–3; idem, ‘Some Notes’, 30–1; Faruk Bilici, ‘The Function of AleviBektashi Theology in Modern Turkey’, in Olsson et al., Alevi Identity, pp. 51–63, esp. pp. 57–9; Karin Vorhoff, ‘Academic and Journalistic Publications on the Alevi and Bektashi of Turkey’, in Olsson et al., Alevi Identity, pp. 23–50, at 34–8; Tord Olsson, ‘Epilogue: The Scripturalization of Ali-Oriented Religions’, in Olsson et al., Alevi Identity, pp. 199–209; Anne Otter-Beaujean, ‘Schriftliche Überlieferung versus mündliche Tradition: zum Stellenwert der Buyruk-Handschriften im Alevitum’, in Kehl-Bodrogi et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 212–26, at 224–6; Şahin, ‘The Rise of Alevism as a Public Religion’; David Shankland, ‘The Buyruk in Alevi village life: Thoughts from the field on rival sources of religious inspiration’, in Gilles Veinstein, ed., Syncrétismes et hérésies dans l’Orient seldjoukide et ottoman (XIVe-. XVIIIe siècle). Actes du Colloque du Collège de France, octobre 2001 (Paris & Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2005), pp. 311–24; Massicard, L’Autre Turquie, pp. 150–60; Dressler, ‘The Modern Dede’, pp. 286–7; idem, ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphoses’, pp. 286–8, 304–5 14 For observations on such similar contemporary developments among the Ahl-e Haqq, see Olsson, ‘Epilogue’, pp. 201–2; Ziba Mir-Hosseini, ‘Breaking the Seal: the New Face of the Ahl-i Haqq’, in Kehl-Bodrogi et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 175–95; for arguments that the appearance of such new, de-esotericising writings among the Ahl-e Haqq in the twentieth century does not amount to ‘reformism’, see Jean During, ‘A Critical Survey of Ahl-e Haqq Studies in Europe and Iran’, in Olsson et al., Alevi Identity, 105–27, at 111–9. 15 For earlier studies of Alevism and Bektashism, with an emphasis on their syncretism, see Mehmed F. Köprülü, ‘Les Origines du Bektachisme, Essai sur le développement historique de l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Asie Mineure’, in Actes du Congrès International d’Histoire des Religions á Paris en Octobre 1923, vol. 2 (Paris, 1926), pp. 391–411, and John K. Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes (London: Luzac, 1937 (repr. 1994)); for more recent studies, see, among others, Tanyu Hikmet, Ankara ve Çevresinde Adak ve Adak Yerleri (Ankara: Ankara Üniversitesi Basmevi, 1967/8); the various relevant articles of Irène Mélikoff collected in idem, Sur les traces du soufisme turc: recherches sur l’Islam populaire en Anatolie (Istanbul: Isis, 1992) and idem, Au banquet des quarante: exploration au coeur du bektachisme-alevisme (Istanbul: Isis, 2001); Ahmet Y. Ocak, Bektasi menakıbnamelerinde İslam öncesi inanç motifleri (Istanbul: Enderun, 1983); idem, ‘Un aperçu général sur l’hétérodoxie musulmane en Turquie: réflexions sur les origines et les caractéristiques du Kizilbachisme (Alévisme) dans la perspective de l’histoire’, in Kehl-Bodrogi

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et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 195–205; Carsten Colpe, ‘The Phenomenon of Syncretism and the Impact of Islam’, in Kehl-Bodrogi et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 35–49 (where Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism are defined as ‘spurious syncretisms,’ whereas Alevism is characterised as ‘semi-syncretism’, p. 48). 16 On the impact of Hurufism on Bektashism and Kızılbaşism, the spread of Hurufi ideas in the Anatolia and the Balkans and the activities of Hurufi missionaries in these areas, see Birge, The Bektashi Order, pp. 58–62, 148–61; A. Gölpınları, ‘Bektaşilik-Hurufilik ve Fazl Allah’in öldürülmesine düşürülen üç tarih’, Şarkiyat mecmuası 5, 1964, pp. 15–22; A. Schimmel, ‘Calligraphy and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey’, in Raymond Lifchez, ed., The Dervish Lodge: Architecture, Art, and Sufism in Ottoman Turkey (Berkeley: University of California Press), pp. 246–7; Irène Mélikoff, ‘Fazlullah d’Astarabad et l’essor du Hurufisme en Azerbaydjan, en Anatolie et en Roumelie’, in J.-L. BacqueGrammont and R. Dor, eds., Mélanges offerts à Loius Bazin par ses disciples, collègues et amis (Paris: L’Harmattan, 1992), pp. 219–25; Balivet, Michel Islam mystique et révolution armée dans les Balkans ottomans: Vie du cheikh Bedreddin, le ‘Hallâj des Turcs’, 1358/59–1416 (Istanbul: Isis, 1995), pp. 96–9, 108–12 (with discussion of the impact of Hurufism on the movement of Shaykh Badr al-Din); Frederick De Jong, ‘The Iconography of Bektashism. A survey of themes and symbolism in clerical costume, liturgical objects and pictorial art’, Manuscripts of the Middle East, vol. 4, 1989, pp. 9, 10, 12 (discussion of Hurufi influences on Bektashi iconography); Altan Gökalp, Têtes rouges et bouches noires. Une confrérie tribale de l”Ouest anatolien (Paris: 1980), pp. 180–4; Hamid Algar, ‘The Hurufi Influence on Bektashism’, in A. Popovic and Gilles Veinstein, éds., Bektachiyya, Estudés sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektach (Istanbul: Isis.) pp. 39–53; Shahzad Bashir, Fazlallah Astarababi and the Hurufis (Oxford: Oneworld, 2005), pp. 115–22. 17 On these trends, see for example, Karin Vorhoff, Zwischen Glaube, Nation und neuer Gemeinschaft. alevitische Identität in der Türkei der Gegenwart (Berlin: K. Schwarz Verlag, 1995), pp. 102–5; Bilici, ‘The Function of Alevi-Bektashi Theology’, pp. 52–53; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, pp. 104–5, 108, 110–1; Dressler, Die alevitische Religion, pp. 124–91 passim; Massicard, L’Autre Turquie, pp. 101–103. 18 On these currents, see Karin Vorhoff, ‘‘Let’s reclaim our history and culture!’: Imagining Alevi community in contemporary Turkey’, Welt des Islams 38 (1998), pp. 220–52, at pp. 240–2; idem, ‘Discourses on the Alevis in Contemporary Turkey’, in Kehl-Bodrogi et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 94–110, at pp. 100–1; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics

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in Contemporary Turkey’, 111–2; Dressler, Die civil religion der Türkei, pp. 83–113 passim; idem, Die alevitische Religion, pp. 224–43 passim. On these groupings, see Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, pp. 106–7. Generally, on the interpretations of Alevism as a Turkish version of Islam (also in Sunni circles) and its implications, see Vorhoff, Zwischen Glaube, Nation und neuer Gemeinschaft, pp. 97–9; idem, ‘Let’s reclaim our history and culture!’, pp. 241–4; idem, ‘Academic and Journalistic Publications’, p. 32; Dressler Die alevitische Religion, pp. 193– 214 passim. On the Sunni-leaning trends in contemporary Alevism, see for example, Çamuroglu, ‘Alevi Revivalism in Turkey’, pp. 81–2; idem, ‘Some Notes’, pp. 28–9; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, p. 106. On the prioritisation of postulated pre-Islamic Iranian and Kurdish elements among Kurdish-speaking Alevi milieus, see Vorhoff, ‘Discourses on the Alevis’, pp. 101–2, n.12. On Twelver Shi‘ite proselytism and publishing programmes, targeting Turkish Alevism and organised and sponsored by the Islamic Republic of Iran, see, for example, Bilici, ‘The Function of Alevi-Bektashi Theology’, pp. 55–7; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, pp. 105–6; for some of their more radical offshoots, see Ru şen Çakır, Ayet ve Slogan ‘Türkiye’de İslami Olu ş umla, Istanbul: Metis, 1990, pp. 155–64. On this current and its sub-trends, see Bilici, ‘The Function of AleviBektashi Theology’, pp. 54–5; Vorhoff, ‘Academic and Journalistic Publications’, pp. 37–8; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, pp. 111–2; Massicard, L’Autre Turquie, pp. 157–8, 190–2, 249–54; Dressler, ‘The Modern Dede’, pp. 277–82; ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphoses’, pp. 291–4. Çamuroglu, ‘Alevi Revivalism in Turkey’, p. 82; idem, ‘Some Notes’, p. 29. See, for example, Dressler, ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphoses’, pp. 292–3, 304–5; Vorhoff, ‘Discourses on the Alevis’, p. 101. On the origins and the dating of the settlement of the Kızılbaş groups in the eastern Balkans, cf. Franz Babinger, ‘Der Islam in Kleinasien’, Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gessellschaft, 76 (1922), pp. 126–53 (especially 140ff.); Irène Mélikoff, ‘La Communauté Kızılbaş du Deli Orman en Bulgarie’, repr. in idem, Sur le traces du soufisme Turc, pp. 105–15; Frederick De Jong, ‘Problems concerning the Origins of the Qizilbāş in Bulgaria: Remnants of the Safaviyya?’, in Convegno sul tema: La Shi‘a nell’Impero Ottomano (Roma, 15 Aprile 1991) (Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, 1993), pp. 203–16; Thierry Zarcone, ‘Nouvelles perspectives dans les recherches sur

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les Kızılbaş-Alévis et les Bektachis de la Dobroudja, de Deli Orman et de la Thrace orientale’ (Anatolia Moderna-Yani Anadolu, 4, 1992), pp. 1–11; Nevena Gramatikova, ‘Isliamski neortodokslani techeniia v bǔlgarskite zemi’, in Rossitsa Gradeva, ed., Istoriia na miusulmanskata kultura po bǔlgarskite zemi. Izsledvaniia, vol. 7 (Sofia: IMIR 2001), pp. 199–270; idem, ‘Otman Baba – One of the Spiritual Patrons of Islamic Heterodoxy in Bulgarian Lands’, Études balkaniques, 3 (2002), pp. 71–102. 26 De Jong, ‘Problems concerning the Origins of the Qizilbāş in Bulgaria’, p. 205; Gramatikova, ‘Isliamski neortodokslani techeniia’, p. 228. 27 See, for example, the discussion of the precarious situation and damage and destruction wreaked on the Bektashi order in Albanian and Greek Epirus in Clayer, Nathalie, L’Albanie, pays des derviches: les ordres mystiques musulmans en Albanie á l’époque post-ottomane (1912–1967), Berlin: Harrassowitz, 1990, pp. 181–185; Harry T. Norris, ‘Bektashi Life on the Border Between Albania and Greece’, in David Shankland, ed., Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: the Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, Istanbul: Isis, 2004, vol. 1, pp. 309–28; idem, ‘The Bektashiyya brotherhood, its village communities and inter- religious tensions along the border between Albania and Greek Epirus at the beginning of the 20th century’, in idem, Popular Sufism in Eastern Europe: Sufi Brotherhoods and the Dialogue with Christianity and ‘Heterodoxy’, New York and London: Routledge, 2006, pp. 78–92. 28 See, among others, Džemal Ćehajić, ‘Bektashis and Islam in Bosnia and Herzegovina’, Anali Gazi Husrev-begove biblioteke, Sarajevo, 5–6 (1978), p. 83–90; idem, Derviški redovi u jugoslovenskim zemljama sa posevnim osvrtom na Bosnu i Hercegovinu (Sarajevo: Orijentalni institut u Sarajevu, Sarajevo, 1986), pp. 156–185; Eustratios Zenkines, Ho bektasismos ste D. Thrake: symvole sten historia tes diadoseos tou Mousoulmanismou ston Helladiko choro (Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1988); Georgieva, Ivanichka, ed., Bǔlgarskite aliani, Sbornik etnograficheski materiali (Sofia: UI ‘Sv. Kliment Okhridski’, 1991); the relevant contributions on the history, survivals and architectural legacy of Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism in the territories of Bulgaria former Yugoslavia and European Turkey in Kiel, Machiel, Studies on the Ottoman Architecture of the Balkans (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990); in Anatolia modernaYeni Anadolu, vol. 2, Derviches et cimetières ottomans: travaux et recherches de l’Institut d’Études Anatoliennes, ed. Jean-Louis Bacqué-Grammont et al., (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1991); Anatolia moderna – Yeni Anadolu, vol. 4, Derviches des Balkans, disparitions et renaissances: travaux et recherches de l’Institut Français d’Études Anatoliennes et de l’Observatoire Urbain d’Istanbul, ed. Jacques Thobie et al., (Paris: Maisonneuve, 1992); and in Popovic and Veinstein, Bektachiyya;

