The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan 9781626372436

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan Bosmat Yefet

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

Published in the United States of America in 2015 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2015 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A Cataloging-in-Publication record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN 978-1-62637-190-3 (hc : alk. paper) British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library. Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5

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To my mother

Contents

Acknowledgments

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1

Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

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The Rise of Human Rights

17

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Limits on Political Criticism

79

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Charges of Apostasy

115

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Limits on the Rights of Religious Minorities

159

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Limits on Women’s Rights

201

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Human Rights Between State and Society

243 261 263 281 289

List of Acronyms Bibliography Index About the Book

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Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK THE PEOPLE WHO HELPED ME IN DIF-

ferent ways to write this book. I am greatly indebted to Elie Podeh at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and Luis Roniger at Wake Forest University and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, who have been inspiring, encouraging, and generous mentors. I cannot thank them enough for their guidance and support. This project would have been impossible without the support of the Harry S. Truman Research Institute for the Advancement of Peace, the Leonard Davis Institute of International Relations, and the Minerva Center for Human Rights, all at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, whose grants enabled me to dedicate myself to the research involved. I also wish to thank the Middle East Research Center and its director, Alexander Bligh, for financial support and, more important, for providing me with an academic home. I would like to express my most heartfelt gratitude to Lynne Rienner for trusting me and my project. Her expertise, personal advice, and encouragement helped me to get through the most difficult times. Special thanks to my translator and editor, Yoav Cohen, for his professional advice and assistance in polishing the manuscript. I thank my children, Ohad, Yuval, and Itay, for being so loving and patient, even when I was busy working far too much. Last but not least, I thank my mother, Mazal Yefet, for encouraging me to pursue my interest in the history and politics of the Middle East. This book is dedicated to her with abundant love and thankfulness. —Bosmat Yefet

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1 Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

DECADES OF PERSISTENT AUTHORITARIAN GOVERNMENT IN THE

Arab world have contributed to the prevailing notion that human rights in this region are to a certain degree irrelevant. In 2011 this notion was shattered by the Arab Spring—a series of uprisings that toppled longtime dictators in Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and Yemen, generated mass protests, and affected almost every regime in the region. The dramatic events of the Arab Spring are far from ended and will continue to be the focus of scholarly debate due to their significant implications for the Arab world.1 Nevertheless, it is clear already that the Arab world is parting ways with decades of political stagnation, and that a revolution is occurring in the consciousness and imagination of its citizens, who have stopped fearing repressive regimes and begun calling for the removal of those who were hitherto considered all-powerful leaders. These events express the repudiation of the existing political culture and order, and they reflect a desire to change the prevailing nature of relations between rulers and ruled. This eruption of popular protest has moved human rights to the fore of contemporary Arab politics and has turned them into a powerful political slogan. Citizens’ demands for freedom, dignity, and social justice have proven that human rights are an inseparable part of the political debate in the region and that they have acquired legitimacy that transcends narrow elites or human rights advocates. One of the premises of this book is that these demands are not a new phenomenon and that they did not appear overnight. The various protests, which reflected resentment over political repression and social inequality, reaped the fruits of a varied struggle for reform and expansion

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

of freedom, including long-standing efforts by human rights advocates and other forces, efforts that have been ongoing since the mid-1980s and that peaked in the first decade of the twenty-first century and created the force that has been feeding and propelling the protests along.2 Throughout these years, the rights claims were not framed as an abstract intellectual debate, but rather were the basis for concrete demands regarding all aspects of life: from demands concerning women’s rights, such as the right to divorce without cause, to the struggle for political and economic rights. The language of human rights did not remain the sole preserve of human rights advocates and interested intellectuals, but became capital for a variety of elements in the political and social arena, including the Islamists. Identifying the potential of human rights as a means for criticizing the government, the various forces learned to use the language of human rights as a powerful tool in their demands for reform. Human rights became an instrument used to express the need and desire on the part of a variety of social forces to reconstruct political and social institutions as well as collective identity. This is not to say that this was a homogeneous phenomenon. The groups that promoted human rights at the local level were multifaceted, and their understanding and interpretation of human rights was diverse and full of contradictions. The fact that human rights became more readily accepted does not indicate that they were indigenized or that they had become a basis for mass political mobilization, nor does it reflect moral support by wide parts of society. Just as important, it did not prevent the existence of rights claims that did not lead to effective, real change in the extent of rights. The events of the Arab Spring, and especially the continuing instability and the extreme violence in states that have experienced regime change, such as Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen, and Libya, have exposed the limitations of the propagation and internalization of norms supporting human rights in the local arenas, and exposed the complexity of this process. As of 2015, four years after the beginning of the Arab Spring, it appears that the toppling of repressive regimes has not led to tangible change. Elimination of repressive political, economic, or social structures of power—or at least meaningful reform—has not taken place. In many instances the new political arrangements neither created the spaces necessary for more inclusive politics, nor were responsive to the aspirations of the masses. In the worst cases the Arab Spring has led to opposite results, such as chaos and anarchy in the prolonged and brutal civil war in Syria and the disintegration of the state in Libya.

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The outcomes of the uprisings clearly were not the results the liberals were aiming for, as their concepts of freedom and justice and their priorities regarding change have been at odds with their many partners in the revolution. Particularly notable is the gap between the secular forces and the Islamists, the latter of whom offer the populace a narrative well-known to them: a demand for a more just and fair order based on the values of Islam. Despite the momentum of the Arab Spring, it is increasingly clear that the attainment of a wide-ranging agreement in society regarding liberties is a process that has only just begun. Establishing an environment that respects human rights is not a onetime dramatic event, but a series of gradual developments involving the creation of partnerships between opposing forces and social arrangements. In the chapters that follow, I explore the politics of human rights under authoritarian rule by focusing on three broad questions. First, how were human rights concepts and institutions produced and incorporated into the political and social dynamic under authoritarian rule? Second, how have human rights shaped and affected debates and actions? Third, what were the challenges for the propagation and implementation of human rights norms in the local arena and why was the impact of human rights claims on the authoritarian status quo so limited? The Arab world is not a monolithic unit defined by singular identities and ideologies or by similar political, economic, and social structures. While it is possible to point to a similar pattern of human rights violations or to communal human rights concepts based upon common characteristics rooted in shared cultural and religious values, the content and practical aspects of rights claims are determined by unique historical and political contexts and by an array of structural conditions unique to each country. To develop a deeper understanding of the human rights dynamic, we must address the complex multiplicity of factors that affect human rights and shape the debate regarding them, such as the specific ways in which the political, economic, and social structure of a society is organized. A comparative examination of states will contribute to an understanding of the factors that shape human rights debates and actions and of the specific factors that inhibit the realization of their inherent potential. Thus I concentrate on a comparative examination of the politics of human rights in Egypt and Jordan since the 1990s. Egypt and Jordan are examples of what Daniel Brumberg calls “liberalized autocracies.”3 Similar to other states in the Arab world, they also went through political and economic liberalization processes that led, among other things,

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to the expansion of freedom of expression and organization. However, in both cases, these processes were controlled—they did not lead to an opening of the system and even included periods of retreat in which these states moved frequently between processes of limited liberalization and de-liberalization. In both cases the liberalization measures and the expansion of freedom of expression, along with the continued systematic repression of other political and social rights, released public and personal energies that turned human rights into a frame of reference for the local communities and created a potential space for empowering the repressed populations. These developments at the local level, alongside increasing international interest in human rights, served as a motivating and formative factor of practical human rights activities. These activities, which were at the margins of the public space, turned human rights into a dominant language in the years from 1990 to 2010—a language that was appropriated both by the governments and by different factions of the opposition, each for their own purposes. In both Egypt and Jordan the rise in the status of human rights ideas was not necessarily due to changes in the legal conception on the part of the state and society, or to the consecration of the language of individualism. In both cases, human rights became an instrument used to express the need and desire on the part of a variety of social forces to reconstruct political and social institutions as well as the collective identity. However, although similar characteristics can be identified in the two states, there are differences in the nature, scope, and intensity of the human rights debate and its potential and ability to foster change. The explanation for these differences can be found in the unique political and social structures of each country and in the various constellations that compose the power relations within them. The type of regime— bureaucratic authoritarianism in Egypt and monarchial authoritarianism in Jordan—is of great importance to the different patterns of regimesociety relations. The different attitude of the regimes toward civil society organizations and the manner in which they managed their supporting coalitions in order to ensure their survival generated different types of opposition and civil society activism and different degrees of politicized mobilization, with a more politicized society in Egypt and a less mobilized one in Jordan. All these factors affected human rights debates and actions. Although claims for rights can be a product of political structures or a reflection of the power struggle between various forces operating in the local arena, the local definition of human rights and the demands

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raised in its framework are also an inseparable part of the ongoing process of defining the collective identity, whether modern or traditional, Islamic or secular. The debates in public spheres regarding social and political identity have a direct effect on the relevancy of human rights norms, their nature, and the intensity and fervor of the struggle for their implementation.4 The modern identity of these two states is undergoing a prolonged, formative process that oscillates continuously between East and West. Nevertheless, there are significant differences between Egypt and Jordan, differences that have an impact on the characteristics of the human rights debates and action. The question of identity in Egyptian culture was one of the most prominent social and political rifts.5 The struggle over cultural-national identity has political implications that were exploited by all those who were and still are striving to establish their own conceptions regarding the state’s authentic national identity. Contrary to this, the Jordanian state exhibited a great degree of “authoritarian pluralism,” which was manifested in the simultaneous expression of different ideologies that were affiliated with different sectors of the state, while the regime positioned itself as the uniting point of the various configurations of identity.6 I argue that this ideological pluralism, which was manifest in the regime’s constant attempts to create a synthesis between different approaches and factions and in its attempts to present itself as a unifying force that brings together multiple communities and identities, diminished the intensity of the struggle for national identity in Jordan and perforce was one of the factors responsible for the less intense human rights activism in that country, compared to Egypt. My research provides a systematic, comparative study of the emergence of human rights in these two states and their integration in debates, discussions, and actions. By comparatively analyzing concrete struggles for human rights in several areas, ranging from free speech to women’s rights, I identify a series of factors that were key in shaping variations in the domain of human rights. Since the 1990s the research community has invested great effort in studying the human rights situation in the Middle East and in documenting the failure of governments to adapt themselves to international standards of human rights.7 My goal here is to enrich existing research by examining the developing human rights debate while referring to reciprocal relations among all the forces participating in the construction of the debate, whether from the establishment or the opposition. I examine and compare the approach to human rights taken by the different forces

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

operating in the political arena while emphasizing three of them in particular: governments, Islamists, and secular human rights activists. Dealing with these forces exposes different normative, ideological, and political approaches to human rights. Each one of them questions opposing views on the grounds that these views stem from a system of specific interests that contradict either the idea of human rights or the interests and culture of the state and society. The attitude of these forces regarding human rights, which reflects the cultural diversity of the local debate, is complicated and in a state of constant construction. Nevertheless, their functioning does exhibit some degree of fundamental uniformity, thus allowing this methodological classification. Although I consider the effects of ideas and attitudes on rights, my primary concern is with local interpretations of human rights, which developed from concrete social and political struggles. Analyzing the interaction between emerging interpretations of demands of those obstructing that implementation helps to explain the weakness of human rights demands as a source of political social change. The state is responsible for and plays a primary role in the condition of human rights on two levels: normative and empirical. In this book I consider formal policy and also the ability to repress demands for human rights through violent and nonviolent means. Over time, the governments of both Egypt and Jordan increased their engagement with claims for human rights. The regimes understood that human rights had turned into a source of legitimacy in the domestic arena and that reports of human rights violations were eroding their internal authority and especially harming their international prestige. For this reason, both governments took care to express their commitment to human rights, seeking to control the human rights debate, to determine its characteristics and limits. In considering the contradictions between rhetoric and deeds and the mechanisms and strategies with which the governments managed to limit human rights, I focus on two questions: What strategies did these governments utilize to restrict the debate on human rights or to control it? And what can explain the governments’ ability to limit human rights without resorting to mechanisms of legal or violent oppression? But the answers to these questions can provide only a partial explanation. Therefore, my approach goes beyond the traditional focus on the state. Without underestimating the centrality of the state’s obligations regarding human rights, I contend that the state is not the only actor that challenged or limited human rights, nor the dominant actor that shaped them. The strategies utilized by the regimes cannot be analyzed in isolation from society’s reaction to them. Moreover, I argue that major

Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

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challenges to human rights arise from society itself. The limitations of human rights as an emancipatory force can be traced to society itself and even to those elements at its forefront—the human rights activists and liberal forces. This analysis attempts to broaden the scope of explanations dealing with the relationship between state and society. It aims to expose the points of dissension between state and society and within society itself regarding the essential definition of liberties, and to identify additional reasons for the ability of regimes to maintain their authoritative control, to neutralize demands for change, and to maintain consent with and within society regarding the limitations on human rights. In societies experiencing repression, human rights activists and liberal forces usually play a significant role in the promotion of human rights as part of a broader protest cycle that concerns the nature of authority.8 Human rights nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) began to emerge in Egypt in the 1980s and in Jordan in the 1990s due to a combination of several factors, among them international financial and moral support, and the processes of controlled liberalization that took place in both states. During the late 1990s, human rights activists and NGOs turned into an active and prominent force that raised human rights on the local agenda, as they focused their efforts on the state and demanded positive measures toward the realization of rights. Because they were an indigenous force, activists offered a significant challenge to states and contested the state’s control of political institutions. Human rights activists also challenged the existing power structure by providing an alternative system of norms and values. Human rights activists and NGOs encountered many obstacles, reflected in their inability to create a qualitative change in the human rights situation. The analysis of both their effectiveness and their limitations in the process of translating human rights ideas from the global arena to the local arena is interwoven throughout this book and predicated upon an understanding of their strategic choices, the various tactics they adopted, and their interaction with the government and the society in which they operated. I argue that the difficulties that human rights activists encountered in their attempt to extend the social and cultural legitimacy of human rights were related to their political and social environment, but also originated with the human rights movement itself, in its strategic choices and actions. While dealing with the activities of human rights activists and their ability to challenge the power structure, one question in particular

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

requires attention: How have they pursued their goals and what were the factors shaping and influencing their choices and agenda? Human rights did not remain the sole preserve of human rights activists. Human rights became part of the discussions conducted by other forces. A variety of voices presenting alternative interpretations continued to exist in the public space, ranging from Islamist forces to establishment elements. In this book I emphasize the positions and actions of Islamists. Islamist groups are not “political” groups in the narrow sense of the term, and they may exert moral authority (derived from Islamic tradition) to support a particular interpretation of human rights. The moral authority they command among the public ensures that their views are considered to reflect original, true Islamic values. However, it is not my aim to focus on theological aspects or Islamic law or to examine its compatibility with human rights norms. Many studies refer to Islam as a factor that hinders human rights, and many others set out to prove that the modern concepts of human rights have unique parallels in Islamic culture and religion.9 Both the rejection and the acceptance of specific human rights are analyzed in relation to Islam as an abstract concept. I prefer to consider respect or disregard for human rights as a political choice, or, as Abdullahi an-Na‘im puts it, as a product of either human agency or the believers themselves, rather than the result of some authentic cultural essence eternally embedded in Islam. 10 Islam is not a monolithic unit, and a uniform Islamic philosophy regarding human rights is not to be found. Different forces within this faction provide varying and contradicting interpretations of the same sources, which is a product of the particular characteristics of the political and social environment in which they operate and of their different strategic choices regarding how to deal with the reality in which they live.11 As Anthony Chase has noted, since human rights is not a religious, spiritual discourse but rather a legalistic-political one formulated in response to the power of the modern state, even human rights violations that are justified by Islamic interpretations should be understood through an examination of the context in which Islam itself was constructed and the manner in which it interacts with human rights and the public space.12 I examine the manner in which Islamists interact with the idea of human rights and, more practically, reveal their positions vis-à-vis concrete demands to expand human rights and how they were shaped by political and social factors. In the past, many Islamist currents, including those in Egypt and Jordan, challenged human rights, but the way they regard them changed.

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Many Islamist parties and movements integrated human rights into their platforms and declarations and began to express their demands and aspirations for the future in human rights language. Similar to the dynamic of other political forces, some Islamists identified the normative appeal of human rights and their potential to challenge domestic authoritarian regimes. In discussing Islamist actors here, I focus on two questions: What factors shaped their changing attitude to human rights? And what was the impact of this change on the debate and actions for human rights? Human rights are not just a product of the dialogue between local forces; they are also a product of a multifaceted dialogue connected to global elements. Human rights have become an issue that transcends traditional political boundaries. The domestic definition and implementation of human rights also depends on the interaction between the local and the global and cannot be detached from regional, international, and transnational effects. Egypt and Jordan are part of the global village, which is characterized by diverse connections and networks intensified by new communication technologies. The interaction of the two states with other groups of states, international nonstate actors, and transnational networks increases attention to human rights issues and impacts the ways in which human rights become embedded within local debates. This dialogue is not only a product of the political and economic dependence of these states on Western states and bodies, such as the World Bank, or of the dependence on external donors of civil society elements working to promote human rights, but is also a product of the flow of ideas across boundaries. Therefore, the human rights debate should be analyzed considering the extent of the influence of global elements on local debates and actions, especially since it was a focal point of many of the concrete cases discussed in this book. However, it is important to realize that relationships between the local and the global are reciprocal. Thus, although these connections contribute to the awareness and penetration of human rights ideas and norms, they also provoke conflict and sometimes undermine the potential of human rights to become an emancipatory force. Throughout the book, the extent of the influence of these global elements on the human rights debates and actions is examined: How was the global spread of human rights articulated through specific local processes, dilemmas, and crises that shaped the agenda in Egypt and Jordan? How do transnational ideas become meaningful in local social settings?

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

Of utmost significance in this context is the perceived link between the idea of human rights and the West, which has had a crucial impact on the structuring of human rights in the local arenas. Indeed, in Egypt and Jordan, as in many other postcolonial societies, the struggle between antimodernist, patriarchal forces and modern critical forces over the definition of the scope of human rights has been obscured and confused with identity politics and anti-imperialist struggles, or as alBaqir al-‘Afif puts it, with the struggle for the “cultural dignity” of the Arab and Muslim world.13 This antagonism toward the human rights agenda is in part a product of the perception among various local forces that identifies the very idea of universality of human rights as a Western one. The debate over the universality or cultural relativism of human rights is a long-standing issue that is widely reflected in the Arab-Islamic context, emerging mainly in response to the view that considers Islam an obstacle to the realization of universal human rights.14 However, I move beyond this problematic, universal-particular binary,15 due to the recognition that the appeal of human rights in Egypt and Jordan, as in other societies, lies in their promise to end domination and oppression.16 This is not to argue that local forces in Egypt and Jordan do not refer to tensions between the particular and the universal when dealing with human rights. On the contrary, these tensions are an integral part of local discussions. None of the local forces exist in a vacuum separate from the global flow of ideas. Nevertheless, treatment of local debates refrains from engaging the issue of the universality of human rights and to what extent the values included in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) represent part of Arab-Muslim civilization. One of my main concerns is how various forces in Egypt and Jordan understand and interpret human rights and deal with tensions between the universal nature of human rights and local perceptions and conditions.

Organization of the Book In Chapter 2, I examine the rise of human rights in the Arab world in general and in Egypt and Jordan in particular, and the process that led to the institutionalization of human rights. My intent is not to present a definitive history of human rights in Egypt and Jordan, but rather to show how the language of human rights became the language of resistance, and why various local forces incorporated human rights into their agenda.

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In Chapter 3, I address freedom of expression, by examining two of the most prominent cases of such violations of that freedom: the Egyptian trial prosecuting sociologist Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim and the Jordanian trial prosecuting former member of parliament Tujan al-Faisal. Both defendants were well known in the political and social arena and were recognized for their human rights work. Similar charges were raised against the two, primarily defamation of state institutions and disseminating false information abroad that is harmful to the state’s reputation and prestige. In comparing these two cases, I point to some of the factors that contributed to the consolidation of clear and determined demands for rights, as well as those that weakened and limited the domestic human rights networks. The issue of freedom of expression is further discussed in Chapter 4, which deals with the charges of apostasy raised against intellectuals, writers, and journalists who expressed positions considered contrary to orthodox religious interpretations. I establish the argument that the state is not the sole factor or even the dominant one in determining the limits of human rights. Rather, numerous obstacles standing in the way of freedom of expression also emanate from society and local definitions of rights. A comparative examination of the apostasy debate exposes the differences in the extent, intensity, and impact of the discussion regarding freedom of expression in religious matters in Egypt and Jordan. The explanation of these differences will be found, as in the other case studies, in unique local contexts. Chapter 5 attends to the status and rights of religious minorities. In both Egypt and Jordan, this is a politically sensitive issue. But while Egypt has experienced violent sectarian conflict between Muslims and Copts—now one of its most pressing problems—sectarian conflict and open discussion of minority rights have not been a part of the Jordanian experience. Thus, my main focus in this chapter is on the violent sectarian conflict under Hosni Mubarak’s authoritarian rule and the dynamic debate concerning the status of the Coptic minority. Chapter 6 discusses the rights of women. This chapter analyzes and compares the efforts exerted in Egypt and Jordan to change personal status laws, which are based on Islamic law and place women in an inferior position compared to men in the marital relationship and in the family. As in other Arab states, the governments in Egypt and Jordan recognized the urgent need to address gender equality and women’s rights as means to foster human development. In both cases, governments cooperated with women’s organizations to reform personal status laws by relying on enlightened interpretations of Islamic law. However, while these efforts

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led to relative success in Egypt, they led to failure in Jordan. By comparing these two cases, it is possible to identify some of the sources that contributed to the amendment of the personal status law in Egypt, as well as those that weakened, limited, and impeded it in Jordan. Chapter 7 offers an integrative analysis of the concrete case studies, while highlighting the main factors that limited the propagation and implementation of human rights norms. It also assesses the challenges facing the forces struggling to expand liberties, and the implications of these challenges for the post–Arab Spring era.

Notes 1. See, for example, Bahgat Korany and Rabab Mahdi (eds.), The Arab Spring in Egypt: Revolution and Beyond (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2012); Dan Tschirgi et al. (eds.), Egypt’s Tahrir Revolution (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2013); Lin Noueihed and Alex Warren, The Battle for the Arab Spring: Revolution, Counter-Revolution, and the Making of a New Era (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013). 2. The protest movements that have emerged in Egypt since the first decade of the twenty-first century are a clear manifestation of this claim. The prodemocracy protests expressed in the activities of the Egyptian Movement for Change, better known as Kifaya, are of importance. Similar importance should be attributed to the thousands of demonstrations and worker strikes, which started in the big textile factories in Mahalla al-Kubra and spread to all public and private sectors. See Joel Beinin, Justice for All: The Struggle for Workers Rights in Egypt (Washington, DC: Solidarity Center, 2010); Michaelle Browers, “The Egyptian Movement for Change: Intellectual Antecedents and Generational Conflicts,” Contemporary Islam 1 (2007): 69–88; Manar Shorbagy, “Understanding Kefaya: The New Politics in Egypt,” Arab Studies Quarterly 29:1 (Winter 2007): 39–60. For a discussion of the proreform and prodemocracy activism in Jordanian politics, see Curtis Ryan, “Political Activism and Reform: Coalition in Jordan,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 38:3 (December 2011): 367–390. See also discussion of the roots of popular mobilization and regime overthrow in Rex Brynen et al. (eds.), Beyond the Arab Spring: Authoritarianism and Democratization in the Arab World (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2013). For a general discussion of the roots of the uprisings, see Marc Lynch, The Arab Uprising: The Unfinished Revolutions of the New Middle East (New York: PublicAffairs, 2012). 3. Daniel Brumberg, Democratization Versus Liberalization in the Arab World: Dilemmas and Challenges for U.S. Foreign Policy (Carlisle, PA: Strategic Studies Institute, US Army War College, 2005), pp. 4–5. Jordan was regarded as a “hybrid” regime, with both authoritarian features and some level of liberalization. See Curtis R. Ryan and Jillian Schwedler, “Return to Democratization or New Hybrid Regime? The 2003 Election in Jordan,” Middle East Policy 11:2 (Summer 2004): 138–151.

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4. For a discussion of the local definition of human rights and the construction of identity, see, for example, Richard A. Wilson, “Human Rights: Culture and Context—An Introduction,” in Richard A. Wilson (ed.), Human Rights: Culture and Context—Anthropological Perspectives (London: Pluto, 1996), pp. 1–27; Thomas Risse and Kathryn Sikkink, “The Socialization of International Human Rights Norms Into Domestic Practice: Introduction,” in Thomas Risse, Stephen C. Ropp, and Kathryn Sikkink (eds.), The Power of Human Rights: International Norms and Domestic Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 9. 5. Ami Ayalon, Egypt’s Quest for Cultural Orientation (Tel Aviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1999); Meir Hatina, Identity Politics in the Middle East: Liberal Thought and Islamic Challenge in Egypt (London: Tauris, 2007). 6. Mansoor Moaddel, “Religion and the State: The Singularity of the Jordanian Religious Experience,” International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 15:4 (Summer 2002): 559–560. Curtis Ryan, who discusses the main ethnic and national fault lines within Jordanian politics, notes that opposition activists often argue that the regime engages in an agenda of permanent conflict resolution with the regime as facilitator, meaning that “divide and rule” strategies remain part of the state’s tactics and strategies. See Curtis R. Ryan, “Identity Politics, Reform, and Protest in Jordan,” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 11:3 (December 2011): 568–569. 7. See, especially, Abdullahi an-Na’im, Toward an Islamic Reformation: Civil Liberties, Human Rights, and International Law (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1990); Ann Elizabeth Mayer, Islam and Human Rights: Tradition and Politics, 3rd ed. (Boulder: Westview, 1999); Mashood A. Baderin, International Human Rights and Islamic Law (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); Ahmad S. Moussalli, The Islamic Quest for Democracy, Pluralism, and Human Rights (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2001); Reza Afshari, “An Essay on Islamic Cultural Relativism in the Discourse of Human Rights,” Human Rights Quarterly 16 (1994): 235–276; Bassam Tibi, “Islamic Law/ Shari‘a, Human Rights Universal Morality, and International Relations,” Human Rights Quarterly 16:2 (1994): 277–299; Jason Morgan-Foster, “Third Generation Rights: What Islamic Law Can Teach the International Human Rights Movement,” Yale Human Rights & Development Law Journal 8 (2004): 67–116; Adel M. Abdellatif, “Human Rights in the Arab Mediterranean Countries: Intellectual Discourse, Socio-Economic Background, and Legal Instruments,” Mediterranean Politics 9:3 (Autumn 2004): 319–343; Susan E. Waltz, Human Rights and Reform: Changing the Face of North African Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995); Katerina Dalacoura, Islam, Liberalism, & Human Rights: Implications for International Relations (London: Tauris, 1998); Kevin Dwyer, Arab Voices: The Human Rights Debate in the Middle East (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991); Abdullahi anNa’im, “Human Rights in the Arab World: A Regional Perspective,” Human Rights Quarterly 23 (2001): 701–732; David M. Medincoff, “Think Locally, Act Globally? Cultural Framing and Human Rights Movement in Tunisia and Morocco,” International Journal of Human Rights 7:3 (Autumn 2003): 72–102; Jill Crystal, “The Human Rights Movement in the Arab World,” Human Rights

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Quarterly 16 (1994): 435–454; Ibrahim Awad, “The External Relations of the Arab Human Rights Movement,” Arab Studies Quarterly 19:1 (1997): 59–76; Mustapha Kamal al-Sayyid, “Theoretical Issues in the Arab Human Rights Movement,” Arab Studies Quarterly 19:1 (Winter 1997): 23–31; Salma K. Jayyusi (ed.), Human Rights in Arab Thought: A Reader (London: Tauris, 2009); Anthony Chase and Amr Hamzawy (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006); Anthony Tirado Chase, Human Rights, Revolution, and Reform (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2012). 8. See, for example, David P. Forsythe, Human Rights in International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 240–316. 9. See, for example, Baderin, International Human Rights and Islamic Law; Ibrahim Abdulla Al-Marzouqi, Human Rights in Islamic Law (Abu Dhabi, 2000); Recep Senturk, “Sociology of Rights: ‘I Am, Therefore I Have Rights’: Human Rights in Islam Between Universalistic and Communalistic Perspectives,” Muslim World Journal and Human Rights 2:1 (2005): 1–30. 10. Abdullahi an-Na‘im, “The Best of Times and the Worst of Times: Human Agency and Human Rights in Islamic Societies,” Muslim World Journal of Human Rights 1:1 (2002). 11. Fred Halliday, “Relativism and Universalism in Human Rights: The Case of Islamic Middle East,” Political Studies 43 (1995): 155, 159, 164. 12. Anthony Chase, “The Tail and the Dog: Constructing Islam and Human Rights in Political Context,” in Anthony Chase and Amr Hamzawy (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), pp. 21–22, 27. 13. al-Baqir al-‘Afif, “al-‘Alamiyya wa’l-khususiyya: khitab huquq alinsan wa’l-thaqafa al-‘Arabiyya” (Universalism and particularism: The discourse of human rights and Arab culture), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), al‘Arab bayna qam‘ al-dakhil . . . wa-zulm al-kharij (The Arabs between internal repression and external oppression) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2000), p. 61; see also Wilson, “Human Rights: Culture and Context,” p. 15. For a discussion of the link between the slow speed of human rights ideas to a defensive construction of Arab-Islamic identity, see Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “Da‘wat huquq al-insan fi-siaq al-hala al-thaqafiyya al-rahina lil-watan al-‘Arabi” (The cause of human rights in the present cultural context), Rawaq al-‘Arabi 6 (April 1997): 48–59; see also ‘Abd al-Majid al-Sharfi, “Ishkaliyat thaqafat huquq al-insan fi’l-‘alam al-‘Arabi: al-mu‘awwiqat wa-subul altatwir,” al-Risala 6 (June 2006): 15. 14. See, for example, Tibi, “Islamic Law/Shari‘a, Human Rights, Universal Morality, and International Relations”; Afshari, “An Essay on Islamic Cultural Relativism in the Discourse of Human Rights”; Sami Zubaida, “Human Rights and Cultural Difference: Middle Eastern Perspectives,” New Perspectives on Turkey 10 (Spring 1994): 1–12; Halliday, “Relativism and Universalism in Human Rights”; Morgan-Foster, “Third Generation Rights”; Abdullahi anNa‘im, “‘Area Expressions’ and the Universality of Human Rights: Mediating a Contingent Relationship,” in David P. Forsythe and Patrica C. McMahon (eds.), Human Rights and Diversity: Area Studies Revisited (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2003); al-‘Afif, “al-‘Alamiyya wa’l-khususiyya,” pp. 61–68.

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15. Both approaches in their absolute form are problematic. Strong universalism ignores the fact that human rights do not entail cultural homogeneity and that they are consistent with diversity and pluralism in practice. See Jack Donnelly, “The Relative Universality of Human Rights,” Human Rights Quarterly 29 (May 2007): 298–301. The relativist approach ignores the diverse social and cultural formations in the Arab world and their internal dynamics, which are relevant to human rights. It also ignores the dynamic of the human rights regime supported by multiple groundings—legal, political, normative, and institutional—which changes and constantly reacts to local definitions and claims for human rights; see Chase, Human Rights, Revolution, and Reform, chaps. 6–7. 16. Michael Goodhart, “Neither Relative nor Universal: A Response to Donnelly,” Human Rights Quarterly 30 (2008): 191. See also Chase, Human Rights, Revolution, and Reform, pp. 105–111.

2 The Rise of Human Rights

WORLD WAR II CONSTITUTED A DEFINING MOMENT IN THE

world’s attitude toward human rights as an issue in international relations. The 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights expressed the view that the manner in which states treat citizens is not only a legitimate matter of discussion at the international level, but also an issue of international standards.1 The development and consolidation of the concept of human rights in the following years, through conventions, agreements, and international protocols, and even through integration of human rights in local legislation, created a potential space for empowering repressed populations and demanding that their rights be respected. And indeed, this concept turned into an important political tool, used by social movements and NGOs to promote their goals, but also by leaders who did not guarantee the human rights of their citizens but rather expressed a rhetorical commitment to this idea as part of establishing the legitimacy of their rule. However, the process of normative change, especially in regard to the implementation of human rights, is a complex phenomenon. In broad areas of the world, the framework of human rights has not managed to become the foundation of a structural and normative alternative to autocratic politics. The global emergence of human rights did not have any significant immediate effects in the Arab world. The lack of regard of human rights was manifest in the charter of 1945 Arab League. Except for a reference to the Palestinian people’s collective rights and right of self-determination, no mention whatsoever was made of human rights.2 The character and definition of the league as a union of sovereign countries and the reigning concept that problems related to human rights are internal problems,

17

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

which the states must deal with according to their own laws and constitutions, were significant factors in avoiding the subject altogether. Moreover, the Arab League was engaged in problems that it considered to be more essential, namely liberation from colonialism. As the league struggled to establish the right of nations to self-determination, the rights of nations preceded the rights of the individual, a phenomenon that continued into the 1960s as well.3 The priority given to the right of national self-determination was a product of the concept of freedom that had already crystallized into a major issue in the colonial period. Since the imperial regimes granted freedom but rejected independence, it was natural that the anti-imperial struggle focused on independence. Meanwhile the concepts of freedom (huriyya) and liberation (tahrir) were emptied of the liberal, individualistic content that attracted the attention of Muslims in the nineteenth century. For most of those using the word “liberty,” it was not individual but collective liberty, and it had a political meaning—liberty as equal to independence and self-dependency.4 Susan Waltz, who studied the role of Arab states in the formation of the UDHR, asserts that they enthusiastically supported the principle of self-determination and were united in their condemnation of human rights violations by European colonialism, while condemning the hypocrisy of European governments who spoke in the name of human rights, which they did not grant to the populations in their colonies.5 Later developments strengthened this trend. In postindependence political thought, the centrality of the nation-state in traditional or political projects was sanctified as a means to guarantee political stability, to the point that the use of violence by the state went unquestioned.6 External elements also contributed to the disregard of human rights. The Cold War, which turned the concept of human rights into a weapon in ideological struggles between West and East, left the activities of the United Nations in the declarative stage, so that the issue of implementing norms of human rights remained an entirely national affair. Repression of political and civil rights in the Arab world in the 1950s and 1960s went without any significant mention in the international arena. Despite structural differences, all Arab regimes, struggling as they were to define their scope of activities in the postcolonial world, avoided addressing global developments in the field of human rights. This observation is valid regarding both monarchies and republics. Arab regimes preferred to emphasize the importance of development and economic rights, rather than political and civil rights. States extolled the collective needs of the nation, the full independence and total liberation

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19

from colonial control and any type of Western imperialism. Furthermore, regimes positioned themselves as guardians of the nation’s values and morals. The basic parameters of the policymakers involved protecting the needs of the nation, which required national unity. In this context, the subordination of individual rights to collective and national interests and goals was the reigning logic. In Jordan, as in other Arab monarchies, the ruler based his patriarchal legitimacy on tribalism and Islam.7 Jordan lacks historical tradition, so the ruling family relied on myths based on the reinterpretation of history, mainly on religious claims that related the ruler to the family of the Prophet Muhammad and therefore, inevitably and directly, to the will of God.8 The government ignored the ongoing international process of redefinition of human rights on the basis of its commitment to tribal and Islamic values and especially the interpretations of religion, which placed the rights of the collective over those of the individual. A different pattern was found in secular republics such as Egypt, which experienced social ruptures and revolutions in the 1950s and the 1960s. In these cases, military coups led to the establishment of regimes based on political ideologies, especially Arab nationalism and socialism as a source of legitimacy. Revolutionary regimes made extensive political, social, and economic changes, creating the conditions to guarantee to individuals in society the realization of their political and civil rights, on the basis of social and economic security. The Nasserite revolutionary vision of “social democracy” made a distinction between social freedom (al-huriyya al-ijtima‘iyya) and personal and political freedoms (al-huriyya al-siyasiyya). In this context, political rights were sacrificed on the altar of economic and social rights, a trend that consolidated in the 1962 national charter.9 However, the Nasserite revolutionary vision existed in the context of the Cold War and the third world, far away from the climate and influence of international human rights debates. Even if the Nasserite doctrine leaned toward social and economic rights, human rights were not part of its political, socialist, or national agenda.10 Similar to other revolutionary regimes, elites in Egypt placed the liberation of the nation over individual liberties, Arab unity over the protection of Arab human rights, and the power of the state over the protection of civil society from the state’s arbitrariness. The regime established its legitimacy from the outset on an explicit or implicit alliance between itself and the peoples it ruled. This social contract included the regime’s commitment to goals such as development, social justice, Arab unity, liberation of Palestine, cultural revival, democracy,

20

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

and so on—goals that could not be achieved immediately due to the external threats of neoimperialism and Zionism. Therefore the goals whose realization was deferred were democracy and political liberties. The majority of the population made peace with this trade-off.11 The choice between democracy and a strong, large Arab country suited the “just despot” model that is rooted in Arab/Islamic politics and history.12 However, this initial popular acceptance persisted only as long as the regimes were perceived as being efficient and as achieving their goals. The crisis situation that characterized the Arab world at the end of the 1960s and beginning of the 1970s, and the dramatic policy failure of these regimes, led to a reexamination of the norms and rules that constructed the political arena. The validity of the trade-off between the regimes and the peoples was questioned and undermined. Israel’s 1967 defeat of the Arab states was perceived not only as a military rout but also as a defeat of the existing social and economic order. It moved Arab intellectuals and political elements to develop alternative visions to solve their problems.13 Arab intellectuals and political elements of the opposition returned to the ideas of their nineteenthcentury predecessors regarding the conscious adoption of science, liberty, and freedom of thought. These intellectuals viewed political and civil rights protections as a necessary condition for Arab revival (al-nahda). Human rights were thus conceived as a lever for national political action and a means to renew the national project and construct democracy.14

The Rise of Human Rights Organizations Human rights began to crystallize as a normative frame of reference with the establishment of a small number of human rights nongovernmental organizations in the 1970s.15 One of the prominent organizations was the Tunisian League of Human Rights, founded in 1977.16 A later stage in this development was the establishment of the Arab Organization of Human Rights (AOHR) in Cyprus in 1983.17 This organization emerged from a meeting of Arab intellectuals from different ideological factions who convened in order to discuss and protest the erosion of political and civil rights in the Arab world.18 Several years after the AOHR’s foundation, the Arab world witnessed the rise of several human rights NGOs. This phenomenon expanded in the 1990s, characterized by a new wave of interest in human rights in the world in general, and in the Arab world in particular. These human rights NGOs engaged in a variety of issues that led to

The Rise of Human Rights

21

the exposure of the human rights situation in the Arab world, a role that had been reserved, until then, for international nongovernmental organizations (INGOs). Most domestic NGOs dealt with the traditional activities of supervising and documenting human rights violations and providing legal assistance, with a minority dedicating themselves to research activities, education, and raising awareness of the values of human rights. Most human rights NGOs concentrated on political and civil rights until the 1990s, when organizations focusing on various economic and social rights began to emerge.19 Arab human rights NGOs also introduced regional initiatives in order to promote joint action. The first Arab convention on human rights, organized by the Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (CIHRS) and held in Casablanca in April 1999, was meant to examine the Arab human rights situation and clarify the goals and responsibilities of the movement. The convention adopted the Casablanca Declaration, which constituted a system of human rights principles, standards, and conceptions that was intended to frame future activities. This declaration expressed a commitment to international human rights standards and the promotion of democracy and the fostering of human rights values in Arab and Islamic culture.20 The human rights movement evolved into one of the most active forces for domestic reform and democracy. The movement established for itself an active, central part in these processes due to the relative weakness of political parties,21 but also due to its understanding that the creation of a strong human rights movement would not succeed unless it was a part of an effort to restore democratic political activity.22 The expansion of the human rights movement in the Arab world is related to changes in the realm of human rights at the international level. An important factor was the INGOs, which emerged in the 1970s. Transnational organizations such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, which act as international lobbies that expose human rights abuses, contributed to the formation of international norms regarding human rights and the development of the UDHR.23 The end of the Cold War, the decrease in tensions between West and East, and later the collapse of the Soviet Union also contributed to the rise of human rights to the top of the international agenda. In this period the international human rights regime moved from the declarative to the promotional stage through the growth of civil society, even in authoritarian states that did not allow opposition activity.24 Global and international developments in the role of the UN and the system of conventions provided a normative framework for Arab organizations.25

22

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

Nevertheless, the emergence of a favorable international context is not the only explanation for the rapid expansion of Arab human rights NGOs. Domestic liberalization in some Arab countries, including Egypt and Jordan, had an important role. Authoritarian regimes in many Arab states enacted a policy of political and economic liberalization beginning at the end of the 1980s. In light of economic crisis, parts of the ruling elite lost faith in their ability to continue to support authoritarianism in its existing form, and controlled political liberalization seemed to them the best means through which to stabilize the system, expand the popular support base, increase legitimacy at home and abroad, and prepare the ground for a larger division of responsibility for structural reform.26 The ruling elites adopted a survival strategy in order to reimpose their hegemony in a situation of economic deterioration, without engaging in far-reaching political reforms.27 Among Arab states, Egypt pioneered the liberalization process. Beginning at the end of the 1960s and continuing into the 1970s, demands for increased political participation gradually expanded. An actual, limited liberalization process began in the mid-1970s, during the reign of President Anwar Sadat.28 President Hosni Mubarak implemented a policy of gradual liberalization accompanied by economic privatization. These processes led to the emergence of a new type of NGO, one that aimed for political and social change. In light of the weakness of the parties and the trade unions, such organizations became an important avenue of political activism and an important part of the Egyptian political and social landscape.29 Similarly, Jordan’s liberalization process, which began at the end of the 1980s, created some new opportunities for the domestic human rights advocacy NGOs.30 This is not to argue that the emergence of human rights organizations was a top-down process, but that in both Egypt and Jordan, liberalization measures provided opportunities for the creation of NGOs and other social and political activities that were independent of the state, and that expressed varied social interests vis-à-vis the dominant political elites. Among other things, liberalization fostered the establishment and blossoming of organizations that promoted human rights and democratic values.31 Egyptian and Jordanian de-liberalization in the 1990s, as in other Arab countries, did not necessarily lead to a regression of human rights as a normative frame of reference and as a basis for organization.32 In a political environment that allowed citizens marginal expression but limited their political right to select their decisionmakers or influence national policies,33 human rights became a language of opposition that

The Rise of Human Rights

23

the regimes found difficult to suppress. The fact that the governments themselves expressed their commitment to the idea of human rights as part of the legitimization of their rule led to the development and expansion of domestic demand for human rights and to a rise in the number of related NGOs. As the language of human rights developed and gained traction in the public space, it became more difficult for governments to suppress it and they were forced to justify their policies and behavior with reference to this language and to demands for the expansion of rights. However, the fact that human rights became a frame of reference does not prove that they were indigenized, or that human rights became a basis for mass political mobilization reflecting popular moral support. Human Rights Organizations in Egypt The 1985 establishment of the Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR) marks the beginning of the rise of the human rights movement in Egypt. This organization emerged in the context of liberalization and de-liberalization processes in Egypt, which were accompanied by the deterioration of human rights and the continuing emergency situation, in place since 1981, which had positioned the security forces above the law and legitimized torture, illegal arrests, and killings. The main bloc of members of this organization, as well as that of other human rights organizations established in the early 1990s, consisted of political activists who previously belonged to opposition factions, together with activists in the student movement of the 1970s, mainly Marxists and Nasserites.34 The concept of human rights became a shelter for those forces, which, following the collapse of national and socialist ideologies, found themselves defenseless in the face of the rising Islamist factions.35 Human rights NGOs were not only a means to express alternative values, norms, and objectives, but also a forum wherein different actors could express and promote their political interests vis-à-vis repressive governments and the rising Islamist power. According to human rights activist Najad al-Bura‘i, human rights activists worked to realize their political aspirations through NGOs, and wished to place upon such organizations responsibilities and roles that their parties had failed to advance. Thus, the establishment of the EOHR and those NGOs that followed it was not necessarily a result of a belief in the idea and principles of human rights. It was a result of the sharp escalation in state repression and human rights violations, which moved many intellectuals

24

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

and political activists to abandon their original ideological reservations regarding human rights principles, due to their liberal, Western, source of authority. Many sectors in the EOHR did not understand the primary principles of human rights as manifest in international conventions and agreements, and sometimes their positions and tendencies contradicted these principles.36 The formation of domestic opposition coalitions around human rights arguments is not a rare occurrence. Thomas Risse and Kathryn Sikkink have already pointed out that some of the domestic NGOs that first recognized the international legitimacy of human rights did so because it was the easiest, most convenient way to criticize their government.37 The Arab world is no exception. The forces that adopted human rights as a means to achieve concrete political objectives could do so because the international human rights movement had embraced a language of rights that was open to interpretation by different political agendas.38 Domestic NGOs’ fluency in the new language enabled them to gain the support and protection of international organizations, foreign governments, and international NGOs that could pressure the Egyptian government. At first, the establishment of human rights organizations by political figures created a lack of distinction between NGOs and political parties, to the point that one could refer to a larger “topography of opposition.”39 This phenomenon, which was prominent in the EOHR, did indeed have positive implications, including the fact that the principles of human rights could more easily penetrate the political sphere, since the national and leftist factions still had much influence over the political sphere. However, there were also negative effects on the movement’s ability to spread the message of human rights. Many of the political elements that were expressed in human rights organizations belonged to ideological political forces, which for years had failed to adapt themselves to the ideals of human rights. The fact that human rights NGOs were perceived as being part of the opposition deterred many potential human rights supporters, those who did not identify with any of these political factions, from joining these organizations and even negatively affected their legitimacy.40 Despite this historical background of the Egyptian human rights movement, in the long term the confirmation of the importance of human rights by political activists assisted in the expansion of the human rights movement. 41 In the first decade of its existence, the human rights movement grew to include over ten organizations, many of which had established ties with the international human rights com-

The Rise of Human Rights

25

munity, which provided them with moral and material support. In the beginning, the NGOs focused on the traditional role of documenting human rights violations and tracking and discussing controversial issues such as police brutality; later, in the 1990s, new types of organizations emerged. Some newer organizations made legal mobilization their dominant strategy. Notable in this regard was the Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA), founded in 1994, which became one of the prominent organizations in Egypt. This change in strategy reflected the founders’ understanding that the only way to promote reform was through conducting continuous legal battles, which would challenge the constitutionality of government policy through the relatively independent legal system. Subsequently founded organizations also chose this pattern of action, including the Center for Egyptian Women’s Legal Assistance (founded in 1995) and the Land Center for Human Rights (founded in 1996), which provided free legal assistance to farmers harmed by the land reform law that came into effect in 1997.42 Until the mid-1990s, most human rights NGOs focused on political rights. For years, they were subject to criticism, especially from the left, for ignoring economic and social rights. As far as leftist organizations were concerned, ignoring economic and social rights testified to the human rights movement’s inability to define and formulate the demands for human rights in a manner that would conform to the unique priorities of the society in which they operated—a society suffering from the state’s failure to provide economic and social rights.43 The criticism expressed by the leftist organizations reflected a demand for a more comprehensive conception of rights that would include civil rights, meaning freedom from oppression, but also the liberation of the individual from all the factors that negate human dignity, such as disease, ignorance, and poverty. Leftists most strongly criticized the individualization of human rights, which corresponded to the concepts of rights and freedom in a liberal market economy, which therefore transferred responsibility from the state to the individual, voided economic and social human rights, and, instead of being a means to redistribute wealth and social security, indirectly encouraged inequality. The reasons for the choices and priorities of the human rights organizations are complex. In part, NGOs’ priorities originated in the moral and material links between the domestic NGOs and the international human rights movement. The UN and its various bodies, and even more so the INGOs, traditionally emphasized political and civil rights while disregarding social, economic, and cultural rights.44

26

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

Mustafa Kamal al-Sayyid rightly asserted that the tendency of human rights organizations to neglect social and economic rights was surprising and unnatural, considering the Marxist and national origins of many leaders in the movement.45 However, it must be remembered that the first generation of human rights activists experienced the collapse of the social contract between rulers and subjects. The social contract required a temporary relinquishment of political and civil liberties, but failed to realize objectives such as swift development, social justice, and Arab unity. Prioritization of political and civil rights was perceived by human rights activists as a course correction. Early human rights NGOs distanced themselves from reliance on the state and recoiled from the protection of economic and social rights—positive rights that required allocation of resources and action on the part of the state. In the view of human rights activist Bahy al-Din Hassan, the priority given to the right of national self-determination in the 1950s and 1960s harmed political and civil rights, which in turn led to a crisis of democracy in the Arab world, also causing the loss of real sovereignty and independence and limiting the development and implementation of social and economic rights. Therefore, engaging political and civil rights was an immediate need. In Hassan’s view, only a guarantee of political and civil rights would enable NGOs, workers’ unions, and other interest groups to organize and defend their rights.46 And indeed for years a good part of the legitimacy of human rights organizations was based on their special activity in the area of legal struggles against torture, for prisoners’ rights, for victims’ rehabilitation, for the right to a fair trial, and for the cancellation of the emergency laws. Human rights NGOs remained—a decade after their establishment—without roots and support among the local population, and limited to a small, educated elite, active in public affairs.47 Starting at the end of the 1990s, the Egyptian movement, due to economic deterioration in the country and the movement’s limited success in protecting political freedoms, began to shift toward more varied public activities. This activity was manifest at first in the establishment of organizations focusing on economic and social rights, such as the Egyptian Center for Housing Rights, the Land Center for Human Rights, the Egyptian Center for Children’s Rights, and the Habi Center for Environmental Rights.48 The change did not occur only among organizations that were established to address social and economic issues. A new generation of activists, who began to understand the limitations of the legal strategies, led the process of change. Human rights activists admitted that the

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27

NGOs had succeeded in creating a vision of political and civil rights, but did not do so in relation to economic and social rights. In their view, engagement in these issues and cooperation with provincial grassroots organizations would in the future lead to a turning point in the activity of the entire human rights movement and to the foundation of its relationship with the general population.49 One of the activists who expressed this approach was Khalid ‘Ali, who began his legal career in 1996. He was one of the leading activists in the Hisham Mubarak Law Center (HMLC), founded the Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights (ECESR) in 2009, and ran for president in 2012. In his view, even if successful in court, a legal suit has no more than symbolic value, because without engaging public attention and empowering broad segments of the population, translating the courts’ decisions into a clear and tangible reality is a difficult task. The expansion of liberties, whether political, economic, or social, requires a struggle on several levels.50 Prominent NGOs like the HMLC began to expand their agenda. For example, in 2009 the HMLC revealed its first report concerning social, economic, and cultural rights. This report referred to government policy related to the guarantee of the rights of employment, national insurance, living standards, health, housing, and environment, based on 476 cases that the organization had studied through its branches in Cairo and Suez. This was not a routine analysis of monitoring and documenting violations of human rights, but an analysis of social, economic, and cultural policy. According to the report, the state must settle the status of temporary workers, cancel labor laws that contradict and violate workers’ rights, expand national insurance to all citizens, and dedicate more resources to development, especially for people with disabilities.51 But there was more to this than just publishing reports. The HMLC, along with the ECESR and others, were involved in workers’ struggles in Egypt. They were among the founders of a front of human rights organizations that was meant to provide legal defense for the workers who, from 2004, began an unprecedented wave of strikes, sit-ins, and demonstrations regarding their demands for improved working conditions and the fulfillment of promises made by the government and management. Furthermore, the HMLC provided administrative and logistical assistance to movements that expressed solidarity and support of these struggles, such as the 6 April Youth Movement. The latter was established in 2008 as an Egyptian Facebook group to support the workers in Mahalla al-Kubra, an industrial town, who were planning to strike on 6 April.52

28

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

The expansion of the agenda of the human rights movement and its maturation were also reflected in the establishment of organizations more liberal in orientation than earlier NGOs. This new generation chose to systematically engage in rights that other organizations refrained from addressing. The most prominent one was the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), founded in 2002, which uses research, advocacy, and litigation to promote and defend the rights to privacy, religious freedom, health, and bodily integrity. Within a few years, the EIPR became one of the most active and prominent organizations and even conducted several campaigns for minority human rights, including the rights of Baha’is to mark their religious faith on their identification cards and other official documents.53 Human Rights Organizations in Jordan The emergence of Jordan’s human rights movement can be traced to the end of the 1970s, with the establishment of human rights committees by political exiles. In 1978 the Committee for Political Prisoners was established, followed by the Committee for the Protection of Democratic Liberties in Jordan in 1979. From 1979 to 1989, these committees engaged in a number of activities, the most important of which was the publication of annual reports on Jordan’s human rights situation, the publication of a periodical journal, and a campaign for the release of political prisoners. However, these committees worked outside Jordan and were associated with opposition circles. Their activities were restricted to protection of civil and political rights and freedom of the press, with no reference to economic, social, or cultural rights.54 Local human rights NGOs were founded only following political liberalization, which began in Jordan in the late 1980s and the early 1990s. These processes still left the political system under the complete control of the royal house. Nevertheless, a political space was created, one that was more tolerant toward the existence of NGOs and an opposition critical of the government’s functioning, and this offered opportunities for the development of human rights NGOs. Beginning in the 1990s, several Jordanian human right NGOs emerged. The first and most prominent was the Arab Organization for Human Rights in Jordan, established in 1990. Even though it was a branch of the AOHR, legally it was an independent Jordanian organization, working in compliance with the Jordanian law of social organizations.55 Similar to the Egyptian case, this organization too was not devoid of political influences. The marked monopoly of the Arab

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29

nationalist faction in the organization caused it to shape its human rights principles according to the ideas and heritage of this faction, a fact that harmed its credibility among the general public.56 This political orientation even led to an internal split and to the establishment of other organizations such as the Jordanian Society for Human Rights (JSHR) in 1996 and the Mizan Law Group for Human Rights and the Jordanian Society for Citizens Rights, both established in 1998. Similar to the Egyptian case, the Jordanian human rights organizations also had a division of labor. Alongside the organizations that documented human rights violations and provided legal assistance, others focused on research, raising awareness, and human rights education. The research center al-Urdun al-Jadid, founded in 1990, is one of the most prominent and important research centers in Jordan, dealing with domestic democratic process and civil society. At this center, a program on human rights, development, and democracy was established, with goals including disseminating the culture and principles of human rights, conducting studies and discussions on human rights–related issues and publishing them, and cooperating with associations and institutes doing human rights–related work.57 This generation of organizations dealing with human rights and democracy enjoyed relative independence and focused on political and civil rights.58 In addition to them, other organizations were founded dealing with concrete issues, such as the Center for Defending the Freedom of Journalists (CDFJ), established in 1999. Also, a new and active type of women’s organization was established that aimed to raise their level of political, economic, and social participation, and fight violence against women and discriminatory legislation. The activities of these women’s rights organizations enjoyed the public spotlight, mainly because they enjoyed strong support from the royal family, primarily from Princess Basma and Queen Rania. Several Jordanian organizations adopted a regional orientation, the most important of which was the Amman Center for Human Rights Studies (ACHRS), established in 1999 and focusing on the dissemination of a culture of human rights and on inducing a change to the general level of awareness and sensibility toward human rights and democracy. ACHRS projects mainly concentrated on training for democracy and human rights, and conducting studies and research. This organization also contributed to the cooperation between the other organizations, which in 2007 led to the establishment of the Jordanian Alliance for Civil Society Organizations comprising seven organizations, which approved a code of conduct based on international principles of human rights.59

30

The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

Similar to the Egyptian case, human rights NGOs in Jordan took part in the struggle for political reform. Thus, for instance, in July 2006 the ACHRS established the Arab Network for Election Monitoring, which included over forty-five civil society organizations and worked for the supervision of elections according to international standards.60 Difficulties and Obstacles Confronting Human Rights Organizations Despite the ability of the movement to place issues and matters relating to human rights on the public agenda, there was still a growing discrepancy between the ability of the human rights NGOs to expose problems and their scant ability to achieve effective, long-lasting change. Human rights NGOs have encountered many obstacles related to problems in the manner of their development, characteristics, and patterns of action, but also to problems external to them and related to the political and social environment within which they acted. Civil society–state relations. Different dimensions of civil society–

state relations were significant factors in the ability of human rights organizations to act and influence public space and public policy. In this respect, the attitude of the regimes toward the activities of the human rights organizations was a crucial obstacle in the spread of their influence. The regimes in Egypt and Jordan, as part of their effort to control and supervise the civil society organizations, made it very difficult for these organizations to become legal, legitimate entities. The regimes tried to block the possibility that the organizations would act publicly and on a massive scale. As noted, the liberalization process in Egypt under Mubarak’s regime was a mix of progress, restrictions, and reversals. The state, which recognized the need for economic liberalization, had to develop a strategy that would guarantee that the liberalization process would not endanger its hold on power.61 The regime’s main avenue of control was through restrictive legislation, which subjected NGOs, at least legally, to the complete control of the state. The most striking of these laws was Law 32 of 1964 (a Law of Civil Associations and Institutions), which was temporarily replaced by Law 153 for a short period between May 1999 and June 2000.62 Through Law 153, which was loaded with strict bureaucratic requirements, the government retained the right to approve the legitimacy of civil organizations, annul their decisions, oppose foreign funding of organizations,

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and even prevent their involvement in issues considered by the regime as political. The main target of this law was human rights organizations and prodemocracy groups that were effectively leveraging international pressure on the Egyptian regime through transnational human rights networks.63 Law 84 of 2002, which replaced Law 153 of 1999, retained most of the restrictions and severe arrangements that were previously imposed on organizational activity.64 Law 84 of 2002 also contained vague conditions allowing the Ministry of Social Solidarity to reject requests made by organizations to lawfully register. Among these conditions were: engaging in political activity; constituting a threat to public order, national security, or national unity; or having goals that did not conform to the good of the country. These conditions allowed for a wide range of interpretations and arbitrary use by the regime in order to block the legal existence of organizations, and also strengthened the state’s already tight control over the organizations. Such conditions prevented legal status from being granted to these organizations, including the New Women’s Research Center and the Land Center for Human Rights.65 The EOHR, for instance, attained legal status only in June 2003, following eighteen years of legal struggle, which affected its activities and caused internal splits.66 Association laws created a split within the human rights movement, which did not manage to form a clear position regarding the manner in which such laws should be addressed. For instance, following Law 153 of 1999, the CHRLA split into two organizations. Some of the activists who wished to register under the new law established the Association for Human Rights Legal Aid (AHRLA), while others, the majority, established the HMLC. Some of the organizations chose not to register with the Ministry of Social Solidarity, preferring to register as a branch of a foreign institute, as did the CIHRS, while still others chose to register as civil companies, law firms, or for-profit companies according to Law 17 of 1983, as did the HMLC. This choice indeed ridded them of the Ministry of Social Solidarity’s supervision, but they were forced to negotiate their activities with the Ministry of Interior and the security services.67 Even when the status of these organizations was finally legally institutionalized, they were subject to persecution and supervision on the part of the Egyptian government, through shutting down the organizations’ journals and publications, and through the arrest and detention of activists in the movement.68 The most prominent case was the trial conducted against human rights activist Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim in early

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2000, which led to the closure of the Ibn Khaldun Center for Development Studies, for having received illegal foreign funds to be used for preparing reports considered harmful to the interest of Egypt. This case landed a harsh blow to the activities of the human rights movement in Egypt. As in the Egyptian case, the Jordanian government also wished to control civil society, but it adopted a more paternalistic and protective approach. A significant obstacle preventing the emergence of an effective civil society was the regime’s continued control of the decisionmaking process and definition of parameters according to which civil and democratic institutions could operate. The Jordanian regime created bureaucratic procedures that were meant to increase supervision and social control. The multitude of bureaucratic requirements made organizational activity transparent to government officials and thus decreased the possibility of collective action that would threaten the regime’s power.69 Associations and Social Entities Law 33 granted the Ministry of Social Development permission to dismantle organizations based on arbitrary and subjective considerations, without legislative or judicial oversight. Societies Law 22 of 2009, amending Societies Law 51 of 2008, retained many restrictions and greatly impeded on the ability of NGOs to operate outside government influence.70 Even though the government usually refrained from using its full power through this law, the possibility existed. One of the cases in which the Ministry of Interior used its authority occurred in October 2002, when it ordered the closure of the Jordanian Society for Citizens Rights (JSCR), on the grounds that it had violated the Societies and Social Institutions Act by not submitting annual reports on its activities, income, and expenses for the years 1999–2001, and also because it had refused requests made by the Ministry of Interior to search its offices and documents. Some believed that this decision was politically motivated and related to issues tracked by the JSCR, and also due to its reports and public statements regarding the government’s official policy of preventing the naturalization of Palestinian refugees and the issue of temporary laws, such as election law and assembly laws.71 Although Jordan’s methods of control of civil society are not radically different from those of the Egyptian government, one must refer to Jordan’s unique and paternalistic pattern of control of civil society, frequently implemented through the creation of an array of organizations led and controlled by members of the royal Hashemite family, called royal nongovernmental organizations (RONGOs). All RONGOs operate under special laws based on royal decrees and parliamentary endorse-

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ment, which allows them to bypass aspects of government bureaucracy and restrictions that constrain other NGOs. In addition, their status allows them to access resources from donors and the government, including some government funding, that are unavailable to other NGOs. The involvement of the royal family in the creation of a system of grassroots organizations symbolizes the commitment of the Hashemite family to the development and improvement of the quality of life of the Jordanian population. At the same time, this allows the state to create a parallel civil society that competes for foreign monetary aid and even controls and shapes civil society from the inside, according to the interests of the state. This paternalistic strategy casts doubt on the existence of a civil society independent and separate from the state, with the ability to shape a critical agenda.72 Despite these institutional limitations on civil society organizations in general and the human rights organizations in particular, their role in the emerging consensus regarding the norms defining the “civil space” must not be underestimated. Civil society in general is not only an institutional field, but also a field of structured social consciousness, a network of understandings that operates beneath and above the explicit institutions and the conscious interests of the elites.73 Despite the limitations imposed by the state on the activity of human rights NGOs, they did have a role in promoting human rights as a frame of reference, which was different in scope and nature from the one employed in the past. Human rights did not remain the exclusive domain of human rights NGOs. Human rights became a language of opposition that the regimes found difficult to suppress. However, this development did not necessarily create a qualitative change in the human rights situation. Human rights ideas were more readily accepted, but they were not fully indigenized and did not penetrate broader layers of society. In order to enhance our understanding of the reasons that prevented the spread of human rights ideas among large segments of society, it is necessary to refer to issues related to other limitations, among them the intersection of the human rights movement and the society in which it operated. The link with the West. The link between the idea of human rights

and the West has had a crucial effect on human rights in the local arena. The dominant role of the West in the development of a concept of human rights constituted one of the main factors impeding the dissemination of these rights in the local society. The lack of trust of the local

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community toward the international community, a result of a history of European colonial rule and decades of postcolonial Western hegemony, reined in and limited the propagation of the human rights concept. The link in the local media between human rights and the Western superpowers, primarily the United States, deepened the suspicions that existed among many parts of the cultural and political elite. The promotion of democracy and human rights in the world after the collapse of the Soviet Union was perceived as an excuse made by the Western superpowers to meddle in the affairs of third world countries and as a means to serve Western interests in neoimperial influence and control. The double standards displayed by Western countries regarding the treatment of human rights violations, including their tendency to look the other way in the case of crude human rights violations committed by allied regimes that served Western interests, further contributed to the consolidation of this wary position.74 Many Arab scholars and intellectuals discuss the link between the slow speed of human rights ideas to a defensive construction of ArabIslamic identity. Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id cites political defeats and Western imperialism as some of the major influences on the “humiliation complex” that weighs heavily on Arab existence. Sa‘id maintains that this complex has grown to become a complete social psychology, wherein Arab-Muslim society has lost its self-respect and the ability to defend itself. The desire to destroy the complex has led to the use of all possible means, including disassociation from human rights ideas and their portrayal as a Western cultural school of thought that furthers the aims of rival Western powers.75 Another factor that obstructed the domestic human rights movement was that it did not make do with the moral support of the international human rights movement and Western states, but also relied heavily on Western material support. Many of the domestic human rights NGOs were crucially reliant upon foreign economic aid, which since the 1990s had played a critical role in the growth of the movement. As Joe Stork argues, the increase in the number of human rights activists reflected an entrepreneurial response to the availability of foreign funding more than the political demands and moral support of society.76 Foreign funding was the best and most available guarantee of these organizations’ activities in the local societies.77 Even though there is widespread agreement that the organizations, in integrating more fully into the international human rights system, expanded and deepened their activities, there rose a growing understanding, even among the human rights activists, that these links had a

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negative effect on their movement. An-Na‘im termed these relations “a dependency syndrome”—a dependency that preserves the public perception that protection of human rights is a Western agenda and not an internal priority of the developing nations themselves.78 Making an effort to develop local sources of funding was perceived by the movement’s activists as an expression of their responsibility toward the society in which they lived and as part of their effort to expand society’s awareness of human rights.79 External funding also put the human rights activists in Jordan and Egypt in a position to be accused by the governments and by various political forces of promoting a foreign agenda, opening the way to foreign involvement in the internal affairs of the countries and strengthening Western political, economic, social, and especially cultural influence.80 In Egypt, the government used the issue of foreign funding as a primary instrument in its attack against human rights NGOs. Foreign funding was presented as a means to harm national unity and to facilitate the penetration of Western control and Western values hostile to Arab and Islamic civilization and values.81 In Jordan too, most of the attacks against human rights NGOs and other organizations in this field, such as women’s organizations and research centers promoting democracy, were aimed at this issue. However, attacks were led mainly by other organizations operating in the public and political arena, including the Lawyers Union and some of the political parties. As part of their objection to foreign funding, they demanded a more intensive supervision of the monies going into these organizations, which they considered harmful to the national and particular sovereignty of Jordanian society.82 The Jordanian government refrained from assuming a decisive position against foreign funding and declared that it did not object to foreign funding that was “clean and aboveboard.” However, similar to the Egyptian government, it did besmirch the integrity of the recipients of foreign funding, since “its sources and destinations” were “vague.”83 In any case, the fact that all the forces operating in the political and public arena, whether Islamist, nationalist, or leftist, used opposition to the West and its influence on the local society and culture as a means to solidify their position as authentic representatives of national identity, put human rights NGOs on the defensive. Human rights NGOs were presented as traitors and as agents of the West and were required to adopt a nationalistic rhetoric in the hope of strengthening the public legitimacy of their activity. Many activists toned down and changed their language and initiatives in an attempt to defend their public status, and also expressed their commitment to national issues in order to prove

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that they had national interests. For instance, beginning in 2000, Egyptian human rights NGOs adopted national causes. The most prominent was the HMLC initiative to host the activities of the Popular Campaign to Support the Palestinian Intifada in 2000. This committee was active in organizing demonstrations in support of the second Palestinian intifada and later against the Iraq War.84 In this context, the HMLC provided meeting space, and collected money and medical and other assistance for the Palestinians. Indeed, one should refer to this activity as a way of expressing opposition to the policy of the regime in an indirect manner and through legitimate means. However, there is no doubt that these activities, which won popular support, also positively affected the image of these organizations and helped them counter the accusations of being Western agents and receiving Western funding.85 The cultural and social legitimacy of human rights. Human rights

are not abstract, autonomous, apolitical, and legal concepts located above culture and society. Dissemination of human rights norms is gained through relating them to the local social and political structures, justifying them in local cultural and political language. Despite the movement’s success in placing the issue of human rights on the public agenda, it had failed to influence public opinion and inculcate its messages and concepts among the wider public.86 These difficulties, which the movement encountered in its attempt to extend the social and cultural legitimacy of human rights, were closely related to the lack of any systematic and consistent attempt on its part to develop a unique language of human rights related to Arab culture and the regional context.87 The tendency of human rights organizations to concentrate their efforts on monitoring human rights violations and completely relying on the language and symbols of the UN and its agencies as manifest in international conventions came at the expense of efforts to shape a local and regional format of human rights based on knowledge, experience, and traditions from Arab and Islamic culture. This movement did not succeed in creating a connecting link between the international norms and principles of human rights and those existing in the local culture, which are infused with traditional and Islamic conceptions.88 In order to challenge existing power relations, Egyptian and Jordanian human rights NGOs, similar to other Arab organizations, expressed their clear commitment to internationally recognized human rights principles, from which they also draw legitimacy for their moral positions and values. It is a mostly legalistic framework that focuses on a variety of declarations, protocols, treaties, and agreements collectively known

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as the international human rights regime.89 The 1999 Casablanca Conference, attended by a hundred human rights activists from fifteen Arab countries, stressed the importance of universal values as the movement’s source of reference and condemned the alleged manipulation made by Arab regimes, which used arguments of sovereignty and cultural relativism to avoid complying with internationally recognized human rights principles. Conference participants thus expressed their objection to any attempt to use cultural or religious distinctiveness to challenge the universality of human rights.90 Human rights activists rejected the claims that the understanding of human rights is foreign to Arabs and Muslims, or is an expression of Western culture and its hegemony. Human rights activists regard such claims as ahistorical conceptions that view cultures as isolated entities, and identities as permanent and unchanging.91 These activists who recognize the centrality of Islam in their societies and do not clearly and unequivocally present the issue of state secularization (‘almaniyya) as a necessary option for the realization of their demands, refuse to see in Islam an impediment to the implementation of human rights. They oppose the view that Islam, in and of itself, contradicts the principles and values of human rights, or the argument that the two are irreconcilable. Egyptian human rights activist Bahy al-Din Hassan, CIHRS head, believes that the view that Islam stands in the way of a universal implementation of human rights ignores the fact that sharia (Islamic law) is a human interpretation of the sacred texts that is not imbued with divine sanctity. The fact that sharia implementation, particularly with regard to human rights, changes from one country to the next, lends credence to the position of these activists that the implementation of sharia is dynamic and time dependent.92 Hassan also maintains that purely relativistic approaches, which put an emphasis on the unique character of the Arabs and Muslims, have assimilated the Orientalist approach, which he refers to as “inside Orientalism.” The justification of the philosophy of Arab-Islamic cultural distinction is a reproduction of old foreign colonialist ideas that nations need an indeterminate adjustment period to become accustomed to selfgovernment. According to Hassan’s approach, to affirm the universality of human rights is to reject the argument that there are nations that are not mature enough to enjoy full rights.93 Despite such clear-cut arguments, the polarity between the particularist and universalist approaches is for the most part rhetorical, because similar to other forces, human rights activists also attempt to find a middle ground that can be defined or characterized as moderate relativism.

