New Faith in Ancient Lands: Western Missions in the Middle East in the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries (Studies in Christian Mission)

New Faith in Ancient Lands

Studies in Christian Mission General Editors

Marc R. Spindler (University of Leiden) Editorial Board

Heleen Murre-van den Berg (University of Leiden)

VOLUME 32

New Faith in Ancient Lands Western Missions in the Middle East in the Nineteenth and Early Twentienth Centuries Edited by

Heleen Murre-van den Berg

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2006

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data New faith in ancient lands : Western missions in the Middle East in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries / edited by Heleen Murre-van den Berg. p. cm. — (Studies in Christian mission, ISSN 0924-9389 ; v. 32) English, French, and German. Proceedings of the symposium held in Jan. 2005 at the Universiteit Leiden. Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. ISBN-13; 978-90-04-15471-1 ISBN-10: 90-04-15471-X (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Missions—Middle East— Congresses. I. Murre-van den Berg, H. L. (Hendrika Lena), 1964– II. Title. III. Series. BV3160.N49 2006 266.00956'09034—dc22 2006049212

ISSN 0924-9389 ISBN-13 978 90 04 15471 1 ISBN-10 90 04 15471 X © Copyright 2006 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS List of Contributors ....................................................................

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Introduction ................................................................................ Heleen Murre-van den Berg

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Spirituality and Scholarship: The Holy Land in Jesuit Eyes (Seventeenth to Nineteenth Centuries) ...................................... Bernard Heyberger and Chantal Verdeil

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William McClure Thomson’s The Land and the Book (1859): Pilgrimage and Mission in Palestine ........................................ Heleen Murre-van den Berg

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Les Franciscains en Terre Sainte: de l’espace au territoire, entre opposition et adaptation .................................................. Giuseppe Buffon

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The Coptic Catholic Church, the Apostolic Vicar Maximus Giuaid (1821–1831), the Propaganda Fide and the Franciscans in Early Nineteenth-Century Egypt ...................... Anthony O’Mahony

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Danger and the Missionary Enterprise: The Murder of Miss Matilda Creasy .................................................................. 113 Nancy L. Stockdale Public Space and Private Spheres: The Foundation of St Luke’s Hospital of Nablus by the CMS (1891–1901) ........ 133 Philippe Bourmaud The Metamorphosis of a Pietistic Missionary and Educational Institution into a Social Services Enterprise: The Case of the Syrian Orphanage (1860–1945) .................. 151 Roland Löffler

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Die deutschen Kurdenmissionen in Mahabad in ihrem Kontakt zu den orientalischen Christen .................................. 175 Martin Tamcke German “Home Mission” Abroad: The Orientarbeit of the Deaconess Institution Kaiserswerth in the Ottoman Empire .......................................................................... 191 Uwe Kaminsky American Protestant Missionary Beginnings in Beirut and Istanbul: Policy, Politics, Practice and Response .................... 211 Habib Badr “Missions in Eden”: Shaping an Educational and Social Program for the Armenians in Eastern Turkey (1855–1895) ................................................................................ 241 Barbara J. Merguerian Evangelization or Education: American Protestant Missionaries, the American Board, and the Girls and Women of Syria (1830–1910) .................................................... 263 Ellen Fleischmann Muslim Response to Missionary Activities in Egypt: With a Special Reference to the Al-Azhar High Corps of 'Ulamâ (1925–1935) ...................................................................... 281 Umar Ryad Bibliography ................................................................................ 309 Index ............................................................................................ 329

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Habib Badr, after studying at the American University of Beirut and Yale University Divinity School, obtained his doctorate at Princeton Theological Seminary in 1992 on a dissertation entitled “Mission to ‘Nominal Christians:’ The Policy and Practice of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and its Missionaries concerning Eastern Churches which led to the Organization of a Protestant Church in Beirut (1819–1848).” He now serves the National Evangelical Church of Beirut and is a part-time lecturer at the Near East School of Theology, also in Beirut. Recent publications in English include Christianity: A History in the Middle East (Chief editor) (Beirut, 2006) and “The Protestant Evangelical Community in the Middle East: Impact on Cultural and Societal Developments,” International Review of Missions 89:352 (2000) 60–69. Philippe Bourmaud is currently preparing a PhD on medical pluralism in the late Ottoman Middle East, at the Université d’Aix-en-Provence. His academic interests also include the politics of healthcare systems in the Palestine/Israel conflict, and the politicization of the sacred. His research has been partly based on fieldwork, notably as a beneficiary of the Lavoisier scholarship program of the French Foreign Ministry in Ramallah in 2004–2005. His publications include: “Les médecins du Bilâd al-Sâm et les articles médicaux à l’époque des premières facultés de médecine (années 1870–1914): développement d’une pratique d’écriture et constitution d’un discours professionnel,” in Bulletin d’Etudes Orientales 55 (2003), 225–242. Giuseppe Buffon holds a doctorate in Church History from the Gregoriana Pontifical University (Rome) and of Religious Sciences at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (Paris). He is currently a Professor of Church History at the Pontifical University Antonianum in Rome. He published widely on the history of the Franciscan order. Recent publications include “Le missioni francescane durante il pontificato di Pio IX. Universalità tra spazio geografico e spazio antropologico,” in Atti del Convegno “Pio IX e le Missioni,” Roma, 6 febbraio 2004 (Roma, 2004), 69–160, and Les Franciscains en Terre Sainte (1869–1889). Religion et politique. Une recherche institutionnelle (Paris, 2005).

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Ellen Fleischmann is Associate Professor of History at the University of Dayton, USA. Her publications include The Nation and Its ‘New’ Women: the Palestinian Women’s Movement, 1920–1948 (Berkeley, 2003), and various articles on women and gender in the Middle East. Currently she is researching the history of the encounter among American Protestant missionaries and Middle Eastern women in Greater Syria. She has published on this topic in Islam and ChristianMuslim Relations. Bernard Heyberger graduated in History and Arabic. He prepared his Ph.D. (1993) as a Member of the École Française de Rome. He is at present Professor of Modern History at the Université François Rabelais, Tours, “Directeur d’Études” at the École Pratique des Hautes Études (Paris), and a Senior Member of the Institut Universitaire de France. He is the author of Les chrétiens du Proche-Orient au temps de la Réforme catholique (XVII e–XVIII e s.) (Rome, 1994), and Hindiyya, mystique et criminelle 1720–1798 (Paris, 2001). He edited Chrétiens du monde arabe. Un archipel en terre d’Islam (Paris, 2003). Uwe Kaminsky, Ph.D., studied history and social sciences at the University of Essen; he worked on contemporary German history (eugenics, euthanasia, forced labourers in the Protestant Church in Germany) and especially on the history of diaconate in Germany; he has finished a project about the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution as home mission abroad at the Fliedner Cultural Foundation in Düsseldorf. Since 2006, he is a member of the research group ‘Transformation of religion in modern society’ at the Ruhr University Bochum. His publications include Dienen unter Zwang. Studien zu ausländischen Arbeitskräften in Evangelischer Kirche und Diakonie im Rheinland während des Zweiten Weltkriegs (Bonn 20022) and “Zwischen Rassenhygiene und Biotechnologie. Die Fortsetzung der eugenischen Debatte in Diakonie und Kirche, 1945–1969,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 116 (2005), 204–241. Roland Löffler is Wissenschaftlicher Mitarbeiter at the University of Marburg. He has worked on the German and British missionary engagement in Palestine, methodological questions of mission history, and the political attitudes of Germans abroad. Among his recent publications are “Kritik am Armenier-Völkermord und Sicherung

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der eigenen Institutionen. Zur Arbeit der ‘Orient- und Islam-Kommission’ des Deutschen Evangelischen Missionsausschusses während des Ersten Weltkrieges,” Zeitschrift für Mission 4 (2005), 332–351, “Protestantismus und Auslandsdeutschtum in der Weimarer Republik und dem Dritten Reich. Zur Entwicklung von Deutschtumspflege und Volkstumstheologie in Deutschland und den deutschen-evangelischen Auslandsgemeinden unter besonderer Berücksichtigung des ‘Jahrbuchs für Auslandsdeutschtum und Evangelische Kirche’ (1932– 1940),” in M. Geyer and H. Lehmann (eds.), Religion und Nation. Nation und Religion. Beiträge zu einer unbewältigten Geschichte (Göttingen 2004), 289–335. His Ph.D. will be published in 2007: Protestanten in Palästina. Religionspolitik, Sozialer Protestantismus und Mission in den deutschen evangelischen und anglikanischen Institutionen des Heiligen Landes 1917–1939 (Kohlhammer-Stuttgart). Barbara J. Merguerian directs the Women’s Information Center of the Armenian International Women’s Association in Boston. She has been a visiting professor at Tufts University, Yerevan State University in Armenia, and California State University, Fresno. The former editor of the Journal of Armenian Studies, she is the co-editor of Exploring Gender Issues in the Caucasus, Voices of Armenian Women, and Armenian Women in a Changing World. Her articles centered on US foreign policy and the programs of the American missionaries among the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire in the 19th and early 20th centuries have appeared in several publications. Heleen Murre-van den Berg is Associate Professor of the History of World Christianity at the Faculty of Theology at Leiden University (Netherlands). Her research focuses on the history of Western missions in the Middle East and the modern history of the Syriac churches, especially of the Assyrian Church of the East. Her Ph.D. (Leiden 1995) was published in Leiden in 1999: From a Spoken to a Written Language, The Introduction and Development of Literary Urmia Aramaic in the Nineteenth Century. Recent publications include “The Middle East: Western Missions and the Eastern Churches, Islam and Judaism,” in Sheridan Gilley and Brian Stanley (eds.), World Christianities, c. 1815–1914, The Cambridge History of Christianity 8 (Cambridge, 2006), 458–472, and “The Church of the East in the Sixteenth to the Eighteenth Century: World Church or Ethnic Community?,” in

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J. J. van Ginkel, H. L. Murre-van den Berg, T. M. van Lint, Redefining Christian Identity. Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam [OCA 134] (Peeters, 2005), 301–320. Anthony O’Mahony (Heythrop College, University of London), has a specialist interest in the Modern History, Theology and Politics of Christianity in Middle East and the encounter between Christianity and Islam. His publications include Palestinian Christians: Religion, Politics and Society in the Holy Land (1999); The Christian Communities in Jerusalem and the Holy Land: Studies in History, Religion and Politics, (2003); Eastern Christianity: Studies in Modern History, Religion and Politics (2004); (co-ed), World Christianity: Theology, Politics, Dialogues (2003), Christianity in the Middle East: Studies in Modern History, Politics and Theology (2006); Christianity and Jerusalem: Studies in Theology and Politics in the Modern Holy Land (2006); (co-ed) Christian Responses to Islam: A Global Account of Muslim-Christian Relations (2006). Umar Ryad, born in Egypt, is preparing his Ph.D. at the Faculty of Theology at Leiden University (Netherlands). He earned a BA from Al-Azhar Faculty of Languages and Translations, Islamic Studies in English (Cairo, 1998), and an MA degree in Islamic Studies from Leiden University (Cum Laude, 2001). His research focuses on the relationship between Islam and Christianity as reflected in the writings of the Syro-Egyptian Muslim scholar Muhammad Rashîd Ridâ (1865–1935). Among his publications are “Rashîd Ridâ and a Danish Missionary: Alfred Nielsen and Three Fatwâs from Al-Manâr,” Islamo Christiana 28 (2002), 97–107 and “From an officer in the Ottoman army to a Muslim publicist and armament agent in Berlin: Zeki Hishmat Kiram (1886–1946),” Bibliotheca Orientalis (forthcoming). Nancy L. Stockdale earned her Ph.D. in Middle Eastern History at the University of California at Santa Barbara in 2000. Her research interests include the history of cross-cultural encounters in the Holy Land, Palestinian women’s history, popular representations of the Middle East, and the role of missionaries in the imperial enterprise. Her book, Gendered Empire in Palestine, 1800–1948, is forthcoming. She served as Assistant Professor of Middle Eastern history at the University of Central Florida from 2001–2006 and is currently a member of the history department of the University of North Texas.

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Martin Tamcke, Professor for Ecumenical Theology at the GeorgAugust-Universität in Göttingen and Director of the Institute for Oriental Church and Mission History, earned his doctoral degree in 1984 with a thesis published as Der Katholikos-Patriarch Sabriso I. und das Mönchtum (Frankfurt, 1988), followed by his Habilitation in 1993, Armin T. Wegner und die Armenier, Anspruch und Wirklichkeit eines Augenzeugen (Hamburg, 19962), both at the Philipps-Universität of Marburg. He published extensively on the Hermannsburger missions in Persia and the Caucasus. Recent publications include “‘Wir sind nicht von Abrahams Samen!’, Deutungen Abrahams in der ostsyrischen Literatur,” in Reinhard G. Kratz, Tilman Nagel, “Abraham, unser Vater”, Die gemeinsamen Wurzeln von Judentum, Christentum und Islam (Göttingen, 2003, 112–132), “Zum Beieinander von Shoah und Völkermord an den Armeniern bei Armin T. Wegner, “Eine Glosse zu Wegners Essay ‘Die Feuerkugel’ von 1966,” in Hans-Lukas Kieser, Dominik J. Schaller, Der Völkermord an den Armeniern und die Shoah, The Armenian Genocide and the Shoah (Zürich, 2002), 481–492 and Das orthodoxe Christentum, Beck’sche Reihe Wissen 2339 (München, 2004). Chantal Verdeil is teaching Middle Eastern History at the University of Paris-Sorbonne, where in 2003 she obtained her doctorate, “Les jésuites de Syrie, une mission auprès des chrétiens d’Orient au temps des réformes ottomanes.” She has an interest in the history of missions to the Middle East, particularly Jesuit, and the transformation of Ottoman society at the end of the 19th century. She is the author of a forthcoming volume, Jésuites et chrétiens d’Orient au XIX e siècle: Les Indes savantes, Paris, 2006 and is co-editing with Bernard Heyberger the forthcoming volume, Hommes de l’entre-deux. Parcours individuels et portraits de groupes sur la frontière de la Méditerranée (XVIe–XXe siècle) (Paris, 2006).

INTRODUCTION Heleen Murre-van den Berg New Faith in Ancient Lands Over the centuries, the Middle East has held an important place in the religious consciousness of many Christians in West and East. To many, the region where Christ was born and Christianity first developed was imbued with special religious significance, expressed in holy places at which through buildings and other markers the link between Christian history and the present was made, as well as in eschatological expectations in which the region became the stage for the scenes of the end of times. In some periods, such religious concerns spread to larger parts of the Christian population. The prototypical example of a period of special Christian interest in the Middle East is the Crusader period. From the late eleventh to the late thirteenth century, the usual religious interest in the lands of the Bible and Christian history became included in a much larger cultural, political and economic discourse not only of the Western church but also of Western society in general. The articles in this volume suggest that there is reason to assume that the nineteenth century may be considered as another example of such a period. The history of nineteenth-century Western Christianity is characterized by a growing interest in the Middle East, which spread from being a minority concern of small groups within the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches, to a majority issue within the Roman Catholic and Protestant churches, in the United States and in a large number of European countries, the most important being Great Britain, France, Germany and Austria. A blend of enduring interest in the holy places, mounting eschatological and millennial expectations in connection to the Middle East, renewed motivation for missionary activities (directed to many parts of the non-Western world, but with particular fervor to the ancient lands that constituted the “birthplace of Christianity”), and growing colonial and imperial interests in the region, induced an era of unparalleled Western Christian activities in this region. It is these activities, especially those that fall under

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the label of ‘mission’, that form the leading theme of this book. When surveying the range of mission studies focusing on the Middle East, it appears that, despite a good number of publications on individual missions, up-to-date overviews and comparative studies are scarce.1 In addition, comparative studies in which both Roman Catholic and Protestant missions (let alone the Russian Orthodox missions) are taken into account are hard to find.2 In a number of more recent volumes on the nineteenth and early twentieth-century missions the Middle East plays no part, although the themes of imperialism and mission policy in the context of British and American missions would certainly have allowed for such inclusions.3 The present volume, arising from a symposium organized at the Faculty of Theology of the Universiteit Leiden in January 2005,4 does not pretend to remedy all these evils. However, the volume testifies to the 1 A notable recent exception to this is Dominique Trimbur, Ran Aaronsohn (eds.), De Bonaparte à Balfour. La France, l’Europe occidentale et la Palestine, 1799–1917 (Paris, 2001), and soon to be published, Michael Marten and Martin Tamcke (eds.), Christian Witness Between Continuity and New Beginnings: Modern Historical Missions in the Middle East, Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte (Hamburg, 2006). For two short overviews, see my “Nineteenth-century Protestant Missions and Middle Eastern Women: An Overview”, in Inger Marie Okkenhaug and Ingvild Flaskerud (eds.), Gender, Religion and Change in the Middle East. Two Hundred Years of History (Oxford, New York, 2005), 103–22, and “The Middle East: Western Missions and the Eastern Churches, Islam and Judaism,” in Sheridan Gilley and Brian Stanley (eds.), World Christianities, c. 1815–1914, The Cambridge History of Christianity 8 (Cambridge, 2006), 458–472. 2 In this volume, the considerable and influential Russian Orthodox involvement, also missionary, geopious and colonial in character, will be largely ignored. For an overview, see T. G. Stavrou, Russian Interests in Palestine (1882–1914). A Study of Religious and Educational Enterprise (Thessaloniki, 1963) and Derek Hopwood, The Russian Presence in Syria and Palestine 1843–1914: Church and Politics in the Near East (London, 1969). 3 Cf. recent volumes in the series Studies in the History of Christian Mission: Andrew Porter (ed.), The Imperial Horizons of British Protestant Missions, 1880–1914 (Grand Rapids, 2003); Brian Stanley (ed.), Missions, Nationalisms and the End of Empire (Grand Rapids, 2003); Wilbert R. Shenk (ed.), North American Foreign Missions, 1810–1914. Theology, Theory, and Policy (Grand Rapids, 2004) (with the notable exception of Paul Harris’ article “Denominationalism and Democracy: Ecclesiastical Issues Underlying Rufus Anderson’s Three Self Program,” 61–85). Note that in Andrew Porter’s Religion versus Empire? British Protestant Missionaries and Overseas Expansion, 1700 –1914 (Manchester, 2004), the Middle East is indeed taken into account. 4 I would like to express my sincere thanks to Charlotte van der Leest who organized this conference with unfailing good humor and to a great extent contributed to the smooth proceedings and relaxed atmosphere. I also thank the institutions that generously contributed to the funding of the meeting: Leiden University, LUF (Leids Universiteits Fonds) and NWO (Netherlands Organisation for Scientific Research, Humanities).

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significant developments in historical mission studies over the last decade, also in connection with the Middle East.5 In this introduction I will attempt to sketch a few general lines that have emerged out of the comparison of the various missions as they were presented by the participants of the symposium. During the preparatory stage of the symposium, the main request to the participants had been to reflect, from the perspective of their knowledge of a particular part of mission history, on the relationship between the high ideals of the missionaries and the practicalities on the ground. What had been the missionaries’ aims and objectives, and what were they able to realize in practice? What influence on the missions was exerted by missionary administrators and home supporters on the one hand, and by local notables, religious leaders and ‘common people’ on the other? Were there significant differences in this respect between the many missions in the Middle East? Were such differences caused by their denominational backgrounds? Or was nationality a more important factor? A volume such as this can represent only a small part of the diversity and complexity of Middle Eastern missions, and it is to my regret that also in this book Roman Catholic missions are underrepresented. However, a few tentative answers to these questions will be formulated, based on the contributions at the symposium (most of which are published in this volume), but also taking into account other research. I will first present a brief outline of the history of missions in the Middle East, paying particular attention to the ongoing competition between the various organizations that worked in the Middle East. The major rivalry, familiar to all students of nineteenth-century missions, was that between Protestants and Roman Catholics. Competition and strife also characterized the relationships between the various Protestant and Roman Catholic organizations, whereas in the Middle East, Russian Orthodox missions also took part in the

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See also the bibliography at the end, which has been extracted from the contributions to this volume. In this introductory article I have purposely included a number of references to important articles and monographs of the last fifteen years that touch on missions not represented in the other contributions to this volume. In addition, the fruitful discussions at the symposium The Social Dimension of Mission in the Middle East (19th and 20th century) in Kaiserswerth (Düsseldorf, 12–15 March 2006), organized by Uwe Kaminsky and Roland Löffler, provided further input to this introduction.

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contest. In this fierce competition for influence among the local population, nationalist and imperialist concerns played a considerable role, increasingly so in the later decades of the nineteenth century. The historical overview will be followed by a discussion of two themes that were particularly prominent in the contributions. The first of these appears to be a defining characteristic of Middle Eastern missions, the ‘Holy Land discourse’ in its theoretical and practical ramifications, which also touch upon the connections with colonialist and imperialist aims of the Western powers of the time. The second theme is that of the tension between ‘conversionist’ and ‘civilizational’ missionary aims. Partly a matter of theory versus practice, but also one of a variety of possible interpretations ‘on the ground’, this theme plays a role in almost all contributions. Missions in the Middle East: an overview Western missions in the Middle East have a long history. In Palestine, the Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land was established in 1217. In the aftermath of the Crusades, missionaries of the Dominican and Franciscan orders became active in Syria, Persia and Central Asia.6 The results of these early attempts were neither many nor longlasting. In the seventeenth century, missionary activities were taken up with new fervor by the Propaganda Fide, initiating and nourishing a significant uniate movement among the Eastern churches, especially in Syria, Turkey and Mesopotamia, the region that in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries had been incorporated into the Ottoman Empire.7 In addition to the earlier mendicant orders, many of which were still active in the region, the Jesuits began to play an important role. Giuseppe Buffon’s contribution and the joint article by Bernard Heyberger and Chantal Verdeil take their starting point in this formative period of Roman Catholic missions in the Middle East. For a variety of reasons, among which the back-

6 Jean Richard, La papauté et les mission d’orient au moyen age (XIII e–XV e siècles), Collection de l’École Française de Rome 33 (Rome, 19982). 7 Bernard Heyberger, Les chrétiens du Proche Orient au temps de la réforme catholique, Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athenes et de Rome 284 (Rome, 1994), Bruce Masters, Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Arab World: The Roots of Sectarianism (Cambridge, 2001).

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lash of the French Revolution and the suppression of the Jesuit order in 1773, the presence of the Roman Catholic missions had become relatively weak by the early decades of the nineteenth century. It was in this period that in the Anglo-Saxon countries as well as on the European continent Protestant missionary fervor awakened in connection with the Evangelical awakenings of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. The British Church Missionary Society (CMS) was the first to become active in the Middle East and in 1815 established a post at Malta, then a British possession, as a base for further eastward expansion. Other early attempts were those of the Basel Mission in the Caucasus, starting in 1821 (again in connection to a colonial enterprise), and the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (American Board), which sent its first missionaries to Palestine in 1819. The early years of the American Board form the starting point for the papers by Habib Badr and Ellen Fleischmann, both focusing on Beirut, where American Board missionaries began working in 1824. Ussama Makdisi’s contribution to the symposium,8 was also concerned with the early years of the American Board mission in Lebanon. One of the various factors that motivated Protestant mission work in the early nineteenth century was a growing anti-Catholicism among American and British Protestants. Not surprisingly, in publications on missions in the Middle East, where Roman Catholic missions had long been active, antiCatholic rhetoric played a significant role.9 While the American Board and the CMS carved out their positions in the Ottoman and Persian Empires, Roman Catholic missionary institutions began to recover and at various places initiated new mission work, not in the last place out of a desire to counteract what they saw as dangerous influence of the Protestants among the Eastern Christians. In this volume, the work of the Jesuits in Syria (including what is now Lebanon) features in the paper by Heyberger and Verdeil; that of the Lazarists in Persia was discussed

8 “Playing God on a New Frontier: The Early Experience of the American Board Mission to Syria.” 9 Cf. Murre-van den Berg, “‘Simply by giving to them maccaroni . . .’ AntiRoman Catholic polemics in early Protestant missions in the Middle East (1820–1860)”, to appear in Marten and Tamcke (eds.), Christian Witness Between Continuity and New Beginnings, 63–80.

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in the symposium by Thomas O’Flynn.10 The Jesuit order and the Lazarist congregation, however different in many respects, may both serve as examples of a new type of Roman Catholic missions that in method and focus was rather similar to that of the Protestants. Buffon’s paper focuses on the challenge put by the arrival of these new Catholic congregations to the long-established Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land, laying bare the internal rivalries that marred both the Catholic and Protestant missionary movements. In addition, O’Mahony’s paper comments upon the tensions between the Franciscans and the developing uniate churches, in casu the Coptic Catholic Church of Egypt. In the late 40s, these rather modest beginnings of Roman Catholic and Protestant missions began to branch out in a wealth of activities, in turn attracting many new organizations as well as single individuals eager to contribute to this spiritual enterprise. Western political interests in the region increased, leading to combinations of political and ecclesial interests such as the establishment of the AngloPrussian bishopric in Jerusalem in 1841, in turn hastening the reestablishment of the Latin patriarchate in 1847. Both institutions were meant to coordinate Western missionary activities, but on the Protestant as well as the Roman Catholic side individual missionaries and small organizations were difficult to control. One example of such an individual missionary was Mathilda Creasy, whose murder in 1858 is the subject of Nancy Stockdale’s paper. On the German side, too, not all organizations were willing to submit to the priorities of the bishopric, especially not during the episcopate of the former CMS missionary, the Swiss Samuel Gobat. He decided to redirect the efforts of the missions under the bishopric’s responsibility from the Palestine Jews to the Middle-Eastern Christians. Charlotte van der Leest’s contribution to the symposium focused on the numerous difficulties that arose between Catholics, Orthodox and Protestants in Palestine because of the clear conversionist message that characterized the primary ‘Bible’ schools established by Gobat.11 As shown by Uwe Kaminsky, the Kaiserswerth Deaconesses, in Jerusalem since

10 “The Catholic Mission in Urmia and Persian Azarbaijan: the Experience of the Lazarists”. This contribution was based on O’Flynn’s doctoral thesis: “The Western Christian Presence in the Caucasus and Qajar Persia, 1802–70” (University of Oxford, 2003). 11 “Protestant Missionary Schools in Palestine (1846–1879): Instrument of

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1851, shared most of Gobat’s priorities. They saw their more practical methods, which included social work and the professional education of women, as supporting his conversionist mission. Johann Ludwig Schneller, however, who established the Syrian Orphanage, over the years set his own agenda, concentrating on social and educational work among the poorer parts of the Arabic-speaking Palestinian population, both Muslim and Christian. Roland Loeffler’s article provides an up-to-date overview of the establishment and further development of this important institution in Jerusalem. The 40s and 50s saw a rapid expansion of the missions of the American Board: the stations in Beirut, Istanbul and Urmia grew in terms of numbers of missionaries and activities, overcame initial difficulties, and contributed to the organization of Protestant churches. This process is described in Badr’s contribution and also mentioned in Fleischmann’s.12 New missions were initiated, such as the one among the Armenians in Kharpert in Eastern Anatolia, the topic of Barbara Merguerian’s paper. Another important mission started in this period was the American Presbyterian mission in Egypt (1854), which consciously departed from the more cautious missionary methods of earlier CMS missionaries.13 Its post-war ramifications feature in Umar Ryad’s contribution. The growing Catholic efforts were also mentioned in O’Flynn’s description of the Lazarist mission in Persia. A more aggressive and self-conscious attitude among Protestant missionaries can be detected especially in the 70s and 80s of the nineteenth century. New generations of missionaries entered the field, many of which were motivated by fresh waves of evangelical enthusiasm in America and Great Britain. Almost all organizations began to renew their efforts among the Muslim population, a move that was facilitated by the growing Western influence in the region, which left less room for the Ottoman and Persian governments to oppose

Conversion.” This contribution is part of a forthcoming Leiden thesis, “Protestant Missionary Encounters with Arab Christians in the Holy Land: The Views, Policy and Conflicts of Evangelical Missionaries in Nineteenth-Century Palestine (1846–1979).” 12 On the issue of local churches within the context of the American Board, see Harris “Denominationalism and Democracy,” as well as Murre-van den Berg, “Why Protestant Churches? The American Board and the Eastern Churches: Mission among ‘Nominal’ Christians (1820–70)”, in Pieter N. Holtrop and Hugh McLeod (eds.), Mission and Missionaries (Suffolk, 2000), 98–111. 13 A. Watson, The American Mission in Egypt, 1845 to 1896 (Pittsburgh, PA, 1898).

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to such activities.14 The activities of the CMS missionaries in Nablus, as described by Philippe Bourmaud, provide an insightful example of the ways in which missionaries were able to use the Ottoman administration to achieve their ends, overriding local opposition by the skilful way in which they employed British imperial connections with the High Porte. In many missions in the Middle East, British, American and German, a trend towards secularization of missionary activities can be detected. This may probably be explained from the converging of two developments: the growing wish to attract more Muslims, which encouraged downplaying the role of overt evangelization, and the world-wide trend towards developing sophisticated institutions for higher education (universities) and medical care (hospitals).15 This required a different type of missionary, a woman or man who had been educated as a doctor or teacher, not as a minister or evangelist.16 However, alongside these somewhat secularized and often liberal types of missions, missions with explicitly conversionist aims were continually re-introduced into the region, among which the early twentieth-century German missionaries in the Caucasus discussed by Martin Tamcke may perhaps be reckoned. After the First World War, during which many activities were sus14 Among the large variety of new missions that were introduced into the region in this period, one should mention the American Dutch-Reformed mission in southern Iraq and the Arabian Peninsula, the CMS missions in Iran and Egypt, and the Anglican mission among the Assyrians. Compare Alfred DeWitt and Frederick J. Barny, History of the Arabian Mission (New York, 1926), Kenneth Cragg, “Being Made Disciples—The Middle East,” in Kevin Ward & Brian Stanley (eds.), The Church Mission Society and World Christianity, 1799–1999, Studies in the History of Christian Missions (Grand Rapids, Cambridge, 2000), 120–143, in the same volume G. FrancisDehqani, “CMS Women Missionaries in Persia: Perceptions of Muslim Women and Islam, 1998–1934,” 91–119, and J. F. Coakley, The Church of the East and the Church of England. A History of The Archbishop of Canterbury’s Assyrian Mission (Oxford, 1992). 15 This trend towards medical institutions can also be observed with Jewish missions, like the Scottish mission in Tiberias, probably for similar reasons; cf. the recent work by Michael Marten, Attempting to Bring the Gospel Home: Scottish Missions to Palestine, 1839–1917 (London, New York, 2006). 16 For an overview and further literature on the changing roles of female missionaries in the Middle East, see Murre-van den Berg, “Nineteenth-century Protestant Missions” and the special volume of Islam and Christian Muslim Relations (9, 3, 1998), with contributions by E. A. Doumato, Ellen Fleischmann, F. H. Al-Sayegh and Inger Marie Okkenhaug. See also Okkenhaug’s book on the later Anglican mission in Palestine: The Quality of Heroic Living, of High Endeavor and Adventure: Anglican Mission, Women and Education in Palestine, 1888–1948, Studies in Christian Mission 27 (Leiden 2002). For a Roman Catholic perspective, compare C. Langlois, “Les congrégations françaises en Terre Sainte au XIXe siècle,” in Trimbur, De Bonaparte à Balfour, 219–240.

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pended while the remaining missionaries contributed significantly to relief work,17 in many places mission work was resumed. The circumstances were often relatively favorable to such initiatives, at least in the countries that were under British and French mandates. However, as Ryad’s article indicates, by this time the Muslim population and its religious leaders had become more outspoken and politically active, and in Egypt used the relative stable climate under the British Mandate to oppose missionary activities as much as they could. Despite such opposition, both Protestant and Roman Catholic missionary activities were continued.18 In the course of the twentieth century, the relative number of missionaries appears to have diminished somewhat, not in the least because Middle Eastern governments have been much more restrictive in admitting missionary activities than in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The secularist trend became stronger after the end of WWI, and was coupled with a growing ecumenical outlook on the part of many missionary organizations. In such secular and non-proselytizing form, missionary activities were usually acceptable to governments in the Middle East. At the same time, and with renewed force in the last decades of the twentieth century, new evangelical organizations originating in different parts of the world (no longer confined to Europe or North America, but also including countries such as South Korea and the Philippines) continued to preach, often clandestinely, the radical message of evangelical conversion to the people of the Middle East.19

17 It is especially the American organizations (American Board and Presbyterian Board of Missions) that organized large-scale relief work for the Armenians, the Syrian-Orthodox and Assyrians that were under threat in the Eastern parts of the Ottoman Empire and Persia; on the Assyrian situation, see, e.g., Gabriele Yonan, Ein vergessener Holocaust: Die Vernichtung der christlichen Assyrer in der Türkei, Pogrom 148/149 (Göttingen, 1989) and Michael Zirinsky, “American Presbyterian Missionaries at Urmia During the Great War,” Journal of Assyrian Academic Studies 12,1 (1998), 6–27. 18 So far, work on this later period has been relatively scarce, but compare the older overviews in Julius Richter, Mission und Evangelisation im Orient (Gütersloh, 1930, 2nd ed.), and in Kenneth Scott Latourette, A History of the Expansion of Christianity 7: Advance through Storm: AD 1914 and After; With Concluding Generalizations (New York, London, 1945). For the Egyptian context, see the references in Ryad’s article, which include a few recent works. 19 On the present situation, see Todd M. Johnson and David R. Scoggins, “Christian Missions and Islamic Da'wah: A Preliminary Quantative Assessment,” International Bulletin of Missionary Research 29,1 (2005), 8–11.

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heleen murre-van den berg Holy Land discourse

The major characteristic that distinguished nineteenth-century Middle Eastern missions from missions elsewhere in the world is its deeply felt conviction that missions in this part of the world were motivated not only by the ‘obligation to the heathen’,20 but also by a particular responsibility for what often were called the ‘Bible Lands’. In most articles in this volume this special position of missions in this region is reiterated in some form. The first two articles have this defining characteristic as their main topic: the first on the Jesuit Holy Land discourse, the second on an American Protestant interpretation of it. These articles suggest that Roman Catholic and Protestant missionary views on the Holy Land were surprisingly similar. Both contain three essential elements: (i) the positive attraction of the Holy Land as the scene of biblical and Christian history, resulting in the fruitful coupling of Christian pilgrimage and ‘geopiety’ with biblical scholarship; (ii) a negative interpretation of the Holy Land in terms of ‘decadence’, ‘material religion’, anti-modernism, Islamic ‘bigotry’, and general ‘backwardness’; and (iii) the view that the synthesis of these conflicting interpretations was to be found in Western interference through missions (introducing ‘spiritual’ or ‘true’ religion and modernity) as well as through politics (eventually resulting in the support of the colonialist venture of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries). In addition, in some Roman Catholic and especially Protestant circles, eschatological discourses were employed to underline the importance of the region, sometimes viewing it as the scene of the conversion of the Jews that would usher in the millennium, sometimes as the eschatological battlefield between Islam and Christianity. It was among the missionaries in Palestine that such ‘Christian Zionist’ ideas were most explicitly present.21 The German missionary 20 Compare the title of the pamphlet by William Carey that has customarily been seen as the clarion call for Protestant missions in the nineteenth century: An Enquiry into the Obligations of Christians to Use Means for the Conversion of the Heathens (London, 1792, various reprints). For a revisionist interpretation of these commonly-held beginnings of Protestant missions, see Brian Stanley “Christian Missions and the Enlightenment: A Reevaluation,” and Andrew F. Walls “The Eighteenth-Century Protestant Missionary Awakening in Its European Context,” both in Stanley (ed.), Christian Missions and the Enlightenment, Studies in the History of Christian Missions (Grand Rapids, 2001), 1–21 and 22–44. 21 For a recent introduction into this concept, see Naim Ateek, Cedar Duaybis, Maurine Tobin, Challenging Christian Zionism. Theology, Politics and the Israel-Palestine Conflict (London, 2005).

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Johann Ludwig Schneller is one of the prime examples. According to Loeffler, he was motivated by a “romantic longing” focused on the Holy Land, keeping him in the region despite the difficulties he encountered in the early years of his work. His concept of a “peaceful crusade” reflected the reformist aims of many of these missionaries, but also the sense of a continuity with, as well as a modification of, the Western Crusader heritage. Theodore Fliedner, the founder of the Kaiserswerth Deaconess organization, was part of the same German-Swiss tradition that motivated the Germans to take part in the establishment of the Anglo-Prussian bishopric in Jerusalem— another of those initiatives in which missionary, ecclesiastical and global political goals were closely connected. This also holds true for the establishment of the Latin patriarchate, which not only intended to counterbalance Protestant activities in the region, but also to weaken the position of the Franciscans, who were seen by many Roman Catholics in Europe as having become part of the ‘immobilité orientale’ that characterized the population of the Middle East (Buffon). The antagonism between Islam and Christianity, and the ‘dangers’ therefore inherent in living in a predominantly Muslim environment, return as themes in the papers on British missions, both in the piece on the missionary among Jewish females, Mathilda Creasy (Stockdale), and that on the CMS missionary hospital in Nablus (Bourmaud). Whereas real danger in both cases was either absent or unconnected with the rivalry between Islam and Christianity, the “danger narrative” was used effectively to underline the importance of missions and Western influence in general in this part of the world. As much as the dangers, the publications for the home public stressed the romantic aspects of living and working in the Middle East. One of the authors that contributed to such an attractive view of the Middle East and its inhabitants was the American missionary William Thomson. In The Land and the Book he not only popularized biblical scholarship for a wide British-American readership but also legitimized the emergence of a Protestant form of pilgrimage, which included Palestine proper as well as Egypt and Syria. So, too, the American missionaries working in Eastern Anatolia, as mentioned in Merguerian’s paper on the Kharpert mission, were touched by the “romantic associations” of the area, close to Mount Ararat and the supposed site of the earthly Paradise. This romantic and spiritually charged aspect of the Christian Orientalist mind-set motivated many

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of the missionaries to come to the Middle East and continue their work despite adverse circumstances. Some, like Schneller, were inspired by it to continue to focus also on the Muslim population of Palestine, despite the difficulties surrounding mission work among this group. Others, among whom many single women like Mathilda Creasy, worked for the conversion of the Jews, which was thought to be essential for the further success of Christian missions.22 However, the large majority of missionaries in the Middle East, especially in the period between 1840 and 1880, focused on the Middle-Eastern Christians. Indirectly, this choice also resulted from the Christian orientalist mind-set in which the Middle East occupied a crucial role in the history of the humankind as well as in the history of salvation. In the eyes of the missionaries, the Christians of the Middle East held an ambiguous position within the religious and social gamut of these societies. By their presence they reminded Western Christianity of the long and glorious history of Christianity in the region. At the same time, however, the poor state these Christians were in, religiously as well as politically, made blatantly clear that in the land of its birth Christianity had suffered serious setbacks that would not easily be repaired. According to the Western missionaries, the only way to remedy this evil was to convert these Christians to an evangelical type of religion, and to uplift them by education and modernization. This would not only restore Christianity to its former glory, but would also further the cause of Christianity among the Muslim population. This would happen by means of the growing missionary fervor of the Eastern Christians, as well as through the attraction this re-awakened Christianity would exert upon the Muslims of the Middle East. The difficulties that arose between missionaries and Eastern Christians who were attracted to the missions, at least partly resulted from this ambivalent position of the missionaries towards autochthonous Christianity, an issue surfacing for instance in Bourmaud’s article on the relationships between the CMS missionaries and Nabulsi Christians, as well as in Tamcke’s article on Mahabad in the early twentieth century. There, the German missionaries intended to focus on the Muslims, but could not do so without the help of a German-trained

22 Similar forms and usages of geopiety were found among the Scottish missionaries in Palestine, compare Marten, Attempting to Bring the Gospel Home.

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local Christian, an Assyrian missionary, who however at the same time was not allowed to occupy a position similar to the German missionaries. Apart from racist concepts that prevented German and American missionaries from treating the Assyrian pastor as an equal, they also thought that his faith, which they viewed as being more rationalist than theirs, was defective.23 In conflicts such as this, the inherent tensions of the nineteenth-century missionary project, created by the ambition to bring ‘new faith’ in ‘ancient lands’ that already had more than their share of religious fervor, are exposed most poignantly. Conversion versus civilization One of the most persistent themes of mission in the nineteenth century was the missionaries’ struggle with two supposedly parallel aims: converting the ‘nominal’ and non-Christians through public and private preaching, and enlightening and uplifting the population through education and social and medical care. In general, missionary organizations of the nineteenth century, including those supporting work in the Middle East, tended to see the second aim as supporting and facilitating the first, not as an end in itself. This being so, there were considerable differences in what such educational and social support should entail, and especially to what extent and level they were permitted in view of their basic subservience to the conversionist aim of the missions. As described in earlier literature, within the circles of the American Board the discussion was made explicit by one of its leading administrators, Rufus Anderson, who strongly propagated missions focusing on conversion and refraining from extensive activities in the field of higher education and medical care.24 Although his opinions found support among some of the American Board’s missionaries, those in the Middle East in general tended to be or become rather critical. In this volume, both the description of the

23 Notably, these Hermannsburger missionaries suspected the Assyrian missionary Lazarus Yaure of the same ‘rationalist’ ethos that Badr described as a point of discussion in Beirut in the early nineteenth century. 24 Cf. William R. Hutchison, Errand to the World. American Protestant Thought and Foreign Missions (Chicago, 1987) and Harris, “Denominationalism and Democracy”, and Nothing But Christ: Rufus Anderson and the Ideology of Protestant Foreign Missions (New York, Oxford, 1999).

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educational venture in Kharpert as well as that of the development of the American School for Girls in Beirut testify to the fact that missionaries on the ground, whatever their original point of view on the matter might have been, yielded to the pressures of local demand. In fact, on numerous occasions these missionaries were willing to oppose the administrators in America, especially over the issue of higher education. As a result, over the years the curriculum of many of these educational institutes secularized to a considerable extent, even if its foreign staff continued to believe in the possibility of encouraging conversion through the educational system. A similar secularizing tendency is described by Loeffler in his article on the Syrian orphanage. The educational objects of this institution were different from that of the American institutions, focusing more on professional skills than on intellectual development, and on social stability more than on social ascent. Like the American educationalists, however, Schneller intended his school to instill Protestant piety into his pupils, by structuring the educational program through daily Bible reading and prayer in the orphanage chapel. Over the years, the curriculum not only advanced towards semi-academic training, but also became more secular in its outlook. As was the case with the American institutes for higher education, an explicitly conversionist aim was felt to hinder profitable educational developments, especially because schools focusing on conversion would not be successful in attracting pupils—not from the Eastern Christian, and certainly not from the Muslim population. Among the Jewish missions, such as the private one by Mathilda Creasy described by Stockdale, the same tension between the conversionist and ‘relief ’ agendas can be detected. In the Roman Catholic missions, too, the issue of education became more and more important. In fact, one of the reasons for curtailing the dominance of the Franciscan missionaries in the Holy Land was their lack of initiative precisely in this area of mission work. Rather than continuing the ‘presentative’ missionary methods of the Franciscans, the new orders, backed by the Propaganda, expected more results from active ventures in the field of education. Both the Jesuits in Syria and the Lazarists in Syria and Persia spent considerable time and money in the educational field. As indicated in the article by Bourmaud, many missionary organizations saw hospitals and other medical activities as excellent opportunities to expose the local population to the Gospel message. Cheap

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or free provision of medicines and good quality medical treatment brought parts of the population within reach of the missionaries that otherwise would not have come into contact with them. Among these were many women, who were attracted by the growing number of female physicians and nurses that were employed by the missions. Often, Bible readings and preaching would take place in waiting rooms and hospital wards, and while obligatory listening to these might have been seen as an acceptable price for better health, at least some of the missionaries tended to see such activities as the ultimate rationale of spending large amounts of money on wellequipped hospitals. In this respect, Stockdale notes that in the Jewish communities in Jerusalem such covert missionary methods induced the leaders to forbid their people to make use of the missionaries’ social program. Ryad describes similar responses in early twentiethcentury Egypt, when the Muslim community became increasingly wary of missionary influence on their communities. When looking back on educational and medical mission work, it is clear that as strategies to foster conversions they have probably largely failed. Although they certainly might have contributed to the acceptance of the missions and the missionaries, and perhaps also increased Christian knowledge among non-Christian parts of the population, nowhere significant numbers of converts are reported.25 That such unsuccessful enterprises continued to be funded by the home audiences (either within the context of the missionary organizations, or by setting up new charity funds to support them), should be attributed not only to the fact that in missionary reports conversions and interest in conversions received disproportionate attention (obscuring the relatively low numbers of conversions), but also to the fact that the introduction and development of education and medical health care were more and more seen as laudable aims in themselves, even when not generating conversions. A subtle shift in missionary aims, therefore, became discernible within the larger Protestant organizations. In this process of changing missionary aims, the local recipients of these Western initiatives played a crucial role. It was their

25 For some figures, compare Samuel M. Zemer, Islam, A Challenge to Faith. Studies on the Mohammedan religion and the needs and opportunities of the Mohammedan world from the standpoint of Christian missions (New York, 1907), 217–8, Julius Richter, A History of Protestant Missions (New York 1910/1970), 421 and O. Werner, Katholischer MissionsAtlas (Freiburg, 1885), 9 and 16–20.