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Popovic, Alexandre Les derviches balkaniques hier et aujourd’hui (Istanbul: Isis, 1994) (an important collection of Popovic’s studies of the dervish orders in the Balkans in the post-Ottoman and early post-Communist periods, with frequent references to Bektashism); Harry T. Norris, Islam in the Balkans: Religion and Society between Europe and the Arab World (London: Hurst, 1993 (esp. chs. 3, 5 and 6)); idem, Popular Sufism in Eastern Europe; Gramatikova, ‘Isliamski neortodokslani techeniia’; John D. Norton, ‘The Bektashis in the Balkans’, in Celia Hawkesworth, Muriel Heppell and Harry T. Norris, eds., Religious Quest and National Identity in the Balkans (Basingstoke; New York: Palgrave, 2001), pp. 168–200; Bozhidar Aleksiev, Folklorni profili na miusulmanski svetsi v Bǔlgaria, Sofia: AI ‘Marin Drinov’, 2005; Lybomir Mikov, Kultova arhitektura i izkustvo na heterodoksnite miusulmani v Bǔlgaria (XVI -XX vek)bektashi kǔzǔlbashi/alevii (Sofia; AI ‘Marin Drinov’, 2005 (repr. 2007)). For the establishment and spread of the Bektashi tarikat in Ottoman Albania, see note 46 below. See Ömer L. Barkan, ‘Osmanlı İmparatorluğundu bir iskân ve kolonizasyon metodu olarak vakıflar ve temilikler. I: Istilâ devirlerinin Kolonizatör Türk dervişleri ve zaviyeleri’, Vakıflar Dergisi, II (Ankara, 1942), pp. 279– 386; Irène Mélikoff, ‘Un ordre de derviches colonisateurs: les Bektaşis’, repr. in idem, Sur le traces du soufisme turc, pp. 115–26; G. G. Arnakis, ‘Futuwwa Traditions in the Ottoman Empire. Akhis, Bektashi Dervishes, and Craftsmen’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 12:4 (1953), pp. 243–4; Zenkines, Ho bektasismos ste D. Thrake, pp. 77–129; Norton, ‘The Bektashis in the Balkans’, pp. 185–8. Cf., for example, Matti Moosa, Extremist Shiites: the ghulat sects (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1988), pp. 20, 48, 424–5, 430–1 Cf. Arnakis, ‘Futuwwa Traditions in the Ottoman Empire’, pp. 242–45; Norton, ‘The Bektashis in the Balkans’, pp. 186–8. The collection and pioneering interpretations of the invaluable material attesting the interaction and synthesis of popular Islamic and Christian traditions in the Ottoman Balkans and Anatolia assembled in F. W. Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, 2 vols., (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929), has been followed by a constant stream of studies highlighting further cases of such syncretism and interchange or revisiting Hasluck’s material and interpretations. For a useful sample of such studies, see David Shankland, ed., Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: the Life and Times of F.W. Hasluck, 1878–1920, 2 vols., (Istanbul: Isis, 2004). For a discussion of earlier and current approaches and theories regarding Islamic–Christian interchange in the spheres of religious heterodoxy during the Ottoman period, see Yuri Stoyanov, ‘Problems in the Study of the

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Interrelations between Medieval Christian Heterodoxies and Heterodox Islam in the Early Ottoman Balkan-Anatolian Region’, Scripta, 2(2004), pp. 23–69; on some symptomatic parallels and contrasts between Islamic and Christian heterodox traditions of the period, see idem, ‘Islamic and Christian Heterodox Cosmogonies from the Ottoman period: Parallels and Contrasts’, Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies, 64/1 (2001), pp. 19–34; idem, ‘On Some Parallels between Anatolian and Balkan Heterodox Islamic Traditions and the Problem of their Coexistence and Interaction in the Ottoman Period’, in Veinstein, Sycrétismes et hérésies, pp. 75–119. On the phenomenon of crypto-Christianity in the Balkans and Anatolia, cf., for example, Hasluck, Christianity and Islam, vol. 2, pp. 469–74; R. M Dawkins, ‘The Crypto-Christians of Turkey’, Byzantion, 8, 1933, pp. 247–75; Stavro Skendi, ‘Crypto-Christianity in the Balkan area under the Ottomans’, in idem, ed., Balkan Cultural Studies (Boulder: Columbia University Press, 26, 1980), pp. pp. 233–57. Strashimir Dimitrov, ‘Skritoto khristiianstvo i isliamizatsionnite protsesi v osmanskata d’rzhava’, Istoricheski pregled, 2 (1987), pp. 18–34; Zenkines, Ho bektasismos ste D. Thrake, pp. 167–75; Konstantinos Photiades, Konstantinos, Peges tes historias tou kryptochristianikou provlematos (Ekdot. Oikos, 1997); Noel Malcolm, ‘Crypto-Christianity and Religious Amphibianism in the Ottoman Balkans: the Case of Kosovo’, in Hawkesworth et al., Religious Quest, pp. 91–110. Skendi, ‘Crypto-Christianity’, pp. 249–50. See, for example, the report of the tradition attested among the Bektashi of Strumica (Macedonia) that the ancestors of the Bektashis originated from the Christians in Constantinople before its fall to the Ottomans in Milenko Filipović, ‘The Bektashis in the District of Strumica (Macedonia)’, Man, 54 (Jan 1954), pp. 10–3, at p. 11; on the oral traditions concerning the Christian origins of Alevis in the Deli Orman area, see De Jong, ‘Problems concerning the Origins of the Qizilbāş in Bulgaria’, p. 207. See, for example, the Franciscan reports concerning such methods of Muslim proselytising in Malcolm, ‘Crypto-Christianity’, pp. 96–7. Earlier studies of Shaykh Badr al-Din and his movement such as Franz Babinger, ‘Schejch Bedr ed-Din, der Sohn des Richters von Simaw’, Der Islam, 11 (1921) pp. 1–106, and Nedim Filipović, Princ Musa i šejh Bedreddin, Sarajevo: ‘Svjetlost’, 1971, have been superseded now by Balivet, Islam mystique. On Shaykh Hamza, his movement and role in the history of Malāmatiyya, see T. Okiç, ‘Quelques documents inédits concernant les Hamzawites’, in Proceedings of the Twenty-Second Congress of Orientalists held in Istanbul September

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15 to 27nd 1951, vol. 2, 1957, pp. 279–86; Colin Imber, ‘Malāmatiyya’, Encyclopedia of Islam, vol. 6 (Leiden: Brill, 1991), pp. 227–8; Norris, Islam in the Balkans, pp. 116–9; Ćehajić, Derviški redovi, pp. 185–208; Hamid Algar, ‘The Hamzeviyye: A deviant movement in Bosnian Sufism’, Islamic Studies, 36:2 (1997), Islamabad, pp. 243–61; Slobodan Ilić, ‘Hamzeviiskaia i hurufitskaia eres v Bosni kak reaktsiia na politicheskiı krizis Ottomanskoi imperii vo vtoroi polovine XVI stoletiia’, Bulgarian Historical Review, 28:1–2 (2000), pp. 34–40. 39 See, for example, Ball, ‘Letter from Mr. Ball, 8 August 1857’, Missionary Herald, 53 (1857), pp. 394–95; comte de J.A. Gobineau, Trois ans en Asie, 1855–1858, Paris: Hachette, 1859, pp. 339ff.; G. Nutting, ‘Mission to Central Turkey: Oorfa: Letter from Mr Nutting, 30 July 1860’, Missionary Herald, 56, November, 1860, pp. 345–47; E. Huntington, ‘Through the Great Canon of the Euphrates River’, The Geographical Journal, 20 (1902), pp. 175–200; M. E. Grenard, ‘Une secte religieuse d’Asie Mineure: les KyzylBâchs’, Journal Asiatique, ser. 10, 3 (1904), pp. 511–22, esp. 513 ff.; G. E. White, ‘Survivals of Primitive Religion. Among the People of Asia Minor’, Journal of the Transactions of the Victoria Institute, 39 (1907), pp. 146–66, esp. 161 ff.; idem, ‘The Shia Turks’, Journal of the Transactions of the Victoria Institute, 40, 1908, pp. 225–39, esp. 231ff.; Stephen van Rensselaer Trowbridge, ‘The Alevis, or Deifires of Ali’, Harvard Theological Review, 2 (1909), pp. 340–53; W. M. Ramsay, The Intermixture of Races in Asia Minor: Some of its Causes and Effects, Repr. from Proceedings of the British Academy, vol. 7 (London: H. Milford, 1917), esp. 20ff.; F. M. Stead, ‘The Ali Ilahi Sect in Persia’, The Moslem World, 22:2 (1932), pp. 184–9. 40 For reconstructions of the agendas of the Protestant missionary efforts among Ayfer Karakaya-Stump, ‘The Emergence of the Kizilbas in Western Thought: Missionary Accounts and their Aftermath’, in Shankland, ed., Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage, vol. 1, pp. 328–53; Hans-Lukas Kieser, ‘Muslim Heterodoxy and Protestant Utopia. The Interactions between Alevis and Missionaries’, Die Welt des Islams, n. s., 41:1 (2001), pp. 89–111. 41 For discussions of and recent arguments that the Alevis are representative of a pattern of syncretistic Near Eastern religious minorities which have a ‘pseudo-Muslim’ character of little or nothing in common with Islam, see, for example, Klaus E. Müller, Kulturhistorische Studien zur Genese pseudo-islamischer Sektengebilde in Vorderasien, (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1967), pp. 3–51. Cristoph Elsas, ‘Religionsfreiheit für die türkisch-manichäisch-(pseudo)-muslimischen Aleviten’, in Holger Preissler and Hubert Seiwert, eds., Gnosisforschung und religionsgeschicgte. Festschrifte für Kurt