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While activists advance the universalist approach, they stress that it is not their intention to reject or dismiss cultural particularity, which they consider yet another component of the rights of individuals and nations. The Casablanca Conference, while also stressing universality, stated that “commendable particularity is one that enriches the dignity and equality of the citizens, enriches their culture, and promotes their participation in public life.”94 At a conference organized by the CIHRS in 1998, it was emphasized that while universalism is inherent in the nature of human rights as a final, systematic product of supreme ideals accepted by all human beings of conscience, particularity is a call for innovation with regard to the practical mechanism of the implementation of human rights in Arab society, with its priorities and unique cultural, economic, and political themes.95 Supporting universality while also advocating particularity is a local attempt to reconstruct the universal human rights understanding based on values shared by all cultures, and in many ways it is analogous to approaches that support the finding of “cross-cultural universals” as a means to reinforce the global acceptance of the human rights doctrine instead of devaluing it.96 However, as discussed in the following chapters, these conceptual solutions are challenged when human rights activists are called upon to discuss a concrete system of human rights violations, particularly in cases where the local value system does not coincide with the universal value system. This is partly a result of the human rights activists’ failure to engage in the very process that they advocate—the establishment of an internal, and even external, dialogue to redefine the norms of human rights. Human rights NGOs have not made any systematic attempt to build a local understanding of human rights and have confined themselves to the reinterpretation of local grievances in the language of international human rights law. Egyptian human rights activist Hani Shukrallah criticizes the way that the movement clings to the universality of human rights, arguing that it is no different from the way Islamists cling to the Quran and the Hadith. He maintains that while the movement supports the universality of human rights, it fails to affirm its support by addressing unique heritage, culture, and politics.97 Human rights activists are mostly concerned with violations of human rights—a product of the practices employed by oppressive regimes and a largely political issue—while ignoring social rights that touch upon cultural aspects and require an in-depth consideration and discussion of the cultural framework that influences the ruling groups.98

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Many activists have never dared to openly oppose or extensively discuss the conflicts between sharia and the universal values of human rights, particularly on such issues as gender inequality, minority rights, and freedom of expression. Egyptian intellectual Hassan Hanafi refers to the approach used by human rights organizations operating in Egypt as “social realism.” According to Hanafi, the aim of human rights activists is to change reality through practical action rather than simply establishing the concept of human rights. While human rights organizations do not rely directly on religious texts or Islamic history, they also do not critically discuss articles of international treaties, considering them a theoretical phase that has already been completed and not subject to considerable controversy.99 The adherence of human rights organizations to international human rights norms and laws is a product of the circumstances under which activists operate, meaning that activists have found themselves caught between oppressive regimes on the one hand and conservative Islamist forces on the other. The latter consider any innovative intellectual attempt at examining Islamic principles in light of universal human rights principles as compromising fundamental social and religious values. Those who pronounce innovative views expose themselves to condemnation or actual risk to their lives.100 In this context, Bahy al-Din Hassan notes that in circumstances in which guarantees for freedom of opinion, expression, and peaceful gathering are nonexistent, the ability to protect other rights, or to work freely for the establishment of an authentic framework for democracy and human rights, is likewise diminished.101 In this regard, Hassan and like-minded activists consider it more valuable to focus on political rights aimed at achieving political freedoms; it is only once this stage is completed that the political arena will be ready to emphasize other freedoms. Such reasoning is valid and understandable when one considers the reality in which the human rights NGOs have been operating. However, these strategic choices have also inhibited the development of an alternative vision that could advance the very synthesis that they advocate, between universality and particularity. It is worth mentioning that this analysis is not completely valid with regard to some human rights NGOs and activists, those who engaged with the renewal of the religious discourse. By raising the need for a critical interpretation of Islam, human rights NGOs, among them the CIHRS, seek an end to the separation between the human rights movement and religion, and an end to the movement’s long-standing disregard of religion’s influence on the practicalities of human rights.102

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The rights demands of women’s NGOs are also not based exclusively on international universal law, but rather draw heavily from Islam and local culture. The choices of women’s organizations reflect processes that have taken place within the broader feminist movement, mainly the development of postmodern feminist theory, which emphasizes the particularity and locality of all feminist movements in the world.103 However, this is not the only explanation. Other organizations, governed mostly by men, can avoid or choose not to deal with issues perceived as too closely associated with culture and religion, focusing almost exclusively on state authoritarianism and its impact on human rights. Women have no such privilege, having realized that their struggle cannot take place without addressing the local culture and conditions. This is mostly because cultural distinctions systematically focus on family issues and gender relations. Women and family are the issues most exposed to Islamist cultural construction, as they have become symbols of the collective and carriers of its authentic values.104 Such a perception of women is not unique to Islamic currents and can be found among national schools of thought as well as the left wing, where any discussion of women’s status is linked to authenticity and definition of boundaries vis-à-vis the “Other,” the West.105 The choice of women’s activists to use religion to empower themselves is indicative of their difficulties in dealing with Western feminism, which has become linked with the Western system and Western imperialism. But even more so, it is a strategic choice that provides the most effective weapon for sustaining women’s efforts to improve their status.106 These women initiate and conduct their struggle from within the context of religious traditions, taking advantage of their right to reinterpret such traditions. This is not to say that the strategic choice made by women’s organizations is problem free. As discussed in Chapter 6, on the struggle for women’s rights, reliance on religion anchored in local conceptions is limited in its power. Human Rights Organizations in Egypt and Jordan: Comparative Aspects Despite the similarity in development and difficulties facing human rights NGOs in Egypt and Jordan, there are many differences in their patterns of action. Compared to Egypt NGOs, which from the day they were founded operated as a vocal and active opposition force and implemented varied strategies of action ranging from legal mobilization

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to education, Jordanian NGOs were less vocal and their remarks and actions more restrained. Jordanian NGOs failed to investigate human rights violations systematically and did not publish regular reports.107 Their use of the virtual space was also limited. Except for the research centers and regional organizations, established Jordanian human rights organizations like the AOHR (Jordanian branch) and the JSCR didn’t make comprehensive and effective use of information technology to communicate their positions and fields of activity.108 Their activities in the international field and their enlistment of the international system to apply pressure to policymakers were also inconsistent. For instance, in 2009 the UN Human Rights Council completed a comprehensive report regarding human rights in Jordan, yet few Jordanian NGOs took the opportunity to make themselves and their interpretations heard, and most were absent from the detailed discussions held between February and June of 2009. Except for the report of Jordan’s National Center for Human Rights (NCHR), which is a semigovernmental body, and a coalition of three organizations headed by the ACHRS, the Jordanian human rights movement did not mobilize to make its voice and its vision heard regarding the human rights situation in Jordan, and did not enlist the support and backing of the international system to improve this situation.109 This choice stands in sharp contrast to efforts of the Egyptian NGOs to externalize domestic human rights demands in the UN Human Rights Council. The Egyptian NGOs actively participated in the council discussions because it offered not only a site from which to challenge the Egyptian government, but also a domestic and regional opportunity to increase popular attention to human rights issues through the media.110 The reasons for this cannot be explained only by the lack of sufficient economic sources or the strategic choice of the Jordanian NGOs to concentrate on domestic education and dissemination of human rights culture. It must also be explained in relation to the divergent domestic conditions in which NGOs operated—patterns of regime-society relations, including the attitude of the regimes to organizations in the civil space; social structures; and above all the varying force of the struggle for identity. All of these had an effect on the intensity of operation and characteristics of the activities of the human rights NGOs. One explanation for the differences in the patterns of activity of human rights NGOs in Egypt and Jordan can be found in the background of the emergence of the NGOs. In Egypt, the struggle for human rights emerged as part of the crisis experienced in Egypt since the 1960s. Failure of the national and socialist ideologies and the rise of

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The Politics of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan

political Islam were among the factors that led secular-oriented intellectuals and political activists to seek a way out of the crisis. This crisis was not only economic and political; it was also cultural, and was closely related to the search for an authentic Egyptian identity.111 The question of identity in Egyptian culture was one of the most prominent social and political rifts. Despite the overwhelming and monopolistic role of the state in cultural production, in determining the states’ political and social orientation, and in creation of a monolithic intellectual environment, Egypt’s leaders—Nasser, Sadat, and Mubarak— failed to create a national consensus over the definition of the identity of the Egyptian community (secular or religious, socialist or capitalist, pan-Arab nationalism or Egyptian, and so on). The failed attempts by the regime to impose a hegemonic identity shaped the NGOs’ patterns of action and their struggle to realize their conceptions regarding the character of the state and its cultural and political identity. In this respect, the Egyptian human rights NGOs fought to participate in the definition of an authentic national identity and to outline the models upon which Egyptian society would be based. Struggles over the authentic Jordanian identity were part of the Jordanian case as well. One of the major features of Jordanian politics is the ethnic divide between Palestinians and Transjordanians. This division, despite its centrality, is only one of the multiple identities and communities in Jordan—among them Muslims and Christians, secularists and Islamists, urbanites and Bedouins. However, the Jordanian regime had a different role in cultural production. Analyzing the unique characteristics of the relationship between the regime and the Islamist movement, Mansoor Moaddel stated that the Jordanian state exhibited a great degree of “authoritarian pluralism,” which was manifest in the simultaneous expression of different ideologies, some of which were diametrically opposed to each other (Arab nationalism, Islamic conservatism, pro-Western modernism, and tribalism), and which were affiliated with different sectors of the state. The monarchy displayed pragmatism, as it did not adhere completely to any of these ideologies but instead positioned itself as the unifying point of the various configurations of these identities.112 This ideological pluralism diminished the intensity of the struggle for national identity in Jordan and perforce limited the character and intensity of the struggle for human rights. Curtis Ryan noted that opposition activists often argue that the regime engages in an agenda of permanent conflict resolution with itself as facilitator, meaning that divide-and-rule strategies that split opposi-

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tion forces into Palestinian and Jordanians, leftists and Islamists, remain part of the state’s tactics and strategies.113 This analysis is related to the unique Jordanian pattern of social and political relations that shaped the character of human rights NGOs’ activities. Many studies have recognized the unique characteristics of the monarchies in the Middle East, including Jordan, which permit them to remain in power and deal with opposition forces even during political liberalization. These studies refer to greater showings of tolerance on the part of the Jordanian regime and to a degree of political and social pluralism and institutional flexibility in managing the coalition supporting the regime and society in general.114 These characteristics have an effect on the relationship between the organizations and the state. Contrary to republican regimes such as Egypt, in which the emergence of civil society institutions threatened the state’s ideology and its monopoly over corporatist organizations, in the Jordanian monarchy the mobilization of civil society created an opportunity to apply a policy of divide and rule and to realign the social and political balances of power.115 The fact that Jordanian society is tribal in its nature, characterized by a special relationship between society and the regime, and by a special pattern of behavior regarding practices of negotiation in conflict management, strengthened these tendencies. The fact that civil society organizations in Jordan, including human rights NGOs, were part of this tribal society had a special meaning regarding the patterns of actions and conduct of the organizations, and especially on the formation of a pragmatic language different from the Egyptian one in its intensity.116 Despite these challenges related to the cultural and political environment, as well as to the patterns of action of the human rights NGOs, their role in turning human rights principles into part of the political agenda should not be diminished. Human rights promoted by these NGOs served to raise political, social, and economic demands, but also provided an alternative system of norms and values. For these reasons, the human rights language did not remain the sole preserve of the activists and interested intellectuals. Human rights also became part of the language of other elements of the political arena, including the political parties, which recognized the potential for criticizing the government through the pursuit of human rights. Human rights have become an instrument used to express demands of a variety of social forces to reconstruct political and social institutions as well as the collective identity. Governments, out of their desire to control and shape the debate according to their interests, have also integrated human rights into their plans and declarations.

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Political Forces and the Human Rights Agenda Political Parties and Human Rights The global human rights agenda found a place in party platforms and declarations through which political parties expressed their recognition of most human rights included in the UDHR and in the various conventions signed by their governments. Before the rise of the human rights movement, the overwhelming majority of political and civil activists viewed human rights as a US plan aimed at subjugating the Arab homeland, penetrating its social fabric, and deepening its enslavement and cultural and political dependence on the West.117 The emergence of human rights NGOs did not alleviate this hostility. Hostility and rivalry also reigned in the relations between human rights NGOs and political parties, mostly due to the parties, which saw NGOs as political rivals, mainly because the founders of the human rights organizations were previously political activists who held various positions in the party framework.118 Human rights NGOs were perceived as imperialist mechanisms, used for the purpose of intervening in the internal affairs of independent countries. Moreover, human rights NGOs focused their criticism on Arab countries, which was perceived as beneficial to the Israeli leadership. Cooperation with these organizations was perceived by many as carrying with it the danger of cooperating, consciously or not, with enemies of the nation.119 In Egypt, as far as the forces of the left were concerned, human rights advocacy meant recognizing the legitimacy of the bourgeois political regime. The leftist opposition also stemmed from the fact that human rights organizations assumed that they could achieve their goals through a lawful struggle and a renewal of the civil and political rights system. This contradicted the approach of the left, which preferred to stress change in structural, social, and economic conditions. In their view, support of human rights organizations meant abandoning a strategy of comprehensive social change in favor of a discussion of individualistic solutions.120 In any case, even though there were still many who continued to view human rights as a Western plot, many segments of the educated and the political forces understood the ideas of the human rights movement and began to merge its messages into their own political demands.121 Some attributed the change in the parties’ positions to the fall of the ideological regimes in Eastern Europe, the decline in the power of ide-

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ologies to politically motivate people, and the development of a global agenda, which found its way into Arab reality and which left them exposed to attacks by the radical Islamist factions.122 In my view, the main reason for this change was that opposition forces identified the potential of human rights as a means to criticize governments and as a means to confront ruling party hegemony. The majority of the political forces in Egypt accepted most of the rights included in the two UN conventions from 1966 regarding political, civil, economic, and social rights. Despite this fact, the issue of human rights was not accorded a high place on their agenda and their reference to it in their own platforms and activities was limited.123 Human rights became the issue through which the government’s performance was examined. The opposition parties learned to use human rights and related international reports and highlighted them in their party journals. However, this did not mean that the alignment with the international concepts of human rights was all encompassing. As I show in the chapters ahead, in more than a few cases parties and opposition forces chose to sustain positions that did not accord with the support of human rights principles. In cases where support of human rights contradicted their Islamist, nationalist, or socialist goals, rights were sacrificed on the altar of ideas. Marxist, Islamist, or Nasserite groups expressed an instrumental conception of human rights. For them, these rights had meaning if they served other interests and objectives. Most of the issues that these forces chose to attend to had a direct relation to their political activities. Thus, political parties expressed the greatest interest in the liberties related to political association and establishment of parties, due to their interest in guaranteeing their activities. The parties strongly advocated freedom of expression and freedom of the press, especially because party journals and newspapers were the only means available to express political positions and connect with their constituencies. Similarly, the parties emphasized the right to demonstrate, as part of their effort to operate in the popular arena.124 As Nabil Abd al-Fatah defined it, demands for democracy and human rights were “electoral demands,” which did not turn to social demands.125 For instance, the liberal opposition, represented by the Wafd party, clearly noted in its platform its belief in political freedoms and the need to respect human rights. This party, since its return to the political arena in the end of the 1970s, had struggled for civil and political rights. Nevertheless, this struggle was related to the repressive political climate. One may speak of a purely political battle. In this respect, much room was made for civil and political rights such as abolition of emergency

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laws and independence of trade unions, compared to the party’s meager engagement in issues far from its interests, such as economic or social rights. For years the Wafd party remained far apart from the human rights movement, despite its liberal heritage. Some have explained this as due to the fact that party leaders doubted the commitment of the leaders of human rights NGOs, who in the past were Nasserite and Communist activists, and as such, part of a regime that limited human rights.126 One expression of the limitations of the human rights promoted by the parties was the patterns of cooperation with the human rights NGOs. In November 2002, for the first time, the opposition parties of alTajammu‘, the Wafd party, the Nasserite party, and the Socialist party all joined with the human rights NGOs, including the EOHR, the HMLC, and the al-Nadim Center for Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence. In the context of their struggle against the Law of Associations 84 of 2002, they founded the Committee for the Protection of Democracy, among whose goals were: guaranteeing public liberties and the basic rights of citizens, cancellation of the emergency laws, reform of the constitution, and guarantee of the freedom to establish parties and organizations.127 Following publication of the reform program of the ruling party—the National Democratic Party (NDP)—in October 2003, the Wafd party, al-Tajammu‘, the Nasserite party, the Communist party, and several NGOs handed President Mubarak their own program for political reform, which included constitutional amendments and cancellation of the emergency laws.128 However, most of the time, the struggle to expand rights did not exceed the level of joint declarations and did not turn into a democratic struggle with the potential to generate a joint agenda that would constitute an alternative to the government. In addition, this cooperation was restricted to limited areas related to political reform and the struggle to open up the Egyptian political system. As Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah has noted, most of the political forces in Egypt did not attribute any importance to human rights violations unless they were a result of government conduct. Human rights violations emanating from society itself did not receive any attention from these forces’ media and propaganda instruments.129 Similar to the Egyptian case, it seems that the parties in Jordan also adopted human rights in a partial and instrumental manner. Jordanian parties established following the renewal of parliamentary life in the beginning of the 1990s can be divided into three categories: conservative parties in the center, comprising forces loyal to the regime; the leftist and pan-Arab parties; and the parties of the Islamist faction. The

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majority of parties were conservative forces loyal to the regime, established by elites connected to the palace and reliant on tribal and familial structures for political support. These parties had neither economic, political, or ideological programs, nor a clear treatment of the issue of human rights. The secular opposition parties—the leftist, nationalist, and panArab parties—all of which originated in the political parties of the 1950s, suffered from organizational and conceptual weakness, received very little popular support, and had an insignificant parliamentary presence.130 These parties adapted themselves to the political liberalization process and expressed support for political pluralism, participation, liberty, human rights, and freedom of expression as elements that would lead the way to progress. 131 Nevertheless, it is important to note that the Parties Law 32 of 1992, based on the national charter, stated that the conditions for the establishment of any party included, among other elements, its adherence to political, intellectual, conceptual, and organizational freedom. This condition compelled the parties to refer to the issue in their platforms. For instance, the platform of the Communist party referred to the spread of democracy, political pluralism, and expanding the foundations of social justice, without referring directly to human rights. The Jordanian Democratic People’s Party referred to strengthening democracy and the rights of the working class and women. The Socialist Ba‘ath party declared its belief in equality of rights and obligations of citizens regardless of religion, color, or race, and condemned any interference in the basic rights of citizens. The Progressive Ba‘ath party stressed citizens’ economic and social liberties and the liberties of women.132 It is important to note that the parties’ references to human rights were not linked to the international human rights regime, with its plethora of international conventions. Jordanian parties derived the legitimacy of rights from the Jordanian constitution and the national charter. This charter, which was consolidated in 1990–1991 in a process of national consensus, has an almost constitutional standing and is considered a cornerstone of the democratic process and state-society relations, defining the desired relationship between state and society.133 Despite the rhetorical commitment they expressed toward human rights, the role of these parties in furthering human rights was very limited and they were not a significant force in rights promotion. Similar to the Egyptian case, Jordanian parties treated human rights instrumentally, focusing heavily on rights pertaining to their activities in the political space.

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While the political forces have changed their attitude toward human rights and have learned to utilize them, these forces have not developed an overall vision for human rights. Parties did not turn their attention to society as a victim of human rights violations, nor—more importantly— to violations of human rights emanating from society itself. The political environment has changed significantly with regard to its expectations of the state, but popular attention has not been directed to society and its role in upholding human rights. Islamists and Human Rights Similar to the other political forces, there was also a change in the way the Islamist factions regarded human rights. The stance taken by Islamists on human rights is chiefly concerned with the theological, ideological, and political struggle between Islam and modernity, which is an inseparable part of their dilemma: How can they take part in world civilization without losing their unique Islamic identity (al-shakhsiyya al-Islamiyya)? Therefore, the common denominator of the views of all Islamists, be they conservative or reformist, is the attempt to dissociate human rights thought from its Western authority and the tendency to adapt it to the values of Arab and Islamic culture. The perception of conflict has given rise to forms of Islamic human rights that, rather than being grounded in the Western model, have their source in the Quran and the Hadith. As I show later, the Islamists approach to human rights is largely aimed at the conservation of Islamic heritage and the perceived preservation of the dignity and morality of believers facing foreign ideologies. However, similar to disagreements on such issues as the desired Islamic public order, alongside approaches that reject any kind of input from the West, some speak of a certain measure of openness and acceptance of principles and ideas that may benefit Islam, yet not in a way that can undermine faith or compromise the fundamental values or higher goals of Islam.134 Reformists, who seek harmonization and compromise between Islamic sources and international views of human rights norms through reinterpreting religious texts and stressing the values shared by all cultures, are under attack from conservatives and neo-Salafi circles. There are two aspects to the criticism leveled against reformists. First, they are criticized for their radical reading of the sacred texts, which is sometimes seen as heresy; second, they are criticized for their submission to Western culture, made all the more salient due to concerns over the socalled cultural annexation (al-ilhaq al-hadari)—a Western cultural takeover with all the negative impact it brings.135

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However, despite the conceptual disconnect from a universal view, Islamists show a great deal of flexibility in drawing from a universal message. This was especially true for the Islamist groups that sought to challenge the legitimacy of the oppressive regimes. As Fred Halliday argues, in cases in which Islamists fought for their political and civil rights, they used terms that were almost secular.136 Traditionally, Egyptian Islamists tended to view human rights as being a secular monopoly. More so, Islamist movements were suspicious and hostile toward the human rights NGOs, whose founders were from the left, assuming that they wished to use the organizations as a means to exclude Islamists from the political arena.137 Additionally, the international connections of the human rights movement and its adherence to the international law of human rights instead of sharia strengthened their hostility toward the human rights message.138 However, several changes led Islamists, like other elements in the political space, to change their attitude toward human rights. First and foremost, beginning in the 1990s, the main Islamist faction began to develop in a more reformist and less revolutionary direction. The expansion of the human rights agenda since the end of the 1980s, including the rise of demands for political reform in the first decade of the twenty-first century also led these groups, like other forces, to begin to present their demands and critiques toward the regime in human rights terms.139 The change was not a result of a renewed intellectual engagement with the ideas underpinning the human rights conception, but was a result of a negative experience with the state’s dictatorship. In an attempt to turn their movement into a legitimate political actor in the Egyptian arena, Muslim Brotherhood leaders took care to voice positions supporting equality, religious freedom, and pluralism, and stressed their movement’s commitment to justice and public liberties. In March 2004 the Brotherhood even declared the movement’s vision of political reform as open to discussion with other political forces.140 Another concrete expression of their approach was manifest in the Brotherhood’s program for the 2005 parliamentary elections, in which the first chapter was dedicated to an extensive discussion of civil rights and liberties.141 Some saw in the Brotherhood’s initiative a response to the US initiative for democracy in the Middle East, the Greater Middle East Initiative, and a signal of the Brotherhood’s desire to send a message to the US administration that they constituted an alternative to the existing political order in Egypt and that their vision did not contradict US plans.142 Human rights engagement was also manifest in the platforms of moderate Islamist parties such as the al-Shari‘a party, the al-Islah party,

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and the al-Wasat party.143 The platforms of these parties, whose registration was denied by the authorities, included emphases on pluralism, the freedoms of party and union association, and an end to the torture policy in prisons.144 The Islamist groups promoted ideas such as equality and pluralism, since they challenged the legitimacy of the regime that oppressed them. And indeed, in issues related to their relationship with the regime, the Muslim Brotherhood and other Islamist groups used almost secular terms, conforming to universal principles of human rights. However, in areas related to other issues, like minority rights or religious freedom, their positions were far more vague, a matter that cast doubt on the intentions of the Islamists. Even though there were those who pointed to a gradual development in the opposition of Islamist groups to violence and to a change in their declared positions regarding human rights, there were still doubts regarding the actual agenda of these organizations.145 Similar approaches in relation to human rights can be found among the Muslim Brotherhood in Jordan. Despite the different circumstances of the development of the Islamist movement in Jordan compared to Egypt, one can identify similar characteristics between the two. The Islamic Action Front (IAF), the political arm of the Muslim Brotherhood, is a party with a large support base, resting on a clear and definite ideology. The front’s platform corresponds to that of the Muslim Brotherhood. However, the front was much more explicit than the Muslim Brotherhood in its call to defend public liberties and democracy. In its founding document, protection of human rights, human dignity, and liberty, as dictated by Islam, were mentioned among the front’s goals. There was also mention of pluralism and freedom of expression and opinion, women’s rights and their role in the development of society within the confines of Islamic ethics, and expansion of the leadership role of women in political life.146 However, the front did not translate these general objectives into practical plans or a clear and detailed vision. Similar to other political forces, the discussion concentrated primarily on the civil aims of a democratic regime, such as equality and freedom of expression, and on practical aspects of the democratic mechanism and institutions, such as parliament and elections.147 As I show in the chapters ahead, in many cases, the Islamists and other political forces chose to support positions that did not correspond to the principles of human rights, especially when these principles collided with their political objectives or when they contradicted their social, religious, or cultural values.

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The Nationalization of Human Rights The governments, which were well aware of global processes and their implications for the local arena, understood that human rights had turned into a source of legitimacy in the domestic arena and that reports of human rights violations were eroding their internal authority and harming their international prestige. For these reasons, governments attempted to channel the debate on human rights according to their needs and interests, and in doing so aimed to secure control over the debate and determine its characteristics and boundaries. These governments utilized many strategies to restrict, control, and institutionalize the debate on human rights. One strategy, already discussed, was related to the governments’ attitude toward the human rights NGOs. These governments attempted to isolate these organizations and restrict their activities, mainly by restrictive legislation or rejecting the legitimacy of their existence and harming their credibility through accusing them of dividing the nation and harming its interests. But the governments also used indirect strategies, to which we now turn, intended to deprive human rights activists of legitimacy, such as by relying on cultural heritage and on the existence of rivals of these activists among the political opposition. Human Rights in the Domestic Arena In the context of these efforts, governments took care to express commitment to human rights as part and parcel of their policies and plans for the future. The regimes wished to grant themselves an image of being protectors of human rights, but they took care to do so without losing any part of their own sovereignty and control. Since its inception, Mubarak’s regime sponsored trends of democratization and liberalization in the political debate.148 Establishment of democracy and public liberties was declared part of the regime’s political character. Internal and external expectations for reform strengthened and solidified the place of these objectives as central concepts in the local political language.149 However, as Muhammad Sid Ahmad argued, human rights were not really part of the government’s program, but rather a byproduct of a game of mutual neutralization played between it and the opposition.150 The regime’s commitment to human rights was manifest in the policy of the ruling party, the National Democratic Party. For years the NDP refused to admit the existence of human rights violations in Egypt,

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rejected any interference in Egypt’s internal affairs, and viewed international reports as instruments with one purpose only: destabilizing the country. The administration even publicly denounced local human rights NGOs as foreign tools desiring to harm Egypt. But changes in the international arena, including changes in US policy after the events of 11 September 2001, as well as internal changes such as the NDP’s limited success in the 2000 parliamentary election, pushed the NDP to present a new vision dealing with political reform. At the NDP’s 2002 annual conference, the party’s new face was revealed for the first time, led by the slogan “New Thought.” At this conference the guiding principles of the Egyptian state’s orientation were presented in general terms. Democracy, human rights, and women’s political participation were mentioned as main commitments. This change even enjoyed continuity in a second conference, held in 2003, titled “New Thought—Civil Rights First.” During this conference the agenda was framed by human rights, emphasizing issues such as civil rights, equality, political participation, and reforms. Among other things, the cancellation of the state security courts and hard labor as well as the creation of Egypt’s National Council for Human Rights (NCHR) were referred to in a concrete manner.151 The NDP even called for opposition forces to participate in a national dialogue regarding political reform, during which it presented a position paper called “Civil Rights and Democracy.”152 Even though such declarations expressed a moral victory for the human rights movement and even reflected a positive change in the official attitude, in practice the power of this reform was rhetorical, and efforts were limited. On the one hand the party declared reforms and initiated the establishment of the NCHR and announced the cancellation of the state security courts, while on the other hand it delayed reforms that would have guaranteed equal opportunity in political life, preserved laws that were hostile to freedom of expression and association, approved the government’s request to extend the emergency laws, and left many powers in the hands of the security forces.153 Similar to Egypt, in Jordan too human rights became an integral, inseparable part of official rhetoric. Since the beginning of the liberalization process in 1989, the regime allocated a central place to the language of democracy and human rights in its political rhetoric. King Hussein’s speeches were loaded with references to Jordan’s advance toward democracy and the importance of respecting human rights.154 This trend continued and even grew stronger during the reign of his heir, King Abdullah II. Since his assumption of power in 1999, the latter king expressed his commitment to reform and modernization and his

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own tendency to deepen the democratic process. Like his father, he presented the values of democracy and human rights as the basis for political life in Jordan.155 The issue of human rights was awarded a significant place in the reform plan titled “Jordan First” (al-Urdun Awalan), which he initiated in 2002. This plan, which was meant to constitute an up-to-date and comprehensive manifesto—an authority for the new age of his leadership—was presented as a plan that placed national Jordanian priorities above all other priorities, especially regional ones. Among its objectives were strengthening the distinct identity of the Jordanian state and national unity, promoting the state’s social and economic development, and expanding the democratic process and civil partnership. A national committee established to discuss the implementation of this program referred to the need to expand freedom of expression and equality of men and women, among other issues.156 Queen Rania also had a part in forming the public image of the regime as one seeking reform and improvement in the human rights situation. The queen, who headed several organizations, such as the Royal Committee for Human Rights, promoted an agenda supporting progress and reform.157 Other members of the royal family filled this role as well, such as Princess Basma, who was active in organizations for women’s rights and who headed the National Committee for Women’s Affairs; and the former crown prince, Prince Hassan, who already in King Hussein’s day had a central role in promoting an agenda of human rights, internally as well as externally.158 Regime commitment to human rights was also expressed in the attempt to insert a system of terms related to human rights and a “culture of peace” into the education curriculum. This program was met with vocal objections from members of parliament, who viewed it as a capitulation to US pressures and harmful to Islamic conceptions, and as provoking a culture of surrender and defeatism.159 Governments and International Conventions The Egyptian and Jordanian governments, which desired to be recognized as respected members of the international community and assure their citizenries that they were committed to the liberalization process, testified to their good intentions by ratifying and signing the international conventions on human rights.160 This behavior must be explained by the fact that these conventions lacked any enforcement mechanisms and did not constitute a serious threat to any sovereign country but

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were, rather, an expression of goodwill and rhetorical commitment.161 Despite the ratification of international conventions, the governments oscillated between expressing commitment to international human rights norms on the one hand, and positions that stressed the unique nature of these rights in the Arab and Muslim contexts. Reports submitted by the two states to UN committees responsible for monitoring the treaties’ implementation stressed their adherence to the norms and values contained in the treaties. For example, Jordan’s representative to the UN Human Rights Committee maintained that human rights were part of humanity’s common heritage, and that it was on that basis that Jordan sought to promote the principles laid down in the UDHR.162 Nevertheless, these governments also pledged their commitment to the cultural identity of their countries, expressing reservations over any notion construed to infringe upon or conflict with Islamic values or sharia principles. It should be noted that most of these reservations to human rights treaties involve issues of gender equality, the concept of family, religious liberties, freedom of expression, and children’s rights. Most of the reservations focus on Islam and the precepts of Islamic sharia as an explanation and main justification for their refusal to fully support the international treaties. These states take the view that the social contracts of society are supported by values different than those that make up the Western approach to human rights.163 For example, Egypt stresses the special protection it accords to the family, claiming that it has an elevated status due to historical and religious considerations, which have left their mark on many of the values, traditions, and customs that characterize Egyptian society. The state considers it a duty to preserve this institution, so that it can continue to fulfill its social function and provide women with the means to reconcile their family duties with their work in society.164 Religious, moral, or spiritual values also constrain freedom of expression, thought, and creativity. Such freedoms are restricted where they conflict with the religious, spiritual, and moral values of society, public morals and order, or higher state interests.165 This formulation gives the governments considerable leeway for interpretation, maneuvering, and flexibility to decide what those values are, allowing them to cope more easily with the pressure exerted by various agents in society that are working for change or, alternatively, seeking to preserve or further solidify the status quo. Egypt and Jordan did more than simply provide justifications for heritage and religion as the source of the unique character of the Arab

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arena. Both governments argued that there could be no discussion of human rights without reference to their level of development—that is, without an analysis of the economic, social, and political conditions that may limit the universal implementation of human rights. For instance, Egypt’s representatives to the UN Human Rights Council asserted that the protection of human rights was a long-term process, requiring cooperation with civil society, particularly in the field of education, and that such cooperation would eventually lead to the eradication of illiteracy, because illiteracy creates difficulties in raising awareness of human rights.166 Similarly, Jordan’s representatives to UN committees discussed the effects of political and economic realities on national priorities, particularly emphasizing poverty and social conditions, as obstructing the improvement of women’s status and rights.167 Yet this does not relieve governments of the need to specify to what extent the moral values protected by these stipulations promote a conception of human rights, and to what extent they constitute a unique contribution on the part of the Arab and Muslim world to the international norms of human rights to which they have pledged their support. Domestic critics argue that the fact that the governments have not explicitly specified the articles that conflict with Islamic sharia or the precise extent of that disagreement, settling instead for such ambiguous formulations as “reservations about what may conflict with the noble Islamic Shari‘a,” is proof of the government’s cynical misuse of the particularity arguments. Such arguments have given the governments leeway to detach themselves from obligations to certain rights, in accordance with changing political motivations.168 To what extent, then, do the governments’ reservations represent their desire to preserve cultural values and protect the heritage of the societies they govern, and to what extent does this constitute an exploitation of particularity to justify an oppressive policy? Adamantia Pollis, who has studied the role of the state in the definition of human rights, maintains that there is, as of yet, no analytical framework to determine whether the state’s claims to cultural distinction are consistent with cultural views of rights, dignity, and justice, or whether it is simply an instance of arbitrary exercise of elite power.169 The lack of a clear analytical framework does not diminish the need to examine the possible reasons behind the policy of religious and cultural exceptions. Indeed, researchers like Miriam Cooke and Bruce Lawrence oppose the argument that human rights are always manipulated in favor of interests of power. They maintain that when regimes turn to particularity arguments, they are also motivated by a desire to define their own

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space in a postcolonial world ruled by Western powers.170 These arguments are understandable in a world of Western hegemony, where developed nations not only tend to impose their cultural values on weaker nations, but also exert economic, political, and military power over them. Having adopted a defensive position, weaker nations cling to their cultural and religious traditions as a means to salvage some measure of cultural autonomy and control of their own identity. One must also address the unique situation characteristic of these societies—a religious revival that constitutes one element in the struggle for collective identity. Similar to other Muslim Arab states, Egypt and Jordan have solved their national identity problems by turning to religion. In Jordan’s case, this connection developed alongside state consolidation and legitimization of the Hashemite dynasty’s claims of kinship with the family of the Prophet Muhammad. In Egypt’s case, national identity is currently more grounded in religious elements. Since the governments have claimed a role in defining social values, they were forced to present an outward appearance as guardians of public morality. Consequently, they were often forced to detach themselves from international human rights norms and exercise caution with regard to compromising Islamic values, so as not to undermine the credibility and religious validity of the regime. However, this explanation applies to more than just religious values. In Jordan, the state is structured also around the tribe. The tribes have been a basis of support for Hashemite rulers throughout history. In exchange, the royal family expressed its sympathy and commitment to protect the Jordanian tribal heritage.171 This commitment, together with the interests that keep it in existence, plays an important role in the regime-promoted human rights language, seen mostly in Jordan’s reluctance to advocate any rights that would conflict with tribal values. Regimes’ claims regarding the importance of Islamic and social values should not be construed as trivializing the deliberate, cynical use the regimes make of cultural particularity when attempting to stifle political opposition or human rights NGOs. Those governments use them to nourish the hostile nationalist orientation toward anything considered Western, in order to politically and culturally enclose and restrict the organizations. However, the predicament facing the regimes becomes evident in cases where the regimes themselves advocate and even take part in attempts to reform human rights legislation—or at least do not oppose such attempts. As I show in the following chapters, when it comes to issues pertaining to women’s status and, in some cases, freedom of

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expression, the governments themselves strive to promote legislation compatible with international norms. However, local pressure and concerns about compromising their own legitimacy forced the governments to back down on plans to impose far-reaching changes, which they supported with the argument that society was not yet ready to accept and act upon such changes. The regimes tend to emphasize the need for public order and unity instead of dealing with the variety of problems that arise from the clash between old and new. Thus, regimes renounced the practical pluralism prevailing in society, thereby encouraging its polarization.172 Viewed from this perspective, the governments’ commitment to human rights therefore lacks credibility, lending support to the impression that it was a political choice designed to provide them with leeway to maneuver between national obligations, local demands for reform, and protection of human rights on the one hand, and the demands of conservative forces on the other. The National Human Rights Councils Another government strategy to gain control of human rights demands was through creating state-controlled, competing human rights organizations and bodies and presenting them as the natural patron of all the organizations delineating human rights values. Egypt and Jordan, like other Arab countries, began to establish national human rights organizations and institutions, through which they wished to identify themselves as the guardians of human rights and placate public criticism, while keeping these institutions under their supervision.173 Egypt’s National Council for Human Rights was founded in 2003. As already mentioned, its foundation was part of a series of reforms led by the National Democratic Party, which were a product of internal and external pressures and were meant to strengthen the public image of the ruling party as one looking forward to change and renewal.174 Boutros Boutros-Ghali, former UN Secretary-General and a Copt, was appointed head of the council. Ahmad Kamal Abu al-Majd, Anwar Sadat’s minister of communications, who was considered to be associated with the Islamist movement, was appointed its vice president. The council’s members also included prominent human rights activists such as Hafez Abu-Sa‘ada, secretary-general of the EOHR; Bahy alDin Hassan, director of the CIHRS; and Jalal ‘Aref, chairman of the Press Union.175 The council’s objectives were, among other things, to receive complaints about human rights violations, cooperate with local and interna-

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tional human rights organizations, and disseminate the human rights culture. The council did not possess any executive power, but was restricted to an advisory role only.176 Reactions in the human rights movement to the establishment of the council were mixed. Some elements praised its establishment and argued that it constituted a positive step, one that reflected recognition of human rights and signified official acceptance of the conception and the international norms of human rights, as well as testimony that the Egyptian government officially recognized the fact that there were human rights problems in Egypt.177 However, other elements were more doubtful of the council, viewing it as an attempt to improve Egypt’s image in the international arena. Some believed that by establishing the council, the government was looking to gain a monopoly on the human rights debate and channel it to its own purposes. The definition of the council’s role was also criticized. The fact that it had no part in supervision and that its members were not elected, but rather appointed by the government, contributed to the feeling that the council’s framework was not democratic, and therefore skepticism was expressed concerning its independence, effectiveness, and influence.178 The council’s calls to human rights NGOs to participate in a consultation was rejected by a large number of organizations, which expressed doubts regarding the effectiveness of the government’s initiative to strengthen the status of human rights under the emergency laws. These organizations agreed among themselves not to cooperate with the council under conditions that cast doubt upon its credibility and objectives. Their decision would be changed only when the emergency situation was canceled and other steps were taken that would testify to the seriousness of the government’s intentions.179 Despite the criticism leveled by the NGOs, the council’s first report was perceived by many as a surprise, since it was tougher than expected and provided official backing to the commonplace claims of torture in police stations and among security forces.180 Even though the report did not include facts and data beyond those that were already present in the reports of local and international human rights NGOs, the fact that it was published by a body established by the government gave it added validity as well as increased importance compared to the reports of independent organizations.181 However, the council’s first report was also widely criticized, since it included many positive and exaggerated references to Egyptian legislation regarding human rights, despite their lack of relevancy to the actual human rights situation in Egypt. At the same time, several impor-

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tant issues, such as freedom of the press and civil society organizations, independence of the court system, and freedom of thought were absent in the report. In addition, despite the report’s reference to the need to change the constitution, it lacked any specific mention of negative aspects of the constitution, such as the religious authority of the law and lack of restriction on the presidential term. Criticism was also directed toward the media blackout of the report. The fact that the progovernment media made no effort to expose the report to the wider public was perceived as an intentional conspiracy of silence, and strengthened the impression that the council was meant to improve Egypt’s image and status, and that the government had no intention of turning it into a reformist platform.182 The second NCHR report, published in 2006, was followed by even sharper criticism, since it did not include a broad evaluation of the domestic human rights situation like that in the first report, as part of the need to supervise and track the changes. Furthermore, critics noted that the second report adopted governmental positions regarding important issues such as the status of the Coptic minority, torture, and judicial independence, and was also suffused with meaningless, manipulative wordings that did not correspond to the gravity of the problems.183 Further evidence of the council’s limitations was manifest in its recommendations regarding emergency laws. Even though the council’s first report referred to the need to cancel emergency laws,184 the council changed its mind after pressure was applied by the government, to the surprise of some its members, and did not issue any statement on the matter, claiming that it needed to study the issue in depth. As far as some of its members were concerned, the council failed its first political test, damaged its credibility, and proved correct the arguments that in its establishment the government was paying lip service to the demands for reform.185 This issue was only one of many that led to controversies and divisions within the council, as some members accused its leaders of purposely obstructing its activities and not reacting to human rights violations related to sensitive issues, such as those committed in Sinai against the Bedouin population following the terror attacks in Taba in February 2005.186 Criticism of the council’s functioning was reflected in a memorandum submitted by Bahy al-Din Hassan, a human rights activist and member of the NCHR, to both the head of the NCHR and the head of the Shura Council. In the memorandum, Hassan apologized for refusing to be included as a member of the NCHR’s new session. He also stated

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that the NCHR had failed to influence the policies, decisions, and practices of the government in the human rights arena, and that its role had shrunk to issuing only reports, statements, and recommendations that the government ignored.187 The council’s limitations were once again manifest in 2010, when the upper house of parliament decided on a new composition for the council for the next three years. The most striking change was the replacement of the council’s vice president, Abu al-Majd, attributed by some to the public criticism he directed toward the mass arrests of members of the Muslim Brotherhood, which began in 2009, and also to his support for limiting the president’s incumbency to two terms. Abu al-Majd’s exclusion was seen as a step toward limiting the role the council was expected to play during the 2010 elections.188 The Jordanian government also created a national human rights organization. In 1993 a royal decree mandated establishment of a regional center for the study of democracy and human rights, the first institution of its kind in the Arab world, but this center was never actually established. Other measures were more effective, including establishment of the Royal Committee for the Study of Human Rights and of the Department of Human Rights in the prime minister’s office in 1999, and establishment of the Royal Committee for Human Rights in 2000, chaired by Queen Rania. A special committee was also established to protect civil liberties in the Jordanian parliament.189 As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan too the establishment of such bodies was met with criticism by local human rights NGOs. The AOHR-Jordan, the JSHR, and the JSCR rejected the calls of the royal committee to participate in its operations, mainly because they perceived it as an official framework, which constituted an opening for government takeover of their own organizations and their containment as independent civil organizations. In this case criticism was directed at their limited roles as presenters of recommendations and the lack of authority of supervision and treatment of human rights violations.190 In 2002 Jordan founded the National Center for Human Rights (NCHR), which replaced the Royal Committee for Human Rights. The goals of this institution included promoting human rights values in the kingdom based on Islamic values of tolerance and the heritage of Arab values, and providing counseling, legal assistance, and supervision regarding human rights violations.191 According to the law, the NCHR was supposed to enjoy economic, legal, and administrative independence. However, as in the Egyptian case, the NCHR’s independence was questioned.

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The NCHR, funded by the government, could accept domestic or foreign donations, but only if approved by the state. Additionally, the process of approving the center’s members also involved the prime minister’s recommendation, a fact that cast doubt on this body’s ability to effectively criticize government activities. Even though the NCHR boasted among its members prominent human rights activists such as Asma Khader and Suleiman al-Sweiss, the center did not include representatives of human rights organizations perceived by the government as oppositional, such as the AOHR, considered the oldest and biggest such organization in Jordan.192 Furthermore, the first chairman of the NCHR’s board of trustees was Ahmad ‘Ubaydat, former prime minister and head of the security services. Other members were former officials associated with the administration. In its first report, in 2005, the NCHR criticized the human rights situation in Jordan, referring among other issues to legislation harming human rights, such as the temporary laws, the elections law, and the law of public assembly. It also referred to the status of prisoners in detention centers and prisons and even to sensitive and controversial subjects such as the prevention and rejection of Jordanian citizenship of Palestinian residents, stemming from regulations put in place after Jordan’s disengagement from the West Bank in 1988.193 Despite this critical report, the center refrained from sharp criticism of the government, such as regarding regression in the democratization process and its implications for human rights. Rather the center concentrated its ongoing activities on social issues such as the status of women and children, and promoting the human rights culture in the education system.194 The center’s 2006 report refrained from mentioning controversial issues such as freedom of expression and the sensitive issue of Palestinian citizenship rights in Jordan.195 Similar to other national councils throughout the Arab world, these bodies in Egypt and Jordan tended to be weak, toothless, and ineffective. However, by expressing official commitment to human rights and inserting the discussion of human rights into the official political conversation, the governments legitimized human rights and, perhaps unwittingly, changed the manner in which the state and society discussed human rights issues.196 Thus human rights became an attractive framework of reference for opposition forces as well as regimes. Ann Elizabeth Mayer termed this trend a “human rights jihad.” The contemporary use of the term “jihad” does not necessarily mean a commitment to the implementation of the doctrine of jihad as outlined in the Islamic legal doctrine, but rather is

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used as a means to bestow Islamic legitimacy on a political agenda in a state of conflict. Thus, too, human rights have become a symbol of legitimacy. The expansion of the use of the term “human rights” in conflict situations is based on both sides concluding that the term has become the ultimate cornerstone of legitimacy.197 Nonetheless, the human rights framework, which to a large extent was chosen by many forces as a political means in an instrumental and selective manner, still poses many challenges to the propagation and implementation of human rights norms in the local arena.

Notes 1. Jack Donnelly, International Human Rights (Boulder: Westview, 1998), pp. 3–17. 2. Mohamed No‘man Galal, “The Arab Draft Charter for Human Rights,” in Human Rights: Egypt and the Arab World (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1994), p. 37; Mohammad No‘man Galal, Misr al-‘uruba wa’lIslam wa-huquq al-insan (Arab Egypt, Islam, and human rights) (Cairo: alHay‘a al-Misriyya al-‘Amma lil-Kitab, 1999), pp. 75–76; Bahy al-Din Hassan, “Huquq al-insan al-‘Arabi” (Arab human rights), al-Siyyasa al-Dawliyya 96 (April 1989), p. 100. 3. Radwan Ziyada, Masirat huquq al-insan fi al-‘alam al-‘Arabi (The status of human rights in the Arab world) (Dar al-Bayda’: al-Markaz al-Thaqafi al‘Arabi, 2000), pp. 91–93. The term “liberty” was first used in Resolution 134, adopted in December 1946, with reference to the independence of Arab states. See Galal, Misr al-‘uruba, p. 83. 4. Bernard Lewis, Islam in History: Ideas, People, and Events in the Middle East (Chicago: Open Court, 1993), p. 336. 5. Susan Waltz, “Universal Human Rights: The Contribution of Muslim States,” Human Rights Quarterly 26 (November 2004): 828–833. 6. Amr Hamzawy, “Globalization and Human Rights: On a Current Debate Among Arab Intellectuals,” in Anthony Chase and Amr Hamzawy (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), p. 54. 7. G. F. Gause, Oil Monarchies: Domestic and Security Challenges in the Arab Gulf States (New York: Council on Foreign Relations, 1994), pp. 10–41. 8. For a discussion of the differences between the Jordanian monarchy and oil monarchies, see Mehran Kamrva, “Non Democratic States and Political Liberalization in the Middle East: A Structural Analysis,” Third World Quarterly 19:1 (March 1998): 75–82. 9. Farouk al-‘Ashri, quoted in Saber Na’il (ed.), al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya liharakat huquq al-insan (The information apparatus of the human rights movement) (Cairo: al-Barnamij al-‘Arabi li-Nushata’u Huquq al-Insan, 1998), pp. 66–69; Mohammad sid Ahmad, quoted in Kevin Dwyer, Arab Voices: The Human Rights Debate in the Middle East (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), p. 60.

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10. Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah, quoted in Na’il, al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya, p. 80. 11. Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim, “The Future of Human Rights in the Arab World,” in Hisham Sharabi (ed.), The Next Arab Decade: Alternative Futures (Boulder: Westview, 1988), p. 42; Galal, Misr al-‘uruba, p. 130. A similar point was also articulated by Bahy al-Din Hassan, “Ta‘lim huquq al-insan wa’l tasamuh aldini: qadiyya diniyya am siyasiyya?” (Human rights education and religious tolerance: a religious or political question?), in Tamkin al-mustad‘af: manthur ‘Arabi li-ta‘lim wa-nashr thaqafat huquq al-insan (Empowering the oppressed: The Arab perspective on the instruction and dissemination of human rights culture) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2000), pp. 85–86. See also Hussam ‘Issa, a member of the Nasserite party, cited in ‘Isam Mohammad Hassan (ed.), Tajdid al-fikr al-siyasi fi itar al-dimuqratiyya wa-huquq al-insan: al-tayyar al-Islami wa-al-markasi wa-al-qawmi (The renewal of political thought in the framework of democracy and human rights: The Islamic, Marxist, and national currents) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 1997), pp. 112–113. ‘Issa does not blame Nasser’s pattern of control for the nonrealization of democracy and human rights. In his view the reason was lack of popular demand. 12. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “Human Rights Ethics: Defending the Islamists,” in Anthony Chase and Amr Hamzawy (eds.), Human Rights in the Arab World: Independent Voices (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), p. 39. 13. See Mundhir ‘Anabtawi, who was one of the early activists and theorists working to launch the Arab Movement for Human Rights, quoted in Burhan Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” in Salma K. Jayyusi (ed.), Human Rights in Arab Thought: A Reader (London: Tauris, 2009), pp. 354–355. 14. Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” pp. 352– 360. 15. It is worth noting that human rights activism took place even earlier, especially in professional bodies such as the Arab Lawyers Unions, but their activities were not confined to human rights. Ziyada, Masirat huquq al-insan, pp. 155–161; Hassan, “Huquq al-insan al-‘Arabi,” p. 105. 16. Susan Waltz, Human Rights and Reform: Changing the Face of African Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 17. Many trace the beginning of the Arab human rights movement to the establishment of the AOHR. See, for example, Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya lil-haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan” (The inner problems of the Arab human rights movement), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), Tahdiat al-haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan (Challenges facing the Arab human rights movement) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq alInsan, 1997), p. 12. 18. Abdullahi an-Na‘im, “Human Rights in the Arab World: A Regional Perspective,” Human Rights Quarterly 23 (2001): p. 716. 19. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “al-Haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan: almaham wa-al-tahdiyat” (The Arab human rights movement: Tasks and challenges), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), al-‘Arab bayna qam‘ al-dakhil . . . wazulm al-kharij (The Arabs between internal repression and external oppression) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2000), p. 55.

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20. See “I‘lan al-Dar al-Bayda li-huquq al-insan fi al-‘alam al-‘Arabi” (The Casablanca Declaration of the Arab human rights movement), in Bahy al-Din Hassan wa-Muhammad Sayyid Sa‘id (eds.), Huquqna al’an wa-laysa ghadan: al-mawathiq al-asasiyya li-huquq al-insan (Our rights now, not tomorrow: The major covenants of human rights) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2003), pp. 381–391. 21. The parties suffered from organizational and conceptual weakness, received very little popular support, and had an insignificant parliamentary presence. For a discussion on the relative weakness of political parties in Egypt and Jordan, see Laura K. Landolt and Paul Kubicek, “Opportunities and Constraints: Comparing Tunisia and Egypt to the Coloured Revolutions,” Democratization 21:6 (2013): 12–14; Ellen M. Lust-Okar, “The Decline of Jordanian Political Parties: Myth or Reality?” International Journal of Middle East Studies 33 (2001): 545–569. 22. Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” p. 372. See for instance, the Civil Forum, which was held at the same time as the Arab convention in Rabat in February 2006, al-Bayan al-khitami li’l-muntada almadani al-thani al-muwazi li’l-qimma al-‘Arabiyya (The final statement of the Second Civil Forum Parallel to the Arab summit), 27 March 2006, http://www.cihrs.org. 23. For the role of the international NGOs, see Margaret E. Keck and Kathryn Sikkink, Activists Beyond Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1998). 24. See, for example, David P. Forsythe, Human Rights in International Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 25. an-Na‘im, “Human Rights in the Arab World,” pp. 708–709. 26. For the factors that led to the liberalization processes, see, for example, Nazih Ayubi, Over-Stating the Arab State: Politics and Society in the Middle East (London: Tauris, 1995), chaps. 10–11, esp. pp. 401–402; Giacomo Luciani, “The Oil Rent, the Fiscal Crisis of the State, and Democratization,” in Ghassan Salame (ed.), Democracy Without Democrats? The Renewal of Politics in the Muslim World (London: Tauris, 1994), pp. 130–155. 27. Daniel Brumberg, “Authoritarian Legacies and Reform Strategies in the Arab World,” in Rex Brynen, Bahgat Korany, and Paul Noble (eds.), Political Liberalization and Democratization in the Arab World, vol. 1, Theoretical Perspectives (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1995), pp. 229–230. 28. See a discussion of the liberalization process that started during the Sadat presidency in Raymond Hinnebusch, Egyptian Politics Under Sadat: The Post-Populist Development of an Authoritarian-Modernizing State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); and in Roger Owen, “SocioEconomic Change and Political Mobilization: The Case of Egypt,” in Ghassan Salame (ed.), Democracy Without Democrats? The Renewal of Politics in the Muslim World (London: Tauris, 1994), pp. 183–199. As for the setbacks in the liberalization process during the Mubarak era, see Eberhard Kienle, A Grand Delusion: Democracy and Economic Reform in Egypt (London: Tauris, 2001). 29. Krista Masonis el-Gawhary, “Egyptian Advocacy NGOs: Catalysts for Social and Political Change?” Middle East Report 214 (Spring 2000): 38.

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30. For the liberalization process in Jordan, see, for example, Laurie A. Brand, “Economic and Political Liberalization in a Rentier Economy: The Case of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan,” in Iliya Harik and Denis J. Sullivan (eds.), Privatization and Liberalization in the Middle East (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992), pp. 167–188; Beverley Milton-Edwards, “Façade Democracy and Jordan,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 20:2 (1993): 191–203; Rex Brynen, “The Politics of Monarchical Liberalism: Jordan,” in Bahgat Korany, Rex Brynen, and Paul Noble (eds.), Political Liberalism and Democratization in the Arab World, vol. 2, Comparative Experiences (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1998), pp. 71–100. 31. Mustapha Kamal al-Sayyid, “The Concept of Civil Society and the Arab World,” in Brynen, Korany, and Noble, Political Liberalization and Democratization in the Arab World, vol. 1, p. 135; Augustus Norton, “The Future of Civil Society in the Middle East,” Middle East Journal 47:2 (Spring 1993): 209. 32. On Jordan’s political de-liberalization, see Ryan and Schwedler, “Return to Democratization or New Hybrid Regime?” pp. 138–151; Russell E. Lucas, “Deliberalization in Jordan,” Journal of Democracy 14:1 (January 2003): 137– 144. On Egypt’s political de-liberalization see, for example, Kienle, A Grand Delusion. 33. See, for example, Fahmi Huwaidi’s reference to the vitality of the political debate that had developed in Egypt in the period of the presidential elections in 2005, in al-Sharq al-Awsat, 21 September 2005. 34. On the development of the EOHR, see ‘Ala’ Qa‘ud, “al-Munazama alMisriyya li-huquq al-insan: al-tajriba wa-afaq al-mustaqbal” (The Egyptian Organization for Human Rights: Experience and prospects for the future), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), Tahdiyat al-haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan (The challenges of the Arab movement for human rights) (Cairo: Markaz alQahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 1997), pp. 105–108; Bahy al-Din Hassan, “Nahwa istratijiya munsajima li-harakat huquq al-insan fi misr” (Toward a consistent strategy for the human rights movement in Egypt), in Bahy al-Din Hassan, Tahdiyat al-haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan, pp. 122–123. 35. Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” p. 352. 36. Najad al-Bura‘i, quoted in Qa‘ud, “al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-huquq al-insan,” pp. 111–112. See also Nicola Pratt, “Understanding Political Transformation in Egypt: Advocacy NGOs, Civil Society, and the State,” Journal of Mediterranean Studies 14:1–2 (2004): 246–249. 37. Thomas Risse and Kathryn Sikkink, “The Socialization of International Human Rights Norms Into Domestic Practice: Introduction,” in Thomas Risse, Stephen C. Ropp, and Kathryn Sikkink (eds.), The Power of Human Rights: International Norms and Domestic Change (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 26. 38. See similar arguments regarding the Latin American human rights networks in Vania Markarian, Left in Transformation: Uruguayan Exiles and the Latin American Human Rights Networks, 1967–1984 (New York: Routledge, 2005), p. 3. 39. See Vickie Langohr, “Too Much Civil Society, Too Little Politics? Egypt and Other Liberalizing Arab Regimes,” in Marsha Pripstein Posusney

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and Michele Penner Angrist (eds.), Authoritarianism in the Middle East: Regime and Resistance (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2005), p. 194. This analysis is particularly relevant to the first generation of activists, most of whom are still in leadership positions in human rights organizations. 40. See discussion of the politicization of the human rights organization in ‘Ala’ Qa‘ud, “Nahwa haraka ‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan: afaq al-tatawur wa’ltahdiyat al-rahina” (Towards an Arab movement for human rights: Prospects for change and present challenges), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), al-‘Arab bayna qam‘ al-dakhil . . . wa-zulm al-kharij (The Arabs between internal repression and external oppression) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2000), p. 143; Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” pp. 21–22; Hassan, “alHaraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan,” p. 58; Neil Hicks, “Transnational Human Rights Networks and Human Rights in Egypt,” in Chase and Hamzawy, Human Rights in the Arab World, pp. 76–77. 41. See an updated list of human rights organizations in Egypt at the website of the Arab Network for Human Rights Information, http://www.anhri.net /egypt. Mapping of all the organizations operating in the field of human rights is a difficult task due to the dynamism of their activities, and especially the disappearance of some of these organizations from the public arena immediately after their establishment. This turnover has several causes, including internal difficulties such as splits within the organizations, financial difficulties, or government imposed restrictions. The fact that there are no official or semiofficial data on these organizations constitutes a further difficulty. Several published guides provide comprehensive lists, but sometimes they are not up to date. On the difficulties of creating an up-to-date list, see ‘Ala’ Shalabi, “al-Munazamat ghayr al-hukumiyya,” in Muhsin ‘Awad (ed.), al-Dalil al-‘Arabi: huquq alinsan wa’l tanmiya (Arab index: Human rights and development), 2005, http://www.arabhumanrights.org/dalil/start.htm. According to information provided by the Egyptian government to the Council for Human Rights at the United Nations, about eighty-one organizations working in the field of human rights were registered in Egypt in 2006; see UN Doc. E/CN.4/2006/95/Add.6, 6 March 2006, para. 498. 42. Tamir Mustafa, “Got Rights? Public Interests Litigation and the Egyptian Movement,” in Chase and Hamzawy, Human Rights in the Arab World, pp. 154, 158–159. 43. Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” p. 16; Qa‘ud “Nahwa haraka ‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan,” p. 141; Salah Salim Zarnuqa, “Mawqif al-ahzab alsiyasiyya wa’l-jam‘iyyat al-ahliyya min qadaya’ huquq al-insan” (The position of political parties and NGOs concerning human rights issues), in al-Mu’tamar al-sanawi al-thani: huquq al-insan fi misr min Janif 2002–Janif 2004 (The Second Annual Conference: Human rights in Egypt from Geneva 2002 to Geneva 2004) (Cairo: Markaz Huquq al-Insan li-Musa‘adat al-Sujana’, 2004). 44. Nicola Pratt, “Hegemony and Counter-Hegemony in Egypt: Advocacy NGOs, Civil Society, and the State,” in Sarah Ben Nefissa et al. (eds.), NGOs and Governance in the Arab World (New York: American University in Cairo Press, 2005), p. 147. 45. Mustapha Kamal al-Sayyid, “Theoretical Issues in the Arab Human Rights Movements,” Arab Studies Quarterly 19:1 (1997): 28.

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46. See human rights activist Bahy al-Din Hassan as cited in “International Aspects of the Arab Human Rights Movement: An Interdisciplinary Discussion Held in Cairo in March 1998” (Cambridge: Harvard Law School, Human Rights Program, 2000), p. 12. 47. On this issue, see, for instance, Nader Fergany, “The Human Rights Movement in Arab Countries: Problems of Concept, Context, and Practice,” in Human Rights: Egypt and the Arab World (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1994), pp. 29–30. 48. Ahmad al-Muslimani, “Harakat huquq al-insan al-‘Arabiyya . . . al-dakhil wa’l-kharij ma‘an” (The Arab human rights movement . . . inside and outside together), al-Ahram, 19 September 2001. 49. See, for instance, the interview with Ahmad Seif al-Islam, a member of the Hisam Mubarak Law Center, in Amnesty International, “Egypt: Interview with Egyptian Human Rights Defender Ahmad Seif al-Islam,” 10 December 2008. 50. Egypt Independent, 4 May 2010. 51. Daily News Egypt, 23 June 2010. 52. Human Rights Watch, “Egypt: Investigate Arrests of Activists, Journalists,” 9 February 2011, http://www.unhcr.org/refworld/docid/4d590d711a.html. 53. See the organization’s website, http://eipr.org/en. 54. Hani Hourani and Hussein Abu Romman (eds.), Dalil munazamat almujtama‘ al-madani fi al-Urdun (Guide to civil society organizations in Jordan) (Amman: Markaz al-Urdun al-Jadid lil-Dirasat, 2000), p. 223. 55. See interviews with chairman of the AOHR-Jordon, Hani Dakhla, in alSabil, 21–27 March 2000, and al-Bayan, 19 November 2003. 56. Ibid. See also Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” p. 21. 57. On these organizations, see Hourani and Abu Romman, Dalil munazamat al-mujtama‘ al-madani, pp. 225–237; Talib ‘Awad, al-Tahawwulat aldimuqratiyya fi al-Urdun (Democratic changes in Jordan) (Ramallah: Muwatin al-Mu’asasa al-Filistiniyya li-Dirasat al-Dimuqratiyya, 2000), pp. 80–87. 58. Hourani and Abu Romman, Dalil munazamat al-mujtama‘ al-madani, p. 223. 59. The Jordanian Alliance for Civil Society Organizations included in its founding membership the following: the Amman Center for Human Rights Studies, the Arab Organization for Human Rights in Jordan, the Jordanian Jurists Association, the Jordanian Association for the Rights of the Child, the Jordanian Society for Human Rights, the Arab Women’s Association, and the Jordanian Youth Forum. The founders of the alliance have also decided that membership is open to all. See Amman Center for Human Rights Studies, Newsletter no. 2, March 2007. 60. The ACHRS publishes a monthly news bulletin titled “The Electoral Observer,” which has covered several Arab elections. The bulletin is available at http://intekhabat.org. 61. Eberhard Kienle, “More Than Response to Islamism: The Political Deliberalization of Egypt in the 1990s,” Middle East Journal 52:2 (Spring 1996): 217. 62. Law 153 tightened the already severe constraints imposed by Law 32. In June 2000 the Supreme Constitutional Court deemed Law 153 unconstitutional.

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For a discussion of the struggle against Law 153, see Nicola Pratt, “Bringing Politics Back In: Examining the Link Between Globalization and Democratization,” Review of International Political Economy 11:2 (May 2004): 324–330; Angela Grunert, “Loss of Guiding Values and Support, September 11, and the Isolation of Human Rights Organizations in Egypt,” in Annette Junemann (ed.), Euro-Mediterranean Relations After September 11: International, Regional, and Domestic Dynamics (London: Cass, 2004), pp. 139–143. 63. Kienle, A Grand Delusion, pp. 96–97. 64. See, for example, Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, NGOs Law: The Confiscation of Civil Work in Egypt (Cairo, May 2002); Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, Critical Analysis of the New Associations Law (Cairo, 4 July 2005). See also “Man yuhasab tarziyyat al-qawanin fi Misr” (Who will punish Egypt’s law tailors?), Sawasiyya 43–44 (2003): 22. 65. Human Rights Watch, “Egypt New Chill on Rights Groups, NGOs Banned, Activists Harassed” (New York, 21 June 2003). See also UN Doc. E/CN.4/2004/94/Add.3, 23 March 2004, para. 161. These two organizations finally obtained legal status, but only after a long struggle that disrupted their activities. 66. Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, press release (Cairo, 25 June 2003); al-Hayat, 25 June 2003. On the debate within the organization during the early years of its existence, see Qa‘ud, “al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-huquq al-insan,” pp. 107–108. 67. Bassem Hafez, “Egypt NGOs: Coming Into Their Own,” Human Rights Defenders, 15–21 March 2004, p. 7; Ruz al-Yusuf, 3 July 1999. 68. “A New Assault Against Civil Society,” Civil Society 9:98 (February 2000): 15. 69. Quintan Wiktorowicz, “Civil Society as Social Control: State and Power in Jordan,” Comparative Politics 33:1 (October 2000): 51. 70. International Center for Not-for-Profit Law, NGO Law Monitor: Jordan, http://www.icnl.org/research/monitor/jordan.html. 71. See the words of the JSCR president Fawzi al-Samhouri in al-Sabil, 24– 30 September 2002. See also Amnesty International, “Jordan: Rights to Freedom of Expression and Association Denied,” press release, 11 November 2002. 72. Quintan Wiktorowicz, “The Political Limits to Nongovernmental Organizations in Jordan,” World Development 30:1 (January 2002): 85–87. 73. Jeffrey C. Alexander, “Citizen and Enemy as Symbolic Classification: On the Polarizing Discourse of Civil Society,” in Jeffrey C. Alexander (ed.), Real Civil Societies: Dilemmas of Institutionalization (London: Sage, 1998), pp. 97–99. 74. On this point, see Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “al-Tala‘ub bi-qadaya‘ huquq al-insan fi al-mujtama‘ al-dawli” (Human rights and the hypocrisy of the international community), in Bahy al-Din Hassan (ed.), al-‘Arab bayna qam‘ al-dakhil, pp. 69–74. 75. Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “Da‘wat huquq al-insan fi-siaq al-hala althaqafiyya al-rahina lil-watan al-‘Arabi” (The call for human rights in the current cultural context of the Arab nation), Rawaq al-‘Arabi 6 (April 1997): 48– 59; al-Sharfi, “Ishkaliyat thaqafat huquq al-insan fi’l-‘alam al-‘Arabi,” p. 15. 76. Joe Stork, “Three Decades of Human Rights Activism in the Middle East and North Africa: An Ambiguous Balance Sheet,” in Joel Beinin and

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Frederic Vairel (eds.), Social Movements, Mobilization, and Contestation in the Middle East and North Africa (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011), p. 86. 77. According to ‘Ala’ Qa‘ud, all efforts to raise local funding, such as through collection of membership fees, failed. Qa‘ud, “al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-huquq al-insan,” pp. 115–116. 78. an-Na‘im, “Human Rights in the Arab World,” pp. 702–703. On the negative implications of Western funding, see also Fergany, “The Human Rights Movements in Arab Countries,” p. 3. 79. Yusri Mustafa, “Ma yurad waqfa laysa al-tamwil al-ajnabi . . . bal huquq al-insan” (The goal is not stopping foreign funding . . . but human rights), Sawasiyya 61 (2005): 3–4. See also discussion regarding the urgent need for human rights organizations in Jordan to avoid receiving foreign funding, in “Sira‘ al-mafhum hawla al-tamwil al-ajnabi fi al-Urdun” (The struggle over foreign funding in Jordan), Nushata’, 10–11 September 1999. 80. See, for example, the criticism directed at the Mizan Law Group for Human Rights on receiving money from the British embassy to open the Information Center for Human Rights, in al-Sabil, 25 April–1 May 2000. In September 2000, the Jordanian Press Association decided to suspend the membership of Nidal Mansour. Mansour was accused of accepting foreign funding to finance the activities of his organization, the CDFJ; Jordan Times, 7 September 2000. See also the interview with Diya’ Rashwan in al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 1 January 2005; Rashwan claimed that the funding received by research institutes such as the Ibn Khaldun Center led to a focus on issues of interest to the West, such as female circumcision. 81. See, for example, the views expressed at the meeting of the Committee for Human Rights in the Egyptian parliament, which dealt with the issue of foreign funding, as detailed in al-Jamhuriyya, 26 February 2006. 82. See interview with Sirhan Mufid, who headed a charitable association, in al-Sabil, 7–13 March 2006. See also criticism of the initiatives to monitor foreign funding in Batar Muhammd ‘Ali Wardam, “Did al-tamwil al-ajnabi . . . amm da‘wa lil-qada’ ‘ala’ al-mujtama‘ al-madani?” (Against foreign funding . . . or a call for the elimination of civil society?), al-Dustur, 21 February 2006. 83. See, for example, the government’s refusal to intervene in the decision of the Press Association to suspend the membership of Nidal Mansour for receiving foreign funding, in Jordan Times, 7 September 2000. 84. See the words of Khalid ‘Ali in Egypt Independent, 4 May 2010. 85. Maha Abdelrahman, “The Nationalization of Human Rights Debate in Egypt,” Nations and Nationalism 13:2 (2007): 294–295. 86. On the general public’s awareness of human rights NGOs and their activities, see Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “Hal yastami‘u ahad?!” (Is anyone listening?!), Rawaq al-‘Arabi 22 (2001): 6–20. 87. Hassan, “al-Haraka al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan,” p. 57. See also Wa’il Farouq, “Qirra’a fi nashrat huquq al-insan” (Reading of human rights bulletins), in Saber Na’il (ed.), al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya li-harakat huquq al-insan (Cairo: al-Barnamij al-‘Arabi li-Nushata’u Huquq al-Insan, 1998), pp. 33–36; an-Na‘im, “Human Rights in the Arab World,” p. 722. 88. See specific reference to the EOHR in Qa‘ud, “Nahwa haraka ‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan,” p. 141; Qa‘ud, “al-Munazama l-Misriyya li-huquq al-insan,”

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p. 115; Yusri Mustafa, Harakat huquq al-insan al-Misriyya: bayana al fada’ al‘alami wa’l fada’ al-mahalli (The Egyptian human rights movement: Between the global and the local) (Muntada al-‘Alam al-Thalith, n.d.). 89. ‘Issam al-Din Hassan, quoted in Na’il, al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya, pp. 11– 12. 90. “I‘lan dar al-bayda’,” pp. 383–384. 91. Majdi al-Na‘im, “Istratijiat tarwij wa-ta‘lim huquq al-insan” (Strategies for human rights education), in Hassan, al-‘Arab bayna qam‘ al-dakhil, p. 155; Wajih Kuthrani, “Min al-tanzimat ila’ al-dustur: huquq al-insan fi nusus kitab al-nahda” (From institutions to constitution: Human rights in the texts of the renaissance), in Salma K. al-Jayyusi (ed.), Huquq al-insan fi al-fiqr al-‘Arabi: dirasat fi al-nusus (Human rights in the Arab world: A reader) (Beirut: Markaz Dirasat al-Wahda al-‘Arabiyya, 2002), pp. 419–420. 92. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “Huquq al-Insan maslaha qawmiyya ‘ulya’” (Human rights a supreme national interest), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 2. 93. Ibid., pp. 2–3. 94. “I‘lan dar al-bayda’,” pp. 384; Sa’eda Kilani and Laila Naffa, And Jordan Too (Amman: Jordanian Preparatory Committee for the World Conference and Forum on Human Rights, 1993). 95. al-Na‘im, “Istratijiat tarwij wa-ta‘lim huquq al-insan,” p. 155; Qa‘ud, quoted in Na’il, al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya, p. 28. 96. See the theoretical discussion regarding the existence of cross-culture universals in Alison Dundes Renteln, “Relativism and the Search for Human Rights,” American Anthropologist 90:1 (March 1988): 64–67. 97. Hani Shukrallah, quoted in “International Aspects of the Arab Human Rights Movement.” 98. Qa‘ud, quoted in Na’il, al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya, pp 24–25. 99. Hassan Hanafi, “al-Mawqif l-Islami al-mu‘asir wa-huquq al-insan,” in al-Jayyusi, Huquq al-insan fi al-fiqr al-‘Arabi, pp. 591–592. 100. Farida al-Naqqash, “Huquq al-insan al-‘Arabi wa-mihant al-khususiyya” (Arab human rights and the problem of particularism), al-Majalla al-‘Arabiyya li-huquq al-insan 2 (1995): 124–126. 101. Hassan, “Huquq al-insan maslaha qawmiyya ‘ulya’,” 1. 102. Several conferences of note were dedicated to the exploration of this issue, such as two major conferences that were organized by the CIHRS in 2003 and 2006. See Cairo Institute for Human Rights, Paris Declaration: On Means of Renewing Religious Discourse, 12–13 August 2003 (Cairo, 2003); Salah al-Din al-Jurshi, “Liqa’a Baris khutwa ila’a al-amam wa-laysa mu’amara didda al-Islam” (Paris Conference: A step forward and not a conspiracy against Islam), Rawaq al-‘Arabi 32 (2003): 95–99; Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah (ed.), Huquq al-insan wa’l-khitabat al-dini: kayfa yustafidu min khibrat al-‘alam alIslami ghayr al-‘Arabi: a‘mal mu’tamar huquq al-insan wa-tajdid al-khitab aldini, Alexandria 18–20 April 2006 (Human rights and the religious discourses: How to benefit from the experience of the non-Arab Islamic world: Deliberations of the Conference of Human Rights and the renewal of religious discourse) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2006). 103. Nancy Fraser and Linda Nicholson, “Social Criticism Without Philosophy: An Encounter Between Feminism and Postmodernism,” in Linda J.