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acceptance or rejection of the various parts of missionary ideology and practice that led missionaries to explore additional ways to further change in the Middle Eastern communities, in addition to or in lieu of conversion to Western types of Christianity. This being said, a final remark should be made in the discussion of the conversionist and civilizational aims of the missions in the nineteenth century. It is much easier to describe and analyze the missionaries’ activities in the social, educational, literary and medical fields than it is to provide an accurate picture of the Evangelical message they preached, and of the way their message was received in the Middle East. The first type of activities was extensively described, both by the missionaries and by their historians. The larger part of the conversionist activities of the missionaries, however, has not been recorded and is therefore understood only imperfectly. The details of conversations in classrooms and private homes have been lost, and so have the local contributions to such exchanges, especially when not resulting in either conversion or clear-cut opposition. The texts of public sermons do not seem to have survived (possibly because missionary preachers preferred to preach from memory rather than from notes), and what is said on preaching in the missionaries’ letters, have to my knowledge never been studied. Neither have the publications in the local languages, for instance Arabic, Modern Syriac (Modern Aramaic) or Armenian, so far received detailed attention. Most descriptions of the missionaries’ message, therefore, are no more than educated guesses based on what is known from the missionaries’ theological convictions as expressed in publications for the home public. Further study of missionary archives, in addition to the texts and publications by the recipients of their message, may be crucial to flesh out the actual contextual message of the missionaries. However, whatever the contents and acceptance of the missionary message proper, at the end of the day the civilizational influences appear to have been the most enduring. These were the contributions that were appreciated and appropriated by considerable parts of the local population, much more so than the missionary message of conversion. To a large extent, a similar process was at work within the Roman Catholic missions, where, although a much larger part of the population became part of the Catholic Church via the uniate Eastern churches, the major attraction of Catholicism in the East, as of Protestantism, was education and medical care, over and above

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the spiritual message of nineteenth-century Catholicism. Notably, as in the case of the Protestant missions, this does not deny the importance and sincerity of those converts that were primarily attracted to the spiritual alternative that Catholicism posed to Eastern Orthodoxy or Protestantism, examples of which feature in O’Mahony’s contribution. Concluding remarks There can be little doubt that the nineteenth century, like the early stages of the Crusader period, constituted a time in which influences and developments from many different parts of society contributed to an ever-increasing Christian interest in the Middle East. The development of its missions, different from those in other parts of the world, is closely connected not only with the growth of Western political influence in the region, but also with that of ‘geopiety’ as expressed in pilgrimage and eschatological expectations. The blend of these three aspects, missionary, geopious and colonial, proved attractive to a considerable part of Western Christianity. From a minority interest within certain churches, the Holy Land discourse became one of the major forces in the political arena of many countries with a Christian majority. One of the conclusions of the conference and the volume is that missionaries from all denominations and countries, despite their considerable differences, were major representatives and propagandists of this nineteenth-century type of Christian Orientalism. In the early twenty-first century, the legacy of these nineteenthcentury missionaries is still among us: in the ubiquitous Western fascination with the Middle East, in the dualistic and often antagonistic interpretations of East and West, in the ambiguous relationships between Jews, Christians and Muslims, and in the conflicting interpretations of the missionaries’ contributions to the religious and societal development of the Middle East. However, this book testifies to the fact that also the legacy of true encounters between individuals from largely different backgrounds is still among us, encounters that gave birth to the formation of a common history as well as to commonly shared hopes and ideals.

SPIRITUALITY AND SCHOLARSHIP: THE HOLY LAND IN JESUIT EYES (SEVENTEENTH TO NINETEENTH CENTURIES) Bernard Heyberger and Chantal Verdeil Introduction More than other religious orders, the Jesuits have contributed to the knowledge of exotic countries. By writing their mission experiences, they founded the genre of the Lettres édifiantes et curieuses that became successful from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, and were also used as a model providing inspiration for other missionaries’ records.1 The Jesuits have written a number of books about the Middle East whose topics went beyond their missionary activities.2 There is no doubt that they have contributed to establishing the “Orient” as it is seen by the Occident, although Edward Said ignores the Jesuits totally in his famous book.3 In the Jesuit Society, the first purpose of writing was not to confirm the expectations of the public. Since Ignatius of Loyola, writing had been a Jesuit’s obligation, which had to obey a strict set of rules. Loyola’s rules established the model, topics and style of the letters and the frequency of sending.4 These letters aimed at maintaining relations between the head and the members of the Jesuit’s organization. The correspondence is intended to improve the combination

1 We used Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, Mémoires du Levant (Paris, 1780, new edit.), volumes I, II and V. There is a huge number of editions of this text from the beginning of the eighteenth to the middle of the nineteenth century. 2 J. Besson, La Syrie Sainte ou la mission de Jésus et des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus en Syrie (Paris, 1660) volumes I and II; M. Nau, L’Etat présent de la religion mahométane contenant les choses les plus curieuses qui regardent Mahomet, et l’établissement de sa secte . . . (Paris, 1684) vols I and II; M. Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte (Paris, 1744; first edit. 1678; other edit. 1702). 3 E. W. Said, Orientalism (New York, 1979). 4 C. de Castelnau-l’Estoile, Les ouvriers d’une Vigne stérile. Les jésuites et la conversion des Indiens au Brésil 1580–1620 (Lisbon-Paris, 2000), 64, 65; Ignace de Loyola, Ecrits (Paris-Montreal, 1991), 711–716.

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of the necessity of adapting themselves to local conditions and the obligation to preserve the Jesuits’ identity. The correspondence appears to be a consequence of “the invention of a new mode of religious life.”5 Broadly speaking, the letters kept the missionary in contact with Christianity, placed his actions under the control of the orthodoxy, and helped him to keep his faithful commitment to a particular religious rule. By writing letters, the Jesuits pursued three objectives: the first one was to solicit advice, approval or support from the person they wrote to, the second was to provide some knowledge about a particular country, and finally to stay in contact with their order, and more generally with a devout public that consistently supported the missionaries’ actions. Publishing scholarly observations about a country, supported by academic knowledge about it, ensured the Society’s prestige in public opinion and its place in the intellectual debates of the moment. It was also intended to be an inspiration for later missionaries.6 The status and the aims of the Jesuits’ unpublished work often differed from the ones of the published works. The majority of the remaining documents are records regarding the living conditions of the mission. Written in a very terse style, these documents do not give many indications of the principles governing the missionaries’ activities, or their personal background. On the other hand, published texts were often written in order to praise the missions. However, it is sometimes hard to distinguish between the published texts and the internal ones. It is well-known that the published documents were often abridged or rewritten versions of the former internal ones sent by missionaries who sometimes protested against the use of their writings.7 The missionaries also kept up a correspondence with their families and friends back in Europe. Although these letters were not

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Luce Giard, quoted by De Castelnau-l’Estoile, Les ouvriers d’une Vigne stérile, 67. De Castelnau-l’Estoile, Les ouvriers d’une Vigne stérile, 366. 7 See for instance, Claude Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites (Cairo, 1982), 16–47, “Relation d’un voyage fait au désert de St. Antoine . . .” Father Maurice Martin, the editor, lists the retouches made in the original by the first editor, Father Fleuriau (n. 1, 16–17). See also Œuvres, II, Relations et mémoires imprimés, Introduction, i–xii of Father Martin, and “Lettre d’un missionnaire en Egypte”, 1–9. Michel Nau recalls the use made of his Relation on Galilee, without attributing it to him: Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, introduction. The unedited “Relations” of Nicolas Poiresson has obviously been used by Joseph Besson for his book. 6

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widely circulated, they contributed to shape the knowledge and the representation of the Holy Land. All the texts discussed in this essay were published or circulated within the Jesuit Society. Most of its authors were erudite Jesuits or superiors known for their knowledge or their literary talent, or especially designated to write for missionary journals.8 More than the ordinary missionaries, these fathers embodied the educated, avid reader, the ‘curious about everything’-missionary, whose knowledge extended the intellectual influence of the Jesuit’s order. The Jesuit discourse on the Holy Land helped to draw the map of a region that was important for the Christian representation for three reasons: the Holy Land was considered a hallowed country, it was under the domination of the Islam and was inhabited by Muslims, and Christianity was still present there through Oriental Churches. The Jesuit discourse about the Orient was based on a number of specific archetypes linked to an ancient Christian culture. Most of these archetypes remained the same throughout the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries, but they also changed because of the Jesuit experience in the Middle East, the cultural and institutional history of the Society in Europe, and finally because of the development in academic knowledge about the Holy Land. This paper intends to describe the continuity and discontinuity of the Jesuit discourse on the Holy Land, seen primarily as a source of spirituality. Furthermore, in this paper we underline that the Jesuits also looked at the Land from a scholarly point of view. And finally we demonstrate that they presented the Holy Land as a country in decline, which could be saved from decadence by Roman Catholic missionaries only. The Holy Land as a source of spirituality In Jesuit eyes, the Holy Land constituted hallowed ground, sanctified by the lives of Christ, the Virgin and the apostles. It was also a country consecrated by history, evoking certain episodes from biblical

8 Father A de Damas was a prolific author and procurator of the Jesuit’s mission in Syria from 1859 to 1869, cf. Chantal Verdeil, Les jésuites de Syrie, Une mission auprès des chrétiens d’Orient au temps des réformes ottomans (doctoral thesis, Paris, Université Paris IV Sorbonne, 2003), 94–96.

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Antiquity or the Christian past, from St Jerome to the Crusades. Palestine was seen as an area sanctified by sacred history. But the past and its traditions also gave a spiritual value to almost all places the Jesuits visited or worked in. While crossing the sea, the missionary evoked St Paul’s visit to Malta, or the memory of the Crusaders on Cyprus.9 Sidon, where the Jesuits settled, was honored by Christ’s visit (Mark 7, 31). A mountain with a tamarind located above the town was known to represent the place from where Christ contemplated the city.10 Charles Néret described Sarepta as a little village in the south of Sidon that was marked by the memory of St. Elijah (Kings 2, 17), and of St Paula and St Jerome.11 Mount Carmel, site of a pilgrimage in memory of St Elijah, was also honored by St Louis’ visit.12 The site of the “road to Damascus” in the Jabal Nur, and that of St Ananias’ House in the city were often mentioned. This house in Damascus, where Saul was baptized and became St Paul, was still attracting people. The Ottomans had transformed it into a mosque.13 In 1874, the Jesuits were proud of their residence, established in St John Damascene’s ancient palace.14 Saydnaya, a little town to the north of Damascus, remained famous for its icon of the Virgin. This picture, hidden from sight, is a symbol of the resistance to iconoclasm and was venerated by European pilgrims during the Middle Ages.15 In the middle of the seventeenth century, Nicodemus’ crucifix, kept in a mosque in Beirut, continued to be revered by the pilgrims.16 According to the famous legend, widely spread in Europe, this crucifix became a spring of blood as a Jew

9 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, part 2, 20–30; Relation of N. Poiresson, 1653, edited by A. Rabbath, Documents inédits pour servir à l’histoire du christianisme en Orient (Paris, 1912), II, 186–190; J. Dandini, Voyage du Mont Liban (French translation by R. Simon (Paris, 1685), new edit. by K. Rizq (Kaslik, 2005)), 13–30: account of the journey from Rome to Venice, then to Candia and to Cyprus, with a description. 10 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 184, resumed by Father Nacchi, Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, Mémoires du Levant (1780), I, 214. 11 Nacchi, Lettres édifiantes et curieuses (1780), I, 445. 12 Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 651. 13 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 71, 73 (the author copies a story of Poiresson). Nacchi, Lettres édifiantes et curieuses (1780), I, letter by Father Rousset, Antoura, the 15th of Sept. 1750, 267–268. 14 M. Jullien, La nouvelle mission de la Compagnie de Jésus en Syrie (Paris, 1899), II, 135. 15 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 74–75. 16 Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Manuscrits Français, Collection Moreau, 842, f. 280v/281r (Relation of Nicolas Poiresson). Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 133–134.

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and his friends profaned it in ancient times. In the nineteenth century, the Jesuit missionaries did not mention the pilgrimage but still related his story, which sanctified the city.17 Egypt was also part of the Holy Land. Speaking of the Virgin’s house in Nazareth, Joseph Besson evoked the house of “Matharée” [Matariyya], near Cairo, where the holy Family was said to have lived. It had been venerated by the Latins since the thirteenth century, and later was revitalized as a Catholic pilgrimage site by the Jesuit Michel Jullien at the beginning of the twentieth century.18 According to the same father Jullien, the holiness of Egypt was also due to the fact that it was the place where the people of Israel had lived, as well as having been the theater of the Crusades.19 Palestine, Syria and Egypt formed the heart of the Holy Land, whose borders were further expanded by the missionaries’ expeditions and discoveries. In 1837, father Ryllo brought a brick of the Tower of Babel from Mesopotamia.20 In the same year, two Jesuits visited the Hawran where the saintly man Job had lived.21 In the late nineteenth century, Jordan, the region where Mount Nebo and Moab were located, also became part of the Holy Land in this wider sense.22 In these historical places mission and pilgrimage could be undertaken at the same time. Jesuits were considering pilgrimage as an ‘experience’ or a way to improve themselves as Jesuits, more than as travel to a sanctuary whose destination was worthwile. Missionary travel in this sense resembled a pilgrimage.23 First of all, the missionary vocation was an appeal to the “peregrination”, to “wandering”

17 Archives of the Society of Jesus in Lebanon (ALSI): Letter from P. Billotet to his aunt, Beirut, 6 January 1848. 18 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, part 2, 149. L. Valensi, La fuite en Egypte. Histoires d’Orient et d’Occident (Paris, 2002), 118–142. C. Mayeur-Jaouen, Pèlerinages d’Egypte. Histoire de la piété copte et musulmane XV e–XX e siècles (Paris, 2005), 91–92. 19 M. Jullien, L’Egypte, souvenirs bibliques et chrétiens (Lille, 1889), 8. 20 Archives de la Compagnie de Jésus au Liban (ALSI), Planchet, Brouillons, 116. 21 ALSI, Planchet, Brouillons, 103. 22 G. Chatelard, Briser la mosaïque, Les tribus chrétiennes de Madaba, Jordanie, XIX e–XX e siècle (Paris, 2004), 94; G. Chatelard, M. Tarawneh (eds.), Antonin Jaussen. Sciences sociales occidentales et patrimoine arabe (Amman, 1999). 23 P.-A. Fabre, “Ils iront en pèlerinage . . . L’expérience du pèlerinage selon l’Examen général des Constitutions de la Compagnie de Jésus et selon les pratiques contemporaines.” in P. Boutry, P.-A. Fabre, D. Julia, (eds.), Rendre ses vœux. Les identités pèlerines dans l’Europe moderne (XVI e–XVIII e siècle) (Paris, 2000), 159–188.

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in order to “take care of their souls” (“servir les âmes”). However, in the eyes of Ignatius of Loyola, Jerusalem was a special destination for spiritual and apostolic wanderings. After his first pilgrimage to the Holy Places during the years 1523 and 1524, he and his fellow brothers decided to go to the Holy City to “spend their lives in order to save their souls.” It is with this goal in mind that they gathered in Venice (1534–1536), although they later had to give up their project.24 Going on the pilgrimage to Palestine was quite common for a missionary living in the Orient. The journey from Aleppo, Damascus, Sidon or Cairo was not too long, and did not take them away from their pastoral activities and their well-organized community lives for too long a time. It was a form of spiritual exercise, but without involving a retreat: the journey was an opportunity for continuing all missionary activities. During his travel in Galilee, Michel Nau heard confessions from the Christians of Nazareth, and Joseph Besson was called by the Friars Minor to harangue the merchants of Rama.25 The pilgrimage was also a test of poverty. Father Poiresson related that “Arabs” who asked him for money during his pilgrimage to the Holy Land had picked the wrong person: he did not touch a penny during his entire journey.26 In the nineteenth century, the Jesuits of the new mission in Syria took advantage of the same proximity to go on the pilgrimage.27 Many of them went to the Holy Places with the streams of pilgrims coming from Beirut or Europe. It was the beginning of tourism.28 In this context, visiting the Holy Places was a must. Father A. de Damas urged Catholics to prefer Jerusalem to cities such as Naples or Athens, which were easy to enjoy. It is a “serious trip,” he said, in which the “misery of Christianity”29 could be tried.

24 Ignace de Loyola, Ecrits, 1062–1063. Joseph Besson (La Syrie Sainte, II, preface), recalls the pilgrimage of St Ignatius, and the letters of St Francis Xavier, expressing his wish to make a pilgrimage to the Holy land. 25 Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 614, Besson, La Syrie Sainte, II, 41. 26 Fabre, “Ils iront en pèlerinage,” passim. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Manuscrits Français, Collection Moreau, 842, f. 268r (Nicolas Poiresson). 27 Verdeil, Les jésuites de Syrie, 185–186. 28 The word “tourist” appeared in French in 1816. The first travel agency opened in 1831. S. Venayre, La gloire de l’aventure, genèse d’une mystique moderne (Paris, 2002), 151–153. 29 A. de Damas, En Orient, voyage à Jérusalem (Paris, 18692), 10–11.

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The pilgrimage to the Holy Places could confer the divine grace on a missionary. Without it, the missionary’s enterprise was doomed to failure. Therefore, for J. Besson, father Godet (d. 1653) was transformed when he came back from his pilgrimage: Tous les Auditeurs asseurent qu’il estoit animé d’un grand feu de l’amour de Dieu en preschant; et ie crois qu’il l’avoit pris dans le St Sépulchre de Iésus-Christ, l’ayant visitée avec tant de dévotion, qu’après son voyage en la Terre-Sainte, il parut tout changé, et touché d’un ardent désir d’avancer la gloire de Dieu qui le consuma.30

The Holy Land offered a favorable background to the fulfillment of the Jesuit ideal of spiritual perfection, and some Jesuits were affected by feelings followed by spiritual impulses, like the ones described by Claude Sicard. When he saw St Anthony’s monastery, while walking toward the remains of the ancient ascetics, he imagined he was flying with them to “these heavenly places where they were taken by a life pure, penitent and detached from the senses, in short, very different from ours”.31 The conviction that the concrete experience of the Holy Land, through the senses, leads to inner perfection, is part of an anthropology that could be qualified ‘baroque’, as indicated by Joseph Besson’s writing: [Ces lieux] peuvent sanctifier l’homme intérieur par l’extérieur, et l’esprit par les sens, nommément par les yeux, qui forment les premières Images de Iesus-Christ et les envoyent dans le fond de l’âme.32

Many Jesuit missionaries in the Orient, as for instance Charles Néret, Adrien Parvilliers, Nicolas Poiresson, Joseph Besson and Michel Nau, have written accounts of pilgrimages or descriptions of the Holy Land in order to inform and edify their readers. It should be noted that all these texts date back to the seventeenth century. Néret’s narrative, the most recent, has been written in 1713–1714. The spiritual and pastoral ambition of these accounts can be observed in the spiritual and symbolic outlines followed by the missionaries in their descriptions of the Holy Land. Joseph Besson, for example, after he dealt with “Jerusalem whole and ruined,” with the “seven mountains of Jerusalem,” with “the seven doors of Jerusalem,” with the “seven

30 31 32

Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 58. Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites I, 22. Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 14.

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palaces of Jerusalem,” and with “the criminal and holy Jerusalem,” the “slave and free,” the “big and small,” the “rich and poor,” evoked “the painful way” and “the seven places where Christ was led, to enrich the Passion’s History.” Nicolas Poiresson’s narrative is also divided into stations, remembering the “Way of the Stations of the Cross.”33 In the beginning of the seventeenth century, such devotion became popular in Spain; it was introduced in Italy from 1618 onwards, and during the eighteenth century became popular in all of Catholic world. The Jesuit missionaries and pilgrims in the Orient took part, through their publications, to the spreading of this form of worship in Europe.34 The Stations of the Cross helped to make the Holy Land known in Catholic lands. In the Jesuits’ narratives, the visit to and description of the Holy Land confirmed this presence and contributed to sustain this devotion with specific details, like the number of the steps separating the different points of recollection, although the route through Jerusalem did not match the one usually practiced in the European Stations of the Cross exactly. The Holy Places were even materially transferred to the Occident. Rome took Jerusalem’s place, and in Joseph Besson’s description, Rome was used to recall Jerusalem. He mentioned that the 24 stairs of the Scala Santa were carried to St John of Lateran, that the whip, Veronica’s veil, and the base of the pillar on which Jesus Christ seated in the Court of Herod, were kept in Rome.35 In the nineteenth century the pilgrims’ narratives included fewer descriptions of the impulses of the soul or the inner transformations. Father Jullien, visiting St Anthony’s monastery holding in his hand

33

Besson, La Syrie Sainte, part 2, 57–142. Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Manuscrits Français, Collection Moreau, 842, f. 236r–245r (Nicolas Poiresson). 34 Adrien Parvilliers (who arrived at Sidon in 1650 and returned to France in 1660), is the author of the Stations de Jérusalem pour servir d’entretien sur la Passion de Notre Seigneur J.C. (1680), which perhaps was the most widely distributed book in Europe dealing with the devotion to the Stations of the Cross: It saw 53 French editions, and many translations in other languages; cf. M-J. Picard, “Croix (Chemin de)”, Dictionnaire de Spiritualité (Paris, 1937), II, col. 2586–2587, col. 2599–2600, C. Sommervogel, Bibliothèque de la Compagnie de Jésus (Paris, 1895), VI, 319–325, IX, 758. 35 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, part 2, 50–56, 104, 107; 227: he compares the Holy Land to Rome because of the importance of its caves and underground passages. See also the evocation of Loreto by Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 604. Sicard (Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites, II, 143), comments on the transportation of the obelisks from Egypt to Rome. On this subject, see G. Labrot, L’image de Rome. Une arme pour la contre-réforme 1534–1677 (Paris, 1987), 307–345.

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father Sicard’s book, did not see anything but its walls, which resembled a cemetery in “our villages”: we just see a “white wall and a vast number of palm trees rising up on its top; and all around sand and rocks.”36 At the same place, father Sicard flew to heaven with the first hermits, whereas father Jullien described what his eyes saw and related it to something his readers already knew: village cemeteries. His description was intended to be more objective, but it also revealed what he thought about this Coptic convent: a place where the withdrawal from the world meant death. The pilgrimage to Jerusalem reinforced the Jesuits’ faith. Their spirituality surfaced in their narratives of the Stations of the Cross they performed on Holy Fridays. It relied on the contemplation of Christ’s Passion and death symbolized by his blood, and evoked nineteenth-century piety which praised suffering and considered it to be the best way leading to the salvation. But the spiritual vocation of their books did not prevent them from expressing ideas on hygiene and political concerns characteristic to their era. For instance, in A. de Damas’ eyes, Jerusalem looks like “dung full of precious gems.” This father is also worrying about the “serious and frequent illnesses” generated by “diseases and poverty.”37 From his point of view, this grubbiness is one of the consequences of the Turkish and Orthodox domination over the Holy Places. The pilgrimage’s narratives gave the Jesuits the opportunity to suggest a less spiritual route and allowed them to introduce a political description of Jerusalem. Father A. de Damas described “the situation of the Jews in Jerusalem,” “the schismatic claims,” or the “Turks’ role in Jerusalem.”38 The pilgrimage itself was seen as a political fact. During the pilgrimage, Catholics were reoccupying the Holy Places and shielding them from Turkish or schismatic occupation. The competition between the Christian Churches was especially fierce during the Pascal celebrations. These religious rivalries reflected the international tensions that split Europe, and in which the Holy Land played an important role. Father de Damas had taken part in the Crimean war, which was still in everyone’s memory. He began his pilgrimage with a visit to the Church of St Anna, the Church that Sultan 'Abdül Mejîd had given to France in 1856. 36 37 38

Jullien, L’Egypte, souvenirs bibliques, 74. De Damas, En Orient, 185. Ibid.

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According to tradition, it was built at the location of Anna and Joachim’s, Mary’s parents’, house. Therefore it competed with Loreto’s house in having the honor of being “the sanctuary where the Immaculate Conception took place.”39 A. de Damas hesitated to choose between these two places, but his hesitations only underline this fact: in the nineteenth century the Holy Land returned to the Orient.40 Scholarly interests Jesuits did not write solely for spiritual or apologetic purposes. Right from the beginning, Ignatius of Loyola advised the Society’s fathers to gather specific information about the countries to which they had been sent. In this way, the Society could best adjust to the local circumstances and develop a strategy based upon it. In the early period, scientific developments did no allow them to completely achieve this purpose, and Jesuit missions were often built on basic errors about local reality.41 For all Jesuit authors, the description of the Holy Land consisted in identification of buildings and sites according to episodes of the Old or New Testament. This identification could be followed by a spiritual meditation on those places. This did not prevent Jesuits from meticulously describing the site while sometimes keeping a critical mindset towards the commonly accepted stories. J. Besson’s ambition, for instance, was to take part in scholarly progress and to correct mistakes. He asserted that many books were not very well informed about Syria and began by giving longitude and latitude of Syria’s different places. He then claimed the necessity of drawing a proper map of Jerusalem.42 In 1899, H. Lammens sketched a map of the Litani valley, which according to him corresponded to the northern frontier of the Holy 39

De Damas, En Orient, 40. Loreto, which the Jesuits transformed into the most visited pilgrim site of Christianity between the sixteenth and the eighteenth centuries, became a patriotic and Catholic rallying point of the Italians after the unification of the country, cf. L. Scaraffia, Loreto (Bologna, 1998), 10–11, 108–111. 41 H. Pennec, Des jésuites au Royaume du Prêtre Jean (Paris, 2003), 53–71. See also J. Gernet, Chine et christianisme. Action et réaction (Paris, 1982), 342, J. Gernet, L’intelligence de la Chine (Paris, 1993), 395. 42 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 3 and II, 153. 40

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Land. Equipped with an aneroid barometer, he wrote down the exact altitudes of the sites he visited.43 In the early eighteenth century, father Claude Sicard, in charge of a scientific mission of the King of France to Egypt, was a perfect example of those who wanted to establish an accurate geography of biblical history. In his time, the veracity of the facts told by the Bible was being questioned in Europe; and according to Sicard, “a heretic and a libertine” always use the books of rabbis or profane authors in order to assert something, “provided that it should be impious and opposed to God’s words,” priding themselves on their “common sense,” and pretending to bow to reason. To oppose such critical trends, Jesuit scholars, for instance, attempted to demonstrate in concrete terms the interest of the book of Exodus as a source of historical evidence, especially the episode of the Israelites’ departure from Egypt and the crossing of the Red Sea. Sicard also wanted to prove the supernatural presence in the universe, addressing himself to those Catholics who favored a profane version of the sacred history.44 In view of the topic of this paper, Sicard’s most important contribution lays in his conviction that a return to Scripture, studied methodologically, was the best way to accomplish his ministry. This conviction also guided him in his pastoral activities, especially in his discussion with the Coptic clerics, which, he said, many times agreed with his arguments based on a clear and sensible reading of the Gospel. In the middle of the nineteenth century, the biblical geography was still a matter of concern to the Jesuit fathers, not so much in order to ponder over the Holy Places or to justify a return to the Scriptures, than in order to be used for a “rationalist exegesis”.45 The articles by father Bourquenoud, a French Jesuit established in Lebanon, did not display any pastoral ambition. He treated the traditions of the Holy Places like an orientalist scholar rather than a missionary. He aimed at establishing the locations of the places mentioned in the Bible rationally, such as the beach where Jonah was vomited out by the large fish, or the village of Emmaus where two

43 H. Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord de la terre promise,” Etudes (1899) 78, 497–519 and 601–621, 505. 44 Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites II, 174–180. See also 152–153. 45 A. Bourquenoud, A. Dutau, “Voyage dans le Liban et dans l’Anti-Liban”, Etudes (1864) 5, 129–160, 285–313, 135.

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disciples met the risen Christ.46 His approach to the Bible was to uncover places where biblical episodes happened in order to establish their veracity. Yet, the Bible never was the only source used by these scholarly authors, and they were well informed on other writings that were accepted as authorities on biblical subjects. References to such works are numerous and are combined with cross-references to the Bible. Cardinal Baronius’ works on Church History constitute one of the main sources of information.47 Adrichomius’ (Christian Cruys)48 and Quaresmius’ books appear among those most quoted by the Jesuits. These two books are generally considered academic contributions, but they also played an important role in making the devotion of the Stations of the Cross more popular in Europe. Francesco Quaresmio (OFM, died in Milan in 1656) was himself an active missionary in the Terra Santa Province, especially in Aleppo, before becoming a charismatic preacher in Italia where he contributed to the spread of the devotion of the Passion. He wrote a monumental history of the Holy Land (Historica Theologica et Moralis Terrae Sanctae elucidatio, Antwerp, 1634) which was used as a reference by most authors who narrate their travels to the Holy Places.49 In Quaresmio’s book, the humanistic critical method was combined with a partially rediscovered tradition.

46 A. Bourquenoud, “Mémoire sur les monuments du culte d’Adonis dans le territoire de Palaebiblos,” Etudes (1861), 41, note. A. Bourquenoud, “Emmaüs,” Etudes religieuses (1863), 3/2, 596–616. 47 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, quotes Baronius, I, 199. He quotes Arnold of Lubeck across Baronius for Saydnaya, vol. 1, 74. Claude Sicard, Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, Mémoires du Levant (1780), V, 105, quotes Foucher of Chartres across Baronius. Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 448, quotes the Martyrologe romain of Cardinal Baronius. Néret, Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, I, 392–393, quotes Baronius about Lydde/Latroun. Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites II, 14, includes a reference to Bollandus. 48 Ierusalem, sicut Christi tempore floruit, et suburbanorum, insigniorumque historiarum eius brevis descriptio (Cologne, 1584, re-ed. 1588, 1592). By the end of the sixteenth century, we already find five Latin editions of it, six Italian, two English, a Dutch and a Czech translation. Later, it was published in Spanish, Polish, and German. Theatrum terrae Sanctae et Biblicarum Historiarum cum tabulis geographicis (Cologne, 1590, re-ed. 1593, 1600, 1613, 1628, 1682. 1722); ten Latin editions, and a Spanish one, which went through several printings: “Adrichem Christian von,” in Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie (Leipzig, 1875) I, 125; Picard, “Croix (Chemin de)”, col. 2590–2591. 49 B. Heyberger, “Terre Sainte et mission au XVIIe siècle,” Dimensioni e Problemi della Ricerca Storica, 2, 1994, 128–129, 134, 146, n. 7.

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The Jesuits used St Jerome’s writings to a great extent, but they also quoted Oriental authors such as St John Damascene50 or St John Climacus. It is well known that the Ladder of Divine Ascent, written by St John Climacus, inspired Ignatius of Loyola himself as much as the other spiritual Catholic literature of the seventeenth century.51 St Simeon Stylites whose pillar in the surroundings of Aleppo was visited by the missionaries, was known through his “Life” written by Theodoret of Cyr (393–c. 460).52 These books were also well-known to the Jesuits of the new Society,53 who had also read their predecessors’ publications. Thus, father Jullien traveled the length and breadth of Egypt comparing what he saw with father Sicard’s observations. From the eighteenth century onwards, secularized science started to appear in Jesuit writings. In an anonymous letter dated to the first part of the eighteenth century, a Jesuit of Damascus, trying to establish what the Prophet Mahomet said about the Christians, noted that he had read P. Bayle’s article on the Prophet prior to going to Syria,54 and argued against it, using an Arabic manuscript he read in Syria. Towards the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century, Orientalists like Niebuhr, Volney or de Sacy were, together with the Romantics (Lamartine, Chateaubriand), among the authors praised by the Jesuits.55 It may be surprising to find in the Jesuit libraries authors representative of the Enlightenment, such as Volney or members of the Egypt Expedition. E. Reclus, which was engaged in the Commune, E. Renan whose Life of Jesus was strongly criticized by the Jesuits, as well as the Protestant Colonel Churchill who had lived in Lebanon since the English intervention

50

Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 447. G. Couilleau, “Jean Climaque (saint),” Dictionnaire de Spiritualité (Paris, 1990) VIII, col. 369–389. 52 Historia Religiosa, also called Histoire Philothée or Histoire des moines: Y. Azema, “Théodoret de Cyr,” in Dictionnaire de Spiritualité (Paris, 1990), XV, col. 418–435. Besson, La Syrie Sainte, vol. 1, 18–20. Rabbath, Documents inédits, II, 198–199 (Poiresson, 1653). 53 Father Jullien quotes the Church Fathers, Herodot, Flavius Josephus, Jacques de Vitry, G. de Nogent (Gesta Dei per Francos), F. Quaresmius, Jean Michel Vansleb (1677, Nouvelle relation en forme de journal d’un voyage en Egypte . . .), Michel Le Quien (1740), Oriens Christianus, which is in the library of the Jesuits in Siria, Eusèbe Renaudot (1717, Histoire des patriarches d’Alexandrie). 54 Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, Mémoires du Levant (1780), 108–140. Pierre Bayle, “Mahomet,” Dictionnaire historique et critique (Rotterdam, 17022), 1971–1997. 55 De Damas, En Orient, 12. 51

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of 1840, were all quoted by the Jesuits.56 The relatively long distance between Europe and the Holy Land made the European ideological frontiers more porous. The Jesuits remained fundamentally attached to their ideal of rational knowledge, which led them to compromises or contradictions. They also wanted to take part in an orientalist scholarly discourse that became institutionalized at this time. This they did by referring to works that were considered requisite in this debate.57 Their ethnographic curiosity, which during the seventeenth century led them to describe with some exactitude the customs and the beliefs of various non-Christian ‘sects’ in Syria,58 did not wane in the nineteenth century: the Druses are the subjects of two papers published in Etudes, the Journal of the Society in France, in 1876 and in 1897; father Lammens described the Shiites (“Metoualis”) using anthropological research of the time.59 New themes appeared such as the genealogy of Lebanese families,60 or Oriental dress, which father Badour described in detail in long letters circulating within the Society.61 The disciplines established by the Humanists were still popular among the Jesuits: besides biblical geography, botany aroused the fathers’ curiosity , leading them to describe the flora of the countries they traveled in.62 Other missionaries took part in the development of archeological research in ancient Egypt or Syria. Father Sicard’s knowledge of and interest in Antiquity, as well as his appointment by the Court, led him to describe a country in which there were almost only Christians, no Muslims: an Orient without Orientals, like that described in the

56

Bourquenoud, “Emmaüs,” 596–616. Bourquenoud, “Mémoire sur les monuments du culte d’Adonis,” 41 and note; Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord,” 505. 57 Said, Orientalism, 192; F. Tournebize, “Les druses”, Etudes (1897) 73, 47–69, 49. 58 Nau, L’Etat présent de la religion mahométane, I, 252 59 Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord”, 502. 60 S. Kuri published a text about the genealogy of Lebanese families of which F. Martin is assumed to be the author. F. Goudard used other observations by father Martin for his famous book. S. Kuri, Une histoire du Liban à travers les archives jésuites (Beirut, 1985, 1992, 1996), 3 volumes, III, 432–441. J. Goudard, La Sainte Vierge au Liban (Paris, 1908). 61 Letters from Badour to Allard, Beirut, 1852, July 19th, 1853 November 29th, 1855, April 24th and May 12th Letters of Syria, 1849–1856), 87–104. 62 Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord,” 612; Jullien, L’Egypte, souvenirs bibliques. 56

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Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem of Chateaubriand and other travel accounts of the nineteenth century. The photographs and the notes father Jullien brought back from his journey into Egypt, the Sinai and in Syria are close to the nineteenth century’s great archeological prospecting missions.63 Father Bourqenoud published several studies about Syrian or Lebanese Phoenician ruins.64 In his papers, the Orient became ancient history and the Holy Land secular. Nevertheless, father Bourqenoud remained an exception. For most of the authors of the nineteenth century, the Revelation and the Crusades shaped the two greatest moments of the biblical and Christian Holy Land. Decadence, crusade and mission The Holy Land’s closeness to a biblical and Christian past helped the Jesuits to put the history of mankind into perspective. Their eschatological point of view intrinsically belonged to missionary writing and to Christian thought about the Muslim-dominated Orient. Even today, the recurrent question of the number of Christians and of the possible extinction of Christianity in the Middle East, is still an important subject, especially among western Christians. Such a concern is the result of actual dates of emigration and of demographic behavior, but it displays a more persistent, deeper, existential, eschatological anxiety. The Jesuits’ knowledge of antiquity led them, in contemplating the present ruins, to long for the lost Golden Age. The Holy Land was still in decline as the times unfolded and humanity became more distant from the blessed time of Incarnation and Redemption. From the seventeenth to the nineteenth century, Jesuits described the Holy Land in almost identical phrases. Arriving in Nazareth in the year 1653, Nicolas Poiresson described a large plain without fields, trees, or buildings. Thistles pricked the legs of the travelers riding tall horses. It is pitiful, he said, to see such a great country in such a

63 P.-L. Gatier, “Les villages byzantins de la Syrie du Nord: d’illusoires villes mortes”, L. Nordiguian (ed.), Le voyage archéologique en Syrie et au Liban de M. Jullien et P. Soulerin en 1888 (Beirut, 2004), 41–73. 64 Bourquenoud, “Emmaüs,” 596–616; Bourquenoud, “Mémoire sur les monuments du culte d’Adonis,”; Bourquenoud, Dutau, “Voyage dans le Liban”; Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord.”

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state of neglect.65 Joseph Besson quoted Flavius Josephus in order to demonstrate “rationally” the neglected state the country was in. According to this author, in his time, there were 15,000 men in Galilee able to become a soldier. They lived in 404 villages. The same Flavius Josephus stated that Titus’ siege of Jerusalem killed 11,000 people and that afterwards 900,000 were enslaved. Whereas 2,700,000 people are said to have participated in the Passover festival in Nero’s time, the Holy City contained hardly 14,000 or 15,000 inhabitants in the seventeenth century, comparable to a city like Avignon.66 In the nineteenth century, A. Dutau and A. Bourquenoud noticed the complete absence of all kinds of vehicles, while H. Lammens saw in never-completed roads and ruined bridges the sign of the Ottoman’s inability to reform their State.67 Sometimes these observations conflicted with other remarks but these contradictions were never noticed or commented upon by the authors. The “beautiful fields of wheat, broad beans, lentils etc.”68 that father Lammens admired, led him to describe a flourishing agriculture and to contradict what he wrote in the same text about the Ottoman decline. Father Jullien, in addition to earlier negative interpretations, could also interpret the construction of a new wall enclosing St Anthony’s monastery as the sign of the relative prosperity of the Coptic Church.69 But the paradigm of decadence shaped their view to such an extent that the fathers mentioned these facts without attaching further importance to them. This ongoing decline made the Jesuits believe that the region was moving away from history and evolution. Yet at the same time, father Lammens noted the Ottoman modernization attempts, which from his point of view could only fail. He also wrote a long paper on Zionism, describing the Jewish colonies in Palestine.70 In the seventeenth century, some Jesuits were expecting the end of time, considering the decadence of the Ottoman Empire. Authors 65 Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Manuscrits Français, Collection Moreau, 842, f. 275v.–276r. 66 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, Part 2, 226, 79. See also Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites I, 117, speaking about Alexandria. Part of the same text appears in another letter, 124. 67 Bourquenoud, Dutau, “Voyage dans le Liban”, 136; Lammens, “Sur la frontière nord.” 68 Ibid. 503. 69 Jullien, L’Egypte, souvenirs bibliques, 75. 70 H. Lammens, “Le ‘sionisme’ et les colonies juives de Palestine,” Etudes (1897) 73, 433–463.

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such as Adrichomius and Quaresmius have identified Islam and/or the sultan with the Antichrist, and were therefore expecting the end of time. In his record for the years 1656 and 1657, Nicolas Poiresson carefully noted the observations that he thought announced the approaching decline of the Ottoman Empire. According to him, Muslims interpreted these signs as well.71 However, from the late seventeenth century, the Jesuits no longer appear to be watching out for political and military fulfillment of Providence in the Orient. They still may remark that one of Jerusalem’s seven doors, the Golden Gate, through which Christ was supposed to have entered on Palm Sunday, had been walled, because a Muslim tradition stated that one day a victorious prince would go through in order to take the Holy Places out of Muslim hands.72 But in fact the Jesuits were not really expecting the return of the Crusades. Jesuits barely mentioned the epic history of the knights and their role in the Holy Land in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The Crusades did not inspire long passages or spiritual thinking from the Jesuits, unlike the traces of the life of Christ or the history of the first Christians. The French king [Saint] Louis IX is the only figure of the Crusades who stands out positively. He restored Sidon and Jaffa, and in Nazareth he foreshadowed the modern devout pilgrim. St. Louis was also a political figure, the perfect model of a king of France. Joseph Besson stressed a role of France based on history, especially the history of the Crusades. But above all this role would be a spiritual one: in a paragraph entitled “France should convert Syria with zeal,” he explained that ‘grace’ appeared in the Orient first and inspired the Oriental Church fathers. Now, the Occidental Church “had to send its light to the Oriental Church, plunged into the darkness of schism and heresy.”73 At the end of his book, Michel Nau called upon the victorious King Louis XIV to restore his rights to the Holy Land, because “it had never been so easy to do” and “nothing was impossible for him”.74 However, such phrases give the

71 Rabbath, Documents inédits, II, 263–264 (in Latin). His observations have been in part resumed by Besson, in a chapter entitled “Que le temps de la moisson est venu”: Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 204–206. 72 Lettres édifiantes et curieuses écrites des missions étrangères, Mémoires du Levant (1780), 262–274 (Father Néret). 73 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 199. 74 Nau, Voyage nouveau de la Terre Sainte, 661.

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impression of being polite and politically expedient remarks, more than reflecting a real wish for a new Crusade. In fact, the Crusades were severely criticized during the seventeenth century. Charles Néret wrote about Acre: Cette ville, méconnaissante de toutes les grâces dont Dieu l’avait comblée, se rendit beaucoup plus criminelle par ses brigandages et ses impudicités qui la jetèrent dans l’idolâtrie. Elle fut abandonnée par ordre de Dieu à la merci des Sarrasins qui y mirent tout à feu et à sang.

This sentence follows almost word by word the evocation of “God’s justice” on Jerusalem in 1291, mentioned by Louis Maimbourg in his “Story of the Crusades for the deliverance of the Holy Land.”75 In the nineteenth century, the Crusades were not the subject of detailed analysis by Jesuit authors. Without much precision, they referred to a Catholic expedition in order to establish a Christian kingdom in the Orient. This expedition was considered a French one. From this point of view, the Crusades were a means of mobilizing French Catholics in order to convince them to support missionaries who in turn considered themselves ‘peaceful’76 successors of Godefroy de Bouillon or King St. Louis. In several papers, father A. de Damas spoke of the Oriental Catholics (especially the Maronites) as a people “maintaining a spark of Christianity near Jesus Christ’s tomb” and who, with the help of Europe, after the fall of Islam and the Ottoman Empire, will raise the new “Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem.”77 In their description of the Holy Land, the Jesuits brought back to life the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem and reminded all that these lands were “tainted by the blood of the Crusaders.”78 In Jesuit eyes, the Crusades represented a precedent to the European expansion of the nineteenth century, and justified what appeared to be a return of European influence. In the seventeenth century, missions were already seen as the best 75 L. Maimbourg, “Histoire des Croisades pour la délivrance de la Terre Sainte,” Les Histoires (Paris, 1686) VI, 494–495. On this topic, see also B. Heyberger, “Les chrétiens arabes et l’idéologie de la croisade (XVIIe–XVIIIe siècles)”, E. Weber (ed.), De Toulouse à Tripoli. Itinéraires de cultures croisées, Actes du Colloque de Toulouse-Le Mirail, 6–8 décembre 1995 (Toulouse, 1997), 221–236. 76 Verdeil, Les jésuites de Syrie, 203–205. 77 A. de Damas, “Le Liban et l’avenir religieux de l’Orient,” Etudes (1864) III–IV, 114–138, 136–137. 78 Jullien, L’Egypte, souvenirs bibliques.