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Rudolph zum 65 Geburtstag (Marburg: Diagonal-Verlag, 1994), pp. 79–93; M. R. F. Hamzeh’ee, ‘Methodological Notes on Interdisciplinary Research on Near Eastern Religious Minorities’, in Kehl-Bodrogi, et al., Syncretistic Religious Communities, pp. 119–39, at pp. 108–9. For an overview of the arguments for Christian influences on Kızılbaşlık and Bektashism and postulated examples of such influences, see Stoyanov, ‘On Some Parallels’, pp. 94–9. For characteristic arguments that at least some of the Kızılbaş – and Bektashi-related groups – in the eastern Balkans descend from Christian (or heretical Christian, i.e. Bogomil) communities, see, for example, D. Marinov, ‘Narodna viara i religiozni narodni obichai’, Sbornik za narodni umotvoreniia, nauka i knizhnina, 28 (1914), pp. 423f.; V. Marinov, Deliorman (Iuzhna chast). Oblastno-geografsko izuchavane, (Sofia: Self published, 1941), pp. 54f., 79–80. See the surveys of the development of the local studies of the Alevi and Bektashi Balkan groups in religio-historical contexts linking them to their co-religionists in Anatolia and the Middle East in Nevena Gramatikova, ‘Changing Fates and the Issue of Alevi Identity in Bulgaria’, in Antonina Zhelyazkova and Jorgen Nielsen, eds., Ethnology of Sufi Orders: Theory and Practice: Proceedings of the British-Bulgarian Workshop on Sufi Orders 19–23 May 2000, Sofia, Bulgaria, (Sofia: IMIR: 2001) pp. 564–622, at 567–81; Mikov, Kultova arhitektura i izkustvo, pp. 21–33 passim. For overview of the provenance and main tenets of this theory and some of its more recent reinstatements, see Stoyanov, ‘On Some Parallels’, pp. 83–90. Apart from the extensive earlier material presented and discussed, for example, in F. W. Hasluck, Ambiguous sanctuaries and Bektashi propaganda. Annals of the British School in Athens, 20 (1913), p. 94–122 and idem, Christianity and Islam, the more recent case studies are presented in E. I. Germanova, ‘Sŭbor ŭt pri Demir Baba teke – proiava na religiozen i kulturen sinkretizŭm’, Godishnik na muzeite ot Severna Bŭlgariia, 20 (1994), pp. 297–313; P. Magnarella, ‘St Nicholas in Christian and Muslim Lands’, repr. in Anatolia’s Loom. Studies in Turkish Culture, Sociology, Politics and Law (Istanbul, 1998), pp. 193–201; Venedikova Katerina and Diana Gergova, Demir Baba Tekke – Bŭlgarskiiat Ersualim (Sofia: ‘Agato’, 2006); Glen Bowman, ‘Orthodox-Muslim Interactions at “Mixed Shrines” in Macedonia’, in Eastern Christians, Chris Hann and Hermann Goltz, eds., (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), pp. 163–83. See the thought-provoking analysis of the Alevi dimension of these assimilationist tactics in Gramatikova, ‘Changing Fates’, pp. 283, 588, 597–600.

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48 Cf. Hans-Joachim Kissling, ‘Zur Frage der Anfänge des Bektašitums in Albanien’, Oriens, 15 (1962), pp. 281–6; Georg Stadtmüller, ‘Der Derwischorden der Bektaschi in Albanien, in Wolfgang Gesemann et al., eds., Serta Slavica in memoriam Aloisii Schmaus (Munich: Tofenik, 1971), pp. 683–8; Norris, Islam in the Balkans, pp. 123–37; Alexandre Popovic, ‘A propos des statuts des Bektachis d’Albanie’, in Popovic and Veinstein, Bektachiyya, pp. 301–26; Machiel Kiel, ‘A note on the date of the establishment of the Bektashi Order in Albania: the cult of Sari Saltik Dede in Kruja attested in 1567–1568’, in Popovic and Veinstein, Bektachiyya, pp. 263–70. See also the exhaustive list of Bektashi tekkes in Albania and their variously early and latter dates, yielding clues to the rise and spread of the order in Ottoman Albania in Nathalie Clayer, L’Albanie, pays des derviches, pp. 247–426. 49 See the up-to-date discussions of this involvement in Nathalie Clayer, ‘Bektachisme et nationalisme albanais’, in Popovic and Veinstein, Bektachiyya, pp. 271–300, repr. In idem, Religion et nation chez les Albanais: XIXe-XXe siècles (Istanbul: Isis, 2002), pp. 103–37, at pp. 104–123; Gawrych, George, The Crescent and the Eagle: Ottoman Rule, Islam and the Albanians (London and New York: I.B.Tauris, 2006), pp. 52, 64, 90, 116, 122–3, 128–9, 131, 148, 151, 188. 50 Skendi, Stavro, The Albanian National Awakening 1878–1912 (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967), p. 166; generally, on the figure of Naim Frashëri, see Elsie, Robert, History of Albanian Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995), pp. 229–1. 51 Frashëri, Naim, Fletore e Bektashinjet, Bucharest: Shtypëshkronjët të Shqipëtarëvet, 1896; Repr. (Thessaloniki: Mbrothësia, 1909). On Naim Frashëri’s treatment and Albanianisation of Bektashism in Fletore e Bektashinjet, cf. Margaret Hasluck, ‘The Nonconformist Moslems of Albania, in: Contemporary Review, 127 (1925), pp. 599–606 at 602; Skendi, The Albanian National Awakening, pp. 123–4; Clayer, ‘Bektachisme’, pp. 118f.; Norris, Islam in the Balkans, 169–74; Ger Duijzings, ‘Religion and Politics of Albanianism. Naim Frashëri’s Bektashi writing’, in Stephanie SchwandnerSievers and Bernd Fischer, eds., Albanian Identities, Myth and History, (London: Hurst, 2000), pp. 60–70, at 64–7; Albert Doja, ‘Confraternal Religion: from Liberation Theology to Political Reversal’, History and Anthropology, 14:4 (2003), pp. 349–81, at pp. 364 f. 52 Skendi, The Albanian National Awakening, p. 124; Ger Duijzings, ‘Naim Frashëri’s Qerbelaja. Religion and Nationalism among the Alabanians’, in idem, Religion and the Politics of Identity in Kosovo (London: Hurst, 2000), pp. 157–76, at 169–75; idem, ‘Religion and Politics of Albanianism,’ 69; Cf. Doja, ‘Confraternal Religion’, at pp. 364; Nathalie Clayer, ‘Review: Ger

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Duijzings, Religion and the Politics of Identity in Kosovo (London: Hurst, 2000), Balkanologie, 5:1–2 (2001), p. 304–8, at 307–8. See the analysis of the use of the Kerbela material in Frashëri’s Fletore e Bektashinjet, in Norris, Islam in the Balkans, 170–6; Duijzings, ‘Naim Frashëri’s Qerbelaja’, pp. 170–4; cf. the observations of Doja, ‘Confraternal Religion’, pp. 360–3. See Norris, Islam in the Balkans, pp. 182–7; 171–4. On these nineteenth-century Bektashi literary epics and their possible impact on Naim Frashëri’s treatment of the Karbala theme, see Robert Elsie, ‘Albanian Literature in the Moslem Tradition: Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Century Albanian Writing in Arabic Script’, Oriens, Vol. 33, (1992), pp. 287–306, at 301–2. Cf. Xholi, Zija, Mendimtare të Rilindjës Kombëtare, Tirana: 8 Nëntori, 1987, pp. 167–352, passim; Norris, Islam in the Balkans, pp. 174–87 passim. See the analysis in Norris, Islam in the Balkans, p. 188; generally, on the political Albanian state model endorsed in the book, see Gawrych, The Crescent and the Eagle, pp. 127–9. Cf. Duijzings, ‘Naim Frashëri’s Qerbelaja’, pp. 174–5; Nathalie Clayer, ‘The Myth of Ali Pasha and the Bektashis. The Construction of an “Albanian Bektashi National History”’, in Schwandner-Sievers and Fischer, Albanian Identities, pp. 127–33; on Bektashi image building during this period, see idem, Aux origines du nationalisme albanais: la naissance d’une nation majoritairement musulmane en Europe (Paris: Karthala, 2007), pp. 474–93. See the up-to-date analysis of these processes in Nathalie Clayer, ‘Behind the Veil. The Reform of Islam in Inter-war Albania or the Search for a “Modern” and “European” Islam’, in Nathalie Clayer and Germain Eric, eds., Islam in Inter-War Europe (London: Hurst, 2008), pp. 128–55. See, for example, the view and policies of the prominent inter-war Albanian politician, Mehdi Frashëri (who served twice as Albanian Prime Minister and took part in the writing of the Albanian Civil Code), analysed in Clayer, ‘Behind the Veil’, pp. 133, 138–40, 147–51. Constantine Chekrezi, Albania Past and Present (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1919), pp. 201, 204. See the analysis of Chekrezi’s views on Bektashism in Noel Malcolm, ‘Myths of Albanian National identity: Some Key Elements, as Expressed in the Works of Albanian Writers in America in the Early 19th Century’, in Schwandner-Sievers and Fischer, Albanian Identities, pp. 70–88, at pp. 85–6. For such attitudes to Albania, see C. Telford Erickson, ‘Albania, the Key to the Moslem World’, The Moslem World, 4 (1914), pp. 115–9. On

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these missionary attitudes, see Nathalie Clayer, ‘God in the “Land of the Mercedes”’, repr. in idem, Religion et nation, pp. 397–435, at p. 399. On the Bektashi literary output in the inter-war years, see Robert Elsie, ‘The Currents of Moslem and Bektashi Writing in Albania (1850–1950)’, Albanian Catholic Bulletin /Buletini Katolik Shqiptar, San Francisco, 15 (1994), pp. 172–77; Norris, Islam in the Balkans, pp. 188–92; on the traditional presence on the other dervish orders on the post-Ottoman Albanian religious scene, with some references to their interrelations with Bektashism, see Clayer, L’Albanie, pays des derviches, pp. 124–440; Robert Elsie, ‘Islam and the Dervish Sects of Albania. An Introduction to their History, Development and Current Situation’, The Islamic Quarterly, 42:4 (1998), pp. 266–89. On the ambiguities surrounding process of a legal recognition of the Bektashi order in Albania as a separate and ‘traditional’ religious community, see Clayer, ‘God in the “Land of the Mercedes’’’, pp. 403–7; Rajwantee Lakshman-Lepain, ‘Bektashis of Albania’, Center for Documentation and Information on Minorities in Europe – Southeast Europe (CEDIME-SE), September 2000, pp. 13–4, 16–9. On the activity of Iranian foundations and institutes in the religious life of post-Communist Albania and their contacts with the reconstructed Bektashi order, see Nathalie Clayer, ‘Islam, State and Society in post-Communist Albania’, in Hugh Poulton and Suha Taji-Farouki, eds., Muslim Identity and The Balkan State (London: Hurst, 1997), p. 115–38, repr. in Religion et nation, pp. 315–35, at 323–4; idem, ‘God in the “Land of the Mercedes”’, p. 418; idem, ‘Saints and Sufis in post-communist Albania’, in Kisaichi Masatoshi, ed., Popular Movements and Democratization in the Islamic World (London and New York: Routledge, 2006), p. 33–42, at 38–9; Lakshman-Lepain, ‘Bektashis of Albania’, pp. 12–3, 20–2; idem, ‘Albanian Islam: Developments and Disruptions’, in Frank Kressing and Karl Kaser, eds., Albania: A Country in Transition. Aspects of Changing Identities in a South-East European Country (Baden-Baden: Nomos, 2002), pp. 39–64 passim; idem, ‘Albania: les enjeux de la reislamisation’, in Xavier Bougarel and Nathalie Clayer, Nouvel Islam balkanique, les musulmans, acteurs du post-communisme 1990–2000 (Paris: Maisonneuve & Larousse, Paris, 2001), pp. 133–76, at 154–5; Norris, Popular Sufism, pp. 111–2. See Clayer, ‘God in the “Land of the Mercedes”’, p. 418. Rexhebi, Baba, Misticizma Islame dhe Bektashizma (New York: Waldon Press, 1970); Abridged English translation, Islamic Mysticism and Bektashism (US: Babagan Books, 2008). Cf. Lakshman-Lepain, ‘Bektashis of Albania’, pp. 10, 12, 19–20, 21, 22; Norris, Popular Sufism, p. 112; Albert Doja, ‘Spiritual Surrender: from