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Nicholson (ed.), Feminism/Postmodernism (New York: Routledge, 1990), pp. 19–38. 104. On women as symbols of the collective, see Deniz Kandiyoti, “Reflections on the Politics of Gender in Muslim Societies: From Nairobi to Beijing,” in Mahnaz Afkhami (ed.), Faith and Freedom: Women’s Human Rights in the Muslim World (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1995), pp. 20–21; Miriam Cooke and Bruce B. Lawrence, “Muslim Women Between Human Rights and Islamic Norms,” in Irene Bloom et al. (eds.), Religious Diversity and Human Rights (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), p. 317. 105. Annika Rabo, “Gender, State, and Civil Society in Jordan and Syria,” in Chris Hann and Elizabeth Dunn (eds.), Civil Society Challenging Western Models (London: Routledge, 1996), p. 159; Nayereh Tohidi, “Women’s Rights in Muslim World: The Universal-Particular Interplay,” Hawwa 1:2 (2003): 157; Mirvat F. Hatem, “Secularist and Islamist Discourses on Modernity in Egypt and the Evolution of the Post Colonial Nation State,” in Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and John L. Esposito (eds.), Islam, Gender, and Social Change (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 97. 106. Nadje Sadiq al-Ali, Secularism, Gender, and the State in the Middle East: The Egyptian Women’s Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 208–215, 219. This is not to say that the women activists do not appeal to the universal framework of human rights—on the contrary, some consider it the main source for the consolidation of their struggle. See, for example, Naqqash’s clear position that political Islam has no liberating plan that can protect women and lead them toward economic and social progress: Farida al-Naqqash, “Iqrar al-marji‘iyya al-‘alamiyya li-huquq al-mar’a: huwa al-ma‘raka” (The battle is over the approval of the Universal Authority of Women’s Rights), in Umar al-Qara’i et al., Huquq al-mar’a bayna al-mawathiq al-Dawliyya wa’l-Islam al-siyasi (Women’s rights between the international conventions and political Islam) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Huquq al-Insan, 1999), pp. 102–103. 107. Human Rights Watch, World Report 2006: Jordan (Washington, DC, January 2006), p. 460. 108. The exceptions were the CDFJ (see http://www.cdfj.org) and independent research centers devoted to the issue of human rights, such as the ACHRS (see http://www.achrs.org). 109. Human Rights Watch, “A Missed Opportunity?” 10 July 2009. See also Amman Center for Human Rights, Human Rights Conditions in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, 29 February 2009. 110. For the participation of Egyptian NGOs in the UN Human Rights Council’s discussions in 2009, see Laura K. Landolt, “Externalizing Human Right from Commission to Council: The Universal Periodic Review and Egypt,” Human Rights Review 14:2 (June 2013): 119–126. 111. On the relationship between identity and human rights, see sociologist Sid Yassin and journalist Muhammad Sayyid Ahmad, cited in Dwyer, Arab Voices, pp. 59, 61. 112. Mansoor Moaddel, “Religious and the State: The Singularity of the Jordanian Religious Experience,” International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 15:4 (Summer 2002): 559–560.

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113. Curtis R. Ryan, “Identity Politics, Reform, and Protest in Jordan,” Studies in Ethnicity and Nationalism 11:3 (December 2011): 568–569. 114. Russell Lucas, “Monarchical Authoritarianism: Survival and Political Liberalism in a Middle East Regime Type,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 36 (2004): 103–119. On the tendency of the regime and opposition to resolve crises through dialogue, see Marc Lynch, State Interests and the Public Sphere: The International Politics of Jordan’s Identity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), pp. 23–27. 115. Lucas, “Monarchical Authoritarianism,” p. 113. 116. Richard T. Antoun, “Civil Society, Tribal Process, and Change in Jordan: An Anthropological View,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 32 (2000): 441–463; Laurie Brand, “‘In the Beginning was the State’ . . . The Quest for Civil Society in Jordan,” in R. Norton (ed.), Civil Society in the Middle East, vol. 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 178–180. See also Hourani and Abu Romman, Dalil munazamat al-mujtama‘ al-madani, pp. 9–20. 117. Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” p. 12. 118. See, for example, the attitude of Hussein Abd al-Raziq, secretarygeneral of the al-Tajammu‘ party, as cited in “Lajnat al-difa‘ ‘an aldimuqratiyya: kayf tunahdu bi-mahammuha’?” (The Committee for the Defence of Democracy: How it will fulfill its tasks), Sawasiyya 49–50 (2003): 38–39. See also his arguments as expressed at a conference hosted by the CIHRS, “alHaraka al-Misriyya li-huquq al-insan wa’l-dawala al-madaniyya . . . tabi‘a aldawr wa-jadwal a‘mal al-najba” (The Egyptian human rights movement and the civil state . . . the nature of this role and the elite’s agenda), Sawasiyya 62 (2005): 19. It should be noted that al-Raziq referred to cooperation between the parties and the organizations during the struggle of the Kifaya movement. 119. Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” pp. 353– 354. 120. Ibid. 121. Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” p. 12. See also a general discussion in Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “Arab Political Parties and Human Rights,” in Jayyusi, Human Rights in Arab Thought, pp. 510–535. 122. Amer el-Shobki, “Globalizing the Political Debate,” al-Ahram Weekly, 14–20 October 1999; Galyoun, “Human Rights in Contemporary Arabic Thought,” pp. 352–353. 123. Mustafa K. al-Sayyid, “State, Society, and Violations of Human Rights in Egypt,” in Human Rights, p. 51; Huwayda ‘Adli, who analyzed the response of the political parties toward the attack against novelist Haidar Haidar in 2000, concluded that human rights culture is not part of the doctrine of any political current; Huwayda ‘Adli, “Mawqi‘ thaqafat huquq al-insan lada’ al-tayyarin alIslami wa’l-libirali” (Human rights culture among liberal and Islamic currents), in al-Baqir al-‘Afif and ‘Isam al-Din Muhammad Hussein (eds.), al-Rahin ‘ala’ al-ma‘rifa: mudawulat al-mu’tamar al-dawli al-thani li-harakat huquq al-insan fi al-‘alam al-‘Arabi (Current knowledge: Deliberations of the Second International Conference of the Human Rights Movement in the Arab World) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2002), pp. 153–167. 124. Zarnuqa, “Mawqif al-ahzab al-siyasiyya,” pp. 8–9. This phenomenon is common to all parties in the Arab world. See, for example, ‘Abd al-Ghaffar

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Shukr, “al-Ahzab al-siyasiyya al-‘Arabiyya wa-thaqafat huquq al-insan” (Arab political parties and the human rights culture), in al-‘Afif and Hussein, al-Rahin ‘ala’ al-ma‘rifa, pp. 167–188. 125. See the words of Nabil Abd al-Fatah at a conference organized by the CIHRS, as cited in “Hal al-‘arab adna’ min biqayyat shu‘ub al-‘alam?” (Are the Arabs inferior to the other people of the world?), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 32– 33. 126. Said ‘Abd al-Hafez al-Muhami, “Hizb al-Wafd wa-i‘lam huquq alinsan” (The Wafd party and human rights education), in Na’il, al-Aliyya ali‘lamiyya, pp. 55–56. However, Wafd party members, such as ’Abd al-‘Aziz Mohammad, Ayman Nour, ‘Atef al-Banna, and others, were board members of human rights organizations. 127. “Lajnat al-difa‘ ‘an al-dimuqratiyya,” pp. 38–39. 128. “Testing the Water,” al-Ahram Weekly, 16–22 October 2003. See also Hussein ‘Abd al-Raziq’s reference in “Fi zil da‘f al-shari‘ . . . ‘ala’ madha’ turahinu al-mu‘arada li-tahqiq ahdafiha” (In view of weakness of the street: On what does the opposition bet to achieve its objectives?), Sawasiyya 61 (2005): 10–11. 129. Quoted in Na’il, al-Aliyya al-i‘lamiyya, p. 83. 130. Lust-Okar, “The Decline of Jordanian Political Parties?” pp. 545–569. 131. Samir Habashneh, “Political Liberalization and the Performance of Jordanian Parties,” in Hani Hourani and Hussein Abu-Rumman (eds.), The Democratic Process in Jordan: Where To? Deliberations of the Conference on the Democratic Process in Jordan—Realities and Prospects, Held in Amman from 31 May Until 2 June 1994 (Amman: Al-Urdun al-Jadid Research Center, 1996), p. 165. 132. See the parties’ platforms in Hani Hourani, al-Ahzab al-siyasiyya alUrduniyya (The Jordanian parties) (Amman: Markaz al-Urdun al-Jadid lilDirasat, 1998), pp. 64–123. 133. Mani Shaqir, “Athar al-mithaq al-watani ‘ala’ al-fikr al-siyasi wa’lhay’a al-wataniyya al-Urduniyya” (The effect of the National Charter on political thought), in Hamid al-Dabas (ed.), al-Mithaq al-watani wa’l-tahawul aldimuqrati fi al-Urdun (The National Charter and democratic transformation in Jordan) (Amman: Markaz al-Urdun al-Jadid lil-Dirasat, 1997), pp. 37–73. 134. ‘Umar ‘Ali Hassan, al-Islah al-siyasi fi mihrab al-Azhar wa’l-Ikhwan al-muslimun (Political reforms in the Mihrab of al-Azhar and the Muslim Brotherhood) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Huquq al-Insan, 2005), pp. 128–130. 135. ‘Issam al-‘Aryan, a prominent member of the Muslim Brotherhood, quoted in Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah (ed.), al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya (Islam and democracy) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Huquq al-Insan, 2003), pp. 157– 158. 136. Fred Halliday, Islam and the Myth of Confrontation: Religion and Politics in the Middle East (London: Tauris, 2000), pp. 143–144. 137. Hassan, “Human Rights Ethics,” p. 43; Hamzawy, “Globalization and Human Rights,” p. 55. 138. Neil Hicks, “Does Islamist Human Rights Activism Offer a Remedy to the Crisis of Human Rights Implementation in the Middle East?” Human Rights Quarterly 24 (2002): 369–370. See also Sa‘id, “al-Mashakil al-dakhiliyya,” p.

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23. It should be noted that although rights NGOs defended the rights of Islamists detainees, the involvement of Islamists in human organizations was not welcomed. 139. Hicks, “Does Islamist Human Rights Activism Offer a Remedy?” p. 372. 140. On the Brotherhood’s reforms, see the words of Muhammad Habib at a symposium hosted by the CIHRS, quoted in “al-Ikhwan al-muslimun khadam lil-islah am sanad lahu” (Is the Muslim Brotherhood a supporter of reform or its enemy?), Sawasiyya 62 (2005): 10. 141. See the Brotherhood’s program for the 2005 parliamentary elections in ‘Umar ‘Ali Hassan, al-Islah al-siyasi, pp. 197–206. 142. See, for example, the words of Hussein ‘Abd al-Raziq in al-Ahali, 17 March 2004. 143. Ruz al-Yusuf, 17 February 2006. 144. Zarnuqa, “Mawqif al-ahzab al-siyasiyya,” pp. 9–11. 145. See, for example, “al-Ikhwan al-muslimun khadam lil-islah am sanad lahu” (Is the Muslim Brotherhood a supporter of reform or its enemy?), Sawasiyya 62 (2005): 10–11. See also al-Qimni’s reference to the Muslim Brotherhood’s reform initiative in Ruz al-Yusuf, 8 May 2005; and Asma Salama’s reference to the gap between the principles expressed by the Brotherhood in the reform initiative and its actual conduct in the context of its own organization, in Ruz al-Yusuf, 15 May 2004. See other positions that doubt the reliability of the rethinking of principles conducted by al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya, as expressed in the conference hosted by the CIHRS, in “Nadwa sakhina hawla mubadarat alJama‘a al-Islamiyya li-waqf al-‘unf” (A heated symposium on the Jama‘a alIslamiyya’s initiative to stop violence), Sawasiyya 45–46 (2002): 12–13. 146. See the IAF’s platform in Jabhat al-‘amal al-Islami (Amman: Markaz al-Urdun al-Jadid lil-Dirasat, 1993). 147. See, for example, the IAF’s attitude regarding the report of the NCHR for 2003–2004, in Jabhat al-‘Amal al-Islami, “Mudhakkira ila’ ra’is al-wuzara’ bi-sha’n ma warad fi al-taqrir al-markaz al-watani li-huquq al-insan min khilal fi al-tashri‘at wa’l-siyasat wa’l-mumarasat” (Memorandum to the prime minister regarding the National Center for Human Rights’ report about legislation, policies, and practices), 25 July 2005. 148. This rhetorical commitment to human rights had already begun in the days of Sadat, who initiated liberalization processes. On this issue, see Katerina Dalacoura, Islam, Liberalism, & Human Rights: Implications for International Relations (London: Tauris, 1998), pp. 114–115, 120–124. 149. Salwa Ismail, “State-Society Relations in Egypt: Restructuring the Political,” Arab Studies Quarterly 17:3 (1995): 37. 150. Quoted in Dwyer, Arab Voices, p. 60. 151. See, for example, reference to the nature of the reforms coming from ‘Ali al-Din Hilal, a government minister and NDP member, as cited in “Ali alDin Hilal fi salon Ibn Rushd,” (Ali al-Din Hilal at Ibn Rushd salon), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 7–8. 152. Opposition elements have questioned the seriousness of the call for a national dialogue. See, for example, al-‘Arabi, 2 November 2003; al-‘Arabi, 16 November 2003.

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153. ‘Isam al-Din Muhammad Hassan, “Shizofriniya al-islah fi al-hizb alwatani: yad tuhakimu bi-al-tawari . . . wa-yad tushayidu majlis li-huquq alinsan” (The National Party reforms schizophrenia: One hand strengthens the state of emergency, and the other hand establishes the National Council for Human Rights), in al-Mu’tamar al-sanawi al-thani; Najad al-Bura‘i, “‘Ala’ hamish mu’tamar al-hizb al-watani: jil jadid wa-laysa fiqr jadid” (On the margins of the National Party Conference: A new generation, not a new thought), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 4–5. See also Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, “The National Democratic Party Discourse Doesn’t Meet the Need for Political Constitutional Reform,” press release (Cairo, 29 September 2003). 154. Brynen, “The Politics of Monarchical Liberalism: Jordan,” p. 76. 155. See, for example, the king’s reference to the issue of human rights in the opening speech of the fourth ordinary session of the thirteenth parliament, 25 November 2000, http://www.kingabdullah.jo/index.php/en_US/speeches/view /id/401/videoDisplay/0.html. 156. On this initiative and the public debate that has developed, see Asaf David, “Civil Society and Public Sphere in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan: ‘Jordan First’ as a Test Case,” Hamizrah Hahadash 36 (2006): 200–224 (in Hebrew). 157. See Queen Rania’s speech “al-Karama al-insaniyya wa-huquq al-insan,” Amman, 11 December 2003. 158. See, for example, Hassan’s concept of the modern Islamic state, pluralism, and human rights in al-Hayat, 27 August 2002. 159. National Center for Human Rights, The State of Human Rights in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan: During the Period 1 June 2003–31 December 2004 (Amman, 31 May 2005), p. 48. 160. For the ratification of international agreements, see Ziyada, Masirat huquq al-insan, pp. 133–142; Hisham Suleiman ‘Abd al-Ghaffar, “Mawqif alduwal al-‘Arabiyya min siyagha al-mawathiq al-Dawliyya li-huquq al-insan” (Arab states’ position regarding the formulation of international conventions of human rights), Rawaq al-‘Arabi 38–39 (2005): 117–143. 161. Admantia Pollis, “Cultural Relativism Revisited: Through a State Prism,” Human Rights Quarterly 18 (1996): 321. 162. UN Doc. CCPR/S/SR.1321, 8 July 1994, paras. 4–5. 163. See the Jordanian report submitted to the Committee Against Torture, UN Doc. CAT/C/16/Add.5, 3 March 1995, para. 31. See also the Egyptian representative’s statement at the fifty-first meeting of the UN Human Rights Committee, UN Doc. E/CN.4/2004/SR.51, 24 April 2004, para. 42. 164. UN Doc. CCPR/C/EGY/2001/3, 15 April 2002, para. 545; UN Doc. CCPR/C/SR.1246 8 June 1994, para. 19. 165. UN Doc. CCPR/C/EGY/2001/3, 15 April 2002, paras. 488, 492; UN Doc. CCPR/C/SR.2050, 24 October 2002, para. 21. 166. UN Doc. CCPR/C/SR.2048, 23 October 2002, para. 3. 167. See the report submitted by Jordan to the Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women, UN Doc. A/55/38, 17 January 2000, para. 151. 168. Hassan, “Huquq al-insan maslaha qawmiyya ‘ulya’,” p. 2. 169. Pollis, “Cultural Relativism Revisited,” pp. 320, 322–323.

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170. Cooke and Lawrence, “Muslim Women Between Human Rights and Islamic Norms,” p. 315. 171. On the relationship between the state and the tribes, see, for example, Linda L. Lane, Home and Homeland: The Dialogic of Tribal and National Identities in Jordan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 172. al-Sharfi, “Ishkaliyat thaqafat huquq al-insan fi’l-‘alam al-‘Arabi,” p. 10. 173. For a discussion of Arab national human rights councils, see Sonia Cardenas and Andrew Flibbert, “National Human Rights Institutions in the Middle East,” Middle East Journal 59:3 (Summer 2005): 411–436. 174. See also the argument that the NCHR was established due to pressure exerted by human rights activists, in Salama A. Salama, “The First Year for Human Rights,” al-Ahram Weekly, 19–25 May 2005. 175. See a list of NCHR members in Jamhuriyyat Misr al-‘Arabiyya, alMajlis al-Qawmi li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Taqrir al-sanawi li’l-majlis al-qawmi lihuquq al-insan 2004/5 (The annual report of the National Council for Human Rights, 2004–2005) (Cairo, 2005), pp. 68–69. 176. See interview with Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the head of the NCHR, in Ruz al-Yusuf, 8 October 2004. 177. Muhi al-Din Sa‘id, “al-Majlis al-qawmi li-huquq al-insan tajmil lilhukuma . . . am li-tahsin huquq al-insan?” (The National Council for Human Rights: For the improvement of the government image . . . or for the improvement of human rights), Sawasiyya 51–52 (2003): 8–9. See also the words of the discussants at the conference held by the CIHRS, in “Awlawiyyat al-majlis alqawmi li-huquq al-insan wa-mas’uliyyat al-mujtam‘ al-madani” (The Egyptian National Council for Human Rights’ priorities and civil society responsibilities), Sawasiyya 55 (2004): 21. 178. Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, “Egyptian National Council for Human Rights Against Human Rights NGOs,” press release (Cairo, 3 June 2003); “Awlawiyyat al-majlis,” 21. 179. See a letter that was sent by the NGOs to the chairman of the NCHR, “Limadha rafadat munathamat huquq al-insan da‘wat al-majlis al-qawmi lihuquq al-insan” (Why human rights organizations rejected the call of the National Council for Human Rights), Sawasiyya 60 (2004): 5. 180. See a reference to the issue of torture in the NCHR report Jamhuriyyat Misr al-‘Arabiyya, al-Majlis al-Qawmi li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Taqrir al-sanawi, pp. 261–168. See also Salim al-‘Awwa, “al-Nadhir al-‘uryan . . . fi mas’alat huquq al-insan” (The naked monitor . . . in the issue of human rights), Wajhat Nazr 7:77 (June 2005): 16–19. 181. Bahy al-Din Hassan and Salah ‘Issa, the editor of al-Qahira, comment on the importance of this report in “Taqrir al-majlis al-qawmi li-huquq al-insan: hal yakun masirha sallat al-muhmalat” (The report of the National Council for Human Rights: Will it end up in the trash?), Sawasiyya 63 (2005): 16–17. 182. Ibid. 183. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “‘Ashr khutuwat lil-khalf! limadha’ i‘taradtu ‘ala’ taqrir al-majlis al-qawmi li-huquq al-insan?” (Ten steps backward! Why I objected to the NCHR’s report), al-Masry al-Youm, 17 April 2006. 184. Jamhuriyyat Misr al-‘Arabiyya, al-Majlis al-Qawmi li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Taqrir al-sanawi, pp. 327–328.

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185. See, for example, Hafez Abu Sa‘ada’s opinion, “al-Matlub fi misr inha’ hal al-tawari’ la ta‘dil qanun al-tawari’” (What is needed is the abolition of the state of emergency and not the amendment of emergency laws), al-Hayat, 11 May 2004. 186. al-Masry al-Youm, 31 December 2004. 187. al-Masry al-Youm, 18 January 2007. 188. al-Dustur, 9 February 2010; al-Wafd, 9–10 February 2010. 189. Hourani and Abu Romman, Dalil munazamat al-mujtama‘ al-madani, p. 223. 190. al-Sabil, 26 September–2 October 2000. 191. See the official website of the NCHR, http://www.nchr.org.jo. 192. Hani al-Dakhla welcomed the decision not to include representatives from his organization in the NCHR, because this decision reinforces the organization’s independence. See al-Bayan, 19 November 2003. See also his criticism toward the NCHR in al-Majd, 17 February 2003. 193. National Center for Human Rights, The State of Human Rights in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan 2005 (Amman, 2006). 194. See the various issues discussed in the NCHR’s journal, al-Risala 1–4 (2004–2005). 195. National Center for Human Rights, Status Report on Human Rights: The Hashemite Kingdom 2006 (Amman, 2007). 196. Risse and Sikkink, “The Socialization of Human Rights,” p. 10; Cardenas and Flibbert, “National Human Rights Institutions in the Middle East,” p. 44. 197. Ann Elizabeth Mayer, “The Human Rights Jihad,” in Martin Kramer (ed.), The Islamism Debate (Tel Aviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1997), p. 119.

3 Limits on Political Criticism

THE REGIMES IN JORDAN AND EGYPT VOICED A RHETORICAL

commitment to human rights and freedom of expression, and made frequent use of these concepts. However, actual events subverted this commitment and exposed the gap between the rhetoric of the regimes and their attitude toward opposition forces, which became evident in actions and laws restricting freedom of expression. From the outset, the concept of these regimes regarding freedom of expression was limited, and it was examined according to the manner in which it served the national interest as perceived by the regimes. The arguments that they presented for restricting freedom of expression concentrated, usually, upon the idea of preservation of the state. In this respect, arguments linking imposition of restrictions upon freedom of expression and national security went beyond issues of foreign military threats to include anything perceived as a threat to the state institutions and interests, including negative declarations regarding religion, faith, values, and national traditions. Indeed, this is a selective system of freedom of expression, grounded in an ever-changing system of red lines that places certain types of criticism beyond the boundaries of permissible discussion, especially criticism that challenges the political leadership. However, the restrictions placed upon the development of an indepth discussion dealing with freedom of expression were not limited solely to the oppressive regimes, but were also found in the emerging debates among intellectuals and local human rights networks. Human rights activists express universal commitment to human rights, yet their support for freedom of expression is not a matter of course. Human

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rights networks, which encountered difficulties in dealing with regime constraints and with charges that human rights were advancing Western hegemony, found themselves trapped in the rhetoric and values of national interest, national unity, and unity vis-à-vis imperialism. In this chapter I examine two of the more prominent cases of the violation of freedom of expression—the trial of sociologist Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim in Egypt and the trial of former member of parliament Tujan alFaisal in Jordan. The two were indicted for similar charges, headlined by the accusation of defaming state institutions and disseminating false information abroad considered detrimental to the state’s reputation and prestige. These cases draw attention to the problematic promotion of human rights in societies that, while paying formal homage to internationally recognized human rights, maintain a tension-ridden relationship with the latter, often considering them an idiom disguising foreign interests and the pursuit of Western hegemony. The two cases also allow us to examine the mutual interaction between the various forces and factors affecting political positions regarding these crises. In particular, these two cases allow us to examine the interplay between domestic resistance and the effective internalization of human rights and the forces willing to promote them through transnational alliances and advocacy networks.

Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim: A Human Rights Activist Faces Trial Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim,1 professor of sociology at the American University in Cairo, head of the Ibn Khaldun Center for Development Studies,2 and one of the most prominent human rights activists in the Arab world, was arrested on 1 July 2000, along with twenty-seven of the center’s employees. He was arrested for having received illegal foreign funds to use for the preparation and distribution of reports considered harmful to the social, economic, and political interests of Egypt.3 When he was released on bail after forty-five days in custody, and despite the ongoing investigation against him and the other employees of the Ibn Khaldun Center, Ibrahim announced that he intended to continue his activities, especially those concerning the supervision of elections, a project he had been working on since 1995. The government’s response was swift. Four days after Ibrahim’s announcement, prosecutors indicted him and his fellow employees.4 Charges, as reported by the Egyptian

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attorney general, included unauthorized receipt of foreign funding, forgery of electoral registry tickets, improper handling of funds, and preparation of reports considered slanderous against Egypt.5 The trial began in November 2000 at the High State Security Court, which sentenced Ibrahim in May 2001 to seven years in prison, whereas twenty of his fellow employees at the Ibn Khaldun Center received sentences ranging from one to five years.6 In February 2002 Ibrahim and the other defendants were temporarily released when the High Court of Appeals ordered a retrial. The court reasoned that some of the laws by which the defendants were convicted seemed not to have been fully enacted, and also that the Supreme Court of Defense may have ignored documents and evidence presented by Ibrahim’s lawyers that might have changed the verdict.7 In the retrial, however, the previous verdict was approved, on 25 August 2002. On 18 March 2003, following overt pressure internationally, especially by the United States, the High Court of Appeals acquitted Ibrahim and the rest of the defendants of all charges. Implication and Reactions Ibrahim’s trial became a litmus test for assessing the domestic hold of human rights and the weight of the supporting global networks trying to be accepted as legitimate players by the domestic institutions and the social mainstream. It soon became apparent that what was at stake was more than just the trial of one human rights activist. The case affected the entire human rights movement in Egypt as well as the domestic networks active in promoting democracy and equality. This was due not only to the interest it raised in the West, but also to its reflection of the fact that any action aimed at democratic reform jeopardizes authoritarian government. The trial was also important because of the impact it had on human rights NGOs, by reactivating the self-imposed limitations on freedom of speech. The trial raised issues of human rights and human rights violations. In its aftermath, public debate explored the relationship of human rights to the international arena, the status of nongovernmental and nonprofit organizations, and the question of foreign funding of domestic activists, particularly those defying existing power structures. Ibrahim’s arrest and trial surprised many. Up to the trial, Ibrahim was almost part of the establishment, having high-ranking connections in the government. Many former government executives, ministers, and prime ministers had served on the Ibn Khaldun Center’s board of trustees. In a quid pro quo, the regime could confidently point to the

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existence of this respected liberal Ibn Khaldun Center as proof of regime tolerance.8 Moreover, Ibrahim’s studies on the social origins of militant Islamic groups influenced the manner in which the government conducted its struggle with them.9 During the 1990s, Ibrahim had a television show in which he appealed to the nation, expressing his opinions on the importance of civil society and on the struggle against extremist Islamic organizations.10 From the start, the case of Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim was perceived by his supporters as well as by international observers and some independent analysts in Egypt as a political case reflecting the dominant relationship of the Egyptian state over civil society.11 Many interpreted his arrest as implying that there were no specific rules about what it was permissible to say. One could claim that the government made no effort to outline clear boundaries, preferring to react according to the level of protest its policies raised and the circumstances surrounding such protest. In this respect, Mubarak’s administration did not differ from the regimes of Nasser and Sadat, which also manipulated the intellectuals, the Islamic activists, and other forces for their own political gain, while sporadically reducing the limitations over freedom of speech of different groups in accordance with changing needs and strategies.12 Bahy al-Din Hassan, a prominent human rights activist and CIHRS head, claimed that the allegations against Ibrahim demonstrated the political character of the case. Because of their general character, most of the allegations were related to publications, declarations, and reports, with a focus on issues of democracy, fair elections, and minority rights. Allegations such as these could easily have been raised against a wide number of independent writers, reporters, political figures, and nongovernmental and human rights organizations who likewise were portrayed in the Egyptian media as harmful to the country’s international image and reputation.13 And yet, others thought Ibrahim had crossed the line of governmental tolerance by systematically dealing with politically sensitive issues. The timing of the arrest and indictment was seen as mainly related to the November 2000 parliamentary elections. Ibrahim, who for years assumed the role of overseer of the electoral process in Egypt, had claimed that the process was corrupt and that he planned to supervise the propriety of upcoming elections as he had done before.14 He also produced a film, with a script written by ‘Ali Salem, encouraging citizens to take part in the elections. According to the government, the film contained political statements detrimental to the country’s reputation abroad and also threatened national security.15

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In addition to this sensitive issue, the status of the Coptic minority had become part of Ibrahim’s agenda. He classified the Copts of Egypt together with other repressed minorities like the Kurds and Southern Sudanese and criticized discrimination against them. In addition, he called for the Egyptian constitution to be changed to accommodate the needs of this Christian minority by revising the clause that determines that Islamic law is the main source of constitutional legitimacy.16 Raising criticisms over minority rights was perceived by the authorities and by many in society as problematic.17 The Egyptian state, which considers the Copts an integral part of the nation, has systematically denied the existence of any problem in this regard, to the point that the very use of the word “minority” in reference to the Copts has come to be seen as violation of a national consensus.18 A complementary explanation for the timing of Ibrahim’s arrest and the change in the regime’s attitude toward his activities relates to an article he published in the Arab magazine al-Majalla immediately after the Syrian change of leadership in July 2000. In that article, Ibrahim coined the term al-jumlukiyya, purposely combining the Arab words for “republic” (jumhuriyya) and “monarchy” (malakiyya) and thus alluding through this neologism to a tendency he identified in Arab republican regimes toward the transmission of power by inheritance. In Ibrahim’s opinion, in cases such as Syria, Iraq, Yemen, and Libya, the presidents began to see the state as personal property, thus prompting their desire to pass on their rule within their family.19 The message was interpreted in local circles as being a hint to President Mubarak, who had no designated deputy, to avoid a future replication of Syria’s transition pattern in the form of enthroning his son Jamal as successor.20 Ibrahim’s case received unprecedented media attention. Immediately after his arrest, the Egyptian government began a frontal attack against him that went on for the entire three years of the trial, depicting Ibrahim and those similarly operating in the public domain as threats to social stability and as treasonous. Although the official strategy was clear, Mubarak carefully distanced himself from the witch hunt, indicating that “there is much of a fuss around the man and there are some in Egypt who see him as a traitor.”21 Reports in the Egyptian media strengthened the government’s strategy. These reports denied the possibility that the issues at hand were freedom of speech and autonomous participation in the public sphere, while suggesting that such false claims could only originate in Western campaigns to discredit the Egyptian judicial system. As far as the mainstream Egyptian media were concerned, the trial was about national

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security and high treason. By going too far in expressing radical opinions, Ibrahim had crossed the line separating Egyptian and foreign interests and had betrayed the nation.22 The government’s strategy, aimed at domestic public opinion, stressed the harm done to Egypt’s image and solidarity. The judges also departed from ordinary procedures and gave interviews to the press explaining the verdict. Although they claimed to treat all of the charges equally, in their opinion the most severe was the distribution of false information abroad, because of the harm it caused to Egypt’s international reputation. They also determined that what set Ibrahim’s criticisms apart, compared to the criticisms leveled by other writers and intellectuals at the election process and the position of the Copts in society, was that Ibrahim’s criticisms were aimed to a foreign audience, as evidenced by the fact that he distributed these criticisms to European Union entities and European metropolitan centers.23 In order to establish the claim that Ibrahim’s actions were equivalent to a betrayal of Egypt’s interests, the court alluded to Ibrahim’s connections to Israel. The media published a series of items, later revealed as unfounded, regarding alleged Israeli involvement in the case, including Prime Minister Ariel Sharon expressing an official protest to the Egyptian government regarding the verdict.24 Likewise, the media publicized the close academic ties between the Ibn Khaldun Center and Zionist intellectuals, and emphasized cooperation in research projects claimed to compromise Egyptian national security.25 Media reports also claimed that Ibrahim’s research on political parties in the Arab world was funded by an Israeli organization operating through Boston University.26 When Ibrahim appealed the verdict, the court raised new allegations about funding from foreign sources, among them the Al Jazeera television station and Haifa University in Israel.27 Ibrahim’s alleged connection to Israel was meant to strengthen the court’s arguments for rejecting his appeal and to undermine Ibrahim’s and the Ibn Khaldun Center’s credibility, because supporting the normalization process with Israel is seen by many in Egypt as politically condemnable. The judges’ strategy gained the support of the domestic media and intellectuals. Even though Ibrahim was seen as a prominent sociologist with many international connections, his opinions did not gain the support of the Egyptian public and intellectuals. His deviation from domestic common sense attracted criticism from many circles. His secularist position on the role of Islam in Egyptian politics and society raised harsh criticisms in Islamist circles; his position regarding the Coptic

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minority was perceived as national slander meant for the benefit of alienated circles trying to generate factionalism; and his pro-Western views, global connections, and positions on the normalization of international ties with Israel were condemned by leftist and nationalist circles.28 All these varied voices joined the media and semiofficial condemnation, demanding a most severe sentence at the trial. The Reaction of the Domestic Human Rights Movement Human rights groups in Egypt expressed shock and surprise at the severity of Ibrahim’s punishment. Compared with the international response, which swiftly denounced the verdict, local human rights activists reacted in a relatively subdued manner.29 Since the mid-1990s the efforts of the human rights movement in Egypt have been undermined. In narrowing political opportunities available to the opposition, the Egyptian government systematically questioned the credibility of human rights activists, and most of the media have been hostile to their efforts. Public opinion has treated human rights activists with suspicion, viewing them as a fifth column that profits from involving the rest of the world in the discussion over Egypt’s internal problems and issues. Human rights nongovernmental organizations, which took part in the struggle to change the laws limiting the registration and funding of NGOs, suffered a defeat in 1999 when the government passed Law 153 and thereby assumed a higher level of control over the external funding, range of activity, and leadership of these organizations.30 Ibrahim was the first human rights activist to be tried on accusations of slandering Egypt’s name and receiving unauthorized foreign funds.31 The human rights movement saw this trial as a continuation of the government’s hostile policy against civic institutions in Egypt and perceived it as a campaign aimed at silencing any autonomous organizations working for the defense of human rights and democracy.32 Human rights activist Najad al-Bura‘i claimed that the government was treating human rights organizations as if they were part of the political opposition. According to al-Bura‘i, the verdict against Ibrahim was a message to civil society that Egypt had no place for human rights NGOs.33 The public nature and publicity of the trial, plus the fact that the defendant was well connected and held dual citizenship (Egyptian and US), added to human rights activists’ certainty that the government had chosen this case as means to limit NGO activity in the public domain.34

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Activists came to realize that there existed boundaries of legitimate discourse, though not fully explicit, and that crossing them would carry severe consequences. The message did not go unnoticed and led to the odd contrast between the presence of foreign diplomats and international human rights representatives throughout the trial compared to the attendance of only a small number of local human rights activists.35 Ibrahim’s past connections with the regime, his support for peace with Israel—a controversial approach among intellectuals in Egypt—and the emphasis he put on Coptic minority rights all contributed to the halfhearted approach human rights NGOs took toward the trial. Ibrahim’s conduct after his arrest distanced the activists even more. Immediately after his arrest, Ibrahim announced that he would continue to dedicate his time to supervising the elections.36 This announcement was resented by many human rights activists, who feared the government would react in a confrontational manner against the entire movement, without distinction. Therefore, when discussing the case in the media, human rights activists would stress the political and ideological distance separating them from Ibrahim.37 The existing gap between Ibrahim and the other human rights activists was emphasized on the occasion of a visit to Cairo of the US Commission on International Religious Freedom, when Ibrahim released a declaration on discrimination against the Copts. Even though he had not met with the commission, his announcement made an impression on its evaluations of the domestic situation. Human rights activists disagreed with Ibrahim’s move, claiming that it only strengthened the commission’s prejudice. As for the commission’s report, human rights activists claimed it jumped to conclusions without any comprehensive study or empirical finding.38 The negative opinions expressed by human rights activists about Ibrahim’s declarations on the Copts reflected these activists’ fear of governmental reaction and an understanding that there was little popular support for their activities, support that might decline further if they allowed themselves to be affiliated with Ibrahim. However, activists’ concerns also reflected the limitations of debate and discussion within the human rights movement itself. Although human rights activists rely on international human rights principles and adopt the strategy of reliance on international laws and norms to advance domestic human rights promotion, their use of these norms in this case was limited. The activists were restrained by powerful domestic norms and concepts. Their reaction to Ibrahim’s activity on the Coptic issue testifies to the fact that they were being influenced by axioms dominant in Egypt that tended to deny the existence of discrimination against this minority.39

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Because of the government’s policy and the message it sent to human rights activists throughout the trial, as well as due to the public media campaign and the existing gap between the activists and Ibrahim, the domestic human rights network chose to ignore the principled issues underlying the trial, especially those relevant to freedom of speech and civic participation. Instead, domestic human rights activists expressed their views regarding this case by referencing only the legal aspects of the trial against Ibrahim. While this strategy reflected their expertise, it also attested to the fact that this strategy was the safest under Mubarak. Accordingly, the EOHR focused its declarations on the body that ran the investigation and on the allegations raised against Ibrahim, which were based on a flawed interpretation of legal clauses that drew their authority from an emergency situation.40 Meanwhile, independent writers expressed their support for freedom of speech. An outstanding example was that of the poet ‘Abd alMu‘ti Hijazi, who said that despite the respect he had for the integrity of Egypt’s judicial system, Ibrahim’s case was about freedom of speech and democracy.41 The publicist Ibrahim ‘Isa stated that Ibrahim was the target of a political and moral assassination for the sole reason that he had dared to raise the demand for free and fair elections and democracy in the homeland.42 Others pointed to the apparent gap in treatment of intellectuals between Egypt and the West—in the West intellectuals are not imprisoned when they express opinions that go against the consensus.43 These expressions of support were few, however, and did not come from within the ranks of the human rights movement. Besides emphasizing the legal aspects of the trial, human rights activists chose to relate to the question of the foreign funding of their organizations, already a controversial issue before the trial and one that became more controversial as the trial proceeded. Ibrahim’s trial, the first in which a human rights activist was convicted for receiving unauthorized foreign funding, was seen as part of a wider struggle by the government against NGOs, in an attempt to control their cash flow. The government itself, as a way to avoid dealing with issues related to freedom of speech, chose to focus the trial on the question of foreign funding, especially that of organizations dealing with human rights and the promotion of democracy.44 The government used this strategy as a means of undermining the credibility of these organizations and emphasizing the relationship between the flow of foreign funds and the agendas of these groups, depicting them as perhaps naive and probably malevolent agents of US hegemony and interests. The domestic press focused on the connections between foreign funds and the percolation of foreigners into Egypt, which in the words

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of critics transformed domestic organizations into “boutiques for the sale of the Egyptian soul” to international organizations, under the argument of promoting democracy. 45 Even after Ibrahim’s complete acquittal in March 2003, the verbal media assault on the Ibn Khaldun Center’s reliance on foreign funds continued, emphasizing the transferal of $2 million to the center from the United States. The Ibn Khaldun Center was portrayed as being compensated for adopting the US ideology, and the receipt of these funds was depicted as a conscious act of defiance on the part of the center against the Egyptian government, which was portrayed as defending the national interest.46 The implications of the primary ruling in the trial over the activities of the human rights networks were crucial and meant the suspension or closure of operations. The implementation of the military regulations on which the allegations against Ibrahim were based meant stopping foreign funding and thus the elimination of the human rights movement, because most of its activity was enabled by such funding. Local financing sources too were drained, because they feared being connected to organizations who criticized the government.47 Organizations such as the EOHR were forced to fire employees, shut down local branches, and seriously cut back on their activities.48 The issues at hand were neither new nor exceptional. On the contrary, the autonomy of human rights NGOs was an issue that provoked a vigorous and relatively open public discussion. In 1998– 1999, human rights and other NGOs were united in a public campaign in favor of more liberal association laws. This struggle ended in failure for the NGOs when a strict law on associations and civil institutions was legislated, granting the government the power to intervene in NGOs’ financial and administrative structures. 49 In the public debate that followed the Ibrahim trial, human rights NGOs did not fare well. In the media, the debate was channeled by the government to demonize advocacy NGOs focused on human rights and democracy, portraying them as representatives of Western interests. The domestic media served the government’s purpose also by deflecting the debate from the fundamental questions underlying the Ibrahim trial. Government strategies were not the only cause for the narrowing margins of public debate on these issues. International involvement, mainly by the United States, and the reaction it provoked in the domestic public sphere, also played a role in limiting the discussion over the significance of the trial and in silencing principled questions of freedom of speech and democratic participation.

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International Involvement and the Narrowing of Human Rights Advocacy International involvement in general, and that of the United States in particular, further limited the terms of debate. External concern and involvement were exploited by the Egyptian government on nationalist grounds to enhance the assault on Ibrahim’s claims and patterns of operation. Following Ibrahim’s arrest in July 2000, the Egyptian government was sharply criticized by INGOs, which perceived the case as politically driven.50 The formal reaction of foreign governments was not as strong, however. The United States chose not to apply any substantial public pressure on the Egyptian government to release Ibrahim, and limited itself to critical remarks on the arrest and verdict, while operating behind the scenes.51 Nonetheless, the case exposed the tensions in US-Egyptian relations, and the US reaction was interpreted in Egypt and in the Arab world as deriving from the Egyptian stance on other issues, like the war in Iraq, Sudan, and the president of the Palestinian National Authority, Yasser Arafat. Ibrahim’s second indictment occurred a few days after the peace agreement between the Sudanese government and the Sudanese militia, with US mediation and arbitration. Egypt was not invited to take part in the marathon negotiations, which lasted about five weeks, even though the issue of a unified Sudan had always been an important topic for Egyptian foreign policy. Some observers thought that by turning down Ibrahim’s appeal, Egypt was sending a diplomatic message to the United States that Egypt’s role in solving the Sudanese crisis should not be disregarded, whereas others claimed that the message had more to do with the George W. Bush administration’s proIsraeli approach and US plans to invade Iraq than with the situation in Sudan.52 The US reaction, however mild, was well exploited by the Egyptian government and media. As part of the domestic campaign launched to depict Ibrahim as a traitor, the domestic media emphasized the US connection and foreign involvement in the case. The official US stance and US media criticisms of the verdict were portrayed as a direct assault on the Egyptian judicial system and sovereignty. Top officials pointed out the relationship of this case to Egyptian independence. Ahmed Maher, minister of foreign affairs, emphasized the independence of Egypt’s judicial system and demanded that foreigners respect the Egyptian courts in the same way Egypt refrained from intervening in the internal affairs of other countries. He stressed as well that his state would not yield to international pressure. The spokesman of the Egyptian embassy

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in Washington defended the verdict, saying that “Egypt, like the USA, is a state that appreciates its sovereignty. Political pressures to change the verdict are a call for [external] political hegemony.”53 Independent elements in the Egyptian media expressed a similar approach and called on the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to take a firm stand in defending Egypt’s national sovereignty.54 Well aware of this problematic connection between the charges against him and the theme of foreign penetration, Ibrahim and his lawyers tried to avoid tying the case to US pressure. Ibrahim announced that he had full confidence in the Egyptian courts, that he faced trial as an Egyptian citizen, and that he sought the support of domestic and international human rights organizations and not that of foreign governments.55 Though the United States initially submitted to this policy of not interfering openly, the rejection of Ibrahim’s appeal in August 2002 changed that policy. The trial, which was perceived by the United States as closely related to issues of personal freedom, now became tied directly to US financial aid to Egypt. On 15 August 2002 the United States announced that it would not compromise the existing aid program, amounting to $2 billion, but would deprive Egypt of additional aid that would have amounted to another $130 million.56 The US “threat” galvanized the nationalist atmosphere in Egypt and led to verbal and written attacks on US policy, seen as an unjust interference in Egypt’s internal affairs and as an assault against its sovereignty. The domestic press denounced the “hysterical” US overreaction to the court’s verdict.57 Opposition group and parties came out in support of the Egyptian government. The Wafd party, for example, criticized foreign interference in Egypt’s internal affairs, declared its complete solidarity with the government, and encouraged it to resist US interference.58 Similar stands were taken by the Nasserite, the al-Tajammu‘, and smaller political parties.59 Even the Muslim Brotherhood, hundreds of whose members had been sentenced to imprisonment by military courts, was uncharacteristically supportive. The Brotherhood chose to ignore its usual struggle with the regime and praised the latter’s stance on the issue, calling on it to oppose any US involvement or financial aid. Leading figures referred to the US stance on the human rights issue as a means of disguising US interests and interference in the region. ‘Issam al-‘Aryan, a leading member of the Muslim Brotherhood, mentioned the trial of 2 September 2002, in which 101 Brotherhood activists faced charges of disturbing public order and attempting to disrupt elections, claiming that theirs was as much as a human rights trial as Ibrahim’s was said to be. In al-

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‘Aryan’s opinion, the fact that the United States and Europe had failed to come to the defense of those detainees, who were tried in military courts under emergency laws, proved the double standards in the Western view of human rights. As far as the Muslim Brotherhood was concerned, any reform made in Egypt should express the will of the nation, which in the Arab case meant standing against US hegemony.60 The US “threat” to deprive Egypt of additional aid was used to deflect the discussion to themes of national sovereignty and unity. This strategy was supported also by domestic human rights activists. Contrary to INGOs that celebrated the change in US policy toward what they saw as a renewed willingness to confront policies of oppression, even among allies, the domestic human rights network in Egypt preferred in this case to adopt the dominant conception and stand by the Egyptian government in opposing external pressures. This stand was exceptional especially if one considers that the domestic human rights NGOs centered their activity on documenting domestic violations of human rights and publishing their findings abroad, which in itself both hinged on—and promoted— campaigns of solidarity reaching out far beyond the local scene, to foreign governments and human rights activists worldwide. But just like the Islamist circles in the domestic public sphere, human rights NGOs seriously doubted the integrity of US policy and pointed out its double standards in the protection of human rights. Bahy al-Din Hassan claimed that the US war on terror since 11 September 2001 compromised civil rights and democracy all over the world. Therefore it was difficult for human rights activists to accept the United States as a genuine supporter and leading engine of their cause. Also, in his opinion, the US pressure in the Ibrahim case was nothing but a rhetorical gesture, because the aid that was diverted was simply extra money that Egypt demanded after $200 million was handed over to Israel as part of a $5.1 billion fund reserved for the war on terror. This small diversion of aid was meant, Hassan said, to prove to both the international community and to liberal circles in the United States that the Bush administration was drawing a firm line in the face of oppression and did not take human rights violations lightly.61 Hafez Abu-Sa‘ada, head of the EOHR, made a similar claim, saying that even though his organization was not against the use of international pressure to achieve certain goals, he did not approve such pressure when double standards were involved in its implementation. The United States had the right to protect Ibrahim because he was US citizen, but it should not use financial aid as a means of pressure, especially when Israel enjoyed US aid and support.62

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The stance of human rights activists reflected their problematic position. In this case, as the United States tied its financial aid to the outcome of Ibrahim’s trial, domestic activists feared expressing opinions close to those of the West, which would lend credence to the portrayal of these activists as agents of Western agendas. Such a domestic response related to colonial history and resentment against all forms of foreign interference. As Hafez Abu-Sa’ada remarked: “Egypt is a state that has fought for years, at a great price, to free itself from colonialism. Now that it is independent, it would not allow its policy to be dictated by other states.”63 In this aspect, the Egyptian human rights activists, like other domestic intellectuals, were in a position that liberal Lebanese writer Hazim Saghiyah defined as being torn “between Immanuel Kant on one hand and Salah al Din fighting the crusaders on the other.”64 The failure of the domestic human rights network to provide moral and political support to Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim reflected the existing limitations of the advocacy groups in Egypt. The human rights network, which stood at the front line of domestic efforts to promote human rights, was constrained by a variety of domestic trends that imposed severe limitations on its ability to express a clear commitment to human rights and to socialize domestic society to human rights. The regime played a major role in imposing these limitations. The policy the government chose to pursue, and its choice of upholding an open trial against Ibrahim, created a snowball of public opinion, closing ranks around the government against those individuals and NGOs—like Ibrahim’s—that could easily be portrayed as “alienated from the national interest.” Such a configuration of public opinion, reinforced by most intellectuals and political parties, contributed to a self-imposed silence on the part of most activists and NGOs that had usually led the human rights cause domestically. Although the case revealed the weakness of the network in facing state power, it also clarified how easily such deep-seated notions as sovereignty and national independence were mobilized against what in the West were clearly perceived as basic rights of association, participation, and speech. Human rights NGOs in Egypt had to refrain from engaging in sensitive political issues until developments in Lebanon and the Palestinian Authority—linked to the US war against Iraq—opened a new window of opportunities that would lead to unprecedented debate and a nascent reform movement.65 The strategies assumed by the Egyptian government contributed to the deflection of the discussion from principled issues toward the tech-

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nical and legal aspects of the case. The government chose to emphasize, through a wide public campaign, Ibrahim’s patterns of organizational operation, which were defined as disloyal and harmful to the state’s unity. Other issues that were mentioned were the question of foreign funding and influence and the relationship of human rights to the international arena and the Western agenda. In general, the government framed the public debate in a way that strengthened the national sentiment against foreign influence, thus putting the focus on questions relevant to its own interests. The irony was that Egypt was (and still is) hugely dependent on foreign aid, coming from the very same source and state whose influence on the domestic distribution of power and on the human rights network it resented. In view of the restrictions imposed in the public arena, the human rights movement’s ability to create and sustain an alternative debate and system of beliefs was weak, because it was easily diverted by the use of instrumental politics and reinforcement of the traditional anticolonialist rhetoric. The case actually expressed the potential entailed in such a debate evolving in the public sphere, as Ibrahim’s trial was intentionally conducted with open doors and criticism was permitted. However, the opportunity to discuss freedom of expression remained embryonic, as the development of such a debate occurred in a concrete constellation of forces over which the government held unlimited power, allowing it to manipulate the public agenda. In parallel to the human rights network and in the same public sphere, there existed a wide range of alternative voices, originating both in the establishment and among Islamist groups. The latter faced the same dilemma that the human rights movement was forced to deal with, a dilemma evident in its constant insecurity vis-à-vis the seats of power regarding the issues they promoted. The open support expressed by opposition forces, among them the Islamist groups, for the government’s position in the Ibrahim case, and their strong opposition to US involvement, showed how factional the forces stemming from civil society were, and how captive to the government’s agenda many of them were, thus precluding the formation of a wide coalition able to facilitate domestic institutionalization of human rights provisions.66 Because of the lack of support and a popular base for its ideas, the human rights network had to make sure, as always, that the stand it took did not provoke too much antagonism among the public. Therefore, it failed to engage fully with the case of Ibrahim, whose opinions and activity in fields such as religion versus secularity, the role of Islam in Egyptian politics and society, the condition of the Coptic minority, and

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the normalization process with Israel, were controversial and opposed to what most Egyptians believed. It can also be inferred that the stand many activists held on issues of nationalism and resistance to colonialism in its new twenty-first-century form defined the issues they promoted, up to the point that they served government interests detrimental to human rights and helped sustain the existing power structures by reconstructing and duplicating a hegemonic perception, while leaving little room for an autonomous and pluralistic democratic participation.

Tujan al-Faisal: A Political Activist Stands Trial Tujan al-Faisal, a former journalist, women’s rights activist, and the first woman to serve in the Jordanian parliament (1993–1997), was arrested on 16 May 2002, following her public criticism of the Jordanian government. This criticism was expressed in the form of a series of letters published on the website of the Arab Times newspaper, which is based in Houston, Texas, and is known for its critical stance toward the Jordanian monarchy.67 In these letters, al-Faisal condemned government corruption in Jordan.68 The last letter, addressed to King Abdullah and published on 16 May, concentrated on the harm caused to the public due to changes made in the tax code and the increase in taxes levied on the public. She argued that the prime minister, ‘Ali Abu-Ragheb, who along with his family owned stock in several insurance companies, gained personal profit from the government’s decision to double the rate of compulsory car insurance. In this letter, she called for his dismissal, in order to avoid a popular uprising similar to the one that occurred in 1989 in southern Jordan, especially in light of the fact that the economic conditions in Jordan worsened.69 Al-Faisal’s arrest was also connected to her participation in a solidarity-with-Iraq festival that was held in Baghdad two weeks earlier, and also to an interview that she gave to the Al Jazeera television station in which she criticized the Jordanian legal system and raised doubts as to its integrity and impartiality.70 Following the intervention of the Circassian leaders, al-Faisal was released on 27 May 2002, with the personal guarantee of the tribal chiefs, including former members of parliament.71 However, she was arrested again two days before convening a press conference in which she intended to criticize the government and discuss the charges raised against her. Several of the dignitaries who guaranteed her release revoked their guarantee, claiming that conducting a press conference

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would stray from the agreements made with her, cause harm to the nation, its leadership, and its national symbols, and damage national unity.72 Al-Faisal was tried in the High State Security Court on four charges, similar to those leveled against Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim. They included slandering state institutions and publishing false information abroad that may harm the state’s reputation and security; denouncing the Jordanian legal system and harming its integrity and impartiality; and hurting religious feelings due to her complaints while in jail regarding the high volume of the loudspeakers calling the worshipers to prayer.73 During the trial it was argued that al-Faisal had used an external communication forum in order to free herself from all legal limitations, and had published provocations under the pretext of objectivity and serving the public interest. On 16 May the court sentenced her to eighteen months in prison. The court ruled that al-Faisal had published articles and made false statements that went beyond the limits of criticism. Her statements to the press and her online letter to the king had harmed the state’s image, and were equivalent to inciting political unrest. In addition, the court ruled that she was guilty of making anti-Jordanian statements while attending the conference in Baghdad in early March 2002. According to these charges, al-Faisal had mocked the Jordanian policy toward Iraq when she stated that Amman’s stance toward Baghdad changes “like the stock market.”74 The appeal that al-Faisal submitted to the High Court of Appeals was rejected. However, a day after the appeal was rejected, she was granted a pardon by the king. The royal decree stated that it was a special pardon, made for humanitarian reasons due to the deterioration of al-Faisal’s health, requests submitted by Circassian charities and dignitaries from the community, and a collective recommendation of the government.75 According to this special pardon, al-Faisal was exempt from punishment, but her crime was not forgiven. The outstanding conviction allowed the central elections committee, on 24 May 2003, to reject alFaisal’s request to run in Jordanian parliamentary elections in June 2003, as al-Faisal had been judged and convicted of a crime, thus making her ineligible for membership in parliament under Law 34 of 2001.76 Background of the Trial Similar to Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, Tujan al-Faisal was a controversial figure—a journalist and political activist, an overt supporter of free-

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dom of expression, internal reforms, and women’s rights. Even before her election to the Jordanian parliament in 1993, her courage and attempts to promote women’s issues gained her prominence in the local arena. Between 1988 and 1989 she hosted a well-known television show in which she discussed social matters and especially controversial issues regarding the status of women, such as ownership of property by women, inheritance rights, and domestic violence. On her show, she criticized the religious establishment and the misleading manner, in her opinion, in which it represented Islam. The ideas she expressed on television were opposed to those of Islamist and conservative circles, who viewed them as sacrilegious and thus fought back against al-Faisal. During the 1989 parliamentary elections, when al-Faisal ran for a parliamentary seat, a suit was filed against her, charging her with apostasy, after she published an article in the al-Ra’i newspaper in which she referred to the humiliating treatment of women by Islamists.77 The trial garnered much attention in the Jordanian media and elicited a vigorous response from internal and external circles. Other parliamentary candidates, intellectuals, and human rights NGOs were quick to offer their help to al-Faisal. The circumstances under which she was charged with apostasy were problematic from King Hussein’s point of view. After a long period of time in which Jordan conducted its matters without democratic governing institutions, the parliamentary elections were supposed to reflect a democratic and progressive image of Jordan as a country in which women were allowed to participate politically. In view of these aspirations of Hussein, al-Faisal’s trial expressed a contradictory message. In this case the government intervened behind the scenes and guaranteed the dismissal of the charges of apostasy against al-Faisal.78 The sharp, incisive criticism she expressed toward the government and Islamist circles was also a prominent feature of her term in parliament between 1993 and 1997. This criticism was perceived by some elements as unprecedented and unbridled, exceeding the status of a woman in a conservative society. Some even dismissed her criticism as a show, meant to gain fame and without any benefit to her constituency.79 The penetrating criticism that she voiced against Abu-Ragheb’s government in March 2002 was tightly linked to the preparations alFaisal had made to return to public attention on the eve of the parliamentary elections that were planned for September 2002.80 However, the timing of her criticism against Abu-Ragheb’s government, which was made when she lacked parliamentary immunity, brought about her arrest and influenced the severity of the court’s judgment.

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Notably, the issues that al-Faisal raised in her criticism of AbuRagheb’s government, and especially her reference to corruption, are not unusual in Jordanian political debate. On the contrary, the struggle against corruption is an issue that is frequently on the public agenda. Since his assumption of rule in 1999, King Abdullah II was forced to deal with Jordan’s social and economic problems, which include unemployment, poverty, and an inefficient bureaucracy perceived by many as corrupt. Therefore King Abdullah made the economic development of Jordan and the necessity of a comprehensive economic reform a top priority. In this context he emphasized the eradication of corruption, bribery, and nepotism, including wasta,81 as a top priority, especially due to their influence on foreign economic investment in the state and their role in hampering social justice. In this context, King Abdullah promised the citizenry and foreign investors that Jordan would fight all forms of corruption and that it would take harsh measures against those attempting to embezzle public funds or use their public status for personal gain or to harm the state’s image. The king even expressed his support of a conference held in May 2002 that was dedicated to the issue of the war against corruption, a conference that was perceived as a landmark in the Jordanian campaign against corruption. The conference was attended by representatives of the economic, social, and political sectors, and its conclusions were widely covered by the local media. In July 2000 the government, on the king’s orders, established a ministerial committee for the purpose of fighting corruption, as well as an ad hoc committee on the subject of corruption and discrimination, which was established in 2002 as part of the campaign to eradicate corruption.82 Despite the open debate on the issue of corruption, al-Faisal’s criticism, which was aimed directly at Prime Minister Abu-Ragheb and his government, was seen as problematic. Abu-Ragheb’s government, appointed in June 2000, was the first to reflect the king’s independent plans and ambitions. This government was seen as representing the new age that had begun with his rise to power and his plans for Jordan. This in contrast to the previous government, led by ‘Abd al-Ra’uf alRawabda, which was accused by both liberal and conservative politicians of nepotism, corruption, and not fulfilling its promises of political and economic reform. Abu-Ragheb, the prime minister who replaced al-Rawabda, was chosen due to his liberal economic background. The king, who emphasized the need for reform in the economic sphere, needed a prime minister with a strong economic orientation.83 In his letter appointing Abu-Ragheb as prime minister, the king

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emphasized the need to fight corruption and modernize the public administration. Abu-Ragheb himself made many statements calling for parliament and the government to work together in order to eradicate the blight of corruption.84 Beyond the personal attack on Prime Minister Abu-Ragheb, who was seen as realizing the king’s vision, al-Faisal’s criticism was part of the rise of a critical journalism that took advantage of a reformist policy. When Abdullah saw that the criticism expressed in the media threatened the stability of his regime, he began to deal harshly with the press, mostly through legislation. Al-Faisal was the first Jordanian to stand trial under Law 150, one of a series of temporary laws initiated by Abu-Ragheb’s government in October 2001 after the dissolution of parliament.85 This process, which began in August 2001, was reinforced following the events of 11 September 2001 in the United States, which gave the Jordanian government justification and cover for intensifying political repression. Following these events, the Jordanian government increased the limitations on liberty and made several changes to the Jordanian penal code that extended the definition of terrorism and made it more ambiguous. It also restricted freedom of speech and the press and expanded the number of offenses meriting the death penalty or a life sentence. In the absence of parliament, this set of temporary laws was passed through royal decree.86 Under Law 54, the penal code was extended to include an additional number of vague offenses such as harming national unity; harming the prestige, reputation, and fairness of the state; incitement to rioting; holding unauthorized public meetings and gatherings; and destabilizing society through the promotion of perversion or immorality and the dissemination of false information and rumors. The law that made it illegal to hold unauthorized public meetings permitted the imprisonment of journalists disseminating what was perceived by the regime as “seeds of hatred.”87 Offenses committed under the new law were tried by the High State Security Court, presided over by military judges, and lacked the guarantees of a fair trial accorded by other civil courts. Indeed, al-Faisal’s arrest was one of a number of arrests beginning in 2002 that were related to similar issues and that violated freedom of expression. Fahd al-Rimawi, editor of the newspaper al-Majd, was arrested on 13 January 2002 for publishing articles criticizing Prime Minister Abu-Ragheb and charged with publishing information liable to harm the state’s image and the honor of its citizens. Hashem Khalidi,

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editor of the newspaper al-Bilad, was arrested on 16 March after publishing arguments similar to those made by al-Faisal, that government ministers were embezzling public funds reaped through a doubling of the rate of compulsory auto insurance. He was charged with disseminating information harmful to the image of the state and its leaders. The owner of the al-Bilad newspaper, Taj al-Din al-Hroub, was arrested as well for publishing Khalidi’s articles.88 By arresting and trying al-Faisal, the regime sent a message regarding the limits of the political debate, freedom of expression, and political criticism. The charges against al-Faisal, who published her critiques on an Internet site, shows that the regime did not exclude the Internet from the limitations it had imposed on other forms of media, and that as far as the regime was concerned, use of the Internet was regulated by the same rules that applied to print and broadcast media. Reaction of the Political and Public Spheres Contrary to the case of Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, al-Faisal enjoyed broad support that included people from different political leanings. Although the court found her guilty and sentenced her to eighteen months in jail, the verdict aroused a wave of protest, which, contrary to Ibrahim’s case, referred in a more clear and more open manner to the close link between this case and the violation of human rights, specifically, freedom of expression. Beyond the international elements, including INGOs, that came to her defense, al-Faisal also enjoyed the support of elements in the Jordanian public and political spheres. 89 In this respect, the support of domestic political figures stands out. During the trial, prominent political figures testified in her favor. Former prime minister ‘Abd alKarim Kabariti defended the criticism aimed by al-Faisal at the government. During his lengthy testimony in court, he referred to the criticism that he had faced as prime minister in the years 1996–1997, criticism that was harsher than that raised by al-Faisal in her letter to King Abdullah. Kabariti testified that when a person assumes public office, that person must be prepared to hear criticism. He also stated that al-Faisal was well-known for her criticism against the government, and that even though it was harsh criticism, it was constructive, within the limits of democratic behavior, and aimed at the common good. He argued that al-Faisal realized her right of free expression, and that her behavior proved that democracy in Jordan was in fact becoming reality. 90 Former minister of health ‘Abd al-Rahim Malhas

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also testified in her favor, arguing that criticism of political figures was a democratic norm.91 The political parties also came to al-Faisal’s defense. The High Coordination Committee of the opposition parties sent a memorandum to the prime minister demanding al-Faisal’s release and stating that they saw him as responsible for her arrest. In the memorandum, they referred to the fact that al-Faisal had expressed her position on national matters and that her arrest was a violation of basic freedoms guaranteed by the constitution, especially freedom of opinion and expression.92 The women’s departments in the al-Hashd, al-Wahda, and Communist parties published a joint statement in which they referred to al-Faisal’s arrest as an unprecedented measure, even under emergency laws.93 Despite the resistance that al-Faisal aroused among Islamist circles due to her attack on their conceptions regarding the status of women and especially the distorted and manipulative interpretation, as she saw it, that they applied to the quranic texts, she received the backing of the Islamist movement in Jordan. For the first time, the Islamic Action Front (IAF) extended support to a female politician. The party even sent a memorandum to the prime minister in which it called to put an end to the al-Faisal affair. These calls were parallel to those made for the release of people arrested for similar charges, such as engineer ‘Umar Ziab and Taj al-Din al-Hroub, part-owners of the al-Bilad newspaper.94 In a convention held by the Jordanian Women’s Union, the head of the women’s secretariat of the IAF expressed the party’s solidarity with alFaisal and its opposition to the court’s verdict.95 However, it must be noted that the position taken by the IAF was not surprising, if only because al-Faisal and the Islamists had turned, in the passage of time, from enemies to allies in the opposition, especially with regard to criticism of the deterioration of the democratic process and the violation of human rights, as well as in political issues such as their joint support of Iraq and their opposition to the peace process with Israel.96 The organizations acting in the public sphere, including trade unions and women’s and human rights organizations, came to alFaisal’s defense, their arguments focused on the violation of human rights and freedom of expression. The public campaign, which was accompanied by assemblies and memorandums sent to the prime minister and the king, escalated with the publication of the verdict convicting al-Faisal. Here it must be noted that al-Faisal did not receive complete support from women activists in Jordan. Women’s organizations in Jordan are not independent from the state and, due to the royal family’s control

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over them, do not tend to express positions opposing the state. Therefore, activists in these organizations did not see al-Faisal’s activities and ideas as representing them.97 Yet women’s organizations in the opposition rushed to express their support. Thus, for example, the Jordanian Women’s Association expressed solidarity with al-Faisal and acted to gain her release through assemblies, protest strikes, and letters to the prime minister and king. Upon her arrest, the association called for an investigation of the allegations made by al-Faisal and demanded that those guilty of corruption and those harming the interests of Jordanian citizens be brought to trial.98 The association emphasized that al-Faisal’s acts reflected the most basic rights in a democratic state like Jordan, and also argued that the precedent set in the ruling against her denigrated Jordan’s reputation throughout the world, and that this was evidence of a domestic regression, a violation of freedom of expression, as well as a factor widening the gulf separating the people and the government.99 This spirit was also characteristic of the addresses made and letters sent on behalf of activists in the public sphere, including human rights NGOs such as the AOHR in Jordan, the JSCR, and the JSHR, which had a prominent part in the activity aimed at her release.100 In a joint memorandum of Jordanian political activists from all sectors sent to King Abdullah, they called for the immediate release of al-Faisal. They referred to the fact that al-Faisal’s actions did not stray from the limits of routine criticism made by every political opposition in a democracy. Therefore, al-Faisal’s arrest was contrary to the customary norms in Jordan and harmed Jordan’s reputation. The activists addressed their criticism to Prime Minister Abu-Ragheb, as the person using the security court and involving it in political differences of opinion between the government and the opposition.101 In this case the language of human rights was used as a platform for resistance and struggle against the existing political constellation. It can be argued that in coming to al-Faisal’s defense, elements of the opposition and those acting in the public space were seeking to express their opposition to the government’s policy. And indeed, most of the elements that came to al-Faisal’s defense utilized the discussion in order to attack the system of temporary laws as harming the foundation of democracy and human rights and demanded the annulment of those laws.102 For instance, in an assembly held at the trade union complex at Shmeisani, activists from various organizations, including human rights NGOs, came together for a meeting of solidarity with al-Faisal in which they called for her release. The discussion of the implications of the

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temporary laws was the focal point of the event.103 Al-Faisal’s case was also used as an opportunity to come out against the military courts, which are a legacy of the British Mandate, and against the rising number of cases referred to the security courts. These courts were presented as standing in contradiction to the constitution, as expressing contempt for the judiciary, and as violating civil rights. It was especially emphasized that these courts must be limited to issues related to security and that these courts did not have the authority to discuss issues of freedom of expression, meaning that they were not to be used in order to try elements of the opposition for their opinions.104 Al-Faisal’s case was even used in order to emphasize the restrictions placed upon freedom of the press and journalists who exposed cases of corruption and improper management, and to call for granting the press freedom to publish facts so that the citizens could become aware of everything that undermined their interests, security, and lives.105 Similar to that of Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, the government attempted to present al-Faisal’s case as a clear example of taking advantage of the free democratic climate and her criticism as harming national unity and national interests and sullying Jordan’s reputation abroad. Notably, self-censorship of freedom of expression was presented by the regime as legitimate and as a form of civil responsibility. Since his assumption of power, King Abdullah had emphasized that progressing toward democracy was inevitable. He also argued that the level of liberties to be aspired to in Jordan was limitless and that freedom of organization and expression were concepts that must be protected. All the same, the condition for expression of opinions was that they did not harm national interests. In this respect, a free and objective press must conduct itself in a responsible way, not harming the state’s values, not intentionally or unintentionally harming the image and reputation of the homeland, and not negatively affecting the national economy by publishing information that might present a distorted view of Jordan to the world.106 However, in contrast to Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim’s case, which was successfully presented as harming national unity and Egypt’s interests, in al-Faisal’s case the arguments regarding damage to Jordan’s national interests did not gain public support. The criticism she voiced regarding government corruption was not enough to paint her as committing an act of betrayal of national interests, and therefore the government could not use such arguments against her. The charges raised against her regarding vilifying Jordan’s policy while attending a solidarity convention in Baghdad also did not win support. On the contrary, these actions

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were perceived as part of a legitimate position supporting Iraq vis-à-vis Western aggression. Therefore, beyond forcefully rejecting al-Faisal’s charges, the government preferred to detach itself from direct involvement in the subject, acting as if it had no clear interest in the matter.107 For instance, when a request was made for the prime minister to testify in court, he claimed that he preferred not to do so due to the opposition of several ministers who believed that his testimony would be considered interference in the judicial process. In an interview he emphasized that the trial of al-Faisal was not personal and that he believed that her case was related to the state’s sovereignty and the primacy of the law.108 Later on the government even made the effort to emphasize its agreement in principle to al-Faisal’s release from prison. The Human Rights Debate in Egypt and Jordan: Comparative Aspects By comparing these two cases, we can identify some of the sources that contributed to the consolidation of clear and determined demands for rights, as well as those that were a source of weakness that limited domestic human rights networks, political activists, and intellectuals when faced with authoritarian, governmental maneuvers. As in Ibrahim’s case, the al-Faisal case also involved a controversial personality who had opponents in the political and public spheres. Also, in both cases the charges made against the defendants in court included disseminating false information and harming the state and its reputation. However, in contrast to Ibrahim’s case, al-Faisal enjoyed the support and backing of many elements in the political and public space. In contrast to Ibrahim’s case, which was presented and perceived by many as being the result of misguided personal choices made by Ibrahim, the trial conducted against al-Faisal was perceived as a clear expression of the continuing violation of public rights by the government and the gradual deterioration of the democratic process in Jordan.109 And indeed, al-Faisal’s case incorporated many of the issues that were on the public agenda, such as the issue of government corruption and functioning, the issue of temporary laws, and the restrictions placed upon the press. Even though the support for al-Faisal reflected the interest of the forces of the opposition in attacking the functioning of Abu-Ragheb’s government, and indirectly the conduct of the state without parliament, one cannot ignore the differences between this case and Ibrahim’s case.