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way to fight Turkish domination. Nicolas Poiresson noted that at the beginning of Christianity, the Church flourished under oppression; but now, victim of harassment, the Church was dismembered and in danger of collapsing. This might be explained by the fact that faith was stronger in the period not long after Christ’s earthly life. In Poiresson’s days, according to him, only the example and erudition of a few noble men sustained people’s failing faith. Nowadays, faith was like a flickering light, ready to go out. Because Church leaders were ignorant and not living virtuously, they were unable to support the Christian people, or to destroy the numerous enemies trying to enter the fold.79 For this reason, Jesuits considered clerical training and supervision of the believers the only way to safeguard the Christian faith in the Orient. Ignorance, schism and heresy were seen as the reasons for the decadence of Christian Churches, much more than the Muslim domination. Claude Sicard described with some accuracy the behavior and occupations of the few Coptic monks, and added the following: L’erreur du monothélisme et monophysisme, une ignorance crasse, une indolence pour la recherche de la vérité qui va jusques à l’abrutissement, l’horreur pour les Francs, l’hypocrisie, la superstition, chercher la pierre philosophale, se mêler de sortilèges, d’écrire des billets préservatifs, d’enchanter les serpents, voilà généralement le caractère des moines coptes. Sont-ce là, dira-t-on, les successeurs des astres lumineux qui éclairaient la Thébaïde et le monde entier? Qu’est donc devenu ce fameux désert, le paradis de la pénitence, cette portion si précieuse de l’Eglise de Jésus-Christ? Le Seigneur l’a abandonné, il a renversé ces autels vivants, [et] a frappé de malédictions ces bienheureuses demeures où l’on accourait de toutes parts pour apprendre la sainteté.80

He did recognize, however, the merit of the monks’ hard and mortifying life,” which he compared to the “continuous sluggishness” of “a large number of Catholics” and concluded by saying that all of them lived in misfortune.81 The same ambivalence appeared in the writings of father A. de Damas, who noticed the “life of toil,” the “simple customs,” the “reasonable ambitions,” the “physical vigor” and above

79 Rabbath, Documents inédits, II, 259–260, accounts for the years 1656 and 1657 (Latin). 80 Sicard, Œuvres, I, Lettres et relations inédites I, 26–27. 81 Idem, II, 18.

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all “the deeply rooted faith of the Oriental Christians,” but also their propensity to lie, their cupidity and their lack of instruction.82 The diversity of religions and churches in the Orient did not induce the Jesuit missionaries to see the Ottoman Empire as a model for religious tolerance. To the contrary, it was perceived as a sign of religious degeneration that the Jesuits wanted to remedy. Nicolas Poiresson evoked the religions confusion reigning in Aleppo with these words: La religion [. . .] se trouve de toute espèce en Syrie: turcs, juifs, hérétiques, schismatiques, naturalistes, idolâtres; ou plutôt ce sont des genres qui ont leurs espèces en grand nombre, puisqu’en Alep seul nous comptâmes seize sortes de religions dont quatre étaient de turcs différents entre eux; d’idolâtres, il n’en reste que d’une sorte qui adorent le soleil; de naturalistes, les uns qui tiennent l’essence naturelle de Dieu avec quelque superstition pour les vaches et viennent des confins du Mogor en deçà, et les autres sans cette superstition nommés druzes, et habitent l’Antiliban sous un prince dit l’Emir. Ils paient tribut au Grand Seigneur, et vivent à leur mode, à la naturelle. D’où on peut voir quelle nécessité il y a de bons missionnaires, et vertueux, pour tant de scandales qui sont en cette Babylone, et savants pour réfuter tant d’erreurs.83

Also in the nineteenth century the Jesuits continued to denounce this diversity of sects. They considered it a danger for the Catholics who were living among these ‘errors’. Under these conditions, the missionaries felt compelled to do something for the Christians, because mission was seen as the only way to prevent Catholics from “falling into the depths of schism, heresy or infidelity.”84 The Jesuits also feared that Islam was corrupting Christianity. Joseph Besson for instance thought that the superficial understanding of the Christian mysteries resulted from contacts between Christians and Druses for whom knowledge of the Sacred belonged to the initiates only. In his view, the way women were treated by the Christians resulted from the influence of Islamic law.85 For Besson, Christians learned usury,

82

De Damas, “Le Liban et l’avenir religieux de l’Orient.” A. Rabbath, Documents inédits pour servir à l’histoire du christianisme en Orient (Paris, 1905) I, 46, Relation for the year 1652. Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 10–11. 84 Archives of the Society of Jesus in France, coll. Prat, vol. 9, 375–382, letter from Badour to Maillard, Beirut, 1850 December 14th. 85 Besson, La Syrie Sainte, I, 117. 83

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miserliness, violence and injustice from Muslims.86 Father A. de Damas took the same point of view and attributed Christian faults to the “cupidity of the pachas” and to the “invasion of Druse thieves as well as looting Metualis.”87 Christians of the Kisrwan were under Metuali influence, and had difficulty believing that Jesus was the Son of God and that he died on the Cross. According to the Jesuits, Islamic domination was caused by the schism and heresy of the Eastern Christians. The diversity of sects was seen as a sign of disorder resulting from their distance from the Church and widespread ignorance. Islam was the ultimate manifestation of this process. Michel Nau reminded his readers that during the days of the Arab conquest, the Christians of Egypt or Syria almost had nothing of Christianity but their names. In his own day, the Christians were split into fourteen parties, immorality was reigning and churches were desecrated. The Christians’ bad conduct led to the Muslim conquest. The Arabs showed tolerance to believers of other faiths. But such a tolerance was a trap, allowing conquerors to reinforce their position despite their inferiority. Thus, the Christian Arabs put up with the Muslims and gradually converted to Islam.88 In the nineteenth century, father Jullien took up the same idea, but other Jesuits such as A. de Damas only mentioned the Ottoman domination to explain the ignorance and the decline of the Orient.89 Concluding remarks Reading Jesuit writings about the Holy Land, one is surprised by the continuity of the discourse. From the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, the Jesuits gave the same borders to the Holy Land. They visited the same places and all considered the area to be in decline. They were convinced that the ultimate salvation of the Holy Land belonged to the end of time, but the missionaries could and should contribute to it. The aim of all the Jesuit travel or pilgrimage narratives was apologetic. Through the descriptions of various places, their books 86

Idem, 114–122. De Damas, “Le Liban et l’avenir religieux de l’Orient,” 131. 88 Nau, L’Etat présent de la religion mahométane, I, 33–35. 89 A. de Damas, “La science et les missionnaires au Mont-Liban,” Etudes (1864) III–IV, 455–477, 476. 87

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kept alive the memory of facts that were believed to have happened there. Thus they formed a catechism whose first aim was not to provide Christians with knowledge about the Holy Land but rather to remind them of the main elements of the Gospel.90 The changes in devotions and the political transformations modified the missionaries’ point of view. It is easy to contrast the sensitiveness of baroque piety with the more dolorist devotions of the nineteenth century. In the first frame of mind, the contemplation of the Holy Land opened a door to Heaven. In the second one, it lead to a meditation about Christ’s Passion whose blood still soaked the earth. The nineteenth-century European expansion gave a new significance to the Crusades. They were not criticized as much as they had been since the end of the seventeenth century. They were used to incite Christians to support the missions and to legitimize a Christian presence in the Orient, which appeared as a comeback. Through the Crusades, several Jesuits, such as father A. de Damas, dealt with political matters such as the “question of the Orient”. The recurrence of the Jesuit discourse illustrated the solidarity among the members of the Society as well as the continuity between the restored order and the ancient order suppressed in 1773. It also causes us to reflect on the process of elaborating knowledge by the Jesuits. Their scholarly productions have two main sources: the writings of their predecessors, and the books of scholars whose religious or political convictions were sometimes but not always very far from theirs. Their academic ambitions removed the ideological limits, pacified the conflicts and allowed the debate. From this point of view, the Jesuits can be considered as Orientalists, taking part in the process of “building the Orient” for European use. The Jesuit discourse on the Holy Land finally showed the vision the missionaries dreamt of. Like other missionaries, Jesuits wrote to justify their actions and to give significance to their departure from Europe. Missions mean being wrenched from one’s community or country. This wrenching is made possible and sustained by creating an utopia.91 Missionaries initiated a lot of projects that should further an ideal Christianity. Jesuits left for Ethiopia in order to con-

90

M. Halbwachs, La topographie légendaire des Evangiles en Terre Sainte (Paris, 1941). C. Prudhomme (ed.), Une appropriation du monde, mission et missions, XIXe–XXe siècle (Paris, 2004), 73–74. 91

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quer the ancient Kingdom of priest John, and Protestant missionaries of the American Board considered Kharput’s area in Anatolia the place of the Garden of Eden.92 These places were far distant from Europe, but through the discourses they were most often incorporated into a holy History, in other words, into a European History.

92

Compare the article by B. J. Merguerian in this volume.

WILLIAM MCCLURE THOMSON’S THE LAND AND THE BOOK (1859): PILGRIMAGE AND MISSION IN PALESTINE Heleen Murre-van den Berg Introduction Twenty-five years after William McClure Thomson arrived in Beirut as a young missionary, he finished writing The Land and the Book, Biblical illustrations drawn from the manners and customs, the scenes and scenery of the Holy Land. The two-volume book, consisting of more than eleven hundred pages and over two hundred illustrations, was first published in New York in 1859. During the latter half of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth century, it found a wide readership on both sides of the Atlantic, as attested by numerous reprints and its ubiquitous presence in Sunday School libraries.1 Recent studies such as those of Lester Vogel, Hilton Obenzinger, and John Davis pay due attention to Thomson’s work in the context of nineteenthcentury American interests in the Holy Land, and his influence upon other travelers and authors is duly noted.2 It seems to me, however, that The Land and the Book deserves a more extensive treatment than it has received so far. What I intend to do is to read this book in

1 Some of the more important are those of New York 1868, London 1872, 1874, 1879, New York 1881 and 1882, London, New York 1910, London 1905 and 1954 (reprint London 1879). A recent reprint (Piscataway, NJ, 2004) was based on an edition of 1911. Although its popularity seems undisputed, references to it, like “more than 200,000 copies, more—it is said—than any other American book of its time except Uncle Tom’s Cabin” (cf. Finnie), seem to have been copied from each other, although curious variations on this phrase occur. The earliest references I came across were in David H. Finnie, Pioneers East, The Early American Experience in the Middle East (Cambridge MA, 1967), 187 and Yehoshua Ben-Arieh, The Rediscovery of the Holy Land in the Nineteenth Century ( Jerusalem, 1979), 167. 2 Lester I. Vogel, To see a Promised Land. Americans and the Holy Land in the Nineteenth Century (Pennsylvania, 1993); Hilton Obenzinger, American Palestine. Melville, Twain, and the Holy Land Mania (Princeton NJ, 1999), 162, 234 and John Davis, The Landscape of Belief. Encountering the Holy Land in Nineteenth-century American Art and Culture (Princeton, 1996). These three studies, from the different perspectives of general culture, literature and landscape painting, respectively, are particularly concerned with the American aspect of the “Holy Land mania,” especially in connection with American “colonial” self-understanding.

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the context of the American missionary activities in the Middle East in the first half of the nineteenth century. The question that has occupied me since reading Thomson’s book for the first time is to what extent his book, which is of an entirely different nature than most other missionary publications of the time, can be seen as a characteristic example of missionary orientalist discourse of the middle of the nineteenth century. Is it possible that The Land and the Book, by almost completely ignoring concrete missionary aims and experiences, is the prime example of American Protestant missionary discourse on the Middle East? Dr. William M. Thomson, born in 1806 and educated at Miami University and Princeton Theological Seminary, arrived in Beirut early in 1833, as part of a group of missionaries sent by the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. Earlier initiatives of the ABCFM in Syria and Palestine had been discontinued, and it was in 1833 that after long deliberations the mission was started again.3 After a short stay in Palestine, during which his first wife died but his first-born, William Hanna, survived, Thomson returned to Beirut and for most of his missionary career was based in this city. He later remarried and remained in Beirut till 1876. He died in America in 1894.4 The ABCFM, the largest Protestant interdenominational mission agency in North America, considered mission work in the Middle East one of its top priorities. Around 1860 it had established a chain of mission posts, ranging from Beirut via Constantinople and Aintab, to Mosul in the Ottoman Empire and to Urmia in Qajar Persia. By that time, the funds for the Middle-Eastern missions ran to almost 45% of the total budget.5 As authors such as Vogel, Obenzinger and

3 On the ABCFM mission in Syria, see Habib Badr, “Mission to ‘Nominal Christians:’ The Policy and Practice of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and its Missionaries concerning Eastern Churches which led to the Organization of a Protestant Church in Beirut (1819–1848)” (Ph.D. Princeton Theological Seminary, 1992), A. L. Tibawi, American Interests in Syria, 1800–1901. A Study of Educational, Literary and Religious Work (Oxford, 1966), as well as Habib and Fleischmann in this volume. 4 For the main facts see Tibawi, American Interests, 73, 198, and Yehoshua BenArieh, Painting the Holy Land in the Nineteenth Century ( Jerusalem, 1997), 210–11. 5 Allan F. Perry, “The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions and the London Missionary Society in the Nineteenth Century: A Study of Ideas” (Ph.D. Washington University, 1974), 275. See also Murre-van den Berg, “The Middle East: Western Missions and the Eastern Churches, Islam and Judaism,” in

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Davis have extensively described, Protestant missionary interests in this part of the world were part of a wider American fascination with the Middle East, which, however, was largely based on Protestant concerns.6 Part of the origins of these interests lay in millennialist and eschatological trends in American Protestantism, such as espoused by the eighteenth-century Jonathan Edwards.7 Expectations of the imminent return of Christ, to be preceded by the preaching of the Gospel around the world as well as the conversion and restoration of the Jews, encouraged missionary activities in general, but in particular in the Middle East. However, although millennialist ideas remained part of the American interests in the Middle East,8 the majority (of missionaries as well as the general public) was interested in the region for a more complex cluster of reasons, centering round the region as “Bible Lands,” as the title of a book by another Syria missionary indicated.9 Rather than by concrete millennialist expectations, most of the ABCFM missionaries of the mid-nineteenth century seem to have been motivated by the scriptural and historical resonance of the region. It is this motivation that I would like to flesh out more by taking a closer look at The Land and the Book. Two notes of caution should be sounded: this contribution is concerned primarily with The Land and the Book, and with the views as

Sheridan Gilley and Brian Stanley (eds.), World Christianities, c. 1815–1914, The Cambridge History of Christianity 8 (Cambridge, 2006), 458–472. 6 Compare also older literature on this subject, such as Peter Kawerau, Amerika und die orientalischen Kirchen. Ursprung und Anfang der amerikanischen Mission unter den Nationalkirchen Westasiens (Berlin, 1958) and Finnie, Pioneers East. More recently, see Yehoshua Ben-Arieh and Moshe Davis, Jerusalem in the Eyes of the Western World, 1800 –1948 [With Eyes toward Zion V] (Westport, London 1997), especially BenArieh, “Jerusalem Travel Literature as Historical Source and Cultural Phenomenon,” 25–46, and David Klatzer “Sacred Journeys: Jerusalem in the Eyes of American Travelers before 1948,” 47–58. 7 Kawerau, Amerika, 1–65 and Mark A. Noll, America’s God. From Jonathan Edwards to Abraham Lincoln (Oxford, 2002). 8 Compare Gershon Greenberg, The Holy Land in American Religious Thought, 1620–1948. The Symbiosis of American Religious Approaches to Scripture’s Sacred Territory (Lanham, 1994), 191–225. One of the ABCFM missionaries that was motivated by distinct millennialist concerns was Asahel Grant, cf. The Nestorians or the Lost Tribes (London, 1841; reprint Piscataway, NJ, 2002), while also the early Palestine missionaries Levi Parsons and Pliny Fiske were interested in the Jewish population, cf. Greenberg, The Holy Land, 113–39 and Obenzinger, American Palestine, 24–38. On the near absence of such motivation among the majority of ABCFM missionaries, see Perry, “The American Board,” 288–291. 9 Henry J. van Lennep, Bible Lands, Their Modern Customs and Manners Illustrative of Scripture (London, 1875).

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expressed in this publication. It does not intend to study the life and work of William Thomson, however welcome a biography of one of the most interesting missionaries of the nineteenth century would be. I am also limiting myself in this contribution to the early editions of The Land and the Book.10 Later editions, especially those of 1881/1882 and following, were considerably revised and updated.11 An in-depth comparison of the various editions would certainly yield more insight into Thomson’s views on the Holy Land as they developed in the latter decades of the nineteenth century, but falls beyond the scope of the present article. Biblical illustration The key word when describing the aims and set-up of The Land and the Book is the word “illustration”. It is to “illustrate the Word of God” that Thomson felt compelled to start writing this book, not to add to exegetical commentaries or devotional literature.12 To him, this means describing and reflecting on the present situation in the Holy Land in order to understand what happened in biblical times: “to muse on what has been, and converse with what is, and learn from all what they can teach concerning the oracles of God.”13 Such illustrations might come from everywhere: from geography, history, climate, flora and fauna, as well as the “manners and customs” of the nineteenth-century inhabitants of the Holy Land. Sycamores along the roadside prove that Zaccheus could easily have climbed such a tree to spot Jesus entering his Jericho; wild goats at En Gedi along

10 I have used the New York edition of 1868, which is identical (in page numbers, text and illustrations) to the first edition of 1859. 11 The Land and the Book: Southern Palestine and Jerusalem (New York, 1881) and The Land and the Book: Central Palestine and Phoenicia (New York, 1882), signed by W. M. Thomson, “forty-five years a missionary . . .” Nothing in either book indicates that the two belong together, and nothing is said about the substantial revision in comparison with the earlier versions. It seems that most authors quoting Thomson have not noted the considerable differences between the editions. Only Ben-Arieh (Painting the Holy Land, 210) seems to have been aware of it, but appears to have based himself on the edition of 1881/2 or later. 12 I: iii. If there is no danger of confusion, references to The Land and the Book are by volume and page numbers only, italics and small caps in quotations are Thomson’s. 13 I: vi.

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the Death Sea coast confirm the mention of such goats in David’s times.14 More than trees or animals, “manners and customs” form an important type of illustration. Tattoos on hands and faces illustrate what Moses might have intended with the “sign on your hand,”15 women weeping at graves in Sidon provide insight into the mourning rituals described in the Bible,16 and the present-day costume of the “Syrian Arab” might well resemble the dress of the Israelites.17 A “native manufactory of pottery,” is interpreted to be “the whole Biblical apparatus complete, and in full operation.”18 Thomson’s comparison between the different groups living in contemporary Palestine and the social structures at the time of the Judges reflects his intimate knowledge of the country, but also illustrates the assumption of a historical continuity that stretches from the early Israelite settlements right into the nineteenth century.19 This continuity is detected not only in social structures and customs, but also in genealogy, as in the case of Arabs who lived north of Nazareth, whom Thomson suggests might be descendants of Jael, the Kenite woman who lived in the same region.20 Sometimes this supposed continuity reflects a kind of romantic primitivism, in which, for instance, the meeting of the two estranged brothers Jacob and Esau is described as being “beautiful, natural and Oriental,” that is, conforming to the best Palestine traditions of Thomson’s times.21 Thomson’s descriptions are supplemented by “pictorial illustrations”. These sketches, most of which are said to have been made by his son William Hanna,22 are generally of good quality, and adequately

14

I: 22–3 and II: 420. I: 91ff, where he describes the custom of “marking religious tokens upon the hands and arms,” also among Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem. The custom is used to explain Ex.13: 9, 16. 16 I: 147 (mourning rituals). 17 I: 165ff: “We shall select that of the Syrian Arab, which in all probability does actually approach nearest to that of the patriarchs.” 18 II: 281–2. 19 II: 146, II: 163, comparison between present-day Bedouins and the enemies of the Israelites in earlier times. Similar assumptions underlie the interpretation of doing business in the gate of a city or village in II: 384. 20 II: 144–6 ( Judges 4). This assumption of historical continuity between biblical times and contemporary inhabitants of Palestine became more popular as the nineteenth century progressed, cf. Vogel, To See a Promised Land, 229–32. 21 II: 28 (Genesis 33: 4–10). 22 I: ix. On William Hanna, compare Vogel, To See a Promised Land, 197, n. 37. Considering Thomson junior’s early return to America (around 1842, at the age of 15

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support the descriptions in the text. Illustrations include sketches of the important cities, of valleys and rivers, birds, various other animals, plants, musical instruments and kitchen utensils, as well as of the inhabitants of the country, in various costumes or engaged in ‘typical’ activities such as praying, drawing water, making pottery, eating, entertaining, and weeping at a grave. It seems likely that these numerous drawings contributed not only to the popularity of the book, but also to the creation of strong images of the Holy Land, in which the boundaries between the present state of Palestine and the land as it was in biblical times are consistently blurred—in a close parallel with the historical continuity that is assumed in the written text.23 These illustrations might also have contributed to the trend in biblical illustration to depict Jesus and his contemporaries in nineteenth-century Arab dress, a trend discernible into at least the early 50s of the twentieth century. It is in the first paragraph of the introduction that Thomson points to two closely connected underlying motivations for his search for illustration: “revelation” and “evidence”: The land where the Word-made-flesh dwelt with men is, and must ever be, an integral part of the Divine Revelation. Her testimony is essential to the chain of evidences, her aid invaluable in exposition.”24

That is, to see and understand the “Land” is “invaluable” to understand the Bible, and “essential” to prove its veracity and reliability. Such need for proof reflects the growing interest in a literal reading of the Bible that in Thomson’s time characterized Evangelical Protestantism in America.25 Although in a few instances Thomson

nine), it is possible that his contribution has been somewhat exaggerated by his father. W. H. Thomson, who practiced as a medical doctor in America, in 1912 published Life and Times of the Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; Being a Supplement to “The Land and the Book” (New York, 1912) with sketches by his own hand. He died in 1918. On the illustrations, compare also Ben-Arieh, Painting the Holy Land, 210–11, 229. It seems, likely, however, that Ben-Arieh refers to the 1881/1882 edition or later, in which most illustrations are new and the reference to Thomson junior has disappeared. Comparison with the work of Thomson’s close colleague Van Lennep (Bible Lands) indicates that the latter used some of the illustrations from of Thomson’s earlier version (cf. Thomson I: 363–4 and Van Lennep, Bible Lands, 255–6). 23 Notably, in only few pictures can references to the nineteenth-century be discovered, if so, these usually consist of people in Western dress, cf. e.g., II: 271. 24 I: xv. 25 Compare Noll, America’s God, 379–382, in which Noll uses the term “Common-

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accepts symbolic readings of Bible passages, in general it is the straightforward, “commonsense”, literal meaning that is confirmed by the Land. Simple one-to-one literalisms, such as the observation of a potter’s wheel or the rituals at the well at evening time, are taken as proof of the accuracy of the Bible. The Land, however, confirms the reliability of “Divine oracles” also in a more indirect way: the present desolation of the city of Tyre not only proves the veracity of the prophecies of eternal destruction uttered by Ezekiel, but this one example also guarantees the future fulfillment of all other prophecies in the Bible.26 In a similar way, everything in Palestine that refers to the Jewish revolt and subsequent defeat of the Jews confirms that “prophetic warnings”, spoken against the sins of the Jews of old, have come true in a most literal sense.27 The strong literalism in The Land and the Book comes out most clearly in its preoccupation with geography and topography. Rather than presenting the main sites, towns and villages in a thematic or chronological order, Thomson chose to organize his book along the lines of a travelogue, describing a journey through the length and width of the Holy Land. This literary journey more or less parallels a journey that was undertaken in the year 1857, although many additions were informed by earlier visits during the preceding twentyfive years of Thomson’s stay in the country. The journey of 1857 was undertaken to acquaint a friend from America with the Holy Land. In the fictional narrative, a similar fellow-traveler’s naïve questions serve to structure the narrative into smaller units, whereas the answers of the experienced traveler enable the author to deal with questions and preconceptions that occupy his readers. The experienced traveler seems to be practically identical with Thomson himself,

sense Literalism” to characterize mid-nineteenth-century Protestant interpretations of the Bible. Note that Greenberg (The Holy Land, 191–225) seems to limit the term “Protestant Literalists” to mid-century millennialists, such as the Millerites and Clorinda Minor’s group. 26 I: 261 (Ezekiel 26, 28, 29). On the connection between literalism and interpretation of prophecies in American Protestantism, compare Obenzinger, American Palestine, 46–49. 27 II: 419, where in connection with the Jewish defeat at Masada Thomson writes: “They [such tragedies] are the voice of the Almighty One, setting the seal of truth to a thousand admonitions and prophetic warnings scattered every where through this holy Word, and, thus regarded, there is no stronger evidence for the divine origin of the Bible than the seven books of the Jewish Wars by Josephus.”

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whereas the reader is supposed to identify with the “compagnon de voyage”.28 By this set-up, aimed at a general, lay Christian public, Thomson distinguished his two volumes from roughly similar works on the Holy Land, like Edward Robinson’s Biblical Researches in Palestine29 and John Kitto’s Scripture Lands,30 which were aimed at a more scholarly audience. The genre of the travelogue implied that the geographical layout of the Holy Land became the basic structure of the two volumes. Starting in Beirut, the town where Thomson resided and where his friend landed on the shores of “Palestine”,31 the travels of the two explorers run from what is now the southern part of Lebanon, along the coast down via Sidon and Tyre to Haifa, then eastwards to Lake Tiberias, up north again for a detour into the region of the sources of the Jordan, and a detour south to Nazareth (volume I). Travel is continued more or less along the coast down to Jaffa, as far south as Gaza, before turning into an easterly direction, a route that, via the Death Sea and Jericho, finds its natural end in Jerusalem (volume II). Numerous other places not directly on the route are included in the narrative, either by way of detours made by either one of the two travel companions, or by way of reminiscences by Thomson on earlier travel in the region. This organization of the work indicates that geography and topography do indeed play an important role in illustrating the Bible. Thomson, by building upon earlier research such as that of Robinson, provides a detailed introduction to the geography of the Holy Land, not only of towns and villages but also of mountains, valleys, rivers and deserts. It gives him great pleasure when he is able to suggest

28

I: xvi. Edward Robinson and Eli Smith, Biblical Researches in Palestine, Mt. Sinai, and Arabia Petraea, a Journal of Travels (London 1841, Boston 1841, 2nd enlarged edition: London, 1856). 30 John Kitto, Scripture Lands, Described in a Series of Historical, Geographical and Topographical Sketches, London: Henry G. Bohn, 1850. The Briton Kitto had traveled in the Middle East as a missionary, starting in Malta at the CMS printing office, later traveling as far as Baghdad with the itinerant missionary A. N. Groves, cf. Timothy C. F. Stunt, From Awakening to Secession. Radical Evangelicals in Switzerland and Britain 1815–1835 (Edinburgh, 2000), 120, 381–2. 31 I: xvi. “Palestine” in this period usually refers to the more southern part, stretching roughly from the line Haifa-Sea of Tiberias to the line Gaza-Masada, but Thomson also uses the term as a synonym for the ‘Holy Land’, which included present-day southern Lebanon and Syria. 29

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new identifications, or to falsify earlier ones even without being able to add a new one: “Every extension of our knowledge in this department lessens the number of topographical obscurities, and in time all will be cleared away.”32 Both the period of the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and the history of the twelve tribes after the arrival in the Promised Land are object of serious interest to Thomson, including the likely boundaries of the homelands of each of the twelve tribes.33 This interest is part of the literalism mentioned earlier, and underlines that this literalism was perhaps even more important for understanding the Old Testament than the New. According to Thomson, even the remote, legend-like stories of the earliest period of Israelite history were grounded in the reality of the geography of the Holy Land, traces of which could be found all over the country in place names and identifiable mountains and rivers: “In a word, Palestine is one vast tablet whereupon God’s messages to men have been drawn, and graven deep in living characters by the Great Publisher of glad tidings, to be seen and read of all to the end of time.”34 Spiritual religion Not all messages of the land, however, were as straightforward and easy to read as the examples given above. In addition to the romantic and primitive aspects of contemporary Palestine, which added to a sympathetic pastoral interpretation of (especially) the early period of Israelite settlement in the Promised Land, there was much in Thomson’s Palestine that could not easily be reconciled with such idealistic notions. The customs of the inhabitants often offended Protestant taste, whereas the landscape was found to be desolate and infertile, quite contrary to the fecundity and abundance suggested by the Bible stories. When such less congenial aspects of contemporary Palestine are described, The Land and the Book reflects the preconceptions and 32 II: 63. In a number of instances, Thomson explicitly disagrees with Robinson on the identification of biblical locations (e.g. I: 440 on Hazor, I: 543 on Capernaum). He also occasionally disagrees with John Kitto (Scripture Lands), compare II: 384. 33 Note that both Kitto (Scripture Lands, 162–213) and Robinson (Biblical Researches) also pay considerable attention to identifying the boundaries of the twelve tribes. 34 I: xv.

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orientalisms that were common in the West in this period. Public prayer sessions invite the accusation of hypocrisy because even “a party of robbers” can be encountered praying.35 The primitive means of transportation among “wild Arabs”, in combination with Turkish domination, can be held responsible for the disappearance of roads in Palestine,36 whereas there is little to admire in performances by “dancing-girls” in Gaza.37 Jewish worshippers in a Jerusalem synagogue produce “the most outrageous concert of harsh nasal sounds,” while their behavior “was very peculiar and somewhat ridiculous.”38 However, since Thomson’s purpose is to better understand the Bible through everything the East offers, such peculiarities need explaining and understanding, rather than ridicule or neglect. It seems no coincidence, therefore, that usually the blatantly ‘orientalist’ remark is made by the inexperienced traveler. This gives the experienced traveler, Thomson’s alter ego, a chance to correct, nuance or interpret what the first-time visitor has noticed.39 According to this alter ego, the “dances spoken of in ancient Biblical times were in most points just such as we have been describing,”40 and David’s singing probably resembled the singing in the synagogue of Jerusalem.41 As these examples indicate, the most common way to interpret and analyze these uncongenial customs that are undeniably ‘biblical’ is to relegate them to the realm of the past, usually, the Old Testament. It is here that Thomson’s basic scheme of interpreting the Land becomes clear. The way a Muslim prays resembles that of Jews of old, making “his supplications unto his God” like “Daniel in Babylon.” It is therefore likely that the Muslim custom of praying towards Mecca derived from the Jewish prayer facing Jerusalem, and as such is illustrative of biblical custom. In fact, Thomson suggests

35 I: 27–8. Perhaps the passage where storks are compared to Muslims, among other reasons because they “stand for hours in one position, as if immersed in deep meditation, and do not hesitate to strike their sharp bill into any thing or person that disturbs them” reflects a similar sentiment (I: 504). Another example of supposed hypocrisy is the practice of hiring wailing women at burials (I: 145). 36 I: 19–20. On this trope about the roads in Palestine, cf. Obenzinger, American Palestine, xv. 37 II: 345–6. 38 II: 575. 39 I: 28 and II: 575. 40 II: 346: a remark that is introduced by the words: “I hope you will not be greatly scandalized if I venture the opinion that the dances spoken of . . .” 41 II: 575–7.

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that not only Muslims and Jews, but also Christians in the Middle East have similar ways of praying, in which outward appearance and the correct words and movements are the overriding concern. The comparison with Old Testament customs entitles these religious practices to a certain amount of respect and understanding, but at the same time relegates them safely to the past. It is the New Testament that is now the rule of faith, and it is the “enlightened Christian”, “who has learned that neither in this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, shall men worship the Father.” He has taken the next step by learning from the New Testament, indeed, from Jesus himself, how to pray in “spirit and in truth.”42 Despite Thomson’s sympathetic and often insightful descriptions of the world of the Middle East, his interpretation of what he sees is basically decided by assuming a fundamental difference between Evangelical Protestants on the one hand, and all other forms of religion, Christian or otherwise, on the other.43 The opposition between these two types of religion returns at a number of crucial passages in the book. An important passage is found in volume II, in which the opposition is worked out by comparing the situation in Jesus’ time to that of nineteenth-century Palestine.44 Both Jesus in the past and the Protestant missionaries today are described as bringing a message that was completely opposed to current ideas on religion. In both cases, according to Thomson, contemporary religion was characterized primarily by its “intensely mercenary” character. Both then and now, “religion is, in fact, a species of property, valued, not for its truth, but for its available price in the market.” This basic characteristic of Middle-Eastern religion, which also underlies Thomson’s extremely negative view of Judaism,45 is contrasted with 42 I: 28–29 ( John 4: 23–24) and I: 175–7 (here in the context of dress, seclusion, position of females in the family). 43 Such dualistic patterns of classifying religion are of course very common, also in the nineteenth century; compare Jonathan Z. Smith, Relating Religion. Essays in the Study of Religion (Chicago, 2004), 187–91 (chapter 8, published earlier as the article “Religion, Religions, Religious”). 44 II: 86–93. 45 Cf. the introductory lines of the passage on the Jews of Tiberias, which apparently epitomize everything with which Thomson finds fault among the Jews of his time: “The common Jew of Tiberias is self-righteous, proud, ignorant, rude, quarrelsome, hypocritical, dishonest, selfish, avaricious, immoral, and such, in the main, were his ancestors eighteen centuries ago.” (II: 86). Although Eastern Christians and Muslims are also displayed in negative terms, none of such passages equals this one.

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the “pure spiritual religion” that Jesus, and, by analogy, the Evangelical Protestants, came to bring. This spiritual religion was not bound by tradition, custom or worldly motives such as political protection or mercenary advantages, but by a free choice of heart. In a short aside, the origins of these “mercenary” aspects of oriental religion are again attributed to the religion of the Old Testament, in which the “letter of its promises is almost wholly temporal, and [. . .] religion has been inseparably interwoven with the secular affairs of the people.”46 That enlightened Christians should not take even the New Testament literally at all times becomes clear from Thomson’s discussion of veiling. Veiling, here defined as women covering their faces as well as their hair, was common in nineteenth-century Palestine among most groups of the population. From this perspective, the apostle Paul’s admonitions in the New Testament to maintain the practice of wearing the veil in Christian communities47 is seen by Thomson as a relevant prescription in the “Oriental” context of separate domains for men and women, not only in the past, but also in the newly formed Protestant communities. Of course, a much whished-for change of context, wrought by educating men and women and getting them used to “free and becoming social intercourse,” would ultimately undo the necessity of veiling women, also in the Middle East.48 This implies that according to Thomson, even New Testament prescripts that are part of the “Oriental” context of the Bible could, or rather should, be put aside when circumstances have changed. “Oriental customs,” therefore, illustrate and explain the Bible, but in the end are transient and open to elimination or change from the perspective of a Protestant interpretation of the message of Jesus. Pilgrimage I assume that “pilgrimage”, rather than biblical exposition or the antagonism between Middle-Eastern religions and Evangelical Protest-

46

II: 92. I Corinthians 11: 3–15. 48 I: 34–37. This long passage about veiling women and female seclusion contains many more elements that deserve further discussion, such as a latent antiJudaism, wearing a veil as the “power” (i.e., freedom) of women, and a call for more female “modesty” in Western congregations. 47

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antism, is the most important theme of The Land and the Book. In the third and fourth decades of the nineteenth century, growing American interests in the Mediterranean as well as increased possibilities of travel had created a demand for a Protestant type of pilgrimage. To this demand Thomson was ready to respond. Despite a certain reticence to use the word “pilgrimage” in its classic sense,49 The Land and the Book in many ways constitutes a traditional pilgrim’s manual—not in the least because it covers an itinerary that begins at an accessible harbor (with the possibility to embark at Haifa or Jaffa), and ends in Jerusalem.50 As in a travelogue, the primary focus is on geographical organization, but unlike a travelogue, appropriate biblical references are linked to each location to encourage meditation on its importance in Christian history. However, despite the implicit acceptance of the phenomenon of Protestant pilgrimage, Thomson is determined to offer a version of a pilgrimage that is decidedly different from that of Roman Catholics and Orthodox as regards the sites to be visited and the ‘mood’ in which such visits were to take place. From the perspective of a pilgrimage, Thomson’s serious interest in Old Testament locations is also striking. This includes, as referred to above, identifications of relatively obscure persons and places from the early period of Israel, which are to be understood primarily from the literalism that determined his reading of both the Old and the New Testament. From this perspective a preference for locations “abroad” can also be explained: rather than the crowded cities with shrines and churches that were later erected, Thomson prefers the unspoiled vistas of mountains, hills and small villages as the source of his pilgrimage spirituality. These, in his opinion, formed the scene of God’s encounters with humankind, from the time of Abraham to the time of Jesus who preached in the fields: “The Bible is not a

49 The word is regularly used, sometimes between inverted commas, sometimes not, but nearly always in a kind of detached, not wholly serious way, compare, e.g., I: viii and I: 464. 50 An important difference between the 1859 and 1881/2 editions is the fact that in the latter, despite the fact that more or less the same locations are being described, a different route is followed, starting from Jaffa and ending in Jerusalem in the first part, and going from Jerusalem to Beirut in the second. This might have reflected contemporary pilgrimage routes better than the route from Beirut to Jerusalem in the early editions.

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city book.”51 It is such sites that deserve the love and devotion of Protestant Christians, and, as Davies observed, were available for appropriation, which the sites of Orthodox and Catholic shrines and altars were not.52 However, holy places whose identity is based on Christian or Jewish tradition rather than on historical facts should be treated merely with “respect”. Thomson does not approve of the “increasing disposition among many Protestants to glide into the same sort of reverential deportment in presence of these localities that Roman Catholics and Orientals generally manifest,”53 and he uses a few pages to explain to his travel companion and his readers at home why such reverence is not appropriate. Only those places where “Divine presence” can be assumed should be honored, places which are not directed towards “human beings or to angelic spirits,” and whose identification is absolutely certain.54 Since none of the regular holy places in Palestine could claim “Divine presence” in the present, and according to Thomson and other Protestant critics historical identification in most instances was highly doubtful, practically none of the popular sites, including the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, were worth more than “respect”. Even more problematic is the veneration of mere human beings, being practically identical to idolatry: “the most popular mode of this apostasy is sacrilegious reverence for dead men’s tombs and bones.”55 This sin is also practiced by Christians, especially in the Middle East, where numerous holy places are dedicated to the remains of Christian saints. It is such veneration that Jesus condemned in

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I: 507–8. Davies, The Landscape, 47, 138. In this connection, see also Yeshayahu Nir, “Cultural Predispositions in Early Photography: The Case of the Holy Land,” in Yehoshua Ben-Arieh and Moshe Davis, Jerusalem in the Eyes of the Western World, 1800 –1948 [With Eyes toward Zion V] (Westport, London 1997), 197–206; he notes a British-Protestant preference for landscape, rather different from the FrenchCatholic interest in architecture and art, often in connection with traditional pilgrimage locations. 53 II: 498. 54 II: 498–500. 55 II: 493. According to Thomson, such idolatry is not confined to the Middle East, but is also found in other places where Protestant missionaries ventured in the nineteenth century, for instance in “the great empire of China.” 52

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his time,56 and surely would condemn again if he were to return to the Jerusalem of the nineteenth century. It was to be expected that “our modern Pharisees” would “kill him upon his own reputed tomb.”57 It seems likely that the phrase “our modern Pharisees” refers particularly to the Christian leaders, so that this passage becomes central in rejecting a vital part of the religious world of Middle Eastern Christians. It confirms what has been described in the previous section: underlying Thomson’s two volumes is the assumption of a fundamental difference between Evangelical Protestantism on the one hand, and all other forms of religion, Christian or otherwise, on the other. Despite this clear principle, Thomson is not able to end the discussion on pilgrimage with a firm rejection of “tombs and bones.” Through the voice of his traveling companion, he tries to come to terms with existing forms of Christian pilgrimage. Towards the end of the second volume, where most of the discussions on holy places and pilgrimage concentrate, the compagnon de voyage starts to challenge the experienced traveler’s distant attitude towards the concrete and popular holy places, especially in Jerusalem. “Jerusalem is the common property of the whole Christian world—belongs neither to Greek nor Latin—is neither Papist nor Protestant. I claim a share in Zion and Moriah, Olivet and Siloah, Gethsemane and Calvary,”58 is what he exclaims when he starts to explore Jerusalem. Although he is cautioned by the experienced traveler, for instance by the exposé on “respect” instead of “reverential deportment”, the second traveler is not satisfied with the answers he is getting. After exploring the city, especially the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he challenges Thomson’s alter ego by suggesting that “we” perhaps have been too strict and afraid to show “becoming reverence and love” to the places that have been cared for with so much love and zeal by Christians through the centuries: Around that spot, whether it be or be not the real tomb, have clustered the hopes and affections of the great Christian world for sixteen centuries at least, and with all but a few learned men it is still the accepted representation and locale of events of such transcendent magnitude as

56 “Woe to you [Pharisees]! for you build the tombs of the prophets whom your fathers killed,” Luke 11: 47. 57 II: 493. 58 II: 468.

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The second traveler, now more experienced than he was when the journey started in Beirut a couple of months earlier, eloquently defends a Protestant type of pilgrimage that, besides offering geographical and historical accuracy, allows for another type of historical argument to justify “becoming reverence and love”: the “hopes and affections of the great Christian world for sixteen centuries at the least.” Rather than finding reasons for pilgrimage in historical evidence alone, the second traveler proposes to take into account the subsequent history of Christianity as a source of hope and faith. Thomson’s alter ego, however, does not accept this modification and reiterates why he thinks Jerusalem is important. This city is indeed the “true capital of the Christian world,”60 but only because it is the historical location of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. All veneration of other holy places amounts to idolatry, which prevents the worship of Jesus in Jerusalem “in spirit and truth.”61 Rather unexpected for missionary literature, no synthesis follows: Thomson allows for fundamental disagreement on the important issue as to what Protestant pilgrimage may or may not entail. It seems to me that the author Thomson here makes room for a more romantic and perhaps ecumenical view than the missionary Thomson could acknowledge. In this connection an interesting detail may be noted: early on in their travels, while still in what today is Lebanon, the traveling companion requests a short detour, because “one of my fair friends in America charged me to bring her some memento from the grave of Lady Hester Stanhope.”62 The experienced traveler agrees, and Thomson is led into a detailed and sympathetic description of Stanhope’s exceptional life and lonely death.63 Not only does 59

II: 552–5. II: 464. 61 II: 566. 62 I: 103. 63 I: 109–115. On Stanhope, see recently Lorna Gibb, Lady Hester, Queen of the East (London, 2005). Thomson never met her while she was alive, but was asked to conduct her burial service in 1839. Both Gibb and Thomson seem to be somewhat embarrassed by her religious dreams and expectations, which are not spelled out in detail. Note that in the edition of 1882 (662), Stanhope is relegated to an off-hand reference in connection with “Jûne, the village once occupied by Lady Hester Stanhope.” 60

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this short excursion, which is totally different from anything in the two volumes, provide an insight into Thomson’s romantic character, allowing for the inclusion of a pilgrimage to a secular, almost feminist site, it also shows that he was acutely aware of the expectations of his future readers. The same might have been the case with his description of a more ecumenical view of Protestant pilgrimage. One more important detail in connection with the theme of pilgrimage should be noted. When the two travelers set out on their journey, the newcomer compares his object to that of Abraham, the “Father of the Faithful,” who was to take into possession the “Land of Promise”:64 “It is given to me also, and I mean to make it mine from Dan to Beersheba before I leave it.”65 Although his enthusiasm is tempered by the experienced traveler who warns him of the difficulty of travel and the time it takes to come to know the country, the latter does not challenge the underlying aim: to take possession of the Holy Land by traveling through it.66 This element of “possession” returns towards the end of the second volume, when the second traveler enters Jerusalem: “I claim a share in Zion.”67 Despite these rather unobtrusive insertions, I would like to suggest that these hints at possessing the Land reflect one of the most important sentiments motivating pilgrimage and mission of the nineteenthcentury Protestants: the conviction that Protestants, as much as Roman Catholics and Orthodox Christians (and much more so than Jews or Muslims), are entitled to their share of the Holy Land. Mission As indicated in the introduction, mission is not a prominent theme in Thomson’s volumes. He warns his readers not to expect the description of “missionary operations”,68 and he almost completely ignores actual missionary events. However, one need not read between

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Genesis 13:14–18. I: 17. 66 On these remarks, compare Obenzinger, American Palestine, 55–6 and Davies, The Landscape, 48, who describe this aspect of appropriation by American authors, especially in millennialist contexts. 67 II: 468. 68 I: viii. 65

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the lines to recognize Thomson’s strong commitment to the missionary cause. This becomes clear on two levels. First, the biblical origins of mission create their own pilgrimage sites, which are given a particular prominence in the narrative. The remains of the coastal city of Caesarea are considered to be “in some respects, the most interesting site on the earth to the missionary,” because Caesarea is the place where Peter converted the first non-Jew to Christianity, making it the “birthplace of the Apostolic church,” and where Paul, the “greatest missionary” was imprisoned for Christianity’s sake.69 Even more important than Caesarea is Jerusalem, especially the Mount of Olives, where Jesus asked his disciples to “preach the Gospel to every creature”, the Bible verse that in the nineteenth century became the clarion call of all Protestant missions.70 It is surely no coincidence that a small cottage on Olivet is where the missionary Thomson ends his two volumes, meditating on “the great commission”. The Judean desert, finally, in its present desolation, encourages sweet musings of the day when Ezekiel’s prophecies about a life-giving river, understood to symbolize the general reception of “divine mercy”, shall begin to flow in all the world: “a thousand such deserts have already blossomed, and other thousands are beginning to bloom.”71 The missionary, struggling in today’s deserts, foresees a “delightful transformation” in the future. As described above, on another level the two volumes are infused with a fundamental opposition between the religion of the Evangelical Protestants and all other religions of the Middle East, be it Jewish, Muslim or Eastern Christian. This became clear in the description of “oriental customs” that had to be relegated to the past, and in the adamant rejection of “mercenary motives” in matters of religion and of “idolatry” in pilgrimage. With a reading public such as Thomson’s, he did not need to explicitly connect this rejection of a central aspect of Middle-Eastern religions to the urgent need for missions in the Middle East; every Protestant reader of his book would automatically come to the same conclusion. On a different level, Thomson appears not only to be an advocate of a civilizational mission, but also of a mission that is sup-

69 70 71

II: 238–251 (Acts 10: 21–26). II: 601–2 (Matthew 28: 18–20). II: 533–4 (Ezekiel 47).