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Companionship to Hierarchy in the History of Bektashism’, Numen, 53:4 (2006), pp. 448–510, at 499–500. This pattern of discourse is exemplified, for instance, by a book written by Moikom Zeqo (a former Minister of Culture and ex-Director of the Tirana National Historical Museum), The Third Eye (2001) in which Bektashism is interpreted as a ‘third eye’, occupying (like Albania) the strategic position between the two eyes of respectively, Islam and Christianity – see the analysis of this book in Clayer, ‘God in the ‘Land of the Mercedes’, pp. 419–20; idem, ‘Saints and Sufis’, p. 40. See the discussion of the new religious movement of Eleonora Bregu (and its claims for a Bektashi pedigree) in Clayer, ‘God in the “Land of the Mercedes”’, pp. 429–30. The influential definition of Bektashism as ‘essentially Shi‘ite’, with Sunni Islam being only its external cloak, as formulated by Birge, The Bektashi Order, p. 213, has been re-iterated by, among others, J. Spencer Trimingham, The Sufi Orders in Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), pp. 80–3, and Norris, Islam in the Balkans, p. 89. For similar definitions of (Albanian) Bektashism as ‘Shi‘ite-derived’, see, for example, Frank Kressing, ‘A Preliminary Account of Research regarding the Albanian Bektashis-Myths And Unresolved Questions’, in Kressing and Kaser, Albania: A Country in Transition, pp. 65–92, at 84. For an attempt to define Alevism and Bektashism (along with other Near Eastern religious minorities such as the Ahl-e Haqq) as ‘hyper-Shi‘ite’, see During, ‘A Critical Survey’, p. 105 (designations categorising the Alevis and Bektashis as representing ‘Alid Islam’ or ‘Ali-oriented’ religious groups have also enjoyed an occasional scholarly use). Self-categorisations of Bektashism as belonging to the Shi‘ite branch of Islam have began to appear recently in Albanian Bektashi publications in the US and since the early 1990s also in Albania. In the Bulgarian National Institute of Statistics the Alevi- and Bektashi-related groups in Bulgaria are categorised as ‘Shi‘ites’, see Mariana Lenkova, ‘Turks of Bulgaria’, Center for Documentation and Information on Minorities in Europe – Southeast Europe (CEDIME-SE), December 1999, p. 32. For a useful discussion of the parallels but also the important differences between Bektashism and what is considered normative Twelver Shi‘ism in the sphere of ritual and belief, see Norton, ‘The Bektashis in the Balkans’, pp. 176–7; for arguments that the Shi‘ite elements in Bektashism and Alevism were not part of the Anatolian heretodox milieus in which these two movements arose and do not pre-date the Safavid (and Hurufi) proselytism in the area, see, for instance, the authoritative arguments of Ocak, ‘Un aperçu général’, p. 198 (and in other of his publications on this matter);

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Mélikoff, Irène, Hadji Bektach: un mythe et ses avatars: genèse et évolution du soufisme populaire en Turquie (Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 47–55. See, for example, Vorhoff, ‘Let’s reclaim our history and culture!’, p. 237, n. 46; Clayer, ‘Islam, State and Society’, p. 315, n. 3. See, for example, David Shankland, Islam and Society in Turkey (Hemingford Grey, Cambridgeshire: The Eothen Press, 1999), pp. 139–141; idem, The Alevis in Turkey, pp. 24, 85. See the characteristic Kızılbaş religious hymn (recorded in the north-east Balkans and containing this self-definition) quoted verbatim in Gramatikova, ‘Changing Fates’, pp. 584–585. See Irène Mélikoff, ‘Le problème Bektaşi-Alevi: quelques dernières considérations’, Turcica 31 (1999), pp. 7–34, repr. in idem, Au banquet des quarante, pp. 65–87, at 66–9; Ahmed Y. Ocak, ‘Syncrétisme et esprit messianique: Le concept de Qotb et les chefs des mouvements messianiques aux époques seldjoukide et ottomane (XIIIie-XVIIe siècle)’, in Veinstein, Syncrétismes et hérésies, 249–59, at pp. 252–4; Markus Dressler, ‘Turkish Alevi Poetry in the Twentieth Century: The Fusion of Political and Religious Identities’, Alif: Journal of Comparative Poetics, 23 (2003), pp. 109–54, at 112–3; Mikov, Kultova arhitektura, pp. 321–9, 335. For earlier arguments for Ismaili influences on the Anatolian heterodox milieus of Bektashism and Kızılbaşlık, see Köprülü, Mehmed F., Islam in Anatolia after the Turkish Invasion (Prolegomena), tr. and ed. by Gary Leiser (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1993), pp. 13, 23, 73 n.46; cf. John R. Barnes, ‘The Dervish Orders in the Ottoman Empire’, in Lifchez, The Dervish Lodge, p. 34. Cf. Vorhoff, ‘Let’s reclaim our history and culture!’, pp. 239–40; Erman and Göker, ‘Alevi Politics in Contemporary Turkey’, p. 113; See the observations of Dressler, ‘Religio-Secular Metamorphose’, pp. 298, 304. Martin van Bruinessen, ‘Muslims, Minorities and Modernity: The Restructuring of Heterodoxy in the Middle East and Southeast Asia’, Inaugural Lecture, Utrecht University, 21 November 2000, available at: http://www. let.uu.nl/~martin.vanbruinessen/personal/publications/Oratie%20korte%20 versie. The general isolation of many of the Balkan Alevi and Bektashi groups in the post-Ottoman period is highlighted by the fact that until recently very little was known about such surviving communities among the Muslim population in northern Greece; see now Zenkines, Ho bektasismos ste D. Thrake, chs. 6 and 7; Tsibiridou, Fotini, Les Pomak dans la Thrace grecque: discours ethnique et pratiques socioculturelles (Paris: L’Harmattan) pp. 98–107.

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CHAPTER TEN AR E THE ALEVIS SHI‘ITE? David Shankland 1

The transition from nation states to cultures as the dominant way that identities are forged, sought, decided and imposed in the contemporary world has profound and unpredictable consequences. This is nowhere more clearly the case than within debates concerning Islamic societies, where the norms of that faith are increasingly being interpreted not just as norms, but also as reflections of the realities of life within these societies. This imposition of conformity is reinforced twice-over: by the conventional or what one might call even traditional calls to orthodoxy within Islam, and a more contemporary, generalised desire to create uniformity by labelling, categorising and systemising, so that there becomes accepted no discrepancy between ideals and behaviour. This particular powerful conjunction of the old and the new may lead to growing conformity, whilst at the same time leaving those who are not part of any dominant tradition increasingly uneasy. The Alevis, a heterodox minority who derive from Turkey, are a case in point. Often, and perhaps even increasingly of late, they are thought of as being Shi‘ite. Indeed, in any attempt to classify Islamic groups as being either Sunni or Shi‘ite they would be likely to be regarded as Shi‘ite, albeit of a special kind.2 Such a judgement is based usually on a number of points. Amongst these may be the name of the Alevis, which recalls their great veneration for ‘Ali; their central

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religious ceremony, the cem, which marks the martyrdom of Husayn at Karbala; the propensity of the Alevis to mark the month of Muharram; and their favoured religious texts, which they know as Buyruk, and maintain are written by İmam Cafer (Ja‘far). Politically, too, it may be pointed out that during the time of the Ottoman Empire, Anatolia was often unsettled, and control from Istanbul limited. The Alevis, known then as Kızılbaş, were often supporters of the Safavids, and as wars occurred between Iran and Turkey suffered from accusations of heresy, treachery and massacre, creating a historical breach between them and their Ottoman rulers. Yet, despite this background, the Alevis today would usually vehemently deny that they have any connection with Shi‘ism, and have for much of their history negotiated a compromise between their own particular creed and Turkish Sunnism. I would argue that it is this distinctive combination that has characterised ‘Aleviness’, Alevilik in much of Anatolia.3 Nevertheless, the situation is in flux. There has emerged of late a significant, even a leading, recent intellectual movement amongst the diaspora Alevi community which seeks to define their religion in contrast to Islam as a whole, saying that the Alevis possess a distinct faith in their own right.4 The picture is rendered more complicated by the emergence since the 1990s, albeit in small absolute numbers, of a group of converts from Alevism to an explicitly recognisable form of Twelver Shi‘ism, often linked to an association known as the Ehli-Beyt Vakfı, seemingly supported by Iran. Our task then, is twofold. First, to explain the apparent discrepancy between the insistent outside desire to label the Alevis ‘Shi‘ite’ and their own usual rejection of this label, and secondly, to explore the complicated and contrasting ideological currents amongst the Alevis themselves.

The Alevis It is usual today to refer to the Alevis as if they were a distinct community, but in fact they are rather diverse, divided ethnically as well as linguistically. At least before modern migratory movements, they

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were a rural people, inhabiting mainly central and eastern Anatolia, with a sprinkling throughout the southern and western regions. The name Kızılbaş has long been used for the large, more tribal Alevi community in the east of Turkey, often (though not always) Kurdish in terms of their ethnic origin. Kızılbaş, with connotations of heresy and historical links with the Safavids and Iran, is still used today by Sunnis as a term of generalised insult.5 Recently I have occasionally noted usages by the Alevis themselves, perhaps as an attempt to reappropriate the term. The central and central eastern parts of the country possess a preponderance of Turkish Alevi, particularly in Sivas, Yozgat, Tokat, Corum and Amasya. As well as the general term ‘Alevi’, these may know themselves by other sub-designations. Amongst these are Turkmen or Çepnis, both of which are evocative of a Turkish tribal origin. A further group, Tahtacıs, literally ‘woodcutters’, tend to be in the west and south, and a much smaller group, the Abdals scattered rather, but most frequently in the west.6

Hierarchies Even though of diverse background, it appears to be common to all Alevi communities that they are hierarchical along patrilineal lines. Some patrilineages are regarded as being particularly auspicious or holy, keramet sahibi. In any specific local context, these lineages in turn may trace their sanctity in a number of ways: that their founder or an ancestor performed a miracle, or their descent may be traced back to a famous figure, such as Ibn ‘Arabi, or perhaps from the family of the Prophet himself. The tombs of these famous founders may in turn become places of localised pilgrimage, or the location of their living descendants, who may continue to maintain the auspicious path of their forbears. The name given to men of these lineages may vary across Anatolia, with appellations possible such as seyit, pir, mürşid, rehber or dede. The most common amongst the Turkish Alevis, whom I know best, is dede, lit. ‘grandfather’. A dede lineage usually has a number of follower lineages which are known by the name of talip, or follower. From the interaction between the two lineages emerges the man specifically

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who will act as the individual leader to the followers: he should be courteous, honest and pious, able to master the Alevi ceremonies, and know something of the world.7 He may be nominated by his dede lineage, but only if he is visited and invited to visit by his followers will the relationship flourish. In turn, the responsibilities of the dede are partly spiritual, partly secular. It is expected that the dede will lead the Alevi rituals, in particular the cem, which usually takes place only upon the offer of a sacrifice to the dede by one of his followers. He may also assist in marriage negotiations. In addition, the dede may also act as a mediator in disputes, whether between members within a household or between lineages which have been unable to resolve their differences.8 The two functions may come together, in that there is a strong proscription against holding a cem unless all present within the community are at peace with one another. In the event that there is a quarrel, the dede will attempt to resolve it, or in the worst case, the cem should disperse before worship takes place, and the community not hold one until the problem is resolved.