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Even though Ibrahim’s trial was also, in principle, an opportunity to put on the public agenda the rights related to freedom of expression and to use it as a platform to attack government policy in these areas, the fact is that elements from the entire political spectrum, as well as groups working in the public sphere, including human rights NGOs, refrained from taking this opportunity. In Ibrahim’s case, human rights activists focused on the legal aspects regarding the funding of organizations acting in the public sphere, an issue that was not perceived by them as crossing the boundaries of the accepted and permitted discussion. On the other hand, in al-Faisal’s case, the issue of defending freedom of expression and her right to express her positions on public affairs were clearly raised, even when the criticism was harsh and incisive and directed toward key figures in government. This clear difference has several explanations. First, voicing open, incisive criticism of the government is a legitimate act in the political discussion in Jordan, and is within the boundaries of the permitted and accepted debate as defined by the regime. The Jordanian regime has always enabled political space in the lower hierarchies of power in which pluralism, discussions, and arguments among groups were serious and even led to changes in government policy. This criticism aimed at the government was also used by the regime as a means to channel the criticism toward secondary elements in the hierarchy and as a way to divert criticism away from the ruling monarch, toward whom criticism was perceived as forbidden. This policy of diverting public criticism toward the intermediate level of the hierarchy, meaning the government, was part of forming an image of the king as being disconnected from the political system. Since King Hussein’s days, the image of the king was shaped into an all-Jordanian father figure, a protective, merciful leader who was sensitive to the people’s distress, a national figure whom the nation admired in the context of a personal relationship requiring no mediation on the part of the political system. In this respect, personally addressing the king and voicing sharp criticism of the government were within the limits of accepted and permitted discussion, and were seen as rights traditionally granted to the citizens of the state, going back to times when the regime lacked any kind of parliamentary mechanism. Furthermore, al-Faisal was put on trial for offering criticism within the framework of legitimate issues raised by the public. Many people in Jordan agreed with the criticism of the government that al-Faisal had made. She was being tried for making explicit arguments that many Jordanians had themselves made in daily conversations—especially about

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government corruption, which remains the core issue and complaint for most Jordanians. Al-Faisal was not perceived as someone who, in her criticism, crossed the boundaries of legitimate debate as set by the regime, and she did not voice positions that stood contrary to national conceptions or values. As I have shown previously, the discussion regarding the war against corruption was not restricted to opposition forces, but was an issue promoted by elements in the government itself. In addition, in al-Faisal’s case the restrictions that led to the limited reaction of the human rights movement in Egypt were not in place, especially regarding the element of values. In contrast to Ibrahim’s case, the government did not succeed in using al-Faisal’s case as an example of a person betraying Jordanian national interests and values. Ibrahim was identified with controversial issues such as the status of the Copts and normalization with Israel, which were seen as deviating from the national consensus and harming Egyptian national unity. In contrast, al-Faisal did not operate in areas that deviated from accepted political conceptions or in those perceived as harming the interests of Jordan or its national unity, positions that would have placed her outside the consensus. And indeed, she was presented and perceived by her supporters as serving the public interest and, indirectly, the Jordanian national interest. Furthermore, in Ibrahim’s case, US involvement and the issue of foreign funding galvanized the nationalist atmosphere and allowed the Egyptian regime to frame the public debate in a way that strengthened national sentiment. In al-Faisal’s case, the international connection was missing, since no external pressures were applied to release al-Faisal and it was not possible to link her activities to foreign funding. On the contrary, one of the charges made against al-Faisal referred to her participation in a conference of support in Baghdad, in which she expressed criticism of Jordan’s unstable policy toward Iraq. This activity actually distanced al-Faisal from identification with the West, which was acting aggressively in Iraq. The Jordanian regime failed to frame the al-Faisal case in a way that strengthened national sentiments, and failed to damage al-Faisal’s credibility and present her as a foreign agent. As a result, in contrast to Ibrahim’s case, human rights and other activists in the political and public spheres did not fear identifying themselves with her, nor using the struggle for al-Faisal’s right of freedom of expression to protest the regime’s oppressive policies. In contrast to Ibrahim, al-Faisal’s right of freedom of expression was perceived as legitimate. Unlike the Egyptian

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case, the Jordanian activists were not constrained by domestic trends that imposed limitations on their ability to express a clear commitment to freedom of expression. On the contrary, many people agreed with alFaisal’s criticism of the government. These two cases are evidence that the boundaries of the struggle for human rights and the willingness of the various forces, including human rights activists, to be involved in it were shaped by two sources. First and foremost was the regimes, which defined the boundaries of permitted discussion, whether by suppression or by framing the debate in a way that contributed to their own interests. The second factor delineating the development of the struggle was the human rights activists, who understood that crossing the boundaries of legitimate discourse would entail consequences, due either to government reaction or to the further erosion of popular support for their activities. These concerns partly explain why activists tended to take decisive and combative action only in cases that were not identified with departure from the national consensus. These choices, although often a result of restrictions imposed on human rights activists, serve governmental interests detrimental to human rights and help sustain the existing power structures by reconstructing and duplicating a hegemonic perception, while leaving little room for an autonomous and pluralistic democratic participation.

Notes 1. This discussion of Ibrahim’s case draws on “A Discourse on Trial: The Promotion of Human Rights in Egypt and Jordan,” an article I coauthored with Luis Roniger that was published in Journal of Human Rights 5:2 (2006): 185– 204. 2. The Ibn Khaldun Center is an independent research institute whose major goals are the advancement of social studies in the Arab world and in developing countries. The center has run research projects and has organized conferences on issues concerning democratic reform and the strengthening of civil society, with an emphasis on women’s rights and on Muslim-Coptic relations in Egypt. 3. al-Hayat, 3 July 2000. 4. Cairo Times, 28 September–4 October 2000. 5. Human Rights Watch, The State of Egypt vs. Free Expression: The Ibn Khaldun Trial 14:1(E) (January 2002): 9–10; Lars Berger, “The Case of Sa’ad Eddin Ibrahim and the Current Relationship Between State and Civil Society in Egypt,” Orient 41:4 (December 2000): 667–668. 6. Cairo Times, 31 May–6 June 2001. 7. al-Ahram Weekly, 7–13 February 2002.

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8. See testimonies of prominent public figures at the trial, in which they turned to Ibrahim’s defense, utterly confirming his academic and moral integrity, among them Ahmad Kamal Abu al-Majd, ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Sa‘id, Mohammad al-Juhari, and Sa‘id al-Najjar, in al-Hayat, 21 January 2001. 9. Some of Ibrahim’s early studies on the subject were published in English. See Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim, “Anatomy of Egypt Militant Islamic Groups: Methodological Notes and Preliminary Findings,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 12 (1980): 343–364; Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim, “An Islamic Alternative in Egypt: The Muslim Brotherhood and Sadat,” Arab Studies Quarterly 4 (1981): 75–93. 10. Mona el-Ghobashy, “Antinomies of the Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim Case,” MERIP Press Information note 106, 15 August 2002. 11. See the joint statement by seven human rights NGOs, among them Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and the international Anti-Torture Federation, in Amnesty International, Concerns About Ongoing Detention of Human Rights Defenders (London, 14 July 2000). 12. On the policies of Nasser and Sadat, see, for example, Raymond Baker, Egypt’s Uncertain Revolution Under Nasser and Sadat (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978); Raymond Hinnebusch, Egyptian Politics Under Sadat: The Post-Populist Development of an Authoritarian-Modernizing State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985); Kirk J. Beattie, Egypt During the Nasser Years: Ideology, Politics, and Civil Society (Boulder: Westview, 1994); Kirk J. Beattie, Egypt During the Sadat Years (New York: Palgrave, 2000). 13. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “The Prisoner as Message,” al-Ahram Weekly, 5– 11 September 2002. 14. Activist Mahmud Kandil claimed that the government did not want the human rights movement taking any part in the election supervision. See alAhram al ‘Arabi, 8 July 2000. See also el-Ghobashy, “Antinomies of the Sa’ad Eddin Ibrahim Case.” 15. al-Hayat, 3 July 2000. The script was published in al-Hayat on 5 July 2000. 16. The Ibn Khaldun Center sponsored a series of conferences on ethnic and religious minorities in the Arab world that have drawn a great deal of criticism from intellectuals and government. See Cairo Times, 1 July 2000; see also alAhram Weekly, 7–13 February 2002. For Ibrahim’s own analysis, see Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim, The Copts in Egypt (London: Ibn Khaldun Center for Development Studies, 1996). 17. The statement by the editor-in-chief of al-Musawwar, Makram Muhammad Ahmad, which is illustrative, can be found in the 30 May 2001 of that periodical. 18. For a detailed analysis, see Chapter 5. 19. Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, “‘Ala’ al-umma an tudayif mustatlah jamlukiyya ila’ qamusha al-siyasi” (The nation should add the term jamlukiyya into its political lexicon), al-Majalla, 2–8 July 2000. 20. el-Ghobashy, “Antinomies of the Sa’ad Eddin Ibrahim Case.” 21. See interview with President Hosni Mubarak in Newsweek, 31 March 2001. 22. See, for example, the article by ‘Abd al-‘Azim Ramadan in alJamhuriyya, 2 June 2001. The editor-in-chief of al-Musawwar, on 30 May

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2001, stated this was not an issue of freedom of conscience but an issue of academic integrity, freedom of research in Egypt, and the relation between local research centers and political organizations, al-Musawwar. 23. al-Musawwar, 1 June 2001. 24. This information appeared first in al-Akhbar on 27 May 2001 and then in al-Musawwar on 30 May 2001 and in al-Jamhuriyya on 2 June 2001. Even though it was revealed as false, it was repeated in al-Usbu‘ on 14 January 2002, where it was said that Sharon had shown more involvement in this case than in the case of ‘Azam ‘Azam, a Druze Israeli citizen who was imprisoned in Egypt for alleged spying. The Israeli embassy published a formal refutation, reported in al-Ahram Weekly on 31 May 2001. 25. al-Usbu‘, 14 January 2002. 26. al-Akhbar, 8 July 2002. 27. According to Ibrahim’s family, the funds received from Haifa University in Israel was a payment for a subscription to the journal Civil Society, published by the Ibn Khaldun Center, whereas the money from Al Jazeera was payment for his participation in a television show. See Cairo Times, 5–11 September 2002. 28. al-Ahrar, 9 July 2000; al-Musawwar, 30 May 2001. 29. See, for example, the joint press release by six Egyptian human rights NGOs, namely the CIHRS, the HMLC, the Human Rights Center for the Assistance of Prisoners, the EOHR, the Arab Center for the Independence of the Judiciary, and al-Nadim Center for the Rehabilitation of the Victims of Violence, “al-Hukm bi’l-sijn li-Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim wa-zamalatihu tahdid limu’asassat al-mujtama‘ al-madani fi al-misr” (The jail sentence of Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim and his colleagues is a threat to civil society organizations in Egypt), 24 May 2001. See also the joint declaration by seven international human rights organizations from 14 July 2000, Amnesty International, Concerns About Ongoing Detention of Human Rights Defenders. 30. For a detailed discussion over the human rights movement’s campaign against Law 153 and reasons for its failure, see Vickie Langohr, “Too Much Civil Society, Too Little Politics? Egypt and Other Liberalizing Arab Regimes,” in Marsha Pripstein Posusney and Michele Penner Angrist (eds.), Authoritarianism in the Middle East: Regime and Resistance (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 2005), pp. 193–200. Law 153 of 1999 was later debarred for constitutional reasons; the Ibn Khaldun Center pioneered the strategy of the NGOs to register as civil corporations to avoid registration with and control by the Ministry of Social Solidarity. 31. The secretary-general of the EOHR, Hafez Abu Sa‘ada, was arrested in 1998 and charged with receiving unauthorized foreign funds, but no indictment was submitted. Abu Sa‘ada considered that, unlike his own arrest, Ibrahim’s arrest was due to a long-term plan to undermine civil society associations. See Cairo Times, 27 July–9 August 2000. 32. See the joint declaration by six Egyptian human rights organizations, “al-Hukm bi’l-sijn li-Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim.” 33. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 31 May–6 June 2001. 34. The trial did not take place in a military court but at the Supreme Court of Defense, whose decisions can be appealed. Some see this as an indication

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that the Egyptian government had a vested interest in a public trial that anybody, including the Western media, could follow directly, and thus as a sign of openness and transparency. See the statement by one of Egypt’s leading intellectuals, Mohammad Sid Ahmad, in al-Ahram Weekly, 5–11 October 2000. 35. See reports on their presence in al-Ahram Weekly, 2–8 May 2002. 36. Cairo Times, 28 September–4 October 2000. 37. See, for example, the claims of Bahy al-Din Hassan, who said that Ibrahim’s status as one of the most renowned sociologists in the Arab world should not be ignored just because he held different opinions on political and human rights issues, in al-Ahram Weekly, 5–11 September 2002. 38. See the discussion over the commission’s visit and the reaction of Egyptian human rights movements in Vickie Langohr, “Frosty Reception for US Religious Freedom Commission in Egypt,” Middle East Report, 29 March 2001; and in Omayma Abdel Latif, “A Case of Double Standards,” al-Ahram Weekly, 23–30 May 2001. See also the discussion in Chapter 5. 39. On the attitudes of human rights activists regarding the Coptic minority, see the discussion in Chapter 5. On the impact of the nationalist origin of the perception of minority rights of some of the movement’s leaders, see Mustapha Kamal al-Sayyid, “Theoretical Issues in the Arab Human Rights Movement,” Arab Studies Quarterly 19:1 (Winter 1997): 29. 40. The EOHR claimed that the allegations against Ibrahim were based on Military Decree 4 of 1992 that is based on the authority given to the military governor under Emergency Law 162 of 1958. See the contents of the 29 July 2002 press release by the EOHR, referring to the legal aspects at the base of the case. 41. al-Musawwar, 1 June 2001. 42. al-Hayat, 14 July 2000. 43. See Sa‘id Sadiq in al-Ahrar, 30 September 2001, and liberal Arab intellectuals’ demands for the release of Ibrahim published in al-Quds al-‘Arabi, 30 September 2002. These intellectuals were not Egyptian, but among them were some who operated in Egypt, such as Jamal ‘Abd al-Jawad, a researcher at the al-Ahram Center for Strategic Studies; playwright ‘Ali Salim; and author Muhammad al-Badri. See also the article by Edward Sa‘id in al-Hayat, 28 June 2001. 44. The debate focused on the funding of human rights organizations, which contrasted with the absence of any debate over the funding of organizations dealing with development, the environment, and the status of women. See Berger, “The Case of Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim,” p. 672. 45. al-Usbu‘, 14 January 2002. 46. al-Usbu‘, 10 November 2003; al-‘Arabi, 16 November 2003. It must be mentioned that in an interview with al-Ahram, Ibrahim claimed he had not received any of these funds. This claim was later confirmed by a government official in al-Ahram Weekly, 27 November 2003. 47. See the words of Hisham Qasim, human rights activist and editor of the Cairo Times, in al-Ahram Weekly, 12 December 2002. 48. Abu Sa‘ada claimed that the government’s plan proved effective, as nongovernmental and human rights organizations began to fear any foreign aid. Even if aware of this dynamic, his own organization was facing bankruptcy. See Cairo Times, 27 July–9 August 2000.

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49. On the NGOs’ public campaign against the law on associations and civil institutions, see discussion in Langohr, “Too Much Civil Society, Too Little Politics?” 50. See the joint statement by seven international human rights NGOs in Amnesty International, Concerns About Ongoing Detention of Human Rights Defenders. The foreign press referred to the case on many occasions; see, for example, “Egypt’s Affront to Democracy,” Washington Post, 23 May 2001; Mary Anne Weaver, “Mubarak Regime Is Now on Trial in Egypt,” New York Times, 17 June 2001; Thomas L. Freidman, “Tarnished Pyramids,” New York Times, 25 May 2001. Friedman’s article raised a stormy reaction in the Egyptian media; see, for example, al-Usbu‘, 30 May 2001; Sawt al-’Umma, 30 May 2001. The foreign press did, of course, criticize US policy as well; see, for example, Thomas L. Freidman, “Bush’s Shame,” New York Times, 4 August 2002. 51. The US State Department reacted to the verdict with disappointment; see deputy spokesman Phil Reeker’s 29 July 2002 briefing in the Federal News Service; see also the reaction of the European Union in the European Commission’s press release of 13 December 2000. The varied constellation of forces shaping US policies on human rights as part of foreign policy is beyond the scope of this analysis. See, for instance, David Forsythe, “US Foreign Policy and Human Rights,” Journal of Human Rights 1:4 (2002): 501–521. 52. The Egyptian press claimed that the world outcry raised on behalf of Ibrahim was far from credible and that Zionist-Israeli elements, operating against Egypt and its role in the Arab world, saw this case as a chance to slander Egypt. See, for example, al-’Akhbar, 29 May 2001; al-Musawwar, 30 May 2001. See also al-Wasat, 20 August 2000, in which the US criticism was tied to the failure of the Camp David talks and the disappointment over Egypt’s refusal to pressure Arafat into returning to negotiations. 53. Letter to the editor, New York Times, 10 August 2002. 54. See, for example, Abd Al-‘Aziz Ramadan in al-Jamhuriyya, 2 June 2001. 55. al-Ahram Weekly, 9–15 May 2002. 56. Washington Post, 15 August 2002. 57. al-’Akhbar, 18 August 2002. 58. al-Wafd, 17 August 2002. 59. See quotation of their leaders in Akhir Sa‘a, 21 August 2002. 60. ‘Isam al-‘Aryan, quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 22–28 August 2002. Similar opinions were expressed by journalist Fahmi Huwaidi in al-Sharq al-Awsat, 18 August 2002. 61. Hassan’s statements in al-Ahram Weekly, 5–11 September 2002. See also the conference organized by the CIHRS that dealt with human rights, the United States, and Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, as detailed in “Qadiyat Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim qadiyat huquq al-insan wa-al-mu‘awana al-amirikiya la yastafid minha ahad” (The case of Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim is a human rights issue and the American assistance does not benefit anyone), Sawasiyya 45–46 (2002): 38–39. 62. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 22–28 September 2002. See also Akhir Sa‘a, 21 August 2002. 63. al-Ahram Weekly, 22–28 September 2002.

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64. See the connection that Saghiyah made to the Egyptian political culture in al-Hayat, 29 July 2001. 65. Angela Grunert, “Loss of Guiding Values and Support, September 11, and the Isolation of Human Rights Organizations in Egypt,” in Annette Junemann (ed.), Euro-Mediterranean Relations After September 11: International, Regional, and Domestic Dynamics (London: Cass, 2004), p. 145. 66. There are few analyses tracing the mutual hostility and suspicion of both groups. See, for example, Neil Hicks, “Does Islamist Human Rights Activism Offer a Remedy to the Crisis of HR Implementation in the Middle East?” Human Rights Quarterly 24 (2002): 361–381. On domestic failure to form a working coalition, see Laura K. Landolt and Paul Kubicek, “Opportunities and Constraints: Comparing Tunisia and Egypt to the Coloured Revolutions,” Democratization 21:6 (2013): 12–14. 67. See http://www.arabtimes.com. 68. al-Hayat, 17 March 2002; al-Sabil, 19–25 March 2003. 69. Arab Times, 16 March 2002, published at http://www.arabtimes.com. 70. al-Hayat, 28 March 2002; Jordan Times, 19 March 2002. 71. al-Hayat, 28 March 2002; Jordan Times, 28 March 2002. 72. al-Hayat, 31 March 2002; al-Sabil, 2–8 April 2002. 73. See detailed charges in al-‘Arab al-Youm, 17 May 2002. In response to the latter charge, al-Faisal claimed that she never meant to use hurtful language, saying that the need to lower the volume of the loudspeakers was a result of her hearing problem. See al-Sabil, 23–29 April 2002; Jordan Times, 29 April 2002. 74. See detailed discussion of the court ruling in al-‘Arab al-Youm, 17 May 2002. See also Jordan Times, 17 May 2002. 75. See Jordan Times, 27 June 2002; al-‘Arab al-Youm, 27 June 2002. During her stay in prison, her health deteriorated due to her hunger strike; see alSabil, 11–17 June 2002. 76. See discussion of the central elections committee’s decisions, in Jordan Times, 25 May 2003. 77. The article was published in al-Ra’i, 21 September 1989. The punishment for apostasy in Islam depends on various interpretations and can vary from death to forced divorce. Even though Jordan does not have a law regarding apostasy, the courts have broad freedom of interpretation with respect to personal status laws in their jurisdiction. See discussion of charges of apostasy in Chapter 4. 78. Nancy Gallagher, “Women Human Rights on Trial in Jordan: The Triumph of Toujan al-Faisal,” in Mahnaz Afkhami (ed.), Faith and Freedom: Women’s Human Rights in the Muslim World (London: Tauris, 1995), pp. 209– 237. Regarding the support of the royal court for al-Faisal’s candidacy, and especially the support of the head of the royal chamber, ‘Adnan Abu ‘Uda, see al-Hayat, 24 March 2002. 79. al-‘Arab al-Youm, 19 March 2002; al-Hayat, 24 March 2002. 80. See al-Faisal’s declaration of her intention to run in the elections (planned for September 2002) as a candidate in the fifth district in Amman, in Jordan Times, 29 January 2002. See also Asma al-Sharif’s claim regarding alFaisal’s manipulations of the media and the link between the timing of the charges and her desire to return to the center of the media discourse, inevitably increasing her chances of reelection, in The Star, 24 March 2002.

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81. Using connections to obtain personal gains. 82. Basem Sakijha and Sa‘eda Kilani, National Integrity Systems 2001: Country Study Report, Jordan 2001 (The Hague: Netherlands Ministry of Justice and Transparency International, 2001), p. 10. 83. K. Braverman, “Jordan,” Middle East Contemporary Survey (MECS) 24 (2000): 324–330. 84. Ibid., p. 329. 85. The parliament was dissolved in June 2000. 86. On the temporary laws, see Jillian Schwedler, “Don’t Blink: Jordan’s Democratic Opening and Closing,” Middle East Report, 3 July 2002. 87. Amnesty International, Jordan: Security Measures Violate Human Rights (London, February 2002). 88. Jordan Times, 19 March 2002; al-Sabil, 19–25 March 2002. 89. See Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Network, “The Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Network Protest Against the Latest Conviction of Former MP Toujan Faisal,” press release, 17 May 2002. See also the letter from the European Parliament to King Abdullah on the eve of his 12 June 2002 visit to the Parliament, signed by sixty members, “Letter to King of Jordan,” Brussels, 11 June 2002. 90. See detailed reports about his testimony in al-‘Arab al-Youm, 1 May 2002, and in Jordan Times, 1 May 2002. 91. Ibid. 92. al-Majd, 18 March 2002. 93. http://www.arabicnews.com, 21 March 2002. 94. al-Sabil, 20–26 March 2002. 95. al-Sabil, 21–27 May 2002. 96. al-Hayat, 24 March 2004. 97. On the attitude of women activists toward al-Faisal, see Ibtisam alAttiyat, “The Women’s Movement in Jordan: Activism, Discourse, and Strategies,” unpublished dissertation, Berlin, 2003, p. 142. 98. See the association’s statement in al-Majd, 19 March 2002. 99. al-‘Arab al-Youm, 28 May 2002. See also the declarations of the association’s chairman, Amna Zu‘bi, after the verdict, in al-Sabil, 21–27 May 2002. 100. See, for instance, the words of Hani al-Dakhla, chairman of the Jordanian branch of the AOHR, and Fawzi al-Samhuri, president of the JSCR, in a press conference held by the human rights organizations, in al-Arab al-Youm, 19 March 2002, and in al-Majd, 18 March 2002. See also a letter sent by the JSHR, in al-Sabil, 21–27 May 2002. 101. al-Dustur, 28 May 2002. 102. See, for instance, the words of Fawzi al-Samhuri, president of the JSCR, in al-Sabil, 19–25 March 2002. See also the words of Salah al-‘Armuti, head of the Bar Association, in a convention for solidarity with al-Faisal, in al-Sabil, 20 June–1 July 2002; and a memorandum sent to the king and signed by ten human rights organizations from Jordan and the Arab world, including the JSCR, the JSHR, and the Jordanian branch of the AOHR, in al-Sabil, 18–24 June 2002. 103. Jordan Times, 23 June 2002. 104. See, for example, al-‘Arab al-Youm, 19 March 2002; al-Sabil, 19–25 March 2002; al-Sabil, 20 June–1 July 2002.

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105. See, for example, the statement of the Jordanian Women’s Association after al-Faisal’s arrest, in al-Majd, 18 March 2002. 106. See, for example, King Abdullah’s interview on Jordanian television, 11 August 2001, available on the King’s website, http://www.kingabdullah.jo. 107. The prime minister’s media consultant, Natasha al-Bukhari, denied alFaisal’s charges and demanded that she provide evidence for her claims. See alHayat, 18 March 2002. 108. al-Quds al-‘Arabi, 10 May 2002; Jordan Times, 9 May 2002. 109. See, for example, the words of al-Faisal as a discussant at the conference of solidarity held by trade unions, in al-Sabil, 20 June–1 July 2002.

4 Charges of Apostasy

IN THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER I DEALT WITH POLITICAL FREEDOM OF

expression in Egypt and Jordan, and especially the spaces that the state allowed for the expression of oppositional points of view. Yet the state is not the only factor determining the boundaries of freedom of expression. Implementation of this right faces many obstacles, some of which are posed by influential sectors in the public and political space that are struggling politically and conceptually to preserve the Islamic character of society in Egypt and Jordan. Article 18 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights states: “Everyone shall have the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion. This right shall include freedom to have or to adopt a religion or belief of his choice, and freedom, either individually or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in worship, observance, practice and teaching.” According to Islam, Muslims do not have this right. The orthodox Muslim approach vehemently opposes any change of religion, which is viewed as apostasy (ridda or irtidad). The believer who has been privileged with birth into the real faith, Islam, and chooses to deny this faith, is perceived as betraying the Muslim community, and there is only one punishment for such a person: death.1 Charges of apostasy (kufr) are not related solely to religious conversion but also to concepts such as blasphemy (sabb Allah and sabb alRasoul), heresy (zandaqa), and hypocrisy (nifaq).2 These concepts, which are sometimes used interchangeably, refer to any act that clearly testifies to denial of Islam, such as denying essential principles of the faith and expressing doubts regarding God or the Quran. Such charges

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of apostasy do not mean that heretics are perceived necessarily as unbelievers, but rather that they are focused on wrongful interpretations of the holy texts of Islam. The punishment for such offenses concentrates on depriving the heretic of civil rights, including annulling the heretic’s rights of inheritance, marriage to a Muslim, and relations with his or her children.3 Since the 1990s there has been a sharp rise in incidents in which Islamist elements have accused intellectuals, writers, and poets of heterodox writing, thus exposing them to threats of legal action and even physical threats on their lives. The change in this period is manifest not only in the quantity but also in the character and content of the charges of apostasy, as such charges have expanded to include issues that in the past were part of legitimate Islamic discourse. The rise in these charges has overlapped with the expansion of the influence of Islamism and the conflict between different political factions over the place of religion in public life. Despite the tendency to view charges of apostasy as a reflection of the tension between those who seek a civil state (al-dawla almadaniyya)4 and those who demand a greater public role for religion, the matter is more complex. A host of positions exists between these two extremes. And more important, this tension does not diminish the significance of the state in fashioning this struggle. Though it is true that the governments of Egypt and Jordan did not lead or promote charges of apostasy and usually did not initiate them, the nature of the relationships between the Islamist movement, with its various factions, and the governments has contributed to the complexity of the debate, creating a climate of fear among researchers, intellectuals, and writers, who have become afraid to express opinions that deviate from the consensus.

Charges of Apostasy in Egypt: Between State and Religion Charges of apostasy in Egypt, which have become prominent since the 1990s, have not been directed or restricted to a specific sector and have included all intellectuals, academic researchers, writers, journalists, and artists who express positions that are perceived to deviate from conservative interpretations of Islam. These figures are declared apostates or sued in court by Islamists through the legal procedure of the hisba, which refers to every Muslim’s duty to command the right and forbid the wrong in society. In this procedure, every Muslim can, through

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protest and warning, intervene in the life of another who commits a crime against God or God’s people. If public authority fails, one can turn to the courts in order to decide the matter.5 A number of Islamist lawyers have specialized in claims against intellectuals and writers, whether requesting that their works be confiscated or by demanding that they be declared apostates. The charges raised in December 1991 against Egyptian writer ‘Alaa Hamid on account of his book The Distance in a Man’s Mind (Musafaha fi ‘aql rajoul) formed one of the prominent cases on the public agenda, since the book included, according to Hamid’s accusers, ideas supporting atheism. Similar charges were raised against Egyptian intellectual and human rights activist Faraj Fuda, who in 1992 was declared an apostate by Islamic thinkers from the al-Azhar religious establishment due to criticism he voiced toward political Islam and its historical and theoretical foundations. A week later he was assassinated by a member of alJama‘a al-Islamiyya. In a public statement, al-Jama‘a announced that it had murdered him due to his loathing of Islam and the all-out war he waged against implementation of sharia in Egypt, while also stating that the murder did not suppress freedom of expression but, rather, halted freedom of apostasy.6 In 1994, a number of religious figures declared Najib Mahfuz, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, an apostate, due to the fact that in the 1950s he wrote a novel, Children of Our Alley (Awlad haritna), that was perceived as deviating from Islamic doctrine. This declaration was followed by a failed assassination attempt.7 The story of the late Egyptian academic Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd is one of the most well-known cases of apostasy being used to repress and discredit intellectuals. In 1996, following a suit filed in court, the High Court of Justice declared Abu Zayd, a professor of Islamic and Arabic studies at Cairo University, an apostate and compelled him to divorce his wife. Abu Zayd’s studies are well known for the challenges they pose to existing religious interpretations, not only by refuting existing understandings of Islam, but also because they show the extent to which these understandings are manipulated in order to gain political power and economic gain. Based on Abu Zayd’s published research, the court determined that he had committed an act of apostasy by denying that “the Quran is God’s word” and, rather, describing it as a cultural artifact; describing Islam as an Arab religion while denying its universality; and attacking the implementation of sharia and describing it as reactionary and as the source of Muslims’ backwardness. Following the verdict, Abu Zayd and his wife left Egypt.8 Abu Zayd’s case, though, did

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not end with his emigration and continued to agitate the public arena. Seven years after the verdict against him, the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy advocated boycotting his book Discourse and Exegesis (Alkhitab wa’l ta’wil). The announcement was made following a report by Islamist Muhammad ‘Imara in which he asserted that Abu Zayd’s studies challenge two pillars of the Islamic doctrine: monotheism and preservation of the divine character of the Quran.9 Encouraged by the success of the suit against Abu Zayd, Islamist attorneys multiplied their efforts and filed numerous suits in court. In an attempt to stem the tide of suits, the Egyptian government changed the law in 1998 and limited the individual’s right to file suits related to religious and moral offenses. The law that settled the hisba issue stated that only the attorney general had the authority to decide whether cases would be brought to court or not. This decision did not necessarily express a principled objection to such charges or a rejection of the reasoning behind them, and it made no attempt to protect individual rights. Generally, this measure expressed concern about the negative effects of the multiplication of such cases on the public policy or public order (alnizam al-‘amm). Still, the changes did not stem the tide of charges of declaring Muslims nonbelievers (takfir). Despite harming the chances of success of such cases, Islamist lawyers continued to file suits in court as a means to promote their agenda among public opinion and to apply constant pressure on the government to protect public morality. The use of takfir to silence those engaged in critical scholarship was also prevalent among rival groups of ulama themselves. Even members of the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy were not exempt from accusations of apostasy. In the context of what has been termed the “war of the shaikhs” (the muhtasibin struggle), apostasy charges were raised against ‘Abd al-Sabour Shahin, who, ironically, was among those who filed the suit against Nasr Abu Zayd. The charges were based on ideas he had expressed in his book My Father Adam: The Story of Creation, Between Myth and Fact (Abi adam: qissat al-khaliqa bayna al-ustura wa-al-haqiqa). In this book, Shahin asserted that Adam was not the father of humanity and that he was not created from dust, but rather that he was born to a barbarian mother and father who did not receive any divine communication.10 Charges of apostasy were raised not only regarding literature or research, but also concerning declarations and statements perceived as overstepping conservative religious interpretations. Thus, for instance, Nawal al-Sa’adawi, a feminist doctor known for her controversial positions on issues ranging from women’s rights to the inequality produced

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by the new world order, was accused of apostasy following an interview she gave to the Egyptian weekly al-Midan. In the interview, al-Sa’adawi repeated her known views against the institution of marriage and the Islamic version of inheritance laws. Among other things, she asserted that Islamic rituals such as pilgrimage to the holy cities in Saudi Arabia were a vestige of pre-Islamic idolatry.11 Al-Sa‘adawi was the target of additional lawsuits. In 2007, two lawyers filed a suit asking that she be deprived of her Egyptian citizenship and prohibited from entering the country on the grounds that she had defamed religion and attacked the principles of Islamic law when she wrote a play titled God Resigns at the Summit Meeting (Allah yuqaddimu ’istiqalitihi fi ’ijtima‘ al-qimma). Nevertheless, in this case too, the court refused to deprive al-Sa‘adawi of her citizenship.12 Similar charges sought to restrict freedom of expression in the virtual space—the Internet—as well. For instance, in 2006 ‘Abd al-Karim Suleiman (Karim ‘Amer), a blogger and law student, was arrested for entries in his personal blog regarding the tension between Muslims and Christians in Alexandria and for criticism he had directed toward the alAzhar religious establishment and President Mubarak. Karim ‘Amer, the first Egyptian blogger convicted for contents uploaded to his blog, was sentenced to four years in jail, three of them on charges of contempt of religion and one year for defaming Mubarak.13 In October 2008, the authorities arrested blogger Reda ‘Abd al-Rahman, a Quranist who rejects the Sunna and considers the Quran as the only source of sharia. ‘Abd al-Rahman was using his blog, Justice, Freedom, and Peace, to promote the ideas of the Quranist movement and to call for political and religious reform in Egypt. The authorities charged ‘Abd alRahman with “insulting Islam.”14 The tide of charges continued to rise. For instance, in April 2009 the Court of Administrative Justice issued a ruling voiding the license of Ibda’ magazine. The suit was filed by an attorney against the magazine’s editor, Ahmad ‘Abd al-Mu‘ti Hijazi, the minister of culture, the speaker of the Shura Council, the shaikh of al-Azhar, and the public prosecutor. The petitioner asked that the magazine’s publication license be revoked for publishing “Layla Murad’s Balcony” (Shurfat Layla Murad), a poem by Hilmy Salim. The lawyer argued that the poem constituted an “offense to the divinity,” which required revoking the magazine’s license in order to “protect Muslim sensibilities and avert the strife provoked by the magazine.”15 In its ruling, the Court of Administrative Justice stated that the poem contained expressions representing an affront to the divinity and

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that it painted “an offensive image of the Lord.” Although the court referred to the importance of freedom of opinion and expression, noting that the press enjoyed full freedom, it nevertheless made such freedom conditional on not assaulting society’s constituent elements, including the family, religion, morals, patriotism, and motherhood. On 1 April 2008, the court ruled to suspend the decision to grant poet Hilmy Salim the State Award for Achievement in the Arts for his complete works and withdrew the prize from him because of the publication of the offending poem in Ibda’ magazine. That court relied on the same reasoning used in the ruling to suspend the magazine’s license.16 Similar charges of apostasy were raised against liberal researcher and writer Sayyid al-Qimni after the Ministry of Culture decided to grant him the State Award of Merit in Social Sciences in June 2009. AlQimni, who is renowned for his critical writings regarding Islamist discourse, has been calling for years for objective study of Islam and the Quran and has fiercely attacked Islamist organizations and thinkers. The announcement by the Ministry of Culture was protested by the religious establishment and Islamists, both of whom called for cancellation of the award decision on the grounds that al-Qimni was an apostate, since his writings harmed Islam and Muslims. Several lawsuits were even filed against the minister of culture demanding that he revoke the award granted to al-Qimni.17 The State: A Passive Factor? Charges of apostasy and accompanying violations of freedom of speech in Egypt did not necessarily originate with the government. Government ministers were more concerned with writings critical of the regime than with liberal texts that challenged orthodox interpretations of Islam. In most cases, the initiative was taken by interested political and social forces. Intellectual Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd, who was himself charged and convicted of apostasy by the Egyptian legal system, noted the fact that by no means did the state refer a person to court because he denied his religion and that charges of apostasy were always initiated by Islamists. In his view, the separation between state and religion was not achieved at the level of general culture and in this respect society had a crucial effect.18 However, such arguments do not mean that the state was a passive bystander. State policy was an important factor in the extent of the phenomenon that placed limits on freedom of expression. Similar to other Arab constitutions, the 1971 Egyptian constitution guarantees freedom of expression. Article 47 states that every person

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has the right to express their opinion through speech, writing, photography, or any other means. Article 49 clearly refers to the state as responsible for guaranteeing freedom of research and creativity. However, the constitution also limits these freedoms, asserting that they are not absolute but rather subject to legal restrictions and are intended to preserve the freedoms of other people to enjoy public order and to protect public morals from publications that stand contrary to religion.19 All the articles in the 1971 constitution must be read in conjunction with Article 2, which states that Islam is the religion of the state and that the principal source of legislation is Islamic jurisprudence (sharia). The official status of sharia means that accusations of apostasy can be brought before the courts and result in a conviction. The Egyptian penal code does not refer clearly to apostasy. But despite the lack of specific legislation, charges of apostasy can be based on Article 98(f) of the code, which criminalizes “any use of religion to promote or advocate extremist ideologies . . . with a view toward stirring up sedition, disparaging or showing contempt for any divinely revealed religion, or prejudicing national unity and social harmony.” In theory, the law is meant to prevent people from offending others’ religious sensitivities, but in practice it has been used to limit freedom of expression and punish and intimidate those who pose alternative interpretations to the orthodox interpretation of Islam. The Egyptian constitution and legislation do not contradict or reject any of the assertions included in the relevant international declarations, since according to international norms, freedom of expression is not an absolute freedom, as it is conditioned by the rights of others and the requirements of public security and morality. And indeed, cases of freedom of expression pose difficult questions regarding the level of freedom that should be allowed, especially regarding the type of discussion that must be allowed and protected for the sake of liberty and democracy, and the type of discussion that must be repressed for the sake of public morality and security. However, despite this dilemma, Article 19 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights asserts that “such limitations must be determined explicitly in the law.” Contrary to this requirement, the formulation in the Egyptian constitution, as well as in the relevant Egyptian legislation, is too general and leaves much room for interpretation by the government as well as by opposition elements regarding the precise meaning of such key terms as “public security” and “public morality.” The analysis of court judgments in apostasy cases, including the Abu Zayd case, shows that they have been based on the question of

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whether writings constitute an attack on the Islamic order.20 According to Lars Berger, the key lies with the concept of public policy (al-nizam al-‘amn), which “stands for those legal principles that are considered fundamental to a society, and which may not be contradicted, altered, or violated by any rules or laws of that same society.”21 A major element of Egyptian public policy is the essential principles of Islamic law, which are not codified.22 Thus the courts attribute apostasy to the ambiguous domain of public policy, which is never clearly defined and always open to interpretation. In this respect, there is similarity between the regime’s attitude to freedom of political expression and its attitude to freedom of expression on issues concerning religion. As the permitted space for critical political expression has never been defined and is subject to ad hoc decisions by the government, the Egyptian government has made no effort to clarify the exact limits of the space in which one can express nonconsensual positions and nonorthodox interpretations. Most apostasy charges do not lead to legal proceedings and remain at the level of public debate. The position of governmental bodies toward these charges has an impact on the nature of the public debate. On the one hand, the government has called for a renewal of religious discourse and for an enlightened interpretation of Islamic religious law, and it has even presented legislative reforms as part of legitimate ijtihad23 for the purpose of expanding the rights of women.24 In other cases, however, it has kept silent or cooperated with the suppression of voices advancing the renewal of the religious discourse. This has been the reality preferred by the government, since it leaves the field of public debate open to manipulation and allows it to maneuver, according to its interests, among the competing identities and the forces representing those identities in the Egyptian arena. A clear example of the regime’s tendency to let the boundaries of freedom of expression remain vague was manifest in the words of the Egyptian representative to the UN’s Council for Economic and Social Rights in 2000. According to him, Egyptian citizens enjoy freedom of expression and there is no censorship of any type of expression in literature or research. He said that though there are indeed several laws regarding writings that deal with religious issues, they are not implemented beforehand and are discussed only if a complaint is submitted regarding the published material.25 Although this testimony seemingly removes blame and responsibility from the government regarding violations of freedom of expression, it expresses the regime’s tendency to leave the boundaries of public debate open and subject to manipulation.

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The lack of determination of clear limits on freedom of expression was also manifest in the contradictory positions expressed by senior government officials and bodies of the ruling party. Thus, for instance, Mahmud Hamdi Zaqzuq, minister of religious endowments, expressed support of the al-Azhar rulings regarding confiscation of books,26 while Farouq al-Husni, minister of culture, expressed completely different views when he defended the rights of authors and artists to freedom of expression.27 When demands were made to confiscate Ahmad al-Shahawi’s book Commandments for Loving Women (Wasiyya fi ‘ishq alnisaa) for offending Islam, al-Husni came out against these demands and protected the freedom of the writer to use verses from the Quran in his work.28 The minister interpreted Islamists’ demands as a willful attempt to create political crises, which is in the interest of marginal parties aiming to damage the superiority of Egyptian culture, the Egyptian nation, and enlightened thought.29 The ruling party, the NDP, announced its support for freedom of expression in general and the renewal of religious discourse in particular, yet the party’s journal, The Islamic Banner (al-Liwa’ al-Islami), used the discourse of takfir when it accused intellectuals, such as poet ‘Abd al-Mu‘ti Hijazi, of apostasy for calling for state secularization.30 Avoiding a clear and consistent position was part of the regime’s strategy for coping with the rise of the Islamist faction in the public and political arenas. The regime felt obligated to adopt the language of the Islamist movement, which was the source of the movement’s broad popular support.31 By expressing commitment to Islamic values and constructing an image of itself as protector of Islam, the regime was able to cope with the Islamist faction on two levels—first it had an alliance with Islamists, and second it could limit their power.32 The issue went beyond regime relations with Islamist factions. Although it is true that Islamists constituted the opposition force with the most significant popular support, opposition to the regime was also found among secular forces acting to expand public and political rights. Ambivalent statements and vague formulations also served the regime in weakening the resistance of the secular forces. Charges of apostasy intended to protect the honor of Islam were also a way in which to restrain and restrict freedom of expression of writers, political opponents, religious reformers, and human rights activists. 33 Allowing the issue to remain on the public agenda, controlled and regulated by the state, diverted public discussion from economic and political issues, such as demands for reform, as well from Egypt’s controversial relations with Israel and the United States, and chan-

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neled public anger to more comfortable areas from the regime’s point of view.34 Al-Azhar had a major role in the regime’s policy. As Abdullah Saeed has noted, apostasy and related laws work most effectively as a tool of suppression when there is a dominant local orthodoxy protected by a religious establishment to oversee its implementation, and when there is a political elite willing to support the religious establishment.35 The Role of al-Azhar Charges of apostasy did not originate only from outside the establishment. As the Islamists’ influence increased, the government’s desire to bolster its image as a legitimate Muslim government rose as well. For this purpose it required the support of religious elements, headed by alAzhar. Historically, this institute was used by the regime to bolster its religious legitimacy and as an element that granted religious validation for its political, social, and economic decisions. Al-Azhar, which most of the time allied with the regime and operated under its auspices and with its encouragement, had an important role in determining what was worthy of publication and what was not.36 Al-Azhar’s status was anchored in government decisions stating that only al-Azhar had the authority to advise the minister of culture regarding which works were religiously acceptable.37 Al-Azhar first became involved in censorship in 1985, when Law 102 granted it the authority to approve all publications of the Quran and the Hadith. With time, this authority was expanded to include publications that did not directly involve religion. In August 2003 the Ministry of Justice issued Decision 4392, which granted al-Azhar the authority to supervise and confiscate religious publications and recordings that violated the principles of Islam. Following public criticism, the government explained that the decision was made due to the increase in complaints regarding unauthorized copies of the Quran that contained mistakes, and insisted that it had no desire to censor or confiscate literary works.38 Circles within al-Azhar, who welcomed the decision, also made haste to calm fears and stated that the publications subject to confiscation were restricted to those that attacked religious principles.39 Al-Azhar clerics did not view the authority granted them as a violation of freedom of expression. In their view, the purpose of their supervision was not to restrict ideological or cultural life in Egypt, but to be a compass for Egyptian culture and thought.40 Al-Azhar clerics believe that they have an important role in protecting Islamic culture, removing

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from it mistakes, inconsistencies, and wrongful interpretations by dealing with any divergent thoughts that present themselves as innovative. In their view, the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy does not suppress ijtihad; rather, it strives to encourage it and even implements ijtihad itself through studies written by researchers in fields of Islamic knowledge. Nevertheless, it does wish to set standards regarding the methodology of ijtihad, and it opposes researchers who implement methodologies that contradict the principles of religion and sharia.41 Al-Azhar clerics also recommended that the intellectuals discuss issues related to the needs of society and problems occupying Muslims as individuals and as a nation.42 This recommendation by al-Azhar was problematic, since defining the needs of the nation was open to interpretation. Also, this recommendation reflected al-Azhar’s view that its authority as a cultural marker was not limited to obvious religious issues, and that it also had a role in defining and shaping the identity of the Egyptian nation. Despite attempts to diminish the role of al-Azhar in limiting freedom of expression, a 2004 report by the EOHR comparing the confiscation policy of the shaikh of al-Azhar, Jad al-Haq, to that of his successor, Muhammad Sayyid Tantawi, indicating a significant rise in the number of books confiscated by the latter.43 And indeed, under alAzhar policy, books were confiscated that did not deal directly with religion but that were determined to contain components constituting an insult to religion and contrary to sharia. Among the most prominent cases included Ahmad al-Shahawi’s book Commandments for Loving Women (Wasiyya fi ‘ishq al-nisaa);44 Nawal al-Sa‘adawi’s book The Fall of the Imam (Suqut al-imam), despite having been in print for twenty years;45 and Sayyid al-Qimni’s book Thank You Bin Laden (Shukran Bin Laden).46 Although al-Azhar had a significant role in banning liberal texts on Islamic issues, it generally did not recommend prosecuting the authors, and denounced violence. Official ulama who had to balance between various political, social, and religious considerations were more restrained in their actions in comparison to the Islamist activists.47 Nevertheless, al-Azhar became the de facto guardian of Islamic ethics, controlling a wide spectrum of Egyptian cultural life, including the fate of intellectuals with dissident views in matters of faith. More important, the expansion of the official authority of al-Azhar and the role granted to it in the struggle over Egypt’s Islamic identity encouraged establishment religious scholars, operating within and outside al-Azhar, to express independent views regarding issues of apostasy.

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Al-Azhar’s Ulama Front, an independent body that is unofficially perceived as the third most important al-Azhar entity regarding religious law, after the shaikh of al-Azhar and the president of al-Azhar University, was responsible for many charges of apostasy. Thus, for instance, in 1997 al-Azhar’s Ulama Front declared Hassan Hanafi, professor of philosophy at Cairo University, an apostate due to ideas expressed in his works that dealt, among other issues, with the expansion of the concept of tawhid (the unity of God) to an entire moral code that included social unity (inequality between the poor and the rich) and international unity. The front determined that Hanafi was an atheist and therefore demanded that the university fire him and that the courts put him on trial.48 Even if such declarations did not garner the official support of al-Azhar, and in Hanafi’s case even attracted al-Azhar’s opposition, it had a role in the development of the culture of takfir and the legitimacy that culture acquired among the public. The Islamist Faction and the Apostasy Debate Most apostasy campaigns are launched by Islamist lawyers who file hisba lawsuits against secularists, feminists, liberals, and others to further their political or personal agendas, but also by Azharite ulama, nonestablishment ulama, and Islamist intellectuals who are determined to fight secular tendencies and thinkers. These elements join forces to prosecute apostates, both on the street and in the courtroom. This trend reflects the general agreement among Islamists that blasphemy is a crime.49 Regarding the issue of freedom of expression, it is possible to generalize and say that the position of the Islamists reflects the position of Abu A‘la al-Mawdudi, one of the most influential Islamic scholars of the twentieth century, who asserted that Islam granted freedom of thought and expression to all citizens of the state under the condition that they use this right to spread virtue, honesty, and morality, and not to spread evil.50 The limitations upon freedom of expression are clearly articulated through the revelations of the Quran and the Sunna. Freedom of expression that does not respect these revelations is considered apostasy.51 According to Islamist thinkers, sharia guarantees freedom of belief. Every human being has the right to embrace whatever ideas and doctrines they wish, even if these conflict with what the majority of community members regard as true. However, according to Islamist Muhammad Salim al-‘Awwa, this right does not include the right to express one’s religious or moral beliefs publicly with the intention of converting people to a false commitment.52

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A similar position was expressed by Yusuf al-Qaradawi, an influential conservative jurist operating outside of al-Azhar, who distinguished between two types of apostasy: apostasy restricted to the individual, which does not have significance for the collective, and apostasy during which a person expresses their opinions in public and preaches for others to join in adopting those opinions. In al-Qaradawi’s view, public apostasy is ruinous, since it endangers the character and foundations of society. However, he emphasized that intellectual apostasy, which is not necessarily committed openly and at times is concealed and wrapped in misleading words, is more dangerous to the nation than open and obvious apostasy.53 According to al-Qaradawi, Muslim society must forcefully object to any type of apostasy and protect its existence and identity in the face of the attacks launched by the “Christian invasion,” which began with Western colonialism, and by the modern invasion of secularism.54 This means that there is no absolute liberty, since individual liberties cannot stand in contrast to the rights of society. Due to the importance of the collective, any argument that Islamic law in part or in whole is not ideal is perceived as an act of disloyalty and even betrayal of God and the unity and eternal values of the community. And indeed, many of the religious figures and Muslim jurists define apostasy as betrayal of the state and the nation. Coming out against apostates is intended to protect the community of believers from harm and change.55 According to Islamic scholar Muhammad ‘Imara, these limitations are not unique to Muslim society. Every society restricts freedom of expression according to the manner in which it defines its basic values, and any harm to these basic values is considered to harm the rights of its members. Since religious faith is one of the basic values of Egyptian society, as anchored in the Egyptian constitution, any offense against religious faith harms the liberties of everyone else.56 Ostensibly, there is no difference between the limitations on freedom of expression posed by Muslim thinkers and those posed by liberal thinkers in the West. Both wish to place restrictions on people who oppose the fundamental values of the society in which they live. However, there is an essential difference. As Meir Litvak has noted, while in the Western approach the limitations and barriers placed on freedom of expression are subject to constant review by elected bodies and public intellectual debate, all Muslim thinkers place the principles of Islam above liberty—the boundaries of liberty will always be found within the framework of Islamic faith.57 Muslim thinkers who refer to this difference make a clear distinction between the Islamic conception of freedom of expression and the Western one. The freedom of expression

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granted in the West is not perceived by them as a sign of progress, and they do not desire to emulate the Western example, with its attending conceptions that lead to social chaos and anarchy.58 However, similar to the vagueness of the official position regarding the boundaries of freedom of expression, for the Islamists too, in referring to sharia, the Quran, and the Sunna, there is much room for interpretation according to the approaches and understandings of the different schools and factions.59 Despite the consensus among all currents of Islamic thought regarding the need to limit freedom of expression, within the Islamist faction there exist different opinions regarding the manner in which one must cope with people who are perceived as violating this freedom. One main controversy is focused on the question regarding who has the authority to decide when the limits of freedom of expression have been crossed. Muhammad ‘Imara, expressed his opinion that filing lawsuits in court against people because of their ideas is a phenomenon worthy of condemnation. In his view, since in Islam there is no central or superior authority that has the power to judge whether a person is an apostate or not, the issue is solely intellectual, not legal. Therefore, such issues must be dealt with through a debate that would exclude those who have no expertise concerning sharia, the Quran, and the Sunna.60 Al-Qaradawi also warned against accusing believing Muslims of apostasy.61 In his view, the judges in apostasy cases must have religious knowledge, since leaving the issue in the hands of people who are ignorant of this knowledge is dangerous.62 The issue is not merely about religious knowledge, but also includes the motivations of the exegete. As Fahmi Huwaydi put it, the exegete must be God fearing, with motivations that are pure and commentary that is devoid of impulse and lust.63 The attempt to restrict the authority to determine the limits of freedom of expression to within the Islamist faction itself constitutes an internal exclusion that imposes disciplinary restrictions on those participating in the debate. Such restrictions allow for rulings to be made, but only within precisely defined boundaries. The conservative forces restrict the methodological tools that can be utilized in the intellectual discussion. Their internal controversies are part of the power struggles that they engage in among themselves and with other forces who wish to participate in the exegetical process. As Sayyid al-Qimni has argued, any exegesis that stands contrary to the conceptions of religious elements, be they official or not, is perceived by them as a violation of their social status, authority, and sovereignty.64

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In the Egyptian arena, al-Azhar demanded for itself the right to decide what those limits are and received the state’s backing in this endeavor. Al-Azhar’s desire to maintain its predominance in the Egyptian Islamic world faced challenges posed by nonestablishment Islamists, who undermined its monopoly over the field of da‘wa (preaching of Islam) by claiming that da‘wa was not the sole mandate of the shaikhs and the imams of al-Azhar, but rather was the duty of each and every Muslim according to their abilities.65 Members of the Muslim Brotherhood stress that al-Azhar is not the only religious authority. Thus, for instance, ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Abu al-Futuh stated that al-Azhar is not the only authority because no entity, regardless of its status, has the sole authority to interpret and rule on religious issues. In the Egyptian context, he referred to other highly appreciated universities, such as al-Zaytuna, and to independent figures whose authority is considered impeccable, such as Yusuf al-Qaradawi and Muhammad ‘Imara. 66 Others noted that al-Azhar’s authority must be advisory and its religious rulings nonbinding and nonconclusive.67 This contestation of al-Azhar’s authority must be examined not only in relation to Islamists’ particular conceptions regarding freedom of expression, but also in regard to their relationship with the authorities. In contrast to al-Azhar, which serves in the role of guardian of orthodox Islam, sponsored by the state and on its behalf, the use that opposition Islamist circles have made of the apostasy debate and their self-presentation as liberating the people from apostasy and moral degeneration has constituted a powerful weapon with which to attack the political system, without having to engage directly with the government. Raising charges of apostasy against writers and intellectuals also casts doubt on the legitimacy of the government, whose failure to act makes it vulnerable to charges that it is not sufficiently dedicated to Islam and is not representing the desires and wishes of the masses. The multiplication of lawsuits and accusations concerning apostasy beginning in the 1990s was, among other things, a manifestation of the fact that court cases offered Islamists a public arena in which they could express their beliefs. The government, which closed many arenas to the Islamists, unintentionally turned the courts into one of the few remaining arenas that were open to them. Islamist lawyers file lawsuits even when it is clear that their chances of success are small, because even a loss grants them the opportunity to promote their agenda, develop a debate among the public, and secure their role as guardians of social morality.

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Human Rights Activists and Freedom of Expression with Responsibility Freedom of expression is one of the most important issues on the agenda of intellectuals and human rights activists in Egypt. Their dilemma centers on the question of how to protect freedom of expression in such a way that corresponds to cultural and religious traditions without confirming the superiority of these traditions, some of which do not comply with human rights. Human rights activists who were aware that freedom of expression, which they defined as “the mother of all rights,” is identified in the public consciousness as one intended for elites only, aimed to solidify their conception that freedom of expression is important for all citizens and, furthermore, that its guarantee is a necessary condition for achieving national objectives, including renewal and resurrection of Egypt (nuhud misr).68 Human rights NGOs and secular intellectuals from different political factions condemned the apostasy charges and expressed unequivocal support of the right of intellectuals, writers, and artists to express their opinions. All the same, despite recognizing that the issue at stake was a wider conflict related to the struggle with Islamists over the identity of Egypt, they chose not to engage directly with the Islamists and did not conduct a direct attack against prominent Islamists who encouraged these actions. For the most part, human rights NGOs referred to individual Islamists, who in their view filed suits for publicity purposes, support, and to gain proximity to the corridors of power. Most human rights activists did not engage in an in-depth discussion of the essence of apostasy charges. Instead, they chose to stress the role of the state. The majority of cases brought before the courts involved secular intellectuals, journalists, and artists expressing positions critical of the government. Therefore, limitations on freedom of expression related to social and religious issues were linked to the lack of democracy and the existence of emergency laws that granted the state almost absolute power over the press and creative works, and helped it silence nearly all opposition for the purpose of maintaining the status quo.69 According to reports by the Arab Network for Human Rights Information (ANHRI), fear related to restrictions on freedom of belief and thought was not solely the product of Islamist elements but primarily a political problem related to the role of the state and its use of religion in its struggle to preserve its power over society. The government had a direct interest in such lawsuits, since they served the government vis-à-

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vis the Islamists as well as secular forces. As ANHRI saw it, the government was aware that establishment of a religious state would eventually lead to an Egyptian regression, yet still preferred to woo the Islamists as a means to weaken secular forces who were battling for democracy, liberty, and social equality. The government recognized that restrictions on freedom of expression damaged its international image, and therefore used apostasy charges as an indirect means to punish critical media and individuals in order to silence them without exposing itself to international criticism and without being linked directly to these restrictions.70 Human rights NGOs came out strongly against the expansion of alAzhar’s authority. As they saw it, this measure contradicted the conception of the civil state (al-dawla al-madaniyya) and was part of a broader regime policy of limiting freedom of expression, such as Egyptian legislation that granted al-Azhar the broad authority to restrict and confiscate publications. The specific directive expanding al-Azhar’s authority was problematic in their view, since there was no guarantee that the directive would not be used to violate the right of opinion, expression, thought, and faith. Indeed, al-Azhar’s authority was expanded to include confiscation of fiction and poetry, as well as academic research and publications related to religious thought, revival of the religious message, and ijtihad. Al-Azhar became a court that supervised and restricted freedom of thought and creative work.71 The EOHR report on confiscation of books during the 2005 international book fair revealed that different types of books were confiscated (52 percent prose and philosophy, 38 percent religious literature, and 10 percent politically related literature); seminars were canceled; and authors, poets, and intellectuals were prevented from expressing their views in writing and in person, including figures who expressed opposition to the regime and demanded constitutional reform.72 Beyond general demands relating to the expansion of political and civil rights as a precondition for eradicating this phenomenon, activists within and outside the human rights movement stressed the need for a civil state. At a 2004 CIHRS conference, the need for a civil state was perceived as crucial both by those who believed that the state was exploiting religion for its own benefit, and by those who attributed the regression in Egypt’s civil character to the state’s weakness and inability to control its relations with society. This process, they argued, escalated beginning in the mid-1990s, at which time the state began to neglect its economic and social responsibilities and relinquished its role as arbitrator and judge of disputes between the various sectors of society and the religious establishment.73

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In their quest to solidify the civil character of the state, human rights activists and secular intellectuals sought the de-politicization of religion. The secular project they supported did not distance religion from society nor did it cancel religion’s role as a cultural component and an important pillar of society’s moral code. Rather, the secular project concentrated on removing religion from the political playing field. Salah ‘Issa, editor of the weekly al-Qahira, called for creating a dialogue that would enable the creation of a new social contract according to which the state would be based on patriotism, democracy, secularism, and social justice. In the secular state he envisioned, people would make laws according to what they believe is appropriate for their times, without violating the content of religious legislation.74 This is a fundamental conception, since it is closely related to the nature of freedom of expression that human rights activists and secular intellectuals wish to be upheld in Egypt. There are those who demand complete freedom of expression without any restrictions and reject any type of censorship of any type of opinions, even those involving harsh criticism of religion and the Prophet Muhammad. However, this group is in the minority and subject to criticism even by the liberal camp.75 An example of such criticism is reflected in the words of Egyptian intellectual al-Sayyid Yasin, who came out against the reliance of secular intellectual and human rights activists on the UDHR, an approach that he sees as ahistorical. Even though he stressed the importance of the declaration and related conventions, he asserted that any comparison that human rights activists make between Arab peoples and the rest of the world is superficial, since it ignores the historical differences inherent in the development of nations.76 Furthermore, Yasin emphasized the ambivalence in the West’s attitude toward the issue of freedom of expression as proof that there is no absolute freedom of expression. He stressed the historical fact that the UDHR was written when the Arab countries were occupied by Britain and France, both of which restricted the freedom of expression of Arab citizens. Those same modern countries implemented for themselves what he termed a “hidden supervision” of freedom of expression, the clear example being the United States after the events of 11 September 2001. Therefore, when discussing complete freedom of expression, one must expose the conceptual hypocrisy and sanctimony of the “Other.”77 Many human rights activists express the notion that there is a need for liberty with responsibility. Complete liberty without limitation means social and public irresponsibility, which has negative implica-

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tions. Unique social characteristics and the need for cultural preservation turn freedom of expression into more a matter of public responsibility than personal liberty. Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, who referred to the public debate following the 2000 publication of Haidar Haidar’s book Banquet for Seaweed (Walima li-a‘shab al-bahr) in Egypt, expressed this view clearly. Sa‘id emphasized that even though he objects to Islamists’ attacks against Egyptian intellectuals, he also objects to the arguments of secular intellectuals, who present these Islamists attacks as a threat to democracy and basic human rights.78 In Sa‘id’s view, Egyptian intellectuals who define their disagreement with the state or Islamists on these issues in terms of democracy versus authoritarianism or totalitarianism are making a mistake. A truly democratic personality, he argued, would strongly object to publications that are perceived as abusing or humiliating a certain group or community. Relying on his interpretation of Article 19 of the UDHR, he stated that reasonable limits on freedom of expression on issues relating to public morality, religion or religious symbols, minority rights, privacy, and honor must become part of the legislation without being perceived as violating democratic principles or human rights. In his approach, a balance must be achieved between freedom of expression and the right of the community to enjoy respect of its religious beliefs and symbols. Sa‘id maintained that public morality must be protected from extreme language, on the condition that such restrictions are necessary and reasonable and are measured responsibly. Regarding the question of who is authorized to judge what is reasonable and necessary, Sa‘id answered that such a power does not exist in a vacuum, and judgment corresponds to the rhythm and spirit of the times. These laws could be implemented in a creative manner while bringing into account public peace. Regarding Egypt’s particular circumstances Sa‘id asserted that people are entrenched in a conservative spirit, are religiously sensitive, and have an acute feeling of vulnerability to what they perceive as foreign cultural invasion. In his view, many secular intellectuals must restrain themselves, even if this prevents them from issuing declarations that they see as necessary for their artistic expression. The failure to create a consensus regarding the need for sensitivity will push people toward an alliance with the Islamists. Nevertheless, Sa‘id determined that the issue is not just about self-censorship; he also placed responsibility on the government, which in his view must lay down in a clear manner the parameters of this policy, after consulting with intellectuals from different schools of thought. In his view, the differences between the various schools are minimal and can be completely avoided through a creative dialogue.79

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Arguments regarding the value of restrictions on freedom of expression express a communitarian understanding that stresses the importance of social institutions and values in the development of the individual identity. Limiting freedom of expression is linked, among other things, to the desire to preserve culture and protect the traditions, values, and customs of Arab-Islamic societies. In these respects, this discussion of freedom of expression is different from that conducted in the West. Even many liberal-secular individuals and groups such as the human rights NGOs that refer to freedom of expression in terms of international standards do not exclude themselves from the circle of religious faith. This tendency is prominent among those accused of apostasy, who take care to stress that they are believing Muslims. In their view, they are not undermining religion, only its narrow, vague interpretation and utilization. Thus, for instance, Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd never wished to be portrayed as an opponent of Islam and took care to identify himself as a Muslim who realized his rights in the framework of Islamic exegesis.80 When Nawal al-Sa‘adawi defended her right to freedom of expression, she stressed that all her arguments were within a permissible Islamic framework and in defense of real morality. She emphasized her status as a believer and that for her, belief in Islam was always belief in God, the spirit of justice, liberty, and love.81 In similar fashion, when Sayyid alQimni published articles and books critical of Islamists, he too stressed that his words were misunderstood and that he was a believing Muslim whose critical work was intended to serve religion and the state.82 These secular intellectuals did not speak on behalf of secularism, but on behalf of progressive interpretations of Islam. The struggle of secular intellectuals and human rights activists was not over complete freedom of expression, but rather over their place and role in the debate related to the religious aspects and their own position in defining the framework of this debate. One example of this can be found in the lawsuit filed by the EOHR to restrict the authority of religious institutes to unmistakably religious publications. The organization stressed that it did not rule out censorship of freedom of expression as part of the same public responsibility discussed earlier. However, it did argue that such restrictions must be left in the hands of experts and taken out of the hands of religious figures, given their operation in a field completely unrelated to their duties.83 Many activists and secular intellectuals striving to establish a social, political, and cultural order based on human reason and freedom of thought and expression do not turn their back on religion as an

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important component of culture and as a basis for society’s moral codes. However, in the struggle against charges of apostasy, human rights activists’ criticism focused mainly on the state. Apostasy charges, in their view, were a product of dictatorship and the regime’s cynical use of religion for its own purposes. Nevertheless, human rights activists also struggled against the exclusion of secular intellectuals, researchers, and other creative people from religious discourse, which had crucial implications for shaping Egypt’s cultural identity. In this respect, the struggle was not only against the state but was also part of their power struggle with establishment religious scholars and Islamists, who aimed for a monopoly over the shaping of Egypt’s identity and image.84 Despite this, human rights activists did not significantly challenge the Islamists’ arguments, and did not provide alternatives to the Islamist framework. Their arguments remained at the general, abstract level of demanding freedom of expression while using a legalistic language as expressed in the Egyptian constitution and international conventions of human rights, without negotiating in concrete terms over the limits of this debate and their right to participate in it. Human rights activists were aware of the gaps between the universal standards of human rights and the values prevalent in their society and the Islamists agenda. For this reason, organizations such as the CIHRS wished to put an end to the human rights movement’s long-term disregard of the role of religion and its influence on human rights. In this context the CIHRS indeed attempted to bring up the issue of religious renewal that would be open to modernity, conform to human rights, and respect conceptions of pluralism.85 However, this aim did not have a systematic expression in actual activities and in concrete involvement in human rights issues related to religious thought. Calls for renewal of religious thought did not go beyond a conceptual discussion and were not linked to an organized action that examined theoretical ideas in a practical manner.86 The goal of dialogue lacked a clear agenda, and the shift from declarations to a concrete plan that would refer to issues such as freedom of expression and other problematic issues such as minority rights has not yet been made. The choice made by many human rights activists not to engage with the Islamist framework shows that in their view, renewal of religious thought and negotiations over the limits of freedom of expression cannot grow and develop except in an atmosphere of freedom of expression and freedom of faith. For this reason, the call for the renewal of religious culture could be achieved only after radical political change and legal reform.87

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In this respect, the priorities of the human rights movement are a product of the restrictions imposed upon it. Human rights activists depend on secular intellectuals and religious moderates to advance these goals. Furthermore, initiatives launched by the CIHRS and liberal elements came under strong criticism from Islamists, intent on defeating such progressive initiatives seen as having a Western anti-Islamic influence.88 However, by choosing to emphasize political change over renewal of religious thought, the human rights activists and some intellectuals circumvented the need to touch upon the sensitive issues at the heart of this struggle. The activists’ choice to focus their efforts on the authorities while using legalistic language came at the expense of focusing on the local space and at the expense of efforts to create a local understanding of human rights based on knowledge, experience, and traditions from the Arab and Islamic culture. Furthermore, the choice not to engage with the role of certain religious interpretations in limiting freedom of expression diminished the ability of the human rights activists to create an alternative agenda that would continuously challenge the regime and weaken its ability to form agreements with the populace.