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ported by Western political influence in the Middle East.72 At several points in the narrative, he suggests that another government would improve conditions in Palestine, e.g., as regards with public conveniences such as roads that have disappeared, agricultural prosperity, and the position of women.73 Positively, the city of Ramleh stands out for its wealth and relatively tolerant city life, “doubtless owing to constant intercourse with pilgrims and European travelers.”74 He also attributes the present state of affairs, in which mercenary motives play such an important role in choosing one religion above another, to “the constitution of civil society,” which forces people to secure their existence by belonging to religious groups that provide worldly profit in addition to other-worldly benefits. In this way, he elegantly excuses potential converts for their difficulties in accepting the spiritual message of Protestantism, but also suggests that a change of government would help to solve this basic problem of religious conversion in the Middle East.75 For the purpose of The Land and the Book it was hardly necessary to go into detail about what kind of government he envisaged (he gives the impression of preferring a Western Protestant one); the main point seems to be that much of what is now wrong in the Middle East, can only be changed by changing the political context. It is only after such change that significant numbers of converts can be expected. Concluding remarks A book that a first sight intends merely to educate American readers, young and old, in the world of the Bible, upon closer inspection becomes one of the most insightful essays on Protestant missionary efforts in the Middle East. By focusing on the enduring fascination of the missionary for the land of his mission instead of dwelling on

72

Cf. Ussama Makdisi (“Evangelical Modernity,” American Historical Review 102 (1997), “Reclaiming the Land of the Bible: Missionaries, Secularism, and Evangelical Modernity,” 680–713, especially 703–4), who argues that the ABCFM missionaries in Syria, among whom Thomson, explicitly advocated Western colonial interventions. 73 I: 20 and 37. Compare also I: 447–53 on the issue of blood revenge, unchecked by a “weak government”. 74 II: 301. 75 II: 90–1.

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concrete missionary experience, Thomson admirably sets out what motivated American Protestants to undertake missions in the Middle East and to stick to these, even if the results in numbers of conversions were not particularly impressive. The overriding theme of The Land and the Book is the importance of Palestine in understanding the Bible. In almost heretical terminology, the Land becomes a source of divine revelation essential for understanding the Bible. Without the country, the Bible remains a closed book. This vital role of Palestine is acknowledged by Thomson in his creation of a new, Protestant, type of pilgrimage that was to inspire many travelers in the second half of the nineteenth century. In the next step, also taken by Thomson, Protestant pilgrimage to the Land now called ‘Holy’ included the idea of ‘rightful possession’, which, over and above purely spiritual meanings, refers not only to the right of pilgrimage, but also to concrete colonial aspirations. More than any other missionary publication of the mid-nineteenth century, The Land and the Book illustrates the growing Protestant fascination with the Middle East and the Holy Land; a fascination that informed the choice of the ABCFM to initiate missions in this part of the world, and which in turn grew and further developed through the efforts of the missionaries in Syria and Palestine. However, Thomson is not only concerned with making a case for the Holy Land as a vital source for Protestant spirituality. Perhaps with a view towards those who were not so convinced that mission was necessary, Thomson’s volumes imply a strong apology for Protestant missions in the land of the Bible. Thomson does this by creating a fundamental opposition between the spiritual religion of the Protestants and the material religion of all other believers within the Holy Land, whether Eastern Christian, Muslim, or Jew. Since spiritual religion is the only ‘true’ religion, conversion is necessary. It is, of course, Protestant Americans that are most suited to bring this message of spiritual religion to the Middle East. Regarding these two themes, the importance of the Holy Land for Protestant spirituality and the need for spiritual religion, Thomson’s volumes provide a well-written, well-argued, but hardly remarkable example of Protestant missionary discourse of the mid-nineteenth century. What makes his work stand out among the Protestant authors of his time is the way in which he manages to give a voice to the fundamental ambiguities that must have bothered many Protestant missionaries in the Middle East: the ongoing tension between the

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fundamental choice for the pure spiritual religion of Protestantism on the one hand, and on the other the growing love and sympathy for the ‘Old Testament’ religious world of the believers of the Middle East, be they Muslim, Christian or Jew. Whether or not to admire the rigorous religious observations of Jews and Muslims, whether or not to respect the devotion and care of the Eastern Christians for the holy sites of Christendom, whether or not to approve of the strange religious fervor of Lady Hester Stanhope, are questions that Thomson, implicitly or explicitly, puts to the Protestant reader in the Western world. And more than many other missionary authors, it is Thomson himself who appears not to be completely convinced by the answers provided by the Protestant literalism of his time.

LES FRANCISCAINS EN TERRE SAINTE: DE L’ESPACE AU TERRITOIRE, ENTRE OPPOSITION ET ADAPTATION1 Giuseppe Buffon Introduction L’espace considéré non seulement comme élément géographique ou topographique, mais comme catégorie de l’“esprit”, apparaît être un élément essentiel de la mentalité missionnaire des franciscains de Terre Sainte. Pendant des siècles, ceux-ci furent les seuls à assurer la présence catholique dans la région. Nous estimons que le contact avec un espace sans solution de continuité, qui a perduré pendant six siècles, avait enraciné en eux une profonde conscience de la totalité, c’est-à-dire le sens de l’universalité de la tâche missionnaire qui leur avait été assignée. Mais que se passa-t-il lorsque, dans les premières décennies du XIXème siècle, avec la mise en œuvre des réformes innovatrices de la loi coranique, apparurent pour la première fois dans l’Orient immuable, les nouveaux représentants d’une mission de nature différente? Il s’agissait de protestants, qui donnèrent tant de mal à Rome, en particulier au siège de Propaganda Fide, dans la mesure où, parcourant en long et en large la Terre Sainte, ils semblaient enfreindre l’inviolabilité d’un territoire encore “vierge” en raison de la rigidité de l’exclusivisme islamique. Comment réagirent les franciscains aux mesures adoptées par Propaganda Fide qui, observant les succès de la “modernité protestante”, voulait leur opposer tout autant d’efficacité moderne en confiant la Terre Sainte au contrôle d’évêques, organisateurs d’un régime d’Eglise territoriale? En définitive, de quelle façon les franciscains tentèrent-ils de défendre leur monopole,

1 Sigles: ACPF = Archives de la Congrégation pour l’Evangélisation des Peuples, anciennement “De Propaganda Fide” à Rome; ACTS = Archives de la Custodie de Terre Sainte à Jérusalem; AMAEP = Archives du Ministère des Affaire Étrangères à Paris.

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c’est-à-dire l’espace de leur mission, contre les mesures de partition, condition requise pour l’installation de l’Eglise locale? En d’autres termes, il nous semble efficace d’analyser la documentation produite durant la phase que nous pourrions qualifier de “territorialisation” (1839–1847), afin de relever en elle les éléments de la tradition universaliste franciscaine, à savoir, cette conception de l’espace missionnaire qui avait modelé six siècles de leur mission en Orient. Face aux projets de fractionnement de l’espace du MoyenOrient, présentés par Propaganda et par ses délégués, les franciscains furent contraints, pour ainsi dire, à fouiller dans leur passé, en cherchant à faire renaître ce qui, probablement, n’était qu’anachronique, mais non pour autant sans valeur, afin de relever les traits de la conscience qu’ils avaient d’eux-mêmes. Une chronologie de la’ territorialisation’ Le terme “mission” ne semble revêtir sa signification actuelle qu’à une époque tardive, vers le XVII ème siècle. A l’origine, il désignait le mandat donné par le Christ, tandis qu’à l’époque moderne (1611) il désigna d’abord l’organisation députée à l’évangélisation, pour devenir ensuite (1690) synonyme du lieu même où se déroulait l’activité missionnaire. Les parrains de ce processus furent plusieurs instituts religieux modernes, comme les capucins, les carmes déchaux et, en particulier, les jésuites. Mais son instigatrice fut surtout la Congrégation de Propaganda, à travers les initiatives de plusieurs de ses membres les plus éminents, comme les Secrétaires Francesco Ingoli (1622–1649) e Urbano Cerri (1675–1679). Ils s’avérèrent des partisans convaincus du rôle des évêques dans l’organisation missionnaire, et donc du principe conséquent de la territorialisation. Pour eux, non seulement le gouvernement, mais aussi la gestion concrète des missions aurait dû passer sous la direction du clergé séculier, qu’ils estimaient supérieur aux religieux dans ce domaine. Mais ce projet se révéla pour l’heure impossible à mettre en œuvre en raison du manque de clergé séculier à la disposition de Propaganda, qui devait donc se prévaloir des religieux. Mgr Ingoli, comme s’il voulait abattre le monopole de certains Ordres vis-à-vis de territoires déterminés, pensa alors faire jouer une sorte de “principe de concurrence.” Il estimait que “là où la religion chrétienne est déjà implantée et établie, il peut y avoir des réguliers de tous les ordres,” considérant même comme un

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grave “inconvénient que les religieux voulussent être seuls dans les missions.”2 C’est cette ligne de pensée qui détermina la position de la Congrégation de Propaganda à l’égard de la mission franciscaine du Levant. Le 28 décembre 1644, au cours de la Congrégation générale de Propaganda, il fut décidé d’instituer un diocèse latin d’Alep, en nommant pour titulaire le franciscain Giovanni Dovara. L’objectif concret de cette initiative semble avoir été uniquement d’apaiser les litiges et de trouver des formules d’accord entre la Custodie franciscaine et les religieux des autres Ordres. De fait, Giovanni Dovara se voyait concéder de conserver sa résidence au couvent, sans même changer son habit religieux. Le 27 juin 1761, le Souverain Pontife procéda à la nomination du Père lazariste Arnauld Bossu, lui conférant juridiction ordinaire sur tous les religieux, à l’exception des franciscains (En d’autres termes, celui-ci n’exerçait pas un véritable contrôle sur le territoire ou sur les organisations missionnaires qui y travaillaient, mais seulement sur les éléments parcellisés de la superficie. De la sorte, il semblait remplir la tâche de “délégué apostolique” plutôt que celle de vicaire). La reconstitution du Vicariat apostolique d’Alep ne put se réaliser que lors de la réorganisation de la Congrégation de la Propaganda, voulue par Pie VII, au début de l’année 1817. (Il semblerait que la Propaganda cherchait pour son siège d’Alep un informateur plus qu’un vicaire apostolique: le 24 décembre 1820, à peine trois ans après la nomination du vicaire, la Propaganda décida de restreindre sa juridiction aux seuls religieux nonfranciscains, donnant ainsi crédit à une protestation émanant du vicaire de l’Ordre des mineurs) 1835—Mgr Jean-Baptiste Auvergne, vicaire apostolique d’Alep, propose l’érection d’un vicariat apostolique en Egypte. 1839—La Congrégation de la Propaganda examine le projet d’établir à Jérusalem un “vicariat apostolique jouissant du caractère épiscopal,” évaluant aussi l’opportunité d’assigner cette charge à

2 Francesco Ingoli, Relazione delle quattro parti del mondo (F. Tosi, dir., Città del Vaticano, 2000), 164–165.

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un franciscain. Le ministre général des franciscains estime que la Terre Sainte, en raison du faible nombre des catholiques, n’offre pas les conditions suffisantes pour prendre une telle mesure et suggère plutôt l’érection d’un vicariat apostolique en Egypte. 1839—Institution du vicariat apostolique d’Egypte, par le Bref Ex munere, dont le siège fut assigné au Père franciscain Perpetuo Guasco, ancien custode de Terre Sainte (1838–1841). 1840—La Propaganda affronte la question des exemptions accordées en 1820 en faveur des franciscains travaillant dans le vicariat apostolique d’Alep. 1841, 15 février—La Propaganda limite la juridiction ecclésiastique du custode aux seuls territoires de Palestine et de Chypre. Les franciscains qui travaillaient en Syrie sont soumis à l’autorité du vicaire apostolique d’Alep. 1842, 28 février—Les cardinaux de la Propaganda rouvrent le débat sur l’opportunité de placer un vicaire apostolique à Jérusalem. 1844, 5 février—Les cardinaux de la Propaganda, soutenus par le souhait de Mgr Giovanni Corboli-Bussi, poursuivent la discussion sur le vicariat apostolique de Jérusalem, abordant le thème des oppositions entre les franciscains et le vicaire apostolique d’Egypte. 1847, 25 janvier—Tenue de la Congrégation générale de la Propaganda, dans laquelle le processus visant à l’érection du diocèse latin de Jérusalem entre dans sa phase définitive. 1847, 3 mai—La Congrégation générale de la Propaganda débat sur le “Rapport Acton,” qui apporte une solution définitive pour résoudre certains doutes concernant le diocèse de Jérusalem devant être érigé. 1847, 23 juillet—Publication de la lettre apostolique Nulla celebrior, par laquelle le pape Pie IX déclare rétabli le Patriarcat latin de Jérusalem La “culture du contrôle” exige des “barrières” Le 22 avril 1838, Propaganda décida la division du Vicariat hiérosolymitain, créant une nouvelle circonscription ecclésiastique comprenant les territoires de l’Arabie et de l’Egypte. Parmi les motifs qui conduisirent à cette intervention, nous pensons qu’il est possible de discerner aussi une conception missionnaire particulière, à savoir une évaluation déterminée de l’importance attribuée à la dimension

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territoriale. A cet égard, la recherche pourrait porter sur la modalité avec laquelle cette décision fut alors mûrie. En conséquence des réformes décidées par Mohamed Ali (1832), qui comprenaient, entre autres, une certaine tolérance religieuse, le gouvernement égyptien s’orienta sur la voie de la “civilisation” et se montra favorable aux catholiques romains, escomptant ainsi jouir de leur aide.3 Toutefois, la présence de missionnaires capables de “modernité” était nécessaire, surtout dans le domaine éducatif. Le vicaire apostolique d’Alep, Mgr Auvergne, s’avéra un partisan de cette opinion. Le 1er juin 1835, il envoya à Propaganda un rapport sur l’état de la mission d’Egypte, dans laquelle ressort son analyse sévère des religieux de Terre Sainte.4 Ce document soutient que les religieux envoyés en mission étaient considérés “pour la plupart comme des déchets des couvents, des hommes de mauvais caractère et de conduite répréhensible.” C’est ce qui expliquait l’origine des “graves dissensions entre les couvents et parfois de lourds scandales en dehors,” avec de sérieuses répercussions sur la pastorale des fidèles. “Dépourvus de zèle”, ces religieux ne se souciaient pas—affirme encore le rapporteur—d’apprendre l’arabe, indispensable pour prêcher et entendre les confessions, à la différence des protestants qui, en revanche, par leur “déclamations” en langue locale, spécialement au Caire et à Alexandrie, attiraient dans leurs églises de nombreux fidèles. A Alexandrie, par exemple, les prédications aux 8000 fidèles, autochtones et étrangers—dépendant tous de la paroisse des franciscains observants—n’étaient proposées que durant les jours de carême et d’avent. Les religieux étaient toutefois peu instruits et prêchaient avec une telle pauvreté qu’ils ne parvenaient pas à mettre en garde les fidèles face aux “mauvaises maximes” répandues par les protestants, qui avaient également “instituée une école bien ordonnée.” Au Caire—où il y avait 6000

3 Plusieurs réactions à ces mesures, de la part des franciscains et des autorités civiles européennes, peuvent être consultées in: AGOFM, Terra Santa 11, 47: Bernardino da Caprarola, Cenno istorico sopra la missione francescana in Gerusalemme incominciando dal 1831 al 16 novembre 1851, 25 avril 1852; AMAEP, Mémoires et Documents, Turquie 20: De l’établissement de la domination égyptienne en Syrie et des droits de protection que la France exerce dans cette province, 13 juillet 1831. 4 La lettre de Mgr Auvergne est présentée à grandes lignes par le cardinal rapporteur. ACPF, ACTA (1836) 199, 260–263: Ristretto con sommario sul progetto di erezione di un nuovo Vicariato Apostolico d’Egitto e di un collegio in Alessandria, 19 septembre 1836.

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fidèles—on ne prêchait jamais en arabe et les catholiques européens étaient également mécontents de la façon dont la messe était célébrée. Beaucoup de catholiques européens avaient même décidé de fréquenter les églises des pasteurs protestants “pour écouter leurs sermons.” A l’en croire, Mgr Auvergne n’entendait cependant pas mettre les religieux en accusation du point de vue de leur conduite morale. “Je ne porte pas plainte contre eux (ces bons religieux)—écrivait-il à la Congrégation—; je puis et je dois au contraire rendre, sur leur compte, à la S.C. [Sainte Congrégation], des témoignages honorables sous plus d’un rapport.” Ce qui, selon lui, avait absolument besoin d’être revu, c’était la structure particulière de la Custodie, ses normes de fonctionnement ou, mieux encore, sa nature institutionnelle ellemême. La métaphore qu’il utilise pour dépeindre les caractéristiques de cette organisation apparaît extrêmement suggestive: “Ils forment un bataillon dont chaque soldat appartiendrait à une armée différente; l’un fantassin, l’autre à cheval, l’autre lancier, l’autre cuirassier, l’autre dragon, l’autre artilleur, l’autre etc . . . Qu’en résulterait-il?” En somme, les franciscains de la Custodie manquaient d’un centre de coordination, d’une autorité de contrôle, de discipline et d’uniformité. De fait, ils étaient ingouvernables et auraient eu besoin d’une structure institutionnelle déterminée, pour les contraindre à rentrer dans les rangs. En outre, pour garantir l’efficacité pastorale, une plus grande spécialisation des charges et une séparation des tâches aurait été nécessaire. En réfléchissant à cet état de choses, Mgr Auvergne proposa à Propaganda une solution: détacher l’Egypte du Vicariat apostolique d’Alep, afin d’en constituer un à part. En second lieu, il proposait de poursuivre par l’ouverture d’un collège universel à Alexandrie, afin d’instruire la jeunesse autochtone et européenne, une tâche que les franciscains étaient plutôt inaptes à remplir. L’instruction aurait donc dû être confiée à des religieux lazaristes ou jésuites. Il s’ensuivit que le Siège Apostolique adopta cette ligne pour l’Egypte. Des opérations analogues à celle-ci démontreraient que la “parcellisation” du territoire était considérée comme une condition nécessaire à la “modernisation” de l’action missionnaire. Le fractionnement des superficies ne devait certes pas être considéré comme un point d’aboutissement, mais plutôt comme la condition pour entreprendre une réforme de la mission se montrant à la hauteur des exigences de la “civilisation” adoptée par l’autorité politique. L’espace, une fois délimité, devait être organisé et structuré en unités éducatives. C’est

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à ce stade que s’insérait alors la seconde proposition de Mgr Auvergne concernant l’érection d’un collège: autre espace territorialement circonscrit, à des fins didactiques. Nous pouvons dès lors nous demander: une “parcellisation” du territoire était-elle suffisante pour changer la méthode missionnaire ou un remplacement de ses agents était-il nécessaire? Mgr Auvergne estime qu’au moins l’institution scolaire devait être gérée par “les instituts produits de la dite ‘modernité’,” les jésuites et les lazaristes, mais certainement pas par les franciscains, qu’il jugeait inaptes à cette tâche: “Les Pères de Terre Sainte qui sont à Alexandrie et en Basse-Egypte s’occupent peu ou pas du tout de l’instruction de la jeunesse; on ne pratique pas d’ailleurs cette activité parmi ce genre de missionnaires et cela ne répond donc pas au grand besoin des populations. En conséquence, ceux qui veulent donner à leurs enfants une éducation correcte, se voient malheureusement contraints de les envoyer en Europe. Mgr Auvergne avait déjà aplani toutes les difficultés afin de pouvoir réaliser son utile projet. . . .”5 Les conseils donnés par Mgr Auvergne à Propaganda furent longuement discutés et ne furent approuvés qu’en partie. Il fallut attendre le 17 mai 1839 pour que le pape donne le coup d’envoi aux décisions votées par Propaganda en 1836, en acceptant le principe de la division territoriale, par l’institution du Vicariat apostolique d’Egypte, mais en le confiant à la direction d’un franciscain, le P. Perpetuo Guasco da Solero, ancien custode de Terre Sainte.6 Le pape, qui avait repoussé la proposition d’introduire les lazaristes à la direction du collège, auquel tenait tant Mgr Auvergne, recommanda toutefois au prélat franciscain d’œuvrer en fidélité au modèle de mission et au prototype de missionnaire voulu par Propaganda, c’est-à-dire de “se consacrer aux soins des hérétiques et des infidèles,” en particulier d’instituer de nouvelles écoles, pour empêcher les protestants de corrompre la jeunesse; et de veiller sur les catholiques orientaux, en tentant “de faire des conversions dans la nation copte.”7

5

Ibid. Ex munere pastoralis, in R. de Martinis (ed.), Iuris pontificii de Propaganda Fide V (Roma, 1893), 212–214. 7 ACTS, Propaganda Fide H (1838–1855), 6–7: Card. Fransoni à Perpetuo Guasco, Rome 13 juillet 1839. 6

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Pour introduire le nouveau style missionnaire, sans parler des interventions sur le plan territorial, on misait aussi sur l’ex opere operato, dérivant du sacrement de l’Ordre. D’ailleurs, les pouvoirs épiscopaux, corroborés par les injonctions sur l’obligation de résidence, depuis le concile de Trente, étaient considérés comme capables de réformer la pratique pastorale. Plus que sur la capacité de transformation des franciscains, vieille garde de la mission, Rome préférait donc compter sur les initiatives d’un prélat jouissant de la juridiction épiscopale. Aux ressources humaines et institutionnelles, offertes par les congrégations modernes, on semblait préférer la vertu du sacrement, en étant sûr qu’il suffirait à lui seul pour rénover les structures “sclérosées” de la mission franciscaine. Il semble que l’on se demandait, en somme, si, pour obtenir un changement de paradigme dans le style missionnaire franciscain, il était suffisant d’investir de l’autorité épiscopale des membres de l’Ordre des mineurs. Une réponse affirmative à cette question ne serait pas entièrement correcte. Cependant, comme témoignage de l’estime attribuée au rôle de l’évêque dans la gestion des missions, nous pouvons fournir un passage qui rapporte l’opinion de Mgr Auvergne à ce propos: “La présence d’un évêque latin en Egypte, docte et zélé, serait très utile pour améliorer l’état actuel de la mission, pour rétablir les anciennes dépendances, pour tenir en devoir les missionnaires, pour veiller sur la conduite des orientaux y demeurant, comme Délégué du Saint-Siège, pour tenter de convertir de nombreux hérétiques, qui sont ici avec leur Patriarche et les évêques eutichiens, pour illuminer les ténèbres d’un si grand nombre d’infidèles, et enfin pour étendre le catholicisme en Arabie et ailleurs, là où il est déchu [. . . il ne s’agit pas] d’entreprises que l’on peut penser réaliser avec un simple Préfet.”8 Cette considération s’enrichira par la suite d’autres apports et confirmations encore plus évidents, avec un regard sur les questions concernant les contrastes suscités par les franciscains dans le Vicariat apostolique d’Alep, dont Mgr Auvergne était titulaire. Pour apaiser les dissensions entre l’autorité ecclésiastique et le supérieur religieux, le Siège Apostolique décida, le 23 mars 1841, de limiter la juridic-

8

ACPF, ACTA (1836) 199, 261v.

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tion du custode de Terre Sainte aux seuls territoires de Palestine et de Chypre. Cette mesure se révéla être le fruit de la conviction selon laquelle, pour rendre la mission efficace, il fallait limiter au maximum les pouvoirs des supérieurs religieux. Mgr Auvergne, et avec lui la Congrégation de Propaganda, étaient de l’avis que le custode de Terre Sainte, qui exerçait d’amples pouvoirs sur les fidèles du territoire, empêchait de fait au vicaire apostolique de mettre en œuvre les initiatives pastorales nécessaires. Grâce à la mesure citée, le custode aurait exercé sur les couvents de Syrie sa seule juridiction de supérieur religieux; pour la pastorale missionnaire, l’autorité aurait en revanche été l’apanage du vicaire. Etant donné que les couvents de Terre Sainte et certains hospices appartiennent à la Custodie des Pères mineurs, en différents lieux de Syrie hors de la Palestine, où ils exercent leur ministère par l’autorité du peuple, nous décidons qu’ils y demeurent et continuent à œuvrer pour le bien des fidèles. Toutefois [. . .] nous voulons et décidons qu’ils se soumettent aussi au vicaire apostolique d’Alep, à laquelle toute la Syrie est soumise, de la même manière que les autres missionnaires réguliers qui se trouvent dans le susdit Vicariat de Syrie.9

Les franciscains n’agissaient donc pas comme les autres réguliers, comme des personnes pleinement assujetties à la juridiction de l’ordinaire du lieu. Attachés aux privilèges qui leur avaient été conférés par la papauté médiévale, ils acceptaient difficilement le rapport avec le territoire et avec l’autorité qui en exerçait la juridiction. Ils s’estimaient au-dessus des barrières territoriales, se considérant purement et simplement comme les “gardiens de la Terre Sainte.” Cette constatation, si l’on veut, peut être considérée comme l’expression d’une sorte d’universalité missionnaire, par antithèse avec la territorialité introduite par la “mission moderne.” Toutefois, cette universalité franciscaine avait revêtu, dans la région du Moyen-Orient, une connotation spécifique, dont se faisaient précisément les hérauts ces religieux qui, militant dans les zones les plus proches des Lieux Saints de la Palestine, se considéraient comme les gardiens des sanctuaires de la Rédemption. Dès lors, si l’invasion de l’espace franciscain dans la mission d’Egypte et de Syrie s’était avérée relativement facile, le régime de territorialité en “Terre Sainte” allait se révéler

9

Grégoire XVI, ACTA (Romae, 1902), 115–117.

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autrement ardu. L’analyse des faits qui conduisirent à la réinstallation du Patriarcat latin de Jérusalem, permet de mieux apprécier ce conflit de mentalités. Les protestants franchissent les limites du Millet Les franciscains de Terre Sainte, si l’on se réfère en particulier à l’administration des sanctuaires, eurent à exercer pendant des siècles une action missionnaire basée sur la seule “présence”, constituant ainsi une “société dans la société”, ou mieux encore un “espace dans l’espace”, sans avoir jamais eu la moindre possibilité de penser à élargir celui-ci. Pendant des siècles, ils avaient servi de nourrice à ce qu’on appelait la nation latine (non pas pour des questions ethniques, mais religieuses), en agissant en médiateurs sociaux entre ces îlots de catholicisme, situés pour la plupart à proximité des sanctuaires, et le monde islamique environnant, notamment auprès des autorités gouvernementales et leurs délégués locaux, au niveau administratif et judiciaire (l’ensemble complexe des intrigues économiques et juridiques gérées par les tribunaux régionaux, souvent en proie à la corruption). Les franciscains de la Custodie avaient tout partagé avec la population, des épidémies aux problèmes de logement, en passant par les exigences quotidiennes liées à la subsistance. Ils avaient été contraints, pour ainsi dire, à se constituer en régime autarchique, apartés dans une sorte d’ “enclave”: îlots catholiques entourés d’une mer islamique. Lorsque ce système entra en crise, un certain franciscain tenta de justifier cette mentalité, que nous pourrions appeler “insulaire”, de la façon suivante: Comme ces contrées qui ont gémi si longtemps sous la domination des musulmans sont dépourvues de tant de choses, qui sont d’une première nécessité à la vie, il a été urgent et nécessaire d’y suppléer par nos religieux le mieux qu’on a pu. C’est pour cette raison qu’on en rencontre ici qui exercent dans nos couvents les métiers de maçon, de forgeron, de menuisier, de tailleur, de cordonnier, de boulanger, etc . . . et qui ne se bornant pas à pourvoir aux besoins de la Custodie et de la mission de Terre Sainte s’efforcent encore d’apprendre aux jeunes gens de notre Custodie au sortir des écoles un art ou un métier qui est de leur goût et de leur vocation, et ainsi ils les mettent en état de gagner honnêtement leur pain le restant de leurs jours.10 10

Bonaventura da Solero, Rapport présenté au Rév. P. Fulgence Rignon, Commissaire

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Grâce aux réformes de l’empire ottoman, appelées tanzimat, l’opportunité apparaissait cependant de passer du “ghetto” à l’Eglise, de donner cours au principe missionnaire par excellence, c’est-à-dire à “l’universalité de la foi” ou, plus clairement, au concept d’universalisme inhérent à l’idée de “civilisation.” L’ordonnancement juridique, connu sous le terme islamique de Millet, à savoir l’espace juridique consenti aux non-musulmans, avait imprimé dans la conscience de ceux-ci la conviction que la seule mission possible était celle d’une présence, soutenue envers et malgré tout, même au prix du martyre. Nous en avons un témoignage très clair dans cet écrit rédigé par un contestateur de cette mentalité: “[. . .] la raison de cette répulsion [à modifier leur forma mentis] peut très bien se réduire en ces termes: les frères sont venus ici; et ils doivent y demeurer. D’autre part, l’exécution de l’œuvre [un orphelinat à Jérusalem] est un écho pur et simple des voix si nombreuses et répétées: bougez-vous, faites quelque chose, que l’on sache que vous êtes à la Custodie des lieux saints, etc . . .”11 Comme on le déduit souvent de l’apologétique franciscaine de l’époque, l’efficacité d’une mission se mesurait non pas sur la base de ses écoles, avec leur nombre relatif d’étudiants, ni en référence aux nombres d’hôpitaux et de malades accueillis, mais uniquement en fonction du nombre important des martyrs et de l’atrocité du supplice qu’ils avaient subi. Un polémiste franciscain, défendant les frères contre les accusations qui leur étaient adressées, écrivait ainsi: [. . .] or d’un coup ces franciscains devinrent les hommes les plus ineptes du monde, et cause funeste pour ce champ de si grande importance, non cultivé, alors qu’il aurait pu donner une abondante moisson. Ils se sont révélés ignorants, paresseux, avides d’argent et de bien-être dans cette oasis orientale! Mais il est bien vrai qu’il y a encore quelques années, en 1860, huit d’entre eux tombèrent en martyrs intrépides de Jésus-Christ à Damas, sous le fer des Druses et des Turcs, et que la cause en béatification de ces martyrs a déjà été introduite [. . .] Il est également vrai que plus récemment aussi, dans la lutte entre Araby pacha et les Anglais, alors que tous ceux qui auraient dû moins le faire abandonnèrent Alexandrie, les nôtres demeurèrent à leur place, sans que personne ne désertât.12 général de Terre Sainte, sur les écoles de la Palestine, de la Syrie et de l’Egypte, Jérusalem, 12 mai 1852. 11 AGOFM, Terre Sainte 12, 471: Bernardino da Fermo à Bernardino da Portogruaro, Ministre général, 18 avril 1872. 12 Marcellino da Civezza, Essai sur ce qu’ont fait et font les missionnaires franciscains en Terre Sainte. Abjurations et réconciliations et baptêmes conférés aux adultes de l’année 1768 à l’ensemble de l’année 1855 (mémoires extraites des archives de cette mission) (Firenze, 1891), VII–VIII.

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Comme nous avons pu le relever aussi dans l’évocation de la mission en Egypte, c’est à l’action des protestants, qui parcouraient l’Orient et la Palestine en long et en large, que l’on doit l’introduction de la notion de mouvement.13 De fait, profitant des réformes d’Abdul Mejid, ils furent les premiers à oser franchir les limites d’espace, suscitant la préoccupation des autorités ecclésiastiques de l’Eglise catholique. Les franciscains, contrairement aux Européens qui arrivaient en Terre Sainte, étaient considérés comme une sorte d’élément de l’immobilité orientale, si bien que les religieux eux-mêmes se prévalurent pendant longtemps de cette prérogative, pour répondre à ceux qui les accusaient d’inefficacité. Considérant comme inutile l’activité débordante de la duchesse de Chevreuse qui (poussée par le consul de France, accusateur auprès de ses supérieurs de l’inefficacité franciscaine) voulait fonder un orphelinat et un hôpital à Jérusalem, le custode de Terre Sainte avait affirmé que, pour entreprendre de telles initiatives en Terre Sainte, il fallait auparavant y vivre longuement, apprendre à connaître les coutumes du lieu et les mœurs des habitants. En Orient, “il convient de passer des mois et des années—insistait le franciscain—avant de lancer des projets, bien les faire mûrir, puis commencer à les réaliser petit à petit.”14 Il semblerait donc que l’écho des initiatives entreprises par les protestants ait poussé le Siège Apostolique à intervenir en Terre Sainte. Ou peut-être le modèle de mission mise en œuvre par la contrepartie a-t-il influé sur l’introduction d’un nouveau style de mission? En définitive: ne pourrait-ce pas être la rupture de l’immobilisme orientale conduite par les antagonistes, c’est-à-dire le dépassement de l’espace imposé par la loi coranique précédente, qui aurait poussé à une révision territoriale et institutionnelle de la Terre Sainte? En juillet 1841, à la suite d’un accord anglo-prussien visant à créer en Palestine une communauté religieuse devant être protégée, il fut

13 A partir du XVIIème siècle, certains protestants anglais entreprirent une lecture militariste de la Bible, dont ils tirèrent la conviction de la proximité du retour du Seigneur, comme conséquence de la conversion du peuple juif tout entier. Pour développer et mettre en œuvre ces idées, de la fin du XVIIIème siècle au début du XIXème, plusieurs sociétés missionnaires naquirent pour la conversion des Juifs, telles que: la London Society for Promoting Christianity among Jews, la London Missionary Society et la Church Missionary Society. 14 AGOFM, Terra Santa 12, 140: Serafino Milani, custode, à Bernardino da Portogruaro, Ministre général, 12 avril 1870.

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décidé d’instituer un épiscopat protestant à Jérusalem. Le modèle adopté pour cette présence missionnaire, pas très éloigné de celui proposé par les Vicariats apostoliques de Syrie et d’Egypte, prévoyait précisément la figure d’une autorité ecclésiastique jouissant des caractéristiques épiscopales, pour chercher à offrir aux évêques orientaux une aide en termes d’assistance sur le plan de l’éducation scolaire, avec pour objectif de s’opposer à l’action des catholiques qui tentaient d’usurper les positions des Orientaux. En outre, la construction d’un collège destiné, en grande partie, à l’éducation de Juifs convertis, mais qui aurait également accueilli des Druses et d’autres convertis non-juifs, était prévue à Jérusalem.15 Insignes épiscopaux ou nouveaux ouvriers? Le 28 février 1842, tout de suite après l’initiative protestante (quelques mois seulement après que le représentant à Jérusalem eut reçu les insignes épiscopaux des mains de l’archevêque de Canterbury, le 7 novembre 1841), c’est le Préfet de Propaganda, le cardinal Fransoni, qui présenta à ses collègues, convoqués en Congrégation générale, la perspective de l’institution d’un Vicariat apostolique à Jérusalem.16 Prenant pour point de départ ce qui avait déjà été fait par Propaganda lors de l’institution des Vicariats apostoliques en Syrie et en Egypte, le cardinal exposa la stratégie à adopter, afin de faire contrepoids à l’action protestante. Il insista particulièrement sur l’importance du caractère épiscopal à attribuer au responsable de la mission. Il estimait que la mission devait être dirigée par un évêque et non par un simple prêtre. Voici ses raisons précises: 1) Cela correspond “à l’esprit du divin fondateur.” 2) C’est d’une utilité absolue pour la propagation de la foi. 3) Cela assure une continuité institutionnelle, à la différence de ce qui arrivait avec le custode de Terre Sainte, obligé d’ “abandonner la mission après l’avoir à peine connue.” 4) La sainteté du caractère [épiscopal comportait] une plus grande vénération.”

15 A. L. Tibawi, British Interests in Palestine (1800–1901) (London, 1961), 30–62; J. M. Hornus, “La fondation effective de l’évêché anglican à Jérusalem et son premier titulaire (5 octobre 1841–23 novembre 1845),” Proche-Orient Chrétien 19 (1969), 194–219. 16 AGOFM, Terra Santa 4, 4: Card. Fransoni, Osservazioni sullo stabilimento di un vescovo latino in Gerusalemme in qualità di Vicario apostolico, s.d.

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Le cardinal Fransoni semblait presque obsédé à l’idée que les autres confessions présentes en Terre Sainte étaient dirigées par des patriarches et des évêques, tandis que les catholiques étaient de fait dépourvus de figures analogues. Et puis il ne fallait pas oublier que les protestants, bien que n’ayant pas encore mener à bon port leur projet d’épiscopat, représentaient déjà une importante menace, du moins ces protestants qui parcouraient toute la Palestine en quête de prosélytes. Entre-temps, le custode de Terre Sainte répondit au cardinal Fransoni en affirmant que pour réaliser son projet de mission il ne manquait à la Custodie franciscaine que le caractère épiscopal conféré à l’un de ses membres.17 Le religieux était convaincu qu’il pouvait assumer la responsabilité d’un contrôle du territoire; il évaluait même déjà l’action de ses confrères à la hauteur d’une telle tâche, au moins autant que ce que faisaient les autres confessions chrétiennes, y compris, naturellement, les protestants. De fait, il soutenait que le rôle du custode ne correspondait pas à celui d’un simple religieux, celuici étant “revêtu par le Siège Apostolique de pouvoirs très vastes comme évêque et patriarche.” Le custode remplissait en effet la fonction de supérieur religieux pour la vie interne et celle de préfet apostolique pour la mission. Répondant aux accusations d’immobilisme, il affirmait que tous les franciscains n’étaient pas seulement dépêchés aux sanctuaires comme gardiens, c’est-à-dire engagés dans une “simple présence”; beaucoup étaient, en revanche, des missionnaires consacrés à la prédication, à l’administration des sacrements et à la direction des écoles. En somme, tout en entendant défendre l’exclusivité franciscaine en Terre Sainte, le custode se déclarait contraire à la greffe dans la Custodie d’un “sublime personnage étranger à l’Ordre,” qui aurait “répugné à la nature même de la Custodie” et à l’antique constitution de la province monastique, réglée et dépendant des supérieurs de l’Ordre. Si l’argumentation du custode parvint à convaincre Mgr Fransoni— qui avait fondé ses affirmations sur les exemples des missions franciscaines en Bulgarie, en Moldavie et en Bosnie—, elle ne satisfit pas Mgr Albert-Jules Brimont, consulteur de Propaganda, qui n’es-

17

AGOFM, Terra Santa 4, 5: Giuseppe d’Alessandria au card. Fransoni, 7 février 1842.

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timait pas suffisamment efficace l’ex opere operato de la consécration épiscopale du custode ou d’un des franciscains en vue de la transformation de l’ensemble de la mission de Terre Sainte. Mgr Brimont estimait, en effet, que pour activer l’initiative missionnaire, des moyens financiers et des “ouvriers” culturellement et moralement formés au travail missionnaire étaient nécessaires: prétendre que tout pouvait venir des franciscains—répétait-il de façon entendue—était “une pensée vaine et même tout à fait vaine.” Il conseillait donc de conserver le statu quo, en rappelant la haute dignité et le respect dont avait toujours joui le custode face aux autorités ottomanes et orientales.18 Le prélat, à l’apparence plus traditionnelle que les autres, se révéla en réalité beaucoup plus moderne: il soutenait, en effet, que pour lancer un nouveau type de mission l’apport de la dignité épiscopale n’était pas suffisant, mais qu’il fallait plutôt des hommes nouveaux et, surtout, d’autres canaux de financement. Il semble qu’il saisissait, en substance, une distinction, ou mieux, la distance qui séparait la mission accomplie selon les canons de la tradition franciscaine—avec les adaptations dues aux circonstances de la Terre Sainte—et celle que voulait promouvoir Propaganda. Celle-ci visait, comme nous l’avons dit, à la fondation de structures d’organisation, semblables à celles des Eglises locales de style occidental, finalisées au contrôle du territoire. En revanche, cette dichotomie parut échapper aussi bien à l’attention du custode de Terre Sainte, soucieux de défendre le monopole franciscain en Palestine, qu’à celle du cardinal Fransoni, qui avait accepté ses observations. Le supérieur de la Custodie, consentant donc à la présence d’un évêque à Jérusalem, pourvu qu’il soit franciscain, semblait avoir accepté l’idée de la fondation d’une Eglise locale en Palestine. Ou, peut-être, avait-il la prétention de croire que la Custodie était déjà, de fait, une Eglise locale? Isomorphisme apostolique Après nous être attardés sur ces questions, il nous semble maintenant intéressant de relever la convergence, réelle ou seulement apparente, des opinions concernant les schémas missionnaires. Propaganda,

18 ACPF, Scritture riferite nei congressi, Terra Santa e Cipro 18, 660–664: Mgr Alberto Brimont au card. Cadolini, 13 juin 1842.

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avec le cardinal Fransoni, et le custode lui-même—mais, en réalité, les protestants aussi—estimait que l’atout maître pour la mission de Palestine était une structure présidée par un évêque. Aidé d’un clergé expert dans la langue locale et garanti par un support économique sûr, il aurait pu créer des œuvres éducatives et caritatives, finalisées au recrutement de nouveaux fidèles et, pour le moins, à la protection des militants menacés par le prosélytisme des antagonistes. Les stratégies appliquées dans la mission du Moyen-Orient, aussi bien du côté catholique que protestant, s’avéraient pratiquement similaires. Avec le temps, la convergence des méthodes missionnaires, au-delà des différences de credo religieux et de la diversité des soutiens politiques—français pour les uns, anglais-allemand pour les autres—apparaissait toujours plus nette. Au début, craignant les protestants, les catholiques cherchaient, pour les combattre, à s’adapter à leur méthode missionnaire. Toutefois, ils furent eux-mêmes l’objet d’imitations, créant ainsi une sorte d’isomorphisme circulaire. De fait, la Russie considérait avec appréhension le patriarche grécocatholique Maximos Mazlum, le considérant comme l’antagoniste le plus dangereux pour les Orientaux, car il parlait leur langue, célébrait selon le même rite et disposait d’importants moyens financiers.19 Au sein même de l’Eglise russe, un débat s’était ouvert sur les modalités pour contenir la propagande en Palestine, non pas tant de la doctrine protestante, mais de la doctrine catholique. Le procurateur du Saint Synode avait suggéré de recourir à la fondation d’écoles et d’obtenir l’appui du gouvernement de Moscou, tout comme les catholiques l’avaient fait avec la France et, enfin, d’envoyer à Jérusalem un évêque faisant office de consul. L’ambassadeur russe à Constantinople, un certain M. Titov, se déclara contraire à la fondation d’une Eglise russe en Palestine, craignant que cela n’incitât à intensifier leur efficacité missionnaire. Entretemps, d’autres diplomates sollicitaient l’intervention du tzar, toujours motivés par les succès obtenus par les catholiques et les protestants.20 Alors, le légat Porphirji Uspenskji, chargé d’une mission exploratoire en Palestine, proposa un schéma très semblable au schéma catholique.