The ‘Four Doors’ It is a characteristic of the Alevi religious philosophy that it takes the famous mystical ‘four doors’ of Islam, and regards them as being applicable to the community as a whole. By this, I mean that whereas it is usual in a Sunni population for some of its followers to choose to follow a more esoteric path, all Alevis whether men or women are regarded as being born into one. This is usually explained as follows: that the Şeriat is an essential first step to religious fulfilment, one that needs to be taken into account, but rather remains on the surface of life. I have heard this, for instance, explained as if a person is a ship sailing across the depths of the seas, without entering in them. Tarikat, they say, is the step where the follower begins to realise the mysteries of existence, and the love of God. Most Alevis are regarded as being on this step of the way. Marifet, the third step, implies to the Alevis whom I know best education, or the importance of learning. Hakikat is the final stage, fulfilment, when one is at one with God, and the everyday shackles that tie us to human existence are shed. I have heard

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it said, for example, that at this stage a person may perform any miracle that they desire, they are a mature person, ermiş kişi. Ideally, a dede lineage should be at this last level. This fourfold categorisation provides a way that an individual may progress toward union with God. However, when they refer to Şeriat the Alevis imply not just the first step toward religious fulfilment, but also the general practice of orthodox Islam: attendance at the mosque, praying five times a day, a separation between men and women, and following the five pillars (belief in the one God, fasting during the Ramadan, prayers, pilgrimage, and giving alms). These they contrast with their Tarikat way, their preferred form of worship with a dede and his followers, wherein both men and women pray together within the cem.9 They further stress their difference from the Sunnis by stressing that there are three Alevi conditions, which may be seen in contrast to the usual five conditions of Islam. Here, they adopt the word edep, known throughout mystical Islam, saying Eline, diline, beline sahip ol! ‘Be master of thy hands, tongue, and loins!’, that is: do not steal, do not tell lies, do not commit adultery. This formula applies to all persons, whether man or women, dede or follower, and may be discussed both by holy man and lay alike. Thus, alongside the occasional worship in the cem and the leadership of the dedes, there runs a simple moral precept which is elevated to a central place in Alevi religious culture, which provides a role to religious fulfilment, one that is little dependent on a frequently repeated formal ritual commitment, but nevertheless clear and accessible to all the Alevi community.

Text and Belief Most Alevi communities possess a text which they know as Buyruk, lit. ‘Decree’, which they hold to be written by İmam Cafer. There are many different versions of these texts. As yet there has been no attempt to produce a single, codified or recognised edition, though there are a number of modern printings produced from Ottoman manuscript copies, some of which have also been revised so that they are intelligible to readers versed in modern Turkish. Though there is such variety,

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the different versions of the Buyruk appear to have certain points in common: it is usual that they contain an account of the revealing of the secrets of religion to the Alevi community, an emphasis on the importance of the Tarikat hierarchy, and respecting a pir or dede, and a number of parables outlining the relationship between the Alevis and the earliest figures in Islam, particularly ‘Ali and the Prophet Muhammad. Of these, absolutely key is the account of the revealing of the true path to the Alevis. Though the level of detail with which the story is conveyed may vary greatly, in essence it contains the following sequence of events. As Muhammad was on the road to Damascus on the night of the miraçlama, the ascent to heaven, he met a lion on the road. Unable to pass, he quelled it ultimately only by inserting his signet ring into the lion’s mouth. Later upon the Prophet’s ascent, Allah passed the secrets of religion to him. However, Allah kept some back which were imparted to ‘Ali. Later, Muhammad came across a house by the side of the road. Within the Alevis were dancing a sema, inspired to do so by the divine mysteries revealed through ‘Ali. Muhammad knocked upon the door. Eventually permitted entry, he came across the community of the 40, and was invited to join them. After doing so, he saw that ‘Ali was present, and recognised him as the lion whom he had met on the path. Throughout the tale, scattered events are given which further indicate the delicate relationship between ‘Ali and Muhammad, often implying in these exchanges that Allah favoured ‘Ali. Though the Buyruk is not restricted to those of a dede lineage, it is usual that active dedes have read and learnt the different depictions of religious life given in the work, and they may comment upon it in the course of their conversations or interpretations which they give during the course of the cem ceremony or at other appropriate times.

The Bektaşis There is still, even today, no one overarching body which represents the whole Alevi community. However, a further strong shaping influence on the Alevis is the Bektaşi Tarikat (Bektashi Brotherhood). So close

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is this connection that many Alevis regard themselves as affiliated with the Bektaşis, calling themselves Alevi-Bektaşi, or even occasionally simply Bektaşi. Strictly speaking, the Bektaşis are a brotherhood founded after the saint of that name, Hacı Bektaş. Based in the town of Hacıbektaş in the western-central part of Anatolia, they were one of the most important of all the brotherhoods during the time of the Ottoman Empire. In part, their importance stemmed from their close contact with the Sublime Porte, for they became the brotherhood favoured by the Janissaries, and their fortunes tended to fall and rise with them. At their peak, they had lodges or tekkes throughout Ottoman lands; in Anatolia, the Middle East, and in the Balkans, particularly Albania. As however, the janissaries became too unruly to be of service to the Sultans, they were first restricted, then finally wiped out by Mahmut II in 1826. The Bektaşi brotherhoods were closed down at that time, and though they staged a partial recovery in the nineteenth century, were abolished along with the rest of the brotherhoods by the nascent Republic.10 The Bektaşis possess two branches: a branch which is known as baba whose followers become devoted to the brotherhood and live in its tekkes. These followers may be celibate, and advance within the ranks of the Bektaşi brotherhood through initiation, learning and training. The second branch, in contradistinction to this, maintain that they are descended from Hacı Bektaş. Their lineage is known as Çelebis, and today have the surname Ulusoy. It is this Ulusoy branch which is close to the Alevis, who may know them as efendi. It should be stressed that there is great variation in the closeness of the link which the Alevis feel exists with the Bektaşis. Those villages which are closest to the Bektaşis may regard the links between dede and follower as being set by Hacı Bektaş himself. They may feel too an affinity toward the efendis, the descendants of the Saint, and have recourse to them in time of need. The town of Hacıbektaş may be visited by them, a visit which they may know as a hac. Increasingly, they may go to the annual festival celebrating Hacı Bektaş, which has become a well-known event in the religious calendar of Anatolia. The festival, which attracts Alevis, Bektaşis, and politicians alike, acts as a key litmus test with regard to the attitude of the government of the

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day toward the Alevi community. Other Alevi communities, however, particularly those who live furthest away, toward the east appear to give less veneration to Hacı Bektaş, preferring to give their primary religious identity toward a more regional saint. These saints in turn may have tombs or centres in eastern Anatolia, with their roots traceable to the territories of modern day Iraq, Iran or Syria. Even these, however, do not usually reject Hacı Bektaş entirely, but maintain he is not absolutely central in their lives.

Codifying Pressures From the historical point of view, then, it appears that we should conceive of at least two different codifying pressures upon the Alevi and related groups in Anatolia. The first is the distinct Safavid forces sent out by Shah Isma‘il, to whom the Kızılbaş groups were indisputably linked, even if the exact interaction between any one Anatolian tribal formation and the Safavids is exceedingly difficult to demonstrate. It is also difficult to delineate the degree of codification of Alevi traditions which is today due to the Safavid influence. It is highly likely that the Buyruk texts emerged at least in part out of the interaction between the Kızılbaş and the Safavids, even if we are not yet sure where and how they were produced. It is certainly the case that Shah Isma‘il wrote mystical poetry in Turkish, using the pen name Hatayi, that appealed greatly to the Kızılbaş, some of whom still have collections of his writings. Equally, though, and even more clearly from today’s point of view the Alevis are associated with the more quiescent Bektaşis, and thereby linked with the Ottomans but never quite trusted by them. I hasten to add that I am aware that this is a great over-simplification: it is possible, and rightly often noted (for example by Melikoff in her seminal work), that when looking at the diverse roots of these movements one may discern further influences: such as Hurufism, the Mevlevis, and Anatolian folk figures such as Yunus Emre. Likewise, I fully concur that the overall tapestry, what one might call the cultural context of the Anatolia of that time, with its different mix of religious currents and as-yet flexible precepts of Islam, must be a dominant factor in the way that these ideas become formed in the first place.

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Nevertheless, the more that I look at the historical context of this period, the more it appears legitimate to conceive of the Alevis as having been potentially drawn in these two ways: the authority of Iran, and the more immediate force of the Ottoman Empire. However we may subsequently refine our argument, it seems that these poles will always be part of any explanation that may be developed. Again, though the historical picture will be immensely complicated when looked at in detail, we may tentatively suggest that the Kızılbaş gradually integrated with the Ottomans through the Bektaşis as the reach of the Iranian state was curtailed. Today, the bulk of the remaining Alevi groups are settled or semi-settled Turkish settlements, found in the central-eastern provinces of Amasya, Tokat, Sivas, Yozgat and Çorum. These give way to predominantly ethnically Kurdish Alevi groups which, never quite so firmly under the Ottoman’s control, appear to have been less influenced by the Bektaşis. Surprisingly, further east again, that is in the areas closest to today’s borders with Iran and Iraq, there are very few Alevis. The one exception to this is those Kurdish Alevis who are found in their geographically more isolated province of Tunceli, a natural outcrop that is still restive. It is perhaps the case that the predominantly tribal Kurdish formations appear to have come under even greater pressure to convert to Sunnism, and conformed to the tribal tendency to do so en masse. This is admittedly speculative, and I cannot do more than suggest this as a possibility. Accepting that the detail may be in need of refinement, if this model is not absolutely mistaken it implies that the Bektaşis may have become not just, as has often been stated, a culturally appropriate social medium through which the Christian groups of the Balkans could potentially be incorporated into the expanding territories of the Ottoman Empire in Europe, but in addition, they appear to have acted in similar fashion as a stabilising force within the volatile territories of Anatolia, beset for so much of their history with repeated uprising. This point of view would explain, perhaps, how the Bektaşis gradually became a dominant force within so many Alevi groups: their benign authority came to offer a route to a sedentary way of life, a way to become part of sphere of influence of the Ottomans, without accepting their rule directly. Another way of then explaining the discrepancy

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between the semi-sedentarised Alevi-Bektaşis in the central-eastern parts of Anatolia, and the Kurdish tribes in the eastern parts would be to say that one could be a Kurdish Sunni tribe, or an Alevi-Bektashi village, but not be both a tribe and Kızılbaş without such discomfort that few such survive. I hope to look in more detail at this historical argument, along with the question of geographical distribution and conversion, elsewhere.11 However, it contains, albeit in the sketchiest of fashions, the seeds of the argument that I should like to present in this chapter. From the religious point of view, through the great success of the Bektaşi brotherhood amongst the Alevis, the Ottomans appear to have secured a curious but stable midway point: the Bektaşis can hardly be described as orthodox: Bektaşi tales are legion, as is their fondness for wine, their lack of attention to doctrine, and their laxness in the niceties of theological thought. Yet, at the same time, they can hardly be regarded as Shi‘ite in the full sense of the word, because they belong to no obvious mezhep. Rather they are happy to achieve a form of pantheistic synthesis with the religions around which they are found whilst at the same time achieving an accommodation with authority where they need. As a cultural or religious community then, their loyalty tends to be to the temporal rulers of the time, without necessarily accepting any particular ideological message that it may wish to convey.

The Alevis and the Republic I should stress that I am writing as a social anthropologist, extrapolating no more than on the basis of the years of fieldwork that I have spent in Anatolia an abstract conception of what may have obtained historically during the time of the Ottoman Empire. However, I would also suggest that this approach helps us to understand the place of the Alevis in the Republic. Albeit within the framework of an entirely new social unity – a Republic rather than an Empire – we may see a parallel social mechanism. In other words, just as the Alevis achieved an accommodation with the Ottoman state through the Bektaşis, so they have been able to do so with the Republic.