Apostasy Charges and the Limits of Freedom of Expression in Jordan In the Jordanian arena too, charges of apostasy were raised by Islamists against intellectuals, writers, and journalists who expressed positions perceived as deviating from the religious orthodoxy. However, the phenomenon was different than in Egypt in terms of extent and intensity. The number of charges of apostasy raised in the political and public arena in Jordan was significantly less than in the Egyptian arena, and the political and public interest in Jordan in these cases was also very limited. In most cases, press reports of these cases were restricted to the inner pages, and they did not produce the same public clamor that characterized the Egyptian context. In Jordan, the charges were also not accompanied by physical violence as in Egypt, where extremists assassinated intellectual Faraj Fuda and tried to assassinate author Najib Mahfuz. These differences are a result of the unique characteristics of the Jordanian state and society, the political culture characterizing the relations between regime and society, and even the unique organizational and conceptual Islamic religious experience in Jordan. The issues raised in Jordan were similar to those advanced in Egypt. For instance, in the beginning of 2000 a lawsuit was filed against

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Mousa Hawamda over a poem he wrote that was perceived as an insult to Islam. The poem was first published in the anthology My Trees Are Higher (Ahajari a‘la) in 1999 and referred to the quranic story about Joseph, asserting that even though Joseph believed that the pharaoh’s wife was trying to seduce him, this belief was no more than a futile delusion, since she was purer than he was. This aroused the anger of the Islamists, who filed a lawsuit against the poet for “ridiculing and violating” verses from the Quran. They demanded the death penalty, since the poet denied quranic facts that appear in the Sura of Joseph, denigrated the Prophet Joseph, and even went so far as to ridicule the Prophet Muhammad. Notably, the lawsuit against Hawamda originated among more radical Islamists in Jordan, and specifically with a member of the Salafi movement who was employed as supervisor of the clerks in a small sharia court in one of Amman’s suburbs.89 The Salafi movement is a small faction with rigid positions, distinct organizationally and conceptually from the central faction represented by the Muslim Brotherhood and their political arm, the Islamic Action Front.90 In the context of prolonged legal procedures against Hawamda, during which he was acquitted in some of the courts,91 Hawamda was sentenced in May 2002 to three months in prison for “denial of quranic facts that are irrefutable.”92 The appeal was denied in August 2003, confirming the lower court’s verdict. Another prominent case occurred in 2003 following the publication of an article in al-Hilal newspaper titled “‘A’isha in the Home of the Prophet,” dealing with the intimate relations of the Prophet Muhammad with ‘A’isha and the rest of his wives.93 This article was primarily a collection of materials previously published, including materials from books that were approved for publication in Jordan. It was perceived as dishonoring the prophet’s family and led to a ruling issued by religious scholars of the IAF party announcing that those responsible for the publication of the article were apostates.94 Nasser Qamsh, the newspaper’s chief editor, and Muhannad al-Mubaidin, the article’s author, were arrested and charged with publication of an item damaging to the image, reputation, and honor of the state, injuring the dignity of individuals, and destabilizing the social situation through dissemination of seditious materials and false information and slandering of the prophet.95 Despite reports of attempts at a compromise mediated by elements in the IAF for the purpose of extracting a public apology from the newspaper, the Jordanian authorities were determined to file the lawsuit and close the newspaper.96 Relying on Temporary Law 150 (October 2001), the journalists were tried in a state security court and sentenced in Feb-

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ruary 2003 to periods of imprisonment ranging from two to six months for denouncing the Prophet Muhammad, insulting the dignity of the state, and causing instability.97 A similar incident occurred in January and February 2006, when the newspapers al-Mihwar and al-Shihan republished cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad, which first appeared in the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten in September 2005 and aroused the anger of Muslims throughout the world. The editors of these newspapers were arrested by Jordanian authorities in February 2006 and charged with violating the item of the penal code that prohibits publication of materials that insult the religious feelings or beliefs of other people. They were also accused of violating the item of the Law of Publications and the Press that prohibits publication of materials that stand contrary to the values of the Arab and Islamic nation. The Jordanian religious establishment also leveled charges of apostasy. Jordan’s grand mufti, Noah Salman al-Quda, accused Islam Samhan, a Jordanian poet and journalist, of apostasy in 2008 following the release of his first collection of poetry, Grace Like a Shadow (Birashaqat zil). The mufti accused Samhan of apostasy for the content of some of his poetry, which included quranic verses and compared the loneliness of the poet to the loneliness of the Prophet Joseph. Based on the mufti’s statement, the Muslim Brotherhood demanded that the collection be recalled and Samhan punished. Samhan was accused by the Department of Printing and Publication of harming the Islamic faith and violating the Law of Publications and the Press for combining the sacred words of the Quran with sexual themes. In June 2009 he was sentenced to one year in prison and a $14,000 fine.98 The State and Charges of Apostasy The Jordanian constitution formally guarantees freedom of expression. Article 15 of the constitution asserts that the state guarantees freedom of expression and that every Jordanian is free to express views in public, verbally, in writing, or through other means, as long as they are not against the law. As in the Egyptian case, this liberty is limited by legislation and cannot be viewed as absolute. Examination of the relevant legislation regarding cases of apostasy in Jordan shows that the legislation is vague and leaves ample room for the government to manipulate and interpret its language. As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan too there is no clear treatment of the issue of apostasy in the civil penal code. However, one may file suits regarding this matter in a sharia court, as

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occurred in the case of Hawamda. Nevertheless, cases raised by the state, which included charges related to offending religious feelings, were brought before civil courts and placed in the category of violating the Law of Publications and the Press. Contrary to Egypt, in which there is no censorship of books prior to their publication, in Jordan the Law of Publications and the Press stipulates that every book must be approved by the Department of Publications and the Press in the Ministry of Information before it is printed and distributed. Even though this clause is rarely implemented, it exists and can be activated according to the circumstances. The Law of Publications and the Press also grants the government broad authority to fine, withhold licenses, close newspapers, and control the contents of publications. This law even includes restrictions on freedom of expression, formulated in a flexible manner and subject to interpretation, such as the obligation to respect the truth and refrain from publishing material that contradicts the principles of liberty, national responsibility, human rights, and values of the Arab and Muslim nation. A 2001 amendment to this law, issued during the suspension of parliament between 2001 and 2003, tightened existing restrictions on freedom of expression. One item of this amendment permits the prosecution of anyone who expresses positions that harm national unity; sows hatred and discord among individuals; incites to racial discrimination; injures the dignity, reputation, or liberty of individuals; undermines political stability by committing an offense or an immoral act; or takes any action that violates the dignity and reputation of the state.99 This amendment was implemented in practice when the state initiated the trials of the editor of the al-Hilal newspaper and the journalists responsible for publishing the report of Muhammad’s intimate relations with his wives, and also in the case of the editors of al-Mihwar and alShihan, who published the Muhammad cartoons—publications that were defined as denouncing religion, injuring the dignity of the state, and causing instability. After a public campaign aimed at changing the legislation and expanding freedom of the press in March 2007, the parliament ratified the proposed Law of Publications and the Press and submitted it for the approval of the senate. Despite government promises to amend the law, it still contained controversial items, such as the item that permits the arrest of journalists if they denounce religions protected by the constitution, or offend religious feelings and beliefs and incite ethnic division. The law also retained vague restrictions on the contents of publications, such as the obligation to respect the values of the Arab and Islamic

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nation.100 This legislation allows the regime to control the public and political debate, but it also reflects its position that freedom of expression must be accompanied by responsibility. Thus, for instance, King Abdullah expressed his complete support for freedom of expression, but at the same time called for journalists to be objective and responsible in their reports and refrain from exploiting their liberties in a way that would harm the interests of Jordan as well as its image and unity.101 The journalistic responsibility referred to by King Abdullah is also relevant to the issue of expressing positions on subjects concerning religion and belief. The regime’s position on the issue of apostasy charges is flexible and subject to change according to the circumstances and the groups that raise the charges. On the one hand, King Abdullah came out strongly against the charges of takfir as a manifestation of extremism that did not conform to the character of real Islam, yet on the other hand he himself initiated the trial of journalists who were accused of apostasy and injuring religious feelings. As in the Egyptian case, this flexible approach benefits the regime, as it retains the ability to maneuver and control the debate according to its own interests. Thus, for instance, Jordan’s mufti, Sa‘id al-Hijjawi, came out against the religious ruling that proclaimed the poet Hawamda an apostate. He stressed that no individual or council has the authority to proclaim anyone an apostate and that such authority was vested only in courts of law.102 A similar approach was expressed by the minister of information, Salah al-Qaleb, who issued a warning concerning the Islamists’ attacks on Hawamda and said that it was the government that imposed the law and that the government would not allow any other entity to take its place.103 In this case the opposition expressed by the government as well as by the official ulama was not directed against the principle of proclaiming someone an apostate. Rather, it identified the “proper” authority allowed to raise such charges. The government’s reaction must be examined in light of the fact that the lawsuit was filed by a member of the Jordanian Salafi movement. This movement expresses rigid positions in religious matters and distinguishes itself organizationally and conceptually from the Muslim Brotherhood. Beginning in the 1990s, this movement sought to challenge the Jordanian regime, which feared the strengthening of a jihadist faction in the Islamist movement that doubted the religious legitimacy of the Hashemite regime itself.104 As a result, the regime had a clear interest in clarifying its position against the free use of such charges, although at the same time it took care to express its commitment to act against anyone who voiced positions that oppose Islam’s central values

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and symbols. This commitment was manifest in the fact that it allowed the legal procedures against Hawamda to proceed. The regime’s reaction was different when the charges originated with the central faction of the Islamist movement, the Muslim Brotherhood, and its political arm, the IAF. In the case of the publications in the al-Hilal newspaper, the government plainly determined that the publications constituted an insult to the Prophet Muhammad, which was a crime that could not be justified under the pretext of freedom of expression, and dealt with those responsible accordingly. In this case, too, the interests affecting the regime’s reaction must be considered. The ruling accusing the journalists originated with religious figures of the IAF—a party that fiercely opposed the military alliance forming between the United States and Jordan on the eve of the Iraq War. The government’s desire to appease the moderate Islamists and avoid further opposition and controversies with them determined to a large extent its reaction and its willingness to make concessions in favor of the Islamists. The regime also expressed an unwavering stance following the publication of the cartoons of the Prophet Muhammad in the local press. In an announcement issued by the royal office, the king emphasized that such publications were a mistake, unacceptable, and completely inexcusable. The king also added that he would not allow or accept any injustice against Islam or any other heavenly religion.105 Abdullah’s unequivocal position must be examined in light of the enraged reaction in the Muslim world in general, and in Jordan in particular, regarding Danish publication of the cartoons that presented the figure of the Prophet Muhammad as a terrorist. These cartoons were perceived as an intentional insult to the religious feelings of Muslims. In these circumstances, Abdullah had no interest in being portrayed as someone who ignores such a grave offense to the feelings of his subjects, and he took advantage of the opportunity to demonstrate his status as protector of Islam. And indeed, his reaction was supported by establishment religious figures and also by Islamists in Jordan, who commended the policy of the king in wishing to reveal the true nature of Islam but also rejecting any offense to Islam.106 The regime backed the charges of apostasy through confiscating publications as well as through implementation of legal procedures against those expressing positions that were perceived as offending religion. At the same time, the regime came out forcefully against the culture of takfir when it appeared to have implications for domestic stability. King Abdullah shaped his image as part of the new generation of Arab and Muslim leaders striving for democracy-based reform while

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preserving the values of Islam and its moral foundations through promoting a modern Islamic Arab discourse.107 The Amman message issued in November 2004, as well as the initiative for organizing the international Islamic conference in Amman in July 2005, which sought to enlist Muslim action against extremists, must be viewed in this context.108 At the second Islamic conference convened in Amman in June 2006, war was declared against the culture of takfir. Sponsored by King Abdullah, this conference was attended by a hundred senior Islamic religious figures from forty-five countries, who consolidated their position on the issue of charges of apostasy and issued a call to Muslim countries to prevent the media from publishing statements proclaiming Muslims to be apostates without sufficient religious basis.109 The conference must be examined against the background of the terrorist attacks on the Jordanian capital in November 2005, and in the context of local expressions of admiration and support for the actions of the Muslim terrorist organizations. This support was manifest in a religious ruling issued by Muhammad Abu Fares, a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, who proclaimed Mus‘ab al-Zarqawi, al-Qaeda leader in Iraq, a martyr.110 Such occurrences and others encouraged Abdullah to adopt a comprehensive strategy to deal with the culture of takfir and its utilization by militant circles to legitimize their attacks against Muslim regimes—including the Jordanian regime. Nevertheless, Abdullah’s struggle against the culture of takfir was limited, because the regime did not express a total rejection of the phenomenon. The 2006 conference did not completely reject the phenomenon of takfir and did not completely rule out such proclamations, but rather stressed the need to restrict proclamations of takfir to authorized religious figures, as part of the attempt to reduce the legal religious chaos in the Muslim world, expressed by the publication of contradictory religious rulings. The opposition to takfir did not stem from concern for freedom of expression, but rather strove to establish limits to this debate and keep it in the hands of establishment Islam and especially prevent its utilization by Islamist elements, which exploited it, directly or indirectly, in order to express opposition to the regime and undermine its legitimacy. As in the Egyptian case, this was an attempt to restrict the debate and impose a form of control to serve those in power. The Islamist Movement The Islamist movement in Jordan, and particularly the Muslim Brotherhood and its party, the Islamic Action Front—actively participated in

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the publication of religious rulings proclaiming certain Muslims to be apostates. However, the positions the Muslim Brotherhood expressed regarding the issue of apostasy were not uniform. Alongside using takfir, they also took care to distance the movement and its party from any identification with this strategy. This duality stems from the existence of various factions and conceptual differences of opinion within the movement and the party, as well from the movement’s pattern of conduct in the political arena and in its relations with the regime, which differ to a great extent from those characterizing the relations of the Islamist movement and the Egyptian regime. The Muslim Brotherhood’s reserved reaction was striking in the case of the apostasy charges raised against the poet Hawamda. Despite the fact that in the Friday sermons in the mosques, religious figures called to punish the poet and some of the Muslim Brotherhood’s leaders even demanded that he stand trial, prominent figures in the party and movement did not show any enthusiasm for raising apostasy charges against the poet. Leaders such as Ishaq Farhan and Muhammad Dhunibat belittled the value and importance of the case and stated that it was no more than an attempt by the poet to gain publicity for his works.111 The fact that the charges originated with the Salafi movement, which is not supported by the Muslim Brotherhood, undoubtedly had a role in the peace that was kept among the movement’s rank and file. The Salafi movement distinguishes itself from the Muslim Brotherhood conceptually and organizationally. Salafi members view the Muslim Brotherhood as a political party that is irrelevant to developing and understanding Islamic thought. And indeed, Salafist religious authority is considered higher than that of the Muslim Brotherhood, which rules over politics.112 The almost complete disregard of the Brotherhood concerning these charges was part of the power struggle between the Muslim Brotherhood and the Salafis over influence and conceptual authority. It also reflected the Muslim Brotherhood’s lack of desire to be identified with positions taken by Salafis, which were in confrontation with the regime. The Muslim Brotherhood had a different response in the case of the al-Hilal publications. In this case the charges were raised by a committee of IAF religious scholars, who produced a religious ruling according to which anyone who harms the status of the prophet or defames his character or mission is considered an apostate. In their view, al-Hilal offended the prophet and described him in terms that did not conform to his status and that of his wives. The committee demanded that a sharia court decide the matter.113 The movement’s journal expressed a clear

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and conclusive position demanding that the journalists be punished to the full extent of the law, and promised that if the authorities did not take action, the movement would continue to prosecute the apostates through the courts.114 In light of the fact that the charges were made against journalists and were thus also linked to freedom of expression, Brotherhood leaders took care to distinguish their charges from the issue of freedom of the press. One of the main struggles conducted by the Jordanian NGOs vis-à-vis the authorities focused on changing the Law of Publications and the Press, especially following the amendments made by the government that expanded its authority and control. The Muslim Brotherhood did not want to be identified as partnering with the regime in restricting freedom of the press. Therefore, one of the Brotherhood’s leaders, Shaikh Jamil Abu Bakr, emphasized that the issue was unrelated to freedom of the press, and rather touched only upon the question of offending Islam and defaming the prophet and his wives. He also clarified that the Muslim Brotherhood believed in complete freedom of expression regarding the secular world.115 For the same reason, the Brotherhood also came out very strongly against the publication of cartoons in the al-Shihan paper and demanded that those responsible stand trial.116 Despite the direct involvement of the Brotherhood and its party in charges of apostasy, the movement took care to renounce the culture of takfir.117 Similar to the regime’s position, the Brotherhood’s renunciation of the culture of takfir did not constitute a rejection of its use. The Brotherhood by no means renounced the right to proclaim other Muslims apostates. It clearly expressed its position that it was adhering to what had been agreed upon by all four legal schools, that no Muslim would be proclaimed an apostate unless he announced his apostasy in a clear manner and denied all that was known in religion, or committed a deed that could not be interpreted except as apostasy. All the same, the Brotherhood also took care to stress that there was no place for independent religious rulings on the issue of apostasy; an authorized court ruling was required for this matter, based on reliable data and proof.118 Human Rights Activists and Limitations on the Freedom of Expression In the Jordanian arena too there were groups that came out against apostasy charges and called for the government to strongly oppose those raising such charges, although such reactions did not reflect the general climate.119 In contrast to the Egyptian case, charges of apostasy in Jor-

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dan were not presented as a political problem related to the role of the state and its cynical use of religion to preserve its power over society. The charges also were not exploited to emphasize the need for a “civil” political order. Thus, for instance, in the case of the charges against the poet Hawamda, in most newspapers the editors did not bring up the subject, and no support or opposition to the poet’s actions was expressed. This ignoring of the charges against the poet Hawamda was rooted in the fact that most people diminished the importance of such charges and did not perceive them as being part of the Jordanian political culture, not to mention the fact that Jordan has not experienced cases of assassinations or any attempts to physically harm writers, poets, or intellectuals following charges of takfir against them. Contrary to the Egyptian case, in Jordan the secular intellectuals do not define apostasy charges as “a license to kill intellectuals.” The lack of interest in charges of apostasy in Jordan reflects the conception prevailing among secular intellectuals that in religious issues it makes sense to place limits on freedom of expression. This argument is reflected in the case of the poet Hawamda, in which the courts had to deal with the way artists utilize the quranic verses in their compositions. The Jordanian Writers Association commended the court’s decision to consult with experts on Arabic literature, although it did state that all artists must take caution when using quranic verses, in order to prevent misunderstandings.120 In practice, the Writers Association did not rise to defend Huwamda’s right to freedom of expression and did not even accompany him throughout the lengthy trials.121 As far as Huwamda was concerned, even though he emphasized his status as a believing Muslim, he consistently refused to retract the ideas expressed in his poems. He defended himself by arguing that poets have the right to use historical symbols to refer to reality. In his view, his poems had a metaphorical character and were open to broad interpretation. In this context the poet noted that he was originally from Hebron and that the Prophet Joseph symbolizes Israel, which conquered his homeland.122 Despite the poet’s reference to his right to freely express himself in his art, the public discussion of the matter did not delve into freedom of expression and did not attempt to redefine the limits of the debate concerning religious symbols. This tendency is well-reflected in the case of the apostasy charges directed against the al-Hilal newspaper in 2003, which led, among other things, to the arrest of journalists and the temporary closure of the newspaper.

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The protests were limited to the punishment the government inflicted on the journalists, and the case was levered to express opposition to the violation of freedom of the press in general and the Law of Publications and the Press in particular. In this context the journalists protested the closure of the newspaper and the holding of the trial in a state security court. A demand was made to transfer the case to a civil court, in which those publishing the article in al-Hilal newspaper would have to account for their clear violations of the nation’s beliefs.123 The protests did not refer at all to the right to publish articles dealing with the intimate relations of the Prophet Muhammad with ‘A’isha and the rest of his wives, and no demand was made to show tolerance toward the discussion of religious issues. Actually, many colleagues of the journalists who were charged with apostasy believed that the journalists had committed an unworthy act and had exceeded acceptable limits of freedom of expression and therefore refrained from defending the journalists publicly. On the contrary, dozens of journalists signed a memorandum asking the Jordanian Press Association to stop the attacks on the prophet and the abuse of society’s religion and faith.124 The Press Association condemned the publication as reflecting a lack of professional and moral commitment, and furthermore, as far as the association was concerned, such irresponsible and improper publications obstructed its efforts to annul Law 150 of the penal code, which permits the arrest of journalists.125 The Center for Defending the Freedom of Journalists (CDFJ) was the only body to rise to the journalists’ defense, when it called for cancellation of the attorney general’s decision. However, the CDFJ also referred to the publication of the article in al-Hilal newspaper as a professional mistake committed by the newspaper, and expressed its recognition of the need for counseling and instructions to improve the ethical quality of journalism in general.126 Similar reactions arose following publication of the cartoons of Muhammad, which, as mentioned, originally appeared in a Danish newspaper. The Jordanian Press Association decided to punish those responsible for the publication, since the association considered their actions a discredit to the profession’s honor. Even the journalists of the al-Shihan newspaper, which published the cartoons, condemned the editor and asserted that the publication of the cartoons was an affront to the journalistic mission and an offense to Arabness and Islam. In a public statement, they emphasized that al-Shihan would continue to be a Jordanian media platform that protects Islam and its prophet.127 The furious response toward the publication of the cartoons in the Jordanian press can be understood in light of the enraged reaction of

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Muslims around the world who viewed the publication as an affront to their core beliefs and an expression of Western hatred and prejudice toward all Muslims. This enraged reaction did not bypass Jordan, in which huge demonstrations were held against the cartoons.128 Nevertheless, the opposition to these publications and others related to religion expresses a different conception regarding the essence of freedom of expression and its limits. Similar to Egypt, some liberal elements in Jordan, especially among the burgeoning youth movements, media activists, bloggers, and advocates of online press freedom, would very much support freedom of speech as an absolute.129 Despite this, there is broad agreement that freedom of expression that incorporates moral and spiritual harm is an excessive liberty.130 In a conference held after the publication of the cartoons, the participants recognized the differences between the Western conception of freedom of expression and that of Arab and Muslim society, as Arab Muslims consider Western society to be based on the destruction of sanctified values, including their own.131 Charges of Apostasy in Egypt and Jordan: Comparative Aspects An examination of the apostasy debate in Egypt and Jordan shows that the issue at stake is not a reflection of the struggle between those who seek a civil political order and those who demand a greater public role for religion. The matter is more complex, and a host of positions exist between these two extremes, which in both cases reflect an understanding that freedom of expression on issues of religion and morality is not absolute and the implementation of public responsibility is appropriate. That said, there are differences in the extent, intensity, and impact of the discussion regarding freedom of expression in the public and political arena. The explanation of these differences lies in the role of religion as a factor in the definition of society’s identity as well as in the pattern of relations that the government has with opposition elements. As discussed earlier, the modern identity of these two countries is undergoing a prolonged formative process. One of Egypt’s identity fissures relates to the conflict over religion and state. Although this conflict has gone through many phases and forms, it remains one of the main factors responsible for the tension in the political arena. As opposed to the Egyptian case, the deepest identity fissures in Jordan are less focused on the relations between state and religion. There are several lines of identity within Jordan, as the divide between the Palestinians and East Jordanians has a major impact in shaping the

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processes of Jordanian nation- and statebuilding. Most of these divisions have had no significant effect on the discourse of freedom of expression in religious issues.132 There are also differences in the way the state utilizes religion to legitimize its rule, and especially in the way this policy is perceived by the opposition. The Egyptian regime’s need for religious legitimacy of its rule was manifested in the role and authorities it granted al-Azhar. In practice, giving al-Azhar a stage contributed to the creation of an antiintellectual and antisecular climate and strengthened popular opposition to secular and liberal factions, who feared their loss of status and the state’s civil character. By contrast, Jordan does not have a comparable institute, not with respect to religious importance and not as a body that can grant religious legitimacy to the regime. This can be explained by the fact that the Jordanian regime was never perceived as secular and enjoys greater religious legitimacy than other Arab regimes. The Hashemite family is a scion of the family of the Prophet Muhammad. Such origins are of great political importance, and the Hashemite dynasty takes care to nurture this image as a central pillar in the regime’s survival strategy. These characteristics contributed to the fact that the opposition, including the Muslim Brotherhood, had little Islamic justification to undermine the legitimacy of the Hashemite family. In addition, the relations of the regimes with the Islamists had a crucial effect on differences in the intensity of the apostasy debate, if only for the fact that apostasy charges usually originated among Islamists. Both regimes cooperated with apostasy charges, whether through confiscating offending publications or through putting the offenders on trial. In both cases, regime cooperation can be attributed to each regime’s efforts to avoid pressure by Islamists calling for the establishment of a religious state. Each regime’s involvement also reflected certain aspects of its strategy of controlling the religious discourse by keeping it within specified criteria, cementing its status as the agency responsible for defining the distinctive cultural and religious values of society, and at the same time discouraging those who put forth interpretations aimed against the regime. Although it is true that both regimes encouraged the renewal of religious discourse in order to develop enlightened and moderate religious attitudes suitable to modern times,133 they also made room for conservative approaches. Farida al-Naqqash defined this strategy as a conscious and intentional tactic to allow the existence of contradictions without making any attempt to solve them.134 Nevertheless, there are significant differences between the cases. Relations between the Egyptian regime and the Islamists, and particu-

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larly the Muslim Brotherhood, were characterized by tension. The regime took action in order to limit the Islamists’ political growth and suppress their freedom to express positions opposing the regime. This regime’s strategy influenced the Islamists’ tendency to use the charges of apostasy as an alternative avenue through which to express oppositional positions indirectly and as a means to censure the regime and undermine the pillars of its legitimacy. Contrary to this, the Jordanian Muslim Brotherhood required such tactics to a lesser extent. Even though the Islamist movement is the most significant opposition group in the political arena, the history of relations between the Jordanian regime and the Muslim Brotherhood is less antagonistic. Even if we reject approaches that refer to a historical strategic alliance between the Muslim Brotherhood and the regime, their relations were characterized by mutual avoidance of a direct confrontation. This difference is also related to the unique Jordanian pattern of social relations as well as the Jordanian regime exhibiting a higher level of tolerance to the point of political and social pluralism and institutional flexibility in managing the coalitions supporting the regime and society in general.135 In addition, contrary to the Egyptian government, which refrained from legally recognizing the Muslim Brotherhood, the Jordanian regime preferred not to encourage a movement acting outside of legal channels. For its part, the Muslim Brotherhood accepted the restrictions and worked within them in order to establish its social and political power, while avoiding a direct confrontation with the regime or the use of violence. In conclusion, despite differences in intensity of the debate, in both cases the question of who is authorized to define the limits of the freedom of expression on religious issues was not decided. This question continues to haunt the public and political arenas and is the main reason for raising charges of apostasy, and it will continue to be a crucial factor as long as the parties involved, especially human rights activists, refrain from conducting concrete and practical negotiations with the state and religious forces over the rights of freedom of expression on religious issues.

Notes 1. On apostasy in Islam, see Yohanan Friedmann, Tolerance and Coercion in Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 121–159. 2. Abdullah Saeed and Hassan Saeed, Freedom of Religion, Apostasy, and Islam (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), pp. 35–43. 3. Ibid., pp. 51–68.

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4. The term al-dawla al-madaniyya is complex, used in varying and contradictory ways that reflect the competing visions about Egypt’s future. Different uses of the term reveal widely shared aspirations for a nonmilitary state, but also one that is not religious. For the different definitions of the term, see Peter Hill, “‘The Civil’ and ‘the Secular’ in Contemporary Arab Politics,” Muftah, 26 February 2013, http://muftah.org/the-civil-and-the-secular-in-contemporary -arab-politics. 5. C. Cahen and M. Talbi, “Hisba,” EI2 3 (1971): 485–489. 6. Meir Hatina, Identity Politics in the Middle East: Liberal Thought and Islamic Challenge in Egypt (London: Tauris, 2007), pp. 65–66. 7. For a discussion of these and other cases, see Declan O’Sullivan, “Egyptian Cases of Blasphemy and Apostasy Against Islam: Takfir al-Muslim,” International Journal of Human Rights 7:2 (Summer 2003): 105–112; Fauzi Najjar, “Book Banning in Contemporary Egypt,” The Muslim World 91:3–4 (Fall 2001): 409–416; Article 19, The Egyptian Predicament: Islamists, the State, and Censorship (London: August 1997), para. 7.3.2. The debate over Mahfouz’s book did not conclude with this incident and it continued to occupy the public arena. In 2006 he was once again charged with blasphemy, with the claim that the character of al-Jablawi in his book represented the Godhead; see Ruz al-Yusuf, 8 February 2006. Several people rose to Mahfouz’s defense, including Ahmad Kamal Abu al-Majd; see Ruz al-Yusuf, 31 January 2006. Others claimed that the character of al-Jablawi represented President Nasser and that the rest of the characters represented the members of the Revolutionary Council. See, for instance, the arguments of Ibrahim Fathi in al-Qahira, 14 February 2006; see also the arguments of Muhammad Halal in al-Ahram al‘Arabi, 28 January 2006. 8. For a detailed analysis, see Jabir ‘Asfour, Didd al-ta‘assub (Against fanaticism) (Dar al-Bayda’: al-Markaz al-Thaqafi al-‘Arabi, 2001), pp. 33– 175; Fauzi Najjar, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Intellectuals: The Case of Nasr Hamid Abu-Zayd,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 27:2 (November 2000): 177–200; George N. Sfeir, “Basic Freedoms in a Fractured Legal Culture: Egypt and the Case of Nasr Hamid Abu-Zayd,” Middle East Journal 53:2 (1998): 402–414; Ami Ayalon, Egypt’s Quest for Cultural Orientation (Tel Aviv: Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies, 1999). 9. See Abu Zayd’s reference to this matter in Sawt al-Umma, 8 December 2003. See also al-Ahrar, 3 December 2003; al-Musawwar, 3 December 2003. 10. See, for example, al-Ahrar, 30 July 1999; al-Ahali, 16 June 1999; Ruz al-Yusuf, 4 January 1999. The al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy was asked to give its opinion of the book, but refused to view it as heretical; see Akhir Sa‘a, 11 August 1999. 11. See interview with al-Sa‘adawi in al-Midan, 6 March 2001. See also alMidan, 13 March 2001; al-Midan, 27 March 2000; Akhir Sa‘a, 25 April 2001. The lawsuit was rejected, and on 30 July 2001 the attorney general dropped all charges against al-Sa‘adawi; see al-Ahram, 31 July 2001. 12. See the written statement submitted by the CIHRS, a nongovernmental organization in special consultative status, to the UN Human Rights Council, 6 September 2010, A/HRC/15/NGO/35.

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13. Arab Network for Human Rights Information, Freedom of Opinion & Expression in Egypt: Annual Report 2007 (Cairo, 2008). 14. Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, “EIPR Calls for Detained Qur’ani Blogger’s Immediate Release,” press release (Cairo, 30 October 2008). See also ‘Abd al-Rahman’s blog, at http://www.redaabdelrahman.com. 15. Al-Musawwar, 15 April 2009. 16. Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, Freedom of Religion and Belief in Egypt Quarterly Report, April–June 2009 (Cairo: July 2009), pp. 6–7. 17. al-Wafd, 9 July 2009; al-Usbu‘, 10 July 2009; Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, Freedom of Religion and Belief in Egypt Quarterly Report, July–September 2009 (Cairo, October 2009), p. 8. 18. See interview with Abu Zayd in al-Qahira, 28 January 2003. 19. See report submitted by the government of Egypt regarding implementation of the International Covenant on Economic Social and Cultural Rights, UN Doc. E/1990/5/Add.38, 30 June 1998, para. 255. 20. Johansen Baber, “Apostasy as Objective and Depersonalized Fact: Two Recent Egyptian Court Judgments,” Social Research 70:3 (Fall 2003): 700– 705. 21. Lars Berger, “The Case of Sa‘ad Eddin Ibrahim and the Current Relationship Between State and Civil Society in Egypt,” Orient 41:4 (December 2000): 725. 22. Ibid., p. 726. 23. Ijtihad is defined as interpretation and reasoning based on the sacred texts. In the early days of the Muslim community, every adequately qualified jurist had the right to exercise such original thinking. Religious scholars effectively terminated the practice of ijtihad in the ninth century. Since then, scholars and jurists have relied on earlier interpretations of the Quran and the Hadith. However, there is now a growing movement among scholars and intellectuals to revive the practice of ijtihad. See Weal B. Hallaq, “Was the Gate of Ijtihad Closed?” International Journal of Middle East Studies 16:1 (1984): 3–41. 24. See, for example, Mubarak’s call to renew religious discourse in a conference organized by Markaz al-Buhuth al-Islami, in al-Qahira, 23 April 2002. See also interview with the minister of religious endowments, Mahmoud Hamdi Zaqzouq, in Sawt al-Azhar, 7 November 2003. 25. See the arguments of the Egyptian representative to the Council on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights, UN Doc. E/C.12/2000/SR.13, 9 May 2000, para. 63. 26. Quoted in al-Midan, 17 February 2005. 27. See interview with Farouq al-Husni in al-Ahrar, 17 June 2000. 28. The minister explained it by saying that the quranic verses are separated from the text, and that the Sufi writer deals with love between man and woman as a symbol of the divine love. See al-Midan, 13 November 2003. 29. al-Ahrar, 17 June 2000. 30. Ruz al-Yusuf, 13 March 2004. See also the criticism of Farida alNaqqash in al-Ahali, 15 March 2004. 31. See, for example, the claims of Muhammad Munib, former secretarygeneral of the EOHR, in “A‘ta’a haqq al-dabtiyya al-qada’iyya li-majma‘ al-

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buhuth: al-mismar al-akhir fi na‘h al-dawla al-madaniyya” (Granting the power of censorship to Al-Azhar is the last nail in the civil state coffin), Sawasiyya 57–58 (2004): 10. 32. See the words of Salah ‘Issa at a conference on Islam and democracy, organized by the CIHRS, as presented in full in Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah (ed.), al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya (Islam and democracy) (Cairo: Markaz alQahira li-Huquq al-Insan, 2003), p. 139. 33. See, for example, Farida al-Naqqash’s arguments regarding the impact of this debate on the secular forces, in al-Ahali, 15 March 2004. 34. See the words of Salah ‘Issa at a conference on Islam and democracy, organized by the CIHRS, in Dayf Allah, al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya, p. 139. 35. Abdullah Saeed, “Ambiguities of Apostasy and the Repression of Muslim Dissent,” Review of Faith & International Affairs 9:2 (2011): 33. 36. For a discussion of the authority granted to al-Azhar, see Steven Barraclough, “al-Azhar: Between the Government and Islamists,” Middle East Journal 52:2 (Spring 1998): 234–250; Najjar, “Book Banning in Contemporary Egypt,” pp. 399–424. 37. Law 103 of 1963 granted al-Azhar the right to advise the government regarding copies of the Quran and books dealing with the Sunna, but did not grant it the authority to confiscate books. See al-Munazama al-Misriyya liHuquq al-Insan, Difa‘ ‘an hurriyyat al-fikr wa’l-ibda‘ al-dabtiyya al-qada’iyya li’l-Azhar mitraqa ‘ala’ hurriyyat al-fiqr (Protection of freedom of expression and creativity: The jurisdiction of the Al-Azhar—a hammer on freedom of thought) (Cairo, 21 October 2004), chap. a. 38. See the response of the Egyptian government to questions referred to it by the UN Human Rights Council, UN Doc. E/CN.4/2005/64/Add.1, 29 March 2005, para. 342. 39. See interview with Muhammad Sayyid Tantawi in Akhir Sa‘a, 13 October 2004. 40. See the words of Mahmoud ‘Ashour, former assistant dean of al-Azhar, in Ruz al-Yusuf, 6 June 2003. 41. See the position of the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy on the case of ‘Abd al-Sabur Shahin, in Ruz al-Yusuf, 28 August 1999. 42. Ibid. 43. al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, Difa‘ ‘an hurriyyat al-fikr wa’l-ibda‘, chap. b. 44. al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, “Musadarat kitab wasiyya fi ‘ishq al-nisaa i‘tida’ ‘ala’ hurriyyat al-ra’i wa’l-ta‘bir wa-tahdid lil-dawla almadaniyya” (Confiscating wasiyya fi ishq al-nisaa is a breach of freedom of opinion and expression and a threat to the Civil state) (Cairo, 4 November 2003). 45. al-Hayat, 27 May 2004. 46. Ruz al-Yusuf, 3 June 2004. 47. Muhammad Abu Samra, “Liberal Critics, ‘Ulama,’ and the Debate on Islam in the Contemporary Arab World,” in Meir Hatina (ed.), Guardians of Faith in Modern Times: “Ulama” in the Middle East (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 279, 289. 48. ‘Asfour, Didd al-ta‘assub, pp. 205–235.

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49. Meir Hatina, when analyzing the pointed controversy that developed about the views of Egyptian intellectual Faraj Fuda, rightly asserted that labeling currents of Islamic thought with modern labels such as “conservative,” “moderate,” or “radical” is a relative matter and not valid when Islam or its foundations are criticized. Hatina, Identity Politics in the Middle East, p. 70. 50. Abul ‘Ala Mawdudi, Human Rights in Islam (London: Islamic Foundation, 1980), pp. 28–29. 51. See Article 12 of the Universal Islamic Declaration of Human Rights; and Article 22 of the Cairo Declaration on Human Rights in Islam. The text of the Cairo declaration is published on the website of the Organization of Islamic Cooperation, at http://www.oic-oci.org/english/article/human.htm. 52. Salim al-‘Awwa, quoted in Talal Asad, “Free Speech, Blasphemy, and Secular Criticism,” in Talal Asad et al., Is Critique Secular? Blasphemy, Injury, and Free Speech (Berkeley: Townsend Center for the Humanities, University of California, 2009), pp. 39–40. 53. Yusuf al-Qaradawi, Jarimat al-ridda wa-‘uqubat al-murtad du’ alQur’an wa’l-Sunna (The crime of apostasy and the punishment of the apostate in light of the Quran and the Sunna) (Amman: Dar al-Furqan, 1996), pp. 46–54, 64–67. 54. Quoted in al-Ahrar, 2 December 2002. See also interview with Yusuf alQaradaqi in al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 3 July 2004. 55. On apostasy as betrayal of the state and the nation, see Yusuf alQaradawi, Jarimat al-ridda, p. 53. See also Rashid al-Ghannushi, al-Huriyyat al-‘amma fi al-dawla al-Islamiyya (Public liberties in the Islamic state) (Beirut: Markaz Dirasat al-Wahda al-‘Arabiyya, 1993), pp. 47–51; Mohammad Salim al-‘Awwa, Punishment in Islamic Law: A Comparative Study (Indianapolis: American Trust, 1982), pp. 49–56. Nasr Hamid Abu Zayd, who was himself charged with apostasy, locates this link between religious coercion and political treason in processes dating to the eighteenth century, when the Islamic world was occupied and needed to reach a general agreement on how to deal with occupation. Any differing opinion that expressed weakness was perceived as national treason. See interview with Abu Zayd in al-Qahira, 28 January 2003. 56. See interview with Muhammad ‘Imara in al-‘Arabi, 21 December 1999. 57. Meir Litvak, “Slavery [to God] Is the Freedom: Notion of Freedom in Contemporary Islamic Thinking,” History 16 (2004–2005): 79 (in Hebrew). 58. See interview with ’Imara in al-‘Arabi, 21 December 1999. 59. Ann Elizabeth Mayer, Islam and Human Rights: Tradition and Politics, 3rd ed. (Boulder: Westview, 1999), pp. 66–68. 60. Quoted in Najjar, “Islamic Fundamentalism and the Intellectuals,” pp. 195–196. 61. al-Qaradawi, Jarimat al-ridda, p. 59. 62. Quoted in al-Ahrar, 2 December 2002. 63. Quoted in Hatina, Identity Politics in the Middle East, p. 141. 64. See al-Qimni’s reference in Ruz al-Yusuf, 12 October 2002. 65. Shmuel Bachar et al., Establishment Ulama and Radicalism in Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan (Washington, DC: Center on Islam, Democracy, and the Future of the Muslim World, Hudson Institute, 2006), pp. 7–8. 66. Quoted in al-‘Arabi, 23 November 2003.

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67. Sawt al-Umma, 1 December 2003. 68. Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah, “Hal yatabanna’ al-majlis al-qawmi li-huquq al-insan tawsiyat al-muthaqqifin?” (Will the National Council for Human Rights adopt the recommendations of the intellectuals), Sawasiyya 60 (2004): 19. 69. See the words of Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah in al-Dustur, 5 April 2006. See also the words of Jabir ‘Asfour in al-Ahram, 21 February 2005. 70. Arab Network for Human Rights Information, Freedom of Opinion & Expression in Egypt: Annual Report 2008 (Cairo, 2009). 71. al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, Difa‘ ‘an hurriyyat al-fikr wa’l-ibda‘. See also al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, “Intihak jadid li-huriyyat al-fikr wa’l-i‘tiqad wa’l-ta‘bir, al-Munazama al-Misriyya tarfudu manh al-dabtiyya al-qada’iyya li’l-Azhar” (A fresh violation of the freedom of thought, belief, and expression: EOHR rejects the decision to grant al-Azhar the power of censorship) (Cairo, 1 June 2004). 72. One of the people who was prevented from participating was Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, former head of the al-Ahram Center for Political and Strategic Studies, due to his political positions and demands for changes in the Egyptian constitution. At the 2005 international book fair, over forty books were confiscated (a detailed list is included in the following report). See alMunazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Dawra al-37 li-ma‘rid al-Qahira al-dawli lil-kitab: intikasa jadida li-hurriyyat al-ra’i wa’l-ta‘bir (The 37th Cairo International Book Fair: A new setback for freedom of opinion and expression) (Cairo, 26 March 2005). 73. See the words of Farida al-Naqqash and Ahmad Thabit at a conference held by the CIHRS, as detailed in “A‘ta’a haqq al-dabtiyya al-qada’iyya limajma‘ al-buhuth: al-mismar al-akhir fi na‘h al-dawla al-madaniyya” (Granting the power of censorship to Al-Azhar is the last nail in the civil state coffin), Sawasiyya 57–58 (2004): 10. 74. Quoted in al-Qahira, 7 May 2001. 75. See, for instance, the words of poet Ahmad ‘Abd al-Mu‘ti Hijazi in alMidan, 17 February 2005. Hijazi even came out against the removal of Maxim Rodison’s book from the Cairo University curriculum in response to students’ protests. See October, 25 May 2003. 76. al-Sayyid Yasin, “Hurriyyat al-ta‘bir fi ‘asr al-‘awlama” (Freedom of expression in the age of globalization), al-Ra’i, 26 June 2004. 77. Ibid. 78. Muhammad al-Sayyid Sa‘id, “Democracy and Cultural Politics,” alAhram Weekly, 18–24 January 2001. 79. Ibid. 80. Nasr Abu Zayd with Esther R. Nelson, Voices of Exile: Reflection on Islam (New York: Praeger, 2004), pp. 10–11. 81. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 24–30 May 2001. 82. Following threats to his life, al-Qimni announced the retraction of his critical writings; see al-Sharq al-Awsat, 17 July 2005. However, after a while he again renounced his actions, that is, his retraction, and began once more to write on these issues. 83. al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, Difa‘ ‘an hurriyyat al-fikr wa’l-ibda‘, chap. 5.

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84. See, for example, Najad al-Bura‘i’s claim that al-Azhar does not protect Islam, but rather protects the interpretive power of the clerics, in “A‘ta’a haqq al-dabtiyya al-qada’iyya li-majma‘ al-buhuth: al-mismar al-akhir fi na‘h aldawla al-madaniyya” (Granting the power of censorship to Al-Azhar is the last nail in the civil state coffin), Sawasiyya 57–58 (2004): 10. See also the arguments of Sayyid al-Qimni about the motives behind the decisions of al-Azhar, in Ruz al-Yusuf, 2 November 2002. 85. Several conferences of note were dedicated to the exploration of this issue. See, for example, Cairo Institute for Human Rights, Paris Declaration: On Means of Renewing Religious Discourse, 12–13 August 2003 (Cairo, 2003); al-Jurshi, “Liqa’a Baris khutwa,” p. 97; Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah (ed.), Huquq al-insan wa’l-khitabat al-dini: kayfa yustafid min khibrat al-‘alam al-Islami ghayr al-‘Arabi: a‘mal mu’tamar huquq al-insan wa-tajdid al-khitab al-dini, Alexandria 18–20 April 2006 (Human rights and the religious discourses: How to benefit from the experience of the non-Arab Islamic world: Deliberations of the Conference of Human Rights and the renewal of religious discourse) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Dirasat Huquq al-Insan, 2006). 86. Radwan Ziyada, “Tajdid al-khitab al-dini ‘abr al-khuruj min al-markaziyya al-‘Arabiyya” (Renewing of religious discourse through a departure from Arab centralization), in Dayf Allah (ed.), Huquq al-insan wa’l-khitabat al-dini, p. 238. 87. al-Jurshi, “al-Tayyar al-tajdidi al-Islami ‘ajz ‘an tajawuz mu‘awwaqatha al-dhatiyya” (The Islamic reformist current’s inability to overcome its obstacles), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 17. See also Cairo Institute for Human Rights, Paris Declaration, p. 8. 88. See, for example, the words of Islamist intellectual Fahmy Huwaidi in al-Ahram, 20 September 2003. See also the words of Islamist Muhammad ‘Imara in al-Akhbar, 14 November 2003 and 28 November 2003. 89. The Star, 30 March 2000. 90. Quintan Wiktorowicz, “The Salafi Movement in Jordan,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 32 (2000): 219–240. 91. The hearings in Huwamda’s case consisted of eight trials. In July 2000, without retracting his position regarding the poem, Huwamda was acquitted in the sharia and civil courts; see Jordan Times, 14 July 2000. But due to procedural reasons, the sharia court ordered a retrial, since the previous verdicts were not based on the opinions of legal Muslim experts; see Jordan Times, 15 June 2001. In May 2003, Huwamda was sentenced to three months in prison; see Jordan Times, 11 May 2003. 92. al-Ahrar, 10 May 2003. 93. Muhannad al-Mubaidin, “‘A’isha fi al-bayt al-nabawi’ ‘asamaha allah fi waq‘ al-dhubab ‘la’ jasdiha” (‘A’isha in the Prophet’s house and the flies on her body), al-Hilal, 14 January 2003. 94. See, for example, a letter from the Council of Islamic Social Organizations, in al-Sabil, 21–27 January 2003. 95. On the charges brought against the journalists, see al-Ra’i, 29 January 2003. 96. al-Quds al-‘Arabi, 18 January 2003. 97. al-Hayat, 23 January 2003. The only journalist who has served his sentence is the author of the article in al-Hilal newspaper, Muhannad Mubaidin. 98. Paul Marshall and Nina Shea, Silenced: How Apostasy and Blasphemy

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Codes Are Choking Freedom Worldwide (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), p. 124. 99. For a detailed discussion of the Law of Publications and the struggle to change it, see Sa‘eda Kilani, Press Freedom in Jordan (Copenhagen: EuroMediterranean Human Rights Network, 2002). See also Markaz Himiyat Hurriyyat al-Sihafiyyin, Halat al-hurriyyat al-i‘lamiyya fi al-Urdun (Freedom of the press in Jordan) (Amman, 2005), pp. 75–91. 100. Jordan Times, 1 March 2007. 101. Jordan Times, 6 October 1999. 102. Quoted in The Star, 30 March 2000. 103. Even before Huwamda was convicted in court, the government removed copies of his book from the stores. See The Star, 30 March 2000. 104. Wiktorowicz, “The Salafi Movement in Jordan,” pp. 222–229. 105. al-Dustur, 4 February 2006. 106. al-Dustur, 20 February 2006. 107. See reference to the king’s role in Batir Muhammad ‘Ali Wardam, “alDawr al-siyasi wa’l-fiqri li-jalalat al-malik: huwiyya Urduniyya mutamayyiza fi sun‘ al-qarar al-dawli” (The political and intellectual role of his majesty the king: A distinct Jordanian identity in foreign policy making), al-Dustur, 7 February 2006. 108. On this conference, see Jordan Times, 7 July 2005. 109. See the concluding statement of this conference in al-Dustur, 26 June 2006 and 29 June 2006. 110. Al-Zarqawi was responsible for the 2005 bombing of three Amman hotels. He died in a targeted killing by the United States on 7 June 2006. 111. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 29 June–5 July 2000. 112. Wiktorowicz, “The Salafi Movement in Jordan,” pp. 221, 225. 113. al-Hayat, 23 January 2003. 114. See, for example, the claims of Jamil Abu-Bakr, a Muslim Brotherhood leader, in al-Hayat, 18 January 2003. 115. al-Hayat, 23 January 2003. 116. al-Dustur, 4 February 2006. 117. See the statements of the Muslim Brotherhood and the Islamic Action Front as published in al-Sabil, 11–17 July 2006. 118. Ibid. 119. See, for example, an editorial in Jordan Times, 23 March 2000. See also the editorial commending the court’s decision to acquit Huwamda of all charges, in Jordan Times, 26 July 2001. 120. See the words of the Writers Union chairman, Jamal Naji, after the court’s decision to acquit Huwamda of all charges, in Jordan Times, 22 July 2001. 121. See the arguments of the poet Huwamda in Jordan Times, 22 July 2001. 122. The Star, 30 March 2000. 123. al-Sabil, 21–27 January 2003. See also Daoud Kuttab, “The Rights to Speak One’s Mind,” Jordan Times, 14 February 2003. 124. al-Sabil, 21–27 January 2003. 125. al-Sabil, 28 January–3 February 2003. 126. al-Quds al-‘Arabi, 20 January 2003.

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127. Ibid. 128. al-Sabil, 31 January–6 February 2006. 129. For a discussion of the new political activism, see Sean L. Yom, “The New Landscape of Jordanian Politics: Social Opposition, Fiscal Crisis, and the Arab Spring,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 41 (2014): 10–12. 130. See the arguments of scholars such as Ibrahim Badran and Ahmad Madi regarding publication of cartoons that harm the Prophet Muhammad, in al-Dustur, 4 February 2006. 131. al-Dustur, 28 February 2006. 132. See discussion in Chapter 2. 133. See interview with the Egyptian minister of religious endowments in Sawt al-Azhar, 7 November 2003. See also the National Democratic Party’s position paper, as published in full in al-Liwa al-Islami, 11 March 2004. Regarding the Jordanian case, see Batir Muhammad ‘Ali Wardam, “al-Dawr alsiyasi wa’l-fiqri li-jalalat al-malik: huwiyya Urduniyya mutamayyiza fi sun‘ alqarar al-dawli” (The political and intellectual role of his majesty the king: A distinct Jordanian identity in foreign policy making), al-Dustur, 7 February 2006. 134. al-Ahali, 15 March 2004. 135. On the characteristics of authoritarian pluralism, see Russell Lucas, “Monarchical Authoritarianism Survival and Political Liberalism in a Middle East Regime Type,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 36 (2004): 103–119; Mansoor Moaddel, Jordanian Exceptionalism: A Comparative Analysis of State-Religion Relationships in Egypt, Jordan, and Syria (New York: Palgrave, 2002).

5 Limits on the Rights of Religious Minorities

THE ARAB WORLD IS HETEROGENEOUS, COMPRISING A VARIETY

of ethnicities, nationalities, languages, and cultures. The space allowed for the political or cultural participation of ethnic and religious minorities is extremely limited, and they are subject to various forms of discrimination, prohibitions, and human rights violations. Every discussion concerning the minority issue is politically loaded and sensitive, and usually the regime tends to suppress it. This tendency exists not only in states in which minority recognition decidedly threatens the legitimacy of the ruling group, but also in states in which the minority group is a political and numerical minority and does not have any territorial or political ambitions that threaten the majority.1 Political liberalization processes and the expansion of the demands for human rights in the 1990s did not necessarily lead to an expansion of minority rights. Liberalization weakened the authority of central authoritarian institutions and exposed them to internal and external pressures. Under these circumstances, any discussion of minority rights had the potential to subvert regime legitimacy.2 The strengthening of the Islamist trend also had a decisive influence on limiting discussion concerning minority rights. In the midst of the religious revival, which weakened the stability of secular regimes, any above-board and methodical engagement in the implementation or imposition of religious freedom for minorities possessed a threatening potential, since it undermined the balance created with the Islamist forces.3 In this case, the states chose to utilize the rhetoric of national unity and to treat any demand for change in the status of minorities as an external threat to their sovereignty and security.

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The position of the regimes toward minorities does not explain the great sensitivity to anything related to minorities among other forces of the political system, all of which have cooperated with regimes in suppressing any discussion regarding expansion of minority rights. This chapter discusses the boundaries of the debate concerning minorities, the ideas expressed within it, and the regime’s attitude toward international standards of human rights. The majority of this chapter examines the dynamic debate concerning the status of the Coptic minority, one of Egypt’s most pressing problems. This case will be compared with the Jordanian discussion of Christian minority rights. Compared to the dynamic debate that exists in Egypt, Jordan’s debate did not appear on the public and political agenda as a distinct and pressing issue.

The Sectarian Conflict in Egypt Egypt has experienced a sectarian conflict that has intensified since the 1990s. The Muslim majority and the Coptic minority constitute the two prominent parts of this sectarian division. The Christian Copts are the largest religious minority in Egypt and compose the largest and most ancient concentration of Christians in the region. The size of the Coptic population, most of whom belong to the Coptic Orthodox Church, is a controversial subject. While government officials say that Copts constitute 6–7 percent of the Egyptian population, Copts claim that the government is purposely underestimating the size of the community, and that based on data kept by the church, they constitute 18 percent of the population. Other sources say that Copts constitute 10–15 percent of Egypt’s population.4 Officially, Egypt grants legal guarantees to its religious minorities. Clause 40 of the 1971 constitution states: “All citizens are equal before the law. They have equal rights and duties without discrimination based on race, ethnicity, language, religion, or faith.” Clause 46 states: “The state will guarantee freedom of faith and the freedom to perform religious rituals.” However, despite these legal guarantees, the equality granted to the Coptic minority is limited and does not conform to international human rights standards. Legal guarantees of equal rights contradict Clause 2 of the constitution, which states that “Islam is the religion of the state and Arabic is its official language. The principles of Islamic law are the main source of legislation.” This clause affects legislation and the legal system, and allows religion to intervene in political and community matters in a manner that limits the status of non-

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Muslims when legislation contradicts sharia, policy, and the public interest.5 Egypt violates the right of freedom of religion when it restricts the right to build or renovate churches based on the 1856 Ottoman law that requires the authorities’ permission to build or renovate a church, a regulation that applies only to churches, not to mosques.6 Egypt also fails to protect the right that appears in Item 18(1) of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which details the individual’s right, among other things, to embrace a religion or faith as he or she sees fit, as well as the freedom to express this faith in private and in public. Contrary to the right granted to Muslims to freely preach in favor of Islam in front of Christians and to openly proselytize, Christians are not allowed to preach nor to proselytize. There is evidence that state security services—whose involvement in religious issues began with the implementation of the emergency laws in 1981— harassed, interrogated, and arrested Christians who realized their right to free expression on religious matters. In this matter the state followed Islamic law, which forbids conversion from Islam. Theoretically, Muslims can convert to Christianity, but as happens in practice, such people find themselves subjected to persecution, interrogation, and sometimes even restriction of movement. The courts have even supported the principle that the identification documents of such individuals should not reflect their conversion, and their children are recorded as remaining Muslim.7 Also, the representation of Copts in government, the army, and educational institutes is far lower than their portion in the population. Copts are completely unrepresented in public offices such as district governor, senior positions in the army and police force, and university deans.8 Due to international pressure, primarily by the United States, the Egyptian government took several measures to recognize religious pluralism in Egypt, including promoting interreligious activities, adding materials to the public education curriculum that refers to the contribution of Coptic Christians to Egyptian history, and alleviating restrictions on church renovations. In what was perceived to be a gesture of goodwill by the government toward its Coptic citizens, the minister of religious endowments (awqaf) decided, after two decades of legal battles, to restore to the Orthodox Coptic Church 387 feddans (370 acres) of land that had been seized by the state in 1971. Also, for the first time in Egyptian history, beginning in January 2003, the Coptic Christmas was declared an official national holiday, a decision praised by Egyptian intellectuals, civil society organizations, and religious figures.9

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However, despite these gestures, Egypt remained on the supervision list of the US Commission on International Religious Freedom (USCIRF), mainly due to its inability to stop oppression and violence against religious believers, and because it hadn’t implemented democratic reforms in the field of human rights, including improving the protection of the right to freedom of religion and faith and stopping the hate messages propagated in the curriculum and the governmentcontrolled media against non-Muslims.10 Discriminatory policy, implemented by the state institutions, has had crucial implications, especially since it occurred parallel to the religious revival in both communities. In the first two decades of Mubarak’s rule, Egypt experienced a rise in sectarian conflict, which was a byproduct of the strengthening of religious affiliation and the rise of political Islam.11 In these years, violent attacks against Copts and their property became a frequent phenomenon, especially in Upper Egypt, which has both a Coptic population as well as a strong presence of militant Islamists. Reasons for the attacks varied, ranging from Islamist militants targeting the Copts as part of their rebellion against the government, to family struggles, power struggles between village leaders, and the propagation of rumors regarding inappropriate behavior of Copts.12 One of the harsher confrontations occurred in al-Kosheh, a village of 35,000 people in southern Egypt, two-thirds of whom are Copts. Clashes erupted in August 1998 after the murder of two Copts who, according to the Christian community, were murdered by Muslims in an act of revenge for the supposed poisoning of a Muslim, who had died of natural causes. The conduct of the security forces after the murder heightened sectarian tensions. Police arrested and interrogated over a thousand Copts, most of whom were tortured. Among those arrested were senior church officials, who were accused of using religion in order to provoke sectarian friction and harm national unity.13 In January 2000, in the same village, a trade dispute between a Muslim and a Christian led to one of the worst intercommunal confrontations, which ended in the slaughter of twenty-one people, all but two of them Christians. After five years of relative quiet, riots broke out in Alexandria in October 2005 due to distribution of a DVD that allegedly included materials offending Muslims.14 The violent incidents lasted several days and left three dead and 143 wounded. Throughout the years, sectarian clashes continued to occur until they peaked in 2010, when a man opened fire on a Christian procession in the town of Naj Hammadi, near the Church of the Virgin Mary. Six worshippers were killed by the gun-

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fire and nine Copts were wounded. This shooting led to a protest demonstration in which more than a thousand Copts participated. During the demonstrations, Muslims and Copts shot at each other’s houses and shops. In early 2011, twenty-one Christian worshippers were killed by a car bomb during a New Year’s Eve service at the al-Qiddissin Church in Alexandria.15 The al-Kosheh incident and ensuing events raised a renewed discussion regarding Egypt’s policy toward the Coptic minority. International bodies found the Egyptian government guilty of ignoring the Copts’ problems and institutionalizing human rights violations on a religious basis. Systematic state neglect in dealing with expressions of discrimination and violent attacks against Copts, lack of appropriate police protection, and nonpunishment of civilians and officials engaged in these acts were perceived as exacerbating tensions and enabling the occurrence of human rights violations.16 An Official Policy of Denial For years, the Egyptian government consistently rejected any reference to the existence of a Coptic minority in Egypt. In its view, international definitions of the term “Coptic” were irrelevant to the Egyptian case, since Copts are an entity who are not distinguished geographically, culturally, socially, ethnically, or linguistically. Egypt was presented as a homogeneous nation-state, in which affiliation with the nation and state is not based on religion but rather on citizenship. In this respect, the Copts were defined and perceived as being an inseparable part of the nation’s fabric.17 However, the policy of denial involved not only the very definition of the Copts as a minority but also the very existence of any discrimination or persecution of them on a religious basis. According to the government, the Christian community has an equal status to that of the Muslim community.18 President Mubarak emphasized that all Egyptians—Muslims, Christians, and Jews—live under the Egyptian flag and have the same rights and duties. He also claimed that in Egypt there is no legal or any other discrimination toward the Copts, and that any accusations of discrimination and religious persecution are a plot intended to harm Egyptian unity.19 The official policy of denial and disregard also found expression in the rhetoric of the ruling party, the NDP. Thus, for instance, the NDP’s convention in September 2004 declared its commitment to political reforms, human rights, the rule of law, and the promotion of citizens’

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involvement in political life through granting autonomy and responsibility to civil society organizations. This rhetoric did not include any concrete reference whatsoever to the status of minorities in Egypt.20 The policy of official denial and disregard remained despite overwhelming evidence concerning the existence of conflicts and human rights violations on religious grounds. Violent acts against the Coptic population were defined by the government as terrorist acts aimed at all sectors of society, regardless of ethnicity or faith.21 In other cases the regime tended to underestimate the importance of the conflicts, arguing that most violence against the Copts was a result of local rivalries and struggles, or of foreign involvement in Egypt’s affairs. Regarding the violent incidents in the village of al-Kosheh in 1998, it was determined by the government that this was not a sectarian conflict. The interior minister, Habib al-‘Adli, attributed the violence to unidentified provocateurs and blamed the domestic and international media of intentionally escalating the events.22 A decade later, when it was clear that Egypt had entered a new phase of sectarian tension in which the violent incidents were not limited to extremist groups and the sectarian attitude had spread to the whole society, the government showed consistency. For example, after the violent incident in the town of Naj Hammadi in 2010, al-‘Adli emphasized that the violent incidents were only isolated random crimes and should not be attributed to any sectarian issues.23 The government displayed a heightened sensitivity to any criticism raised about its attitude toward the Copts. Regime strategy toward any criticism of its attitude toward the Coptic minority focused on complete denial of all allegations. The regime attributed these arguments to a conspiracy of external enemies and their supporters within Egypt to harm Egypt’s sovereignty and national unity. Essentially, these arguments relieved the government of responsibility by placing that responsibility on the shoulders of external elements, including the expatriate Coptic community, and refusing to deal with the concrete problems and claims of the Copts.24 This strategy stood out in the case of the Coptic symposiums convened in Zurich in September 2004 and in Washington, D.C., in October 2005 by the Coptic expatriate community. These symposiums, like others organized by Coptic expatriates, aroused a wave of criticism in the Egyptian government and private media. Even before their goals and agenda were published, they were defined by the Egyptian media as a conspiracy against Egypt, devised by its most hated enemies, Israel and Zionist Christianity, as a means to create pressure for external intervention in Egypt’s internal issues.25

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The violent sectarian clashes that broke out in Alexandria in October 2005 contributed to a change in the government’s approach to the public debate regarding Muslim-Christian relations. These violent events coincided with another ongoing process in the Egyptian political arena, mainly political liberalization, which reached its high point with the first multicandidate presidential elections in 2005. Although this political change did not last long and the regime once again strengthened its grip on power, it did lead to a relative opening of the media space. The development in communication technologies and a more independent and critical press contributed to the more open discussion of issues that had been previously controlled, among which was the issue of Muslim-Christian relations, especially sectarian violence.26 These changes were reflected in the reports released by the government-created National Council for Human Rights. The council did indeed recognize the existence of sectarian violence between communities. In 2006 the council established a special committee to discuss these issues, which called for spreading a culture of pluralism, tolerance, and respect for other religions through the media and religious institutions, and even stressed the importance of training security forces to deal with sectarian struggles and conflicts in an effective and nondiscriminatory manner. The council even formulated a unified law proposal regarding the construction and renovation of houses of worship for all religions.27 However, human rights activists expressed criticism that the council reports attempted to belittle the importance of these problems. For example, human rights activist and council member Bahy al-Din Hassan stated that the council’s 2006 report underestimated the Copt problem and used wordings such as “a limited number of complaints” and “a problem of feeling lack of equality,” as if the question of minority rights did not reflect an objective situation of inequality but rather was about mistaken Coptic perceptions.28 Still, council reports reflected the escalation of clashes between Muslims and Christians. A 2008 report regarding the armed assault on the Abu Fana Coptic monastery in Minya29 stated that the escalation of sectarian strife was exploited by extremist factions from both sides. The report also criticized the state’s approach to the sectarian clashes, especially the fact that the state had turned a blind eye to such incidents and become content with merely sending security forces after clashes had escalated. According to the report, both state and society needed to take action to confront emerging sectarian tensions and related problems that

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could not be easily solved through reconciliatory meetings or security solutions that had failed in the past.30 The council’s reports and recommendations did not affect the practical policy of the government with respect to the Copts. Moreover, the boundaries of the discussion were still limited by the government, particularly as expressed in the official press, which reflected the regime’s strategy of denial, of emphasizing national unity, and of blaming external factors.31 The regime’s need to control the more open discussion stemmed, in part, from its evolution in two opposite directions, as indicated by Sebastian Elsässer. On the one hand, the open discussion had created a greater public awareness of the problems that Copts faced in Egyptian society due to their religious identity, and on the other hand it had led to the exacerbation of preexisting sectarian tensions due to the growing media focus on prejudice and mutual distrust.32 The regime’s consistent position against claims of discrimination is explained by the potential of such claims to threaten the regime’s stability. The strengthening of political Islam constituted a threat to the regime’s legitimacy. In response to this, the regime tried to establish control over all expressions of religious identity that could be used by regime opponents. Therefore, all claims raised on religious grounds, including the demands of the Coptic minority, which had the potential for provoking clashes between the Muslim and Christian population, were perceived as a threat to the regime and therefore to the legitimacy of the existing state structures. All the same, the suppression of claims against the regime regarding discrimination and persecution were not the sole preserve of the regime; a variety of forces acting for reform and change in the Egyptian political system were also party to this practice. The Copt Community: Between Unity and Persecution The Copts are not passive recipients of the agenda set by the regime or other actors inside or outside Egypt. On the contrary, they constitute a significant part of the ongoing debate within Egypt concerning their status and rights. Generally, the Copts take care to stress their sense of Egyptian belonging and oppose claims that they see themselves primarily as Copts.33 They see themselves as authentic Egyptians as well as Arabs who share a common history and culture with Egyptian Muslims, and also as part of the Muslim world. They see Egypt’s character as a product of the Pharaonic, Greek, Roman, Copt, and Islamic legacies.34 At the same time, they see themselves as coping with a constant exis-

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tential threat. Their historical narrative is presented as a long line of persecutions, massacres, forced conversions, ruined churches, martyrdoms, and suffering. This narrative has a high symbolic value, preserving the community’s identity, increasing commitment toward that identity, and preventing assimilation into the majority.35 And still, most Copts oppose being categorized or referred to as a minority. In their view, even though they are a numerical minority, they are not a minority racially, nationally, or culturally.36 The explanation for this rejection lies, in part, in their understanding that the “minority” label abrogates their deep Egyptian identity, an identity that makes them unique but also links them inseparably to their homeland. In this respect, some see a contradiction between the emphasis on minority identity and the emphasis on the existence of a common homeland for Christians and Muslims. Choosing a minority identity will necessarily lead them to isolation.37 Also, the Coptic minority practiced self-censorship due to its fear of the regime and its even greater concern regarding the rise of political Islam in Egypt and a possible change in the political landscape. In a process in which Islamist forces are struggling over the character of the nation, the idea of an Islamic state is a potential threat to the Copts, who fear legislation based on Islamic law, which will displace the secular elements of the modern Egyptian state.38 However, this explanation, which refers to their attitudes as a product of the Copts being trapped between the Islamist hammer and the governmental anvil, is not the only explanation. Such a limited analysis disregards the complexity of the Coptic identity and the existence of many Copt communities with distinct interests.39 Their social and political concerns and their views on how these concerns should be addressed are influenced as much by social and economic status as by religious identity. Paul Sedra refers to two orientations, which originate in differing conceptions of Egyptian history and class factors. One orientation supports national unity, rejects the use of the term “minority,” and believes that the Copts are an integral part of Egypt. The opposite one, the persecution orientation, prefers to paint the Copts as distinct from Muslims not only in religion but also historically, culturally, and even racially, and sees the Muslim-Copt conflict as inevitable, due to quranic imperatives.40 The Copts, regardless of their position between these two conflicting approaches, have demanded an open discussion of their problems. They have demanded equality before the law, security for their lives and

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property, full economic and social opportunity, freedom to express their religion and culture, and integration without assimilation.41 Nevertheless, despite the open discussion of their problems, there have been differences in the style and the readiness of the participants to use a direct rhetoric that includes the terms “minority,” “discrimination,” “deprivation,” and even “persecution,” as well as differences regarding the nature of the freedoms to which they have aspired. While some approaches have emphasized the preservation of Copts’ rights as a religious community, others have expressed a nonsectarian message calling for citizenship rights, the rule of law, and a secular state for all Egyptians. The religious leadership under Patriarch Shenouda occasionally spoke out openly for Coptic rights, but at the same time encouraged Copts to remain loyal to the regime in return for guarantees of community security. This policy of the church, which reflected its interest in strengthening the autonomous status of the church and community, has been described by Paul Rowe as a mutually reinforcing neomillet partnership. The church provided support and legitimization to the state, and the state recognized the church as representative of the Coptic community.42 The church allied with the regime and thus tended to minimize calls for a change in the status of the Copts, calls that openly opposed the regime or hinted at systematic discrimination backed by the regime or protected by its silence. Patriarch Shenouda opposed any use of the term “persecution” and aimed to bestow upon the Copts an image of an exemplary minority. He encouraged them to be loyal citizens and to tone down their criticism of the regime. This position was particularly prominent in the 2005 presidential elections, in which, for the first time, the regime allowed other candidates to run against President Mubarak.43 The Coptic Church expressed unmitigated support for President Mubarak. The church’s position was also evident in its treatment of any Copt who actively demanded an expansion of political freedom or a change in the regime. Thus, for instance, officials in the church renounced all links to the activities of George Ishaq, a leader of the Kifaya movement, and clarified that he was not one of the church’s sons.44 Similarly, Coptic priest Filobatir ‘Aziz, a member of the al-Ghad (Tomorrow) opposition party, was suspended from office due to the vociferous criticism he leveled against the regime, claiming that it permitted discrimination against the Copts.45 The alliance between Patriarch Shenouda and President Mubarak nearly collapsed in 2007, following the sectarian incident in the village

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of Ayat, Giza. On 11 May 2007 a group of Muslims attacked Copts’ property and homes after a sermon by the local imam. The patriarch abandoned his quietist approach and openly accused state security of complicity in sectarian strife, due to the fact that state security had failed to take any measures to prevent the sectarian incident.46 Nevertheless, this prolonged alliance between the church and the authoritarian government led to the realization that the Coptic community lacked a secular leadership or an independent voice that could and would lead the Copts in their demands for rights. More important, this partnership created a rift between the Coptic elite who ratified the alliance with Mubarak, and middle-class Copts who reached the conclusion that Shenouda’s leadership had abandoned the struggle for their rights and constituted an obstacle to the realization of their goals.47 Coptic critics argued that the church’s political involvement was isolating the Copts, furthering their political demobilization, and aggravating intersectarian relations. Also, critics expressed their fear that alliance with the regime would be interpreted as a collective political tendency of the Copts and would harm the struggle for their rights, since this would create the impression that their claims had been satisfied under Mubarak’s regime.48 Copts who feared for their status in an Egypt that increasingly stressed its Islamist elements, supported the idea of an Egyptian nationstate and Egyptian citizenship. Such Copts refrained from using claims of systematic discrimination and persecution in their arguments.49 They interpreted Coptic grievances as part of the overall problems of Egyptian society. Thus, for instance, what in the West was seen as religious persecution was interpreted by Rafiq Habib, a Protestant Copt and a former member and founder of the al-Wasat party, as being a product of the Egyptian’s government desire to control civil society. Habib interpreted the arrangements restricting the construction and renovation of churches as the state’s way of controlling the actions of civil bodies and not as an expression of an Islamist-oriented government persecuting Christians.50 Habib’s approach reflected the tendency of Copts to preserve their status as part of the Egyptian nation and completely avoid identification as a distinctly separate element. Coptic intellectual Samir Marqus identified an essential contradiction between emphasizing the Copts’ minority status, including the inherent idea of separation, and emphasizing the existence of a common homeland striving toward equal rights and duties and popular participation in decisionmaking.51 According to his approach, the sole result of emphasizing the Copts’ minority status would be the isolation of the Copts from the national group.52

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Youssef Sidhum, editor of the Coptic newspaper Watani (My Homeland),53 which is seen by many as the mouthpiece of the Coptic community in Egypt, demanded an open discussion of the Copts’ problems in Egypt and stressed, like many others, that such problems are not complaints unique to the Coptic community but rather problems that touch upon the political, economic, and social problems of Egyptian society.54 Similar arguments emphasize the general culture of discrimination that pervades Egyptian society, expressed against women, the poor, and other sectors of the Egyptian homeland. Therefore, the Copts’ problems can only be solved in a comprehensive framework of resolving the problems of the Egyptian people, especially through a reformed conception of Egyptian citizenship. According to this view, Copts must take a more active part in Egyptian society and strive toward coexistence with Muslims.55 Others argue that Copts should not focus on the functioning of the state but rather should act in the area of civil society and its organizations, in order to educate citizens about a culture of living together and acceptance of the “Other.”56 Calls for political reform, which increased in Egypt throughout 2005, were perceived by them as a sign of the end of sectarianism in Egypt, since all Egyptians—Christians as well as Muslims—united under one national demand for rights. The Copts’ participation as citizens demanding reform also legitimizes their demands and allows others to assist them.57 The difference between the positions of lay Copts and those of the church were expressed, for example, during the 2007 debate about constitutional amendments. Most secular Copts and Muslims, and also Coptic expatriates, demanded the cancellation of Article 2, which states that “Islam is the religion of the state . . . and the principles of Islamic sharia are the main source of legislation.” Their demand stemmed, among other reasons, from the fact that this article had the potential to undermine the universal concept of citizenship by forcing the individual to be linked to a religious community. Patriarch Shenouda endorsed the position of the Mubarak regime, which insisted that this article be kept intact.58 The patriarch’s position reflected acceptance of the existing order, in which the Copts’ rights were secured in their status as a distinct community under the Muslim majority, and his interest in strengthening the autonomous status of the church and community. Contrary to those who refrain from using terms such as “persecution” or “minority,” other Copts utilize them frequently. This approach was characterized by the position held by Mamdouh Nakhla, founder of the al-Kalima Center for Human Rights. This organization was founded