19 A. Popoff, La question des Lieux Saints de Jérusalem dans la correspondance diplomatique russe du XIXème siècle (Saint-Pétersbourg, 1910), 236–255. 20 T. G. Stavrou, Russian Interests in Palestine (1882–1914). A Study of Religious and Educational Enterprise (Thessaloniki, 1963), 33–36.

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Il s’articulait comme suit: 1) Soutenir Cyrille II, représentant du clergé arabe, autochtone. 2) Etablir à Jérusalem une mission fixe, sous la conduite d’un évêque très compétent, aidé par des ecclésiastiques, surtout bien préparés dans les langues locales, de façon à induire le clergé “grec” à mettre en valeur le clergé arabe autochtone. 3) Garantir les soutiens financiers nécessaires à la fondation d’écoles, de séminaires et d’œuvres de charité. Les jugements du diplomate sur les moines grecs, responsables de l’Eglise orthodoxe en Palestine, semblent refléter presque à la lettre les jugements exprimés par les visiteurs de Propaganda à l’égard des franciscains: manque d’éducation élémentaire, honteux manquements à la discipline ecclésiastique, faible intérêt envers le clergé arabe indigène, absence de structures scolaires. Selon la vision du délégué du tzar, les missionnaires les plus redoutables n’étaient donc par les protestants, mais bien ceux de rite catholique, auxquels pourraient adhérer les populations orthodoxes scandalisées par la corruption de leur clergé et attirées par la protection religieuse du gouvernement français.21 Entre l’identité des propositions et les préoccupations spéculaires qui semblent ici accorder la position des catholiques et celle des orthodoxes, il faut mettre en relief les difficultés analogues apparaissant des deux côtés, dans l’intention de concilier la nouvelle initiative apostolique avec la mentalité—pour parler en termes généraux—de la vieille garde missionnaire, présente depuis des siècles sur ce territoire. Il nous viendrait presque à penser qu’au fond il s’agissait simplement de conflits entre des pouvoirs opposés. La poursuite de notre analyse conduirait alors à nous attarder sur les conflits de pouvoir entre le clergé séculier et les religieux—fait qui, nous l’avons évoqué, trouva écho jusque dans les salles du Concile Vatican I, pour ne pas parler des controverses nées à la suite et en conséquence de l’érection de la hiérarchie anglaise. Il faut toutefois considérer que le conflit de pouvoir n’est qu’un des éléments qui président les processus de transformation culturelle, comme, dans notre cas, celui du changement du paradigme missionnaire, de la vieille à la nouvelle garde. Bien plus, non seulement ce concept apparaît insuffisant pour exprimer les raisons du changement mais, formulé dans les termes indiqués plus haut, il apparaît, en

21 D. Hopwood, The Russian presence in Syria and Palestine 1843–1914: Church and Politics in the Near East (London, 1969), 37–40.

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outre, assez vague. Une enquête plus approfondie exigerait en fait une analyse sur la nature des groupes responsables des processus de transformation: sur la nature de leur organisation, sur leurs objectifs, sur les ressources idéologiques et économiques à leur disposition, sur les stratégies adoptées, sur leur dimension identitaire.22 Nous estimons ici devoir approfondir de façon particulière la dimension idéologique, c’est-à-dire les intérêts à caractère symbolique, ressortant de l’examen de la position soutenue par le groupe des franciscains. En d’autres termes, si un conflit eut lieu entre les religieux et le clergé séculier pour le contrôle de la Terre Sainte, au-delà des forces dues à l’inertie, aux jeux de clientèle, aux jalousies ou à l’attachement affectif des positions acquises, demandons-nous quels pouvaient être les intérêts symboliques en jeu. C’est à ce niveau que nous entendons effectuer la comparaison entre les différentes conceptions missionnaires, selon les paramètres de spatialité universelle et territoriale dont nous nous occupons dans cette recherche. A cette fin, nous voudrions proposer ici le raisonnement, très éclairant, de Mgr Corboli-Bussi, auquel Propaganda avait demandé une intervention précise relative à la question de la mission de Terre Sainte, en particulier au sujet de la relation entre la figure d’un éventuel évêque de Jérusalem et la Custodie franciscaine. Conquérants et martyrs, pas organisateurs L’argumentation de Mgr Corboli-Bussi partait d’un examen général relatif à la mission conduite par les religieux, c’est-à-dire au fait qu’elle possédait un caractère de temporalité, au contraire de la stabilité dont jouissait une fondation ecclésiale présidée par un évêque. En Terre Sainte aussi, comme dans tout autre territoire de mission, il fallait donc un évêque pouvant assurer la stabilité et la continuité de l’institution ecclésiale, en l’orientant vers un régime d’Eglise locale. Parmi les difficultés qui s’opposaient à un tel changement, le prélat en soulignait une en particulier, celle qui concernait le monopole

22 Voir à ce propos la formulation proposée par Christian Smith (The Secular Revolution: Power, Interests, and Conflict in the Secularization of American Public Life (Berkeley, 2003), 30–32), d’une intéressante grille de travail pour l’analyse des processus de transformation culturelle.

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exercé par les franciscains sur la mission du Moyen-Orient, en vertu des privilèges que leur avait concédés le Siège Apostolique. Comment aurait-on pu accorder cet “universalisme juridique” avec le mandat d’un éventuel vicaire apostolique installé à Jérusalem? L’intervention pour “parcelliser” la mission franciscaine—selon la réflexion du prélat—aurait pu renforcer la présence catholique en Orient, mais elle aurait également pu la détruire. Il semble qu’une opération de ce genre pouvait miner les bases de la Custodie ou, pour le moins, mettre en discussion la dimension identitaire. Pour rendre plus concrètes ces affirmations, laissons toutefois la parole au prélat lui-même: “[. . .] avant d’instituer le Vicariat, il était nécessaire de déterminer la juridiction qu’elle aurait dû avoir par rapport à la famille régulière des Pères Mineurs Observants, qui ont été jusqu’à présent les seuls missionnaires de cette province et véritablement maîtres du terrain. Cette détermination, d’un côté, était d’une telle importance que de ce seul point de vue il dépendait que le gouvernement de la mission en le divisant se renforce ou se détruise totalement; d’un autre côté, il était très difficile de faire en sorte qu’alors qu’on cherchait le premier effet on n’obtienne pas plutôt le second.”23 Insistant encore sur un plan théorique, Mgr Corboli-Bussi observait que le modèle missionnaire adopté par les religieux pouvait se rapprocher, par analogie, de celui du conquérant de nouvelles frontières, ou mieux de celui du martyr, c’est-à-dire de celui qui est disposé à défendre la foi jusque dans des situations extrêmes. Une fois passée la situation de danger—comme celle qui existait dans les territoires ottomans pendant la période précédant les réformes—il était nécessaire de passer de la défense de la foi à l’organisation de celleci, de la présence partielle sur le territoire à l’expansion complète; en passant donc du martyre sanglant au martyre du labeur quotidien, pour ainsi dire. Les religieux pouvaient être estimés comme des “missionnaires d’exception”, des “troupes d’enfoncement”, adaptées pour “conquérir un pays nouveau et le sanctifier par le martyre.”24

23

ACPF, ACTA (1844) 207, 1: voto di mons. Giovanni Corboli Bussi, s.d. Nous proposons ici, à cet égard, un passage du rapport fourni par le prélat: “Les ordres religieux ont coutume de donner des preuves admirables, tant qu’il s’agit de conquérir un pays nouveau et de le sanctifier par les martyrs: car alors personne ne s’offre pour les missions sinon en raison d’un zèle très ardent de la gloire du Seigneur. Mais quand il s’agit de conserver, avec la peine plutôt qu’avec 24

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Les religieux missionnaires, par leur nature même, seraient donc des “troupes sans territoire”, actives dans un espace universel. Une nature missionnaire liée au territoire, c’est-à-dire à son organisation, serait contraire non seulement à leur esprit de missionnaires, mais aussi à leur état de religieux. Poursuivant par une analyse attenant au territoire de Terre Sainte, Mgr Corboli-Bussi soutenait que les stratégies adoptées pour obtenir le passage de la “mission de propagation” à celle de “fondation” (implantatio ecclesiae) pouvaient se réduire à deux types: d’abord, le cas où le vicaire, choisi par les religieux chargés de diriger la mission, faisait également office de supérieur des missionnaires (comme cela avait été le cas en Chine où, cependant, l’érection de la hiérarchie semblait encore lointaine); ensuite, le cas où le vicaire avait autorité sur les religieux, au sujet de la pastorale missionnaire, tandis que, pour la discipline interne, ils dépendaient de leur propre supérieur (comme en Bosnie, où l’érection de la hiérarchie ordinaire avait été préventive et où l’on délaissait le régime missionnaire). Mgr CorboliBussi était persuadé qu’aucune de ces solutions ne pouvait s’appliquer à la situation de Terre Sainte: transformer la Custodie en un Vicariat apostolique, à l’exemple de la mission chinoise, serait aller à l’encontre de sa nature, à l’encontre de sa tradition. En outre, lui appliquer le modèle inauguré en Bosnie, signifierait multiplier cette interminable série de malentendus que Propaganda cherchait inutilement à résoudre. Un régime semblable à celui de Bosnie avait également été appliqué dans le Vicariat apostolique d’Egypte, suscitant là aussi une interminable série de conflits. Parcellisation des religieux Après avoir exclu les modèles de Bosnie et de Chine pour la mission de Terre Sainte, Mgr Corboli-Bussi se prépara à présenter sa proposition. En tentant de vouloir clarifier l’organisation de la Custodie, le prélat fit remarquer la nécessité d’effectuer une distinction entre les religieux appelés “visitants”, c’est-à-dire presque exclusivement

le danger de vie, alors il peut advenir que le motif d’aller en mission devienne non pas tant le zèle qu’un désir de liberté, loin des limites du cloître.” ibid.

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députés à la pastorale des sanctuaires, et qui pouvaient demeurer sous la complète obéissance du custode, et les autres “missionnaires”, s’occupant de la prédication, de la catéchèse et de l’enseignement, qui auraient dû, au contraire, dépendre d’un vicaire apostolique, mais seulement pour l’activité missionnaire; pour leur discipline interne, ils devaient demeurer assujettis à leur supérieur religieux. Une telle distinction, de l’avis du prélat, était un indice clair que l’espace juridique de la Custodie n’était pas intègre, et qu’il s’avérait même déjà prédisposé à être fractionné. De fait, l’existence même de deux classes de religieux, missionnaires et visitants, indiquait aussi la double juridiction du custode des lieux saints. Celui-ci exerçait sur les visitants le droit spécifique à son rôle, c’est-à-dire le droit relatif à l’administration des lieux saints, tandis que sur les missionnaires, son pouvoir n’était que délégué. Afin d’avaliser son raisonnement, Mgr Corboli-Bussi faisait appel à l’histoire, c’est-à-dire, concrètement, à une note d’archives, à partir des documents conservés par Propaganda. Il en résultait clairement que la juridiction sur la mission de Terre Sainte n’avait été attribuée au custode qu’à la suite de l’extinction du Patriarcat latin. Par la suite, poursuivait le prélat, “l’autorité des missions fut pendant un certain temps confondue avec celle de la Custodie,” surtout en raison des différents privilèges pontificaux concédés à celle-ci au long des siècles. La ligne de démarcation entre les deux pouvoirs fut à nouveau mise en lumière, selon lui, par l’institution de Propaganda (1622). Alors, en effet, le custode reçut l’autorité de responsable des lieux saints par le ministre général et celle de chef de la mission par Propaganda. Les limites imposées à sa juridiction, avec les interventions de territorialisation en Egypte et en Syrie, accomplies par la Congrégation de Propaganda, n’étaient que la dernière preuve du caractère temporaire de ses pouvoirs sur l’espace missionnaire. Mgr Corboli-Bussi, qui avait jusqu’ici démontré la distinction contenue dans le pouvoir exercé par le custode de Terre Sainte, entendait pousser encore plus loin. Par sa proposition de soumettre les missionnaires à l’autorité du futur vicaire apostolique, en laissant au custode le gouvernement des seuls visitants, il faisait miroiter non seulement la distinction des juridictions, mais une véritable séparation, une parcellisation de la communauté franciscaine. Le prélat estimait qu’en “séparant de fait la juridiction du Vicaire apostolique et du Gardien du Mont Sion, non seulement en raison des charges mais aussi des personnes assujetties, il semble assuré qu’il ne restera

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entre eux aucun sujet de discorde.”25 Le plan proposé par Mgr Corboli-Bussi, comme nous l’avons rappelé, avait en fait pour objectif de proposer un système différent de celui appliqué en Bosnie et en Egypte où, hélas, on n’avait pas pu éviter les discordes auxquelles se référait le passage que nous venons de citer. Bref, la présence d’un évêque était absolument nécessaire, en vue d’une mission plus efficace, que l’on aurait obtenue grâce à un clergé local bien instruit et bien motivé. Il n’était pas permis, cependant, de renoncer au rôle de gardiens assuré par les religieux, ni à la présence des religieux pour la pastorale missionnaire. En d’autres termes, il était demandé à la Custodie une sorte de dédoublement, qui concernait aussi les religieux eux-mêmes, ou mieux leur dimension communautaire. Il ne s’agissait plus, enfin, d’une parcellisation du territoire, mais d’une sorte de partition qui frappait les personnes dans leur dimension relationnelle. En résumé, il ne résultait plus une division de l’espace topographique, mais de l’espace anthropologique. L’application du droit commun: l’universalité de Propaganda On aurait pu parvenir à ce résultat simplement par l’application de ce qu’on appelait le “droit commun”: un droit canonique valable pour tous, produit de l’unification survenue avec le corpus juris. Depuis le XIIIème siècle, le Siège Apostolique avait concédé au droit commun des dérogations quant aux Ordres religieux consacrés à la propagation de la foi; deux larges facultés avaient été accordées, en les transformant en organisations parallèles et presque spéculaires de la hiérarchie ecclésiastique. Propaganda s’était fixé de réglementer le droit, retirant les privilèges concédés jadis aux religieux. La pleine application du droit commun survenait comme le passage institutionnel de missions à diocèses, avec un clergé spécifique: le clergé local. Donc, si Propaganda affirmait ainsi son universalité de gouvernement des missions, une sorte d’universalité devait être reconnue aussi aux Ordres et celle-ci devait comporter le droit d’intervention, non pas sur le territoire, mais sur les hommes de la mission. Mgr CorboliBussi concluait sa réflexion en proposant la nomination d’un évêque franciscain, avec l’obligation de lui assurer un soutien économique

25

Ibid., 6.

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et politique. Son projet visait non pas tant à contraster l’action des protestants, jugée par lui comme un échec, mais plutôt à affronter les projets des Russes, plus puissants que la France sur le plan politique et mieux disposés que la “fille aînée”, si l’on en jugeait par les concessions d’aides économiques. La dernière impulsion vers le rétablissement du Patriarcat latin sembla venir, en tout cas, du changement de politique missionnaire des protestants. Le 26 novembre 1845, le premier évêque du siège anglicano-luthérien de Jérusalem, Salomon Alexander, décéda.26 Le bilan de son activité s’avéra décevant: 31 Juifs convertis en 5 ans d’activité. Son successeur, Samuel Gobat,27 luthérien, en entrant à Jérusalem, prit contact avec les orthodoxes, mais ignora la Custodie, considérant le custode comme privé de la dignité ecclésiastique suffisante. Il semble que ce fut précisément ce geste qui conduisit les catholiques à réfléchir. Le nouvel arrivé, constatant les insuccès de son prédécesseur, revit le schéma missionnaire, en considérant aussi comme des prosélytes potentiels les membres des différentes Eglises chrétiennes. Les instruments pour obtenir de nouvelles conversions demeurèrent substantiellement les mêmes, à savoir: les écoles, la prédication “à domicile” et la presse. Le 16 juin 1846, Mgr Mastai Ferretti fut élu pape, sous le nom de Pie IX. Sans nous étendre sur la grande continuité de la politique missionnaire de ce pape par rapport à celle de son prédécesseur, ni sur ses initiatives concernant la Terre Sainte, nous nous limitons à résumer de façon schématique ce que nous avons exposé en d’autres occasions: – les sommets de Propaganda demeurèrent inchangés, signe de la continuité avec le pape précédent; – la première encyclique Qui pluribus, avec la référence particulière aux “sociétés bibliques très intelligentes” démontra une certaine sensibilité à la propagande protestante; – diverses nouvelles pénalisant les franciscains circulèrent au sujet de la Terre Sainte, montrant du doigt leur manque de connaissance

26 M. W. Corey, The Biography of Right Reverend Michael Salomon Alexander, Bishop in Jerusalem (London, 1956). 27 Tibawi, British Interests in Palestine, 88–93; S. Shapir, “The Anglican Missionary Societies in Jerusalem: Activities and Impact,” in R. Kark (ed.), The Land that became Israël ( Jerusalem, 1989), 105–119.

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des langues locales, notamment l’arabe, pour laquelle ils “ne se montraient pas à la hauteur de leur tâche”; – l’intérêt pour libérer l’Eglise des ingérences politiques, en particulier de celles de la France fut vif, comme le démontra à l’automne 1846 la mission confiée au consul général pontifical à Marseille d’engager des négociations avec le gouvernement turc, laissant ainsi entendre au sultan que la volonté du pape était d’assumer directement la protection des catholiques; – le pape reçut en audience particulière Constantino Giusti, un peintre italien qui avait longuement vécu en Orient et qui, entre autres, lui fit part du désir des franciscains de voir nommer à Jérusalem un évêque de leur Ordre, avec un rôle, non seulement de pasteur des missions, mais aussi de supérieur stable des religieux. De la sorte, le custode aurait pu assumer aussi un rôle politique.28 Internationalité, un autre universalisme La Custodie, soumise au projet missionnaire de Propaganda, c’està-dire, en pratique, à une confrontation—parfois à un véritable conflit—avec la nouvelle institution patriarcale, avait été contrainte de redimensionner son “universalisme missionnaire”; elle conservait toutefois, presque intacte, une autre dimension universaliste, que nous pourrions traduire plus concrètement par “internationalité.” A côté de l’autorité ecclésiastique qui délimitait les frontières des Eglises locales, en territorialisant l’espace, les gouvernements civils eux aussi— comme l’ont souligné les théoriciens modernes—sous la pression des nationalismes, transformaient les frontières en limites, en creusant l’espace entre Etat et Etat. La Terre Sainte, qui au cours du XIXème siècle, subit une sorte d’Européisation, n’échappa pas aux diverses tentatives de partition de la part des gouvernements européens. Les franciscains se trouvèrent donc confrontés aussi à cette forme différente de territorialisation. Afin d’offrir au moins quelques indices de leur réaction, nous estimons utile de présenter avant tout un schéma chronologique, significatif des principaux événements qui concoururent à qualifier l’institution franciscaine en termes d’internationalité. Nous considérerons ensuite

28

ACPF, ACTA (1847) 210, 30–31: Petizione di Costantino Giusti a Pio IX, s.d.

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brièvement la valeur et les caractéristiques de l’objectif poursuivi par la Custodie, au cours du XIXème siècle, face aux tentatives de nationalisation de la Palestine, surtout de la part du gouvernement français. – Les Pères franciscains, dès les tout premiers temps de leur présence en Terre Sainte, cherchèrent à nouer et à conserver des relations d’entente avec les diverses Puissances européennes (par ex.: Venise, Royaume de Naples, Espagne, France), afin d’obtenir des aides économiques et un soutien politique. – Ils fondèrent dans plusieurs nations européennes les “Commissariats de Terre Sainte,” une sorte d’ambassade de l’Ordre auprès des Maisons régnantes respectives. – En 1747, certaines normes juridiques furent fixées par le pape Benoît XIV, pour régler le fonctionnement de l’organisme institué in loco, c’est-à-dire la “Custodie franciscaine de Terre Sainte,” et pour définir les tâches de ses membres, surtout par rapport à leur pays d’origine et dont ils gardaient la nationalité. Concrètement, il fut établi que le custode devait toujours être italien, nommé par le ministre général et par son conseil, confirmé par la Congrégation de Propaganda Fide; en revanche, le vicaire devait être français et le procurateur espagnol. Les quatre autres religieux qui, avec le vicaire et le procurateur, composaient le discrétoire (conseil du custode), devaient être respectivement de nationalité italienne, française, espagnole et allemande. En outre, il n’était pas permis au custode de prendre des mesures sans avoir d’abord consulté le directoire, dont la convocation, sauf cas extraordinaires, était prévu chaque semaine; la charge de supérieur des couvents du SaintSépulcre et de Bethléem revenait aux seuls religieux de nationalité italienne, française et espagnole, et devait être exercée alternativement parmi eux; la charge de supérieur des couvents de SaintJean in Montana, Ain Karem, Saint-Pierre à Jaffa, Saint-Nicodème à Ramleh, Bab Toma à Damas, Sainte-Croix à Nicosie et à l’Hospice de Constantinople revenait, en revanche, de droit aux religieux espagnols. La fonction du vicaire consistait à remplacer le custode quand celui-ci était absent et, de façon ordinaire, d’instaurer et d’entretenir les rapports avec les consuls français; par contre, le procurateur s’occupait de la gestion économique, en conséquence du fait que la très grande majorité des aumônes était recueillie dans les domaines espagnols. – Le rôle du ministre général, résidant à Rome, servit progressivement

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de pont ou de médiateur par excellence entre les franciscains travaillant en Terre Sainte et ceux des autres structures de l’Ordre, ainsi que d’intermédiaire entre eux et l’Ordre lui-même auprès du Siège Apostolique. – Durant la seconde moitié du XIXème siècle, vers la fin des années 1860, le gouvernement de la Custodie avait proposé un plan visant à l’organisation d’un protectorat collectif, pouvant donc être en mesure d’impliquer les nations européennes, et notamment—en plus de la France, déjà nation protectrice—l’Espagne, l’Autriche et le Royaume de Sardaigne.29 A partir de la seconde moitié du XIXème siècle, et en particulier à partir des années 1870, la Custodie s’efforça de défendre son statut international contre la France, qui tentait par tous les moyens d’implanter en Palestine sa culture nationale. A cette fin, elle s’était engagée politiquement vis-à-vis du Siège Apostolique et sur le plan économique à soutenir l’installation en Terre Sainte d’instituts religieux français. De 1873 à 1887, pas moins de neuf congrégations françaises s’installèrent en Terre Sainte, grâce à l’appui du gouvernement français. La Custodie aurait pu choisir de se franciser, comme cela advint pour la mission des jésuites en Chine et pour celle des pères capucins en Asie mineure. Le consul de France à Jérusalem lança plusieurs appels en ce sens au ministre général, par la médiation du Ministère des Affaires étrangères. Le gouvernement italien avait cherché, lui aussi, en diverses occasions, à attirer la Custodie de son côté; les autorités diplomatiques françaises démontrèrent à plusieurs reprises qu’elles en étaient conscientes. L’Espagne avait prétendu, en différentes circonstances, un patronage sur certains couvents de la Custodie, dans lesquels résidaient traditionnellement des Espagnols, en vertu du fait que pen-

29 Sur l’histoire de la Custodie jusqu’à la première moitié du XIXème siècle, on peut consulter avec profit les œuvres suivantes: F. Quaresimus, Historia teologica et moralis Terra Sanctae elicidatio (Venetiis, 1880); G. Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente Francescano (Quaracchi, 1906ss); A. Cirelli, Gli Annali di Terra Santa (Roma, 1918); P. Baldi, La questione dei Luoghi Santi (Torino, 1919); AA. VV., Custodia di Terra Santa 1342–1962 ( Jérusalem, 1951); A. M. Malo, L’Epopée inachevée de nos Lieux Saints (Montréal, 1955); M. Roncaglia, St. Francis of Assisi and the Middle East (Le Caire, 1957); G. Bateh, Les Chrétiens de Palestine (Rome, 1963); M. Piccirillo (ed.), La Custodia di Terra Santa e l’Europa. I rapporti e l’attività culturale dei Francescani in Medio Oriente (Roma, 1983).

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dant des siècles les caisses de Terre Sainte avaient été “renflouées” avec l’argent recueilli par l’Obra Pia. La Custodie montra souvent qu’elle savait utiliser l’arme de l’internationalité, menaçant de recourir à une sorte de protectorat collectif formé de l’Autriche, de l’Espagne, de l’Italie et, naturellement de la France, contre l’inertie de cette dernière, qui avait été députée par le Siège Apostolique à exercer son pouvoir politique en faveur des catholiques (protectorat). N’entendant pas renoncer à ce protectorat sur les catholiques—charge qui requérait un engagement supranational—la France se comportait en réalité comme n’importe quelle autre nation, nouant par exemple des alliances avec la Russie, considérée à l’époque, par sa prestance économique et par ses visées politiques, comme l’adversaire principale de la présence catholique au Moyen-Orient. Grâce à l’internationalité de sa structure et de son organisation, la Custodie avait également appris à gérer une certaine équidistance à l’égard des diverses nations et tirer profit des compétitions internationales. C’est grâce à cette habileté qu’elle parvint, toujours dans la seconde moitié du XIXème siècle, à obtenir l’appui économique de l’Autriche—qui, après Sedan, rivalisait avec la France en Palestine— pour la construction des églises du Saint-Sauveur et de SainteCatherine, deux des principaux édifices réalisés à l’époque par les catholiques de Terre Sainte. Au lendemain de la première guerre mondiale—conséquence, en quelque sorte, de la politique d’armements poursuivie par les gouvernements européens tout au long du XIXème siècle—ce furent deux franciscains de la Custodie qui lurent, à la Porte de David, en italien et en français, la proclamation du gouvernement britannique qui promettait de respecter les lieux saints des trois religions. Par la suite, la Custodie allait être appelée à exercer sa vocation à l’internationalité, bien qu’au milieu des difficultés pour gérer les controverses entre les Etats.

THE COPTIC CATHOLIC CHURCH, THE APOSTOLIC VICAR MAXIMUS GIUAID (1821–1831), THE PROPAGANDA FIDE AND THE FRANCISCANS IN EARLY NINETEENTH-CENTURY EGYPT Anthony O’Mahony Coptic-Catholic relations until the eighteenth century After the split in the unity of the Christian church at Chalcedon, relations between what emerged as the Coptic Church in Egypt1 and the Western church were at times intense and at others non-existent. The reunion of the Copts with Rome during the Council of Florence2 in 1442 and its acceptance by the Coptic pope John XI (1427–1452)3 did not bear fruit. Occasionally until 1582, Rome did consider the Church of Alexandria in union with Holy See. Between the Council of Florence and the end of the nineteenth century, the Roman church held a rigorous doctrine on the unity of the church: the nature of schism as the separation from the Church of Rome, and union as the full doctrinal and jurisdictional authority with the pope and the Holy Roman Apostolic See. In 1560, two Coptic priests went to Rome as delegates of the Coptic Church to negotiate terms of reunion. Then Pope Pius IV (1559–1565) sent two Jesuits, Christoforo Rodriguez and Giovanni Battista Eliano, to

1 Annick Martin, “Aux origins de l’Église copte. L’implantation et de développement du christianisme en Égypte (1er–IVe siècle),” Revue des études anciennes 83 (1981), 35–56; Ugo Zanetti, “Les Chrétientes du Nil: Basse et Haute Égypte, Nubie, Éthiopie,” The Christian East: Its Heritage, Its Institutions and Its Thought: A Critical Reflection, Robert F. Taft (ed.), Orientalia Christiana Analecta 251 (Rome, 1996), 181–216. 2 Georg Hoffman, “Kopten und Aethioper auf dem Konzil con Florenz,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 8 (1942), 11–24; G. Bassetti-Sani, “L’unione della Chiesa Copta Alessandrina alla Chiesa Romana nel Concilio di Firenze,” in Giuseppe Alberigo (ed.), Christian Unity: The Council of Ferrara-Florence 1438/39–1989 (Louvain, 1991), 623–643. 3 Phillippe Luisier, “Le lettre du Patriarche copte Jean XI au Pape Eugène IV: nouvelle édition,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 60 (1994), 87–129; Ph.Luisier, “Jean XI, 89ème Patriarche copte; commentaire de sa lettre au Pape Eugène IV suivi d’une esquisse historique sur son patriarcat,” Orientalia Christiana Periodica 60 (1994), 519–562.

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the Coptic patriarch Gabriel VII (1525–1568). This mission brought no positive results.4 In 1582 another attempt at reunion with Rome was made by the Coptic patriarch John XIV (1570–1585), his intentions were on the face of it sincere and serious. He requested Pope Gregory XIII (1572–1585) to send legates from Rome to negotiate the terms of reunion. When the two papal legates, Giovanni Battista Eliano and François Sasso, arrived, he convoked a synod of the Coptic Church on 1 February 1584, to discuss the matter. However, when John XIV died suddenly in mysterious circumstances, the Ottoman Turkish authorities as foreign spies imprisoned the two legates.5 They were released only after a ransom of 5,000 gold pieces was paid. Eliano negotiated with the new patriarch, Gabriel VIII (1586–1601), a profession of faith that did not include a formula of “the two natures in Christ”; this seems to have found no support in Rome. The results of the attempt at reunion remained ambiguous and contested through mutual lack of understanding between the two parties.6

4 Mario Scaduto, “La missione de Cristoforo Rodriguez al Cairo (1561–1563),” Archivum historicum Societatis Jesu 27 (1958), 233–278; Jose C. Sola, “El P. Juan Baptista Eliano. Un documento autobiografico inedito,” Archivum historicum Societatis Jesu 4 (1935), 291–321; Francesco Pericoli-Ridolfini, “La missione pontifica presso il patriarca copto di Alessandria Gabriele VII nel 1561–63,” Revista degli Studi Orientali 31 (1956), 129–167. 5 For the position of Christians and Jews under Islam in Egypt, see Michael Winter, Egyptian Society under Ottoman Rule, 1517–1798 (London, 1992), 199–224. The doctors of Islam law tended to draw quite distinct boundaries between Muslims and non-Muslims, and to interpret the subjection of dhimmis to Islamic authority as a justification for discriminatory and humiliating measures imposed upon them, Albrecht Noth, “Möglichkeiten und Grenzen islamischer Toleranz,” Saeculum 29 (1978), 190–204; “Abgrenzungsprobleme zwischen Muslimen und Nicht-Muslimen: die Bedingungen ‘Umars (as-surut al-’umariyya)’ unter anderem Aspekt gelesen,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 9 (1987), 290–315. 6 Throughout the seventeenth century little of note occurred in the relations between the Jesuits and the Copts; however, the interest of Anastasius Kircher (d. 1680) in the Coptic language should be noted. He had an intuition that a study of Coptic could lead to the decipherment of hieroglyphics. The second stage of Jesuit presence in Egypt began in 1697, when they established a small house in Cairo from which they could launch missionaries to Ethiopia. To facilitate this assignment, they courted the support of patriarch John XVI (1676–1718), who accorded a favorable welcome to them and even commissioned one of them by the name of Father Dubernat to carry to Ethiopia the ‘Chrism’ consecrated in 1703. Father Dubernat, who died in 1711, recounted this incident to a Bollandist colleague by the name of Jean Baptiste Sollerius, who wrote a treatise on the Patriarchate of Alexandria. His successor in Cairo was Claude Sicard, whose writings are a principal source of knowledge about Coptic monasticism in this period. Later the Jesuits

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On 15 January 1595, Clement VIII, in the presence of twentyfour cardinals, received in audience five representatives of Gabriel VIII. In his name they made a profession of faith, the formula of Gregory XIII, professing obedience to the pope of Rome and abjuring “all they held until now which was opposed to the rite of the Holy Roman Church.” On 28 June 1597, the representatives of Gabriel VIII returned with ratified documents of reunion and were granted an audience with Clement VIII. The documents of this reunion did not grant the Coptic Church sufficient autonomy demanded of by the Coptic patriarch a promise of obedience to the pope of Rome.7 In a letter of 7 October 1602 to Gabriel VIII, who had died on 14 May 1601, Clement VIII demanded “due obedience,” from the Alexandrian Church of Saint Mark. The union of 1595–1597 remained ineffective.8 In 1602, Pope Clement tried to organize an “Egyptian College” in Rome, but this plan did not materialize. During the reign of the Coptic patriarchs Matthew IV (1660–1675) and John XVI (1676–1718)9 discussions concerning reunion with Rome continued but without results. In 1623, Pope Urban VIII (1623–1644) wanted to reestablish contact with the Coptic Church and sent Franciscan missionaries headed by Father Paulo di Lodi to work among the Copts.10

opened a modest coeducational school, whose existence was rather precarious, and in 1773, the decree of the Society of Jesus suppression ended its activities altogether. The Jesuit mission to Egypt has been documented by Charles Libois, L’Égypté et les jésuites de l’ancienne compagnie (Rome, 1985, 3 vols); “Les Jésuites de l’ancienne compagnie en Égypté,” Archivum historicum Societatis Jesu 51 (1982), 161–189; “Ba’athâl-yasu’iyyun ladâ Aqbat Masr (1561–1563, 1582–1585),” Al-Mashriq (Beirut) 65 (1991), 89–123; “Les jésuites d’autrefois en Égypte: souvenirs conserves chez les Franciscains,” Archivum historicum Societatis Jesu 67 (1998), 201–217; Égypte (1547–1563), Monumenta Proximi Orientis II (Rome, 1993); Égypte (1565–1591) Monumenta Proximi Orientis IV (Rome, 1996); Égypte (1592–1699), Monumenta Proximi Orientis V (Rome, 2002); Égypte (1700–1773), Monumenta Proximi Orientis VI (Rome, 2003). 7 Gabriele Giamberardini, “Il Primato di S.Pietro e del Papa nella Chiesa copta,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 5 (1960), 3–122. 8 V. Buri, “L’Unione della chiesa copta con Rome sotto Clemente VIII,” Orientalia Christiana 23 (1931), 105–264. 9 G. Bassetti-Sani, “Il Patrriarca copto Giovanni XVI a Roma,” Studi Francescani 45 (1949), 55–67; Jean-Pierre Trossen, Les relations du patriarche copte Jean XVI avec Rome (1676–1718) (Luxembourg, 1948). 10 The history of the Franciscans in Egypt goes back to 1219 when Saint Francis met Sultan al-Malik al-Kàmil (1218–1238) near the city of Damietta. Francis had gone to Damietta with the Crusaders, but with the aim of spreading the message of peace proclaimed by Jesus, see L. Lemmens, “De Sancto Francisco christum praedicante coram sultano Aegypti,” Archivum Franciscanum Historicum 19 (1926),

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In 1630, Friar Paolo da Lodi was nominated the first “prefectus missionis Aegypti”.11 He arrived, via Jerusalem, in Cairo with a letter from Pope Urbanus VIII to the Coptic patriarch John XV (1619–1634), but the latter had died before the letter was handed over. Friar Paolo took up residence in the Venetian embassy and succeeded in setting up residence for the friars in a house just outside the diplomatic compound. Father Paolo was appointed Custos of the Holy Land on 22 August 1631. In the same year, friaries were founded in Alexandria and Rosetta, both of which still exist. The friary of Cairo became the base of the prefect.12 Then in 1630, the Capuchin father Joseph of Paris established several missions in the Levant, among them one in Cairo under the successful direction of Father Agathangelo of Vendôme. The Coptic pope Matthew III (1634–1649) opened all his churches to the friars, and Agathangelo gave spiritual conferences in the Coptic monasteries.

559–578. Francis inaugurated the Order Province of the Orient to encompass Cyprus, Syria, Palestine, and Egypt, later to become the Custody of the Holy Land. Not much is known about the first four hundred years of Franciscan presence in Egypt. Certainly it was not a continuous one, however since around 1630 Franciscan presence has been continuous. 11 See the studies by G. Manfredi, “Custodia Aegypti Superioris,” Historia Missionum Ordinis Fratrum Minorum 2 (1967), 89–108; “La Figura del “Praefectus Missionum” nelle Prefetture d’Egitto-Etiopia e dell’Alto Egitto-Etiopia, affidate ai Frati Minori (1630–1792),” Studia Orientalia Christiana (Cairo, 1958); “I Minori Osservanti Riformati nella Prefettura dell’Alto Egitto-Etiopia (1697–1792),” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 3 (1958), 83–182. For a jurisdictional view see N. Durigon, “l’ ‘Istituzione’ dei Missionari nell’Ordine dei Frati Minori, Studio storico-giuridico,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 4 (1959), 3–130 and in a comparative sense how Franciscan missions worked in the same north African region see, Giovanni Sanita, “La Berberia e la Sacrae Congregazione “De Propaganda Fide” (1622–1668) con particolare riguardo all’origine e allo sviluppo della Missione Francescana in Libia (1668–1711),” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 8 (1963), 91–348. 12 In 1632 the Propaganda Fide established a Franciscan prefecture in Ethiopia, which was entrusted to Friar Antonio da Virguletta. Upon their arrival in Egypt, they approached the Coptic Patriarchate and visited the monasteries of Saint Antony and of Saint Macarius to perfect their knowledge of Arabic while waiting for the caravan from Jirjà to Suakin, organized by the pasha of Suakin. Between 1633 and 1669 the friars made three expeditions to Ethiopia, each lasting a few years, during which most of the friars died through martyrdom or illness. They did not fully succeed in establishing themselves in Ethiopia. In 1671 the prefecture of Egypt was united with that of Ethiopia, and at the end of 1680 the Custos of the Holy Land obtained the title of prefect of Egypt. He exercised his duties through a vice prefect residing in Cairo. Metodio da Nembro, “Maertirio ed epulsioni in Etiopia,” Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide. Memoria Reum, 1622–1972 (Rome, 1971) 1, (1622–1700), 624–649; M. da Nembro, “Missionari Gesuti, Francescani e Cappuccini nell’Etiopia del’1600,” Collectanea Franciscana 41 (1971), 315–339.

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The greatest obstacle to reunion was the immoral conduct of the European Catholics residing in Egypt. The appeals of Agathangelo to the prefect of the Propaganda Fide to excommunicate the offenders remained fruitless. Agathangelo departed to Ethiopia and to martyrdom.13 The Franciscan missionaries during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries would make Egypt its main base for making contact with Christian Ethiopia. Many friars set out on this mission to visit Ethiopian rulers, for example Francesco Maria da Salemi, however, died a day’s journey away from Gondar, the seat of the emperor of Ethiopia, in 1701; Giuseppe Maria da Gerusalemme reached Gondar and returned to Rome in 1703; but three missionaries, among them Liberato Weiss, were stoned to death two miles outside Gondar on 22 February 1716.14 In 1697, the Friars Minor of the Observance were placed in charge of the Apostolic Prefecture of Upper Egypt.15 Only after 1720 did the Coptic mission have modest success.16 On 9 August 1739, 13 Otto F. A. Meinardus, “The Capuchin Missionary Efforts in the Coptic Monasteries, 1625–1650,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 20 (1987), 187–202. 14 C. Othmer, “Der Portughiesische Bericht ubers das Martyrium des P. Liberatus Weiss (1716),” Archivum Franciscanum Historicum 21 (1928), 331–345; “Series Documentorum ad Vitam Missionem et Martyrium P. Liberti Weiss OFM (1675–1716) Missionum Aethiopicarum Praefecti pertinentium ab anno 1674 usque ad finem saeuli XVIII,” Archivum Franciscanum Historicum 31 (1938), 127–153 and 440–457; “P. Liberatus Weiss OFM Seine Missionestactigkeit und sein Martyrium (3 Marz 1716),” Archivum Franciscanum Historicum 20 (1927), 336–355. Following this debacle, the mission concentrated its work not on spectacular travels, but on consolidating their bases in Upper Egypt which would no longer serve as stations on the way to the South, but which had become mission centres in their right: P. Giacomo da Cremsirio reported to Propaganda Fide in 1744 that there were 370 Catholics in Akhmîm, 570—Girgi, 60—Farshft, 100—Tahta, 400—Isna. Very few Copts converted and among them very few Coptic clergy, one of the reasons being that they were married and had to support their families so that the missionaries had to continue in their roles as parish priests of the Catholic Copts, cf. Dorothea McEwan, “Catholic Copts, Riformati and the Capitulations: A Case Study in Church Protection in Egypt,” in Anthony O’Mahony (ed.), Eastern Christianity: Studies in Modern history, Religion and Politics (London, 2004), 499. 15 G. Bassetti-Sani, “Il carattere particolare della Missione Francescana dell’AltoEgitto ‘in auxilium Cophorum’,” Studi Francescani 47 (1951), 55–73; “Documents par la storia del Cristianesimo in Egitto. Una creduta riunione della Chiesa Copta monofisita con la Chiesa Romana nel secolo XVIII,” Studi Francescani 50 (1953), 65–95, 244–257; “La mission franciscaine de Haute-Égypte,” Cahiers d’histoire égyptienne 2 (1950), 359–371. 16 The first adult convert to the Catholic faith was a certain Sahyùn Wàlid, at Akhmìm in 1715. The first two Copts ordained as Catholic priests were Rùfà"ìl alTùkhì and Yustus Maràghì, who were sent to Rome by the Franciscans for studies and were ordained there in 1735. See G. Giamberardini, “Il primo Registro dei copti cattolici, a 1715,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 3 (1958), 185–238.

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Athanasius, the Coptic bishop of Jerusalem, secretly made a Catholic profession of faith before Rùfà"ìl al-Tùkhì and Justus Maràghì, two Coptic Catholic priests educated in Rome. Al-Tùkhì brought Athanasius’ profession of faith to Rome; and on 4 August 1741, Pope Benedict XIV granted Athanasius jurisdiction over all the Catholic Copts some 2,300. Athanasius hardly used these faculties, and then returned to the Coptic Church. On-3 June 1744, the pope Benedict XIV appointed Justus Maràghì as vicar general, who died in 1748. Then the prefect of the Franciscans received jurisdiction over the Catholic Copts, a circumstance that considerably undermined their cause. In 1758 the Coptic archbishop, Anthony Fulayfil, became Catholic, and in 1761 Rome appointed him the first Coptic vicar apostolic. Rome ruled the Catholic Copts through apostolic vicars until the second erection of the Coptic Catholic Patriarchate of Alexandria in 1895 by the apostolic letter “Christi Domini”.17 The eighteenth century was characterized by confusion marked by lack of understanding. During the first half of the eighteenth century, Franciscan missionaries in Egypt demanded that the Catholic Copts burn their books, and many missionaries actually ridiculed and misrepresented the Eastern rites, tradition, and customs. However, during this period the Catholic Copt Rùfà"ìl al-Tùkhì (d. 1787) was editing and printing Coptic liturgical books in Rome, and he was appointed the ordaining bishop for Coptic seminarians in Rome. The Propaganda Fide always kept the Catholic Copts under strictest obedience and dependence, seemingly more than any other Eastern Catholic church. For example Coptic priests educated in Rome were usually given faculties for three years only, according to the decree of 1736, “in order to keep them in a stricter dependence.” It must also be recalled that the Coptic Catholics had a much weaker institutional structure; it had no bishops, patriarch or synod for much of our period. Rome also generally had little knowledge of the particular customs and laws of the Copts, and usually followed either Latin or Byzantine practices and canons in their dealing with the Catholic Copts.

17 A. Colombo, Le origine della gerarchia della Chiesa copta cattolica nel secolo XVIII, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 140 (Rome, 1953); A. Columbo, La nascita della Chiesa copto-cattolica nella prima metá de 1700, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 250 (Rome, 1996).