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In order to consider this point, we may recall that the Alevis are known as supporters of the Republic, and of the series of secular measures imposed by the Kemalists. This is, as nearly all generalisations must be an oversimplification. Küçük rightly points out in her detailed work on the early Bektaşi reaction to the War of Independence that it can hardly be the case that there was unanimous support, simply because some of the Bektaşis would have had conflicting loyalties to the existing Sultans. It also conveniently overlooks the Kurdish Alevi rebellion at Dersim, which was brutally suppressed. Nevertheless, amongst the Turkish Alevis in particular a clear sentiment did emerge, and that it did so helps us to realise how very powerful was the collective ethos that emerged as the definition of citizenship of the new nation became clear.12 In practical terms, what appears to have happened is that the bulk of the Alevis profited through their sense of participation in the secular Republic by creating links through the Republican People’s Party (CHP). This firm adhesion to the party continued over time, so that even as the CHP fell out of favour after the conversion to multi-party elections in the 1950s, the Alevis supported them. This same staunch following continued through the difficult decades after the 1980 coup, and though the party leadership is no longer clear that they wish so explicitly to be an ‘Alevi’ party, continues until today. It is sometimes asked why the Alevis supported the Republic, even though banning their religious figures meant that, taken literally, their form of religious life became illegal overnight. In fact, even after the passing of the law to close all tarikat activity, the Alevi villages continued as best they were able to practise their religious ceremonies in their communities. The most prominent of the ocaks (Alevi holy lineages) were discouraged, both in terms of maintaining a watch, even if informal, over their principle members, and dismantling their buildings. For example, the large Hübyar tekke in Tokat, was rendered unusable by taking off its roof, and the tomb of Hacı Bektaş himself was sealed, and handed over to the authorities. However, more localised and therefore less obtrusive dedes continued to be able to visit their followers, and most village quarters would have a larger house where cems could be celebrated.

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The Alevis appear to have been able to develop a cultural, and not just a political link with the CHP. A nuance in the internal politics of the Alevis helps to clarify this point. Though the Alevis are rightly known as CHP supporters, there does appear to have been a number of Menderes supporters at the point when he came to power in 1950 with the Democrat Party (Demokrat Parti). This support quickly dwindled as Menderes’ propensity to support solely the Sunni form of Islam became clear. A few dedes from the larger ocaks continued to support Menderes, however, notably the Doğan family from Malatya. Professor İzettin Doğan is today head of the Cem Vakfi, and his grandfather a member of the Grand National Assembly for Menderes. In sharp contrast, the support of the Alevi rank and file for the CHP appears to have deepened. They appear to have been able to celebrate their way of life through their culture: through their music, poetry and song, and create from this a public identity which they could use to become part of the Republic. There is a marked collective tendency in Alevi communities that expresses itself not just in the explicitly religious cem ceremonies, but also in the marriages and at other times, when men, and women may gather together. Known broadly as muhabbet, such gatherings are on the cusp of being sacred, even though practised in a secular setting. In fact, muhabbet means ‘love’ in a mystical sense as well as to meet and to talk together. Such gatherings would often be quite formal: in the village, at least, the Alevis would appoint a man to be the master of ceremonies, or saki, and he would be charged with making sure that the pace of drinking was suitable to the occasion. In such gatherings, it would be the custom that all would drink in unison, and only one person at a time talk. A failure to comply with the customary rules could result in a fine of an ‘Angel Gabriel’: that is, a cockerel and a bottle of raki, to be donated to the table. Even though the younger, intellectual Alevi generation were often uncomfortable with the authority of the dedes, and would even if the atmosphere became very volatile, in some areas seek to ensure that the cem would no longer take place, they did not seek to curtail this muhabbet side of Alevi traditional culture. It is this collective celebratory

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tradition which continued even as the Alevis moved to the towns, and even as the younger Alevis became associated with the left in the 1970s. In turn, it profoundly influenced the left, and was congruent with their own readiness to discuss the world, to eat and drink together, and to play music in a collective spirit. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, the saz, the double-stringed instrument favoured by the Alevis could equally be seen as a symbol of the resistance movement more generally. From both points of view, this combination is anathema to the extreme Sunni resurgent movement, as was seen in the tragic events in Sivas, which was precisely one such event. The festival illustrated a readiness to accept and work with the secular Republic, in that it was to be opened by the province governor. It was to feature at the same time literature and poety readings, along with the performance of the Alevi sema. Non-Alevi intellectuals present included the writer Aziz Nesin, who was well-known for his atheist views and his support for Rushdie’s Satanic Verses. The consequence, as is well known, is that the hotel was surrounded by chanting fanatics, set alight, and 33 of those persons within were burnt to death. In today’s Turkey, the situation is no longer clear. The CHP are now emaciated, and have in any case declared that they can live without the Alevis; the Islamist government has openly stated its dislike for the Alevis, but is being cajoled by the European Union to make a rapprochement. However, any such opening is likely to be both partial, and uncertain. The CEM Vakfi headed by Professor Doğan, who has continued to follow the route identified by his forebears, would like to be a representative of the Alevis, encouraging them at the same time to develop and maintain their religious identity.13 Though he enjoys some support, there are a number of other groups which take a less conciliatory line, such as the Pir Sultan Abdal Association. The way employed by the Alevis twice over, once with the Bektaşis and once with the CHP, to develop a neutral single institutional framework which would nevertheless allow them to continue with their own way of life, is no longer available, though it is possible that the Cem Vakfi will win out, enabling them to create a new link with the Republic.

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The Alevis in Germany By contrast, in Germany the situation has clarified. It should be explained that the Alevis migrated to Germany as workers as part of the Gastarbeiter movement in the 1960s and 1970s. Estimates vary as to the number of Alevis in Germany, but they perhaps are around about 400,000 persons. They are found in most of the old industrial centres of western Germany, with notable concentrations in Berlin, Frankfurt, Cologne, Hamburg and the Ruhr area. At the outset, when they formed associational groups, they usually did so in such a way that mirrored their political activity in Turkey: that is, as they were inclined toward the left. During the 1980s, and all the more so during the 1990s, this gradually changed so that the Alevis formed a number of associations explicitly devoted to ‘Aleviness’ Alevilik, known often as Alevi Cultural Centres.14 These associations in turn have come to be represented by a single Federation, the AABF, which has its building in Cologne. Recently, the Federation has strengthened its position in two notable ways: it has won the right from the authorities in several parts of Germany to represent the Alevi community as their recognised body, which means in turn that they may be responsible for aiding the training of school teachers to teach Alevilik in German schools. It has also become accepted by the Alevis as their principle body to represent them across Europe, so that they now style themselves the Alevi ‘Confederation’. Not all associations are linked to the Federation, but it is true to say that most are, including the most significant such as that in Berlin, and in Frankfurt. This level of participation is all the more remarkable in that the Federation has developed an interpretation which is markedly at odds with many villagers in their wider constituency in two different ways. They maintain or at least on occasion may maintain that Alevilik is a religion which is outside Islam, and they consistently downplay the role of the hereditary leaders.15 This position is certainly not in accordance with the dominant approach in the migrant community, yet it is affective along the lines which we have sketched out in this article: it enables the Federation to create distinct and close links with the German Federal authorities, and has been instrumental in

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their gaining recognition as a separate religious group, and in gaining the right to organise the teaching of Alevi religion in state schools. We have the curious situation, then, that a Federation which is increasingly successful in representing the Alevis in the European diaspora, so much so that it is beginning to be regarded as a confederation which may unite associations in France, Austria and Switzerland, as well as in Germany, does not necessarily reflect its constituency from the ideological point of view. Yet, it does fit in with the historical tendency which I suggest operates with regard to the Alevis: that they tend to create or at the least be contented with institutional intermediaries which enable them to create links with the local dominant authorities, without expecting that there should be an exact reflection of their views in return.

Conclusions In sum then, in each case which we have discussed here – Ottoman Turkey, the Republic, and now notably Germany – when the Alevis have needed to create links with the wider community where they have found themselves, they have sought a reference point through the local authority rather than having recourse to the overarching umma. I should hasten to add that I am aware that this is a vastly oversimplified statement: there are indisputably all sorts of inner currents and movements. Yet, whatever time or place one examines the Alevi movement from, they have always defined themselves in this way: creating a link with the nation state or the empire, yet maintaining their own flexible philosophy. I should also say explicitly too that I am aware that I write as an anthropologist with an eye to social organisation and culture, and not as an historian with a sensitivity toward the specifities of location and place. Yet, the pattern seems too striking to be overlooked. We could even cite a fourth case: that of the Bektaşis in Albania who, in the complex mix of post-Socialist religious politics, have sought to create a distinct and separate agreement within the framework of government recognition and are well-known for their early adoption of Albanian language as resistance against the Ottoman Empire began

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to take shape, leaving behind their Turkish roots, seemingly with ease.16 To return now to our original question: are the Alevis Shi‘ite? In a pioneering publication Matti Moosa17 pulled together much of the information available through texts and travellers accounts concerning esoteric groups throughout the Middle and Near East, of which the Alevi-Bektaşi are one. He refers to them in general as ‘extremist Shi‘ites’ following the local term ghulat, after their frequent great veneration for ‘Ali. Moosa gives an outstanding comparative overview of the religious beliefs. He also implies that, in the last resort, they should be counted Shi‘ite, even if in many cases their beliefs do not fall into the usual Shi‘ite canon or understanding of the limits of faith, because in the last resort it is to Twelver Shi‘ism which they turn. But this has demonstrably not happened in the Kızılbaş/Alevi case. It is true, there does appear to be an attempt by the Iranian authorities to encourage a reinterpretation of Alevilik as Twelver Shi‘ism, but in terms of the total numbers of the Alevis, their success appears to have been notably slight. Instead, when the Anatolian Kızılbaş were presented with the possibility of becoming part of the Ottoman Empire, some converted to Sunnism, whether through force or by inclination. Others however, gradually sedentarised and achieved a modus vivendi with the ruling authorities, aided in great part by their links with the Bektaşis. These groups did not simply move to Iran to become part of the Safavid state, nor did they become Shi‘ite. When the Republic was pronounced, they did something different again. They largely moved toward a secular orientation that relied on an internalised mystical understanding of their religion, doing so through the main channel of Republican reforms, the Republican People’s Party. In Germany, as we have also seen, they have created an institutional framework which gives them, ipso facto, religious independence. It would appear to me that these attempts to label the Alevis Shi‘ite are not just wrong, but thereby missing a crucial point. As researchers, we are accustomed to assuming that the conventional distinction between Sunni and Shi‘ite is the inescapable underlying partition within Islamic societies. It is true that this is the way that the Muslim faith is frequently represented by Islamic scholars themselves, and it

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is equally frequently regarded by Muslims as a fundamental Sectarian opposition. However, the Alevis illustrate quite clearly that it is possible to overcome this contrast: that we may witness a flow of spirituality which does not fit in neatly to either category, even though it assuredly is part of Islam. It may be argued that the Alevis are rather small in the great scheme of things, and therefore do not matter very much. Even this is not entirely true. There are some millions of Alevis, even today, and equally numbers of related groups which may be brought into our thinking, just as Moosa has illustrated in his comparative analysis. Yet, these alternative waves of Islamic thinking receive scanty treatment in our texts upon the subject, often squeezed into just a few pages if they are mentioned at all, and however uneasily they may fit in with the overall framework of our work. If they are not looked for at the outset, then it is hardly likely that they will feature in our writings.