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for the purpose of protecting freedom of speech of reporters and writers and prevention of discrimination between citizens on the basis of race, gender, faith, or religion. Nakhla spoke out openly against the persecution of Copts in Egypt and even worked to establish a Coptic party, the Egyptian Nation Party, formerly known as Egypt’s Coptic Party. This was a secular party that counted among its goals the evolution of Egypt into a secular state, the protection of minorities from persecution, and minority political participation.59 The use of the term “persecution” is common mostly among the Egyptian Coptic diaspora who reside in the West and who are not subject to the same limitations placed upon the Egyptian Copts. Diaspora communities did not follow the church’s advice to keep a low profile and ally with the state as a tactic against Islamists. Instead, the emigrants chose to struggle for Coptic rights in a vocal manner and became very active in portraying the distress of the Copts in Egypt, an activity that contributed to international attention to the Coptic affairs in Egypt, and in certain cases even to US involvement.60 Not only did foreign-based Coptic pressures make it more difficult for the Egyptian government to violate Coptic rights without repercussions, but also the involvement of emigrants had a significant impact on the expansion of Coptic civil society and its inclination to embrace a more assertive advocacy role.61 And yet, many Copts in Egypt opposed the activities of the expatriate community.62 Coptic elites in Egypt, who condemned the rhetoric of persecution, perceived the expatriate community, especially the vocal minority among them, as a politically motivated element with an anti-Arab, anti-national, and anti-Islamic agenda, and a willing tool of the United States in the latter’s attempt to increase its involvement in the area and provoke conflict in the region.63 According to Egyptian Copts, the discourse of the emigrant activists was a product of a twisted interpretation of reality, one that radicalized existing problems, precluded dialogue, and exacerbated tensions between Muslims and Copts.64 Such positions became prominent when the expatriate community organized the international symposiums in Zurich and Washington, D.C., in 2004 and 2005 titled, respectively, “Copts in Egypt Under Siege” and “Democracy in Egypt for Muslims and Christians.” The symposiums sought to request international protection against persecution of Copts in Egypt. Many Egyptian Copts expressed opposition to the symposiums, claiming that the Coptic issue was an internal Egyptian affair and must be discussed in Egypt. In their view, the symposiums were characteristic of a sectarian discussion of the persecution problem,

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separated from the overall problems of Egyptian society, a fact that in their view cemented the sectarian conflict. The few who chose to participate in these symposiums did so not because they objected to an internal discussion of the persecution problem, but because of the lack of other alternatives and their recognition of the fact that in Egypt no initiative for a national dialogue existed, given that politicians continued to deny the existence of any discrimination.65 Opposition Forces and Coptic Grievances Denial was not just practiced by the regime. This approach also characterized the entire range of opposition elements, all of which raised the banner of national unity and came out strongly against defining the Copts as a minority, denying any systematic discrimination or persecution. Islamists and the Coptic minority. Islamist attitudes and positions concerning the Coptic minority are of great importance, since, as Abdullahi an-Na‘im has argued, even if the state legal system does not permit open discrimination on a religious basis, the absence of minority rights will not be solved unless it is settled at the Islamic cultural level. Although cultural norms are a complex phenomenon that cannot be attributed to a single cause, the religious factor seems to be a major formative force.66 Even though one cannot refer to the Islamist faction in Egypt as monolithic, due to its divergent approaches, strands of thought, and opinions, it can be argued that the Islamist faction’s approach toward the Coptic minority is anchored in the framework of the Islamic conception of the “protected people” (ahl al-dhimma), as it has been shaped in the Muslim tradition and law, a status that does not accord with international standards of human rights.67 According to Muslim law, the ahl aldhimma are not permitted to participate in public affairs of the Muslim state and cannot hold positions of authority over Muslims such as heads of state, army commanders, or judges. They are allowed to perform their religious rituals in private, in order not to offend Muslim feelings, but they are not allowed to convert or proselytize in public. While a “protected person” (dhimmi) must be encouraged to join Islam, Muslims are not permitted to recant their faith.68 Independent Islamists identified with the school of thought called wasatiyya (the centrist stream)69 present a more complex position, stemming from their understanding that the Islamic model has limitations in an era that extols human rights. These moderate intellectuals attempt to

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develop an alternate approach that would allow non-Muslims to be a more equal part of the Muslim state.70 The principle that guides them, as articulated by Muhammad ‘Imara, is that no group has religious priority and privileges. Equality of civil political, social, and economic rights is God-given by virtue of man’s creation. Therefore the right of religious, social, and linguistic minorities to keep their religion and preserve their culture is a divine right.71 Salim al-‘Awa argues that discrimination does not occur against the Copts in the religious field, and he does not see the Copts as being the “protected people,” but rather as the original inhabitants of the Egyptian homeland.72 Al-Qaradawi refines this argument by stating that one can omit the term dhimmi from the Muslim religious discourse and replace it with the term citizen, which is the modern meaning of the term dhimmi. As he sees it, there is nothing in religious law that precludes omitting the term dhimmi.73 Differences in terminology do not signify a change in essence. The position advanced by moderate Islamists also accords with the tendency of Islamist scholars to view the concept of ahl al-dhimma as the ideal framework for minorities and to view the Islamic solution, contrary to the secular one, as the best alternative to minority rights.74 Thus, for example, moderate Islamist Muhammad ‘Imara devoted a significant portion of his writings to refuting historical accounts that describe Islamic rule as discriminatory. In ‘Imara’s approach, before Arab regimes’ secularization, there was no minority problem. Under the Islamic structure of the Ottoman millet system, all minorities flourished nationally and religiously. Periods of persecution of non-Muslims were brief and stemmed from the personal temperament of the Khalifas, economic deterioration, and foreign involvement in Muslim countries.75 Similar to the Egyptian regime’s position, ‘Imara argues that Egyptian Copts do not suffer from any type of discrimination or political, social, economic, or religious deprivation. Claims of discrimination are false, disseminated by Western and Zionist elements, and are a result of a cynical use of human rights for the purpose of meddling in Egypt’s affairs and undermining its national sovereignty.76 In ‘Imara’s view, the Copts are just a numerical minority, an elemental part of the Egyptian nation, whose identity components and cultural values do not differ from those occurring in Islam.77 The same national collective identity is the basis, as far as he is concerned, for a shared and equal life of Muslims and Christians. For this purpose, he utilizes the term al-hadara al-Islamiyya, meaning “Islamic civilization,” through which he regards Islam in a wider meaning as a culture and civilization, not limited to religion only. He also insists that Egypt’s

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national unity is derived from its Islamic identity. Since Islam is a religion and state, the Islamic state is not limited to Muslims only; the Islamic identity is the identity of the entire nation, with its attending variety of religious faiths that shelter under its wings.78 Relying on the testimony of Christian figures, beginning with Michel ‘Aflaq and ending with Orthodox Church leaders in Egypt, ‘Imara argues that the Christians in Egypt, despite their different religion, are part of this civilization, the Arab-Islamic culture.79 ‘Imara further argues that sharia complements the principles of faith of other religions and does not contradict them. Therefore, sharia must not be restricted to Muslims but must be applied to non-Muslims as well, without restricting them in the matter of implementing the principles of their faith. However, ‘Imara recognizes that there is a need for a sharia revival movement, in which non-Muslims would participate, and for its establishment in a manner that would not contradict the tenets of other faiths.80 Unlike ‘Imara, Islamist publicist Fahmi Huwaidi did not completely negate the Copts’ grievances. In Huwaidi’s view, the Copts’ problems are not a product of religion but are a result of blocked channels of communication and the failure of politicians to formulate an overall plan for the Egyptian nation.81 Huwaidi also maintained that since there is no contradiction between implementation of sharia and civil rights, Muslims should not be faced with the choice of implementing sharia or implementing Coptic civil rights. The idea behind all democracies is majority rule while preserving minority rights. If Muslims are prevented from implementing sharia, in his view this violates one of the most basic rules of democracy and constitutes an act of terror committed by the minority against the majority.82 Despite attempts by moderate Islamists to distance themselves from discriminatory interpretations of the concept of ahl al-dhimma, their position implies that Christians and Jews, in order to receive their civil rights and the protection of Islam, must accept the superiority of Islam in practice. The attempts of moderate Islamists to secure the identity and authenticity of the individual and the collective while relying exclusively on an Islamic identity of Egypt and its religious legal codex leave intact the paradox of Christians with equal rights in an Islamic state. Moderate attitudes were expressed in the declarations of Muslim Brotherhood leaders. In the late 1990s, Mustafa Mashour, the Brotherhood’s supreme guide, expressed discriminatory positions regarding non-Muslims.83 In an attempt to shape their movement as a legitimate political player in the Egyptian arena, however, a far-reaching change in

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the declared positions of the Muslim Brotherhood movement occurred regarding the Copts. Mashour’s heirs took care to voice positions supporting equality, pluralism, and freedom of religion.84 Despite the Brotherhood’s commitment to establishing an Islamic state in which sharia is the source of legislation, it took care to tailor itself to the developing discussions in the Egyptian political system. The Brotherhood thus softened its positions regarding rights of minorities. For instance, in a press conference intended to present the Brotherhood’s political reform initiatives, former supreme guide Mahdi ‘Akif referred, among other things, to securing freedom of religion and stated that the Copts are an integral part of the Egyptian nation and must be on equal footing with Muslims in terms of rights and duties.85 However, the Muslim Brotherhood’s initiatives did not gain much trust from broad circles of the political arena, especially secular liberals and Copts. Critics referred to the Brotherhood’s statements regarding freedom of religion as part of the Shi‘ite practice of taqiyya (dissimulation), which permits the Brotherhood to use moderate positions in order to conceal its real intentions.86 After the Muslim Brotherhood’s achievements in the election of November 2005, prominent Coptic figures expressed their fears regarding the implications of the Brotherhood’s strengthening on the Coptic minority status. In a response, Muhammad Mahdi ‘Akif called for a national dialogue and declared his willingness to discuss the important issues with Christian intellectuals in order to assuage their concerns.87 Following the 2005 sectarian incident in Alexandria, the Brotherhood’s leaders stated that they do not object to the construction of churches, since it is a right of the Copts, and called to settle the issue of houses of prayer.88 However, the Muslim Brotherhood’s rhetoric was not completely faithful to its views. In sensitive issues the Brotherhood’s leaders always kept things murky and shrouded. Thus, for instance, the Muslim Brotherhood did not refer clearly to the issue of implementing sharia and the status of non-Muslims, or to the Copts’ ability to serve in senior government positions (which is viewed as problematic by Islamists, since those holding such offices also have religious roles, such as responsibility for implementing sharia and military command during war). Despite the claims of former deputy-general guide of the Brotherhood Muhammad Habib that Copts can serve in the highest government positions, in other cases he expressed an opposite view. Thus, when Habib referred to the positions of the al-Wasat party, he stated that his movement would never cooperate with it, since it violated the

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principles of the Brotherhood and allowed for the possibility that a Copt could become president and a woman could become a leader.89 Another sensitive issue is the right of conversion, especially conversion from Islam to other religions (which in Islam is considered apostasy and merits death). In this case, Habib expressed his unequivocal opposition.90 The al-Wasat party, which was established in 1996 by former members of the Muslim Brotherhood and whose founders also included three Christians, was perceived by the Brotherhood as a fracturing of the typical paradigm of political Islam in Egypt.91 The party’s platform expressed support of democracy and citizenship for all—a comprehensive approach that theoretically strengthened the role of minorities, women, and the underprivileged sectors of society.92 Similar to intellectuals identified with the wasatiyya faction, this party referred to the Islamic cultural (civilizational) project, in which different elements of the Egyptian community could coexist.93 However, even according to the conception of the al-Wasat party, sharia continues to be the primary foundation of its views. Even though the party’s leaders determined sharia to be a collection of guidelines that must be situated in the framework of ijtihad in order to accommodate it to a changing world, the party did not deviate from sharia in favor of secular legislation, and it affirmed the second clause in the constitution, which refers to sharia as the main source of legislation. Rachel Scott has shown that the wasatiyya intellectuals created a theoretical basis for the concept of citizenship.94 Nevertheless, examination of Islamist positions, which are not monolithic, reveals that the attempt to construct an Islamic alternative to the international norms regarding minority rights and specifically in the context of Christians in Egypt is still limited and does not significantly deviate from the traditional conceptions of ahl al-dhimma. Islamists’ approaches are still anchored in conceptions that view the nation as a community of Muslim believers and that stress the Islamic identity of Egypt. As a result, any discussion of citizenship focuses on the rights of Copts as a religious community and not as individuals. The majority of Islamist efforts focused on rejecting the Copts’ arguments and not on developing a conception of citizenship, exploring the actual meaning of the implementation of sharia for non-Muslims, or explaining the essence of equal rights and duties for minorities. In these respects, Islamists’ discussions of the Copts are no different than the general Islamist discourse—a discussion that forces Islamists to the defensive, to apologetics, and to protecting the reputation of Islam.95

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The role of the civil state.96 Similar to the approach of the regime and

the Islamists, secular intellectuals and political activists also displayed great sensitivity regarding mention of Coptic rights. They too distanced themselves from any identification with the terminology of “minority” or “persecution” regarding the Copts. Like the regime, secular activists emphasized that the Copts are part and parcel of the fabric of the nation, a position that Hani Shukrallah described as part of the hysteria that characterizes the political and intellectual debate regarding the Copts.97 Indeed, most political activists did not ignore the existence of actual discrimination against Copts. This recognition stood out after the events in Alexandria in 2005, when different political figures began to refer in a clear and open manner to the problems afflicting the Copt minority. However, when secular intellectuals and political activists referred to the Copt issue, they did so in a wider context of the crisis of Egyptian society and especially the lack of democracy, the expansion of the use of religion, and economic issues.98 Thus, every instance of recognition of the problems facing the Copt minority refrained from using terms such as “discrimination” or “religious persecution” and was labeled as part of the need for political and constitutional reforms that would guarantee equality among citizens regardless of their religious affiliation. Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah, former deputy director of the al-Ahram Center for Strategic Studies and editor of the annual “State of Religion in Egypt” report, argued that the statistical underrepresentation of the Copts—if true—cannot be attributed to religious discrimination but rather to a crisis in democratization and lack of political participation.99 Farida al-Naqqash, who referred in a clearer manner to discrimination against Copts, also placed their problems in a wider context. In her view, the clashes between Muslims and Christians prove that harmony between Muslims and Christians is an illusion. These clashes are a result of people’s tendency to identify themselves with their family, tribe, church, or mosque; meaning that subidentities whose role has grown stronger since the more powerful identity—the national identity, together with its central pillar, citizenship—does not protect them from state oppression.100 Actually, the approach of the secular political activists conditioned the resolution of the Copts’ grievances upon the processes of democratization. Thus, for instance, Rifa‘at Sa‘id, leader of the leftist party alTajammu‘, stated that if the Muslims in Egypt attain their freedoms and rights, Copts too will receive those freedoms and rights.101

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Nevertheless, contrary to the Islamists’ position, many of these secular political activists located the reason for clashes between Muslims and Copts in the spread of religion and its penetration into politics. In the secular view, increasing sectarian tension is a product of a combination of factors, the most prominent of which is the politicization of religion. Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah referred to the Egyptian tendency to combine religion and politics, and the attempts of Muslims and Christians to gain political profit from incitement of religious feelings, as the main reason for the clashes between Muslims and Christians.102 Other secular intellectuals spoke about the role of government in inflaming sectarian tension, arguing that sectarian tension is a result of the government’s failure to turn the issue of citizenship into the primary factor that determines the rights and duties of the citizens as well as the use the government made of Muslim and Christian religious figures for the purpose of creating support for its positions and policies. This regime’s policies undermined public trust in religious figures and strengthened Islamists, and, alternately, conservative Coptic Church leaders seeking to preserve the church’s political role.103 The explanation for the great sensitivity displayed by the Islamist as well as liberal and leftist factions regarding the issue of minorities is related to broader questions concerning the struggle over the collective identity of Egypt. The Islamists’ position stems from their struggle to establish Egypt’s Islamic identity and its exclusivity. In contrast, liberals refrained from defining the Copts as a religious minority, because such a definition would stress the importance of Egypt’s Islamic identity and thus would undermine the same pluralist and secular conception that they strove to promote. These liberal factions, which shared with the regime the goal of a secular modern Egypt and objected to the implementation of sharia, were pushed toward or chose, paradoxically, a position identical with the hegemonic position of the regime, which emphasizes national unity and underestimates the role of religious sentiments in preserving discrimination against the Coptic minority. NGOs and the Coptic Minority Until the mid-2000s, human rights NGOs distanced themselves from any identification with the terminology of “minority” or “persecution” regarding the Copts. However, contrary to the hegemonic position of the regime, human rights NGOs did attempt to link the violent incidents against the Copts to larger human rights problems in Egypt, and to use these cases to spark a discussion of the issue of human rights violations and the need for overall reform in this area.

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The EOHR report issued after the 1998 al-Kosheh incidents viewed the events not as a case of discrimination against or religious persecution of Christians, but rather as a case of police brutality and collective punishment of civilians. 104 Other human rights NGOs expressed similar opinions. The AOHR, for instance, published a statement expressing apprehension that the al-Kosheh incidents would be mistakenly interpreted by elements within and without Egypt as a type of religious discrimination against Copts. In the AOHR’s view, there was no single unifying link between all the incidents of physical assault on the Copts. The AOHR did not provide concrete, exhaustive explanations of these outbreaks and in general referred to the issues of lack of democracy and civil education; the inability of society to deal with the principle of citizenship, which includes the democratic meaning of human rights; and the relations between citizens and national institutions. According to the AOHR, in this framework of shortcomings, religious and familial affiliation became a source of flare-ups within the community.105 The EOHR’s attempt to distance itself from any discussions of religious violence was also evident after the publication of a Sunday Telegraph article in 1998 in which grave charges of violent persecution against the Copts in Egypt were raised. The EOHR quickly renounced any connection between the EOHR report regarding the events at alKosheh and the article published in the Sunday Telegraph.106 Hafez Abu Sa‘ada, EOHR secretary-general, even rejected a prize from the Center for Freedom of Religion in 1999, which was granted to him for his activities concerning minority rights and the organization’s investigations into the al-Kosheh events. In a letter explaining his decision to decline the award, Abu Sa‘ada stated that the decision of the Center for Freedom of Religion was based on an incorrect assumption. As far he was concerned, the documentation of the events at al-Kosheh did not include any reference to religious persecution, and the purpose of his organization was to advance religious freedoms from a civil and political perspective.107 Again, in its reference to the incidents at al-Kosheh in 2000, the EOHR faulted the lack of exhaustive investigation of the first incident on the part of the government, failure to educate for civil awareness, and the conduct of the security forces.108 This approach also characterized the reports of other human rights NGOs in Egypt, such as the report of the Association for Human Rights Legal Aid, which analyzed the incidents in the broad context of human rights violations in Egypt, the existence of emergency laws, and the lack of a proper election procedure that allows civil participation. The AHRLA criticized the gov-

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ernment’s failure to prevent animosity between Muslims and Christians and to overcome radical religious elements that wish to arouse sectarian tensions, and against the conduct of the security forces.109 A change in the approach of the human rights NGOs became apparent after the 2005 incidents in Alexandria, when some of the NGOs and activists referred in a concrete manner to the problems suffered by the Coptic minority. This change in the approach of human rights NGOs can be attributed to a change in the political atmosphere in Egypt and the opening of the media space, especially after the 2005 elections for the presidency and parliament. This change in approach, which was defined by Fahmi Huwaidi as crossing the barrier of silence and fear and breaking through the lines that protected the regime from criticism,110 contributed to the open discussion of Muslim-Christian relations and intercommunal violence. In criticism voiced by ‘Isam al-Din Muhammad Hassan toward the government’s handling of the sectarian clashes, he stated that the recent incidents in Alexandria did not permit making do with arguments of national unity and standing by the official approach, which sought to simplify matters and bypass the real reasons for these clashes. In reference to the discrimination suffered by Copts in issues such as appointments to government offices, Hassan came out against the government’s attitude toward such sectarian incidents—its tendency to prefer political compromise or agreements with religious leaders in place of adherence to the law and its lack of transparency, which contributed to an environment of rumor mongering and a sectarian atmosphere.111 An EOHR report attributed the Alexandria incidents to the patterns of action of the police and the failure of religious institutions, whether Islamic or Christian, to formulate a preemptive policy. However, concurrent with this analysis, the organization also referred in a concrete manner to the problems suffered by the Coptic minority and their right to freedom of religion. The report referred to the need to abrogate the discriminating law regarding construction and renovation of churches and called for the establishment of a committee for religious affairs.112 Similarly, the AHRLA even dedicated a discussion to the absence of Copts from the election lists of November 2005.113 Nevertheless, despite the documentation of incidents in which the human rights of Copts had been violated, most organizations refrained from dealing directly with the issue of freedom of religion and faith. A different approach was taken by organizations such as the CIHRS and the EIPR. The CIHRS referred numerous times in its publications to the issue of minorities, Muslim-Christian relations, and freedom of religion.

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The CIHRS organized a 2006 seminar in which a number of prominent intellectuals gathered to address the Coptic issue,114 and held a 2008 symposium dealing with freedom of faith that called for the amendment of the second clause of the constitution. This clause, which states that sharia is the primary source of legislation, was presented as an obstacle to strengthening the concept of citizenship and the civil state, since it stands in contrast to the principle of neutrality of the state toward its citizens and the guarantee of equality between them.115 The EIPR came out against the denial or disregard among officials and lawmakers, who refrained from mentioning violence as a sectarian issue. Immediately after the 2005 Alexandria incidents, the EIPR had already referred to the link between the incidents and the discriminatory governmental treatment of religious conversion and the treatment of religious issues as if they were a matter of national security.116 According to the EIPR, a solution to sectarian violence must be reached in a wider framework that attends to other violations of the right to freedom of religion and faith in Egypt. This young organization, which was established in 2002 and has risen to prominence among human rights NGOs, did not refrain from referring in its arguments to the interpretation of Islamic law or its utilization. This organization, which deals extensively with individual rights to freedom of religion, stated that violating the rights of minorities to convert or register their religion, as was the case with the Baha’is, is a result of the choice made by the Egyptian government to implement the principles of sharia. The EIPR argued that instead of adopting an approach that implements the basic principles of justice and equality while attempting to mediate between sharia and the international law of human rights, the state directly violates internationally recognized rights of its citizens.117 Nonetheless, except for these individual organizations, the change in the approach of other human rights NGOs toward Coptic minority rights was limited and did not signify that they placed the issue of minority rights at the top of their agenda. Solutions proposed by the human rights NGOs, similar to those raised in the political sphere, stressed extensive political reforms, removal of barriers of political participation, and freedom of expression and organization, without which society would continue to fall prey to a sectarian discourse that sanctifies divisions and violation of minorities’ rights, and would delay the liberation of the Egyptians from the ongoing despotism.118 In this case, too, the limitations of the internal debate within the movement were apparent. Despite their awareness of the role of religion in shaping the collective identity and the political and social norms,

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most human rights NGOs preferred not to address the Islamic interpretations directly or the position of the Islamists regarding the relations between Muslims and Christians, which influence the relations between the two populations. Organizations such as the EIPR and the CIHRS are an exception. Their approach did not represent the majority of the human rights NGOs in dealing with violations related to religious minorities. Their choice reflected avoidance and even neglect concerning the discussion of basic factors that are the cornerstone of the violation of the rights of religious minorities in Egypt. This choice stemmed from the characteristics of the space in which the organizations were acting and especially from their fear of the regime’s reaction in case they crossed the boundaries of permissible discussion. However, that is not the sole explanation. An examination of their position demonstrates the extent to which they are situated within the ideological forces of their society and influenced by the worldview common within it and, furthermore, their understanding that supporting the rights of this minority does not influence the public image of their organizations in a positive light.119 For this reason, any discussion related to the Copts was primarily analyzed in the general context of the lack of democracy in Egypt while refraining from discussing the role of religious conceptions and interpretations. In this the human rights movement failed to provide a vision that would constitute a significant alternative to other elements in the public sphere, especially the Islamists and their conceptions anchored in the idea of ahl al-dhimma, which views Copts as second-class citizens. External involvement in addressing the problems of the Coptic minority and the human rights movement’s fear that it would be identified with a Western agenda placed further restrictions on the ability of the human rights NGOs to act in the public sphere and develop an alternative approach. External Involvement and Its Implications Foreign involvement related to Coptic rights has crucial effects on the limitations of public debate. Contrary to those who argue that minorities in Muslim countries need more support from the international community, Egyptian reaction to foreign involvement leads to mixed results. Although external pressure serves to expose the discrimination suffered by Egyptian Copts, foreign involvement, whether international or on the part of expatriate communities living in the West, does not promote Egyptian recognition of discrimination against Copts. On the contrary, external involvement, presented by the regime as unwanted and as a

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violation of Egyptian sovereignty, provided the regime with a means to divert domestic discussion away from Coptic rights, resulting in a closing of ranks against any attempt to develop a local, open, and honest debate regarding the rights of religious minorities in Egypt. The negative public attitude toward any foreign involvement in Coptic rights originates in the historical experience of the region’s states under the Ottoman Empire, in the intervention of the Western powers in favor of the Christian minorities, and later, in the experience of colonial rule, which understandably resulted in mixed feelings toward foreign involvement in Christian-Muslim relations.120 The relevance of colonial history in the local culture and consciousness is still high, if only because for the Arabs, the old colonialism has been replaced by a new one—US cultural, economic, and military hegemony. First and foremost, the historical narrative was an important means for the ruling elite to dismiss claims of discrimination against minorities and to disseminate the regime’s stance that presents every discussion regarding the demand for minority rights as a threat to Egyptian sovereignty and national unity. However, this position was not exclusive to the regime and actually included all the Egyptian political factions. Similar to discussion of other human rights, in the context of minority rights the various local forces that compete for a place in shaping the collective identity of Egypt utilize ties with the West, and its influence on Egyptian society, as a basis for consolidating their position as authentic representatives of the national Egyptian identity. Colonizing states in the narrative were replaced by the United States and Israel, which are perceived as repressive forces with a strategy of spreading chaos and tension in the region. The false use of Coptic rights is a part of the strategy of these forces, which is intended to implement a policy of “Balkanization” of the region.121 Opposition to foreign involvement was prominent when a bill came up in the US Congress calling for the US government to work for the eradication of religious persecution. In May 1998, the US Congress ratified this bill by a vote of 375 in favor and 41 against. This bill—which assumed that religious minorities, especially Christians, were being persecuted in Muslim countries—called for the US government to punish and enforce a variety of sanctions upon local exports of countries that the United States believed were encouraging religious persecution or ignoring it. US legislation concerning religious persecution and the inclusion of Egypt as a country in which religious persecution occurs caused an uproar in Egypt. This legislation was perceived and presented as an

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anti-Egyptian conspiracy and as an anti-Islamic campaign backed by the Zionist lobby, which recruited for its purposes Christian fundamentalists and elements of the Coptic expatriate community in the United States. According to this conspiracy theory, the Jewish lobby uses the US Congress for its own purposes, including pressuring Egypt regarding its positions on the peace process and silencing its voice against Israeli persecution of the Palestinians.122 The Egyptian Coptic community also hastened to reject the foreign involvement on its behalf. The Coptic patriarch declared that the Egyptian government was doing everything in its power to grant Copts an equal role in Egyptian society, and emphasized that the Copts rejected any foreign involvement in Egypt’s internal affairs. 123 This stance reflected the traditional position of the Coptic Church, which took care to preserve its independence from Western churches as well as from any foreign involvement, whether in the form of protection or patronage.124 The Coptic Church hastened to adopt the position of the liberal US National Council of Churches, which argued that there was no evidence of Coptic persecution and spoke out against the US bill because it endangered the minorities by casting suspicion upon them.125 Rejection of any foreign involvement was not unique to the Coptic Church but rather included many other elements of the Coptic community, which expressed a position similar to that of the Egyptian government. They argued that the goal of the US bill was not to support the Coptic interest, but to pressure Egypt regarding its policy on the IsraeliPalestinian issue and especially to weaken Egypt from within, ignite sectarian conflict, and harm national unity.126 In this context, journalist Hani Labib views the US religious protection initiative as a form of cultural violence that tries to enforce universal solutions that are far apart geographically, culturally, and religiously from the Egyptian case and that have one goal—diluting Egyptian uniqueness.127 Other prominent Coptic figures took care to defend the regime’s policy toward the Copts and expressed their apprehension that the involvement of foreign governments, and especially the United States, in favor of better treatment of Christians, threatened their status in the country and might cause misunderstandings and resentment toward the very people they were trying to protect.128 As Samir Marqus saw it, the rejection of foreign involvement did not obscure the Copts’ problem, but rather reflected their preference for a solution grounded in Egypt and from a point of view that emphasized their citizenship.129 This position, shared by the Egyptian government and the Coptic community,

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received widespread support from a variety of opposition elements who decisively rejected any foreign involvement in domestic Muslim-Christian relations.130 This position opposing foreign involvement even gained the support of prominent Egyptian human rights NGOs, which took care to distance themselves from any identification with the US agenda. The EOHR harshly criticized the decision of the US Congress to enact the law permitting US sanctions on countries in which evidence of religious persecution was found. The resistance of the EOHR was due not only to what it perceived as a problematic connection between aid and human rights, but also to the negative precedent of applying sanctions for alleged violations.131 Egypt’s Legal Research and Resource Center for Human Rights warned that the intervention of the US Congress could lead to a sectarian rift. In a published declaration, it stated: “We ask all the Egyptian national forces, journalists and the Egyptian government not to confuse American strategies, when using the Coptic card, with the Copts as Egyptian citizens, living with Muslims as one nation. They alone can solve these problems in their special way as members of a family in one house.”132 In a February 1999 meeting between the US secretary of state’s representative for religious freedom and representatives of Egyptian human rights NGOs, the latter expressed their concern that the law would be used for limited political purposes and that the political use of moral issues such as human rights would not only harm US credibility, but also have negative effects on public opinion in Egypt and other countries. These representatives emphasized that an exaggerated US interest in religious freedom would harm the effort to improve the conditions of the citizens in Egypt, would lead to the isolation of the Copts from their society, and would present them as living under foreign protection.133 This unanimity of opinion was also expressed in the March 2001 visit of the US Commission on International Religious Freedom (USCIRF). The commission, consisting of ten representatives including senators, was established to advise the White House regarding a policy for the promotion of freedom of religion. The purpose of the commission’s visit was to consult with government officials and religious elements on issues of religious freedom, as defined by the UDHR and international political and social rights treaties.134 The USCIRF visit was seen and presented by a variety of political forces as an illegitimate intervention in the internal affairs of Egypt, meant to be used to pressure Mubarak ahead of his visit to the United States, which was planned for 2 April 2001, regarding his position

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toward the Palestinians and the sanctions that the United States was planning to impose on Iraq.135 Opposition parties called for a boycott of the commission’s activities. Criticism against it ranged from the hysterical, in referring to a US conspiracy aimed at undermining national unity, to the unemotional, in referring to the negative implications of the commission’s visit for the Copts’ status.136 The USCIRF was ignored by human rights NGOs, who refused to meet with its representatives.137 The NGOs’ rejection centered on the backgrounds of the commission’s members and their political leanings.138 The commission’s decision not to publish a report on religious freedom in Israel, due to the differences of opinion among its members, raised another wave of criticism on the part of Egyptian human rights activists. Human rights activist Gasser ‘Abd al-Raziq argued that the commission was politically motivated, served to support US interests, and was not engaged in reliable documentation of human rights violations.139 The Coptic Church denied any connection to the USCIRF,140 and other Coptic figures also expressed their displeasure with the US involvement and refused to meet with the delegation.141 When President Mubarak went to Washington, DC, he did so with the full support of the Coptic community. In an unprecedented move, Patriarch Shenouda sent an open letter to the expatriate Coptic community in the United States praising Mubarak’s policy toward the Copts and requesting expatriate Copts to refrain from harming Egypt’s reputation and hurting the church’s interests.142 In taking this stance, the Coptic community expressed a consistent position, one that was repeated every time the possibility of foreign involvement in the community’s affairs arose, including through the attempts of Coptic elements in the West to organize international conferences and denounce the persecution of Copts in Egypt. Coptic thinker Jamal As‘ad, referring to the patterns of action of expatriate Copts as assisting the colonial interests of the United States in the region, compared the expatriate Copts to the Iraqi exiles who returned to Iraq riding US tanks.143 An analysis of the debate shows that, similar to other human rights violations, in this case too, international involvement on behalf of Coptic rights led to a focus on the motives of international involvement and its implications for Egyptian national sovereignty and national unity, and did not contribute to the expansion of the debate regarding the rights of the Coptic minority. On the contrary, Islamists, leftists, and liberals cooperated, consciously or not, with the Egyptian regime’s defensive strategy, and ignored and denied any form of systematic discrimination or persecution of the Coptic minority.

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The development of this limited debate is tightly linked to the problems of identity construction and cultural orientation. The struggle over collective identity in Egypt constitutes one of the prominent social and political struggles there. The failure of Nasser, Sadat, and Mubarak to create a national consensus over the definition of the community’s identity left Egypt with a political debate that mixes nationalism and Islam and that has so far proven incapable of defining a national ideal in such a way that would encompass the uniqueness of all of its citizens.144 In this respect, both the Islamist vision, based on religious affiliation, as well as the Arab nationalist vision, which in its purest form relies on culture and language as a basis for political identity, have failed to incorporate subidentities in the framework of their attempts to define an authentic Egyptian identity.145 According to Nicola Pratt, anyone who expresses alternative identities or engages in alternative cultural practices based on ethnicity, religion, or gender is perceived as a threat to the national way of life or as someone paving the way for negative foreign influence on this framework. In the context of national identity construction—which positions foreign involvement and the imposition of Western norms and standards as harming national unity—every attempt to establish an alternative to the hegemonic discourse is doomed to fail.146

Christian Minorities in Jordan and the Lack of an Open Discussion Contrary to the dynamic debate in Egypt regarding the status and rights of the Coptic minority, the issue of the rights of religious minorities in Jordan, especially of the Christian minority, has not risen to the public and political agenda. Similar to other cases, in Jordan the absence of a public discussion dedicated to the rights of minorities is due to unique patterns of control in the country, state-society relations, and components of the national identity. The composition of the Jordanian population is a sensitive matter. The government consistently refrains from publishing exact data, since it fears that revealing this would confirm the common assumption that Jordanians of Palestinian descent constitute the majority of the population. This recognition may lead to demands by Palestinians for partnership and distribution of political power, and even to a change in the character of the Jordanian state. However, this does not explain the tendency to refrain from revealing data regarding the size of religious

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minorities, including the Christian one. In the case of the latter, the regime refrains from revealing data regarding its size not because it is afraid that deprivation or discrimination against the Christian minority will be revealed, but because it fears creating a confrontation with Islamists and other opposition forces by confirming their assumptions that Christians are politically overrepresented. Most of Jordan’s inhabitants are Sunni Muslims, with the Christian minority composing, according to official data, about 6 percent of the population. The Christians are a minority across the main ethnic split in Jordan: in both the Palestinian Jordanian and East Jordanian communities.147 Palestinian Christians in particular see themselves as what can be called a “double minority”—a minority that is both religious and ethnic—within the Hashemite state. Even though Islam is defined in the constitution as the religion of the state, Jordan is perceived by international human rights NGOs as a state that benefits minorities, including the Christian minority. Contrary to other Christian minorities in neighboring countries, the Christian minority in Jordan has never been perceived as being subject to religious persecution or political repression.148 Jordanians Christians realize their religious identity in a free and open manner. Except for a few differences and the lack of equality on issues related to personal status, Jordanian Christians are considered citizens with equal rights and are active participants in all areas of life. In addition, the Christians’ economic situation is better than that of Muslims, and the proportion of poor Christians is smaller compared to that of Muslims. Christians are also equally represented in academia and the media according to their share in the population.149 Politically, however, Christians are overrepresented relative to their share of the population. The Hashemite kings, who have tended to rely on strong support from Christians and other minorities, guaranteed minority representation in parliament through a quota system. This form of minority representation is found in the first organic law, from 1928, which shaped the structure of the legislature. At that time, it was determined that five of sixteen seats would be allocated to Christians and Circassians, an allocation that did not represent their proportions in the population. This representation diminished with the passage of time. In 1967, five of thirty seats in the East Bank were allocated to Christians, and in 1989 only nine of eighty seats were allocated to Christians, a number that was retained when the number of members of parliament rose to one hundred ten. However, this number is still high relative to the share of Christians in the population. In addition, the state has unofficially allocated government offices to Christians and in nearly all gov-

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ernments there has been a representation of one or two ministers from the Christian community.150 The election law in Jordan, as well as the allocation of seats in parliament, were designed to ensure the loyalty of certain populations, including minorities. To a great extent, this is an instrument used by the regime to control these populations. Still, Jordan’s attitude toward the Christian minority is perceived by researchers dealing with minorities in the Arab world, foremost of which is Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, as an example for the way in which religious minorities can be integrated socially and politically in societies that have a Muslim majority.151 Despite the fact that the political, economic, and social status of Christian minorities in Jordan is better than that of other religious minorities in Muslim countries, including Jordan, any debate dealing with equality between citizens of different ethnic or religious origins is sensitive. Minority rights are not considered a legitimate issue in Jordan, due to the regime’s tendency to stress national unity and identity. An emphasis on national unity fortifies the regime’s status, and also prevents any discussion of the demands of the Jordanian Palestinians, which constitutes a unique case of a population who are a demographic majority, but a political minority, since they are not proportionally represented in government and constitute a political minority in the centers of power of the Hashemite kingdom.152 As in the Egyptian case, the strategy of the regime in Jordan was supported by local human rights NGOs, especially when it was criticized by external actors. In response to the 2009 report on international religious freedom published by the US Department of State, local human rights NGOs openly criticized the report’s findings, stating that religious freedoms are guaranteed under Jordan’s constitution and that these freedoms are widely enjoyed by all citizens. The NCHR was the most vocal critic of the report, and warned that the manner in which the United States deals with religious freedom may hinder interfaith dialogue and unity in Jordanian society while bolstering extremism by provoking religious sentiment among minority groups. The NCHR called for an evaluation of religious freedom among Jordanians scholars and thinkers, instead of through a political report designed to protect US economic and strategic interests. 153 The NCHR’s statement was followed by critical public statements from other human rights NGOs, many of which repeated the NCHR’s claims that the report was misguided and hindered coexistence and dialogue. In a press conference, the AOHR-Jordan called the report’s allegations fabrications and stated that Jordanian Christians enjoy equal rights under the constitution.154

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However, this is not merely a case of repressing the debate regarding minorities. The Christian minority in Jordan also has little interest in damaging the balance of power established vis-à-vis the regime. While some Christians have played major roles in Jordan’s secular opposition movement, especially through left-wing political parties, most of the Christian community sees the Hashemite regime as the factor guaranteeing the existence of an ethnic and religious mosaic, as well as guaranteeing their own status in the state. In this special case, a confluence of interests of the state and the minority has entirely prevented the development of an open debate regarding their status in a state that positions Islam as the state religion and has also led to the strengthening of hegemonic positions. A comparison of the status of religious minorities in Egypt and Jordan indicates that minorities are strongly dependent on the state for ensuring their basic rights. In both cases, Islamic conceptions are fundamental in shaping public attitudes on various issues. Despite this, the array of the regimes’ interests and their relationships with opposition forces, especially the Islamists, are significant factors in reducing the influence of religious conceptions in determining the scope of freedom enjoyed by the religious minorities. In both cases, the regimes tried to establish control over all expressions of religious identity that could be used by their opponents and promoted a discourse of national unity that hindered an open discussion on the status of minorities. Despite this, and in contrast to the Jordanian case, the prolonged and violent struggle between the Egyptian regime and the Islamists shaped the regime’s continuous tendency to deny the problems of the Coptic minority. Opposition forces in Egypt, among them human rights activists who were also threatened by the strengthening of the Islamist forces, failed to provide alternative visions to both the regime’s attitude and the Islamists’ attitude regarding minority rights. In order to reduce the ability of the regime to manipulate this fear of Islamists and to reduce the influence of religious conceptions on minority rights, human rights activists should abandon their defensive posture toward Islam, and worse, their position ignoring Islam and its role in forming negative attitudes toward liberties.

Notes 1. Ofra Bengio, “Minorities in Arab Political Discourse,” Hamizrah Hahadash 31 (1999): 107–109 (in Hebrew); P. R. Kumaraswamy, “Problems of Studying Minorities in the Middle East,” Alternatives: Turkish Journal of Inter-

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national Relations 2:2 (Summer 2003): 247–249; Haydar Ibrahim ‘Ali and Milad Hanna, Azmat al-aqlliyyat fi al-watan al-‘Arabi (The crisis of minorities in the Arab nation) (Beirut: Dar al-Fiqr, 2002), p. 11. 2. See discussion on the relationship between the problem of freedom and the absence of an open debate regarding the question of minorities in ‘Ali and Hanna, Azmat al-aqlliyyat fi al-watan al-‘Arabi, p. 13. 3. Gabriel Ben-Dor, “Minorities in the Middle East: Theory and Practice,” in Ofra Bengio and Gabriel Ben-Dor (eds.), Minorities and the State in the Arab World (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1999), p. 4. 4. David Zeidan, “The Copts: Equal, Protected, or Persecuted? The Impact of Islamization on Muslim-Christian Relations in Modern Egypt,” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 10:1 (1999): 53–54; Mark Purcell, “A Place for the Copts: Imagined Territory and Spatial Conflict in Egypt,” Ecumene 5:4 (1998): 434. 5. Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, al-Milal wa’l nihal wa’l-a‘raq: al-taqrir alsanawi al-thamin 2005 (Religious communities, sects, and ethnic groups: The Eighth Annual Report) (Cairo: Ibn Khaldun Center, 2005), pp. 16–20, 38; Majdi Khalil, “al-Huquq wa’l-hurriyyat fi al-dustur al-Misri” (Rights and freedoms in the Egyptian constitutions), Watani, 19 June 2005; Yustina Saleh, “Law, the Rule of Law, and Religious Minorities in Egypt,” MERIA: The Middle East Review of International Affairs 8:4 (December 2004), http://www .gloria-center.org/2004/12/saleh-2004-12-07/. 6. Ibrahim, al-Milal wa’l nihal wa’l-a‘raq, p. 16; Salim Najib, al-Aqbat fi al-tarikh (The Copts in history) (Cairo: Matbu‘at Dar al-Hiyal, 2001), pp. 198– 202. In order to ease the tension after the incidents in Alexandria in 2005, the Egyptian government delegated the powers of decision to the district governors; see al-Ahrar, 19 January 2006. 7. Human Rights Watch, Egypt the Christian Minority 6:2 (November 1994); Human Rights Watch, World Report 2004 (Washington, DC, January 2004); US Commission on International Religious Freedom, Annual Report 2005: Egypt (Washington, DC, 2005). 8. US Commission on International Religious Freedom, Annual Report 2005: Egypt. See also Rachel M. Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam: NonMuslims and the Egyptian State (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2010), pp. 83–84. 9. al-Ahram, 8 May 1998. See also the EOHR press release al-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, “al-Munazama turhhibu bi-qarar al-sayyid ra’is al-jumhuriyya bi-’i‘tibar al-sab‘ min yana’iru ‘idan rasmiyyan li-kul al-Misriyyin” (The EOHR welcomes the decision of the republic president to turn December 7 official holiday for all Egyptians) (Cairo, 18 December 2002). 10. US Commission on International Religious Freedom, Annual Report 2005: Egypt. 11. These attacks began even earlier, in the 1970s. See Nadia Ramsis Farah, Religious Strife in Egypt (New York: Gordon and Breach Science, 1986). 12. Najib, al-Aqbat fi al-tarikh, pp. 142, 145; Karim al-Gawhary, “Copts in the Egyptian Fabric,” Middle East Report 26:3 (July–September 1996), pp. 21– 22. 13. Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, Collective Punishment in AlKosheh Village: Random Arrest, Torture, and Degrading Treatment of Citizens

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(Cairo, 28 September 1998); Steve Negus, “Village of Fear,” Middle East Times, 1 October 1998. 14. The DVD included a play presented at St. George Church in 2003 about a young Christian man who converted to Islam due to financial difficulties but changed his mind. See, for example, al-Usbu‘, 17 October 2005; Ruz al-Yusuf, 17 October 2005. 15. Those cases have been documented quarterly by the EIPR. See, for example, the report that dealt with the events of 2010, Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights, Naga Hammadi: Witnesses to the Strife Facts Findings Mission Report (Cairo, January 2010). 16. US Commission on International Religious Freedom, Annual Report 2005: Egypt. 17. See Mubarak’s remarks in an interview marking the twenty-fifth anniversary of the October War, in al-Ahram Weekly, 1–7 October 1998. See also the statements of Egyptian representatives before the UN Human Rights Committee, Summary Record of the 1247th Meeting: Egypt, Geneva, 20 July 1993, CCPR/C/SR.1247; UN Doc. CERD/C/SR.1485, 13 September 2001, para. 2; UN Commission on Human Rights, E/CN.4/Sub.2/2005/27, 8 July 2005. 18. UN Doc. CCPR/C/SR.1247, 29 July 1993, paras. 14, 58; UN Doc. CERD/C/SR.1049, 11 August 1996, paras. 8–9; UN Doc. CERD/C/384/Add.3, 11 April 2001, para. 363. 19. See interview with President Mubarak in al-Musawwar, 5 July 1997. See also interview with ‘Amr Moussa, former foreign minister, in al-Ahram, 21 June 1999. 20. For a criticism of the “wind of change” in the party, see ‘Isam al-Din Muhammad Hassan, “Ayy jadid fi mu’tamar al-hizb al-watani al-dimuqrati?” (What is new in the National Democratic Party conference?), Sawasiyya 51–52 (2003): 1; Najad al-Bura‘i, “‘Ala’ hamish mu’tamar al-hizb al-watani: jil jadid wa-laysa fiqr jadid” (On the margins of the National Party Conference: A new generation, not a new thought), Sawasiyya 53–54 (2004): 4–5. 21. See the statements of Egyptian representatives before the UN Human Rights Committee, International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, 11 August 1996, CERD/C/SR.1049. See also Commission on Human Rights, press release HR/CN/921, Geneva, 19 April 1999. 22. Quoted in al-Ahram, 9 November 1998. 23. al-Ahrar, 27 January 2010. 24. Farah, Religious Strife in Egypt, pp. 9–18. 25. al-Usbu‘, 20 September 2004. 26. For characteristics of this process, see Sebastian Elsässer, “Press Liberalization, the New Media, and the ‘Coptic Question’: Muslim-Coptic Relations in Egypt in a Changing Media Landscape,” Middle Eastern Studies 46:1 (2010): 131–150; Elizabeth Iskander, “The ‘Mediation’ of Muslim-Christian Relations in Egypt: The Strategies and Discourses of the Official Egyptian Press During Mubarak’s Presidency,” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 23:1 (2012): 38–39. See also Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam, p. 82. 27. National Council for Human Rights, Third Annual Report: Human Rights Situation in Egypt 2006/7 (Cairo, 18 January 2007).

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28. Bahy al-Din Hassan, “‘Ashr khutuwat lil-khalf! limadha’ i‘taradtu ‘ala’ taqrir al-majlis al-qawmi li-huquq al-insan?” (Ten steps backward! Why I objected to the NCHR’s report), al-Masry al-Youm, 17 April 2006. 29. In this case a dispute erupted between Coptic monks and Bedouin Arab tribesmen over land surrounding the monastery. This dispute degenerated into a series of street battles that left one Muslim dead and three Copts injured, and led to the kidnapping of three Coptic monks. 30. See the report in al-Wafd, 18 July 2008. 31. For analysis of the representation of Muslim-Coptic relations in the alAhram newspaper between 2005 and 2010, see Iskander, “The ‘Mediation’ of Muslim-Christian Relations in Egypt.” 32. Elsässer, “Press Liberalization, the New Media, and the ‘Coptic Question,’” pp. 132–133. 33. See interviews with prominent Coptic figures in al-Ahram Weekly, 20– 26 May 2004. 34. See Milad Hanna, quoted in ‘Amru ‘Abd al-Samih, al-Aqbat wa’l raqm al sa‘b: hiwarat hawl al-mustaqbal (The Copts and the static variable: Discussions concerning the future) (Cairo: al-Dar al-Misriyya al-Lubnaniyya, 2001), p. 154; Zeidan, “The Copts,” p. 56. 35. Zeidan, “The Copts,” p. 56; S. S. Hasan, Christians Versus Muslims in Modern Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 105–106. 36. Hani Labib, Azmat al-himaya al-diniyya: al-din wa’l-dawla fi misr (The crisis of religious protection: Religion and state in Egypt) (Cairo: Dar al-Shuruq, 2000), p. 76. See also the words of Jamal As‘ad in al-Fajr, 5 June 2006; Bishop Moussa in Sawt al-Umma, 6 October 2003; and Yusuf Sidhum in Watani, 12 April 1998. 37. Samir Marqus, al-Himaya wa’l-‘iqab: al-gharb wa’l-mas’ala al-diniyya fi’l-sharq al-awsat (Protection and punishment: The West and the religious issue in the Middle East) (Cairo: Merit Lil-Nashr wa’l-Ma‘lumat, 2000), 78. See also the words of George Ishaq in a conference hosted by the CIHRS and presented in full in Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah, al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya (Islam and democracy) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Huquq al-Insan, 2003), p. 100. 38. For a clear expression of these concerns, see the words of Coptic intellectual Milad Hanna, after the 2005 parliamentary elections, in al-‘Arabi, 21 November 2005. See also Sameh Fawzi, “Brothers and Others,” al-Ahram Weekly, 8–14 December 2005; Hani Labib, quoted in Ruz al-Yusuf, 30 October 2006. 39. Paul Sedra, “Class Cleavages and Ethnic Conflict: Coptic Christian Communities in Modern Egyptian Politics,” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 10:2 (1999): 221. 40. Ibid., pp. 221–222. 41. ‘Ali and Hanna, Azmat al-aqlliyyat fi al-watan al-‘Arabi, p. 239. See also the words of Patriarch Shenouda in al-Hayat, 20 October 2002; and the words of Yusuf Sidhum in Watani, 27 October 2002. 42. Paul Rowe, “Neo-Millet Systems and Transnational Religious Movements: The Hamayun Decrees and Church Construction in Egypt,” Journal of State and Church 49 (2007): 331.

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43. See Patriarch Shenouda’s reference to the al-Kosheh sectarian clashes in al-Ahram, 11 November 1998. See also his reference to the 2005 presidential election in al-Ahram, 12 August 2005. 44. Akhbar al-Youm, 6 August 2005. 45. Ruz al-Yusuf, 13 August 2005. See also the reference of Patriarch Shenouda in al-Fajr, 20 February 2006. 46. Mariz Tadros, “Vicissitudes in the Entente Between the Coptic Orthodox Church and State in Egypt (1952–2007),” International Journal of Middle East Studies 41 (2009): 281–282. 47. Sedra, “Class Cleavages and Ethnic Conflict,” pp. 228–229. 48. See, for example, the words of Jamal As‘ad in al-‘Arabi, 2 January 2005, and in al-Fajr, 5 June 2006. See also Hani Labib’s reference of the church’s failure to educate the public for political participation, in Akhir Sa‘a, 26 April 2006. 49. See the words of Coptic writer and publisher Nasih Gergis, after the Alexandria incidents, in al-Ahram Weekly, 27 October–3 November 2005. See also the comments of Jamal As‘ad in al-Ahrar, 21 November 1998. As‘ad believes that there is no persecution against Copts; for him, it is a conflict between two forms of citizenship. 50. Quoted in Middle East Times, 5 April 1998. 51. Marqus, al-Himaya wa’l-‘iqab, p. 78. 52. Ibid., pp. 190–191. 53. This newspaper, founded in 1958, deals with Coptic community and church affairs. The newspaper has been criticized by some figures in the Coptic community. See, for instance, the critique by Jamal As‘ad in al-‘Arabi, 6 June 2004, and in al-Fajr, 5 June 2006. Among other things, As‘ad claims that the newspaper’s supplement, Watani International, provides a platform for émigré Copts such as Majdi Khalil, and contributes to the political isolation of the Coptic community. In his view, the newspaper promotes “Americanization” and denies the Arabness of Egypt. 54. See, for example, Watani, 21 June 1998, 26 May 2004, and 12 December 2004. See also Sameh Fawzi’s arguments in Watani, 27 June 2004. This concept underlies Sidhum’s initiative to establish the Egyptian Council for Civil Liberties (similar to the National Council for Human Rights); see Watani, 20 February 2005. 55. See the words of George Ishaq in a conference hosted by the CIHRS and presented in full in Dayf Allah, al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya, pp. 101–102, 114. See also the words of Hani Labib in Akhir Sa‘a, 29 March 2006. 56. See the comments of Sameh Fawzi in Watani, 21 June 1998. 57. Watani, 5 June 2005. 58. Tadros, “Vicissitudes in the Entente,” p. 277; Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam, pp. 166–168. 59. See interview with Mamdouh Nakhla in al-Musawwar, 23 September 2005. 60. Majdi Khalil, Aqbat al-mahjar: dirasa maydaniyya hawla humum alwatan wa’l muwatana (Diaspora Copts: A field study of the concerns of the nation and citizenship) (Cairo: Matbu‘at Dar al-Khalil, 1999), pp. 50–54, 165– 167. On the influence of the expatriate Coptic community on US policy, see ‘Ali and Hanna, Azmat al-aqliyyat fi al-watan al-‘Arabi, pp. 265–267.

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61. Paul Rowe, “Building Coptic Civil Society: Christian Groups and the State in Mubarak’s Egypt,” Middle Eastern Studies 45:1 (January 2009): 122– 123. 62. See, for example, al-Ahram, 3 April 2001 and 8 August 2005; Labib, Azmat al- himaya al-diniyya, pp. 67–68. 63. See the words of Jamal As‘ad in al-Ahram Weekly, 27 October–2 November 2005; and in Ruz al-Yusuf, 29 April 2005. 64. See the words of Jamal As‘ad in al-Qahira, 27 September 2005. See also similar views in Sawt al-Umma, 3 October 2005; Watani, 26 May 2004; alAhram, 31 March 2001. 65. See the position of Yusuf Sidhum, who opposed the concluding decisions of the conference, which according to him did not emphasize the need for national dialogue, in Watani, 4 December 2005 and 27 November 2005. 66. Abdullahi an-Na’im, “Religious Minorities Under Islamic Law and the Limits of Cultural Relativism,” Human Rights Quarterly 9 (1987): 9. 67. Ibid., pp. 10–13. 68. For a discussion of the Islamist attitudes toward minorities, see Uriah Furman, “Minorities in Contemporary Islamic Discourse,” Middle Eastern Studies 36:4 (October 2000): 1–20; Gudrun Kramer, “Dhimmi or Citizen? MuslimChristian Relations in Egypt,” in Jorge S. Nielsen (ed.), The Christian-Muslim Frontier: Chaos, Clash, or Dialogue? (London: Tauris, 1998), pp. 33–49; Jorgen S. Nielsen, “Contemporary Discussions on Religious Minorities in Muslim Countries,” Islam and Christian-Muslim Relations 14:3 (July 2003): 325– 335. 69. The Arabic term wasat means “center.” The term wasatiyya is used to describe the centrist or moderate wing of the Islamist intellectual spectrum. 70. For a detailed discussion on the wasatiyya trend, see Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam, chaps. 5–6. See also Sagi Polka, “The Centrist Stream in Egypt and Its Role in the Public Discourse Surrounding the Shaping of the Country’s Cultural Identity,” Middle Eastern Studies 39:3 (July 2003): 39–64. 71. Muhammad ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya (Religious and national minorities) (Cairo: Dar Nahdat Misr, 1998), pp. 100–104. 72. ‘Aqidati, 3 August 2004. 73. al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 15 March 2003. 74. On the limitations of these new ways of thinking, see Furman, “Minorities in Contemporary Islamist Discourse,” pp. 14–17. 75. ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya, pp. 4, 10–18; Muhammad ‘Imara, “Hal muskilat al-aklliyyat fi al-bilad al-Islamiyya” (The problem of minorities in Islamic countries), al-Sharq al-Awsat, 2 May 2003. See also Fahmi Huwaidi, “Qadruna an na‘ishu ma‘an” (Our destiny is to live together), al-Ahram, 1 December 1998. 76. ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya, pp. 27–46; Fahmi Huwaidi, “Muraja‘at fi mashhad al-fitna” (Criticism in light of the Fitna), alAhram, 10 November 1998. 77. ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya, pp. 99–100; Muhammad ‘Imara, “al-Musawa bayna al-aqalliyyat” (Equality between minorities), al-Sharq al-Awsat, 26 August 2000; Muhammad ‘Imara, “al-Muslimun fuqara fi al-ahsa’iyyat wa-qawa‘id al-ma‘lumat” (The lack of Muslim statistics and databases), al-Sharq al-Awsat, 14 March 2003.

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78. Muhammad ‘Imara, “al-Wahda al-wataniyya wa-hawiyyat al-umma” (The national unity and the identity of the nation), al-Sharq al-Awsat, 31 January 2003. 79. ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya, pp. 76–79; ‘Imara, “alWahda al-wataniyya wa-hawiyyat al-umma.” 80. Ibid. 81. Fahmi Huwaidi, “Qadruna an na‘ishu ma‘an” (Our desitny is to live together), al-Ahram, 1 December 1998. 82. Ibid. 83. Mashour expressed no confidence in Christian loyalty. He claimed that should Egypt become an Islamic state, Christians should not be allowed serve in the army, especially in a case of conflict with a Christian state, because they could change their allegiance and become enemy agents. See al-Ahram Weekly, 3–9 April 1997. 84. Since the beginning of the new millennium, al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya organizations have undergone a similar process of reconciliation with the regime. In the framework of this process, the spokesmen for the organizations have stated that their actions against the Copts are unrelated to religious persecution. Al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya has also stated that the Copts and Muslims have the same duties and enjoy the same rights as long as they do not cooperate with the Copt émigré community in attacking the country and harming national unity. See, for instance, Najih Ibrahim in al-Musawwar, 21 June 2002. On the other hand, see the arguments of Abu ‘Ala’a Madi, representative of the al-Wasat party, in “Nadwa sakhina hawla mubadarat al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya liwaqf al-‘unf” (A heated symposium on the Jama‘a al-Islamiyya’s initiative to stop violence), Sawasiyya 45–46 (2002): 13. Madi believes that al-Jama‘a’s reconciliation with the regime is more an act of deception than a reflection of reality. 85. al-Ahram Weekly, 11–17 March 2004. On the Brotherhood’s initiative, see al-Sharq al-Awsat, 4 March 2004. 86. Ruz al-Yusuf, 6 April 2006. 87. al-Sharq al-Awsat, 28 November 2005. 88. See the words of Mahdi ‘Akif, ‘Abdallah Khatib, and Muhammad ‘Izzat in al-Dustur, 15 February 2006. 89. Quoted in Khaleej Times Online, 22 August 2005, http://www.khaleej times.com. 90. Quoted in Islam Online, 30 October 2005. 91. Raymond W. Baker, Islam Without Fear: Egypt and the New Islamists (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003), pp. 192–196; Meir Hatina, “The Other Islam: The Egyptian Wasat Party,” Critique: Critical Middle Eastern Studies 14:2 (Summer 2005): 171–184; Joshua A. Stacher, “Post-Islamist Rumblings in Egypt: The Emergence of the Wasat Party,” Middle East Journal 56:3 (2002): 415–432. 92. D. S. ‘Abd al-Karim (ed.), Awraq hizb al-Wasat al-Misri (The papers of the al-Wasat Party) (Cairo: n.p., 1998). 93. For the party’s approach to citizenship, see Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam, pp. 139–140. On the influence of the perceptions of alQaradawi and Kamal Abu al-Majd, see Baker, Islam Without Fear, p. 193.

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94. Scott, The Challenge of Political Islam, p. 145. 95. Furman, “Minorities in Contemporary Islamist Discourse,” p. 18. 96. The idea of a civil state has been used by Egyptian secular intellectuals as a comprehensive way to oppose a religious state or a state run by the military. The term civil state is complex, given its use in varying and indeed contradictory ways that reflect the competing visions about Egypt’s future. For the different definitions of the term, see Hill, “‘The Civil’ and ‘the Secular’ in Contemporary Arab Politics.” 97. Hani Shukrallah, “Copts Are Not Cats,” al-Ahram Weekly, 28 June–4 July 2001. 98. “Hal naqulu wada‘an lil-wahda al-wataniyya?” (Shall we bid national unity farewell?), Sawasiyya 69 (April 2006): 3–4. 99. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 21–27 September 2000. 100. al-Ahali, 11 August 2004. 101. al-Ahali, 23 November 2005. 102. See the arguments of Nabil ‘Abd al-Fatah, after the clashes in Alexandria, in al-Ahram Weekly, 27 October–2 November 2005. 103. Salama Ahmad Salama in al-Ahram Weekly, 13–19 January 2000; and in al-Ahram Weekly, 27 October–2 November 2005. 104. Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, Collective Punishment in AlKosheh Village. 105. Arab Organization of Human Rights, Bulletin no. 22 (1998). 106. Sunday Telegraph, 25 October 1998; Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, press release (Cairo, 21 November 1998). 107. al-Wafd, 7 December 1999; al-Ahram Weekly, 9–15 December 1999. See also Langohr, “Frosty Reception for US Religious Freedom Commission in Egypt.” 108. al-Ahram Weekly, 13 January 2000. The EOHR’s report about the clashes in al-Kosheh in 2000 was not published, because of pressure from security officials in Egypt. See the arguments of William Wissa, a Coptic journalist living in Paris who published a study describing the al-Kosheh incidents, in Watani, 1 August 2004. 109. See, for example, Jama‘iyyat al-Musa‘ida al-Qanuniyya li-Huquq alInsan, al-Kosheh: Mihna Watan (Al-Kusheh: A plight of a nation), Cairo, 12 January 2000. 110. al-Sharq al-Awsat, 12 September 2005. 111. ‘Issam al-Din Muhammad Hassan, “Fitnat al-iskandria . . . laysat nihayat al-mataf” (Sectarian violence in Alexandria . . . not the end of the story), Sawasiyya 69 (April 2006): 1. 112. Egyptian Organization for Human Rights, Alexandria Misfortunes . . . Causes and Defiance Strategy (Cairo, 6 November 2005). 113. Jama‘iyyat al-Musa‘ida al-Qanuniyya li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Intikhabiyya al-barlamaniyya 2005 . . . qira’a fi al-sha’n al-qubti (The 2005 parliamentary elections . . . reading in the Coptic issue), Cairo, 13 December 2005. 114. Watani, 14 May 2006. 115. al-Watani al-Dawli, 11 March 2007. 116. Hossam Bahgat, “Guest Voice: Religious Freedom and the Riots in Alexandria,” Cairo Times, 27 October 2005. See also Egyptian Initiative for

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Personal Rights, “Interior Ministry Refuse to Recognize Citizens’ Religious Affiliations,” press release, Cairo, 8 August 2005. 117. The EIPR conducted a public legal campaign that forced the government to recognize the right of Egyptian Baha’is to abstain from naming themselves as an adherent of one of the three “heavenly” religions—Islam, Christianity, or Judaism—on their identification cards. Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights and Human Rights Watch, Prohibited Identities: State Interference with Religious Freedom 19:7(E) (November 2007). 118. ‘Issam al-Din Muhammad Hassan, “Fitnat al-iskandria . . . laysat nihayat al-mataf” (Sectarian violence in Alexandria . . . not the end of the story), Sawasiyya 69 (April 2006): 2. 119. Sa‘id, “Hal yastami‘u ahad?!” pp. 11–12. 120. On the conditions of the emergence of the concept of religious liberty in the Middle East in which Western Christian powers played a crucial role, see Saba Mahmood, “Religious Freedom, the Minority Question, and Geopolitics in the Middle East,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 54:2 (2012): 418–446. 121. See, for example, the words of Jalal Nasir in al-Ahram Weekly, 13–19 May 2004; ‘Imara, al-Aqalliyyat al-diniyya wa’l-qawmiyya, pp. 27–46; Marqus, Himaya wa’l-‘iqab, pp. 57–79. 122. This type of thinking that relates everything to a conspiracy is common in Egypt. Few express a different position. See, for instance, the position of ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Sa‘id, who rejects this type of thinking, in al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 18 December 1999. See also the position of Hassan Hafiz in al-Wafd, 26 February 2000. Hafiz criticizes the fact that Israel is blamed for all Arab misfortunes, including the al-Kosheh incidents, and analyzes this as being the rationality of the weak, who find something to blame in order to escape any real engagement with reality. On the relationship between the Zionist lobby and the US legislation concerning religious persecution, see al-Ahram, 11 November 1998; alAhram Weekly, 3–9 December 1998. See also Marqus, al-Himaya wa’l-‘iqab, pp. 89–106. 123. al-Ahram, 11 November 1998. See also a principled opposition to an external solution to the problems of the Copts in al-Samih, al-Aqbat wa’l raqm al sa‘b, pp. 70–80. 124. Marqus, al-Himaya wa’l-‘iqab, pp. 33–56; Labib, Azmat al-himaya aldiniyya, pp. 32–44. 125. Watani, 12 April 1998. 126. See the position of prominent figures in the Coptic community, such as Sa‘ad Fakhri ‘Abd al-Nur, George Ishaq, Jamal As‘ad, Milad Hanna, and Samir Marqus, in Labib, Azmat al-himaya al-diniyya, pp. 55–64. 127. Labib, Azmat al-himaya al-diniyya, pp. 45–46, 65–67; Akhir Sa‘a, 10 May 2006. It should be noted that Labib also spoke out against attempts to describe him as a Coptic researcher. He believes that this label, which he described as cultural discrimination, is meant to exclude people from participating in political discussions outside this frame of reference; see al-Musawwar, 22 June 2007. 128. al-Ahram Weekly, 30 July–5 August 1998; Middle East Times (Egypt edition), 9 August 1998.

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129. See Marqus, al-Himaya wa’l-‘iqab, pp. 190–191. 130. See, for example, al-Wafd, 26 March 1998; al-Sha‘b, 30 October 1998; Ahali, 28 October 1998. 131. Middle East Times, 24 May 1998. 132. Middle East Times, 5 April 1998. 133. See press release signed by the EOHR, the Group for Democratic Development, and the Human Rights Center for the Assistance of Prisoners, “Human Rights Activist Warn Against Exaggerated Concerns About Religious Persecutions in Egypt” (Cairo, 16 February 1999). 134. This committee visit was part of a tour that included Saudi Arabia, Israel, and the Palestinian Authority. Langohr, “Frosty Reception for US Religious Freedom Commission in Egypt.” 135. See, for example, al-Wafd, 18 March 2001; al-‘Arabi, 18 March 2001; Sawt al-Umma, 14 March 2001. See also reference to the Zionist lobby and its exploitation of the Coptic issue in al-Ahram, 3 April 2001. 136. Wafd party member Fakhri ‘Abd al-Nur asked the prime minister to provide information about the motives of the visit. This request was signed by various political figures, including members of the ruling party, who protested the visit and described it as scandalous involvement in the country’s internal affairs. See al-Ahram Weekly, 22–28 March 2001. 137. See, for example, the words of human rights activist Gasser ‘Abd Raziq, who declined an invitation to meet with the committee, because this might imply recognition of its mission, in al-Ahram Weekly, 22–28 March 2001. 138. See discussion of the attitude of human rights NGOs toward the committee chairman, Elliot Abrams, and Abrams’s statements regarding Israel and the intifada, in Langohr, “Frosty Reception for US Religious Freedom Commission in Egypt.” 139. Quoted in al-Ahram Weekly, 24–30 May 2001. 140. al-Sharq al-Awsat, 22 February 2001. 141. See the arguments of Coptic figures such as George Ishaq, Mounir Fakhri, and Jamal As‘ad in al-Ahram 20 March 2001. 142. al-Akhbar, 30 March 2001. 143. Ibid. See also al-Fajr, 5 June 2006. 144. Hassan, Christians Versus Muslims in Modern Egypt, pp. 265–266. 145. Saad Eddin Ibrahim, “Ethnic Conflict and State Building in the Arab World,” International Social Science Journal 50:156 (June 1998): 234. 146. Nicola Pratt, “Identity, Culture, and Democratization: The Case of Egypt,” New Political Science 27:1 (March 2005): 76–77. 147. See the arguments of Jordanian representatives before the UN Committee on Civil and Political Rights, UN Doc. CCPR/C/SR.1323, 12 July 1994, para. 26. 148. This claim is supported by reports of international human rights NGOs, which do not identify any systematic discrimination against the Christian minority in Jordan. See US Department of State, Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor, International Religious Freedom Report 2006: Jordan (Washington, DC, 15 September 2006). 149. Mohannad Haddad, “Christian Identity in the Jordanian Arab Culture: A Case Study of Two Communities in North Jordan,” Journal of Muslim Minority

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Affairs 20:1 (2000): 144, n. 28. However, Haddad states that no systematic studies have been conducted that support these data regarding the social and economic status of the Christian community, and that more detailed research is needed. 150. On the allocation of seats for minorities in the electoral law, see Fathi Schirin, “Jordanian Survival Strategy: The Election Law as a ‘Safety Valve,’” Middle Eastern Studies 41:6 (November 2005), p. 890. 151. Sa’ad Eddin Ibrahim, “The Uneven Condition of Arab Christians,” Daily Star, 21 December 2004. 152. On the uniqueness of this minority, see Asher Susser, “The Palestinians in Jordan: Demographic Majority, Political Minority,” in Ofra Bengio and Gabriel Ben-Dor (eds.), Minorities and the Arab World (Boulder: Lynne Rienner, 1999), pp. 91–109. 153. National Center for Human Rights, press release, 7 November 2009. 154. AOHR-Jordan, press conference, 14 November 2009.

6 Limits on Women’s Rights

WOMEN’S RIGHTS IN ARAB COUNTRIES DO NOT CONFORM TO

international standards. The UN’s 2002 Arab Human Development Report, the first in a series authored by Arab researchers, states that failure of development in the Arab world is a result of three deficiencies: lack of information, lack of political rights, and lack of women’s rights.1 An additional 2005 report dealing specifically with the status of women enlarged upon these arguments and stated that social, cultural, economic, political, and legal factors hinder women’s access to education, work, civil rights, and political representation. In the private sphere, traditional models of education, family, and the personal status laws perpetuate the inequality and subordination of women.2 These problems are not unique to the Arab-Muslim world. However, in the Arab-Muslim world there is resistance on the part of certain circles to closing these gaps. In this respect, the status and rights of women resemble and are linked to the status of minorities as discussed in the previous chapter. Women and minorities struggle with a common challenge: the use of religious and cultural frameworks to consolidate conservative positions vis-à-vis the demands to expand their rights. In conservative Islamic thought, women, like minorities, are defined as having different legal rights. However, contrary to minorities, which can join the ruling class by converting, the inferiority of women and the differences related to them in this system cannot be altered.3 All the same, it must be noted that resistance on the part of certain circles to closing the gaps between women and men has not prevented an open discussion of these issues. Organizations and national coalitions working for the advancement of women have managed to make gender

201

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equality and women’s empowerment, including women’s status in the public and private spheres, into legitimate issues of open discussion on the national agenda. The ascension of the issue of women’s rights to the heart of public debate is a product of Western influences and economic and social processes experienced by the Arab world. The processes of political liberalization, the increase in freedom of speech, and the expansion of civil society were expressed, among other things, in the increased presence of women’s rights NGOs and the increased pressure to expand women’s rights. The expansion of the debate concerning women’s rights is also a result of the interest and emphasis placed by Islamist forces on the status of women and their rights as a central issue in the struggle against what they understand to be Western culture taking over the Muslim world. Women’s status and behavior has become a major focus for identity politics, insistence on authenticity, and setting limits vis-à-vis the “Other,” the West. In this frame of thought, referring to the status of women according to Western criteria means harming the wholeness and decency of Muslim culture.4 Nevertheless, it must be emphasized that positioning women as bearers of authentic values is not unique to Islamist discourse and exists among national and leftist factions.5 The female gender, due to the cultural and symbolic power invested in women, has become a battleground, in which the struggle between Islam and secularity, between East and West, is reflected in the clearest manner.6 One of the prominent areas in which discrimination against women exists is in personal status laws or family laws that relegate women to an inferior status in marriage and the family. Personal status laws contradict not only international standards, but also domestic legislation. In many states, including Jordan and Egypt, while social institutions such as the army, the economy, politics, education, and the legal system have undergone a process of secularization and modernization, personal status laws—which regulate marriage and pertain to the family, gender relations, divorce, guardianship of children, and inheritance—remain the only area subject to religious rulings and based solely on the laws of sharia, a fact that has worked toward turning such laws into a symbol of identity, upon which any attack or any demand for change, is perceived as an attack on Islam and its culture.7 Jordanian and Egyptian personal status laws emphasize safeguarding the family unit above the rights of the individual. Among other things, these laws prioritize the role of woman’s fertility. These laws

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identify the man as solely responsible for providing for the family, and affirm his role as head of the family. These laws thus grant him control over the right of the woman to work and drive, and require the woman to obey him. The man is also legal guardian of the children, while the woman is granted custody only so long as the child has not reached the age of discernment. In addition, these laws grant the right of polygamy solely to men, as well as the right to a unilateral divorce without cause, while women who desire divorce must prove harm caused by continuing the marriage.8 Due to the discriminatory character of personal status laws in all Arab countries, including Jordan and Egypt, women’s rights activists have placed these laws at the forefront of their struggles, based on their understanding that the relationship of subservience that exists in the family affects the rights of women in other fields of life, including politics and the economy. These activists have been successful, and in several countries, including Algeria, Morocco, and Egypt, the government has reformed these discriminatory laws.9 In the Egyptian case the reforms were made despite significant opposition in the public and political arenas. However, similar efforts in Jordan have failed. This chapter examines campaigns to amend these personal status laws in Egypt and Jordan, and examines the factors that led to the relative success in Egypt as opposed to failure in Jordan. Despite the similar ways in which the campaigns were conducted, including themes raised and a focus on Islamic law and local culture, it was the unique political structures and the various constellations that shape the power relations in each country that determined the success or failure of legal reform.