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The Catholic missionaries hoped to win over the Coptic patriarchs John XVII (1726–1745) and his successor Mark VII (1745–1769) to the cause of union.18 On 15 March 1790, the Congregation for the Propagation Fide fortified the decree of 1729, which prohibited the Coptic Catholic priests from having intercommunion with the non-Catholics. In the same decree, the Congregation stipulated that absolution could be granted to converts to the Catholic Church only after they abjured errors and they professed the faith of Urban VIII. This definitively settled the thorny question of intercommunion that had been under discussion among the missionaries. The creation of the Coptic Catholic Patriarchate in 1824 increased the tensions and hostilities between the Coptic and the Roman churches.19 The emergence of a Coptic Catholic Church under Maximus Giuaid (1821–1831) At the beginning of the nineteenth century the fortunes of the Catholic Copts looked bleak. There were only several thousand at that time and they had no bishop, but, as expected, the period of Muhammad Ali dramatically changed their position. The Catholic Church in Egypt made significant progress as a result of Muhammad Ali’s administration. Latin Catholics emigrated to Egypt—Maltese, Italians and Spaniards—easily doubled the size of the church. When Muhammad Ali abolished the cizye, the poll tax which was part of the

18 J.-M. Detre, “Contribution à l’étude des relations du patriarcahe copte Jean XVII avec Rome de 1735 à 1738,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 5 (1960), 123–181. 19 Ethiopia has always maintained a close relationship with Egypt and therefore, although the country remained closed to missionaries until 1839, there were some contacts. Thus Maximus Giuaid received a group of Ethiopian priests who requested that they be received into the Catholic church. In 1840, Maximus’ successor, Theodore Abukarim, was appointed delegate and apostolic visitor to the ‘Abyssinians’. His new mission did not have any effect, and for many years the spread and development of Catholicism in Ethiopia remained the exclusive domain of the Latin missionaries. Josef Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Teodoro Abukarim (1832–1854),” Euntes Docete 15 (1962), 70–115. However, an Ethiopian, Abune Tobia Ghiorghis Gheregziabhier, was appointed bishop of Adulis by Pope Pius VI’s decree of 21 April 1788, who according to one scholar might qualify as the first African bishop of modern times, cf. Kevin O’Mahoney, “Abune Tobia Ghiorghis Gheregziabhier: An Ethiopian Catholic Bishop,” in Anthony O’Mahony (ed.), Eastern Christianity: Studies in Modern History, Religion and Politics (London, 2004), 530–549.

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subjugation of the non-Muslim, Christian and Jewish community, Egypt became highly attractive to Europeans seeking their fortunes along the Nile.20 In recognition of the large number of Latin emigrants, Rome set up a vicariate for Egypt on 17 May 1839, separating it from the Holy Land custody. The Franciscan Perpetuo Guasco was appointed vicar, the first Latin bishop ever sent to Egypt on a permanent basis.21 However, this period was also a time of great promise and false hopes. Pope Leo XII (1823–1829) was falsely led to believe that the viceroy of Egypt, Muhammad Ali, wished the establishment of the Coptic Catholic Patriarchate for all Copts with the appointment of the vicar apostolic Maximus Giuaid (Zuwayd) as the first patriarch. On 1 August 1824, Leo XII personally consecrated as bishop Abraham Khashùr, a very young Coptic alumnus of the Propaganda College in Rome. The bishop was supposed to return to Egypt and consecrate Maximus as patriarch of Alexandria. Having acknowledged that the non-Catholic Patriarchate existed actually but not de jure and having proclaimed it suppressed, in the bull Petrus Apostolorum Princeps of 15 August 1824, Leo XII founded the Catholic Coptic Patriarchate of Alexandria. Leo XII soon recognized that he had been deceived, and the establishment of the Patriarchate remained on paper only. The Catholic Copts continued to be ruled by vicars apostolic.22 At the end of the eighteenth century the Coptic Catholics had already received its own hierarchy in the person of a vicar apostolic who was invested with Episcopal powers.23 The first efforts by the Congregation to organize the Catholic Copts under the jurisdiction of a bishop of their own rite began in 1741. In some matters also it had its won legislation contained in “‘Reglo da osservarsi’ da tutti

20 Thomas Philip, “Demographic Patterns of Syrian migration to Egypt in the eighteenth century,” Asian and African Studies 16 (1982), 171–195; The Syrians in Egypt, 1725–1975, Berliner Islam Studien 3 (Stuttgart, 1992), 1–77; “Image and Self-Image of the Syrians in Egypt: From the Early Eighteenth Century to the Reign of Muhammas ‘Ali,” in Benjamin Braude, Bernard Lewis (eds.), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire (New York, 1982), vol. 2, 167–184. 21 Alfred Schlicht, “Les chrétiens en Égypte sous Mehemmet Ali,” Le Monde Copte 6 (1979), 44–51. 22 Josef Metzler, “Werben um die koptische Kirche,” Sacrae Congregationis de Propaganda Fide. Memoria Reum, 1622–1972 (Rome, 1971), vol. 2, (1700–1815), 379–403. 23 Josef Metzler, “Bemühungen der S.C. de Propaganda Fide um die Wiedervereinigung der Koptischen Kirche mit Rome,” Euntes Docete 17 (1964), 94–108.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 101 I sacerdoti copti al Cairo e nell’Egitto.” This document was promulgated by the Propaganda in 1788 and reprinted in 1830.24 The first attempts were unsuccessful and it was only in April 1788 that an embryonic Coptic Catholic hierarchy was definitively established with the appointment of Matta Righet.25 Matta Righet who died July 21, 1821 as being responsible for the solid foundation of the successful Catholic mission to the Copts and the good reputation of the Catholic Coptic church in the country. However, Righet left some unresolved problems relating to the troubles between members of the Coptic Catholic clergy, the marriage ‘scandal’ of a member of the Ghali family, one of the most influential Catholic Coptic families in Cairo, new problems with the Franciscan Reformers, and the Greek Catholic Melkite community in Cairo. It was not going to be an easy task for Maximus Giuaid (Zuwayd) as Matta Righet’s successor.26 In the absence of Sergius Ghali, the senior member of the family, the task and honour to proclaim Massimo Giuaid as new apostolic vicar fell to his brother Francesco. He invited all the important members of the Catholic Coptic Church and the Coptic clergy to a dinner in honour for Giuaid. Giuaid’s former opponents Teodoro Abukarim and R. Baschi were reconciled. Relations between the

24 The annals of Propaganda state that in 1836 there were 3,000 Coptic Catholics half of whom were resident in Cairo while a small number lived in Alexandria and the rest in Upper Egypt. In 1866 there were 4,300 Catholics and twenty priests of whom fourteen were married and four were past students of Propaganda. Before 1829 they were not entitled to own churches and they used those of the Riformati. This arrangement often gave rise to unpleasantness. In 1829, however, they obtained civil emancipation and began to build their won churches. By 1866 they had ten buildings but much remained to be done. Relations between the missionaries and the Coptic clergy were often painful. In 1893 seven of their twelve churches and residences were ceded to the Coptic Catholic church. See G. Giamberardini, “Quattro documenti sulla separazione dei Missionari Francescani dal clero Copto Cattolico nel 1893,” Studia Orientalia Christiana Collectanea 9 (1964), 233–361. 25 Matta Righet was born on 26 May 1747, Tahta, Upper Egypt; 1762–1772 he studied at ‘Collegio Urbano’ in Rome. In May 1788 he was ordained, appointed apostolic vicar for the Copts in Egypt and bishop on 12 March 1815. He died on the 21 July 1821. Josef Metzler, “Matta Righet, Apostolischer Vikar der Kopten und Vertrauensmann der S.C. de Propaganda Fide (1747–1821),” Euntes Docete 13 (1960), 358–407. 26 Benedetto Maximus Giuaid was born in Girge April 22, 1778. His father was Cirillo Giorgio Habdelgadus and his mother, Rosa Sad Nagadi. He was sent in 1792 to Rome by Matta Righet, ordained in 1806 after which he returned to Egypt, Josef Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” Euntes Docete 14 (1961), 36–62.

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vicar and the two priests who were responsible for the spiritual welfare in the Coptic community of Cairo continued to be well from this time on until Giuaid’s death. Later Giuaid appointed Abukarim as vicar general when Maximus was engaged in a visitation to UpperEgypt; in this way he more or less designated him as his successor.27 The most urgent problem that faced Giuaid concerned the formation of the next generation of Coptic Catholic priests. Some parishes where without a priest and even in Cairo there was a shortage. On occasion priests from the Coptic Orthodox church converted, however, during their first years they were not allowed to undertake “spiritual welfare”. Despite all these problems Giuaid did not want to break with the tradition that former students of the Collegio Urbano came to work in Egypt. In 1827 the apostolic vicar begged the Cardinal prefect Mauro Capellari to allow new Coptic students to study in Rome, however, only two were to be accepted. This did not make up for the lack of priests. Therefore, Giuaid not only set up a seminary in his own house but taught there himself. What is more, he supported the seminaries financially. When the time for their ordination had come, he sent them to Mount Lebanon, the homeland of the Maronite church. Rome accepted this procedure. The Cardinal prefect praised the apostolic vicar for his eagerness educating his own clergy.28 The other urgent problem faced by Giuaid was the marriage plans of Francesco Ghali. Giuaid tried receiving dispensation in Francesco’s case, in order to repay Francesco for his efforts in his appointment as apostolic vicar. He wrote to the Cardinal prefect on October 4, 1821. However, he realized quickly that influential sections of the

27 There were approximately 2500 Catholic Copts at the beginning of Giuaid’s period of office. They were distributed among Cairo’s five parishes and in Farciut, Girge, Achmim, Tahta, Alexandria, Rosette, Damiata and Bensuef. Most were relatively poor, but included: government clerks, goldsmiths, dyers, traders/merchants or peasants. The number of Coptic priests varied between ten and fifteen. See the account of the Apostolic prefect of the Reformati P. Daniele di Procida, March 10, 1824 in Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Teodoro Abukarim,” 70–115. The Coptic Catholic community would grow in the later part of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, see Maurice P. Martin, “Les coptes catholiques, 1880–1920,” Proche-Orient Chrétien 40 (2005), 33–55. 28 There were several occasions when ordinations took place in Lebanon, 1822, 1823, 1830, there might be others but which are not recorded. Traveling to and from Egypt could also be extremely dangerous, see Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 40.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 103 Ghali family opposed a marriage between Francesco and his cousin. Giuaid wrote a number of letters to the Propaganda Fide between 1822 and 1823. The tenor of which is obvious as it related to this influential Coptic Catholic family: Giuaid favoured the decision to be made by the Pope, although he thought it would be better to give the dispensation. Despite changes in the family due to the sudden death of Sergius Ghali, May 6, 1822 the sons of this leading clansman, Basilio, Gregorio and Tobia Cirillo, plus the son of Francesco sent letters to the cardinals of the Propaganda too, in which they opposed strongly dispensation. The Cardinal prefect answered Giuaid on April 12, 1823 and on several other occasions declaring that he would not ask the Pope for dispensation in the case of Francesco Ghali. Nevertheless it seemed that the matter would take a turn in favour of Francesco. In several petitions to the Propaganda he had continually insisted upon being granted dispensation. In the end the Cardinal prefect asked the Pope for it. On November 22, 1823 Leo XII granted the apostolic vicar the power of dispensation. This time it was Giuaid who did not consider himself able to approve of the marriage. The Propaganda backed the vicar’s decision. Still there was no end in sight since Francesco heard about the power of dispensation given by the Pope to the apostolic vicar. Relations deteriorated between Francesco and Giuaid. Some of the Coptic clergy, especially Abukarim and Baschi, tried mediating in his case. The Guardian of the Franciscan Observers in Jerusalem approached the Propaganda on behalf of Francesco Ghali who had been promoted to secretary of state of Egypt. Therefore the secretary of the Propaganda, Archbishop Pietro Caprano, wrote asking that the apostolic vicar act with “mercy” towards Francesco Ghali. The archbishop thanked Ghali himself in a letter that he used his position in life “per promuovere i vantaggi della S. Religione in coteste parti.” Francesco died unexpectedly in June 27, 1824 before reading the letter sent to him by Archbishop Pietro Caprano.29 Shortly after Giuaid’s appointment as apostolic vicar, the Propaganda considered his appointment as bishop. It was Basilio, son of Sergius Ghali, who suggested advantages that would flow from a Coptic Catholic bishop, prestige for the Coptic community and the possible

29

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 42.

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attraction it would hold for other non-Catholic Coptic believers. Last but not least the service would be held in splendid “pontificals” according to Coptic rite. In a letter to Rome, Basilio promised he would seek a secure passage for Giuaid’s journey to Lebanon. In financial matters he was willing to contribute to maintain a bishop and in fact income for a bishop would come rents of houses (220 Roman scudi) the Ghali family had left to the apostolic vicar. Rome agreed on everything Basilio had recommended and in the audience of February 8, 1824, Leo XII appointed Giuaid as episcopus titularius Bishop of Utina. He was allowed celebrating Mass “Missae Sacrificium, ceteraque divina official celebrare cum vestibus insigniis et Ritibus Episcopalibus” before his official ordination. Giuaid was ordained in Mount Lebanon on November 13, 1825 by the Greek-Melkite patriarch Ignazio Gatan, with Bishop Ignazio Aggiuri of Zahle and Bishop Clement of Baalbek. Basilio had got a firman from Muhammad Ali for Giuaid. Rome rejoiced when the newly consecrated bishop returned to Cairo safely. One of his official acts was the ordination of three Copts. Basilio received the medal of the “Golden Spur” by Leo XII in 1827.30 Shortly after the nomination of the apostolic vicar to bishop, several letters from Egypt reached the Propaganda. The first letter dated to March 26, 1824, was signed by Giuaid; however, it became obvious later on that the handwriting had been forged. The answer to this letter is dated June 5, 1824. In the response the Propaganda, Giuaid and Francesco Ghali are advised to thank the ruler of Egypt for his kindness towards the Coptic Catholics. In the first letter, March 26, the strong desire was expressed that Mohammed Ali favoured the re-establishment of the Coptic Catholic Patriarchate. Furthermore, Abramo Chasciur, a Coptic student of the Collegio Urbano should be sent quickly to Egypt. The Propaganda agreed to send the student but insisted upon ordination before his return to Egypt. But there were concerns concerning Chasciur’s date of birth; Giuaid was requested to solve this issue and to take care of Abramo so that the later could finish his studies in Egypt. Francesco Ghali received a letter with nearly the same wording. Then, a second letter from Giuaid, so it seemed, reached Rome dated April 20. Again the

30

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 44–45.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 105 Propaganda reacted to this very quickly and assured the sender that everything was being done so that Abramo Chasciur could leave as soon as possible for Egypt.31 On July 13, 1824 an extraordinary session of the Congregatio generalis was convoked by the Propaganda “. . . per trattervi gli affari pendenti del Patriarcato Copto Cattolico.” So, at least, the apostolic vicar was told by the prefect on July 17. During this session the Pope was asked to nominate Abramo Chasciur archbishop of the Copts, notwithstanding his young age. In the audience of July 18 the Pope confirmed the decision.32 Chasciur received ordination including to priesthood even before his certificate for baptism had arrived in Rome. On August 1, 1824 Leo XII bestowed the ordination as bishop to Abramo Chasciur in the Capella Sixtina with assistance of the secretary of the Propaganda Archbishop Pietro Caprano and the Archbishop di sua Santità Filonardi as “eletto Patriarca della Nazione Copta.” After his ordination Chasciur was given the powers for the consecration of Giuaid as bishop and patriarch. The apostolic vicar was told to prepare everything necessary. It was Giuaid’s duty to make the establishment of the Coptic Catholic Patriarchate known to the public; the decree is dated to August 12. The papal note, 15 August, sets out “instructions” in “Petrus Apostolorum Princeps” for a Coptic Catholic Patriarchate as requested by Mohammed Ali, in particular the Pope has considerable hopes that all “schismatic” Copts will in the future submit to the Catholic patriarch. Thus in accordance with the desire and after consultation with the cardinals of the Propaganda for re-establishing of the Catholic Coptic Patriarchate of Alexandria, the Pope appointed Maximus Giuaid as patriarch. His ordination according to the Pope’s intensions

31 The letters sent and received from Rome and Cairo: Giuaid to Prefect: 1, 3 and 16 of March and April 20, 1824; Giuaid to Chasciur: 1, 3, 5 of April and April 20 1824; Francesco Gali to Prefect: March 13 and 19, 1824; Francesco Ghali to the Pope: April 5, 1824; Francesco Ghali to Chasciur: April 5 and 28, 1824; Mohammed Ali to Chasciur: April 5 and 28, 1824; The letters by Giuaid and Mohammed Ali were forgeries. This was not the case with the letters by Francesco Ghali. They on the contrary were genuine. There is possibly a reason to suppose that Francesco Ghali was behind the whole affair. 32 According to Josef Metzler, the files are not to be found in the Archives of the Propaganda. Probably it is necessary to look for them in the Secret Archives of the Propaganda or the Archive of the Holy Office, Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 46–47.

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should take place during the following months in accordance to Coptic rite.33 During the following audiences in August, the Pope granted Archbishop Chasciur several privileges, foe example he asked for “facoltà straordinaria di dispensare . . . per tutti gli Matrimonij.” Chasciur was also requested to take a letter from the Pope Leo XII to Mohammed Ali. He left Livorno for Egypt on September 12 and arrived in Alexandria seventeen days later. Concerning the following events there are several sources of information. The account of the Consul Drovetti tells us that Mohammed Ali charged Chasciur with death penalty. Due to negotiations by the French consul general he was sent back to Rome. A different report says that Chasciur was not allowed on land in Egypt and had to return immediately to Rome. The whole affair resulted in the degradation of Chasciur and his lifelong sentence in a Roman jail. It was P. Luigi Canestrari, consultor at the Propaganda and Chasciur’s travel companion who discovered the whole fraud. He brought Chasciur back to Rome and was appointed the following year Bishop of Montaldo. It was only the haste concerning all the dealings with Chasciur which at the beginning prevented the forgers from being detected and even before Giuaid could have a say in it. There are hypotheses and assumptions left as who the forger had been and the reason for his doing In the register of the Collegio Urbano is an entry which says that Chasciur had been the forger and that he received death penalty but was pardoned to life-sentence by the Holy Office. It is obvious that there should have been more caution on behalf of the secretary of the Propaganda, especially since several days after

33 “Cum in S.Congregatione Generali de Propaganda Fide habita die 13 Julii anno 1824 referente E.mo et R.mo Cardin.Eman. De Gregorio question diligenter tractata fuisset utrum videlict expediat Patriarchatum Coptum Catholicum Alexandriae constituere, illumque conferre R.P.D. Maximo Giuaid electo Episcopo Utinem., et in Aegypto Vicario Apostolico, E.mi Patres uno consensus et Patriarchatum constituendum, et memorato Praesuli Maximo Giuaid si SS.mo D.no N.ro placuerit conferendum decreverunt. Hanc autem Sac. Congregationis sententiam relatam SS.mo D.no N.ro Papae Leoni XII a B.P.D. Petro Caprano Archiepiscopo Teonii Sacrae Congregationis Secretario in audientia diei 18 Julii, Sanctitas Sua in omnibus maximopere probavit, ac idcirco Literas Apostolicas sub plumbo erectionis Patriarchatus, et ejusdem collationis Maximo Giuaid expediendas mandavit. Datum a die 12 Augusti 1824”. Lettere e Decreti della Sacra Congregazione e Biglietti Mons. Segretario 305 (1824) fol. 506–506v. Quoted in Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 48, n. 67.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 107 the death of Righet the seal of the apostolic vicar had disappeared. Besides, all the letters of the Propaganda to Righet were missing. Giuaid had reported this to Rome and described his seal and had started to number all his letters from May 30, 1823 onwards.34 The forger had started his tricks in December 1823. He wrote several letters from Abramo Chasciur to a monk in San Stefano de Mori and to the Propaganda. Giuaid became suspicious when all addressees answered letters he had not written. His first letter of warning he wrote to the Cardinal prefect is dated to August 18, 1824. Unfortunately it arrived in Rome too late, the new Archbishop was already on his way to Egypt. The letters written in the name of Muhammad Ali were forgeries, as well. The consequences of this affair are not known. Only apostolic prefect Daniele di Procida OFM criticized the Propaganda for its haste and for not consulting him or the apostolic vicar on this matter. The secretary of the Propaganda, Archbishop Pietro Caprano, who was mainly responsible for the actions taken by the Propaganda, fell ill and it seems no further detectable action was taken. The Coptic Catholic Patriarchate was re-established in Alexandria by Leo XIII on November 26, 1895.35 The success of the Coptic mission did not only depend on the efficiency of the Coptic clergy but as much on the engagement of the Franciscan Reformers “in auxilium coptorum” of Egypt. At the beginning Massimo Giuaid was quite close to the prefect P. Daniele di Procida. The number of the Reformers at this time varied between two and six. The Franciscans owned six residences: Cairo, Tahta, Achmim, Girgee, Farciut and Nagade. Since there were always two or three priests in Cairo these residences were often vacant. Due to disputes among the Reformers and Observers in Cairo the Propaganda

34

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 49–51. Leo XIII supported the ‘union’ of the Coptic church and ‘nation’ with the Holy See and the Catholic Church in his apostolic letter 11 July 1895, Acta Sanctae Sedis 27 (1894–1895), col. 705–709; and when he responded to the request of a delegation under the leadership of Cyril Makarios 26 November by restoring the Alexandrine Patriarchate, Acta Sanctae Sedis 28 (1895–1896), col. 257–260. Aside from the patriarchal bishopric, Leo XIII established the dioceses of Hermopolis and Thebes. In 1899 he made Cyril Makarios patriarch. With resolutions regarding faith, liturgy and hierarchy, the Synod of Cairo of 1898 laid the foundation for the organization of the church. Its reconstruction was interrupted when the ambitious patriarch resigned in 1908 and ‘converted’ to Coptic Orthodoxy. He was replaced by an apostolic administrator. Claude Soetens, “Origine et développement de l’Église copte catholique,” Irénikon 1 (1992), 42–62. 35

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intended closing the residence of the Reformers in Cairo in 1823 and sending everyone there to Upper Egypt; however, the idea was never acted upon. More troubles lay ahead in connection with the issue of rituals for the celebration of the Immaculate Conception (March 19). The Copts were celebrating this ‘holy day’ in accordance with the Alexandrine Coptic calendar on December 22. The Reformers demanded adaptation to the Latin tradition by the Catholic Copts, the Propaganda decided in favour of the Copts.36 During Righet’s period of office there had already been many disputes between the Greek Melkite Catholics and the Catholic Copts. Both of them had been worshipping in the church of the Reformers. There had once been a plan that the Copts should have a chapel to themselves and Rome did not oppose to that; unfortunately this plan had never been carried out. Since his ordination Giuaid had attached great importance to ceremonial celebration of the Coptic liturgy. Problems arose on Christmas and Easter, when the Melkites thought that there was not enough time left for their worship in the church of the Reformers since they were second in line. So Giuaid, Daniele di Procida and P. Demetrio got together and tried to face these demands by establishing a suitable timetable for every community. Giuaid promised starting the Coptic service on time. He apologized formally for the delay at Easter service in 1825. P. Daniele sat during the Coptic Christmas service of the same year and Epiphany 1826 with a clock in his hand. He was satisfied that there was enough time for the Melkite liturgy, however, disagreements between the Melkites and Copts continued. Therefore Giuaid turned again to the Propaganda for assistance. In his letter he pointed out several aspects to the cardinals for consideration, that Cairo was the only place where the complete Coptic Catholic ritual is celebrated, which was not the case concerning the Melkite church, and that the, schismatic, Coptic patriarch was very sensible about the importance of the ritual proceedings. Giuaid detected that the only reason for this quarrel on behalf of the Melkites was that they wanted to finish the service much earlier. To end once and for all the quarrels Giuaid asked the Propaganda for the permission to build a church for the Copts on the property of the Franciscan Reformers.37

36 37

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 54–55. Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 56–57.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 109 The cardinals of the Propaganda agreed with Giuaid, however, they could not underwrite the project and stipulated that the Coptic Catholic community would be responsible for all expenses. They advised that the apostolic vicar could only start the construction when they had collected all the money needed. In the meantime the Melkites got hold of the bishop’s plan and claimed a church for themselves. In a letter, 23 April 1827, to the Propaganda, Daniele di Procida, prefect of the Reformers, supported the Melkites. He was convinced that the Copts were unable to raise such a huge amount of money for the construction of the new church whereas the Melkites would not have the slightest problems concerning the financial side. The Cardinal-prefect stood by his former decision in favour of the Copts, however, he announced that if there would be further delays from the Coptic Catholics he would commission that the Melkites should build a church. It was Basilio Ghali who resolved financial matters for the Coptic community and the Austrian vice-consul Champion tried getting permission from the government for building a new church.38 Unfortunately, the Propaganda stopped the plan because they did not think it to be wise addressing Constantinople in that matter around that time. Therefore no solution was reached in the “diabolica questione”; although it seems that an agreement for the timetable for worship was reached by the two communities.39 However, the relation between the Copts and Franciscans deteriorated. The Reformers were very much opposed to a Coptic Catholic bishop, since they feared a decrease of their own authority. P. Daniele di Procida made numerous, forty-nine, complaints against Giuaid and his Coptic Catholic community, in a letter presented to the Propaganda by the prefect February 6, 1828. P. Giuseppe da Trapani was sent to deliver this letter and if necessary to answer questions asked by the cardinals. The Propaganda, however, turned directly to Bishop Giuaid because they were quite indignant about form and manner of the letter. They were satisfied with Giuaid’s answers. The only questions left were those concerning the consecrated of altar stones if the Coptic Catholic bishop would be allowed to consecrate

38 Dorothea McEwan, Habsburg als Schutzmacht der Katholiken in Ägypten, Studie über das Österreichische Kirchenprotektorat von seinen Anfängen bis zu seiner Abschaffung im Jahre 1914, Schriften des Österreichischen Kulturinstituts 3 (Cairo, 1982). 39 Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 58.

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them and second, if oils consecrated by him could be used by Latin missionaries at all. For the last matter, the Propaganda was obliged to turn to the Holy Office. This resulted in a reference to the two decrees from February 14, 1704 and February 26, 1766 which said, astonishingly, that it was improper to use altar stones and oils consecrated by a Coptic bishop. The secretary of the Propaganda did not accept the answer. He pointed out that if in the two decrees it referred to a Coptic bishop, this meant ‘schismatic’ Coptic bishop and not Catholic Coptic bishop. He wrote again, but the Holy Office did not respond, although a decision was very much needed since bishop Giuaid was about to visit the parishes in Upper Egypt and had to consecrate churches on this occasion. Therefore the secretary of the Propaganda turned once more to the Holy Office. On June 16, 1831 Gregory XVI declared in the Congregatio Generalis “pro nune respondendum esse, non expedire.” Other explanations were not to be expected. In a letter from July 26, 1831 the prefect of the Propaganda told Giuaid about the decision of the Congregatio Generalis. Giuaid had died in the meantime, August 30, 1831, totally unexpected for everyone. P. Daniele di Procida was not happy with the result of his letter. His courier was not allowed to return to Egypt and he himself had to face accusations of being involved in smuggling. P. Daniele di Procida became very bitter towards the Propaganda fide and died August 19, 1831.40 Conclusion Giuaid had tried to maintain peace with the Latin missionaries despite all the tension. He does not seem to have been resentful towards P. Daniele di Procida or the Reformers in Egypt. His account of May 25, 1830 had a positive attitude in saying that the Reformers supported the Coptic priests, “sono utili per la salute delle anime.” Bishop Giuaid administered the apostolic vicariate for ten years and, despite all problems, he succeeded in establishing a good reputation for the Coptic Catholic community in Rome and Egypt. However, according to Josef Metzler, he “did present himself as bishop and the pontifical office especially well, because of his personal prefer-

40

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 59–61.

the catholic church in early nineteenth-century egypt 111 ence for decorum and solemnity.” Giuaid got the Ottoman Turkish authorities and the Coptic Orthodox Church used to a Catholic Coptic bishop in Cairo. He was serious in educating his own Coptic clergy and he was not resentful towards his opponents. He appointed one of them shortly before his death to take care of the apostolic vicariate until Rome made a new appointment. The Cardinal-prefect at the Propaganda described Giuaid as the confidant servant of Rome, a decent and deserving “praelatus”.41 The future Coptic Patriarch Makarios wrote of him, “Amba Maximos fut un saint pontifé: heureuse la nation copte, si elle l’eût possédé plus longtemps.”42

41

Metzler, “Das Apostolische Vikariat der Kopten unter Massimo Giuaid,” 62. G. Macaire, Histoire de l’eglise d’Alexandrie depuis saint Marc jusqu’à nos jours (Cairo, 1894), 373. 42

DANGER AND THE MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE: THE MURDER OF MISS MATILDA CREASY Nancy L. Stockdale I and none of our ladies wish to sneak in Christianity among them—but it is our duty “to do them good” and this we cannot do without mixing with them.— Miss Matilda Creasy, Treasurer of the Sarah Society of Jerusalem, 9 June 185–1

On September 9th, 1858, the body of an English woman was found near the Convent of the Cross west of the City of Jerusalem. It appeared that she had been beaten to death days before, and her body was now in a state “badly mangled by beasts.”2 Immediately the woman was identified as Miss Matilda Creasy, an English missionary who had disappeared on the 3rd of September, and for whom the British Consulate had been actively searching since the 7th.3 Her death sent a shock wave through the small English community in Palestine, and served as a powerful danger narrative regarding the risks associated with being an Englishwoman resident in the Holy Land. Matilda Creasy was one of the first female English missionaries to live long-term in Jerusalem, and her independent yet arduous work was a model for many. Her working life in the Holy

1

Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem June 9th [1857?].” Finn Papers, MSS Finn File D, Yad Ben Zvi Library [hereafter Finn D, YBZ], Jerusalem. 2 Canon J. E. Hanauer, Reminiscences of Canon J. E. Hanauer—Jerusalem, 11. Unpublished Manuscript (date unknown), Israel Trust for the Anglican Church Archive, Jerusalem. Hanauer recalls Creasy as an “old lady,” but since he was only eight years old at the time of her death, I question his reliability on her age. In retrospect, too, Hanauer judged Creasy’s actions—that is, setting off alone—as imprudent: “One afternoon she imprudently left the town, as it appears quite alone, in order to go to the camp, which however, she never reached.” Her death acted in later years as a warning for other English women in the Holy City who ventured into public alone, as argued below. 3 The consular diary of James Finn is the key source for determining exact accounts regarding the search for Creasy. See Arnold Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 1849–1858: The Consular Diary of James and Elizabeth Anne Finn (Cranbury, NJ, 1980), 295–298, 301–304, 309–311.

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City was not so different from many others, but her death was extraordinary, and left an indelible impression for many years to come. In telling her tale, I not only wish to present a case of the ways English women attempted to manipulate Palestinian life, but also to argue that English women in Palestine were perceived to be in need of protection; yet Creasy’s dreadful death was unique. The murder of Matilda Creasy could always be cited as evidence of the inherent danger of the Holy Land, a location increasingly constructed throughout the nineteenth century (and twentieth century) as a place of timeless conflict and chaos, where life could be snatched away at any moment. Matilda Creasy came to Jerusalem sometime in the late 1840s at the urging of her friend, Miss Lucy Harding, a missionary agent of the Society for Promoting Female Education in the East and teacher at the Bishop of Jerusalem’s Diocesan School.4 Creasy’s circumstances before this move are unknown,5 but reconstructing her life in Jerusalem has been made easier due to the infamy surrounding her unfortunate demise. She worked with Harding at the Diocesan School until they left that establishment in 1851,6 and remained in Jerusalem 4 For more about Lucy Harding and her sponsoring missionary society, the FES, see Chapter Five, “Things Go Wrong: Failure at the Protestant Orphanage at Nazareth,” in Nancy L. Stockdale, Gender and Colonialism in Palestine, 1800–1948: Encounters Among English, Arab, and Jewish Women (Santa Barbara: University of California Ph.D. Dissertation, 2000.) Blumberg states that Creasy came to Jerusalem on 20 November 1850, citing the British Consulate Register of British Subjects, Jerusalem, R. G. N. 123–1, file no. 2, Israel State Archives, Jerusalem, as cited in Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 95. However, the minutes of the Jerusalem Literary Society show that Creasy was inducted as a member of that organization by Lucy Harding and James Finn on 7 December 1849, the third meeting of the Society. See Minutes of the Transactions of the Jerusalem Literary Society, Founded November 20, 1849, PEF/JER/5, vol. I, 1, Palestine Exploration Fund Archives, London. I surmise that perhaps she made a trip to England after this, and returned to the Holy City on the date cited by Blumberg. When she arrived for the first time, I do not know, but most likely either with Harding in October 1847 or shortly thereafter. 5 I have been unable to locate any materials about Creasy prior to her move to Jerusalem, but it is clear in extant sources that she was not affiliated with any known missionary organization; instead, she came to Palestine on her own accord and lived from her own funds. Elizabeth Finn wrote of Creasy that she “had come to Jerusalem long before [1857] with a friend who was schoolmistress for the Bishop’s school [i.e. Harding]. When that friend left, she preferred to live independently in Jerusalem.” See Mrs. [Elizabeth Anne] Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn (London, 1929), 172–173. 6 James Finn’s consular diary for 1851 reads: “January 6—The consul was present at Miss Harding and Miss Creasy vacating the Diocesan School.” This is a reference to the conflict between Harding and Bishop Samuel Gobat examined in Stockdale, and places Creasy as a worker in the establishment as well. See Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 85.

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after Harding’s departure in the summer of that year. As an independent missionary, Creasy was not affiliated with any one body, and thus did not have to answer to any larger organization’s proselytizing interests. However, she had a particular concern for Jewish women—not unlike other “independent” missionary women, such as Elizabeth Finn and Caroline Cooper—and saw the conversion of the Jews of Jerusalem as an important step toward the long-awaited “Second Coming” of Jesus. On the 22nd of January 1854 Creasy joined Mrs. Finn and Miss Cooper in founding the Sarah Society. Over half a century later, Finn recalled that, We founded a small society of ladies (called the Sarah Society) to visit in the Jewish quarter and hold weekly meetings to hear the reports and do what we could. Of the money given to us we gave half to Miss Cooper to enable her to take on more Jewesses in her workroom, and the other half we spent on coffee, rice and sugar, which our visitors gave to the poor in their own homes, such homes as they were, if you can call that a home where four poor old women each occupied a corner of one room and a fifth sat in the middle.7

Creasy became the Society’s treasurer, and took it upon herself to use the charitable structure of the organization to proselytize to Jerusalem’s Jewish women whenever she could. She learned “the Spanish language of the Jewesses [i.e. Ladino] as well as a good deal of Arabic,”8 and actively preached to as many women as possible.9 Less than six months after the founding of the Society, Mrs. Finn wrote to a friend in England that, “Miss Creasy works from morning till late night giving relief bestowed by the Sarah Society.”10 7

Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 117. Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 172–173. 9 Even Jewish travelers from England could not escape the mission of Matilda Creasy. Jemima Guedalla (1819–c. 1890), the niece and travel companion of Lady Montefiore, wrote in her journal about her meeting with Creasy on Thursday 31 July 1855: “Very broiling hot day. Sir M. and Lady gone to the city, I did not accompany them, having a great deal to do in writing and working. . . . Miss Cressey [sic], a staunch member of the conversionists, passed two hours with H. and I in our tent, Lady M. being away. I have the good lady fully to understand our staunch adherence to our faith. The discussion was amusing but not violent, and indeed I gave all due credit to the motives which influence this lady in her actions; happily the combined efforts of all this people [sic] are not crowned with much success. . . . Miss Cressey [sic] brought us presents of dried flowers.” See Mrs. H. [ Jemima] Guedalla, Diary of a Tour to Jerusalem and Alexandria in 1855, With Sir Moses and Lady Montefiore (London, 1890), 50. 10 Letter from Elizabeth A. Finn to unknown recipient, dated “Talibiyeh July 2. 1854.” Finn D, YBZ. 8

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Her work included both charitable relief and fundraising for Miss Cooper’s House of Industry for “Jewesses.” Central to Cooper’s native employment was sewing, a trademark of missionary work among women in Palestine, as well as the production of other handicrafts for tourist and pilgrim consumption (olive wood beads, dried berries, and collars in particular).11 Miss Creasy helped to sell the goods produced by the women employed by Cooper, as well as photographic views of Palestine, and distributed the funds thus raised among both Cooper’s women (as wages) and other Jews she came into contact with in the City. She was also a keen fundraiser, and appealed to both English travelers she met in the Holy Land12 and correspondents abroad13 for donations. The Sarah Society used a large part of its money to acquire basic foodstuffs, such as rice and sugar, as well as coffee and soap; Miss Creasy would “personally . . . measure, weigh and distribute”14 the items to poor women throughout the Jewish quarter. To economize, Creasy purchased—with her own money—a coffee roaster. Originally the Society had used coffee grown at Artas, and had Creasy’s servants roast and grind it for sale, but, according to Miss Creasy, this had proven difficult: I have up to the present time had all our Sarah Coffee roasted by our own servant and she has always been difficult to manage on the subject—it is the task which of all others the servants dislike. They do it well but it produces a strong disagreeable smoke that gets into their eyes and throat and nose, and suffocates and choaks [sic] and added to this is the irritating effect of being obliged to sit for a couple of hours over a hot fire in this warm climate: and so tired am I of being

11 Letter from Miss Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem July 22nd 1857.” Finn D, YBZ. 12 See, for instance, [Elizabeth Charles], Wandering Over Bible Lands and Seas (London, 1862), 68. Charles wrote in her journal dated June 5th 1856: “This morning we went with Miss Creasy, who kindly called for us, to see Miss Cooper’s industrial school.” A footnote then reads: “This was in 1856. How solemn the lapse of a few years often makes the most trivial entries in a diary. Since then, Miss Creasy has been murdered just outside the walls of Jerusalem.” About the tour of the school, Charles wrote, “Miss Creasy told us Miss Cooper’s Jewesses were known throughout Jerusalem by their superior neatness.” See [Charles], 69. 13 A hint of how active she was in fundraising for the Sarah Society comes from the letter Miss Creasy wrote to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem June 9th [1857?],” which bemoaned the intense pressure placed on the missionaries for glowing information about their successes by “our correspondents.” 14 Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 172–173.

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always at issue with my people that I have determined that what will [be best will] be to purchase a machine, and I expect that amused by the novelty they will squat and turn the winch cheerfully.—If the Sarah becomes rich I will ask them to help me with the carriage of it; If not I bear it myself and no great ruin is wrought.15

Distribution of these items formed the basis of the Sarah Society’s project of charity, made particularly poignant by the extreme penury of the mid-1850s.16 Also, Creasy was interested in adequately dressing the Jewish women of Jerusalem, as well as male native converts and industrial workers at Artas. For instance, she wrote to a Sarah Society contributor in England about the need for adequate vestments among the poor men of Artas: Blue linen such as the Butchers wear in England would be the greatest blessing here—we would make half shirts of it for our poor and faithful workers, who are literally blistered and seared by working in the blazing sunshine in their rags—We Sarahs have done what we could, we have voted and given them all we have—The ladies are very kind to me (Their Treasurer or Depôt Keeper) seeing the Industrial Ground People in such a sad, tattered condition, I proposed that all we could get in the way of Men and boys apparel should be distributed among them but what is that among so many! That blue linen would be cool and be a great protection to them over their calico native shirt.17

Obviously her appeal was heard and met, because a few years later she wrote to English Sarah Society supporter Miss Sterry about the fate of finished clothes sent by British contributors as well as unmade fabrics: A great part of the things sent are sold, and most of them at the prices marked—for they were nice and anything but dear! I must not let you think we give the European clothes sent to the Jewesses—i.e. [sic]— the Native Jewesses. No, the things are not applicable for them. The following is done, which is better. The very common sort, made by poor school children we do give away to converts [sic] families of the poorer class that wear European clothing. The nicer and beautiful sort

15

Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem July 22nd 1857.” For descriptions of poverty, see, for example, James Finn, Stirring Times, or, Records From Jerusalem Consular Chronicles of 1853 to 1856, ed. [Elizabeth Finn] (London, 1878), 58–64. 17 Letter from Matilda Creasy to an unknown recipient, dated “Oct 16th 1854.” Finn D, YBZ. 16

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nancy l. stockdale of [clothes] such as is sent by Miss Forster and the Misses McCaul and Alexander we sell to our Missionaries [sic] families and our respectable converts, and with the money buy native clothing for ‘Lady Sarahs’ gifts. Two or three of our Convert families are most superior people, but have to work hard to make both ends meet, and are therefore delighted to economize here by buying clothes ready-made, and well-made too. Your own nice presents of unmade stuffs, I have made up nicely for Jewesses.18

This sort of poor relief was appreciated by many, according to Elizabeth Finn, who wrote that, “Our good treasurer and keeper of the stores, Miss Creasy is scarcely allowed to eat or to sleep, by the number of our applicants—when our visitors are in the Jewish quarter they are surrounded and beset by entreaties to go over and visit there. One on setting out was followed by so large a company that she thought it advisable to defer her visit.”19 Not all members of the Jewish community in Jerusalem were content with the Sarah Society, however. As with all other attempts at Christian missionary work among the Jews of Palestine, the ladies of the Sarah Society were beset with a barrage of criticism and threats by locals who had no desire to convert to Christianity, who were suspicious of charitable donations from Christians, and who were resentful of the privileged economic position of the foreigners. From time to time, serious social injunctions were placed against women who attended Miss Cooper’s House of Industry,20 as well as those who took charity from the Sarah Society. These people felt threatened because they knew that the primary aim of the Sarah Society and the other English missionaries was not to relieve the poor materially, but to convert them away from Judaism to Protestant Christianity and entirely modify their traditions and lifestyles. Miss Creasy eloquently admitted this in at least two letters to her correspondent Miss Sterry. In the first, dated 27 February 1857, she wrote:

18 Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Mount of Olives, October 8th 1857.” Finn D, YBZ. 19 Letter from Elizabeth A. Finn to Miss Sterry, dated “Talibiyeh June 16. 1854.” Finn D, YBZ. 20 For instance, Miss Creasy reported to Miss Sterry that, “We are under a cloud at present. The Jewish community have set a Curse upon any woman that would work at Miss Coopers [sic]. We in consequence did not pass the usual vote at our last meeting for distribution of any kind.” See letter by Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem December 22. 1856.” Finn D, YBZ.

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Relieving the poor is not the only view and object of the Sarah Society. To make acquaintance with the Jerusalem Jewish population is one of our grand ruling motives of action, as a means of shewing [sic] the spirit and working of Christianity of which they are totally ignorant, and to which population our only approach is effected by accepting the legacy of our Lord. “The poor,” He says—“Ye have always with you.” “Inasmuch as ye did it unto these, ye did it unto me”—I do not pretend to say that we have an unyielding famine or a harrowing amount of poor—but the poor we have, and that, very, very poor! The sick we have—and the afflicted we have, and we could make acquaintance with them, and we could visit them, but I am often led to avoid it, because I have nothing to help them with. I cannot say “be ye warmed, be ye clothed,” and give nothing withal!! If I went into a courtyard to see a poor acquaintance, who may not be in immediate want but who may have lost her babe or relatives, and a dozen poor, shivering half starving people throng around me starting grievances which I see are not feigned and go away without leaving help, how painful for me, and with what good right would they exclaim “What do those Christians do here! What do they come looking onto our places for!” Our eyes are therefore up unto the Lord for a blessing this year that so, if they will not listen to the words of their Messiah, they might purchance [sic] come to the point He has named—to “believe” in Him for the very works [sic] sake.21

This document not only makes clear Creasy’s desire to improve the worldly station of the poor Jews she met in Jerusalem, but also her sense that their material poverty was inextricably linked to what she viewed as the Jews’ spiritual poverty, that is, their rejection of Christianity. When Creasy complained about not being able to provide relief for the poor in Jerusalem, she was not talking about a lack of material goods only; indeed, by 1857 the Sarah Society was able to offer basic relief to those women willing to take it. What troubled her more was the Jewish community’s unwillingness to open itself up to the message that accompanied that charity provided by Creasy and other English missionaries. About such troubles, she wrote: We are much pressed by our correspondents for “facts, anecdotes, interesting particulars—numbers relieved”—all which shews [sic] that our friends neither understand the object of our Society, or the difficulty in carrying that object out. Our first article reads that—“1. The object of this Society to be the spiritual and temporal good of the daughters

21 Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem February 27th 1857.” Finn D, YBZ.