Notes 1. This chapter owes much to conversations with Lloyd Ridgeon, and with Rob Gleave, to whom my thanks. The author expresses his great gratitude to the Economic and Social Research Council, and to the Arts and Humanities Research Council, for their generous long-term support for this research. 2. For instance, ‘. . . the Bektashis differ from most of the Turkish dervish orders in being frankly Shii in their tendency’ J. Birge, The Bektashi Order of Dervishes (London: Luzac & Co, 1937), p. 132. From the popular press, see for instance The Daily Telegraph 18.12.09 ‘A minority which follows a form of Shia Islam, the Alevis’ distinct identity from the wider Sunni population . . . was forged amid generations of sectarian violence.’ 3. For a general introduction to Alevi ethnography see See D. Shankland, The Alevis in Turkey: the emergence of a secular Islamic Tradition (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003); also A. Gokalp, Têtes rouges et bouches noires, Paris: Société d’ethnographie, 1980, T. Olsson, E. Özdalga, and C. Raudvere, (eds.) Alevi Identity, Istanbul; Swedish Research Institute in Istanbul, Transactions Vol. 8, 1998; and I. Mélikoff, Hadji Bektach: un mythe et ses avatars (Leiden: Brill, 1998). 4. See Sökefeld, M. (ed.) Aleviten in Deutschland: Identitatsprozesse einer Religionsgemeinschaft in der Diaspora, Bielefeld: transcript, 2008, esp. in that

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volume Sökefeld’s own article, ‘Sind Aleviten Muslime? Die alevitische Debatte ueber das Verhaltnis von Alevitentum und Islam in Deutschland’, pp. 195–218 . See also Sökefeld Struggling for Recognition: the Alevi movement in Germany (New York: Berghahn, 2008). On the Kurdish Alevis, see M. van Bruinessen, Mullas, Sufis and Heretics: The Role of Religion in Kurdish Society (Istanbul: Isis Press, 2000). See also P. Bumke, ‘The Kurdish Alevis: Boundaries and Perceptions’, in P. Andrews (ed.). 2003 Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, expanded edition, two vols, (Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag, 510–8), and A. Karakaya-Stump 2004 ‘The Emergence of the Kızılbaş in Western Thought: Missionary Accounts and their Aftermath’, in D. Shankland Archaeology, Anthropology and Heritage in the Balkans and Anatolia: The Life and Works of FW Hasluck, 1878–1920), (Istanbul: Isis, 329–54). The most useful way to begin to explore this diversity of nomenclature remains P. Andrews (ed) Ethnic Groups in Turkey, Ethnic Groups in the Republic of Turkey, expanded edition, two vols (Wiesbaden: Dr Ludwig Reichart Verlag, 2003). It is important to note that this consists not just of lists, but also complementary essays and surveys. A second, later volume supplements the first, meaning that they should be used in conjunction. The early literature can still be useful on this topic; F. Hasluck’s posthumous remarks on the Bektashis, for example, contain a note on these different forms of self-appellation (Christianity and Islam under the Sultans, two volumes (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1926)). See also J. Crowfoot, ‘Survivals among the Kappadokian Kizilbash (Bektash)’, in Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, n.s. III, Vol 30; 1900, pp. 305–20; M. Grenard, ‘Une Secte religieuse d’asie mineure, les Kyzyl-Bachs’, Journal Asiatique, dixième série, Vol III, 1904, pp. 511–22. For a parallel instance of this sort of negotiation, see E. Gellner, Saints of the Atlas, (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 1969). More detail from the ethnographic point of view on this is provided in Shankland, The Alevis in Turkey. See on this topic, the researches of Langer on Alevi ritual and ritual transfer between Turkey and Europe, R. Langer, R. Motika, R. and M. Ursinus (Eds) Migration und Ritualtransfer: religiöse Praxis der Aleviten, Jesiden und Nusairier zwischen Vorderem Orient und Westeuropa (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2005). J. Birge (The Bektashi Order) is rightly regarded as the starting point for an understanding of the Bektashis. Of later works, see amongst many the important collection of edited papers (A. Popovic and G. Veinstein (eds.) Bektachiyya: études sur l’ordre mystique des Bektachis et les groupes relevant de Hadji Bektach (Istanbul: Les Editions Isis, 1995)) which contains a good

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228

11. 12.

13.

14.

15.

16. 17.

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overview of the field, and also the account by France Trix, Spiritual Discourse: Learning with an Islamic Master (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993), of her incorporation in the modern order. D. Shankland, The Alevi-Bektashi Question revisited (in preparation). On this topic, see in particular the work of M. Meeker A Nation of Empire: the Ottoman legacy of Turkish modernity (Berkeley; University of California Press, 2002). The argument is summarised in a little more detail in Shankland, The Alevis of Turkey (Chapter 1). See İ. Doğan, Professor Dr. İzettin Doğan’ın Alevi İslam İnancı, Kültürü ile ilgili Görüş ve Düşünceleri, edited by Ayhan Aydın, 3rd enlarged edition (Istanbul: Cem Vakfı, 2003). For an autobiographical account of this transformation, see H. Tosun, Alevi Kimliğiyle Yaşamak (Istanbul; can yayınları, 2002). For a survey of Alevi ideological positions in the diaspora, see E. Massicard, L’autre Turquie: le mouvement aléviste et ses territories, Series: Proche Orient (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2005). On this debate, see Sökefeld, ‘Sind Aleviten Muslime?’, also T. Fayt, Les Alévis: processus identitaire, stratégies et devenir d’une communauté ‘chiite’ en Turquie et dans l’Union européenne (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2003). See N. Clayer, Aux origines du nationalisme albanais: la naissance d’une nation majoritairement musulmane en Europe (Paris: Karthala, 2007). M. Moosa, Extremist Shi‘ites (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1988).

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INDEX

Abbasids, 50 Abdals, 212 ‘Abd al-Husayn, Kazim, 96, 97, 98, 99 ‘Abd al-Sabziwari (Ayatollah), 102 ‘Abd al-Zahra, Diya, 118 ‘Abdur Rahman, Emir, 131, 132 Abu Islam, 128 Abu Zar, 57 Achaemenians, 47 Adam, 151, 159, 169 Afghans, 53, 69, 126, 135 Afghanistan, 1, 2, 5, 6, 48, 125–143 Ahani, ‘Ali, 82 Ahl-e Haqq, 177, 193, 197, 208 Ahmadinejad, Mahmud, 79, 81, 84, 148, 149 ‘Aidara, Sherif Muhammad ‘Ali, 154, 157 Ajudani, Mashallah, 57 Akhbarism, 5, 113–124 akhis, 172 ākhund, 132 Akhundzadeh, Mirza Fath ‘Ali, 50, 57, ‘Alavi, Javad, 97, 98 ‘Alawi, Yahya, 152, 153 Albania, 6, 185–191, 192, 193, 200, 201, 205, 206, 207, 208, 216, 224

Index.indd 229

Alevi, 7, 170–209, 210–228 Alevi Cultural Centres, 223 Alevlik, 7 Al-e Ahmad, Jalal, 50, 57 ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib, 26 ‘Ali Pasha, 187 AMAL, 69, 83, 116 Anderson, Benedict, 3, 29, 42 Al-Aqsa mosque, 72 Arabs, 37, 49, 50, 51, 168 ‘Araki, Ayatollah Muhammad ‘Ali, 102, 103 Ariana, 46 articulation, 43, 45, 59, 60 Assassins, 128 ‘Ashura, 6, 144–169, 186 Association of Qum Seminary Teachers, 103, 104 Avesta, 46 Baba Rexhebi, 190 Babăgan, 174 Babis, 118 Babur, 131 Badr al-Din, Shaykh, 180, 182, 198, 202 Baha’is, 69, 118

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230

SHI‘I ISLAM

Al-Bahdali, ‘Abdul-Satar, 121 Bahr al-‘Ulum, Hasan, 97 Balkans, 2, 6, 170–209, 216, 218, Bamba, Amadu, 145, 169 Bamyan, 133, 136 Bani-Sadr, Abo’l-Hasan, 68, 69 Baram, Amatzia, 121 Barth, Fredrik, 130, 141 Basra, 97, 99, 117, 118, 122, 123 Bayat-Philip, Mangol, 43, 61 Beheshti, Ayatollah, 70, 71, 72, 80, 82, 86, 88 Beheshti, Sayyed ‘Ali, 103, 105, 133 Behruz, Zabih, 47, 62 Bektashis, 6, 7, 170–209, 226, 227 Bonaud, Christian see ‘Alawi, Yahya Boroujerdi, Mehrzad, 48, 61, 91 Borujerdi, Ayatollah, 97 Bosnia, 182, 184 Bourdieu, Pierre, 10, 25, 38 Buyruk, 173, 197, 211, 214, 215, 217

Index.indd 230

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IDENTITY

dars al-khārij, 115 da‘wa, 28 dedes, 175, 177, 214, 215, 220, 221 Democrat Party (of Turkey), 221 Din va Zendegi, 27, 31, 35 discourse analysis, 43, 44, 48, 145 Diyanet İşleri Başkanlığ, 176 Doğan, Professor İzettin, 221, 222 Doyle, Michael, 57 Emre, Yunus, 217 Ettehadiyeh, 4, 64–92 Eve, 151 Ezheh’i, Javad, 75, 79, 80

CDA (critical discourse analysis), 44 Ćelebi (branch of Bektashis), 174 cem ceremonies, 175, 179, 211, 213, 214, 215, 220, 221 cemevi, 175, 179 Chamran, Mostafa, 68, 69 Christianity, 6, 31, 181, 182, 185, 191, 202, 208 closure, 43 Conference of ‘Ali Yacine, 160–162 Conference of Conseil des Oulemas d’Ahlul-Bayt, 158–160 Constitutional Movement, 41, 52, 53, 57 Cyrus the Great, 46

Fadlallah, Muhammad Husayn, 103, 114, 116 Fairclaugh, Norman, 43, 53 faqīh, 102, 103 Fatima, 31, 51 fatwa (plural, istiftā), 66, 75, 83, 115, 119, 120, 121, 123, 131 Fazel, Seyyed Sa’id, 75 Fazel-Harandi, Mohi‘eddin, 75 Fazel-Lankerani, Ayatollah, 65 Ferdowsi, 47 flagellation, 144, 162 Fletore e Bektashinjet, 186, 205, 206 Fortman, Bas de Gaay, 58 Frashëri, Dalip, 187 Frashëri, Naim, 186, 187, 205, 206 Frashëri, Şemseddin Sami Bey, 186, 187 Frashëri, Shahin Bey, 187 Freedom Movement, 68 Frye, Richard Nelson, 46, Foucault, Michel, 10, 42, 43, 61

Dakar, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 162, 163 Damascus, 96, 99, 144, 147, 215 Darius I, 46

Gandhi, Mahatma, 154 Garmarudi, ‘Ali Musavi, 26 Geertz, Clifford, 37 Genghis Khan, 131 ghayba, 77, 117

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INDEX Ghaznawids, 47 ghulat, 225 Gokal, Mustafa, 96, 99 Gulpayegani, Ayatollah, 102, 103, 105, 107, 109, 112 Hacı Bektaş Veli, 173, 174 Hadikaja, 187 Hafiz, 29 al-Hairi, Kazim, 117, 118, 120 hajj, 95 Hajjarian, Said, 52 al-Hajjaj, Shaykh Murtada, 122 al-Hakim, Muhammad Baqir, 114, 124 Hambly, Gavin, 46 Haqiqi, Mostafa, 69, 70, 72, 74, 88 Harpviken, K. B., 132, 142 al-Hasan, Ahmad, 118, 122, 123 al-Hasani, Mahmud, 116, 117, 123 hawza, 104, 105, 116, 118, 120 Hazaras, 5, 6, 125, 126, 130–137, 138, 139, 140, 141 Hegel, Georg W. F., 46 Herat, 125, 136 Hersh, Seymour, 49 Hezb-e Wahdat (Unity Party), 126, 135, 136, 138, 142 Hezb-e Wahdat-e Islami-ye Afghanistan, 135 Hidden Imam, see Twelfth Imam Hizb al-Da‘wa, 116 Hizb al-Tarqiyya, 146 Hobsbawm, Eric J., 42 Hojjatiyeh society, 69 Hosayn, 11, 16, 17, 34 Howarth, David, 43 hovviyat, 66 Hurufi teachings, 177, 198 Husayn, Imam, 6, 129, 140, 144, 145, 147, 151, 153, 154, 156, 158, 159, 161, 186, 211 Hussein, Saddam, 49