Reform of the Personal Status Laws in Egypt Codification of the personal status laws in Egypt began at the start of the twentieth century, through settling the organization of the sharia courts. In 1920 and 1929, two royal decrees proclaimed these laws, which included changes allowing women to sue for divorce under certain circumstances, such as desertion by the husband, abuse, neglect of the woman’s economic needs, or the husband’s health. Since that time, personal status laws have gone unchanged.10 Under Gamal Abdul Nasser the state monopolized women’s issues and incorporated the demands and the gender agenda of middle-class women as part of its socially progressive agenda. Despite the state’s feminism and commitment to social egalitarianism, it did not challenge

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the personal and familial views of women’s dependency on men. The conservative personal status laws of the 1920s and the 1930s were preserved and were left in the hands of the religious establishment.11 Under Sadat’s policy of infitah,12 the state lacked any comprehensive program regarding women’s rights. Nevertheless, the state initiated reforms in personal status laws, intended to distinguish the regime from conservative Islamist groups, mobilize international support, and encourage the growth of new local support bases. In 1979 a presidential decree was issued—Law 44, otherwise known as Jihan’s Law—restricting the husband’s right to unilateral divorce and leaving decisions regarding guardianship of the children to court approval. Law 44 also gave women the right to divorce, without the need to prove harm, if the husband married a second wife.13 Nevertheless, this amended law met with resistance among conservative and religious circles, and in 1985 it was decreed as contradicting the constitution, since it was presented as part of the emergency laws and was not approved by parliament. The confrontation with Islamists over the implementation of sharia pressured the Mubarak regime to legislate and implement more conservative personal status laws. Law 100 of 1985 mandated that women did not have an automatic right to divorce, even when the husband married another wife; now the first wife had to legally prove material or physical harm caused by continuation of the marriage.14 Since then, women’s rights activists, female lawyers, government officials, civic leaders, legislators, and academics have worked to achieve a new marriage contract that would blunt the discrimination in the existing law. Following a decade of discussions, the Egyptian parliament passed Law 1 of 2000, reorganizing the terms and procedures of litigation in matters regarding personal status. This law spared women the need to prove harm as a result of continuing the marriage, by reviving an old Islamic legal custom—the khul‘—which fixed the right of women to sue for divorce without requiring proof of damage and even without the approval of the husband.15 This law asserted that all conflicts regarding divorce would be referred to the system of family courts, which would facilitate divorce procedures. The law also created a family insurance plan, intended to provide financial support to children of poor families, and it authorized the government to seize the salary of husbands who refused to pay alimony. Amendments to the law also provided looser criteria to facilitate divorce in unofficial marriages (‘urfi)16 and set procedures for proving fatherhood of the children in such cases. The original legislation

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included items referring to the right of women to leave the country without her husband’s approval, but due to parliamentary opposition and the government’s desire to appease its conservative and Islamist opponents, this item was subsequently removed.17 Needless to say, this legislation did not solve essential problems concerning inequality in divorce. Although the new law did spare women the need to justify divorce and did not condition it upon the husband’s approval, it still did not fundamentally change the unequal divorce procedure. The man still has an unconditional, unilateral right of divorce, and he is not required to go to court to end his marriage. The woman, on the other hand, must go to court to divorce her spouse. In addition, the woman must relinquish her economic rights in exchange for the right to divorce granted to her. Furthermore, when a woman initiates divorce, even if she is a victim of violence, she must get approval for mediation and conciliation procedures. By contrast, when a man initiates divorce, the state does not require such procedures.18 There also remains the issue of social stigma, according to which those women who resort to khul‘ divorce are seen as immoral, thus deterring many women from using this custom.19 Notably, these legislative reforms were limited to Muslims and did not solve the problems of Christian women. State-recognized religious communities are granted judicial autonomy over family affairs. Coptic Christians have their own family law, distinct from Muslim personal status laws as well as from the laws regarding other Christian denominations in Egypt. The Coptic Orthodox Church currently forbids dissolution of Christian marriage except in extreme cases of adultery or when one of the partners has converted to another religion. Coptic women and men sometimes convert to Islam so they can divorce and remarry.20 The Government Initiates Legislation to Expand Women’s Rights Despite fierce domestic opposition, the Egyptian government pushed to change the personal status laws. In this respect, it applied great pressure and made an enormous effort to prevent amendments from being rejected by parliament. Amending the law was part of the government’s declared policy, which saw improvement in the status of women in all areas as a major pillar in national economic, social, and political development, as well as an expression of its commitment to modernity.21 However, Egypt’s declared policy cannot sufficiently explain the degree of pressure applied by the Egyptian government to get these amendments approved

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in the face of fierce domestic opposition, part of which originated from representatives of the ruling party itself, the NDP. In this respect, the pressure applied in the international arena had a decisive role.22 In principle, the existence of the discriminatory personal status laws had always been a source of embarrassment for Egypt in the international arena. But international criticism and pressure increased after ratification of Law of Civil Organizations 153 of 1999, which increased government supervision of voluntary organizations and, in effect, prevented them from engaging in any independent activities.23 In addition, the violent clashes between Copts and Muslims in the village of alKosheh in 1998 and 2000 provoked a renewed discussion of Egypt’s policy, and international observers found the Egyptian government guilty of ignoring the problems of the Coptic minority and of institutionalizing the violation of human rights on a religious basis.24 The Egyptian government had a motive for legislating a progressive law on women’s status, as a way to relieve the international pressure on Egypt for its increasing control on civil society and as proof of Egypt’s commitment to the promotion of human rights. Nevertheless, contradictions continued to characterize state policies. The Egyptian government was cautious in seeking to amend the personal status laws, since it did not wish to attract the objections of religious and conservative circles or from the conservative middle class in general. Therefore the government, and all the forces supporting the personal status laws, insisted that all amendments be instituted in the context of the local culture and religion. This meant that the government did not see the need to expand women’s rights according to international or Western standards. This was not a new position, and it had been expressed in Egypt’s position vis-à-vis international treaties concerning women’s rights. When Egypt ratified the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) in 1981, it added reservations, particularly focused on the item regarding gender equality. Egypt stated that adherence to this item was conditioned upon it not contradicting sharia. Egypt also expressed reservations about the item concerning gender equality in the family during marriage and divorce.25 Amendments to the personal status laws proceeded under these restrictions. As Egypt’s UN representatives noted, the Egyptian government, by working through the National Women’s Council and with the Egyptian intelligentsia, wished to utilize local customs and perceptions, rooted in Islamic and Egyptian culture, that affirm the equality between men and women.26 Hamdi Zaqzuq, minister of religious endowments,

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emphasized that since the Egyptian constitution specifies sharia as the primary basis for legislation, the solution to discrimination against women must be Islamic.27 From his point of view, the utilization of Islamic solutions does not contradict international standards of human rights and does not harm women’s status, since it was Islam itself that rehabilitated the status of women. Islam granted women legal rights and advanced equality between men and women. According to Zaqzuq, contemporary discrimination against women is rooted in confusion between religion and old traditions regarding women, and their inferior situation is a result of ignorance, not the result of Islamic law.28 However, despite identifying Islamic law as a reference point, the government presented itself as promoting the expansion of women’s rights based on an enlightened interpretation of the law, and in this way positioned itself vis-à-vis conservative and radical commentators. The government saw in specific amendments to the law examples of enlightened interpretation of sharia meant to grant legitimacy to more equitable arrangements in divorce procedures. For the government, this was proof that the social structure could undergo a process of reform and modernization without repudiating religious tradition.29 The government did not forgo receiving the clear support and approval of the religious institutions for the amendments. The regime emphasized the fact that before being presented in parliament, the amendments had been submitted to the authorized religious institutions for approval, meaning the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy.30 Although opinions were divided in the academy regarding this law, it did back the amendments. The shaikh of al-Azhar, Muhammad Sa‘id Tantawi, appeared before parliament and announced his full support of the amendments.31 The government was at the forefront of the effort to change the personal status laws, since this served its progressive image externally. But these reforms also provided another instrument in the power struggle with the Islamist opposition, establishing the government’s status as a moderate and sane alternative. In addition, the nationalization of the issue of women’s rights and the creation of an alliance with many women’s organization turned these groups into the government’s allies against its Islamist opposition and allowed it to maneuver the debate according to its own interests. The government had little interest in a radical change in the personal status laws, since it was not interested in estranging conservative sectors that could potentially back the regime, and it did not wish to endanger its image as preserver of values and as shaper of the compo-

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nents of a unique identity. Therefore the government’s interpretation was selective, meant to serve the state feminism. As we have seen, the government promoted several amendments regarding procedure, not essence. Reforms did not address the essential inequality embedded in divorce procedures, but rather changed the procedures for filing a divorce to expand the possibilities available to women, without harming the rights of men. The unequal system of divorce remained in place. The entire issue of personal status laws is not related solely to the government’s discriminatory policy, but is also tightly bound with other forces that contribute to the preservation of a sharia-based system, some of them possessing greater importance and influence than the state itself, and whose voices carry significant influence in the public arena. Women and the Public Sphere The government’s intention to change the personal status laws aroused widespread discussions in the Egyptian political arena. Opposition to the laws was not restricted to one sector or party; there were opponents in conservative circles, but also in supposedly liberal circles. The feisty discussions conducted in the media revolved primarily around three subjects that were raised in the proposed amendments to the laws. The right to divorce through the khul‘, the right of women to exit the country without their husband’s approval, and the recognition of unofficial marriages (‘urfi). Proponents of the amendments perceived them as a change that would create balance between the two parties to the marriage, and realize a modicum of justice for women. They also claimed that the amendments were inevitable due to changes in life circumstances and especially the possibilities of education open to women and their integration into the work force.32 Similar to the government, the supporters of the amendments took care to anchor their arguments in correspondence with Islamic conceptions and values. Thus, for example, the leftist alTajammu‘ party expressed its support of the amendments due to positive implications such as easing the pressure on the courts and eliminating the possibility of a unilateral divorce. Like other political actors, al-Tajammu‘ representatives took care to emphasize that their support was rooted in the amendments’ compatibility with sharia and due to the fact that all the items included in the amendments had been presented to the authorized religious authorities.33 More tempered support was expressed by members of the Nasserite party. Party member Amal Mahmoud, responsible for women’s affairs,

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argued that in principle the Nasserites supported the change in the personal status laws, which had not been changed for over seventy years. However, she expressed reservations about the character of the amendments, mainly because they made do with changing procedures and did not deal with the content of the personal status laws. As a result, the amendments would not lead to a significant change in the problems facing Egyptian women. The khul‘ solution, which was not perceived by woman as an innovation, would place at women’s disposal another solution, namely divorce. However, in khul‘ the woman is the one who pays the price, as she leaves the marriage deprived of all her legal rights. Nevertheless, despite these reservations, Mahmoud stressed that she saw the amendments as a first step toward alleviating the problems of Egyptian women.34 Proponents of the amendments were a minority, as the legislation aroused widespread opposition, focusing on two arguments: the contradiction between the legislation and Islamic sharia, and the harm it would cause to the institution of the Egyptian family. At the forefront of the opposition stood the Islamist forces, which decried the utilization of quranic verses for the purpose of legislation without referring to the meaning and original intention of the verses.35 Resistance did not originate solely from Islamist opposition. In the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy there were many debates before approving the amendments, and the legislation was returned several times to the Ministry of Justice for corrections. Despite final approval of the amendments, several members of the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy opposed the legislation’s final version. One of the prominent reasons was their demand that the khul‘ be conditioned upon the agreement of both parties to the marriage. In their view, divorce without the agreement of the husband was a grave and dangerous ruling. As far as they were concerned, the understanding of the institution of khul‘ had limits and restrictions, according to which the wife cannot divorce the husband just because she wants to; rather, the authority of the qadi (Muslim judge) must be expanded to evaluate the reasons for the woman’s request.36 In addition, members of the academy opposed the restricted period that the legislation allocated for reconciliation attempts as well as the view that the judge’s ruling was final and irrevocable. They also expressed their fear that khul‘ would be open to abuse by both the husband and the wife, and they demanded the creation of a legal entity and apparatus that would be responsible for implementing khul‘ in a way that would secure the interests of both parties to the marriage.37

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Despite these reservations, al-Azhar approved the proposed law in the form that was submitted to parliament for final ratification. However, there were other forces in al-Azhar that opposed the amended law utterly and completely and even took the opportunity to renew their attack on the shaikh of al-Azhar. These forces, especially the al-Azhar ulama, issued a statement in several opposition newspapers in Egypt in which they expressed their opinion that the proposed law contradicted sharia and harmed the stability of society. They therefore called for the president to reject the implementation of the proposed law and to insert amendments that would make it compliant with sharia.38 Most of the arguments in this public statement did not touch upon the existence of a contradiction between the proposed law and sharia at all, but rather connected this law to colonial interests and the previous tendency of these forces to use secular legislation as an instrument to change Muslim society and to harm its identity and power. They argued that even the colonial powers refrained from changing the laws of sharia regarding family life, since they were aware of the sensitivity of this area. These arguments hinted that Mubarak’s regime was doing deeds that even Islam’s greatest enemies did not dare to do, thereby endangering the very foundations of the nation. This type of argument was also expressed in the fierce attack directed against the proposed legislation by the al-‘Amal party, which is identified with Islamists. Through the party’s journal, al-Sha‘b, it emphasized the negative implications of this legislation upon the institution of the family.39 Despite the enormous efforts made by the formulators of the proposed legislation and the forces that pushed to disconnect the legislation from imported ideas and to tie it completely to the precepts of sharia, the law’s opponents emphasized the direct link between the proposed legislation and Western influences and pressures on the formulators of this legislation. In this context, they stressed the existing contradictions between the Western conception, which sees the individual as the foundation of society, and the Islamic approach, which stresses the importance of the family. In their view, the Western understanding turned the family into a group of individuals, gathered together randomly and out of selfish interests, lacking a strong and stable commitment, and without a leader—a structure that in effect had brought about the decline of the institution of the family in Western society.40 The opponents of the proposed legislation also emphasized the differences between the Western model and the Islamic model regarding equality between men and women. In their view, total equality between

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men and women according to the Western model had led to the deprivation of both women and men and, finally, to the destruction of the family. According to the Islamic understanding, the issue is not equality and similarity of the sexes but rather equality in commandments and responsibility toward God, equality in rights and duties, except for a difference in the character of the two sexes that leads to differences in the division of labor and in roles within the broader familial and social framework.41 In this respect, the opponents of the proposed legislation attributed the utmost importance to the man’s role as guardian. In their view, family life was social life, requiring a leader. The right to lead was granted to men, by God, due to their logical character, as opposed to the emotional character of women.42 According to the opponents of the amendments, the personal status laws, which aspired to create equality between men and women in the divorce process (through institutionalization of the khul‘) and by approving the right of women to travel without their husband’s permission, were adoptions of Western norms and patterns of behavior, which, in effect, would annul the man’s guardianship and bring about the destruction of the bonds of family.43 According to the opponents, although there was indeed a place for ijtihad regarding various interpretations as to the equality of men and women, still, such ijtihad was limited and did not apply to the issues of guardianship and divorce and marriage, since on these issues there existed clear texts that did not require any new interpretations.44 Those opposed to the legislation saw in it another link in a chain of struggles against globalization and the American-Zionist power mechanism that aimed to place restrictions and conditions upon the very infrastructure of their social lives, to infiltrate their lives, and solidify their dependence upon the West.45 In this context the opponents of the proposed legislation openly referred to international conferences, such as the Cairo Conference on Population and Development (1994) and the Beijing Conference on Women (1995), and to international treaties, all of which, according to their view, promoted the conception of equality between men and women as the height of progress and were used by the West to force its conceptions upon the rest of the world and to distance Muslims from their religion and values.46 They also emphasized that these treaties, which in their opinion did not obligate any action of the part of Muslims or believers of any other religion, were not the only or even the fundamental weapon in the arsenal of the American-Zionist power mechanism, but rather were merely an instrument through which it diffused its conceptions. The actual execution took place through

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direct pressure, originating from Washington, DC, as the center of world power, through the well-known method of funding nongovernmental systems and dispersing economic resources for the purpose of raising the issue of equality between men and women in a manner that served their larger plan.47 As in other cases, discussed in previous chapters, in which entities or people that expressed opinions or conceptions deviating from the status quo and contradicting the local culture and religion, in this case too the women’s organizations were accused of being motivated by foreign interests and of being used by the West to realize its interests. One must stress that these arguments were not unique to the Islamist-oriented elements, such as the al-‘Amal party. Rather they were shared by political forces not identified as Islamist, such as nationalist and liberal circles. According to Egyptian author Sherif Hatata, this is evidence of the extent of penetration of Salafist thought and culture in Egyptian society.48 Within the ruling NDP, which participated in the formulation of the amendments to the personal status laws, complete support for the new legislation did not exist, and there were also representatives who spoke out against the amendments, arguing that the proposed legislation contradicted sharia.49 In their view, even though they acknowledged the existence of the principle of khul‘ in the Quran, there was room to question why in fourteen centuries the Muslim community had not seen fit to use or implement this custom.50 However, the objections were not limited to religious arguments, and some referred to the amendments as serving specific populations, hinting that the proposed legislation was aimed at women with economic means and ignored the rights of children, who are the primary sufferers in cases of the disintegration of the institution of the family.51 The Wafd party, representing liberal forces, also expressed its opposition to the changes on similar grounds. Fu’ad Saraj al-Din, the Wafd representative in parliament, came out against the government’s attempts to dismiss criticism of the proposed legislation just because it had gained the absolute support of the shaikh of al-Azhar. He stated that the party supported any plan that would lead to the regulation of relations between couples. However, the party opposed the legislation since the right of khul‘ would be institutionalized in a manner that differed from its implementation in the Quran. This criticism from the Wafd party focused, as did the arguments raised by Islamist-oriented elements, on the argument that the proposed legislation would violate the agreement of the husband as a primary condition of granting the woman khul‘. The party also opposed the legislation since it would expand only

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the right of wealthy women to divorce, since they could afford to relinquish their economic rights, while depriving poor women of the same option.52 The opposition of these forces and their use of religious arguments must be seen against the background of their opposition to any damage to the man’s guardianship, resulting in damage to his status within the family and in society in general. In this respect, one must not underrate the importance of the looming elections and the fear among the parties’ representatives over the repercussions of openly supporting the proposed legislation, which was perceived by the male voters as harming their rights and status.53 However, these forces were not the only ones to use religious arguments to promote their positions. The forces supporting the law and those at the forefront of the struggle for changing the personal status laws—the women’s organizations—also used the same language. Women’s Rights Activists and the Personal Status Laws Women’s rights activists must not be seen as passive recipients of their oppression or objects of state reform and manipulation. The changing policy of Egypt toward women’s issues coincided with pressure that women’s rights activists and organizations exerted on the state. The reemergence of organized women’s rights activism in the 1980s has been linked to the continuing battle over the personal status laws. The failure of the state to protect the reform of these laws in 1979 and amendments in 1985, due to a strong opposition from Islamists, signaled the demise of state feminism as an acceptable political strategy in regard to women’s rights.54 The formation of the emergency coalition called the Committee of the Rights of Women and the Family during the 1985 national discussions of the personal status laws emphasized the differences within the women’s movement, but also represented a challenge to the old premises regarding women’s rights, which focused on women’s rights in the public sphere as part of creating a new society.55 The 1980s and 1990s saw a change in the nature of women’s organizations. Similar to general human rights NGOs, the attempts to establish autonomous women’s formal and informal groups were related to the general crisis of the political left and the collapse of national and socialist ideologies. Many women activists not only brought with them leftist ideas, but also represented widespread disillusionment with hierarchical, male-dominated political structures.56

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Women’s activism has evolved to encompass a variety of activities and institutional frameworks that differ with respect to their ideological background and orientation, aims, priorities, and national and international affiliations. As part of civil society, many new autonomous groups have been affected by the state’s severe restrictions on this sector. The space for independent women’s rights activism has been further eroded by government efforts to monopolize the women rights agenda through Egypt’s National Council for Women (NCW). In this context, different groups working within secular and religious frameworks have adopted different strategies toward the state and have different relations with it.57 The search for a legislative reform has brought together a group of secular-oriented women activists,58 prominent lawyers, as well as members of parliament who are affiliated with the ruling party, to form a coalition with the regime in order to promote a new marriage contract. As Diane Singerman argues, this strategy stems from their understanding that it is not enough to struggle within civil society; rather, help from the powerful is needed, including the president, the executive branch, and parliament, and even more so the religious authorities.59 Furthermore, like the regime, they made a strategic choice not to position themselves against Islamic conceptions and to conduct the campaign for change solely within the framework of the local religion and values, meaning its compliance with sharia, instead of using arguments focused on, for example, adjusting the changes to the personal status laws to international legislation or standards.60 Only a few women’s activists opposed this strategy and refused to stress women’s rights within the framework of Islam.61 This was a strategic decision, since the activists did not forgo referring to the international authority of human rights in principle, but rather only in the context of issues related to conceptions of religious law. Organizations at the forefront of the struggle for changing the personal status laws still referred to international authority in other contexts.62 Similarly, in the midst of the struggle to change the Law of Citizenship of 1975, which deprived women of the right to transfer their citizenship when they married foreigners, attorney and NCW member Mona Zulficar demanded that Egypt remove its reservations from the CEDAW ratification that contradicted the principle of equality and upon which the international treaty was based, specifically its reservations concerning the equality of men and women in all matters relating to marriage and family relations during the marriage and upon its dissolution, since it did not contradict Islamic law.63 Reliance on international

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sources was also expressed in the case of the struggle against family honor crimes. The activists in women’s rights organizations demanded changing the Egyptian law in accordance with CEDAW.64 An examination of the struggle for changing the personal status laws in Egypt, which focused almost entirely on the relevance of the laws to local religion and culture, shows that it was not without its limitations. This strategy did not necessarily guarantee the expansion of women’s rights and entailed many limitations, related both to reliance on religious arguments and to reliance on the powerful. Zulficar, one of the prominent figures in the struggle for changing Egypt’s personal status laws, emphasized that Islam is egalitarian in its attitude toward men and women. In her opinion, on the issue of family, sharia had adopted an approach stressing fairness and justice, intended to provide protection for women, but without influencing their rights under the principle of equality before the law. Egypt’s reservations regarding the equality of men and women in all matters relating to marriage and family relations during the marriage and upon its dissolution, as expressed in CEDAW, were not justifiable from the point of view of sharia, but instead reflected a dominant patriarchal culture that inappropriately sought to find justification in incorrect interpretations of sharia.65 Zulficar emphasized that the legislators, in their work to amend the personal status laws, were committed to the principles of sharia, and that one of the primary goals of the personal status laws was to fill in the gap between sharia and human-made law.66 Attorney Tahani al-Jabali, who participated in the committee that discussed the personal status laws at the National Center for Social Researches and who was appointed in 2004 to be the first female judge on the Supreme Constitutional Court, also expressed her support of the personal status laws in markedly religious arguments, such as when she referred to quranic sources that support these laws.67 Similarly, reports issued by women’s rights organizations that dealt with the personal status laws focused on the sharia aspects of these laws and not on their basic compatibility with international standards of human rights. Thus, for instance, a report published by the Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights dedicated its discussion to the sharia aspects, and among other things stated that the legislators in the 1920s had ignored Islam’s fundamental attitude toward women, which sees them as human beings, equal in both rights and duties to men.68 Political activists also expressed support of women activists’ strategic choice not to position themselves against Islamic conceptions. For

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instance, Amal Mahmoud, responsible for women’s affairs in the Nasserite party, emphasized that in issues of personal status, sharia must be referred to in order to achieve agreement on the changes. She even made a distinction between texts that cannot undergo ijtihad, since they are definite and constant from an exegetical point of view, and texts that are not definite and must be discussed. However, it is important to stress that as far as she was concerned, the use of sharia was only a step on the road to the final destination of turning the personal status laws into a human-made civil law.69 Such arguments strengthened the claim that religion was being used as a strategy and instrument to expand the rights of women. In this manner, women implemented Abdullahi an-Na‘im’s mediating approach, which supports the reinterpretation of rights in the specific context of the Arab and Islamic world, including the reconstruction of rights based on the fundamental sources of Islam. An-Na‘im believes that the secular approach to human rights has failed inasmuch as it requires Muslims to modify their religion to fit non-Islamic, humanmade criteria. Therefore an-Na‘im supports an intercultural dialogue accompanied by an internal cultural dialogue, as a first step toward the emergence of a true universal doctrine that integrates Western concepts of human rights with the experience and values of non-Western societies. Such a task requires a reinterpretation within the specific cultural context of the Arab-Islamic world.70 This strategy of conducting the struggle for rights within the framework of religion was not an exception in the annals of the women’s rights organizations in Egypt. As Azza Karam said, no real challenge was ever posed to the legitimacy of Islam, even when Nawal al-Sa‘adawi criticized the oppression of women in the name of all religion. According to Karam, the influence of the secular narrative has remained limited.71 However, this strategy was innovative, since similar to the liberals and human rights activists who demanded the right to participate in the discourse of religious renewal, the women also began demanding for themselves the right to conduct a new, interpretive reading of the religious texts in the light of contemporary reality. Women activists aspired to establish themselves as active and legitimate participants in the religious and exegetical discourse, a right that traditionally was and remained a monopoly of religious leaders and government spokesmen, who sometimes used patriarchal and ahistorical interpretations of Islam in order to defend and anchor their positions toward women.72 The choice made by the women’s coalition not to raise universalist arguments and to rely on religious ones created opposition among

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activists who believed that such an approach dilutes and diminishes the value of feminist liberal ideals, which are anchored in universalist conceptions. For these reasons, women’s rights activist ‘Aida Saif alDawla, a psychiatrist and human rights activist, objected to any involvement in the Islamist discourse, viewing it as dangerous. In her view, it is only possible to deal with the attack on women on the basis of the feminist discourse, which is anchored in the framework of human rights. Even though she did not reject the changes achieved in the personal status laws, mainly because she saw in them a step toward undermining the patriarchal foundations of the system, she still believed that complete equality would be achieved only within a framework of civilian marriage.73 Other activists, such as Farida al-Naqqash, head of the Forum for Women in Development and a writer, and journalist, noted that changes to the personal status laws are limited to the procedures of the juridical process, meaning that they constitute a partial reform that does not touch upon the meaning of inequitable relations within the family and does not address the demands and problems of women in the present. ‘Abir Sa‘id, member of the Women’s Union in the Tajammu‘ party, who expressed a similar stance, even made clear reference to the lack of compatibility between the items in the law and the constitution and international treaties and agreements that Egypt had signed74 —a rare public position that to a great extent was not evident during the discussions of the law. In addition, criticism also addressed the coalition’s arguments that the law constituted ijtihad, meaning a reinterpretation of the sources. Women rights’ activists were disappointed in the lack of innovation inherent in the law. Al-Naqqash argued that it was based on existing religious conceptions and that in order to accomplish the goals of women, a deeper ijtihad was necessary, one that would promote modern readings of the religious texts until the gap between sharia and reality was no more.75 However, al-Naqqash herself doubted the possibility of the establishment of such an ijtihad, due to a political and religious atmosphere that extinguished any possibility of an open discussion about religious issues.76 Criticism was not limited to secular-oriented activists. Islamist women activists did not see any advantages gained by the law; on the contrary, in their view it harmed the status of women. Some of them expressed a conservative attitude, identical to the one expressed by their male counterparts—namely, they based their opposition on the contradiction between the amended law and sharia.77 They argued that it was

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Islam that granted men and women their rights and obligations according to their different roles in society and their different biological capabilities. They did not see any point in the demand for equality between men and women, and they objected to the Western conceptions of eliminating the superiority of men over women, since in their view such conceptions stood contrary to nature and religion.78 However, the opposition of Islamist women activists did not remain within this conservative position. Islamist activists, similar to the coalition that fought for changing the personal status laws, aspiring to challenge the male interpretation of Islam, expanded the set of arguments. Thus, for instance, prominent Islamist activist Hiba Ra’uf Ezzat, close in her positions to the moderate Muslim Brotherhood, positioned herself contrary to the strategies chosen by the coalition. First, she found fault in their basic attitude toward religious law and their desire to reinterpret it. In Ra’uf’s view, the quranic text is most clear, although in the text itself there is some room for maneuvering. However, it cannot be exploited, as in her opinion they did, but must be used fairly.79 Furthermore, Ra’uf objected to the tendency of the human rights activists to use legal activism in order to deal with their problems as women. She spoke out against overlegislating sharia, even from an Islamist point of view. In her opinion, overlegislation emphasizes the role of the state, pulling it into the personal sphere and granting it more power than necessary over the citizenry. In her view, the emphasis should be placed on society as a whole and on changing the existing ways of thought regarding the social fabric. Similar to the traditional forces, she also raised the argument that such legislation harms the family, but her arguments were not focused on legislative influence on the status of men but on the meaning of the family for women. Ra’uf stressed the importance of the family unit in its traditional form as an institution that strengthened the status of women in society and as a means to liberate women, not restrict them. Attempts of the women’s rights NGOs to change this institution, or what Ra’uf termed “the feminization of the family,” are conducted with disregard for the role of the family, weakening it as a protective force for women, both socially and politically, against the more significantly oppressive power, as Ra’uf sees it, of the state.80 The Implications of Strategic Choices Despite opposition among women’s rights activists, opposing voices were not heard during the campaign conducted for changing the personal status laws. In addition, women’s success in leading the amend-

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ment of the personal status laws deepened and broadened their use of religion as well as their attempt to position themselves as active and legitimate participants in the religious and exegetical discourse. Other demands made during the public and political debate were related to the possibility of integrating women into senior political positions, including in the legal system. These demands were partially answered when attorney al-Jabali was appointed in 2004 to be a judge on the Supreme Constitutional Court. The appointment of a woman to the role of a judge is a controversial issue. Religious adjudicators believe that judgment is linked to higher authority, in which women are barred from participating. Al-Jabali’s appointment initiated an argument within the religious circles themselves.81 In similar fashion, women such as Nawal al-Sa‘adawi, who presented her candidacy for presidency in the 2005 elections, demanded that the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy issue a religious ruling allowing women to assume senior political positions such as community leader and president of the country. Such demands did not garner the cooperation of the establishment. Even though circles within the religious establishment did not see anything wrong with women assuming senior political positions, they were in no rush to cooperate with such demands, and some saw in them an attempt by women to develop a nationwide discussion regarding unimportant issues.82 Such demands were not limited to the political arena. Demands were also raised to appoint a woman to the role of a mufti to whom women interested in religious issues could turn for advice.83 Women’s rights activists even expanded the debate and began to place on the agenda issues such as violence against women, especially against the background of family honor, an issue that remained on the margins of the discussion of the various political factions.84 However, similar to the limitations inherent in the use of international norms, the strategic choice to rely solely on religious arguments also suffers from limitations that affect the achievements of the women’s rights movement. As mentioned earlier, adhering to internationally recognized norms has its drawbacks, since it hinders and delays the spread of the ideas of human rights in Arab-Muslim society and necessarily restricts the extent of demands from society to implement them. In many cases, adherence to internationally recognized norms causes estrangement and creates hostility among many segments of the population, leaving the field of human rights in the hands of the Islamists and the regimes as the sole interpreter of local culture. In similar fashion, the reverse strategy, of focusing on local religion and values while

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ignoring and marginalizing international standards of human rights, is not devoid of religious and political limitations. First, it is important to note once again that the use of religious interpretations by women in and of itself did not spare them the accusation, made by political and religious elements, that they were antireligious and cooperating with Western imperialism. Similar to their colleagues from the human rights movement, their demand for innovative interpretation was perceived as another way to ruin the values on which society is founded. In addition, a human rights struggle relying only on religious arguments restricts itself to limits that women will be unlikely to overcome. This framework, which is committed entirely to the Quran and the Hadith, limits the ability of women to change the problematic norms regarding their place within Islam, since it relies on the seeming inability of religious scholars to support innovative interpretations of Islam. The space available for discussing alternative interpretations beyond the traditional perspectives is even more limited regarding the destruction of the monopoly on religious interpretation enjoyed by religious circles. And indeed the opponents of the amendments to the personal status laws, whether from the religious establishment or the from the ranks of the Islamists, defined these limits tightly, including the inapplicability of the amendments to the issue of man’s custody over woman (qiyama), which opponents saw as a completely religious obligation, not subject to interpretation. The use of theological tools by women’s rights activists saw more success applied to limited change, such as the legislative proposal raised by women’s rights activists to abrogate men’s right of unilateral divorce without the approval of a court of law. In accordance with their strategy of focusing on innovative interpretation of religion, these activists based their demands on the opposition of some of the religious scholars to the issue of polygamy.85 However, religious figures, foremost among them the shaikh of al-Azhar, fiercely attacked these suggestions as clearly contradicting the imperatives of sharia.86 This proves that the success of secular-oriented women in expanding their rights depends upon the strengthening of the reformist school of thought. The strengthening of this school of thought is complex, since it is related to a range of factors outside the control of women, among them the manner in which the education system, the media, and the religious and political establishments deal with issues of culture and tradition.87 The second and more essential limitation from which this strategy suffers is the role of the state in promoting women’s rights.

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Since the influence of the liberal Muslim thinkers is limited, women remain dependent on state feminism for the purpose of expanding their freedoms, and indeed the strategy implemented by the women’s rights organizations included forging and relying upon a coalition with the state and the holders of power. Seemingly this is an appropriate choice, since it acknowledges that legislative changes cannot be achieved without the support of the regime for personal spaces, for the purpose of expanding legal protection of women, and indeed the Egyptian case proves this. Opposition to the proposed legislation in the public and political sphere was widespread and, if not for the government’s determination, its chances of passing in parliament were slim. The same conclusion holds for changes in personal status laws in other Arab or Muslim countries. The abrogation of polygamy in Tunisia and Turkey, for example, and even the changes in personal status laws in Morocco most likely would not have come to pass without the state’s intervention.88 Nevertheless, women’s dependency on state feminism restricts the demands raised within its confines. First, it exposes the struggle to expand women’s rights to co-optation by the government, which can shape that struggle according to its interests. And indeed the Egyptian case proves that the government’s efforts were selective, dealt mainly with procedures, and did not in any way openly object to the lack of equality that is the foundation of the marital relationship, or to the conception of custody. The government’s main interest was to purchase loyalty or quiescence on the part of conservative forces, whether religious or not. In this case, the regime profited from making concession to women, but did not risk much in doing so. The government, which was struggling against the Islamic forces, was willing to concede the issue of personal status and in effect used women as a bargaining chip in order to appease its opponents. The fact that women do not possess political clout, and the fact that their influence in elections is limited, made it easier for the government to sacrifice their rights in return for political influence. Not only did this limitation manifest itself in the gap between the aspirations of the women’s rights organizations and the amendments actually made, but it also explains, to a great extent, the failure of the attempt in Jordan’s case. There, despite using the exact same strategy, a campaign conducted entirely in Islamic terms, which also created a coalition with the regime, ended in failure. In this case, the rights of women were sacrificed by the government in exchange for political stability.

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The Struggle to Change Jordan’s Personal Status Laws Contrary to the Egyptian case, where women’s rights activists acting in support of expanding human rights had limited success, in the Jordanian case the campaign to change the personal status laws, with the participation of elements in civil society, government members, and even members of the royal family, failed due to the opposition of conservative, traditional, and religious forces in the Jordanian parliament, which succeeded in exerting their influence and enforcing their positions. The Jordanian government took advantage of the absence of parliament between 2001 and 2003 to introduce changes in legislation regarding women’s rights. In December 2001, in response to repeated complaints from women’s rights organizations about the legal procedures that delayed divorce procedures for many years, the Jordanian cabinet, headed by Prime Minister ‘Ali Abu Ragheb, adopted changes in the personal status laws. These amendments included raising the age limit for marriage from fifteen for women and sixteen for men to age eighteen for both men and women; expanding the options available to women for filing for divorce; and limiting polygamy by compelling the man to inform his wife of his intention to marry a second woman and requiring the man to prove his economic ability to support more than one wife.89 Upon the resumption of parliament in 2003 the senate passed this legislation to the parliament for ratification. The legislative committee of parliament passed the law and moved it to a vote, which created optimism among the women’s rights organizations.90 However, in August 2003, parliament rejected the amendments and returned them to the senate for the purpose of making changes in the law. For its part, the senate submitted the law to parliament for reexamination, without making any changes to it. In June 2004, parliament, with the cooperation of the representatives of the Islamist IAF, the Democratic Union Bloc, and the National Democratic Bloc, rejected the bill once again. Forty-four of the eighty-three representatives in parliament voted against the amendments.91 This failure of the regime and other nonruling partners to pass a progressive law for women’s rights was not the first, and it must be examined in light of a previous bitter failure of a national campaign conducted by women’s rights activists, men and women alike, to change Law 340, which prescribed light punishments for family honor murders. In that case, despite the existence of a range of accommodating factors, such as the broad support of the royal house for changing the law and the fact that the law contradicted the constitution and, more importantly, the imperatives of Islamic sharia, the law was

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opposed by conservative forces in parliament. The conservative forces rejected the proposed law on the grounds that such initiatives did not stem from local needs but from foreign organizations that had a single purpose: ruining the moral values of Jordanian society. In their view, the law would remove the one factor deterring women from committing adultery and thus would lead to the dismantling of the family system and cause harm to the fabric of society. In that case the regime retreated and removed its support for amending the law when it realized the intensity of the public and political opposition to the law.92 The factors responsible for this failure also had a leading role in the failure to amend the personal status laws. The Campaign to Amend the Personal Status Laws The campaign to amend the personal status laws conducted in the Jordanian arena had characteristics similar to the one conducted in Egypt, both regarding the positions of the political forces and the nature of the arguments raised throughout. In this case too, Islamic arguments were utilized by the forces that supported the amendments, while notably refraining from referring to international standards of rights, which were not perceived as relevant to women’s status in Jordan. Similar to the Egyptian case, it is possible here too to refer to an attempt to form a coalition between women’s organizations and those holding power. However, this strategy did not suffice to pass the amended law, which was defeated due to political and social structures unique to Jordan. As in Egypt’s case, in Jordan the royal house and the government expressed their support of the amended law and were a prominent force behind it. Senate leader Zayd al-Rifa‘i stated that Jordanian society suffered from a lack of rights in several areas and that only legislation would restore faith in society and limit exploitation.93 Promoting women’s rights is part of the image of the royal house, which traditionally maintains a national agenda calling for an end to discrimination against women. The plan Jordan First, issued in Abdullah’s era, referred to the need to reexamine legislation regarding human rights and women’s status so that it would comply with international legislation. This position was expressed in practice concerning the issue of securing a women’s quota for parliamentary elections. King Abdullah promised the representatives of the women’s organizations that he would support their goal of amending all discriminatory legislation.94 According to human rights activist Asma Khader, such declarations reflected a genuine commitment to improve the status of women.95

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However, at the same time, the regime also emphasized that its attitude toward women was grounded in Islam, which promises equality between men and women. Similar to Egypt, Jordan had signed and ratified CEDAW, in 1981 and 1992 respectively. Nevertheless, it did express reservations regarding the item concerning the right of women to pass on their citizenship to their children; the item concerning the right of women to move about freely and to freely choose where they live; and the items concerning marriage and family relations.96 Thus, for instance, Queen Rania referred to the many challenges facing women and spoke of the need to make the discriminatory legislation conform to the Jordanian constitution, the national charter, and international treaties. However, Queen Rania emphasized that the source of the problem was not Islam. In her view, Islamic values guaranteed equality between men and women, and furthermore, the Quran had granted women basic rights such as education, property, and inheritance hundreds of years before such rights were granted to Western women.97 And indeed the support of the royal house for amending the personal status laws was expressed in Islamic terms. Similar to the Egyptian case, the Jordanian government took care to stress its adherence to Islamic law as the source for legislation in personal status issues. The minister of religious endowments, Ahmad Halil, who defended the personal status amendments in parliament, said that they did not contradict sharia and had been submitted to parliament only after meticulous scrutinization by judges, religious scholars, and jurisprudents.98 As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan the support of the religious establishment was required; in the Jordanian case the amendments were supported by Shaikh ‘Izz al-Din al-Khatib al-Tamimi, the king’s religious affairs adviser. However, his religious authority was insufficient compared to that of al-Azhar, as elements of the Islamist movement pointed out, since the consultation with the king’s religious affairs adviser neglected the positions and views of some of the most prominent and important experts and scholars of religious law in Jordan.99 As in the Egyptian case, the Jordanian regime too presented the amendments as part of their position in support of ijtihad and of enlightened interpretation, which is considered legitimate in Jordan since ijtihad and enlightened interpretation do not harm the pillars of faith and do not contradict the religious sources. Thus, for instance, the minister of religious endowments stated that raising the age limit for marriage was an expression of ijtihad, since the Quran makes no reference to a minimum age limit.100

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In the Egyptian case the campaign to amend the personal status laws was led by the NCW, which was formed in 2000 by presidential decree, with First Lady Suzanne Mubarak as its patron and first secretarygeneral. This expression of state feminism was manifest also in the Jordanian case. The state’s support for the law was not limited to declarations, but rather was accompanied by the intensive involvement of Princess Basma through the Jordanian National Commission for Women (JNCW), a body that positioned itself as the most important element in determining policy regarding women at both the governmental and nongovernmental levels. After the government failed to pass the amendments to the personal status laws in parliament in August 2003, the need for forming a coalition to support the amendments was understood. Similar to the Egyptian case, and perhaps as a result of it, the JNCW, led by Princess Basma, tried to create a broad coalition that would support the amendments. In this context an attempt was made to create a national debate involving participation of members of the senate and parliament and women’s organizations as represented by the General Federation of Jordanian Women (GFJW), which hoped in this way to gain the support of the legislative bodies.101 In this case too there was a strategic decision to include religious scholars, and official religious scholars linked to the Ministry of Religious Endowments were included to grant scholarly legitimacy to the amendments. The pressure applied by members of the royal family was not a new phenomenon. The women’s organizations benefited from strong support and encouragement on the part of royal family members, especially Princess Basma, who supported various projects related to women’s status. Since the coronation of King Abdullah, the monarchy had actually expanded its sponsorship of women’s organizations and showed interest in improving women’s status. Beginning in 2002, there was even increased involvement by Queen Rania, who sponsored the Amman Summit for Arab Women, which first ladies from the entire Arab and Muslim world attended. Similar to the Egyptian case, in Jordan the royal house’s intensive involvement was part of an overall strategy of co-optation and control of civil society. This policy served the state’s ability to prevent the growth of oppositional women’s organization with a political orientation, a phenomenon that characterized women’s organizations in the 1950s and 1960s, which emphasized Palestinian issues.102 This policy also was meant to control any future conflict that could arise between actions and demands for the promotion of women’s status and conservative elements, who were the regime’s traditional allies and main supporters.

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As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan state feminism contributed to the consolidation of a conservative approach to women’s status, a characteristic that was expressed in the plans for the promotion of women’s status as formulated by the JNCW. Thus, for instance, one of the plans formulated by the JNCW referred to the sources upon which this plan was based, which included the constitution, the national charter, the principles of Islamic law, the values of Arab-Islamic society, and human rights. It was also stressed by the JNCW that the promotion of women’s rights was compatible with Arab-Islamic codes emphasizing the importance of the family as a basic social unit upon which society is built and as constituting a natural environment for growth, education, and building the individual’s personality.103 There was a conspicuous absence of any reference to universal norms of women’s rights as consolidated in international agreements and treaties and especially CEDAW, which Jordan had signed. Women’s Rights Organizations and the State As in the Egyptian case, in the Jordanian context the organizations that pushed for a change in the personal status laws were mainly the women’s rights organizations.104 Although general human rights organizations did express commitment to women’s rights, especially in relation to the right of women to transfer their citizenship to their children, and though human rights organizations even expressed solidarity with women’s struggle to change the personal status laws, they did not put the struggle for women’s rights at the top of their agenda.105 However, one cannot refer to a strategic decision made by the women’s rights organizations in order to form a coalition with the government, since most of these organizations were not independent of the state and were actually under direct or indirect control of members of the royal family. Many of the organizations were members of the GFJW, which was founded in 1981 by the state to serve as a parent organization for all women’s organizations. This organization was under the direct supervision of the Ministry of Social Development and was managed by Princess Basma, who also headed the JNCW. Organizations with a history of activity in the opposition, such as the Jordanian Woman’s Union, were not allowed to join the organization. The formation of a women’s movement in Jordan, under the leadership and sponsorship of Princess Basma, at least partly reflected pragmatic behavior on the part of the women’s rights organizations, as membership of a representative of the royal family permitted better

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access to powerful officials. In any case, the lack of organizational autonomy from the government and royal house meant that controversial issues were not raised at all and that these women’s rights organizations, depending on the approval of the government and its guidance, could not function as a restraining element on the government’s power or policy.106 The campaign conducted by the JCWR was identical to the one in the Egyptian arena. In this Jordanian case too the campaign was conducted entirely in the framework of religion and the sharia. As in the Egyptian case, this religious framework in Jordan did not signify the women’s rights organizations’ renouncement of the international norms of human rights. Women’s rights organizations, similar to other organizations in the civil sphere, continued to press for the final ratification of international agreements and treaties regarding the rights of women, children, and the family by the Jordanian parliament.107 However, in the context of the personal status laws, women’s rights organizations and activists expressed their support of the personal status laws due to the compliance of these laws with Islamic law. Thus, for instance, the chairwoman of the GFJW, an organization that had participated in the discussions about changing the personal status laws, emphasized that the amendments had been examined meticulously by the relevant legal and sharia committees, which had relied upon the tolerance imperatives of Islamic sharia. Reform of personal status legislation would be a first and promising step toward realizing women’s rights and equality of women with men.108 Nawal al-Fa‘uri, the first woman to win a seat on the Shura Council of the IAF party, a founder of the moderate Islamic party al-Wasat, and a member of the latter party’s executive committee, stated that the great effort exerted by the GFJW for the creation of a national dialogue between members of parliament and institutions of civil society was based on quranic elements. She did not see any reason to express reservations about the amendments to the personal status laws, since they complied with the imperatives of sharia as well as the interests of society. Al-Fa‘uri, a women’s rights activist within moderate, progovernment organizations, expressed positions that promoted enlightened interpretation of the religious source texts in a way that would be compatible with society’s changing interests while preserving Islamic heritage.109 However, the reform legislation did not receive complete support among the women’s organizations. Thus, for instance, the Jordanian Woman’s Union, the only women’s organization in Jordan that could be

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considered independent, severely criticized the amendments as not providing a satisfactory and appropriate answer to the problems of women and even as harming their rights. The criticism of the organization focused on the requirement that women relinquish their economic rights in exchange for divorce. An activist in the organization, attorney Hanan Banat, argued that the draft amendments ignored the fact that they would position women to be harmed by divorce. Furthermore, the amendments would limit the possibility of khul‘ to the minority of women who had the ability to return their dowry, and thus did not resolve the problem faced by the majority of women who lacked this ability.110 Opposition to the amendments also came from Islamist women activists. Among the prominent opponents was the parliamentary representative of the IAF party, Hayat al-Massimi. Beyond her arguments about the contradiction between the proposed amendments and sharia—arguments discussed at length when dealing with the Islamists’ position—she expressed positions similar to those of the Jordanian Woman’s Union activists who stressed the damage that would result to the rights of women. 111 However, unlike those activists, al-Massimi linked this damage to family rights in general.112 In this, al-Massimi was expressing the Islamic position that generally emphasizes the rights of the family and society over and above the rights of the individual, in this case women. The female Islamic activists did not argue against the need to expand women’s rights as long as this was conducted within the principles of divine legislation, the moral and social framework, and public taste. Adherence to Islamic identity is not backwardness or underdevelopment, but rather the result of deep faith in sharia and in its most important attribute: flexibility and the ability to incorporate change.113 Opposition in the Political Arena As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan the opposition to reform of the personal status laws came from different political factions and was not restricted to the Islamists. Among those rejecting the amendments were representatives of the National Democratic Bloc and the IAF party. The arguments for rejection were for the most part similar to those raised in the Egyptian case, concentrating on the contradictions between the amendments and sharia, and on the perception that these amendments would encourage moral disintegration and would lead to the destruction of the family as an institution.

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Members of the biggest Islamic party in Jordan, the IAF, expressed their support in principle of women’s right to divorce.114 However, at the same time, they stated that any demand for equal rights in the area of divorce was inappropriate, since God had determined that divorce was the prerogative of man, while the right to receive alimony was the prerogative of women. Granting the right of divorce to women would thus violate the character and intention of Islamic legislation regarding the institution of family.115 As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan too the argument was raised that Islam granted the right of divorce to men out of consideration for the institution of the family. Furthermore, opponents argued that granting the right of khul‘ to women would harm and deprive men of their rights, given that khul‘ is easier than divorce initiated by men (talaq), since khul‘ does not obligate women to pay alimony.116 In addition, the members of the IAF party spoke out against the amendments, since the proposed changes lacked the provision that both parties in the marriage agree to the divorce. In their view, most Jordanians belonged to the Shafi‘i school, and the school utilized by the adjudicators and judges was the Hanafi school, both of which condition divorce initiated by the woman upon the husband’s agreement, a condition lacking in the current law. This flaw in the current legislation, which ignores the need for religious legal agreement between all schools, is an essential one, since it does not prevent future religious rulings from declaring a woman who divorces according to the current law, and marries once again, to be an adulteress.117 The members of the IAF also argued that the proposed amendments contradicted sharia, since it reduced the role of the judge, turning him into a clerk who must ratify the woman’s demand without any authority to exert his judgment regarding the validity of the woman’s claims.118 As far as they were concerned, such problems could have been solved if the right of the woman to khul‘ had been conditioned upon her ability to prove cause and by expanding the judge’s authority to evaluate this cause. In this way the use of khul‘ would be limited and would not become a sword constantly hanging over the husband’s head.119 According to Islamists, the proposed amendments amounted to an adoption of international norms that would lead to a disintegration of values and eventually destroy the family.120 In this context, they also objected to the item in the amendments that proposed raising the age limit for marriage from fifteen to eighteen. In their opinion, although this would not contradict sharia, which does not make clear reference to an age limit for marriage, delaying the age of marriage nevertheless

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would harm Islamic society, since it would encourage immorality. According to their approach, age of marriage was dependent upon maturity, material means, and unique social circumstances.121 By this, the Islamists were referring to Western conceptions of adolescence, which are not compatible with local conditions. In their view, instead of making laws that would make it easier to break up the family, the more significant factors that lead to crisis in society in general and in the family in particular should be dealt with, such as poverty, unemployment, and the spread of corruption.122 As in the Egyptian case, in Jordan an attempt was made to link the proposed law to foreign interests whose pressure and influence on the Jordanian regime increased after the US invasion of Iraq and the expansion of US influence in the region.123 The opponents of the proposed law argued that the legislation was not the result of local needs but rather a result of Jordan’s commitment to external, international agreements,124 meaning a compulsory Western agenda as the product of recommendations and conferences, such as the Beijing Conference, all of which the Islamists characterized as seeking to harm the institution of the family.125 The Islamist opponents of the proposed law even made a distinction between legislation promoted by elitist circles in the capital, Amman, and the real needs of the rest of the mostly rural Jordanian society. In their view, the rural areas did not have any problem that required changing the personal status laws, and the proposed legislation was a result of the needs of a “Westernizing” Amman, a society of “coffee shops” that did not represent the whole of Jordanian society.126 This argument, which was also expressed in the Egyptian case, is not without merit, and is related to a general problem experienced by human rights NGOs, and specifically by women’s organizations in Jordan. Even though some of the women’s organizations have a presence in the urban and rural centers outside Amman, the audience with whom they hold dialogue is restricted to an elite of intellectuals and activists in the human rights movement and the institutions of civil society—the audience who participate in conferences and conventions.127 Studies have shown that 70 percent of the women active in these organizations belong to the uppermiddle class and are usually educated.128 As in the Egyptian case, such arguments relating to the elitist nature of women’s organizations in Jordan were linked also to the issue of foreign funding. The international community has an important role in funding women’s organizations and various projects for the improvement of women’s status.129 The organizations working to reform the per-

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sonal status laws in Jordan were perceived as promoting the agenda of the donating bodies, instead of discussing the “real” issues of the local society. The fact that these bodies tend to fund mainly the large organizations supports the Islamist argument, since this does not allow for the expression of positions held by bodies working in the periphery, whose claims are thus marginalized even further. Notably, despite the principled and religious arguments for rejecting the amendments to the personal status laws, some believe that this was nothing more than an expression of the politicization of the shariate positions due to the political power struggle between the senate and parliament, especially after the renewal of parliamentary activity in 2003, following two years in which the state had conducted matters in its absence. 130 Despite the denials of various parties, such as the IAF party, these arguments had a foundation in reality. Parallel to the rejection of the khul‘ law, the parliament also rejected other laws proposed by the senate and in this manner protested the use of the senate by the government as a tool to pass legislation. Parliament’s rejection of the khul‘ law for the second time was also a protest of the resubmission of this law without even minimal changes having been made, as requested by parliament. This pattern of behavior on the part of the senate caused some of the parliamentary blocs to consolidate, and even changed the position of some members of parliament who previously expressed their support of the khul‘ law yet now preferred to express their grievance by opposing it.131 Implications and Comparative Aspects The Jordanian debate did not differ in essence from the Egyptian one, except for the fact that the resistance to reform of the personal status laws in the Egyptian media was more vocal and intensive compared to the Jordanian media. Yet despite this, in Egypt the women’s organizations succeeded in the reform effort, though in a limited way. The explanation is to be found in the role of the state and its determination to pass the proposed amendments. The Jordanian case proves that success in the struggle for reform lies not only in the manner in which coalitions are formed to support the struggle, and not only through women positioning their claims in a religious framework, but also, and primarily, in adopting the appropriate political constellation that addresses the political costs of reform from the point of view of the regime. The Jordanian regime, though it was among the supporters of the reform and even passed the amendments to the personal status laws in

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the absence of parliament, was not really committed to the reform and did not take measures to anchor the protection of women’s rights in the law. The failure of the legislation was a product of the government not making the effort to do so through informal contacts and utilization of a sufficient lobby in order to ensure the passage of the law. The limited efforts by the royal house were a product of the desire to preserve the status quo and the social and political order based on tribes, and to nurture the relations with this order, which constitutes its support base. As in the struggle over the legislation of family honor crimes, in this case too the regime backed off and preferred to defer to the conservative tribal forces. Deniz Kandiyoti counts several factors affecting the ability of the state to implement reforms in the area of personal status, including the link between national identity and Islam and the particular meaning of Islam; the character of the colonial experience and its relation to identity construction; and the extent of the dependency of the state upon tribal and familial communities.132 The last factor is significant with regard to the Jordanian’s regime position toward the expansion of women’s rights. The unique demographic structure of Jordan and the attempts by the regime to preserve the “Jordanian identity” in society in general and in parliament in particular lie at the core of the regime’s surrender before parliament and its unwillingness to push forward these amendments. In general, the reliance of the state upon East Bank tribal communities as a main source of support lies at the heart of the royal house’s interest in preserving tribal feelings and strengthening the importance of tribal norms and values in Jordanian society, as well as the structures of authority, which are essentially patriarchal.133 But tribal politics, which matter profoundly within Jordanian politics, is not the only explanation. The increasing influence of Islamists has strengthened these tendencies of the regime. The increasing influence of the Muslim Brotherhood and its political arm, the IAF, and the fact that its main focus is the Palestinian population, especially in the refugee camps and the neighborhoods populated by Jordanians of Palestinian descent, have compelled Jordanian governments, since 1993, to try to co-opt and control the power of religion in politics. The election law that restricts citizens’ right to choose one representative, and the division of parliamentary seats among districts and electorates to suit the interests of the regime, were meant to prevent the Islamists from achieving a majority in parliament as well as to restrain Jordanians of Palestinian heritage within limits that the regime was comfortable with.

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The product of this policy was the creation of conservative and traditional parliaments that indeed supported the government but socially, as I have shown, formed an alliance with the Muslim Brotherhood, thus making it difficult to pass legislation regarding the expansion of women’s rights. The royal house has little interest in destabilizing its support base in parliament and prefers to adhere to an undeclared policy according to which it concedes to parliament on social and cultural issues in return for cooperation on more crucial issues, from the regime’s point of view, such as its economic plans and foreign policy. Comparison of the struggle to amend the personal status laws in Egypt and Jordan brings forth two main conclusions. The first relates to the use of religion as a means to alter the status of women and expand their rights, and the second to the crucial role of the state. Similar to the reliance on international norms, the reliance on religion anchored in local conceptions is limited in its power. The limitations of this strategic choice are not necessarily due to limitations of the holy texts of Islam. In many cases the texts are not formulated clearly and are open to interpretations that could potentially expand women’s rights. However, the call for far-reaching innovations in the interpretation of these texts creates opposition among the institutional and oppositional conservative Islamists, who are protecting their hegemonic position in the exegetical process of the sharia. The right to ijtihad, called for by women during their struggle to change the personal status laws, received limited support only. In addition, even though the activists made exclusive use of religion while disengaging from any internationally recognized norms, opponents still framed the struggle for the expansion of women’s rights as a Western issue that contradicted local values and culture. In this respect, the struggle for the expansion of women’s rights remained dependent upon the efforts of the state. I am not claiming that the problem is political only. Undoubtedly there are cultural and religious obstacles standing in the way of women’s demands to expand their rights. As Nahla Abdo noted, confining women’s rights primarily to the legal sphere fails to account for the role of culture and tradition.134 However, the role of the state is crucial in laying down legislative standards that would, in time, lead to a change in consciousness and norms. This is especially so because the plans that aim to create reform from within, as expressed in the demands of women, are often too radical to be accepted by society. The governments of both Egypt and Jordan have taken over the struggle for women’s rights and manipulated it according to their own

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interests. The dual approach of expressing commitment to the status of women on the one hand and emphasizing commitment to preserving local values on the other is a central tenet of this process. In this framework, expansion of women’s rights is solely contingent upon the degree of risk and concessions that the government is willing to make in the political arena. The amendments to the personal status laws made by the Egyptian government served its interests externally as well as internally. The fact that they were restricted in scope and referred to procedures and not to essence reduced the price the government had to pay in the internal political arena. Contrary to this, in the Jordanian case, similar amendments would have required a political price that the regime was unwilling to pay, and therein lies the failure of the efforts to implement them.

Notes 1. United Nations Development Programme and Arab Fund for Economic and Social Development, Arab Human Development Report 2002: Creating Opportunities for Future Generations (New York, 2002). 2. United Nations Development Programme, Regional Bureau for Arab States, Arab Human Development Report 2005: Toward the Rise of Women in the Arab World (New York, 2006), pp. 7–22. 3. Leila Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), p. 7. See also Nazila Ghane, “Human Rights of Religious Minorities and of Women in the Middle East,” Human Rights Quarterly 26 (2004): 715, 722. 4. Deniz Kandiyoti, “Reflections on the Politics of Gender in Muslim Societies: From Nairobi to Beijing,” in Mahnaz Afkhami (ed.), Faith and Freedom: Women’s Human Rights in the Muslim World (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1995), pp. 20–21; Miriam Cooke and Bruce B. Lawrence, “Muslim Women Between Human Rights and Islamic Norms,” in Irene Bloom et al. (eds.), Religious Diversity and Human Rights (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996), p. 317. See also discussion of the impact of colonialism’s use of feminism to promote the culture of the colonizers, in Ahmed, Women and Gender in Islam, p. 167. 5. Annika Rabo, “Gender, State, and Civil Society in Jordan and Syria,” in Chris Hann and Elizabeth Dunn (eds.), Civil Society Challenging Western Models (London: Routledge, 1996), p. 159; Mirvat F. Hatem, “Secularist and Islamist Discourses on Modernity in Egypt and the Evolution of the Post Colonial Nation State,” in Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and John L. Esposito (eds.), Islam, Gender, and Social Change (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 97; Nayereh Tohidi, “Women’s Rights in the Muslim World: The UniversalParticular Interplay,” Hawwa 1:2 (2003): 157. 6. Shadi Hamid, “Between Orientalism and Postmodernism: The Changing Nature of Western Feminists Thought Towards the Middle East,” Hawwa 4:1 (2006): 88.

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7. On the personal status laws, see John L. Esposito with Natana J. DelongBas, Women in Muslim Family Law, 2nd ed. (New York: Syracuse University Press, 2001); Amira Sonbol, Women, the Family, and Divorce Laws in Islamic History (New York: Syracuse University Press, 1996); Annelies Moors, “Debating Islamic Family Law: Legal Texts and Social Practices,” in Margaret L. Meriwether and Judith E. Tucker (eds.), Social History of Women and Gender in the Modern Middle East (Boulder: Westview, 1999), pp. 141–175. 8. The National Center for Human Rights, The State of Human Rights in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan: During the Period 1 June 2003–31 December 2004 (Amman, 31 May 2005), pp. 61, 63–64. See also arguments of the Egyptian representative to the UN Committee on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights, UN Doc. E/C.12/2000/SR.12, 18 January 2001, para. 53. 9. Jamila Bargach, “An Ambiguous Discourse of Rights: The 2004 Family Law Reform in Morocco,” Hawwa 3:2 (2005): 245–266. 10. Law 462 of 1955 canceled the sharia courts and referred issues of personal status laws to regular litigation, but stipulated that regular courts dealing with personal status issues must follow sharia rulings. For discussion of the attitude of the Egyptian regime in Nasser’s and Sadat’s era to legislation concerning personal status, see Hatem, “Secularist and Islamist Discourses on Modernity in Egypt,” p. 92. 11. Mirvat F. Hatem, “Economic and Political Liberation in Egypt and the Demise of State Feminism,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 24 (1992): 232. 12. Sadat’s economic policy sought to revitalize Egypt’s economy through increased liberalization of the country’s extensive public sector and, more importantly, through an enhanced role for the private sector. This policy entailed a realignment of international alliances—that is, alliances with the United States and the West. See Raymond Hinnebusch, Egyptian Politics Under Sadat: The Post-Populist Development of an AuthoritarianModernizing State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), esp. pp. 57–59, 114–116. 13. Hatem, “Economic and Political Liberation in Egypt,” pp. 242–243. 14. For discussion of the development of personal status laws in Egypt, see Essam Fawzy, “Muslim Personal Status Law in Egypt: The Current Situation and Possibilities of Reform Through Internal Initiative,” in Lynn Welchman (ed.), Women’s Rights and Islamic Family Law: Perspectives on Reform (London: Zed, 2004), pp. 33–39; Amira Mashhour, “Islamic Law and Gender Equality: Could There Be a Common Ground? A Study of Divorce and Polygamy in Sharia Law and Contemporary Legislation in Tunisia and Egypt,” Human Rights Quarterly 27 (2005): 578–582. On the conflict created among women of different political persuasions, see Nadje Sadig Al-Ali, “Feminism and Contemporary Debates in Egypt,” in Chatty Dawn and Annika Rabo (eds.), Organizing Women: Formal and Informal Women’s Groups in the Middle East (Oxford: Berg, 1997), pp. 178–179. 15. For a detailed discussion on the campaign to facilitate divorce for women, see Diane Singerman, “Rewriting Divorce in Egypt: Reclaiming Islam, Legal Activism, and Coalition Politics,” in Robert W. Hefner (ed.), Remaking Muslim Politics: Pluralism, Contestation, Democratization (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005), pp. 161–188.

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16. ‘Urfi marriages are a widespread Egyptian phenomenon. Many youth marry in this way due to the expense of official marriage, which includes dowry payment, a wedding party, and purchasing and furnishing a home. Despite the increase in ‘urfi marriages, the courts refuse to consider or discuss the legal issues of divorce in the case of ‘urfi marriages, fearing that this would constitute religious recognition of such marriages. 17. See, for example, al-‘Arabi, 26 January 2000. 18. Human Rights Watch, Divorced from Justice: Women’s Unequal Access to Divorce in Egypt 16:8(E) (December 2004). 19. See the words of human rights activist ‘Aida Sayf al-Dawla in al-Ahram Weekly, 16–22 December 2004. 20. Women’s rights activists worked to broaden the legislative possibilities for Christian women as well, but these demands attracted objections from Coptic patriarch Shenouda; see al-Fajr, 27 February 2006. Regarding the patriarch’s opposition in principle, see al-Usbu‘, 31 January 2000. See also al-Qahira, 8 May 2002; Saba Mahmood, “Sectarian Conflict and Family Law in Contemporary Egypt,” American Ethnologist 39:1 (2012): 56. 21. See, for instance, President Hosni Mubarak’s speech on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the National Council for Women, “al-Majlis al-qawmi lil mar’a, kalimat al-Sayyid al-Ra’is Muhammad Husni Mubarak fi al-jalsa aliftitahiyya li’l mu’tamr al-khamis li’l majlis al-qawmi lil-mar’a” (14–16 March 2005). On the relationship between the improvement in the status of women and economic and political development, see Isobel Coleman, “The Payoff from Women’s Rights,” Foreign Affairs 83:3 (January 2004): 80–96. 22. Opposition elements argued that the regime was compelled to amend the personal status laws due to a series of arrests and torture of its opponents. This amendment was intended to buy the West’s silence. See, for instance, the words of Muhammad al-Ghanim at a conference held by the women’s secretariat of the al-‘Amal party, in al-Sha‘b, 21 December 1999. See also al-Sha‘b, 24 December 1999 and 14 January 2000. 23. For a discussion of the struggle against Law 153 of 1999, see Nicola Pratt, “Bringing Politics Back In: Examining the Link Between Globalization and Democratization,” Review of International Political Economy 11:2 (May 2004): 324–330; Angela Grunert, “Loss of Guiding Values and Support, September 11, and the Isolation of Human Rights Organizations in Egypt,” in Annette Junemann (ed.), Euro-Mediterranean Relations After September 11: International, Regional, and Domestic Dynamics (London: Cass, 2004), pp. 139–143. 24. See discussion of these events and on the response of the international community in Chapter 5. 25. Egypt also expressed reservations regarding the item that granted women equal rights with regard to the citizenship of their children. However, new legislation introduced in Egypt in 2004 also granted women the right to transfer their citizenship to their children in cases where women were married to foreigners, rendering Egypt’s reservations moot. Regarding Egypt’s reservations to international treaties, see http://www.ohchr.org/english/countries/ratification index.htm. 26. See explanations of Egypt’s representative to the Committee on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, UN Doc. A/56/38, 2 February 2001, para. 318.

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27. See interview with Zaqzuq in al-Usbu‘, 7 February 2000. 28. For Zaqzuq’s positions concerning the issue of inheritance, women’s participation in senior positions, their dress (hijab), polygamy, and marriage of Muslim women to non-Muslim men, see al-Wafd, 3 June 2005. 29. See the words of the Egyptian representative to the UN Economic and Social Council, UN Doc. E/C.12/2000/SR.11, 8 May 2000, para. 64. There are researchers who argue that in contrast to the early reforms engaged in taqlid (conformity to traditional legal decisions in sharia jurisprudence), the Egyptian government had engaged in ijtihad (interpretative reading of the Quran and the hadith). See Oussama Arabi, “The Dawning of the Third Millennium on Shari‘a: Egypt’s Law no. 1 of 2000, or Women May Divorce at Will,” Arab Law Quarterly 16:1 (2001), pp. 20–21; Jasmine Moussa, “The Reform of Shari‘a-Derived Divorce Legislation in Egypt: International Standards and Cultural Debate,” Human Rights Law Commentary 2 (2006): 17. 30. See the words of the minister of justice in al-Sha‘b, 18 January 2000. 31. al-Usbu‘, 17 January 2000. See also interview with the shaikh of alAzhar on divorce by khul‘, in al-Musawwar, 9 April 1999. 32. See, for example, the words of Rif‘at al-Sabah in al-‘Arabi, 19 December 2000. 33. al-Ahali, 19 January 2000. See also the words of Halid Muhi al-Din, representative of the al-Tajammu‘ party, in parliament during the discussions concerning the approval of the law, in al-Usbu‘, 17 January 2000. See also the positions of Zain al-Samak, secretary of religious affairs of the al-Tajammu‘ party, who supports an interpretative reading of the Quran (ijtihad) as well as legislation that would be in the public interest, in al-Ahali, 19 January 2000. 34. al-‘Arabi, 19 December 1999. 35. al-Usbu‘, 19 January 2000. 36. This is in reference to the Prophet Muhammad’s ruling when the wife of Thabit Ibn Qays approached him to divorce her from her husband, since she could not live with him. Muhammad ordered Thabit Ibn Qays to divorce his wife in exchange for her giving back the dowry. Al-Azhar scholars interpret Muhammad’s ruling as a guideline and not as an imperative. See the words of Azhari scholar Muhammad Rafat ‘Uthman in al-Usbu‘, 24 January 2000. See also the position of Ahmad ‘Ama Hashim, head of the Committee for Religious Affairs in parliament and president of al-Azhar University, in al-Usbu‘, 17 January 2000. 37. Regarding disagreements within the al-Azhar Islamic Research Academy, see al-Musawwar, 17 December 1999; al-Usbu‘, 24 January 2000. 38. See the statement made by some of these scholars as published in alUsbu‘, 17 January 2000; al-Sha‘b, 18 January 2000. 39. During the campaign conducted by the party against the law, it even published a special supplemental with a bill formulated by twenty-one senior religious scholars and approved by al-Azhar in 1976. According to the party, this bill was never brought before parliament due to political reasons. See alSha‘b, 3 February 2000. 40. See, for example, the words of ‘Adel Hussein in al-Sha‘b, 21 January 2000; and the words of Ibrahim al-Khuly in al-Sha‘b, 28 December 1999. 41. See, for example, the words of Majdi Ahmad Hussein in al-Sha‘b, 21 December 1999.