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nancy l. stockdale of Israel—; especially, and in the first place those living in Jerusalem” . . . They do not shut the doors in our faces, but which would inevitably come, if we made known our poor feeble operations. Many to this moment are afraid to receive us—neighbours mock at them—relations and influential people though poor and pinched by penury themselves, despise and ill treat them and others again capable of acting independently, glad and thankful to receive us, would be ashamed to have it known they received help—This is to the very present moment is [sic] the state of things . . . O! Our London friends would be carried away directly by it—and would say, “The Christians are received with open arms &t &t—” I fully trust that the time will soon come that they will—but as yet it but too often happens that often with a heart full of pleasure and love they have exclaimed “Barruch Habah!” Blessed is she that cometh! . . . I and none of our ladies wish to sneak in Christianity among them—but it is our duty “to do them good” and this we cannot do without mixing with them.22

Although poverty brought some Jewish women to the Sarah Society, the ability of the missionaries to “mix with them” was severely hindered by the actual purpose of the organization, and the women felt that they needed to be “sneaky” in order to spread their Gospel message, despite their misgivings. Elizabeth Finn reinforced this when she wrote that, Our work is manifest—you might almost call it an [sic] domesticity society—but our grand object is—To introduce Christianity to the Jewesses, and that not so much by preaching as by shewing [sic] them the fruits of Christianity and causing them to partake of the same: and our work is to sow and cultivate the produce of Christianity— Industry, Disinterestedness, and Independence of mind and to do this by example and endeavouring to let them see that there are such things in the world.23

Rather than overtly preaching, as other missionaries may have, Finn talked of the Sarah Society agents as modeling Christian behaviors, which ultimately would be emulated as the Jews came to admire their conduct and “independence of mind.” Some Jews did come to admire women such as Creasy and Finn, and a handful converted to their sect.24 However, it was exactly this

22

Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem June 9th [1857?].” Letter from Elizabeth Finn to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem. April 16th 1855.” Finn D, YBZ. 24 Despite their arduous work proselytizing to the Jews, only a fraction of the 23

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that caused even more problems for the Sarah Society. For instance, in the year before her death, Miss Creasy—along with Mrs. Finn and Miss Cooper—was caught up in a dramatic struggle with members of Jerusalem’s Jewish community concerning the fate of some Jewish children whose mother had died. Mrs. Finn’s former wetnurse, a Jewish woman named Vida who had worked for the Finns from 1848 and until the mid-1850s,25 died in October of 1857. Creasy and Finn attended to the woman in her final days, and shortly before her death, Mrs. Finn reported that Vida “entreated me to take charge of her children, four in number . . . and in October her husband brought them and left them with me.”26 Two of the children—Jacob and Gracia—lived with the Finns and Miss Creasy,27 while the other two (whose names are unknown) moved in with Miss Cooper, who hoped they might be the first of several Jewish “orphans” to populate an eventual Sarah Society orphanage.28 Miss Creasy wrote about the children’s transformation under the care of the Finns and Cooper in the immediate aftermath of their mother’s death: Our poor little ones look very pretty in their nice fresh clothing, clean hair and European fashion and seem very happy and contented—it is not the custom to make any shew [sic] of mourning by any peculiarity of vestment . . . the Jews sit and do nothing for seven days—make a great outcry when any body comes in and there it all ends. We have however made out among us a nice little mourning suit for the dear children, and the thought has several times crossed my mind that could Violah [sic] their poor mother see them how pleased she would be. She could not however poor thing have done for them living, what she did in dying.29

population ever converted to Protestant Christianity, making the Sarah Society, the LJS, and other mission societies working among the Jews of Palestine dismal failures in relation to their aims. 25 See Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 79–81 for Finn’s narrative of how Vida came into her family’s life, and the effect she had upon it. 26 Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 173. 27 It was around this time that Creasy moved into the Finn’s new home near the Damascus Gate. See Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem. British Consulate Tyropeon. September 30th 1857.” Finn D, YBZ. 28 Miss Creasy wrote to Miss Sterry that, “An Orphan School was part of the original plan for Miss Cooper—but she has not the funds sufficient to house the children taught in her own house.” See letter dated “Mount of Olives October 27th 1857.” Finn D, YBZ. 29 Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Mount of Olives October 27th 1857.” For more on the importance of mourning dress in Victorian Britain, see, for example, Lou Taylor, Mourning Dress: A Costume and Social History (Boston,

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For Creasy, Finn, and Cooper, these children were not merely unique cases who needed care, but also, they hoped, the longed-for start of a much larger project of intervention into the Jewish community of Jerusalem—the raising of cast-aside children from that insulated society into model, hopefully Christian, individuals. Creasy believed that a fundamental part of Jewish marriage—the right to divorce—was the cause of unbounded suffering for children from broken unions, and recounted (in confidence)30 horrible stories of children neglected to the point of death by step-families unwilling or unable to care for them.31 She wrote that step- and adoptive families will not part with them. This would be well, could they afford to keep them, but they cannot, and the poor things starve or beg. I have often searched into this matter perceiving as I did their pitiable state, but I always saw that nothing would be more difficult in Jerusalem than to establish an Orphan school.32

1983); Christopher Stephen Noble, Behind a Black Veil: Bodies in Mourning, the Rhetoric Of Dread, and the Nineteenth-Century British Elegy (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of California at Irvine, 2000); and Esther H. Schor, Bearing the Dead: The British Culture of Mourning From the Enlightenment to Victoria (Princeton, 1994). 30 This narrative begins with, “But now, my Dear Miss Sterry—remember your promise to me of keeping private anything I comment to you. When I have anything you may make public I will tell you—what could I desire more than to publish our wants were it good to do so!” See Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Mount of Olives October 27th 1857.” 31 For instance: “Two pretty dear little delicate girls were allowed to by a grandmother to go to the day school to get them out of the way. Oftener than not these poor little ones brought nothing with them for a noontide meal, and sat at meal time wishfully looking on, while the others eat their bit of bread and bunch of grapes supplied by parents: of which they had none. The governess at such times offered them bread, more than this she dared not, and they were thus continually supplied by her: it became quite a habit to do so. At last a day occurred that she had none in the house; it happened also on a day that they had no food since the evening before and having some very nice rice that had been boiled for her own dinner she asked them if they thought they might partake of that—they replied in the affirmative and other little Jewesses that were there assembled—saying, as they were so hungry they could—The grandmother however heard of it, and kept them from school; and when waited upon by the governess, received her with a rage that knew no bounds—never should they enter the school again she said. The governess told her that the children were sinking fast, and would die—’and so they may[,’] she replied[, ‘]I would sooner they died than to see them eat your food,[‘] and then went on cursing to a degree that it was better to come away—And the children did sink, they did die, and not a tear did death cost her!!” See Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Mount of Olives October 27th 1857.” 32 Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Mount of Olives October 27th 1857.”

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This was due to the dire resistance among Jews to allow Christians to raise their children, knowing that they would be encouraged to proclaim Jesus as their Messiah and give up the beliefs and practices of Judaism. But, Creasy hoped, the model of the Finns’ and their transformation of Vida’s children would open up the hearts of other Jews, and allow the Sarah Society to commence wide-scale orphanage work: These dear little children absolutely left to Mrs. Finn will be a great opening—when once a breach is made, there is hope; and I shall fully expect many others will follow. Mothers that are good and kind, and with children of their own wishing to do well by their poor little one by a first husband, or feeling that they cannot do what they ought by the orphans in their house, when now once the barrier is thrown down, may feel the courage to step over.33

Thus, the bequest by Vida of her children to Mrs. Finn—apparently sanctioned by their father—was for Creasy a signal that “God will raise up the means”34 and the Sarah Society would soon be able to bring Miss Cooper’s orphanage dream to fruition. This euphoric hope was short lived, however. During the Spring of 1858, the children’s father returned to reclaim his children from the Finns and Miss Cooper. Although Mrs. Finn’s memoir is rather evasive on the subject,35 and neither Mr. Finn’s official diary nor his correspondence mention the issue at all,36 Miss Creasy blamed the loss of the children—“a heart paining event”—on Jerusalem’s rabbinate. She wrote: The Story is as follows—The father wished to remarry, and the chief Rabbi refused to give him a widowers’ warrant without the [return of ]37 his children from the Christians. This refusal was more than his extreme selfishness could bear, and as he was highly offended at Mr. Finn’s most properly declining to pay his rent and support him—he took them all away! Mr. Finn fought a battle and did not consent to

33

Creasy. Creasy. 35 Mrs. Finn wrote simply that “the Rabbis insisted on the father removing them.” See Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 81. 36 There is no mention of any battle over Vida’s children between their father and the Finns in Blumberg, nor in Albert M. Hyamson (ed.), The British Consulate in Jerusalem in Relation to the Jews of Palestine 1838–1914 (London, 1939, 2 vols). 37 I believe that the illegible words are “return of.” In any event, that is the context of the letter. 34

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nancy l. stockdale give up the children without a paper from the father and the Chief Rabbi—These however were promptly sent, and the children returned to dirt, neglect and ignorance . . . Poor things! Brands in the burning are they all at present!38

With the return of Vida’s children to their father, and the struggle it wrought between Jewish leaders and Consul Finn, there was little chance of the Sarah Society opening an orphanage in the near future. However, Creasy still believed that, “In some distant day, the seed that has been sown during the seven month[s] they have been with us may spring up and disclose that they are heirs of salvation.”39 In the meantime, she would continue as best she could her work of distributing food and clothing to the Jewish women of Jerusalem. However, her philanthropy would come to an end shortly, for Creasy was killed only months after Vida’s children were removed by their father from the care of their English guardians. On the evening of September 3rd, 1858, the Finns expected Miss Creasy to arrive at their camp at Talbiyah outside the city walls of Jerusalem.40 When she did not arrive, they assumed that their independent friend had chosen not to come, and were therefore not alarmed.41 However, on the 7th of September, word reached them that she had not been seen in Jerusalem itself since leaving on the 3rd, and Consul Finn decided to mount a search for her at the Consulate House and “about the fields near the Talibiyah.”42 Creasy was nowhere to be found, so on the 8th, Finn went to the Pasha for assistance, securing search aid from “the Shaikhs of the Jewish and Moghrabi Quarters of the city—and Shaikhs of neighbouring villages, with soldiers in four small parties, each accompanied by one of our people.”43 These parties offered a large reward to locals for information about her

38 Letter from Matilda Creasy to Miss Sterry, dated “Jerusalem May 12th 1858.” Finn D, YBZ. 39 Creasy. 40 The Finns and other English residents in Jerusalem made it a habit to spend the summer months in tent camps outside the City, for fear of contracting diseases wrought by the hot weather. Talbiyah was the favored camp location for the Finns throughout their time in Palestine. 41 In her memoirs, Elizabeth Finn recalled, “We expected her one night but she did not arrive. This seemed of no importance, as her movements were more or less uncertain. But in a day or two we heard that she was missing from Jerusalem.” See Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 181–182. 42 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 295. 43 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 295.

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whereabouts—“£5 for notice of her having been seen after Saturday morning—£20 for her being found.”44 The Consulate cistern was also searched, but at the end of the day, Creasy was still missing. On the 9th, however, the search was concluded when the missionary’s body was found in a field near the Convent of the Cross, further west of the City than Talbiyah. Her beaten body was collected and buried later that day in the Protestant Cemetery on Mount Zion. A week later, Mrs. Finn wrote to Sarah Society supporter Miss Sterry and informed her of the tragedy: We are again in affliction.—Trouble has again been sent by Him who doth not willingly grieve—Miss Creasy has been taken away from us— and in a way so sad, so mysterious as none would have foreseen. We have been stunned by the calamity . . . The Lord permitted wicked men to lay hands on our poor friend and take her life as she was on her way to our camp on Friday evening the 3rd before it was dark— We have found her and laid her on Mount Zion near those she loved and are constrained to acknowledge that there is much mercy even in this—that she was preserved so that we could quiet her and remove her—but she would not have survived many minutes before she entered into rest and joy.—But one can hardly think upon her blessed exchange in grief and horror at the fate so sad for one of us—so near help and yet without one in the time of utmost need to help or hear.—That it is well we cannot doubt but it is hard to feel it so as yet.45

With the grief that came with the horrid death of their dear friend and working companion, there was nothing left for the Consul and his wife to do now except mount a search to find the killers. From the 10th until the 14th of September, James Finn worked with the Pasha to launch an official Commission of Inquiry regarding the murder. The Ottoman and British governments each put up £100 rewards for the conviction of the killers,46 and suspicion soon landed on members of the hamulah Ta"amri Bedouin, who lived in the area ranging from Bethlehem east to the Dead Sea. The Ta"amri had been in conflict with both the Pasha and the British-sponsored Artas settlement for some time,47 and on September 23rd, some of 44

Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 295. Letter from Elizabeth Finn to Miss Sterry, dated “British Consulate Jerusalem. Sept. 16. 1858.” Finn D, YBZ. 46 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 297. 47 Blumberg points out that initially Finn and the Ta"amri had been on good terms, their relationship based on a lucrative deal between them allowing Ta"amri exclusive rights over the escort of British tourists through their territory, which 45

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the tribe had “committed plunder of the fruit trees” of Artas.48 Suspicious and enraged, Finn and the Pasha had Ta"amri Shaykh Ismain and some of his men arrested in Jerusalem, while twelve Ottoman soldiers and Finn’s own kawass set off to Bethlehem to arrest more Ta"amri. However, they were met by nearly fifty Ta’amri men, who fought off their attackers, killing at least four of the Turks and rescuing the two Ta"amri who had been arrested.49 Regardless of this success, the Ta"amri were still suspects, and in late October Deputy Consul Edward Thomas Rogers “undertook an excursion among the villages to endeavour to pick up information respecting Miss Creasy.”50 This excursion led authorities to arrest Ta"amri clansman Isma’il ibn Hajj Ahmed Lifta on November 1st,51 and another Ta"amri—whose name is unknown—was arrested on November 21st.52 However, neither of these men were prosecuted by the Ottoman government, and no one was ever convicted or punished for Matilda Creasy’s murder. Looking back on the event half a century later, Elizabeth Finn hypothesized about Creasy’s final moments, in an effort to understand what had occurred. About the circumstances, she surmised: Being a small person and dressed in black, she had probably been mistaken for a nun on her way to the Convent of the Cross near by, and the intention evidently was to rob her, as she carried a small bag; but when it was found that she could speak Arabic and was near the Consul’s camp, the criminals, terrified, dragged her aside and struck her with stones. No one would have touched her who had known her, or the English in Jerusalem. There had been two or three murders of other people, not English, and natives near Jerusalem, and one in which people had been struck within sight of the Jaffa Gate just before ranged from the Dead Sea to Bethlehem. See Blumberg, 97. However, continual conflict between the Ta"amri and the Artas settlement over water rights, coupled with Finn’s insistence that Ta"amri killed Creasy, ultimately destroyed their relationship. See Blumberg, 310–311. 48 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 298. 49 Idem, 298, 310. 50 Idem, 301. In November 1858, Rogers’ sister Mary Eliza came to stay with him in Jerusalem, and remembered, “It was a sad season for us, the Rev. J. Nicolayson was dead, Miss Creasy had been cruelly murdered, my friends at the Consulate were hopelessly watching over a suffering child, whose death they had to mourn before the close of the year.” See Mary Eliza Rogers, Domestic Life in Palestine (London, 1989), 384. This version of the book is a replica printing of the original 1862 edition. 51 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 302. 52 Idem, 304.

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sunset; Mr. Finn happened to be riding close by, and hearing this hastened to two of our English ladies who were quietly taking an evening walk, and warned them that it was better to go home. But no one would willingly have touched any one under British protection.53

A firm believer that the natives admired the British over all others,54 Finn could not conceive of the notion that Creasy’s nationality or mission work may have been the reason for her death,55 and assumed that the murder was merely the result of a mugging gone awry. Understandably, she was outraged that no one was ever brought to justice for the murder of her friend, and blamed it on Suruya Pasha and his personal dislike for Consul Finn, with whom he had battled multiple times since the Governor arrived in Jerusalem in April of 1857.56 She wrote, “it became clear that, in spite of his protestations, the Pasha was not anxious to bring any one to justice; he took no decisive steps whatever, with the result that no one was convicted or punished.”57 In its aftermath, Miss Creasy’s murder became a warning to English women who ventured beyond the beaten path of the Old City without male accompaniment. For instance, a Unitarian tourist from Bristol named Mary Thomas (1812–1883) was warned by the Bishop’s wife about her movements in January of 1862 when she told the tale of “Miss Crosby [sic] who was killed by some Arabs near the Convent of the Cross on her way to visit the Finns on the hillside near Bethlehem [sic] she had imprudently started late in the afternoon, and was not missed for two days (her clothes had been stolen,58 53

Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 181–182. Elizabeth Finn and other British residents in Palestine often wrote of the power of “the unchangeable ‘Kilmet Ingleezeyeh,’ or English word” among Palestinians as a symbol for absolute truth, trustworthiness and admiration. See Mrs. [Elizabeth Anne] Finn, A Third Year in Jerusalem: A Tale Illustrating Customs and Incidents of Modern Jerusalem; or, A Sequel to “Home in the Holy Land” (London, 1869), 54, 100. See also Estelle Blyth, When We Lived in Jerusalem (London, 1927), 147–148: “An Englishman was trusted before any other foreigner. English coinage never fluctuated in value, but was always at par. Often and often we have heard the Arabs, in heated argument, using the expression, ‘On the word of an Englishman, it is true!’ as a proof of the speaker’s complete good faith.” 55 Elizabeth Finn’s notion that “no one would willingly have touched any one under British protection” is naïve, if only because the murderers got away with the crime! Without the evidence collected during the investigation, it is impossible to determine that Ta"amri tribesmen were or were not to blame. 56 Blumberg, A View from Jerusalem, 33. 57 Finn, Reminiscences of Mrs. Finn, 187. 58 This is the only sexualized reference I have concerning Miss Creasy’s death; 54

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Mrs. Gobat said it was not safe to walk alone outside the walls late in the day).”59 Although I have come across no other verifiable accounts of English women—residents or tourists—coming to malicious physical harm in Palestine until the Mandate period,60 postCreasy-murder accounts set in Palestine often cite strong fears attached to striking out alone and interacting with potentially-dangerous natives. One of the most dramatic of such danger narratives comes from a woman who is only known as M. M. She was the sole Englishwoman to take part in a Catholic “Pilgrimage of Penance” conducted by the Parisian Augustinian Fathers, c. 1895, and she published a pious and descriptive memoir of her journey upon her return. While touring with her party near “Sephoris” (i.e. Saffuriyya, near Nazareth), she stopped to pick some flowers and was left behind: I find myself alone at the beginning of a wood. Three pathways are before me, but which is the right one? In looking round about, I see two wild-looking Arabs in their strange rough sheepskin dresses, advancing through the short stunted trees. Oh, which is the right road? If I could only find some sign. I look in vain for the marks of the horses [sic] feet, but see none. Happily a tiny flicker of red attracts my eye. Hastening forward I pick up a red cross, that some unfortunate pilgrim had lost on the road. Clasping it closely, I hurry on, knowing and feeling sure that I am on the right track now. Quickly I pass through the little wood, hoping to see the church soon where we were all to meet. But, alas! on leaving the wood, I see no sign of church or pilgrims. I pass a long row of cactus trees on one side, while on the other lay green hillocks. Oh for the sight of a red cross pilgrim! I glance behind to find the two Arabs still following. I hurry on with fast beating heart, and come to a dirty-looking village with mud huts. Where are the pilgrims? and where is the church? Three young Arabs are advancing towards me with lowering brows. There is no escape now, so I close my eyes and breathe silently a prayer for mercy. The welcome sound of a familiar voice falls on my ear, and I am pulled and hurried forward by an old white-haired Abbé, who shows every sign of alarm.61

either this was a fact left out of other accounts, or an elaboration garnered over time. 59 Mary Thomas, Notes of a Short Visit to Egypt in 1862 to Palestine [sic], 102–103. Bristol Records Office, 39951(2) a, Bristol, England. 60 That does not mean it did not happen, of course, but the threat of disease was far more legitimate than violence at the hands of Palestinians, which was apparently limited mostly to occasional stonings in villages. 61 M. M., Memories of My Pilgrimage to the Holy Land (London, 1896), 14–16.

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This passage is remarkable in part because M. M. presented her fear in language almost reminiscent of a nursery story, portraying herself as a child-like figure lost in a sinister forest. There was even a trail for her to follow, à la Hansel and Gretel, in the form of the cross left on the ground, and she appeared to be miraculously saved upon the utterance of a “prayer for mercy” by a celibate man, her priest/protector. Narratives such as M. M.’s, coupled with popular accounts of the “backwardness” of Palestinians such as those I have analyzed in other forums, and the gruesome details of the murder of Matilda Creasy, contributed to the larger discourse of danger surrounding Palestine (and the Middle East in general) in the pre-Mandate era. English readers of missionaries’ and other residents’ accounts of their lives in Palestine (and other “Eastern” places) absorbed ideas about the potential hazards posed by the natives of these regions. M. M.’s “two wild-looking Arabs in their strange rough sheepskin dresses” may have been planning an attack on her, but they may also have been merely returning to their homes in the “dirty-looking village with mud huts” up the road. She assumed the former not only because she was alone in a foreign place and lost, but also because she came to the region with preconceived notions about the nature of Arabs and the dangers they posed to foreign women such as herself. That the Abbé who reunited her with her tour group confirmed her danger solidified the notion in her mind—and her readers’—that life in the Holy Land was potentially murderous.62 After the Balfour Declaration and the establishment of the Mandate, however, the danger narrative was shifted; British women were now thought to be in peril not only in relation to their gender, but also in the context of the Zionist-Arab struggle for control over Palestine, either as specific targets due to their nationality, or merely as innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of the conflict. The image of “wild Bedouin” such as the Ta"amri was replaced by an image of “terrorists” who were committed to attacking English targets due to their government’s role in the conflicting and controversial HusaynMcMahon Correspondence, the Sykes-Picot Agreement, and the 62 She wrote, “The good old priest was far more frightened than I was, having heard the story of a young pilgrim who was brutally murdered two years before, on the plains of Samaria. It happened during the night, when she left her own tent to go to another’s.” See M. M., Memories of My Pilgrimage, 16–17.

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Balfour Declaration. People affiliated with the Mandate government were believed to be particularly at risk, and many English women living in Palestine during the Mandate years took great pains to reassure their families back home of their security, well aware of the perception that they were living in a war zone. For example, Heather Teague (?–1966), the wife of Foreign Office intelligence agent Colonel John Teague, wrote to her parents that the 1936 Arab revolt “is not, I am told, anti-British so unless one looks like a Jew one is fairly safe. So my darlings, please don’t clutch your chairs any more.”63 A few weeks later she again re-assured her parents: Whatever the papers say—or the marvelous B.B.C.—it is not antiBritish. It may well soon become if the Government can find no solution for what appears to be an insoluble problem. But at the moment it is definitely not so. Any Britishers who have been stoned or attacked have merely been so because they were mistaken for Jews, or have got mixed up in some crowd who no longer knew whether they were attacking Europeans or Jews or themselves. You see, to the untutored eye there is no difference—a hat—a skirt, trousers, bare arms—Jew! In the Jaffa show two Britishers were stoned—one had his teeth knocked out with a crowbar. When they explained, spitting through the blood and teeth, that they were not Jews, two Arabs jumped on the running board of their car and escorted them to the hospital! So to put your mind at rest John is nearly always in uniform, I always wear long sleeves, hat, gloves and stockings—nothing could more easily prove me non-Jew, and the children never go near the town.64

However, two years later, writing to her brother Harold, she was less guarded: What I am about to tell you must never be divulged to Peri [her mother] and Dad or they’ll go ga-ga. There is a rumour that the bandits or Arab army or Rebels or whatever you like to call them intend to kidnap British children and hold them to ransom for some of the political prisoners. I have it on good authority that this is a stale onion, and that they do not intend to do so. I myself do not believe the Arab would. But the scare remains and in face of public opinion, my own nerves, and responsibility to my offspring I dare not behave as if it

63 Heather Teague, Letter dated “The German Hospice, 26th April 1936.” Teague, Mrs. Heather Letters Jan. 1936–1940, GB 165–0279, Middle East Centre, Personal Papers Collection, St. Antony’s College, Oxford University, England. 64 Teague, Letter dated “German Hospice, 17th May 1936.”

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were rubbish and leave the children lying about. With no nurse this means I can never be free for a moment. Even with a local nurse . . . the danger would be no less.65

Her letters demonstrate that the main sense of danger felt by Englishwomen in the 1930s arose out of the context of the Zionist-Arab conflict (and the British fostering of it), rather than (only) older notions of “the East” as a wild and unknown place.66 Indeed, some English women living in Palestine during the Mandate were convinced of their own safety to the point of challenging not only concerned loved ones in Britain, but also the established British force in Palestine itself. One such woman was Hilda M. Wilson (?–1992), who taught at the Bir Zeit School in the 1930s67 and wrote an unpublished memoir of her life based on her diaries. Wilson wrote that in 1938, The Irish policeman asked me one day, “Do you really live in an Arab village, Miss? So you sleep in an Arab village? Of course you carry a revolver, don’t you?” I replied that I had never carried a revolver in my life and should not even know which end of the thing the bullet was supposed to come out of, and that my life probably would not be as safe as it was now if I did. I amused myself for the rest of that day with imagining that I was going about Bir Zeit with a revolver. When scurrying across for classes from the girls’ building to the boys’, for instance: I had sometimes met a rebel or two on that bit of road, complete with rifle and cartridge belt. Then parking the revolver on the desk during my lesson: teaching ‘Hamlet’ at the revolver’s point.68

For Wilson, the policeman’s notion that she was in danger in Bir Zeit was remarkably naïve, as much as assumptions of danger made by “the sort of people who write to one in letters ‘Be careful, dear, and don’t go outside the walls of Jerusalem after dark.’”69 65

Teague, Letter dated “6th October 1938.” A. J. Sherman points out, however, that imperial lives continued as normally as possible: “For officials and their wives, however, keeping up appearances was paramount, and public sang-froid very much the rule, with daily life ostentatiously going on as usual, though curfews inevitably curtailed some evening social activities.” See A. J. Sherman, Mandate Days: British Lives in Palestine 1918–1948 (New York, 1997), 98. 67 Wilson provided a brief history of the Bir Zeit School in her memoir. See Hilda M. Wilson, School Year in Palestine 1938–1939, 9–10, GB 165–0302, Middle East Centre, Personal Papers Collection, St. Antony’s College, Oxford University. 68 Wilson, 29. 69 Wilson, 13–14. 66

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Nevertheless, the majority of English women in Palestine, both before and after the Mandate, regarded the people of Palestine as undisciplined and disorderly, and in need of British instruction for their own good. Such an opinion, expressed in rather unflattering terms, was written in 1919 by Susanna Pearce Emery (1896–1986), a missionary teacher for the J & EM in Jerusalem and Haifa for twenty-eight years during the Mandate: Nothing but a thorough-going despotism for a hundred years will pull this country together, for there is no section of the community which you could trust to rule at all, and the country has lived for so long under the Turks, that it will take ages to instill into the people any idea of public service, or truthfulness, or cleanliness. They are compelled to clean the streets now, but they don’t see the sense of it at all, and only do it because they must.70

English women resident in the Holy Land, such as Emery and the scores who arrived in the decades before her, believed that they themselves were making great personal sacrifices to bring Palestinians— especially women—into a modern era that embraced English values of religion, hygiene, and industry. Sometimes the sacrifices were considerable, and even deadly, as the murder of Miss Creasy testifies; yet the lure of life in the Holy Land remained a potent draw for countless women such as Creasy and her compatriots, who bucked against the legacy of danger in their attempt to radically transform the lives of Palestinian women. And, as was the case in so many of the imperial encounters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the majority of violence visited upon the region as a result of such crosscultural encounters rained down upon native, rather than foreign, people.

70 Susanna Pearce Emery, “Letter dated 26 October 1919,” Typed Extracts From Letters 1919–1938, GB165–0099, Middle East Centre, Personal Papers Collection, St. Antony’s College, Oxford University, 10.

PUBLIC SPACE AND PRIVATE SPHERES: THE FOUNDATION OF ST LUKE’S HOSPITAL OF NABLUS BY THE CMS (1891–1901) Philippe Bourmaud Introduction A more commonplace notion about Muslim societies than the strong separation between public and private space can hardly be found. Denominational affiliation, however, transcends this distinction; while sociability may be different indoors and outdoors, religious identities are permanent, with very few exceptions. Conversion is cause enough for scandal. Such an idea is important to understand some of the strategies Protestant missionaries set up in the Palestinian field in the last decades of the Ottoman Empire. Conversely, the multiplication of missionary hospitals sheds light on the agency of the distinction between public and private space. A postulate of medical mission in Muslim lands was that curing patients gave legitimacy to the missionaries’ public work and greatly facilitated preaching. Hospitals furthermore afforded a spatial framework which would be under complete missionary control and where the institution’s rules would create different sorts of interpersonal relations. One of the goals of that strategy was to escape the difficulties met in trying to ensure conversions, that is, a public change of community. A look into the foundation of St Luke’s Hospital in Nablus by the Church Missionary Society illustrates the shortcomings of the strategy, as much as illustrates the process of redefinition of the public space in the late Ottoman period. The medical mission was closed twice and threatened some more times; and every time, the missionaries themselves treated it as the manifestation of a general confrontation between defensive Christianity and aggressive Islam: a central discursive pattern which we might name, after the core conflict of Greek tragedy, an agôn. However, the early history of St Luke’s hospital shows other patterns of intervention. In the ten years separating the foundation of the medical mission in Nablus by CMS medical missionary Dr Bailey in 1891 from the

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opening of the newly-built hospital in 1901, the missionaries managed to make of the place they occupied an autonomous space under their exclusive and close supervision. Its conflicted relations with the Nabulsi society illustrate local resentment against the missionaries, as well the scope and nature of the support that the mission’s opponents and proponents enjoyed. Publicity and the avoidance thereof on the part of CMS missionaries are, we argue, at the core of that story. The mobilization of authority through unofficial means or by way of petition and public debate were decisive in the continuation of medical missionary work and the completion of the hospital. This, we intend to show through the analysis of the conception of interreligious relations in Nablus that the missionaries entertained; the constitution of the autonomy of the hospital; the publicity and privacy of the debates around the medical mission, and the networks mobilized during those debates. A clash of religions? The dispensary that Dr Bailey founded on his arrival in Nablus during the summer of 18911 was closed almost immediately.2 Until the opening of the mission hospital in the year 1901, the missionaries were never certain about the survival of that medical mission. Many of the steps they took in order to ensure the legal position of the medical mission were motivated by the fear that technicalities might bring down their work. This was understandable, given the repeated difficulties met earlier on by the CMS mission in Nablus since its inception in 1854;3 the assertion that the mission was permanently threatened by fanatics and should therefore be secured by every possible institutional means, became the motto of the missionaries in

1 Church Missionary Society Archives, Birmingham University (from now on: CMS), G 3 (Group III—Mediterranean and Palestine Mission) P/O (Original Papers) 1891/222, Dr H. J. Bailey to General Touch, Nablus, 21/07/1891. 2 CMS G 3 P/O 1891/233, Zeller to the Secretaries of the CMS, Jerusalem, 19/08/1891. 3 Ejal Jakob Eisler, “Gewalt gegen die protestantische Mission in Nablus und die nachfolgende Versöhnung (1854–1901),” in Van der Hayden, Ulrich, & Jürgen Becher (eds.), Mission und Gewalt: Der Umgang christlicher Missionen mit Gewalt und die Ausbreitung des Christentums in Afrika und Asien in der Zeit von 1792 bis 1918/19, Missionsgeschichtliches Archiv, n° 6 (Stuttgart, 2000).

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Nablus. A lot of the conflicts had to do more with the intent of making converts to Christianity than with global inter-religious conflict; yet to know whether there really was a clash of religion or whether local events and crosshairs were inflated into a fully-fledged worldview is immaterial here. The religious agôn existed as a representational and discursive reality under the pen of men such as Dr Bailey, his successor Dr Gaskoin Wright, or the veteran of the Nablus mission, Reverend Christian Fallscheer. The medical mission aimed at creating favourable circumstances for the preaching of the Gospel and the conversion of Muslims to Christianity. From the late 1880s onwards, the missionary strategy advocated by the Church of England in Muslim countries had been to leave oriental Christian denominations alone, and to focus on Muslim populations in spite of the legal and social condemnation of apostasy from Islam.4 Medical missions became the strategy of choice in Ottoman Palestine, which brought about open protest in Nablus. By openly reaching for conversions, the missionaries would have gone against Ottoman law, and indeed Bailey notes that A letter has just reached me from Mr Fallscheer to say that the “Mufti” & other fanatical Moslems are making out a protest to send to Constantinople against him (not against me) accusing him of trying to turn the Moslems from their religion, especially in the Medical Mission Dispensary! Poor Nablus!5

This, in turn, led the CMS to act immediately, so as to get guarantees for the continuance of the mission in Nablus, by getting an Imperial Iradé (sultan’s order) requesting the Ottoman government to publish a firman of official recognition for the complex of the mission, exclusive of the medical mission itself. Open proselytising might have brought a legal end to the mission as a whole. From their correspondence, it appears that relations loaded with latent or active violence were the norm. The main affair affecting the Nablus mission during the decade under study was the attack of Christian buildings, including those of the CMS, yet not its hospital,

4 Kenneth Cragg, “Being Made Disciples—The Middle East,” in Kevin Ward & Brian Stanley (eds.), The Church Mission Society and World Christianity, 1799–1999, Studies in the History of Christian Missions (Grand Rapids/Cambridge, 2000), 129. 5 CMS G 3 P/O 1891/247, Dr H. J. Bailey to the Secretary of the CMS, Beit Mery (Lebanon), 08/09/1891.

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in November 1895. The reality of the riots was disputed at the time,6 but their context sheds light on the representations of the missionaries. The attack was caused by the marching of young recruits through Nablus, on their way to Jaffa and then Crete; irritated demonstrators were supposed to have tried to storm Christian institutions, including the CMS Mission House. The local Ottoman administration then calmed things down.7 A few months later, Reverend Fallscheer claimed that under the Berlin Treaty of 1878, Ottoman Turkey had to prevent the massacre of Christians in Syria, or France would be entitled to occupy the region.8 Though the assertion was quite inaccurate, it revealed a mindset: for Fallscheer et alii, the threat of a repetition of the massacres of 1860 in Lebanon was always there, due to permanent religious hatred; this might in turn pave the way for European takeover. The intervention of local administration was not always of a benign character, and as long as it considered itself allowed to interfere with the affairs of the mission, it was rather seen as a threat by Dr Bailey and Dr Wright. Already in 1891, a few days after the opening of the CMS dispensary, the governor of Nablus sent the police to close it, after a complaint had been filed to the effect that the mission’s pharmacist, who had no legal title to practice his trade, should not be allowed to work, as there already was in town a pharmacist with a legal title. Nor should the mission be allowed to give medicines. The medical mission was sealed until its head could provide a pharmacist with a legal diploma. No use could be made of the medicines kept at the dispensary, which themselves were under police control, and Bailey was even prevented from fetching some of them for the treatment of his ailing wife.9 The buildings of the dispensary remained out of the mission’s control until a pharmacist was in the end secured. In fact, the goal of the missionaries had always been to keep the medical mission out of the realm of administrative intervention. It appears that, prior to the closure in August 1891, Dr Bailey had

6

“A§bàr al-wilàyah,” Al-Ba“ìr, no 1204 (19/11/1895). CMS G 3 P/O 1895/166, Dr Gaskoin Wright to Stock, Nablus, 09/11/1895. 8 CMS G 3 P/O 1896/98, “Report Nablus District, April 1896,” by Reverend C. Fallscheer. 9 CMS G 3 P/O 1892/209, Report of Nablus Medical Mission for the 31st Conference of the Palestine Mission, by Dr H. J. Bailey, Nablus, 02/05/1892. 7

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already hurt local sensitivities by using British national symbols, against his better judgement. As one of his superior remarked: Unfortunately Dr Bailey thinks that he must hoist the English flag on his house, which would just be a red flag flourished in the face of a wild bull. Every appearance even of defying the susceptibilities of the Nablus people ought to be carefully avoided by him & Mrs Bailey, or he will simply have a repetition of his troubles in another, perhaps worse form.10

Bailey assumed that his presence in Nablus as a medical missionary was a matter of sovereignty, and the Union Jack came as an unnecessary provocation, contrary to the interests of predication as well as to elementary political caution. In a context of international tension, it was a recipe for disaster, as it most clearly linked mission and nation. Missionary autonomy could not be gained on the symbolic level; and Bailey finally pinned his hope on the setting up of a hospital recognized by a firman of the Sultan. It would help dissociate the mission from national identification, even though it was obvious to all and sundry that the mission’s hospital was the English Hospital. All in all, medical missionaries had to find a middle way between securing legal guarantees for their religious work and coming out as proponents of an alien faith, subservient to alien imperial interests. Events such as those led the missionaries to try and turn the medical mission and then the hospital into a secluded, private, close-toextraterritorial space, in short a legal fortress. Security behind walls A succession of steps was taken to ensure the legality of the prospected hospital, revealing efforts to prevent its completion by several means and from various quarters. The most important legal protections were the recognition of the ownership of the land the prospected hospital would stand on, the preventing of the requisition of the land for public use, and the obtaining of a firman allowing the building of the institution.

10

CMS G 3 P/O 1891/290, Reverend John Zeller to Lang, Jerusalem, 28/10/1891.

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Once the land had been bought through the agency and the name of a local member of the Protestant congregation, the first thing to do was to get it registered as a CMS property. To ensure registration and allow for later building on the plot, it was necessary to check that the land was indeed full and freehold property, and not a waqf land, which might not be alienated to foreigners.11 Registration took place after a thorough inquiry, so as to determine the nature of the land. In the case of the land bought by the CMS, and upon which St Luke’s Hospital stands to this day, it was the property of members of the Abu Ghazaleh and Hammad family.12 Now this was not insignificant, as the plaintiffs who had the medical mission closed in 1891 were a pharmacist and a physician belonging to the Abu Ghazaleh family,13 who were indeed old enemies of the medical mission; while the mayor of Nablus at the time of the building of the hospital, was the head of the Hammad family and another foe of the CMS in town, as we shall see later. The sale of the land and its use may have irked both of those clans, and helped later mobilizations against the CMS Hospital project. A second step was to preclude the use of the land for building purpose by claiming it for common use: during the spring of 1896, the governor of Nablus declared his intention to use the unwalled piece of land to build a road on it.14 To block the claim made upon the use of the land by the local administration, Dr Wright asked the CMS administration to raise funds for the building of a wall around the premises. To this manoeuvre, the governor of Nablus answered in kind and threatened to forbid continuation of the construction if the CMS did not produce a permit from Constantinople for the building of the wall.15 Even though the Palestine mission felt like contesting the legal validity of that demand, the path chosen was to involve British diplomacy and get the permit. Order was given to

11

CMS G 3 P/O 1893/5, Dr H. J. Bailey to F. Baylis, Nablus, 23/12/1892. Interview with Dr Farouq Hammad, Nablus, 04/05/2005. 13 CMS G 3 P/O 1891/330, Reverend Christian Fallscheer to CMS Parent Committee, Nablus, 05/12/1891; interview with Dr Hatem Abu Ghazaleh, Nablus, 12/07/2005. I would like to thank Siham Abu Ghazaleh for her kind help in introducing me to some of the Nabulsi families referred to in this paper. 14 CMS G 3 P/O 1896/95, Minutes of the Conference of the CMS Palestine mission, Jerusalem, 21–25/04/1896. 15 CSM G 3 P/O 1896/175, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 26/10/1896. 12

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the governor to let the building proceed.16 Before the building of the hospital, there was no immediate use for the land, but there was a wall making it a private area. As early as 1892, Dr Bailey underlined how central securing the autonomy of the hospital through a firman was.17 Yet getting a firman meant getting a permission from the Ottoman government and, symbolically at least, from the Sultan, which implied moving from local politics to geopolitics. A firman had to be petitioned for in Constantinople, through the Embassy of the nation that would protect the institution. International relations underlined the importance of having strong legal guarantees to protect missionary buildings.18 Bailey, when he started to insist on opening a hospital and asking for a firman, gave an unexpected explanation for the difficulty of the task— and one we could not question through other sources: a building protected by firman could (by virtue of the capitulations, perhaps) be used against the Ottoman Empire if war broke out.19 It is hardly surprising that the Porte was deemed stingy about firmans by European missionaries. For the missionaries, the document had another, main interest: the building it covered was protected by the British Consulate; cases regarding it were, with a few exceptions, to be judged in a consular court and, in the end, escaped many legal threats. This mattered to missionaries, as they had been afraid of speaking of religious matters openly so far, lest they should be charged with religious accusations. With a hospital recognised by a firman, they would be kings in their castle and would have diplomatic protection against accusations of proselytising. Not only was the firman a strong legal guarantee, but it was legally necessary for all buildings by foreign institutions. The construction of the hospital would simply not be allowed to proceed by local officials, unless the project had been approved of by Constantinople by way of a firman.

16 CMS G 3 P/O 1897/88, “Report of Nablus medical mission, Conference, May 1897,” by Dr Gaskoin Wright, 03/05/1897. 17 CMS G 3 P/O 1893/5, Dr H. J. Bailey to F. Baylis, 23/12/1892. 18 CMS G 3 P/O 1896/98, “Report of work in Nablus for Conference 1896,” by Dr Gaskoin Wright, 22/04/1896. 19 CMS G 3 P/O 1893/30, “Temporary plan for small hospital at Nablus,” by Dr H.J. Bailey, s.d.

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A petition for a firman required a detailed plan, the principles of its construction and its use. It was not necessarily what the building would look like in the end, since no timetable for the construction was required: oversized plans, allowing for future extensions were the norm. Usually, the plans were deliberately oversized to allow for aggrandizement without applying for a new firman; yet they were also designed so as not to look too impressive and impression unfavourably the Ottoman government. The plans of the hospital were discussed during the summer: discussions were mostly finance-related (where and how to build at a lower cost), hygiene-concerned (what system to use for toilet evacuation) or part of a moral agenda: where were the women’s wards and their toilets, or the entrances to the hospital and to the consultation room, so as to create as much gender separation as possible, and prevent an occasion for scandal?20 Once this plan had been submitted, together with the petition for a firman, the whole matter was a question of bargaining with local, provincial and central government. In the case of St Luke’s Hospital, the dealings and bargaining took about 4 years, due to repeated opposition and interactions at several levels of power. Patterns of privacy and public debate The confrontation of public and unofficial actions, on the part of the CMS as well as of its opponents in Nablus, reveals the importance of public debate during the formative years of the medical mission. The perceptions of public debate could somehow be skewed, as the archives show; they present a number of petitions, the value and representativity of which is tenuous at best. Even before the start of the medical mission, petitions for its urgent opening came up. Yet, as Bailey immediately cautioned, this positive impression was based on a misunderstanding as to the foremost goals of the mission: 20 CMS G 3 P/O 1896/162, “Note on design and estimate of £ 4 640 (116 500 francs) for the construction of a hospital in Nablus,” by J. W. Rundall et al., 06/07/1896, & “Notes on Mr J. W. Rundall’s report upon the Plans and estimate for a Hospital at Nablus, Palestine,” by J. R. L. Hall, 23/07/1896; CMS G 3 P/O 1896/154, “Reply to the Note of the Design and Estimate for the Construction of a Hospital at Nablus,” by [Selwick ?], Jerusalem, 18/08/1896; CMS G 3 P/O 1896/158, Dr Gaskoin Wright, “[?] for new Hospital at Nablus,” received 09/09/1896; CMS G 3 P/O 1896/163, “Note on Nablous Hospital designs and estimates,” by J. W. Rundall, s.d.