Index.indd 231

231

Ibn ‘Arabi, 212 ijāza, 114, 117 ijtihad, 119 International Colleges of Islamic Sciences, 100 Islamic Centre of England, 66, 80, 82 Isma‘il I, 51 al-Jabiri, Sayyid Haydar, 122 Jala’ipur, Hamid-Reza, 78 Jama‘at Ibadu Rahman, 146 Janissary corps, 172 Jaysh al-Mahdi, 120 Jebheh-ye mosharekat, 77 Jomhuri-ye Islami, 66 Jorgensen, M., 43 Judaism, 31, 152, 154 Kabul, 126, 130, 136, 137, 141 Kadiriyya, 188 see also Qadiriyya Kandahar, 125 Kanoon Towhid, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86 Karbala, 6, 34, 94, 100, 119, 123, 129, 140, 144, 145, 147, 151, 154, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 186, 187, 188, 190, 206, 211 al-Kawthar Islamic University, 101 Kermani, Mirza Aqa-Khan, 50 Kızılbaş, 172, 173, 174, 179, 180–183, 184, 192, 198, 199, 204, 209, 211, 212, 217, 218, 219, 225 al-Khafaji, Shaykh Aws, 121 Khaledi, Asadollah, 69, 88 Khalwatiyya, 188 Khameneh’i, Ayatollah Ali, 15, 16, 66, 67, 75, 77, 79, 81, 82, 84, 87, 102, 103, 114, 116, 124, 129, 149 Khan, Malkam, 52 khāns, 132 Khatami, Mohammad, 4, 54, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81 Khaybar, 152

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232

SHI‘I ISLAM

al-Khoei Foundation, 4, 93–112 Khojas, 99 Khomeini, Ayatollah Ruhollah, 4, 15, 29, 34, 35, 52, 64, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 81, 83, 85, 102, 104, 114, 116, 119, 124, 128, 129, 135, 139, 167 Khomeini, Ahmad, 70 khoms, 67 al-Khu’i, ‘Abd al-Majid, 94, 96, 97 al-Khu’i, ‘Abd al-Sahib, 94, 97, 98 al-Khu’i, Ayatollah Abu al-Qasim, 4, 93–112 al-Khu’i, Muhammad Taqi, 94, 95, 96, 99, 102, 103, 107 Laclau, Ernest, 42, 43, 45, 53, 59 Lebanon, 1, 8, 66, 69, 106, 107, 114, 116, 148, 149, 150, 164 Lewis, Bernard, 50 liberal ideology, 41 Mahdi, 5, 15, 16, 113, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 122, 123, 128 Mahmud II, 172, 185 Majma‘ al- taqrīb, 67 Majmu‘eh-ye Karameh Maktab-e mobarez, 71 Maktab-e mobarez, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 82 al-Manshadawi, Shaykh ‘Abdallah, 122 Maqālat, 173 marabout, 146, 165, 167 Marafi, Hajj ‘Abd al-Ilah, 97 marja‘ taqlīd (plural, maraje‘), 76, 87, 93, 95, 98, 101, 102, 103, 105, 107, 108, 109, 111, 112, 114, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 123 marja‘iyya, 4, 64, 67, 73, 87, 93–112 Maskub, Shahrokh, 47, 48, 50 Mazar-e Sharif, 136 Mazari, ‘Abdul ‘Ali, 135 Menderes, Adnan, 221

Index.indd 232

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Messiah, 31 Milani (Ayatollah), 73 minggan, 131 minorities, 29, 30–32, 49, 136, 177, 183, 184, 203, 208 Mirdamadi, Mohsen, 78 mīrs, 131, 132, 133, 134, 137, 141 MKO, 41, 61 Moein, Mostafa, 54 Moezi, ‘Abdulhoseyn, 87 Mohajerani, ‘Ata’ollah, 81 Mojtahed-Shabestari, Mohammad, 4, 70, 72, 80, 83 Moghuls, 131 Montazeri, Ayatollah, 75, 104, 135 Moosa, Matti, 225, 226 Mosaddeq, Mohammad, 58 Mostashar al-Dowleh, 52, 53 Motahhari, Ayatollah, 42, 51, 74 Mouffe, Chantal, 42, 43, 45, 59 Mozaffar al-Din Shah, 53 Mozdahir International, 151, 152, 154, 156, 157 Mozdahir International Conference, 155, 159 Mu‘awiya, 147, 150, 168 Muhammad, Prophet, 31, 32, 35, 51, 71, 88, 128, 129, 144, 146, 152, 154, 159, 161, 162, 168, 215 Muhammad Reza Shah, 34, 104, 128 Muharram, 118, 122, 144, 145, 147, 151, 153, 155, 157, 158, 160, 168, 186, 211 mujtahid, 5, 103, 104, 105, 106, 114–121, 122, 124 muqallid, 5, 114–121 Muridiyya, 145 Musavi-Ardabili, Ayatollah, 76 al-Musawi, Muhammad, 96, 98 Muslim Brotherhood, 127 mustada‘fun, 129 Mustarshidin, 146 Myhtarnameja, 187 Mykonos affair, 75, 83

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INDEX Nader Shah, 126 al-Nafsi, Yusif ‘Ali, 96, 97, 98 Nahj al-balagha, 28 Na’ini, Mirza Hossein, 53 Najaf, 72, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 102, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 118 al-Najafi, Muhsin ‘Ali, 96, 97, 98, 101 Najibullah, Mohammad, 135, 136 Namazi, Hoseyn, 80 Nasr, Seyyed Hossein, 50 Nasrallah, Hasan, 116 national character, 27 Nesin, Aziz, 222 Noah, 151, 156, 159, 169 Nuri, Fadlallah, 53 Nurmohammadi, Hamzeh, 75 occultation, see ghayba Office of the Martyr Sadr, 120 Organization of the Islamic Conference (OIC), 148, 149, 191 orientalism, 44 Ottoman Empire, 52, 170, 172, 180, 181, 211, 216, 218, 219, 224, 225 Pahlavi, 4, 32, 35, 148 Pakistan, 4, 5, 93, 96, 97, 100, 101, 106, 135, 136 Pashtuns, 136, 140, 141 PDPA (People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan), 133 Persepolis, 46 Persian, 3, 8, 36, 37, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 62, 68, 69, 81, 125, 131, 167, 187, 190 Phillips, L., 43, Popper, Karl, 83 Qadiriyya, 145 see also Kadiriyya Qalandar, 172

Index.indd 233

233

Qaramitah, 128 Qerbelaja, 186, 187 Qum, 5, 18, 76, 97, 102, 103, 104, 105, 113, 114, 117, 118, 120 Qotbzadeh, Sadegh, 68, 69 Rafsanjani, Hashemi, 78, 148 Rahner, Karl, 83 Ramses II, 152 Razavi-Faqih, Sa‘id, 67, 68, 76, 84 Red Army, 133, 135 Republican People’s Party (CHP), 220, 221, 222, 225 Reza Shah, 50, 58, 128, 148 Rifa‘iyya, 188 rowshanfekr, 132 Roy, Oliver, 127, 128, 130, 143 Rudaki, 47 Ruhani, Muhammad, 97, 104, 105 ruānī, 132, 135 see also akhund Rumi, Jalal-al-Din, 3, 29 Rushdie, Salman, 66, 75, 222 Sadeq, Ja‘far, 28 al-Sadiq School for Boys, 100 Sa‘di, 29 Sa‘diyya, 188 al-Sadr, Ayatollah Muhammad Baqir, 98, 124 al-Sadr, Muhammad Sadiq, 102, 110, 111, 112, 116, 117, 122, 124 al-Sadr, Muqtada, 5, 113–124 al-Sadr, Musa, 69, 83 Safavids, 36, 41, 51, 52, 128, 172, 173, 174, 208, 211, 212, 217, 225 al-Sahlani, Fadil, 96, 97, 98, 99, 103 Said, Edward, 44, 57 Samanids, 47 Sana’i, 3, 29 Sane’i, Ayatollah Yusuf, 103 Sassanids, 46, 47, 50 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 44 sayyeds, 132, 133, 134, 137

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234

SHI‘I ISLAM

Sazman-e Nasr, 134 schoolbooks, 3, 24–39 Sepah-e Pasdaran, 134 Shahnameh, 47 al-Shahristani, Muhamad ‘Ali, 96, 97, 100 Shari‘ati, ‘Ali, 41, 57, 74, 77 Sharifzadegan, Mohammad Hoseyn, 78 Shaw, Bernard, 71, 88 Shaygan, Daryush, 59 Shaykhis, 118 shaykhs, 132, 133, 134, 137, 145, 146, 149, 150, 158, 159, 160 al-Shirazi, Sadiq, 114, 123 shirk, 32 Shura-ye enqelabi-ye ettefaq-e islami-ye Afghanistan, 133 al-Sistani, Ali, 53, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109 Soldiers of Heaven, 118 Sorush, ‘Abdolkarim, 74, 77, 83 Soviet Union, 41, 58 sufi orders, 145, 146, 149, 150, 154, 158, 160, 162, 163, 175 Supreme Council for the Islamic Revolution in Iraq (SCIRI), 115 symbolic power, 25 symbolic interactionism, 40 Tabataba’i, Javad, 53, 57, 59 Tabataba’i, Sadeq, 69, 74 Tabligh Jama‘at, 146 Tahtacıs, 212 Taliban, 1, 136 Tamkharit, 6, 145, 150–154, 155, 156, 161, 163, 168, 169 taqlīd, 85, 106 Tarikh-e mo‘asser-e Iran, 33, 34 tekkes, 171, 181, 188, 189, 190, 194, 205, 216 Tijaniyya, 145 Tirana, 188, 190 Tohidi, Nayereh, 49

Index.indd 234

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Tudeh party, 69 urba,147

Turkmen, 49, 212 Turks, 51, 53, 69 Twelfth Imam, 16, 31, 118, 119, 123, 128 See also Hidden Imam Umayyads, 6, 50, 144, 147, 150, 151, 153 Union of Islamic Students Associations, 4, 64 see also Ettehadiyeh USA, 15, 19, 35, 40, 41, 53, 54, 55, 56, 58, 68, 96, 121, 148, 190 Usulis, 116 velāyat, 35, 102 velāyat-e faqīh, 13, 17, 36, 64, 77, 79, 82, 83, 102, 129, 167 Wade, Abdoulaye, 149, wahhabiyya, 146 wakīl (plural, wukalā‘), 95, 96, 97, 99, 101, 107 weststruckness, 72 Wolof, 145, 151, 155, 158, 159, 160, 162, 163, 169 Yan Izala, 146 al-Yaqubi, Muhammad, 116, 122 Yazdi, Ibrahim, 68, 69 Yazid, 6, 34, 71, 129, 144, 147, 150, 151, 154, 168 Yom Kippur, 153, 168 zamzam, 161 Zahedi, General, 58 al-Zahra School for Girls, 100 al-Zayn, ‘Abdul Mun’am, 148, 149, 158, 160 Zoroastrianism, 31

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