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42. Ibid. See also the words of the Shaikh al-Sayyid ‘Abd al-Maqsud ‘Askar in al-Usbu‘, 7 February 2000. See also the arguments of Najla’ al-Qalyubi, member of the executive chamber of the al-‘Amal party, in al-Sha‘b, 18 of January 2000. Qalyubi argued that women are more emotional and sensitive than men. In her view, such traits may lead women to demand divorce every time a disagreement or problem arises in a marriage. Therefore, she believes that there is no choice except to grant the judge the authority to decide cases of divorce, and only with the husband’s consent and in his presence. 43. Majdi Ahmad Hussein in al-Sha‘b, 18 January 2000. 44. Ibid. 45. Ibid. 46. al-Sha‘b, 21 January 2000. See also the arguments of Najla’ al-Qalyubi, member of the executive chamber of the al-‘Amal party, in al-Sha‘b, 21 December 1999 and 18 January 2000. 47. Majdi Ahmad Hussein in al-Sha‘b, 21 December 1999 and 18 January 2000. 48. Sherif Hatata, “‘An al-rujula . . . wa-qanun al-ahwal al-shakhsiyya” (On manhood and the personal status law), al-Ahali, 2 February 2000. 49. On the disagreement among members of the ruling party, see, for example, al-Ahali, 19 January 2000; al-Usbu‘, 24 January 2000; al-‘Arabi, 20 January 2000. 50. al-‘Arabi, 27 January 2000. 51. al-Sha‘b, 18 January 2000. 52. al-Wafd, 28 January 2000. 53. See, for example, the arguments of the ruling party’s representative in Sa‘id district in al-Sha‘ab, 14 January 2000. See also Hatata, “‘An al-rujula.” 54. Hatem, “Economic and Political Liberation in Egypt,” pp. 240–241. 55. The committee included mainly party-affiliated and independent organizations. Hatem Mirvat, “Towards the Development of Post-Islamist and PostNationalist Feminist Discourses in the Middle East,” in Judith Tucker (ed.), Arab Women: Old Boundaries, New Frontiers (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), p. 42. 56. Nadje Al-Ali, Secularism, Gender, and the State in the Middle East: The Egyptian Women’s Movement (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 186. 57. Ibid., p. 218. 58. Secular-oriented activists are those who advocate a separation between religion and politics. This definition does not necessarily denote anti-religious or anti-Islamic positions. For discussion of the tendency to frame human agency in terms of collective ideologies—whether secular or religious—see AlAli, Secularism, Gender, and the State in the Middle East, pp. 4, 130. 59. Singerman, “Rewriting Divorce in Egypt,” p. 164. 60. Ibid., p. 167. On this strategy, see also Heba Raouf Ezzat, “The Silent Ayesha: An Egyptian Narrative,” in Jane H. Bayes and Nayereh Tohidi (eds.), Globalization, Gender, and Religion: The Politics of Human Rights in Catholic and Muslim Contexts (New York: Palgrave, 2001), p. 252; Marie-Eimee Helie Lucas, “Strategies of Women and Women’s Movements in the Muslim World vis-à-vis Fundamentalism: From Entryism to Internationalism,” in Oliver Mendelsohn and Upendra Baxi (eds.), The Rights of Subordinate People (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994), pp. 266–267.

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61. Al-Ali, “Feminism and Contemporary Debates in Egypt,” p. 183. 62. For instance, the Egyptian Organization for Women’s Rights (EOWR) published a report based on Egyptian legislation, but also on international treaties and specifically on CEDAW. See al-Markaz al-Misri li-Huquq al-Mar‘a wa’l-Munazama al-Misriyya li-Huquq al-Insan, al-Himaya al-amniyya lilmar’a al-Misriyya: Mas’uliyyat man? (Protection of women’s security: Whose responsibility is it?) (Cairo, 2003). 63. See al-Ahram Weekly, 8–14 March 2001. 64. See, for example, the words of Azza Suleiyman, women’s rights activist and director of the Center for Egyptian Women’s Legal Assistance, in al-Ahram Weekly, 14–20 February 2002. 65. Mona Zulficar, The Egyptian Woman in a Changing World (Cairo: Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights, 19 March 2003). 66. Quoted in Ruz al-Yusuf, 25 December 1999. 67. Quoted in al-Ahali, 5 January 2000. 68. Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights, Women Between Islamic Shari‘a and Personal Status Law (Cairo, 2000); Nuhad Abu al-Qumsan and Ahmad Muhsin, al-Kitab al-thamin: al-khul‘ (Eighth book: al-Khul‘) (Cairo: al-Markaz al-Misri li-Huquq al-Mar’a, 2000). 69. al-‘Arabi, 19 December 1999. 70. Abdullahi an-Na‘im, Toward an Islamic Reformation: Civil Liberties, Human Rights, and International Law (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1990), p. 68; Abdullahi an-Na‘im, “‘Area Expressions’ and the Universality of Human Rights: Mediating a Contingent Relationship,” in David P. Forsythe and Patrica C. McMahon (eds.), Human Rights and Diversity: Area Studies Revisited (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), pp. 1–2. 71. Azza M. Karam, “An Apostate, a Proposed New Marriage Contract, and Egyptian Women: Where to Now?” Women Against Fundamentalists 8 (1996): 29–32. 72. See a conference organized by the NCW’s Cultural Affairs Committee titled “Discrimination Against Women in Religious Discourse,” as reported in al-Ahram, 15 February 2005; and in Sabah al-Khayr, 22 February 2005. 73. Quoted in Gihan Shahine, “An Issue of Human Rights,” al-Ahram Weekly, 16–22 December 2004. 74. al-‘Arabi, 19 December 1999. See also the words of Farhanda Hassan, former secretary-general of the NCW, in al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 1 January 2000, pp. 88–89. 75. al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 1 January 2000, p. 90. 76. See the words of Farida al-Naqqash at a conference hosted by the CIHRS and presented in full in Sayyid Isma‘il Dayf Allah (ed.), al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya (Islam and democracy) (Cairo: Markaz al-Qahira li-Huquq alInsan, 2003), pp. 120–121. 77. al-Ahram al-‘Arabi, 1 January 2000, p. 88. 78. Ruz al-Yusuf, 21 October 2005. 79. Hiba Ra’uf Ezzat, quoted in Lawyers Committee for Human Rights, Islam and Equality: Debating the Future of Women’s and Minority Rights in the Middle East and North Africa (New York, February 1999), pp. 152–153. 80. Ibid., pp. 36–43. 81. See disagreements between Shaikh Tantawi and al-Qaradawi at the con-

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vention on women’s liberation in Islam, as reported in al-Sharq al-Awsat, 28 February 2003. 82. Sabah al-Khayr, 6 December 2005. On Tantawi’s position, see al-Sharq al-Awsat, 15 March 2006. 83. al-Sharq al-Awsat, 28 February 2003; al-Sharq al-Awsat, 2 March 2003. See also the support among al-Azhar’s scholars who believe that issuing religious rulings should not be limited to men, since the Prophet Muhammad’s wives practiced it, as reported in al-Liwa’ al-Islami, 3 March 2005. 84. Ruz al-Yusuf, 5 March 2005. 85. This bill was formulated by the Women Center (Markaz al-Mar’a), as reported in Ruz al-Yusuf, 4 October 2006. 86. Quoted in al-Ahrar, 18 March 2006. 87. Farida al-Naqqash, “Huquq al-mar’a bayan al-thaqafa al-diniyya alsa’ida wa-mutatallabat al-dawla al-haditha” (Women’s rights between the prevailing religious culture and the requirements of the modern state), in Dayf Allah, al-Islam wa’l dimuqratiyya, pp. 120–121. 88. See discussion on the role of the state, which can play a crucial role in maintaining, reproducing, or abolishing repressive laws against women, in Nahla Abdo, “Muslim Family Law: Articulating Gender, Class, and the State,” International Review of Comparative Public Policy 9 (1997): 179–180, 189– 190. 89. “Temporary Law no. 82/2001,” Jordan Times, 14 December 2001. 90. See, for example, the reaction of Amna Zu‘bi, a member of the Jordanian Women’s Union, in Jordan Times, 16 June 2004. 91. See, for example, al-Ra’i, 28 June 2004; al-‘Arab al-Youm, 28 June 2004. 92. On the struggle to amend Law 340, see Stefanie Nanes, “Fighting Honor Crimes: Evidence of Civil Society in Jordan,” Middle East Journal 57:1 (Winter 2003): 112–129; Janine A. Clark, “‘Honor Crimes’ and the International Spotlight on Jordan,” Middle East Report 229 (Winter 2003): 38–41. See also reference to the similarity between these two cases in Sultan al-Khatab, “Bayna al-khul‘ wa’l-ibka’” (Between khul‘ and preservation), al-Ra’i, 29 June 2004. 93. See his words during a meeting with Princess Basma, in al-Sabil, 26 August–1 September 2004. 94. Jordan Times, 2 August 1999. 95. Quoted in Jordan Times, 22 March 2006. 96. On Jordan’s reservations regarding articles in international treaties, see http://www.ohchr.org/english/countries/ratification index.htm. 97. See interview with Queen Rania in al-‘Arab al-Youm, 8 March 1998. 98. al-Ra’i, 28 June 2004; al-‘Arab al-Youm, 28 June 2004. 99. See the words of Hayat al-Masimi, a member of IAF party, in al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003. 100. al-Sabil, 29 June–5 July 2004. 101. Regarding these efforts, see al-Ra’i, 29 June 2004. See also reports of Princess Basma’s meetings with legislators, the kingdom’s grand mufti, judges of the sharia courts, and women’s rights activists, in al-Sabil, 26 August–1 September 2004. 102. On the activities of women’s organizations in the 1950s and the 1960s, see Ibtisam al-Attiyat, “The Women’s Movement in Jordan: Activism, Dis-

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course, and Strategies,” unpublished dissertation, Berlin, 2003; Sherry Lawrence, “After Beijing: Political Liberalization and the Women’s Movement in Jordan,” Middle Eastern Studies 34:3 (July 1998): 90–91. 103. Jordanian National Commission for Women, National Program of Action for the Advancement of Jordanian Women, 1998–2002: Within the Framework of Follow-Up to the Implementation of the Plan of Action and Recommendations of the IV International Conference on Women, Beijing 1995 (Amman, 1998), sec. 4. 104. On the pressures exerted on women, see al-Sabil, 26 August–1 September 2004. 105. See, for instance, reference to such issues made by Fawzi al-Samhouri, head of the JSCR, at a conference on human rights violations in Jordan, as reported in al-Bayan, 19 November 2003. See also the commitment to fight for women’s rights in the concluding statement of the international conference on human rights held in Amman and organized by the AOHR in Jordan, “Ijtima‘ Amman al-tahdiri lil-mu’tamar al-‘alami li-mukafahat al-‘unsuriyya wa’l-tamyiz al-‘unsuri, Amman, 5–7 February 2001” (Amman preparatory meeting for the World Conference Against Racism and Racial Discrimination), al-Majalla al-‘Arabiyya li-Huquq al-Insan 8 (November 2001): 169– 170. 106. This patronage had not encouraged the growth of women’s organizations with a political agenda, but rather of charity and welfare organizations. See Rabo, “Gender, State, and Civil Society,” p. 166. 107. See, for example, discussion of the pressures exerted by civil society organizations, including women’s rights organizations, for the completion of the parliamentary ratification of international treaties, as reported in al-Dustur, 18 February 2006. 108. Quoted in al-Ra’i, 17 June 2004. 109. Quoted in al-Ra’i, 17 June 2004 and 29 June 2004. 110. al-Ra’i, 17 June 2004. 111. Quoted al-Ra’i, 17 June 2004 and 19 June 2004. 112. al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003. 113. See the words of Adab al-Sa‘ud, a member of IAF party, in al-Sabil, 9– 15 September 2003. 114. al-Sabil, 12–18 August 2003. 115. See the position paper submitted by member of parliament Nidal al‘Abadi to the Constitution Committee, as reported in al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003. 116. Ibid. 117. Ibid. 118. Ibid. 119. Jabhat al-‘Amal al-Islami, “Fatwa sadira ‘an lajnat ‘ulama’ al-shari‘a alIslamiyya fi hizb jabhat al-‘amal al-Islami fi mawdu‘ al-khul‘ al-qada’i” (Fatwa issued by the Committee of Islamic Law Scholars in the Islamic Action Front on the subject of the judicial khul‘), 20 September 2003. See also the words of Hayat al-Massimi in al-Ra’i, 29 June 2004. 120. See, for example, the words of Muhammad Abu Faris, a prominent member of the Muslim Brotherhood, in al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003 and 12– 18 August 2003.

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121. See the words of ‘Abd al-Mun‘im Abu Zanat in al-Sabil, 29 June–5 July 2004. 122. al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003. 123. al-Sabil, 29 June–5 July 2004. 124. al-Sabil, 12–18 August 2003. 125. al-Sabil, 2–8 September 2003. 126. See the arguments of members of parliament during the vote on the law, as reported in al-Sabil, 29 June–5 July 2004. 127. Ibtisam al-Attiyat, “Participation in Public Life and Its Impact on Women in Jordan,” in Ziad Majed (ed.), Building Democracy in Jordan: Women, Political Participation, Political Party Life, and Democratic Election (Stockholm: International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance and Arab NGO Network for Development, 2005), pp. 58–59. 128. al-Attiyat, “The Women’s Movement in Jordan,” p. 132. 129. Among the prominent funding organizations are the FriedrichEbert-Stiftung, Konrad-Adenauer-Stiftung, the European Union, the EuroMediterranean Partnership, and the US Agency for International Development (USAID). See al-Attiyat, “The Women’s Movement in Jordan,” pp. 79–82. 130. See, for example, Sultan al-Khatab, “Bayana al-khul‘ wa’l-ibka’” (Between al-khul‘ and preservation), al-Ra’i, 29 June 2004. 131. Ibid. 132. Deniz Kandiyoti (ed.), Women, Islam, and the State (London: Macmillan, 1991), pp. 3–14. 133. Laurie A. Brand, “Women and the State in Jordan: Inclusion or Exclusion?” in Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and John L. Esposito (eds.), Islam, Gender, and Social Change (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 102–103; Rabo, “Gender, State, and Civil Society,” p. 166. 134. Abdo, “Muslim Family Law,” p. 176.

7 Human Rights Between State and Society

THROUGHOUT THIS BOOK, IN EXAMINING THE POLITICS OF

human rights under authoritarian regimes in Egypt and Jordan, I have sought to evaluate the nature of the claims for rights, which arose from the public space. I have focused in particular on the potential of these claims to counterbalance to the power of the state and its autonomy in defining the national interest, to reduce its control, to promote varied social interests, and even to develop focal points of counterhegemony. Despite the emergence of a vibrant debate and activism for human rights in the public and political spaces, this activism generally did not succeed in determining the conditions of public life or, alternately, influencing them in a manner so as to expand liberties. Despite the fact that the human rights framework became more readily accepted and to a large extent was utilized by many forces to de-legitimize the government, there were many challenges that limited the propagation and implementation of human rights norms in the local arena. The fact that human rights became more readily accepted does not indicate that human rights became a basis for mass political mobilization, nor does it reflect moral support by wide segments of society. The innate emancipatory potential of human rights was restricted first and foremost by the regimes, which did not provide legal and institutional guarantees for liberties such as freedom of speech, assembly, and organization, which are necessary for the development of human rights into a force for significant change. Furthermore, these regimes even managed to suppress claims for rights through legal or violent means, which contributed to the fear of the regimes among various parts of society. The Egyptian and Jordanian regimes created bureaucratic

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procedures, rules, and laws intended to increase supervision and control of the forces at the forefront of the demands for change, led by the human rights NGOs, thus aiming to raise difficulties and obstruct their ability to operate in the public space. This policy led the human rights activists to engage in a double struggle: first for the dissemination of a culture of human rights, and second for the defense of their own existence. This struggle eroded their strength, divided them, and left them under a cloud of existential anxiety. Nevertheless, the suppressive or violent policies of these regimes do not provide a satisfactory explanation of the limitations of human rights. Analysis of the debates and activism for human rights that emerged in the public and political arenas provides a variety of explanations of the limitation of human rights that reveal the abundance of relationships existing between society and the state that are responsible for limiting the emancipatory potential inherent in human rights. This potential was limited by forces within society itself that on the one hand demanded liberties and on the other hand placed on themselves limitations, thus neutralizing their own ability to pose a consistent and continuing challenge to the power of the state.

The Regimes and Human Rights: Between Co-optation and Exclusion In both Egypt and Jordan, human rights and the social and political forces that embraced these rights had to face the hegemonic ambitions of the ruling regimes. Thus, human rights underwent a process of “colonization” and co-optation, to the point that the potential of human rights to lead to the expansion of liberties was neutralized, allowing the expansion of state control over the citizenry. This strategy stood out in crisis situations, when the demands for expansion of liberties greatly challenged the regimes. In these situations, the regimes took advantage of their political and cultural resources in order to weaken the claims for rights. This strategy cannot be analyzed in isolation from society, since society’s reaction to it has great importance, particularly in view of the fact that strategic choices of forces within society were those that contributed to the neutralization of the demands to expand liberties. The regimes in Egypt and Jordan expressed their commitment to the universal values of human rights and testified to their good intentions through signing and ratifying, in an almost sweeping manner, the international human rights treaties. This commitment was not manifest

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solely in the international arena; these regimes took care to express commitment to human rights in the local political arena as well, thus aiming to secure control over the development of local claims for rights and to set their characteristics and limits. Although the regimes’ rhetoric of commitment signaled a moral victory for the human rights activists as well as a positive change in the official language, its effect was limited. The governments’ commitment to human rights was a political choice designed to provide them with leeway to maneuver between national obligations, local demands for reform, and protection of human rights on one hand, and the demands of conservative forces on the other. In their attempts to limit the potential of the claims for rights, the regimes took care to be vague and flexible in their interpretation of human rights. The governments alternated between expressing commitment to universal positions on human rights, while highlighting the uniqueness of such rights in the Arab and Muslim context, and expressing reservations about anything that deviated or stood contrary to local values or religion, especially with regard to anything related to issues of gender equality, the conception of family, religious freedoms, and freedom of speech. The foremost expression of this maneuvering was manifest in issues related to the freedom of expression, whether political or religious. In both Egypt and Jordan, laws limiting freedom of expression were formulated in a general manner, such as the duty to preserve the country’s reputation, public order, and morality. This formulation of flexible red lines reflected a situation preferred by the governments, since it left the response to claims for rights open to maneuvering and manipulation. The regimes also aimed to co-opt the human rights debate through creating competing human rights organizations and bodies, through which they sought to appease internal and international criticism, and to channel and regulate the implications of the claims for rights. These processes of co-optation and attempts to nationalize and shape the human rights debate were not without their own difficulties, and a comparative analysis of these processes in Egypt and Jordan reveals that the co-optation processes in Jordan were more extensive as well as easier. In the Jordanian model, social relations had a unique role in shaping the nature of the activities of the forces working for the expansion of human rights. The regime’s paternalistic approach toward civil society institutions, including human rights NGOs, and the primarily tribal nature of Jordanian society, with its array of interests and relations with the regime, as well as its patterns of behavior related to practices of dis-

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course and negotiation in conflict management, influenced the success of this regime’s strategy. However, regime type is not the only factor at play here; the human rights debate is not disconnected from struggles over cultural and political identity. In Egypt, the demands to expand human rights emerged as part of a crisis experienced by Egyptian society since the 1960s. The Egyptian regime’s attempts to enforce a hegemonic cultural and political identity on society, which failed to live up to the expectations of the variety of forces in Egyptian society, shaped, to a great extent, the intensive patterns of action of those in the forefront of the demands for expanding human rights. In this respect, the human rights activists were among the opposition forces fighting for their place in the definition of an authentic national identity and for outlining the models upon which Egyptian society would be based. Struggles over the authentic identity were also part of the Jordanian case. However, the regime’s constant attempts to create a synthesis between different approaches and factions, and to present itself as the unifying force bringing together multiple communities and identities, diminished the intensity of the struggle over national identity. This strategy was one of the factors responsible for the less intense human rights activism in Jordan, which crystallized into more pragmatic debate and action compared to the intense, confrontational pattern in Egypt. This difference had a crucial effect on the ability of the Jordanian regime to accommodate claims for rights and control them. Another prominent strategy used by the regimes to cope with the rising demands to comply with human rights was to undermine the legitimacy and credibility of those demanding an expansion of rights and present them as harming the state’s interests, security, or national unity. This strategy stood out in the Egyptian trial prosecuting sociologist Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim. The potential of Ibrahim’s case to bring to the surface a discussion of the issue of human rights violations, especially freedom of expression, was not realized. This was partly due to the strategies implemented by the Egyptian government. Using a widespread public campaign, the government highlighted Ibrahim’s actions as a betrayal of Egypt’s interests and as harmful to national unity, and thus shaped the public debate so as to strengthen nationalistic sentiment. This strategy affected all the forces operating in the public and political arenas, including the human rights activists. Some, like the Islamist opposition, expressed support for the government’s position, while others, such as the domestic human rights NGOs, refrained from providing Ibrahim with moral and political support.

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The reaction of the human rights NGOs in Egypt must be examined first and foremost in the context of their fear of the oppressive reaction of the authorities. That said, this strategic choice was not only a result of a fear of government oppressive measures, which were exemplified by the case of Ibrahim and the Ibn Khaldun Center. Due to the success of the exclusion strategy utilized by the regime, human rights activists were constrained by domestic trends that imposed limitations on their ability to express clear commitment to freedom of expression. Human rights networks, which encountered difficulties in dealing with regime constraints and charges that pursuit of human rights was advancing Western hegemony, found themselves trapped in the rhetoric and values of national interest, national unity, and unity vis-à-vis imperialism. The human rights activists made sure to guarantee that their actions and the issues they promoted did not sharply contradict the prevailing position and norms among the public. As a result, they chose to distance themselves from human rights activists such as Ibrahim, whose opinions and actions in many areas were considered controversial by the Egyptian public. In this case the activists placed their own restrictions on their struggle, thus submitting to the regime’s strategy up to the point that their ability to create and sustain an alternative debate and system of beliefs was greatly weakened. The ability of the regimes’ strategy to restrict the claims for rights was illustrated by comparing this case of Ibrahim to a similar one in the Jordanian political arena: the trial of former member of parliament Tujan al-Faisal. Here too the government presented the case as an example of misusing freedom of expression in order to damage the national interest and national unity. However, in this case the government failed to frame the al-Faisal case in a way that strengthened national sentiments or damaged al-Faisal’s credibility. Contrary to Ibrahim’s case, the trail of al-Faisal was perceived and presented as a clear manifestation of the continuing violation of public liberties by the government and the gradual deterioration of the democratic process in Jordan. The realization of the inherent potential of this case regarding the protection of freedom of expression is explained, among other things, by the fact that al-Faisal was put on trial for offering criticism within the framework of legitimate issues raised by the public. Many people in Jordan agreed with al-Faisal’s criticism of the government. Comparison of the two cases shows that the development of human rights, their limits, and the willingness of various elements in society to support them are indeed shaped by the regimes, which drew the limits of the human rights debate, but also by the supporters of human rights,

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who tended to take decisive action only in cases that were not identified as deviating from the national consensus. In each case this tendency served the regime’s strategy of neutralizing the demands for expansion of rights by presenting these demands as betraying national values and interests. This strategy of neutralizing the domestic human rights demands by presenting them as betraying national values and interests was also manifest in the discussions concerning minority rights. Here too the Egyptian regime implemented a strategy presenting all accusations of discrimination and religious persecution of the Copts as an externally linked conspiracy aimed at violating Egypt’s sovereignty, security, and—above all—its unity. This strategy was successful because it gained the cooperation and backing of the entire political spectrum, including human rights activists, who distanced themselves from any identification with the “minorities” terminology or any policy of persecution with regard to the Copts, and chose to refer to the issue as part of the crisis of Egyptian society, and especially attributed it to phenomena such as the economic crisis, the lack of democracy, and the spread of religion and its infiltration of politics. In this case all the forces operating in the Egyptian arena in favor of expanding rights failed to provide or advance an alternative vision to the hegemonic concept presented by the regime. Furthermore, these activists did not present an alternative to the other elements operating in the public sphere, especially the Islamic ones, whose conceptions are anchored in the notion of dhimmitude, which views the Copts as second-class citizens.

Religion, Politics, and Human Rights The human rights emancipatory potential was restricted not only by government strategies, but also by influential forces in the public space, struggling politically and conceptually for the preservation of Islam’s status in society. The concepts and attitudes promoted by these forces influenced all the forces operating in the political arena. The regimes in Egypt and Jordan, who presented themselves as the guardians of public morality, took care to distance themselves from the Western doctrine of human rights and were careful not to harm Islamic values. On the one hand they came out against religious extremism that did not conform to the nature of true Islam, and even presented themselves as supporting the renewal of the religious discourse and enlight-

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ened interpretations of Islamic law, while on the other hand they kept their silence or cooperated with the suppression of voices that demanded their right to participate in the exegetical process of religion. This choice exposed the regimes to a problem in cases where they had an interest in actually promoting the extension of human rights, such as women’s rights, or in cases where they had no direct interest in enforcing restrictions, as in the freedom of expression of artists and intellectuals. All the same, even in these instances, the regimes chose to restrict liberties. Lacking democratic legitimacy for their rule, they needed the religious legitimacy, even if it was only an outer shell, and thus chose to solidify it rather than promote human rights. The manner in which human rights activists dealt with the place of religion in society was no less complex. Human rights activists took care not to come out against the role of religion. Many activists refrained from seriously discussing the contradictions between sharia and the international norms of human rights, especially in the areas of inequality of the sexes, minority rights, and freedom of expression, leaving the issue cloaked in a veil of vagueness and ambivalence. Human rights activists were mostly concerned with violations of human rights—a product of the practices employed by oppressive regimes and a largely political issue—ignoring other rights that touch upon cultural aspects and require an in-depth look and discussion of the cultural framework that influences the ruling groups. The strategic choice of a minimalist frame of reference, and especially the creation of priorities that promoted one struggle over others, allowed the regimes to manipulate the claims for rights and create social agreements to restrict liberties. But more than that, the choice of a minimalist frame of reference also contributed to the disassociation of human rights from society and to their inability to become a central part of the general and social culture. Human rights activists, who spoke in the name of suffering, failed to formulate their demands for human rights in a manner that aligned with the unique social and economic priorities of the society in which they operated and in a manner that corresponded to the values of most of society, and confined themselves to the reinterpretation of local grievances in the language of international human rights law. Initiatives of the intellectuals and some human rights activists to be involved in the renewal of the religious discourse in order to reveal the contribution of Islamic civilization to the solidification of the values of human rights remained limited and lacked any consistent and practical agenda. The intensive criticism and resistance of Islamist elements that, among other things, objected to the participation of the

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liberal and secular elements in the renewal of the religious discourse due to their lack of qualifications also weakened this attempt and hindered its realization. This struggle between, on the one hand, the religious establishment and Islamists claiming a monopoly over the exegetical process of religion, and on the other hand the elements struggling for their right to participate in that process, was strikingly manifest in the discussions of freedom of expression and women’s rights. Freedom of expression is limited by the Islamist forces, who charge with apostasy anyone who expresses a position perceived as deviating from the orthodox and conservative conceptions. An examination of the apostasy debate in Egypt and Jordan shows that the issue at stake is not a reflection of the struggle between those who seek a “civil” political order and those who demand a greater public role for religion. The matter is often more complex, and a variety of positions exist between these polar positions, which in both countries reflect an understanding that freedom of expression on issues of religion and morality is not absolute and that the implementation of public responsibility is appropriate. The heart of the controversy lies in the question: Who has the authority to decide when the boundaries of freedom of expression have been crossed? This controversy reflects the power struggles that the Islamist forces engage in among themselves and with other forces wishing to participate in the exegetical process, as well their attempt to protect their status, authority, and sovereignty. The attitude of elements in the Islamist faction toward freedom of expression regarding religious issues should be examined not only in relation to their own particularistic conceptions of freedom of expression, but also in the context of their relationship with the authorities. The utilization of the apostasy charges by the Islamist opposition circles, and their self-representation as liberating the people from apostasy and moral decadence, constituted a powerful tool with which they indirectly expressed opposition stances by casting doubt on the legitimacy of the government, whose failure to cope with authors and intellectuals cast doubt on its commitment to Islam and the desires and wishes of the masses. Emphasizing the role of the Islamist faction in raising charges of apostasy does not mean that the regimes were passive elements. The policies that they shaped had an important part in determining the scope of the phenomenon. As the influence of the Islamists grew in Egypt and Jordan, the regimes desired to strengthen their image as legitimate Islamic governments. The cooperation of the regimes with the charges

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of apostasy was a means to keep those charges under control and prevent them from being used by the Islamist elements. Human rights activists and the forces working for the expansion of liberties recognized the crucial role of Islamic conceptions and Islamist elements as a source of restrictions upon freedom of expression and creativity. All the same, they chose not to confront the religious interpretations and did not engage in an in-depth discussion of the essence of these charges and even did not engage in the same process of negotiation and renewal that some of them saw as a precondition for determining the limits of freedom of expression in every society, in every given period. Instead, they chose to stress the role of the state and its utilization of religion to preserve its power and grip on society. The choice not to deal directly with the charges of apostasy also partly stems from their unique conception of freedom of expression. Many human rights activists believe that on issues of religion and culture there is room for liberty with responsibility. The unique characteristics of their society and the need for cultural preservation in the face of Western hegemony turn freedom of expression, in their view, into more of a public responsibility and less of a personal liberty. In this respect, the discussion of freedom of expression in the Middle East is not similar to that held in the West. In the cases of Egypt and Jordan, even the liberal-secular forces and especially the human rights activists who referred to freedom of expression according to international standards did not exclude themselves from the circle of religious faith and did not decisively speak out in the name of secularity. In Egypt, the struggle of the intellectuals was not for complete freedom of expression but rather against their exclusion from the discussions that had crucial implications for shaping the country’s cultural identity. In this respect the struggle not only was against the state, which enabled restriction of freedom of expression, but also was part of the power struggles that the secular forces were conducting with the conservative Islamist faction. Therein lies the difference between the broad apostasy debate that developed in Egypt and the one developed in Jordan, which was limited in scope, intensity, and impact on the public arena. The discussion of apostasy charges against artists and journalists in the Jordanian public arena made no attempt to redefine or undermine the boundaries of the debate on issues concerning religious symbols. More important, in contrast to the Egyptian case, charges of apostasy in Jordan were not presented as a political problem related to the role of the state and its cynical use of religion to preserve its power over society. These charges also were not exploited to emphasize the need for a “civil” political order.

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These differences in the Jordanian cases are a product of the unique characteristics of Jordanian state and society, the political culture characterizing state-society relations in Jordan, and even the particular organizational and conceptual religious-Islamic experience in Jordan. In this context too the argument that the struggle over collective identity was important in determining the nature of the struggle for rights is valid. As opposed to the Egyptian case, the deepest identity fissures in Jordan are less focused on the relations between state and religion. The fact that Jordan lacked fierce and even violent conflict over religion and state diminished the intensity of this debate and the tendency of various elements to use it or defend those perceived as apostates. These differences in the concept of the role of religion in the state are related to the use that each regime made of it in order to legitimize its rule, and especially the way in which this policy was perceived by opposition elements in the country. The need of the secular Egyptian regime for religious legitimacy of its rule was manifest in the role and authority it granted to al-Azhar. Granting broad authority to this institute contributed to the creation of an anti-intellectual atmosphere and to the strengthening of the resistance of the secular and liberal faction, which feared its loss of status as well as the loss of the civil character of the state. Contrary to this, the Jordanian regime enjoys greater religious legitimacy. In addition, the relationship of the Islamist forces with the regime had a crucial effect on the difference in the intensity of the debate. The oppression of the Islamist movement in Egypt strengthened the tendency of the Islamists to use charges of apostasy as an indirect means to harass the regime by challenging its authority as guardian of social morality. The Muslim Brotherhood movement in Jordan was in less need of such tactics, as the history of relations between the Jordanian regime and the Islamist movement was less antagonistic and characterized by mutual avoidance of a head-on confrontation. These arguments are also relevant with regard to the role of religious conceptions in the issue of minority rights. Despite the link in Egypt between religious conceptions and the discrimination against the Coptic minority, this link was denied by all the elements operating in the political and public spaces. Also, in this case, most human rights NGOs in Egypt preferred not to directly address the Islamic interpretations or the influential position of the Islamist elements toward minorities. This was a conscious choice that bypassed coping with the religious interpretations and made do with calls for solidifying a civil state within which the problems of all the citizens of Egypt would be solved, including those of religious minorities. Thus, the human rights activists

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and the secular elements failed to provide an alternative to the conceptions of other elements in the public sphere, especially the Islamist forces and their conceptions anchored in the notion of ahl al-dhimma, which views the Copts as second-class citizens and thus indirectly assisted in reproducing the hegemonic position. Furthermore, the choice not to engage with the role of religion diminished the ability of the human rights movement to create an alternative agenda that would continuously challenge the regime and weaken its ability to form agreements with the populace. The role of religion was also prominent with regard to the restrictions placed on expansion of women’s rights. The discrimination against women in personal status laws not only was related to the government but also was tightly linked to other forces that contributed to the preservation of a legislative system based on sharia, some of them possessing greater influence than the state. The campaign promoting amendments to the personal status laws, which would have granted women the right of divorce without the need to prove harm, had identical characteristics in Egypt and Jordan, both with regard to the strategies used by those leading the changes in legislation and with respect to the arguments raised against them. In this case both governments headed a coalition of forces, including women’s organizations, that worked to change the personal status laws. However, neither of the two governments promoted radical change, as they were not interested in estranging conservative sectors that could potentially support them, nor were they interested in undermining their own image as preservers of religious values. Therefore, the proposed amendments to the personal status laws dealt with procedures and did not tackle the innate inequality of the divorce arrangements. In addition, the forces supporting the change made a strategic choice to conduct their struggle within the framework of local values and religion, while suppressing any reference to international norms of women’s rights. This strategy, which particularly characterized the activities of the women’s organizations, expressed recognition of the fact that their success in creating change depended upon the relation between their demands and the specific cultural context of their society. However, the choice proved to be burdened with limitations, not because the liberties gained did not comply with universal standards of human rights, but because these liberties did not meet their own expectations and were perceived by them only as one step on the path toward their future liberation. Furthermore, in both Egypt and Jordan, this strategy, self-restricted to changes within the religious legal exegesis, did not diminish the

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broad resistance aroused in the public and political arenas, among Islamists and other conservative forces, that focused on the contradiction between the proposed legislation and sharia, and on damage to the family as an institution. This resistance proves that claims for rights that rely only on local sources confine themselves to boundaries that women may not be able to overcome. A reliance solely on the Quran and Hadith limited the ability of women to change the troublesome norms regarding the status of women within Islam, since this strategy relied on the power of the moderate Islamists and was dependent upon the limited space available for alternative interpretations and breaking up the monopoly of religious circles over religious interpretation. Therefore, women increasingly depended on the state for the expansion of their rights. The creation of a coalition with the state for the purpose of changing the personal status laws limited their demands for liberty, exposed them to co-optation by the government, and neutralized any criticism against the government on the part of the women’s organizations. In this context the expansion of women’s rights was entirely contingent upon the risks and concessions the government was willing to incur in the political arena. The amendments to the personal status laws made by the Egyptian government served its interests internally as well as externally. Contrary to this, in the Jordanian case, similar amendments would have exacted a political price that the regime was unprepared to pay. In the latter case, women’s rights were sacrificed for political stability.

Human Rights and the West The dominant role of the West in developing the conception of human rights also constituted one of the primary factors that made it difficult to disseminate human rights in the local communities. The link made in the local arena between Western conceptions and imperialism, which was perceived as threatening the community with loss of identity, was a constitutive factor though not an exclusive one. The double standards displayed by Western states regarding the treatment of human rights violations added to and consolidated the existing distrust regarding the concept of human rights. Due to their dependency on the West, the regimes in Egypt and Jordan utilized a nationalistic orientation hostile to the West in order to restrict and besiege the human rights debate, politically and culturally. The issue of foreign funding was a prominent target. In Egypt the issue

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of foreign funding was the main instrument used by the government to malign the motives of the human rights NGOs. Foreign funding was presented as a means for harming national unity and for the penetration of Western control and Western values, which are hostile to ArabIslamic civilization and culture. In Jordan, too, most of the attacks against the human rights NGOs, including women’s rights organizations and research institutes working to promote democracy, were focused on the issue of foreign funding. However, the attack was led mostly by NGOs working in the public and political sphere, headed by the Islamist forces, who demanded tighter supervision of the funding of these organizations, which were described as damaging the national sovereignty of Jordanian society. All the forces competing for their place in the political and public arena expressed positions hostile to the West and attacked its influence on the local society and culture. This approach was an important way of fortifying their status as forces expressing an authentic national identity. Human rights NGOs that were supported morally and financially by Western bodies also strove to avoid being identified with the West and its policies. The organizations that were identified as traitors and Western agents had to adopt similar strategies in the hope of strengthening public legitimacy for their activities. Such activists made an effort to establish a distinction between the international norms of human rights and the double standard that the West, and especially the United States, displayed toward these norms. The issue did not remain at the level of declarations. Many activists who wished to prove that the interests of the nation were dear to them adopted nationalistic goals aimed, among other things, against the West, with the most prominent example being the activities of the human rights NGOs in Egypt against the US war in Iraq. The link to the West was present in different levels in every issue raised in public discussions and in most cases it had a crucial effect on limiting the potential inherent in human rights to challenge the existing political and social order characterized by the violation of human rights. This link was the basis for the lack of support for Ibrahim’s right to freedom of expression. The link that the United States made between halting additional US aid and the outcome of his sentencing was used by the Egyptian regime to strengthen nationalistic sentiment and led to an attack on the US response by a variety of elements who perceived that response as constituting an unwarranted interference in Egypt’s internal affairs and a violation of its sovereignty. Even opposition forces, such as the Muslim Brotherhood, whose members were them-

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selves victims of the arbitrariness of the security court system, defended the position of the Egyptian government and declared their total solidarity with the government in its effort to repel the foreigners. This trend was also strengthened by the activists in the human rights movement in Egypt, who chose in this case to adopt the dominant position in Egypt and expressed opposition to the US pressure. This reaction by the human rights activists reflected their problematic position. In this case, as in others, they were afraid to express positions that would link them to Western influence and exacerbate their image as Western agents. But no less important, their position on this issue proves once again that the human rights activists are an inseparable part of the local culture and are influenced by it. In this case the culture of anticolonialism and hostility toward any foreign, Western involvement in the region had an important part in shaping their reserved position. The link to the West as restricting and restraining local discussions regarding human rights reappeared in Egypt when the country was dealing with minority rights, specifically in the context of the Coptic minority. External involvement, whether international or by Coptic immigrant communities living in Western states, did not necessarily serve to expose the discrimination suffered by the Copts in Egypt, nor promote its recognition. On the contrary, this involvement provided the regime with a means to divert the discussion away from the problems of the Copts, closing the ranks around the government and creating a broad consensus that worked against any attempt to develop an open discussion regarding the rights of religious minorities. Similar to the Ibrahim case, elements from the entire Egyptian political spectrum cooperated, consciously or not, with the defensive strategy promoted by the regime. Every one of these forces, each for its own reasons, expressed commitment to protect the country from political and cultural aggression by the West and in doing so capitulated to the regime’s manipulations and failed to provide an alternative to the discussion that undermined the expansion of civil and political liberties, such as minority rights. This link to the West also limited the expansion of women’s rights and was manifest in the attempts to change the personal status laws. Despite the enormous efforts invested by the formulators of the proposed reform to these laws to disassociate them from imported ideas and completely connect then with sharia, the opponents of the reform, who were not limited to the Islamic faction, emphasized that the reform was not a product of the needs of the local population, but rather a product of Western pressures. The struggle against the reform was presented as one in a series of such struggles that Arabs were engaged in against

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globalization and the American-Zionist control mechanism, which was characterized as laying down conditions and restrictions on Arab social life, penetrating their lives, and establishing their dependency upon the West. In the Egyptian case, such arguments had an effect on the limited nature of the legislative reform, while in the Jordanian case they brought about its complete failure. In conclusion, the weakness of human rights in Egypt and Jordan as a source of political change lies in a variety of factors, especially the power of the states to suppress demands for human rights using legal and violent means. All the same, the analysis of the debates and actions that developed in Egypt and Jordan shows that the explanations focusing on the state are central but do not fully reflect reality. The limitations imposed upon the development of human rights were not the sole preserve of the regimes, and they were also to be found in the various relations existing between the state and political and social forces. The sophisticated methods used by the regimes to limit the debate of human rights, such as co-optation, exclusion, and de-legitimization, were not implemented in a void; rather they represented an exploitation and channeling of the prevailing values and tendencies of society. In this context the religious conceptions, conservative values, or the concept of the Western “Other” dominating these societies served the regimes to establish social agreements regarding the limitation of liberties. This context also made the forces struggling to expand liberties impose selflimitations on the issues they were promoting, thus limiting their power and diluting the opposition to hegemonic positions and their ability to generate an alternative agenda that would continuously challenge the regime. The wave of antiauthoritarian protests and mass uprisings that began in the Arab world in December 2010 presented new opportunities for the human rights activists and the forces wishing to expand the scope of human rights. First and foremost, these events broke down the illusion of regime invulnerability and thus also the barriers of fear that stood in the way of action for human rights. These events also carry the potential to loosen the connection that was made in the local arenas between human rights and Western interests. The claims for rights that were expressed during the uprisings reflected the local will and therefore can undermine any future attempts to automatically present claims to exercise freedoms as a product of external pressures seeking to harm the integrity and the strength of society. Nevertheless, challenges for the expansion of human rights still abound. Since the repressive political, economic, and social structures

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of power have not yet been removed, the authoritarian strategies that blocked the expansion of rights in the past can be expected to pose challenges to any future action for rights. Equally important, the removal of a repressive regime does not guarantee social agreement concerning the essence of freedom and justice. The mass uprisings even further exposed the limitations of the minimalist framework of human rights in the local arenas. Indeed, human rights became part of the language of a variety of elements in the political and social arena, who learned to use it as powerful tool in their demands for reform. However, these forces have not developed an overall vision of human rights. To some of them, human rights served as a largely sporadic strategy of legitimizing their struggle against authoritarian rule. Especially, they did not turn their attention to society as a victim of human rights violations and—more importantly—as responsible for human rights violations. The political environment has changed significantly with regard to society’s expectations from the state, but attention has not been directed to concepts, values, and forces within society and their role in upholding human rights. The Arab Spring has also exposed the limitations of the propagation and internalization of norms supporting human rights in the local arena and highlighted the diverse interpretations existing in society regarding concepts such as liberty, equality, and social justice. At the time of this writing, it seems that Jordan, unlike its neighbors, has managed to avoid the path of the revolutionary storm. As in other states, the limited uprisings did expose in a more blatant manner the frustration and bitterness felt by the citizenry and its demands for meaningful reform that will improve their life conditions and secure their rights. Nevertheless, it seems most Jordanians remain strongly in favor of reform rather than full regime change. The continued civil war in Syria and the instability and violence in Egypt, Tunisia, and Libya have dulled the enthusiasm of Jordanians for speedy reform, especially the East Jordanians, who compose the majority of prodemocracy and proreform demonstrators, allowing King Abdallah to continue, for now, to suppress these claims and to continue with his conservative policy. In contrast, Egypt’s revolution has passed through multiple phases since the overthrow of Mubarak in February 2011. In July 2013, exactly one year after Egyptians voted in Muslim Brotherhood leader Mohammad Morsi as their first-ever democratically elected president, mass demonstrations filled central Cairo and town squares across Egypt, leading to his removal under the auspices of the army. One year after the counterrevolution that led to the removal of President Morsi, Egypt

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chose as its president former military chief Abdul Fattah al-Sisi, who reflects in his perceptions and attitudes the exact same regime that Egypt renounced in the previous revolution of January 2011. Although Egyptians welcomed the removal of Mubarak and hoped for a new era in which their human rights would be respected, such change did not materialize. Human rights since then have mirrored the history of violations of basic freedoms that characterized Mubarak’s rule and were criticized by the international community. Violations of fundamental human rights such as freedom of expression, information, assembly, and association, as well as the rights to life, physical integrity, and a fair trial, continue to be violated systematically. Since Morsi’s removal from power and the election of al-Sisi, Egypt’s human rights environment has continued to deteriorate. Al-Sisi continues to consolidate power through repressive and familiar methods. His young regime has already been marked by a continued clampdown on journalists, a repressive protest law, and torture and abuse in prisons that are even worse than during the days of former president Mubarak. The varying effects of the uprisings in Egypt and Jordan, but also in Tunisia, Libya, and Yemen, are, among other things, an expression of patterns of action of the opposition and the political culture unique to each country. As I have shown throughout the book, these differences were manifest in the very essence of the demands for rights and the manner in which the struggles for their realization were implemented. These differences are what shaped an intensive struggle in Egypt, as opposed to a moderate and less combative one in Jordan, and they may also affect the future of these states following the Arab Spring. Hopes for a transition to stable democratic systems were shattered in the face of a reality characterized by a lack of agreement on the new constitutions and the speed of reform. In Egypt and Tunisia in particular, society divided itself into Islamist and secular camps that fought over the role of Islam in politics and society. This reality testifies to one of the challenges facing the forces that since the 1990s have stood at the forefront of the social struggle for expanding liberties. These forces, whose vision regarding the character of the state is utterly different from that of the Islamists, will be required to adopt an approach based on negotiation with the local community and to develop a comprehensive framework of rights that is related to the local social and political structures and needs and is justified in cultural terms. This does not mean abandoning the universal framework and its values. Claims for rights based solely on local sources restrict themselves within narrow boundaries and will make it

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difficult to change the problematic norms regarding human rights. Nevertheless, one cannot ignore the fact that human rights ideas, if they are to be adopted, must be framed in indigenous cultural categories. Human rights activists should present their initiatives and actions in cultural terms that will be acceptable to larger segments of their societies. As part of these efforts, human rights activists will need to address a series of issues that are not exclusively related to the oppressive patterns of behavior of the regimes, and that, in previous decades, most of them chose not to face. Among other things, they will have to further clarify their positions regarding the status of religion in the state, the issue of minorities, and the limits of freedom of expression. They must abandon the defensive posture toward Islam and, worse, their position ignoring Islam and its role in forming the negative attitude toward liberties. The approach maintaining that there is no inherent contradiction between the dominance of religion and tradition in the public and political spheres and values of equality and liberty has turned out to be insufficient. This struggle will not be easy and its fruits will not ripen swiftly. Struggles over power and culture are not resolved conclusively or unequivocally. Nevertheless, making do with a pursuit of human rights that relies solely on international law will leave the pursuers in elitist enclaves, disassociated from their own societies. Furthermore, shunning this need has the potential to delay and even thwart the prolonged and gradual struggle to form a democratic regime that respects human liberties.

Acronyms

ACHRS AHRLA ANHRI AOHR CDFJ CEDAW CHRLA CIHRS ECESR EIPR EOHR EOWR GFJW HMLC IAF INGO JNCW JSCR JSHR JNCW NCHR NCHR NCW NDP

Amman Center for Human Rights Studies Association for Human Rights Legal Aid (Egypt) Arab Network for Human Rights Information Arab Organization of Human Rights Center for Defending the Freedom of Journalists (Jordan) Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (United Nations) Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (Egypt) Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights Egyptian Organization for Human Rights Egyptian Organization for Women’s Rights General Federation of Jordanian Women Hisham Mubarak Law Center Islamic Action Front (Jordan) international nongovernmental organization Jordanian National Commission for Women Jordanian Society for Citizens Rights Jordanian Society for Human Rights Jordanian National Commission for Women National Center for Human Rights (Jordan) National Council for Human Rights (Egypt) National Council for Women (Egypt) National Democratic Party (Egypt)

261

262 NGO RONGO UDHR USCIRF

Acronyms

nongovernmental organization royal nongovernmental organization Universal Declaration of Human Rights (United Nations) US Commission on International Religious Freedom

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Index

Abd al-Fatah, Nabil, 45, 46, 178 ‘Abd al-Jawad, Jamal, 109(n43) ‘Abd al-Rahman, Reda, 119 Abd al-Raziq, Hussein, 72(n118) Abu al-Futuh, ‘Abd al-Mun‘im, 129 Abu al-Majd, Ahmad Kamal, 57, 60 Abu-Ragheb, ‘Ali, 94, 96–98, 101, 103, 222 Abu Sa‘ada, Hafez, 57, 91–92, 108(n31), 109(n48), 179 Abu Zayd, Nasr Hamid, 117, 118, 120, 134, 153(n55) ACHRS. See Amman Center for Human Rights Studies al-‘Adli, Habib, 164 Al-‘Afif, al-Baqir, 10 ahl al-dhimma (dhimmi), 172–174, 176, 182, 253 AHRLA. See Association for Human Rights Legal Aid ‘Akif, Mahdi, 175 ‘Ali, Khalid, 27 Al-‘Amal party, 210, 212 Amman Center for Human Rights Studies (ACHRS), 29, 30, 41, 71(n108) Amnesty International, 21 ANHRI. See Arab Network for Human Rights Information AOHR. See Arab Organization of Human Rights AOHR-Jordan. See Arab Organization for Human Rights in Jordan

Apostasy: al-Azhar and, 124–126; charges in Egypt, 116–120; charges in Jordan, 136–138; and collective identity, 252; Egyptian regime attitude toward, 120–124, 148–149, 250; exploitation of, 251–252; of human rights activists and, 130, 136, 144–147, 251; in Islam, 111(n77), 115, 176; Islamist debate 126–129, 149, 250; Jordanian regime attitude toward, 139–142, 148–149, 250; and legislation in Egypt, 120–121; and legislation in Jordan, 138–140; Muslim Brotherhood in Jordan and, 142–144, 149, 250; National Democratic Party and, 123; and Tujan al-Faisal, 96. See also Freedom of expression Arab Human Development Report, 201 Arab Center for the Independence of the Judiciary, 108(n29) Arab League, 17, 18 Arab Network for Human Rights Information (ANHRI), 130, 131 Arab Organization of Human Rights (AOHR), 20, 28, 63(n17), 179 Arab Organization for Human Rights in Jordan (AOHR-Jordan), 28, 41, 241(n105); and National Center for Human Rights, 60–61; and Tujan alFaisal, 101, 112(n102); and religious minorities, 189 Arab Lawyers Unions, 63(n15)

281

282

Index

Arab revival (al-nahda), 20 Arab Spring, 1–3, 12, 257–260 ‘Aref, Jalal, 57 Al-‘Aryan, ‘Issam, 90 Association for Human Rights Legal Aid (AHRLA), 31, 179–180 Authoritarian pluralism, 5, 42 Al-‘Awwa, Muhammad Salim, 126, 173 Al-Azhar, 129, 148, 224, 237(n36), 252; and apostasy, 117, 119, 124–126, 129, 131, 148, 252; and confiscation policy, 123–126; and human rights NGOs, 131; Islamic Research Academy, 118, 125, 150(n9), 207, 209, 219; sheikh of, 119, 125, 207, 212, 220; Ulama Front, 126 Ba‘ath party, 47 al-Badri, Muhammad, 109(n43) Baha’is, 28, 181 Bedouins, 42; in Sinai, 59 Al-Bilad, 99, 100 Boutros-Ghali, Boutros, 57 Al-Bura‘i, Najad, 23, 85, 155(n84) Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies (CIHRS), 21, 31; conferences, 38, 70(n102), 110(n61), 131, 181; and Muslim-Christian relations, 180–182; and renewal of religious discourse, 39, 135–136; and Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, 108(n29). See also Bahy alDin Hassan Casablanca Declaration, 21 CDFJ. See Center for Defending the Freedom of Journalists CEDAW. See Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women Center for Defending the Freedom of Journalists (CDFJ), 29, 69(n80), 71(n108), 146 Center for Egyptian Women’s Legal Assistance, 25 Center for Human Rights Legal Aid (CHRLA), 25, 31 Christians, 37, 170, 171; government attitude toward, 163, 169; and human rights activists, 179, 180, 182; intercommunal confrontations, 119, 162, 165, 177–178, 180; and Islamist

debate, 174, 176; in Jordan, 187–190; population, 160; rights, 161; and US involvement, 183, 184. See also Coptic minority; Copts CHRLA. See Center for Human Rights Legal Aid CIHRS. See Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies Circassian, 94, 95, 188 Civil state (al-dawla al-madaniyya), 116, 131, 150(n4), 181, 197(n96), 252 Cold War, 18, 21 Colonialism, 18, 92, 94, 183, 210; anticolonialist rhetoric, 93 Committee for Political Prisoners, 28 Committee for the Protection of Democratic Liberties in Jordan, 28 Communist party (Jordan) 47, 100 Constitution, 18, 127, 138, 204, 259; amendments of, 59, 83; and human rights NGOs, 46, 135; and freedom of expression, 120–121, 139; and religious minorities, 160, 189; and sharia, 170, 176, 181, 188; and women’s rights, 201, 217, 222, 224, 226 Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), 206, 214–215, 224, 226 Coptic diaspora, 171. See also Copts, expatriates Coptic minority: demands, 167; discrimination, 160, 252; Egypt’s policy toward, 163, 164, 166, 190, 206; external involvement, 182, 186, 256; human rights NGOs’ approach toward, 178, 180, 181; Ibrahim position toward, 83, 84–85, 86, 93; Islamists and, 172–175; and National Council for Human Rights, 55; opposition forces and, 177–178; persecution, 161, 163, 166–169, 171– 172, 177–179, 184, 186, 248. See also Christians; Copts Copts, 11, 160; and church, 168–169; expatriates 164, 170, 171, 182, 184, 186; discrimination, 161–162; and family law, 205; human rights NGOs and, 178–182; identity, 166–167; Islamist debate and, 172–174;

Index

Muslim Brotherhood and, 174–176; opposition forces and, 177–178; regime attitude, 163–166, 248; perceptions, 168–172; Sa‘ad Ibrahim position toward, 83, 84, 86, 105, 253; violent attacks against, 162–165, 168–169; Western protection, 182, 184–186, 256. See also Christians; Coptic minority Cultural relativism, 10, 15(n15), 37–38 Cultural rights, 25, 27, 28 Al-Dakhla, Hani, 77(n192), 112(n100) da‘wa, 129 Democracy, 81–82, 87 ECESR. See Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights Economic rights, 2, 173; and human rights NGOs, 26; Nasserite doctrine, 18, 19; and women’s rights, 205, 213, 228 Egyptian Center for Children’s Rights, 26 Egyptian Center for Economic and Social Rights (ECESR), 27 Egyptian Center for Housing Rights, 26 Egyptian Center for Women’s Rights, 215 Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), 28, 180–181 Egyptian Movement for Change (Kifaya), 12(n2), 168 Egyptian Organization for Human Rights (EOHR): establishment of, 23–24; and freedom of expression, 125, 131, 134; attitude toward foreign involvement, 185; legal status, 31; and Muslim-Christian relations 179– 180; and political parties, 46; reports, 125, 131, 134, 179, 180; and Sa‘ad alDin Ibrahim’s trial, 87, 88, 108(n29) EIPR. See Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights Emergency laws (Egypt), 26, 45–46, 58– 59, 130, 161, 204. See also Temporary laws (Jordan) EOHR. See Egyptian Organization for Human Rights Europe, 44, 84, 91; colonialism, 18, 34 Ezzat, Hiba Ra’uf, 218

283

Al-Faisal, Tujan: and external pressures, 105; and freedom of expression, 98– 99, 104, 106, 247; and government corruption, 96, 97, 102, 103; support for, 99–103; trial, 94–95; women activists and, 100–101 Al-Fa‘uri, Nawal, 227 Freedom of expression: al-Azhar and, 124, 125; and charges of apostasy, 119; in constitutions and legislation, 121, 138–140, 245; Egyptian regime and, 54, 79, 120, 122–123; human rights activists and, 39, 130–136, 144–147, 181, 249, 251, 260; Islamic Action Front and, 50; and identity, 148; and international covenants, 115; Islamists and, 126–128, 129, 142– 144, 250; Jordanian regime attitude toward, 53, 54, 79, 102, 140–142; and liberalization process, 4; National Center for Human Rights and, 61; National Democratic Party and, 52, 123; political parties and, 45, 47; and religious issues, 122; and Sa‘ad alDin Ibrahim’s trial, 93, 104, 246, 247, 255; and Tujan al-Faisal’s trial, 96, 98–102, 105, 247 Freedom of religion, 28, 50, 161, 175, 180, 185 Freedom of the press, 28, 45, 59, 102, 139, 144, 146 Foreign funding, 230, 254; and human rights NGOs, 34–35, 69(nn80, 81), 254–255; and legislation in Egypt, 30; and Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim’s trial 81, 87–88, 93, 105 Fuda, Faraj, 117, 136, 153(n49) General Federation of Jordanian Women (GFJW), 225, 226, 227 GFJW. See General Federation of Jordanian Women Habib, Muhammad, 175–176 Habi Center for Environmental Rights, 26 Hadith, 38, 48, 124, 151(n23), 220, 254 Haidar, Haidar, 72(n123), 133 Hamid, ‘Alaa, 117 Hanafi, Hassan, 39, 126 Al-Hashd party, 100

284

Index

Hassan, Bahy al-Din: and Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim’s trial, 82, 109(n37); and the National Council for Human Rights, 57, 59–60, 165; and political rights, 26, 39; and religious minorities, 165; and the universality of human rights, 37; and US policy, 91. See also Cairo Institute for Human Rights Studies Hatata, Sherif, 212 Hawamda, Mousa, 137, 139, 140, 141, 143, 145, 155(n 91) Hijazi, ‘Abd al-Mu‘ti, 87, 119, 123 Hisba, 118 Hisham Mubarak Law Center (HMLC), 27, 31, 36, 45, 108(n29) HMLC. See Hisham Mubarak Law Center Al-Hroub, Taj al-Din, 99, 100 Human Rights Center for the Assistance of Prisoners, 108(n29) Human rights conventions, 17, 116, 161; and Arab organizations for human rights, 21, 24, 36, 132, 135; and political parties, 44–45, 47; regimes’ attitudes toward, 53–54, 206, 244– 245. See also International human rights regime Human Rights Watch, 21 Al-Husni, Farouq, 123 Hussein, King, 52, 53, 96, 104 Huwaidi, Fahmi, 65(n33), 128, 174, 180 IAF. See Islamic Action Front Ibn Khaldun Center for Development Studies, 32, 69(n80), 80–82, 84, 106(n2), 247 Ibrahim, Sa‘ad al-Din, 11; foreign funding, 87, 93, 104, 105; freedom of expression, 82, 87, 247; human rights activists and, 85–88, 91–94, 247; and Israel, 84, 85; Muslim Brotherhood and, 90–91; and parliamentary elections, 82, 86; political parties and, 90; regime strategy toward, 83–84, 87–88, 92, 93, 102, 246–247; and religious minorities (Copts), 82, 83, 84, 86, 189; role of Islam, 84; trial, 31, 80–81; US financial aid, 90–91, 255; US involvement, 89–92, 105 ijtihad, 151(n23); al-Azhar and, 125, 131; governments and, 122, 124,

237(n29); Islamists and, 176; and women’s rights, 211, 216, 217, 233 ‘Imara, Muhammad, 118, 127–128, 129, 173–174 International human rights regime, 21, 37, 47, 255; law, 38, 49, 249; minority rights, 176; norms and principles, 21, 36, 39, 48, 54, 55, 56, 58, 86, 249, 255; standards, 21, 160; women’s rights, 207, 215, 220, 227, 229, 253. See also Human rights conventions Iraq, 89, 105; support of, 94, 95, 100, 103; War, 36, 92, 141, 186, 230, 255 ‘Isa, Ibrahim, 87 Al-Islah party, 49 Islamic Action Front (IAF), 50; and charges of apostasy, 137, 141, 142– 143; and women’s rights, 222, 227–229, 231 Islamic civilization, 35, 255 Islamic law, 8, 11, 249; charges of apostasy, 118, 121, 127; and Coptic minority, 83, 161, 167; and human rights activists, 37, 181; and legislation, 160; and women’s rights, 203, 207, 214, 224, 226, 227. See also Sharia Israel, 20, 145, 184; and Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim, 84; normalization with, 85– 86, 94, 96, 105, 123; and expatriate Copts, 164; and United States, 89, 91, 183, 186 ‘Issa, Salah, 132 Al-Jabali, Tahani, 215, 219 Al-Jama‘a al-Islamiyya, 117, 196(n84) Al-Jazeera, 84, 94 Jews, 163, 174; lobby, 184. See also Zionism JNCW. See Jordanian National Commission for Women Jordan First (al-Urdun Awalan), 53 Jordanian Alliance for Civil Society Organizations, 29, 67(nn59, 60) Jordanian Democratic People’s Party, 47 Jordanian National Commission for Women (JNCW), 225–227 Jordanian Press Association, 69(nn80, 83) Jordanian Society for Citizens Rights (JSCR), 29, 32, 41, 60, 68(n71),

Index

241(n105); and Tujan al-Faisal, 101, 112(n102) Jordanian Society for Human Rights (JSHR), 29, 60, 101, 112(n102) Jordanian Women’s Association, 101 Jordanian Woman’s Union, 226, 227, 228 JSCR. See Jordanian Society for Citizens Rights JSHR. See Jordanian Society for Human Rights al-jumlukiyya, 83 Kabariti, ‘Abd al-Karim, 99 Khader, Asma, 61, 223 Khalidi, Hashem, 98 khul‘, 204, 205, 208–209, 211, 228, 229, 231 King Abdullah II, 52–53, 258; and economic development, 97; and freedom of expression, 98, 102, 140– 142; and minorities, 188; and women’s rights, 223, 225 Kifaya. See Egyptian Movement for Change Land Center for Human Rights, 25, 26, 31 Liberalization, 4, 7, 43, 51–53; civil society–state relations, 30; deliberalization, 4, 22–23; and establishment of human rights NGOs, 22–23, 28; and minority rights, 159, 165; political parties and, 47; and women’s rights, 202 Mahalla al-Kubra, 12(n2) Maher, Ahmed, 89 Mahfuz, Najib, 117, 136, 150(n7) Al-Majd, 98 Mansour, Nidal, 69(nn80, 83) Marqus Samir, 169 Al-Mawdudi, Abu A‘la, 126 Minority rights, 11; Egyptian regime attitude toward, 83, 248; and implications of foreign involvement, 183, 256; freedom of expression and, 133; and human rights activists, 39, 135, 165, 179, 181, 190, 249; Islamists and, 50, 172–176; in Jordan, 160, 189; liberalization process and,

285

159; Sa‘ad al-Din Ibrahim and, 82. See also Coptic minority Mizan Law Group for Human Rights, 29, 69(n80) Mubarak, Hosni, 11, 46, 258–259; and Coptic minority, 163, 168–170; criticism directed toward, 119; Egyptian identity, 42, 187; and freedom of expression, 82, 87; liberalization, 22, 30–31, 51; and personal status laws, 204, 210; and United States, 185–186; and Sa‘ad alDin Ibrahim’s trial, 83; and sectarian conflict, 162 Muslim Brotherhood, 60; and apostasy, 138, 142, 143, 144; and al-Azhar, 129; commitment to human rights 49, 50; in Jordan, 50, 141, 148, 149, 232, 252; and minority rights, 174–176 ; and United States, 90–91; and alWasat party, 176 Nadim Center for Rehabilitation of Victims of Violence, 46, 108(n29) An-Na‘im, Abdullahi, 8, 172, 216 Nakhla, Mamdouh, 170–171 Al-Naqqash Farida, 71(n106), 148, 177, 217 Al-Nasser, Gamal Abdul, 42, 62(n10), 82, 150(n7), 203 Nasserite: activists, 45–46; doctrine, 19; party, 46, 90, 208–209 National Center for Human Rights (NCHR) (Jordan), 41, 60–61, 189 National Committee for Women’s Affairs (Jordan), 53 National Council for Human Rights (NCHR) (Egypt), 52, 57–60; and Copts, 165–166 National Democratic Party (NDP), 46, 51–52, 57, 123; and Coptic minority, 163–164 National Council for Women (NCW) (Egypt), 206, 214 NCHR. See National Center for Human Rights NCHR. See National Council for Human Rights NCW. See National Council for Women NDP. See National Democratic Party New Women’s Research Center, 31

286

Index

Palestinians: 184, 186; collective rights, 17; in Jordan, 42–43, 61, 147, 187– 189, 225, 232–233; Intifada, 36; liberation, 19; National Authority, 89, 92 Patriarch Shenouda, 168–169, 170, 184, 186. See also Copts, and church Personal status laws, 11–12; campaign to amend, 223–226; discriminatory character of, 201–203, 253; and legislation in Egypt, 203–208; and legislation in Jordan, 222–223; proponents of amendment of, 208– 209; opposition to amendments, 209–210, 228–231; and women’s rights activism, 213–218, 226–228; and the West, 256. See also Women’s rights Political and civil rights: and charges of apostasy, 116; covenants, 115, 121; and Copts, 174; and human rights NGOs, 21, 25–27, 29, 39, 131; and Islamists, 49; and military courts, 102; National Democratic Party and, 52; political parties and, 44–45; repression of, 18–20, 201; United States and 91; women and, 201 Prince Hassan, 53 Princess Basma, 29, 53, 225, 226 Al-Qaradawi, Yusuf, 127, 128, 129, 173 Qasim, Hisham, 109(n47) Al-Qimni, Sayyid, 120, 125, 128, 134, 154(n82) Queen Rania, 29, 53, 60, 224, 225 Quran, 151(n23); apostasy and, 115, 117– 120, 123, 137–138, 145; al-Azhar and, 124, 152(n37); Islamists and, 38, 48, 126, 128; personal status laws and, 209, 212, 215, 224, 227; and women’s rights, 218, 220, 224, 254 al-Ra’i, 96 al-Rawabda, ‘Abd al-Ra’uf, 97 Religion renewal, 39, 122, 135, 136, 148, 216 Religious minorities, 159, 160, 182, 183, 187–190, 252, 256. See also Christians; Coptic minority Research and Resource Center for Human Rights, 185

ridda (irtidad), 115. See also Apostasy RONGOs. See Royal nongovernmental organizations Royal Committee for Human Rights, 53, 60 Royal nongovernmental organizations (RONGOs), 32 Al-Sa’adawi, Nawal, 118–119, 125, 134, 216, 219 Sadat, Anwar, 22, 42, 57, 64(n28), 82, 204 Saghiyah, Hazim, 92 Sa‘id, Muhammad al-Sayyid, 34, 133, 154(72) Saif al-Dawla, ‘Aida, 217 Salafi movement, 137, 140, 143 Salem, ‘Ali, 82, 109(n43) Salim, Hilmy, 119, 120 Samhan, Islam, 138 Al-Samhouri, Fawzi, 68(n71), 112(nn100, 102), 241(n105) Al-Sayyid, Mustafa Kamal, 26 Seif al-Islam, Ahmad, 67(n49) Al-Shahawi, Ahmad, 123, 125 Shahin, ‘Abd al-Sabour, 118 Sharia: and apostasy charges, 117, 119, 121, 128; al-Azhar and, 125, 210, 220, 222; Copts and, 170; freedom of belief, 126, 181; and freedom of speech, 128; human rights activists and, 37, 39, 249; international norms of human rights conflict with, 53, 54– 55, 206, 249; and legislation, 161, 176, 207, 218, 237(n29), 253; and non-Muslims, 174, 175, 176, 181; and personal status laws, 202, 204, 207– 210, 212, 214–217, 224, 227–231, 253–254. See also Islamic law Shari‘a party, 49 Shukrallah, Hani, 38, 177 Sidham, Youssef, 170. See also Watani Al-Sisi, Abdul Fattah, 259 6 April Youth Movement, 27 Social contract, 19, 26, 54, 132 Socialism, 19 Social rights, 4, 25, 26, 27, 38, 45 Sudan, 89 Suleiman, ‘Abd al-Karim (Karim ‘Amer), 119 Sunna, 126, 128, 152(n37)

Index

Al-Sweiss, Suleiman, 61 Al-Tajammu‘, 46, 72(n118), 90, 208, 217 takfir, 118, 123, 126, 140, 141, 142, 144. See also Apostasy Temporary laws (Jordan), 32, 61, 98, 101–102, 103 Transjordanians, 42, 147 Tribalism, 19, 42–43; heritage, 56; and parties, 47 Tunisian League of Human Rights, 20 Torture, 58 ‘Ubaydat, Ahmad, 61 UDHR. See Universal Declaration of Human Rights UN. See United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), 10, 21; Arab states and, 18; freedom of expression, 133; Jordanian regime and, 54; human rights activists and, 132; political parties and, 44. See also Human rights conventions; International human rights regime Universality of human rights, 10, 15(n15); compliance with, 253; and human rights activists, 37–39, 79, 135; cross-cultural universals, 38; Islamist attitude, 49–50; limits of, 55, 244–245; women’s organizations attitudes toward, 40, 71(n106), 216– 217, 226. See also International human rights regime United Nations (UN), 18, 21, 25, 36; Human Rights Council, 41, 55; committees, 54–54. See also Human rights conventions United States (US), 34, 49, 52, 53, 85; attitude toward, 44, 132, 185; Commission on International Religious Freedom (USCIRF), 86, 162, 185–186; and Copts, 184–187; financial aid, 88, 90–91, 255; hegemony and interests, 87, 91, 183; influence, 230; involvement, 105, 171; and Iraq War, 92, 230; pressures by, 81, 89–90, 161, 256; relations with Egypt, 89, 123; relations with

287

Jordan, 141; terror, 98; and religious freedom, 189. See also the West al-Urdun al-Jadid, research center, 29 ‘urfi (unofficial marriages), 204, 208 Wafd party, 45–46, 90 Al-Wahda party, 100 Al-Wasat party, 50, 169, 175–176, 212 wasatiyya (the centrist stream), 172 wasta, 97 Watani, 170, 194(n53) the West, 254–257; approach to freedom of expression, 127–128, 132–133; colonialism, 127, 183; cultural influence, 35, 44, 48, 202, 210; double standards, 34, 91; economic dependence on, 9; funding of NGOs, 35–36; hegemony, 34, 56, 80, 251; hostility toward, 56; human rights NGOs and, 88, 92, 136, 147; imperialism, 18, 34, 40, 219; influence, 210, 230; idea of human rights and, 10, 24, 33–34, 37, 48, 212, 233, 247, 251; and minority rights, 69, 171, 173; norms of human rights, 54, 187, 206, 211, 216, 217, 230; political and military intervention, 34, 83, 103, 105, 182, 187; tension with East, 18, 21, 40, 202. See also Foreign funding; United States Women’s rights, 2, 5, 10, 201, 202; activists, 94, 118, 217, 227; activists’ strategy, 204, 213–218, 219–221, 226–228, 233; Islamic Action Front and, 50; organizations in Egypt, 215, 216; organizations in Jordan, 29, 53, 226–228, 232–233; regimes and, 204, 205–207, 214, 222–223, 226, 233– 234, 249, 253–254; and religion, 40, 227, 250, 253. See also Personal status laws World Bank, 9 Yasin, al-Sayyid, 132 Zionism; 20; human rights NGOs and, 44; and US control, 84, 173, 211, 257 Zulficar, Mona, 214–215

About the Book

WHY DID HUMAN RIGHTS CLAIMS HAVE SUCH A LIMITED IMPACT

on the authoritarian status quo in the Middle East prior to the Arab Spring—and why are they so often thwarted now? What factors have shaped human rights debates and outcomes in the region? Addressing these questions, Bosmat Yefet offers a comparative analysis, both empirically grounded and theoretically sophisticated, of the forces variously supporting and resisting the full embrace of human rights in Egypt and Jordan since the 1990s. Bosmat Yefet teaches at Ariel University. Her recent research focuses

on the Coptic diaspora and the struggle for Coptic rights in Egypt.

289