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The “petition” I was presented with I forward to you also, but only take it for what it is worth. I did my best to explain that I was not coming to Nablus as a doctor for the convenience of the people, native Christians especially, but as a missionary and more especially for the Mohammedans.21

The said petition was presented by the Protestant congregation at Nablus, on behalf—or so it claimed—of all the residents at Nablus. Indeed, it stressed in exaggerated terms the need for Nablus of a European doctor, but it justified its demand with the arguments most commonly used by CMS missionaries in Palestine in favour of a medical mission there.22 Bailey himself implied that the petition may have been contrived to mimic CMS parlance, or purely and simply remote-controlled. Also, it left open the question of the reception of another missionary institution, even though a philanthropic one. While the idea of a medical mission in Nablus was largely the consequence of a greater missionary focus on Muslims, and of the failure of more traditional forms of mission in Nablus (Bible sales and distributions, schools), staging its necessity by exhibiting a social demand might hasten the decision of the CMS to open it. Such was the fate of most of the petitions that, while they addressed institutions in the name of public opinion, they were either like pawns moved by specific interests within the institution, or they reproduced its perceptions. The reality of that social demand was not only downplayed by Dr Bailey in that report; it was also very soon contradicted by the legal petition that brought the closure of the medical mission a few weeks after its opening, in August 1891. The complaint of the Abu Ghazaleh brothers brought a profession matter before the local governor, which means that in its early stages, the problem was confined to a local circle. Within that circle, the Abu Ghazaleh, an ancient Nabulsi family, were able to mobilize the Nabulsi population, according to Reverend Fallscheer, by displaying religious motives and religious authority: The interference by the Government arose from the envy of the Muslim Doctors & Dispensers who felt themselves injured by Dr Bailey. Although

21

CMS G 3 P/O 1890/210, Dr H. J. Bailey to Lang, Gaza, 02/08/1890. CMS G 3 P/O 1890/214: Petition of residents of Nablus, signed by members of the Protestant Congregation, and addressed to Dr H. J. Bailey, received at Gaza on 21/08/1890 (translation from original in Arabic). 22

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philippe bourmaud they do not understand much, the people believed in them, as they are from the offspring of a saint who came from Mecca. They belong to one large family, every son who is born becomes at once a Doctor learning from old Arabic medical books. They fear like the silversmiths did in Ephesus that they would lose their craft and their wealth; now the time has come that they lose their craft & profession as they kill every day by their skill many people. They bribed the Government to do what he did.23

The impression conveyed is that the plaintiffs were practitioners of traditional Arabic medicine (which they also were),24 without a legal qualification. Yet, as both plaintiffs had a official training for the Imperial Faculty of medicine in Constantinople, their reaction could be understood, much to the contrary, as the defense of a new professional status, born of Ottoman centralization. This explains why Dr Bailey failed to undo the decision of the governor of Nablus by meeting his immediate superior, the governor of Beirut.25 While his unofficial—indeed individual—intervention showed that missionaries could muster influence through the hierarchy of Ottoman administration, they could not undo laws devised by the central State. Whatever their network in high places could be, medical missionaries had an obvious interest in securing the benevolence of most local authorities; this they did with unconcealed cynicism. Reverend Fallscheer spelt out a policy, which was to be the general policy of medical missionaries for years: I think there is no reason to fear [. . .] any more: only Dr Bailey will deal very wisely and visit the big officials of the Government without money for some years; so by this means they will like him and protect him before the bigoted Ulemas. This is the human help, but our help is in the name of the Lord who has made Heaven and Earth.26

Other circumstances would show Dr Bailey or his successor after 1894, Dr Wright, befriending with the 'ulamà" as well. Not only was the treatment of notables and local authorities meant to ensure that common people would not refrain from visiting the medical mission; but it might also stave off popular mobilizations, which were more

23 CMS G 3 P/O 1891/330, Reverend Christian Fallscheer to CMS Parent Committee, Nablus, 05/12/1891. 24 Interview with Dr Hatem Abu Ghazaleh, Nablus, 12/07/2005. 25 CMS G 3 P/O 1892/55, Dr H. J. Bailey to Lang, Nablus, 31/12/1891. 26 CMS G 3 P/O 1892/10, Reverend Christian Fallscheer, Nablus, 19/12/1891.

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often than not instigated by those same notables. A change of personal, either at the medical mission or in the administration, might upset the situation, which goes to explain why Dr Wright was maintained in Nablus so long (until 1914) in spite of bitter resentments. Local mobilization sometimes originated from unexpected quarters. Shortly after the arrival of Dr Wright in Nablus, a clash occurred with members of the El-Karey family,27 a pillar of the native Protestant congregation in Nablus. The original reasons of the conflict were professional and limited to matters of standing within the congregation, yet it spread beyond religious boundaries and the El-Karey sought to give it much wider dimension than its local settings. ”ukrì El-Karey was assistant-pharmacist at the medical mission dispensary in the last months of Dr Bailey’s stay at Nablus. When he left, he dismissed the young man, at least temporarily. On his arrival, Wright decided to reduce the amount of work at the medical mission, in order to learn Arabic, and decided that the main pharmacist would be enough for the amount of work left.28 Being thus made redundant, ”ukrì El-Karey retaliated at two levels. First, he managed to mobilize Muslims against the medical mission.29 Second, he visited the governor of Nablus with his father, and accused the medical missionaries of “praying and preaching in the Dispensary and trying to make Christians of the Moslems,”30 which was illegal. The CMS won the legal case, but such public action, as it came from Protestants, undermined the credibility of the mission. This erasure of denominational boundaries, against the interest of the missionaries, was no big surprise: not only were relations between missionaries and local congregations often tense, but native Protestants were said to shun the very few converts from Islam.31 Thus, the boundaries of the congregation were not clean-cut: who was of Christian origin mattered more, in social interactions, than who was actually a Protestant.

27

The name should be transliterated as “Al-Kirrah”, yet as one of its heads published books in English with that spelling, we thought it best to stick to it. 28 CMS G 3 P/O 1894/104, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 26/06/1894. 29 CMS G 3 P/O 1894/78, “Report of Nablus medical mission, March 1894,” by Dr Bailey, for the Conference of the CMS Palestine mission, April 1894. 30 CMS G 3 P/O 1894/104, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 26/06/1894. 31 CMS G 3 P/O 1904/159, Annual letter by Reverend F. Carpenter, Nablus, 18/10/1904.

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Yet more than this, Dr Wright upset the bonds of trust which united the mission and ”ukrì’s father. The title deeds of the CMS Mission House in Nablus, which could not legally belong to an abstract body such as a missionary society, had been registered in his name, as he was an old trusted member of the Protestant congregation. El-Karey felt his son’s redundancy as a dismissal or a treason on the part of the CMS: his long-earned connection came to nothing, due to the rash will of a young and newly-arrived missionary. The El-Karey, father and son, were then ready to take any step to force Dr Wright out, and the whole CMS if the need arose. From tactics relying on public opinion and religious feelings, they had drifted to a more legal and formalist approach, after the governor of Nablus had to dismiss their first complaint. Yet once the procedural strategy had failed, the El-Karey reverted to their first strategy, the mobilization of opinion. Again, they attacked Wright before “the Moslems” and got them to send several petitions, first to the governor in Beirut, then to the central government in Constantinople.32 These came to naught, with the help of the governor of Nablus himself. Yet the procedure aimed at dismantling the Nablus Mission and the petition had been sent to Constantinople with an obvious view to get Wright, if not all the Anglican missionaries, expelled. The lengths to which the El-Karey were ready to go, in order to bring down Dr Wright, hints at a clash between the type of bonds the Protestant congregation was built upon, and the Western hierarchy of medical competence, which brought about the undoing of those bonds and the reactivation of local solidarities against foreign intrusion. The weaker of the El-Karey’s strategy was the use of petitions. Those, though they appealed to higher levels of administrative authority pretty much as the missionaries were wont to do, did not succeed, as they were not backed by real local power. The Ottoman government was probably not naïve in the face of such petitions; nor was it open to their pretensions to represent public opinions. This is not to say that public debate did not play a role in the history of St Luke’s hospital; but for some time the opponents of the CMS in Nablus chose other, more disseminated forms of obstruction, with no more success.

32 CMS G 3 P/O 1894/187, “Report of Nablûs medical mission,” by Dr Gaskoin Wright, for the Conference of the CMS Palestine mission, Salt, November 1894.

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Once the decision had been taken at the Headquarters of the CMS in London, to petition for a firman in order to build what would become St Luke’s Hospital,33 local oppositions took a procedural turn. The first step was to get a favourable report for the project from the governor of Nablus. Yet that man, apparently in harmony with the notables of the municipality, was opposed to the project, and it took no less than three successive reports to get one in favour of the hospital. Though there is no hint in the archives as to the content of the last two reports, the core arguments that constituted the first, unfavourable report were summed up by Wright and are revealing of the priorities of the Ottoman State. The governor dismissed the idea, expressed in the petition for the firman, that the hospital was mainly a philanthropic project, and viewed it as a missionary venture, which endangered the mainstays of the State. He also denied the social agency of the project, mentioning that there already was a Municipal hospital—which however had been closed for years for lack of proper building and nurses; it would be years before it could reopen.34 The location of the hospital was also deemed counterproductive: as it lay outside of town, it caused women patients to walk a disrespectable journey to get there or made them avoid the place altogether. The governor then overstated the probability of success of the mission work inside the hospital’s walls, which would deprive the Ottoman army of many soldiers, in times of ideological defence of Islam under the aegis of the Sultan. More convincingly, the governor asserted that if the hospital were allowed to be built, riots would ensure.35 The project, as a threat to religion, the army, public order and in general, the State, was to be dismissed altogether. As long as the local governor would not budge from that position, the project would be blocked, whatever diplomatic efforts would be tried on behalf of the CMS. It is not clear how the man was led to change his mind, by way of bribe or by pressure from Istanbul, yet after a third report, the firman was granted. Whatever may be the case, the strategy of the missionaries was to use British diplomats and unofficial pressure to circumvent the governor of Beirut

33

CMS G 3 P/O 1896/174, Dr Gaskoin Wright to F. Baylis, Nablus 21/10/1896. J.-A. Jaussen, Naplouse et son district (Paris, 1926), 251. 35 CMS G 3 P/O 1897/88, “Report of Nablus medical mission, Conference, May 1897,” by Dr Gaskoin Wright, 03/05/1897. 34

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and the central Ottoman government; the connection of the opponents to the hospital simply did not extend so high. Most of the Nabulsi elites showed resolute hostility to the project. Possible violence against the project was not just sophistry on the part of the governor: the heads of the Palestine mission of the CMS also feared that the firman would be impossible if the petition for it were announced publicly, as it might cause popular uproar, causing the Ottoman government to discard the project definitively as a nuisance.36 However, the conflict never got out of hand, before and after the granting of the firman. Hostility appears to have been motivated by patriotism, with an obvious religious substratum: a member of the town council “called upon God to protest the Moslem against the Christian, and said that the new Hospital would bring ruin upon them,”37 and he seemed to express his colleagues’ mind. Nonetheless, the elites could simply not incite popular mobilization, lest it should degenerate: riots might not only cost the governor his job, but also discredit the opponents to the CMS within the town council in the eyes of the Ottoman government. So once the governor had yielded and had sent a favourable report and the firman was granted,38 there was no option for the angered notables, but to play for time through legal obstruction. Such obstruction was always dismissed, however, as the firman was considered the direct expression of the will of the Sultan, and attacking it meant attacking the authority who guaranteed the principal of Ottoman legislation. Once during the summer of 1900, the municipality took upon itself to block the building works by sending the police; yet as this was done against the will of the governor, who was in charge of the police, the members of the municipality had to backtrack.39 Neither popular mobilization nor legal obstruction would work, because at that stage diplomatic immunity had been granted to the hospital under the authority of the Sultan. The opposition to the medical mission had failed to block the project by applying to central authority in due time, and had handled the matter mostly as though it were a question of land rights and local politics. The missionaries, on the

36

CMS G 3 P/O 1897/118, J. R. L. Hall to Baylis, Jerusalem, 23/08/1897. CMS G 3 P/O 1900/88, “Report of Nablus medical mission, May 1900,” by Dr Gaskoin Wright, s.d. 38 CMS G 3 P/O 1900/13, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 02/01/1900. 39 CMS G 3 P/O 1900/116, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 14/07/1900. 37

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contrary, did not hesitate to address directly, though unofficially, the Ottoman administrative hierarchy in order to have their way; and this was made possible as they were directly answerable to a central institution outside the Ottoman empire, which could gather diplomatic help. When the public debate about the CMS medical mission was ignited, the hospital was nearly completed. Yet the episode that follows is quite telling, and shows that the opposition had little to do with fanaticism or with the religious-conservative 'ulamà" who, according to Reverend Fallscheer, were the curse of the mission. Opposed to the CMS activities was a “Moslem Effendiyyeh”40 which had been behind the efforts to prevent the erection of St Luke’s Hospital, and still resented its failure to curb its construction; first among those was the mayor, of the Hammad family, who would also be instrumental in the building of the new municipal hospital in the following decade. Their anger was triggered by a remark made by Dr Wright: in an Annual Letter to the CMS, he described the way inpatients did not respect the rules of the hospital by receiving presents of all kind from their families, only minutes after they had promised to abide by the hospital’s diet.41 He added a quite sweeping remark, saying that “All Orientals are great liars,” and adding classical references to make his point.42 The letter was published without elision in a CMS journal, and though it was published in London in English, it reached the Protestant congregations of Palestine, who petitioned against Wright’s remark. The conflict might have been handled within the framework of the Anglican Bishopric of Jerusalem, yet at that time, the conflict between the over-controlling missionaries and the Native churches over the organization and autonomy of the Protestant congregations had come to a head.43 In that context, the content of Wright’s comments spread beyond the boundaries of the Protestant community in spite of all the mediations attempted by the missionaries. They were made public in the Egyptian press in Arabic, in a series of defamatory letters which

40

CMS G 3 P/O 1900/193, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 12/11/1900. CMS G 3 P/O 1900/193, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 12/11/1900. 42 CMS G 3 P/O 1900/167, Ni'mah E. Eliya to F. Baylis, Jaffa, 06/10/1900. 43 Cf. Peter Williams, The Ideal of the Self-governing Church. A Study in Victorian Missionary Strategy (Leiden, 1990), 210. 41

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heaped attacks against Wright week after week.44 The Nabulsi notables were again infuriated, and though they failed to get Wright expelled from the country, the affair put an end to the ambiguity that the missionaries had maintained as to the main goal of the hospital. The type of colonial anthropology expressed in Wright’s letter highlights, by contrast, the reason why the medical mission had tried to expand through discrete and sometimes unofficial means in the preceding decade: were the missionaries to stray from their policy of privacy, the goals of the mission would be rejected outright by the Nabulsis. The population of the town had no doubt as to the ulterior motives of the missionaries, but the ambiguous discourse of the medical staff allowed them to, at least, benefit from the philanthropic actions of the CMS men. Wright’s letter and the ensuing public debate were not only extending the question of the agency of St Luke’s hospital far beyond the region of Nablus and redefining the public space through the newspapers; they also shattered a compromise, and called for new types of mobilization on the part of the population and elites of Nablus. At stake were indeed both the colonial anthropology exhibited by Dr Wright and the type of sociability that medical mission sought to impose within the hospital. The issue of candies given to young patients by their mothers was not so much an issue of proper dietetics, as a matter of family relations: in order to preach, the missionaries sought to isolate the hospitalized patients as much as possible from their kin and friends. Not only would this facilitate the regularity of treatments, but it might put the sick in such predicament, as to listen with more benevolence to prayers and hymns. The debate about Dr Wright’s colonial culturalistic conceptions laid bare the sort of cold sociability that Nabulsis could expect to find in the hospital, where little Arabic was spoken anyway. While the medical mission achieved its goal on the institutional level thanks to its ability to make the best of the political distribution of authority within the Ottoman empire, it was found wanting as far as interpersonal relations with patients, which were its raison d’être, were concerned.

44

CMS G 3 P/O 1901/14, J. R. L. Hall to F. Baylis, Jerusalem, 19/01/1901.

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Concluding remarks The success of the CMS in completing St Luke’s Hospital in February reflects both its connection with British diplomacy and its institutional disposition to handle Ottoman bureaucracy. Channels of communication with the government in Istanbul were a decisive asset. On the other side, Nabulsi notables relied mostly on the authority of the administration, in Nablus itself or one level higher in the hierarchy, in Beirut. The use of popular mobilization was tricky, as it could discredit them and compel the administration to appease the European powers, as happened in November 1895. Unless the missionaries went patently against the law, or in the process of the granting of the firman, local powers played a lost game as they opposed so well connected an organization as the CMS. Most of the time, the administrative centralization of the Empire since the period of the Tanzimat redistributed the powers in such a manner as to give an advantage to foreign institutions against the powers-that-be at a local and regional level. In the case of St Luke’s Hospital, its opponents showed, much against their will, that while there was a possibility of public debate, through petitions or rather thanks to the Egyptian newspapers, such debate in the end was disconnected from effective power. Debate about the medical mission in Nablus itself is immaterial to the missionaries, or rejected as either rumours or fanaticism. This last accusation, which is congruent to the religious agôn that missionaries represented through their letters to their hierarchy, was exclusive of what the missionaries would have called free public opinion. Though panislamism was the ideology of Sultan Abdul Hamid’s reign, and the period was anything but propitious to freedom of expression, the missionaries failed to understand the motives behind the opposition to their activities: the opposition of the “Moslem effendiyyeh” to the Hospital, and popular mobilizations against the mission showed a modernistic mindset that could not be reduced to religious issues. They were inspired by Ottoman patriotism and by a specific Nabulsi civic pride which led the elites to reject alien philanthropy, and to promote local initiatives against European interventions in Nablus. The obvious duplicity of the missionaries that motivated their desire for privacy and autonomy within the hospital, in the end worked against their goals. Public resentment against the way St Luke’s Hospital had been imposed and against the preaching of Protestant

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Christianity, led to the creation of a rival institution with local roots. Both Dr Wright’s annual letter, and the scandal caused some time later by the attempted conversion of the sister of the mayor, Hajjah Layla Hammad, when she was a patient of the hospital,45 led the notables of Nablus to gather money and hire staff, so as to revive the municipal hospital. The opening of the latter, in 1910, took away a number of patients from St Luke’s Hospital, though paradoxical it helped the normalization of that institution in the eyes of the Nabulsis. As this latter case shows, the missionaries had succeeded at creating a private, nearly extraterritorial space for their hospital; however, denominational identity could not become a private or individual category, which one might be persuaded to change. As a result, very few Muslims converted to Protestant Christianity in the whole of Palestine before British missionaries were expelled in 1914. Even within the hospital, where sociability was neither quite public nor ever really private and intimate, a colonial anthropology separated the missionaries from the intimacy of their patients’ beliefs.

45

Interview with Dr Farouq Hammad, Nablus, 04/05/2005.

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A PIETISTIC MISSIONARY AND EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTION INTO A SOCIAL SERVICES ENTERPRISE: THE CASE OF THE SYRIAN ORPHANAGE (1860–1945) Roland Löffler Jerusalem’s legendary mayor Teddy Kollek—well-known for his contribution to the modernisation of the Holy City—once said that he followed in the footsteps of two historical characters who have done much more for the city planning and architecture than he himself. Those two were Herod and Johann Ludwig Schneller. Whereas archaeological research had created a vivid picture of Herod, the ‘Patriarch’ of the international Evangelical PalestineMission, Johann Ludwig Schneller, had fallen into oblivion. This fact is slightly surprising because judging by his achievements for Jerusalem and Palestine his place in history should be first and foremost among those who invested their life’s work in the reconstruction of the Holy Land in the nineteenth century.1 Schneller himself and his successors

1 A comprehensive monograph on the history of the Syrian Orphanage and its manifold impulses for the modernisation of Palestine as well as biographical studies on the leading characters Johann Ludwig, Ludwig, Theodor and Hermann Schneller still remains a desideratum. One reason for this deficiency can be seen in the fact that the Schneller Archive just recently found an appropriate home— after having been parked in Cologne, Erpfingen, Reutlingen—in the Landeskirchliche Archiv Stuttgart (LKA Stuttgart). The sources are in general good. The Jerusalem files are missing, and some of the German material seems to have been destroyed when the Cologne headquarter of the Schneller Association was struck by a bombshell during World War II. However, the Schneller Archive includes more or less all protocols of the meetings of the “Kuratoriums” and the Board of the “Evangelischen Vereins Syrischen Waisenhauses e.V.” in Köln-Marienburg, and all issues of the quarterly magazine Bote aus Zion, as well as private, official and economic correspondences, and a large photo collection. As to material from the Third Reich the possibility that some politically ambiguous files have been “cleansed” cannot be excluded. The historiography of the Syrian Orphanage was for a long time led by propagandist purposes in order to inform and keep in touch with the friends and sponsors of the Jerusalem institutions. Most publications were written by Ludwig Schneller and his deputy secretary Hans Niemann. Cf. e.g. L. Schneller, Wünschet Jerusalem Glück! Festschrift zum 50jährigen Jubiläum des Syrischen Waisenhauses in Jerusalem (Münster, 1911); and from the same Vater Schneller. Ein Patriarch der evangelischen Mission im Heiligen Land. Mit einem Lebensbilde von Frau M. Schneller (Leipzig, 1925) or

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created and extended the largest Protestant missionary and educational institution in the country, if not in the entire Middle East—the Syrian Orphanage (SyrO). In its heyday the Schneller compound—today located near the Jewish quarter of Mea Shearim—was larger than the entire Old City of Jerusalem. In his book on the history of Jerusalem, the Israeli historian Yehoshua Ben-Arieh emphasizes that the Syrian orphanage was “one of the most important focuses of construction outside the Old City” and a decisive factor for the development of the New City.2 The name ‘Syrian Orphanage’ is in itself a curiosity. How could a ‘Syrian’ Orphanage be founded in Jerusalem? And how did it develop? What sort of educational and theological concepts had been transferred from Germany to the Holy Land? What did it bring about, and what did it mean for the modernisation of the country in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? To answer these questions, I will try not only to contribute to the history of the intercultural exchange between Germany and the Holy Land. I would also like to provide some new aspects of the religious and missionary history of Israel/Palestine. Following the ideas of Werner Ustorf from Birmingham University, I understand missionary history as part of the regional history of those territories, which were deeply influenced by missionary activities, provoking a most

H. Niemann, Redet mit Jerusalem freundlich! Bilder aus fünfundsiebzig Jahren Geschichte und Arbeit des Syrischen Waisenhauses (Köln 1935). Academic research has started since the 1970s, cf. the PhD dissertations by S. Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission. Handbuch ihrer Motive, Geschichte und Ergebnisse (Erlangen, 1971); by S. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar und seine Erziehungsanstalten (Bielefeld, 1978); by A.-R. Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina 1841–1898. Aktivitäten religiöser Institutionen, wirtschaftliche und politische Einflüsse (Berlin, 1982); by M. Raheb Das reformatorische Erbe unter den Palästinensern. Zur Entstehung der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Kirche in Jordanien (Gütersloh, 1990). For the early days of J. L. Schnellers in Jerusalem cf. A. Carmel, Christen als Pioniere im Heiligen Land. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Pilgermission und des Wiederaufbaus Palästinas im 19. Jahrhundert (Basel, 1981). The following text is an English version of my paper: “Die langsame Metamorphose einer Missions- und Bildungseinrichtung zu einem sozialen Dienstleistungsbetrieb. Zur Geschichte des Syrischen Waisenhauses der Familie Schneller in Jerusalem 1860–1945”, in D. Trimbur (ed.), Die Europäer in der Levante. Zwischen Politik, Wissenschaft und Religion (19.–20. Jahrhundert). Des Européens au Levant. Entre politique, science et religion (19.–20. siècle) (München, 2004), 77–106. Also cf. my two short articles “Schneller, J.L.” and “Syrisches Waisenhaus”, in H.-D. Betz, D. S. Browning, B. Janowski, E. Jüngel (eds.), Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart 4, vol. 7 (Tübingen 2004), 945 and 2007. 2 Cf. Y. Ben-Arieh, Jerusalem in the 19th century. Emergence of the New City ( Jerusalem, New York, 1986), 70.

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complex social, political and religious process of transformation.3 In addition to this I would like to see mission history integrated into the newly developed discipline of Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte (Modern Church History), which tries to combine methods and theories of theology as well as of social and cultural history in order to interpret the making of religion in modernity, of which mission was an essential part.4 The making of the Syrian Orphanage The Syrian Orphanage is a child of South German Pietism, which can be characterized by a mixture of biblicism, pious idealism, and religious individualism. In the first half of the nineteenth century this branch of Protestant spirituality saw the spread of what can be called a “yearning for Jerusalem”.5 This romantic feeling for a remote region of the Ottoman Empire was theologically established by two eschatological movements, which originated from Britain and together created what can be called a form of Christian Zionism:6 Firstly: After Napoleon’s conquest of Egypt in 1798/99, many Western Christians thought the time had come for a “peaceful crusade” to the Holy Land. The country should be won back for Christianity by the religious, cultural and philanthropic influence of Western churches and missionary institutions.7 3 Cf. W. Ustorf, “Dornröschen, oder die Missionsgeschichte wird neu entdeckt,” in U. van der Heyden, H. Liebau (eds.), Missionsgeschichte—Kirchengeschichte—Weltgeschichte (Stuttgart, 1996), 19–37. Similar A. Feldtkeller, Sieben Thesen zur Missionsgeschichte, Berliner Beiträge zur Missionsgeschichte 1, September 2000. 4 For a basic introduction cf. for example, A. Doering-Manteuffel, K. Nowak (eds.), Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte. Urteilsbildung und Methoden (Stuttgart-Berlin-Köln, 1996) and J. Chr. Kaiser, “Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte. Ein Thema ökumenischer Kirchengeschichtsschreibung”, in B. Jaspert (ed.), Ökumenische Kirchengeschichte. Probleme, Visionen, Methoden (Paderborn, 1998), 197–209. 5 Cf. G. Mehnert, “Jerusalem als religiöses Phänomen in neuerer Zeit,” in G. Müller, W. Zeller (eds.), Glaube, Geist, Geschichte (Festschrift E. Benz) (Leiden, 1967), 160–174. 6 A short introduction is offered by A. Carmel, “‘Christlicher Zionismus’ im 19. Jahrhundert—einige Bemerkungen,” in E. W. Stegemann (ed.), 100 Jahre Zionismus. Von der Verwirklichung einer Vision (Stuttgart-Berlin-Köln, 2000), 127–135. 7 Cf. A. Schölch, Palästina im Umbruch 1856–1882. Untersuchung zur wirtschaftlichen und sozio-politischen Entwicklung (Stuttgart, 1986), 60–68; H. Gründer, Welteroberung und Christentum. Ein Handbuch zur Geschichte der Neuzeit (Gütersloh, 1992), 345–367; Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission, 15–27.

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Secondly: The Evangelicals interpreted the biblical prophecies and especially the Book of Revelation in such a way that spiritually dead Western Christianity, ruined by the Enlightenment and the social changes of the industrial modernity, could be renewed by the conversions of Jews. The vision of the “Restoration of the Jews” also included a moral responsibility for God’s old people, which had been mistreated by the Churches for several centuries. However, the main focus relied on the idea that the converted Jews, collected in the Holy Land, would pave the way for the second coming of the Messiah.8 In Berlin those ideas were spread by the intellectual and diplomat Carl Josias von Bunsen, who was a close friend of the Prussian King, Frederick William IV. Bunsen developed the great ecumenical vision of an Anglican Bishopric in Jerusalem, which should safeguard all British and German Protestant missions. The Bishopric should undertake mission among the Jews and prepare for the awakening of the Eastern Churches. In order to make this possible the theological differences between Anglicanism and the Prussian Union should be put aside. Apart from the religious aspects, the Bishopric fitted perfectly into the foreign political aspirations of both powers. It became a quite important tool for London and Berlin, by which they could gain greater influence in the realm of the “the sick man of Europe”. Like all European powers, Britain and Prussia wanted to protect those Christian minorities in the Near East that were closely connected with their own state church at home, on which Owen Chadwick commented in ironic fashion: “Russia protected the Orthodox, France the Roman Catholics. Britain and Prussia, whose political interests in the Middle East were considerable, determined to protect Protestants. In these high policies of state it mattered little that Turkey contained no Protestants to protect . . .”9 This historical fact could only be changed by missionary means. Von Bunsen was successful in convincing both the King of Prussia as well as leading political and religious figures in Britain. 1841 saw

8 Cf. the classical articles by M. Vereté, “The Restoration of the Jews in English Protestant Thought 1790–1840,” Middle Eastern Studies 8 (1972), 2–50 and F. Kobler, The Vision was There: A History of the Restoration of the Jews (London, 1956). 9 O. Chadwick, The Victorian Church I (London, 1987), 189.

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the making of the Anglo-Prussian Bishopric in Jerusalem, which lasted for 45 years.10 In 1850 the Ottoman Government acknowledged Protestantism as a separate millet,11 which was a decisive step towards the establishment of Evangelical faith in the Orient. The first ecumenical experiment of the modern period came apart in 1886 due to theological, financial, and political differences. The romantic inter-congregational honeymoon of the early years changed— especially after the German victory of 1871, and the unification of the German Empire led to a hostile British-German antagonism. However, after 1841 missionary and educational work started with a number of different organisations. Beside the London-based London Society for Promoting Christianity among Jews and the Church Missionary Society it was especially the Pilgermissionanstalt St. Chrischona from Basle (Switzerland) that sent several missionaries to the land of the Bible. St. Chrischona was a child of the Deutschen Christentumsgesellschaft— founded in 1780 in Basle by Johann August und Samuel Urlsperger— the central network of intellectual Evangelicals. The motor and secretary of the Deutsche Christentumsgesellschaft was Christian Friedrich Spittler, who inspired the foundation of quite a number of new pietisticaly orientated social and missionary organisations in South Germany and Switzerland—among them the Basler Missionsgesellschaft (1815) and St. Chrischona (1840).12 The Middle East and the Holy Land gained a special place in Spittler’s global theological perspective. His vision was to create an ‘Apostle’s road’ from Jerusalem to Ethiopia, which should consist of twelve stations, where missionaries and artisans should cooperate, educating the local people in craftsmanship and preaching the gospel to them in order to spread the Christian faith in the entire region.13

10 Cf. M. Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten im Heiligen Land. Das gemeinsame Bistum Jerusalem (1841–1886) (Wiesbaden, 1998) und K. Schmidt-Clausen, Vorweggenommene Einheit. Die Gründung des Bistums Jerusalem im Jahre 1841 (Berlin, 1965). 11 Cf. K.S. Abu Jaber, “The Millet System in the 19th Century Ottoman Empire,” in Muslim World 3 (1967), 212–223 and B. Braude, “Foundation Myths of the Millet System,” in B. Braude, B. Lewis (eds.), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: the functioning of a plural society (New York, 1982), I: 69–88. 12 Cf. E. Staehlin, Die Christentumsgesellschaft in der Zeit von der Erweckung bis zur Gegenwart. Texte aus Briefen, Protokollen und Publikationen (Basel, 1974). 13 Cf. A. Baumann, Die Apostelstraße. Eine außergewöhnliche Vision und ihre Verwirklichung (Gießen-Basel, 1999).

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In 1846, a first Swiss-German delegation was sent from Basle to Jerusalem to prepare this new missionary project by the foundation of a ‘Brüderhaus’ in the City of David.14 However, the idealistic plans did not succeed, and the St. Chrischona brothers had to return home after three unsuccessful years. The awakened Basle Christians had underestimated the physical and psychological challenges, and the religious, cultural, and political situation in the Holy Land. In the following years, Spittler changed the strategy of his Middle East undertaking. The second attempt focused on the idea that the Jerusalem ‘Brüderhaus’ should only train young missionaries in the Oriental context for engagement in Ethiopia. In 1854, a second Basle team of missionaries was sent to Jerusalem, headed by the Wurttemberg teacher Johann Ludwig Schneller. Born in 1820 to a poor farmer’s family, he received a good schooling through the help of his local pastor, who early on realised his intellectual talents. Schneller even took exams to start on a career as an elementary school teacher. He taught at different schools in his Wurttemberg home region, worked in a ‘Kinderrettungsanstalt’ for orphans in Göppingen, and became headmaster of an institution for young men discharged from the Vaihingen/Enz-prison. Those practical and pedagogical experiences marked his life. Between 1847–1854 he was installed as the first headmaster of St. Chrischona. Then he left for Palestine, where he had to face the second failure of Spittler’s missionary visions. Some of his colleagues returned home, but Schneller was among those who remained in Jerusalem. The very special atmosphere inspired him—and he felt that a divine calling had ordered him to realise his religious idealism nowhere else than in the city of David and the Passion of Jesus Christ. Unlike the second bishop of the Anglo-Prussian Bishopric, Samuel Gobat, who had given up mission and concentrated his work on an Evangelical awakening and reformation of the Oriental Churches, Schneller was willing to better the situation of Jerusalem’s poor Arab population—socially, morally and spiritually. From then on, Schneller went his own way, giving up his positions in the Basle organisations, and by 1855 he had bought an estate outside the Old City and built his first educational institution. After getting robbed a couple of times, he had to give up this project.

14

Cf. Carmel, Christen als Pioniere im Heiligen Land, 127–190.

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It took some years until he found his life’s work. He took care of those orphans who lost their families in the anti-Christian riots in Syria and Lebanon during the year 1860. Because the region was afterwards administratively reorganised and named ‘Syria’, Johann Ludwig Schneller gave the house he founded the name ‘Syrian Orphanage’. It opened its doors on the 11th of November 1860— the name day of Martin Luther. For a Western missionary institution, orphans had—especially in the Oriental context with its manifold religious and social rules— one outstanding advantage: they were more or less free from any family ties, which normally made a conversion to Protestantism difficult or even impossible. However, certain social ties remained, and hindered Schneller’s initial success, because Arab culture did not like to see children in the hands of a foreigner, even if he was able to offer them better living conditions.15 Thus, most of the 70 orphans Schneller collected in Lebanon were taken back by relatives or people from their home villages, who had forbidden them to follow the South German teacher to Jerusalem. In addition, the French Lazarist Order fought against any Protestant influence in Lebanon and Syria, which was another burden for Schnellers missionary endeavours.16 In the end, Schneller started his orphanage with only nine boys. Still, in Jerusalem, the house became a success after a little while, when prejudices against the Western missionary institution disappeared and the local population became convinced of the quality of his work. Already by the end of the first year, the orphanage had become the home of 41 children, which is why Schneller started to build a new house. Educational concepts of the Awakening movement and its influence on Schneller Schneller was no intellectual, and therefore the Syrian Orphanage was not founded with an elaborate academic programme. Still, it 15

Cf. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 48. Cf. J. Bocquet, “Missionnaires français et allemands au Levant: les Lazaristes français de Damas et l’Allemagne, du voyage de Guillaume II à l’instauration du Mandat,” in Trimbur (ed.), Europäer in der Levante, 57–76, esp. 64–66 and A. Schlicht, “Die Rolle der europäischen Missionare im Rahmen der Orientalischen Frage am Beispiel Syriens,” Neue Zeitschrift für Missionswissenschaften 38 (1982), 187–201, here 196. 16

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had a clear educational and theological agenda. The educational model was practically orientated and highly disciplinary, and had a clear missionary and ethical setting. Schneller’s agenda is an example of Pietistic pedagogy, in which ‘faith’ dominates all fields of education. Schneller himself was deeply influenced by Christian Heinrich Zeller—one of the masterminds of the Basle-South German awakening movement that was marked by a very positive attitude towards social reforms. Its most important and often copied institution is the South German “Freiwillige Armenschullehrer- und Armenkinderanstalt” (Voluntary School for the Poor) at Castle Beuggen, close to Basle on the German side of the river Rhine.17 The director of this school for the education of the poor was Zeller himself. Schneller, who had been House Father of the St. Chrischona Pilgermission, came to know Zeller during his time in Basle. This is the reason why the spirit of Beuggen influenced the making of the Syrian Orphanage.18 In his research on religion and modernity, the German Church Historian Thomas K. Kuhn characterised the Basle Awakening Movement as an important part of a process of modernisation inside Protestantism and as an example of a decisive early modern religiosity.19 In his eyes the awakening movement was attractive for many people because it offered—at a difficult and complex time of multi-faceted social and political transformation—a broad mix of personal ethics, the experience of transcendence and stability of living conditions.

17 Cf. G. Hauss, “Die sozialpädagogische Arbeit in der Armenschullehrer-Anstalt in Beuggen (Baden). Ihr Profil im Vergleich zum Rauhen Haus in Hamburg,” Pietismus und Neuzeit 23 (1997), 27–38, esp. 27–29, and Chr. H. Zeller, Lehren der Erfahrung für christliche Land- und Armen-Schullehrer. Eine Anleitung zunächst für die Zöglinge und Lehrschüler der freiwilligen Armen-Schullehrer-Anstalt in Beuggen, 3 Vol. (Basle, 1827/1828). 18 Cf. Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission, 50, who mentions that J. L. Schneller in his first SyrO annual report refers to Zeller’s pedagogy. For the connections between Zeller, Spittler and Schneller, cf. E. Geldbach, “The German Research Network in the Holy Land,” in M. Davies, Y. Ben-Arieh (eds.), With Eyes Toward Zion III. Western Societies and the Holy Land, New York, Westport, London, 1991), 150–169. 19 Cf. Th. K. Kuhn, Religion und neuzeitliche Gesellschaft. Studien zum sozialen und diakonischen Handeln in Pietismus, Aufklärung und Erweckungsbewegung (Tübingen, 2003); Th. K. Kuhn, “Pädagogik und Religion im ‘Frommen Basel’. Die Gründung des ‘Vereins der freiwilligen Armen-Schullehrer-Anstalt’ (1817),” in H. Klueting, J. Rohls (eds.), Reformierte Retrospektiven. Vorträge der zweiten Emdener Tagung zur Geschichte des reformierten Protestantismus (Wuppertal, 2001), 203–217; Th. K. Kuhn, “Diakonie im Schatten des Chiliasmus. Christian Heinrich Zeller (1779–1860) in Beuggen,” in Th. K. Kuhn, M. Sallmann (eds.), “Das Fromme Basel.” Religion in einer Stadt des 19. Jahrhunderts (Basel, 2002), 93–110.

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Zeller’s analysis of society combined eschatological, ethical and social-political motives. Theological interpretation was so dominant that it led to an inadequate view on contemporary economical and social challenges.20 He saw the privation and hardship of his times— quasi biologically—grounded in the guilt of the poor. Zeller regarded the philanthropic institutions of Social Protestantism as a forerunner of God’s peaceful millennium, which bridged the gap between the sinful present and the divine future. Christian Heinrich Zeller had a feudal, pre-modern vision of society. He thought the re-establishment of Christian families would be the best safety measure against the dangers of poverty and social dislocation. Zeller’s “Voluntary School for the Poor” focused on the children at the lowest social level of the society. He wanted to get them out of the vicious circle of poverty by means of a religiouslybased training as craftsmen. The social vision of Zeller focused therefore on the making of a lower middle-class with a Pietistic-Awakened personal spirituality. Precisely this concept was transferred by Johann Ludwig Schneller to Jerusalem. Interestingly, both Zeller and Schneller successfully implemented this agenda in two differently structured societies. Still, Zeller was no revolutionary character of Marxist shape. Zeller accepted the different layers of society. His model of society was “implicitly conservative, if not reactionary.”21 His vision was not much focused on the material well-being of the poor, but on “primarily ethical prophylaxis, which implicated certain political and social aspirations.”22 Social equality was not among his three main goals of education (work discipline, acceptance of one’s own social position, and faith in the Lord).23 In a way, these social and religious convictions can also be found in the Schneller Schools in Palestine. Furthermore, the strong emphasis on piety in all branches of the Awakening Movement supported a special pious consciousness, which tended to distance itself from the established Protestant Churches, but did weld together pupils and teachers inside those institutions— be it in Beuggen or Jerusalem or elsewhere. Through Zeller’s charisma

20

Kuhn, “Diakone im Schatten des Chiliasmus,” 102. Cf. Kuhn, “Pädagogik und Religion”, 213 and Hanselmann, Deutsche evangelische Palästinamission, 52. 22 Cf. Kuhn, “Diakone im Schatten des Chiliasmus”, 103 23 Cf. Hanselmann, Deutsche evangelische Palästinamission, 52. 21

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an international network of Awakened Schools was built up in which the SyrO in Jerusalem played an important role. The centre of communication, however, remained in “pious Basle”.24 The success of these sorts of institutions of Social Protestantism in Germany (and Palestine) can be interpreted with the help of Niklas Luhmann’s theory on Social Systems.25 Luhmann argues that society is constituted by many social subsystems, which bring about different, specialised benefits to the system as a whole. Religion as a social subsystem provides a benefit in such a way that it takes responsibility for “rest-problems, personal fates, sufferings, social problems,” which were generated in other subsystems of society. However, Social Protestantism in Germany could not penetrate far enough to re-christianising society, because the spiritual function and the theological agenda of the religious subsystem were not needed in society. The social subsystems only demanded social care, but ignored theological supply. The result was that the institutions of Social Protestantism lost the actual contact with the Church. The philanthropic success in the end provoked a “self-secularisation process” within those institutions. My argument now is that the same process took place in the missionary field too, as in the example of the Syrian Orphanage. The silent metamorphosis of the Schneller Schools in Jerusalem from a Pietistic Missionary Institution into a Social Services Enterprise is therefore part of a much larger process of transformation which took place in most of the institutions of the Awakening movement. Education, religion and daily life in the Orphanage If we look at the curricula of Schneller’s school we realize Zeller’s influence. Schneller divided education into subjects of three different

24 On the self-understanding of the “Pious Basle” cf. Kuhn, “Pädagogik und Religion,” 216f. 25 Cf. N. Luhmann, Funktion der Religion (Frankfurt/Main, 19995) and Die Religion der Gesellschaft, ed. by A. Kieserling (Frankfurt, 2002). For a new interpretation of Social Protestantism on the basis of Luhmann’s theories cf. J.-Chr. Kaiser, “Vorüberlegungen zur Neuinterpretation des sozialen Protestantismus im 19. Jahrhundert,” in M. Friedrich, N. Friedrich, T. Jähnichen, J.-Chr. Kaiser (eds.), Sozialer Protestantismus im Vormärz (Münster, 2001), 11–19 and S. Sturm, “Soziale Reformation: J. H. Wicherns Sozialtheologie als christentumspolitisches Programm,” in Friedrich e.a. (eds.), Sozialer Protestantismus, 67–93.

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ranks. The first rank was reserved for religion and history, which was taught as “biblical and ecclesiastical [history] in respect to world history.”26 In the second rank, we find philological subjects—German and Arabic language classes as well as mathematics, and singing. The third rank was reserved for biblical geography, biology, and drawing. The classes were taught in Arabic and in German. In 1861 Schneller published the statutes of the SyrO, which clearly stated his missionary and educational aims.27 Paragraph 1 of the Statues of the Syrian Orphanage reads: “Our house is an educational institution, where poor children will be educated to become useful members of human society and faithful believers in the Church of Jesus Christ.”28 Schneller tried to change—like Zeller in Beuggen—the social behaviour patterns of the orphans by implementing Protestant work ethics. Samir Akel therefore mentions that among Schneller’s main pedagogical aims were cleanliness, passion and continuity at work, teamwork and mutual responsibility.29 Johann Ludwig Schneller was a man who executed his professional goals in a paternalistic manner, and like many Western missionaries he developed an attitude of cultural superiority over the Arabs. In his eyes, the local population had inherited a tendency towards laziness and inactivity. He wanted to cure his orphans from this habit with the help of Protestant work ethics: Hard work and nothing else, is the thing we have to train this people in. Why do we teach children, if we do not enable them to make a living afterwards in ‘real life’? Shall we educate beggars? Why do we teach Christian faith and ethics? Shall we create pious, but workshy chatterboxes? No, this is not our goal. Therefore, we have decided that no student will leave our house before the age of 18 years. If one forbade us to train the boys in craftsmanship and other jobs, we would close down our orphanage directly.30

26

Cf. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 78. The SyrO statutes are reprinted in Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 201–205. 28 Ibid., 201: “Unser Haus ist eine Erziehungs- und Bildungsanstalt, wo arme Menschenkinder zu nützlichen Gliedern der menschlichen Gesellschaft erzogen und gebildet werden, und zu wackeren Gliedern der Kirche Christi Jesu, unseres Herrn.” 29 Cf. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 103. 30 Quoted in L. Schneller, Vater Schneller. Ein Patriarch der Evangelischen Mission im heiligen Lande (Leipzig, 1925), 109 27

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The curricula were planned in such a way that after an eight-year elementary school, the students could choose between two ways of further training. The normal way led to a craftsmanship or commercial education in the vocational training centre. The students were educated by experienced, spiritually schooled artisans. Thus, professional and religious education went hand in hand. The graduates were mostly employed in the Orphanage’s own workshops, which not only coached the young boys, but also contributed enormously to the economical success of the Syrian Orphanage. The best graduates were given the opportunity to continue education in the ‘seminary’ founded in 1885, where teachers and evangelists for the Protestant schools and congregations were instructed.31 The brightest of this group even got the chance to study at the American University in Beirut. Thus, the Schneller school also paved the way for the making of a Protestant bourgeoisie class in the Middle East. Two relatively famous graduates of the SyrO-seminary were the doctor and ethnologist, Dr. Taufik Canaan,32 and the first bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan, Dr. h.c. Daoud Haddad. The religious dimension of the schools was cultivated in the Orphanage’s own chapel—so that in a way the SyrO became a congregation in its own right. The SyrO-director was the main pastor of the school. He regularly contacted the pupils for pastoral counselling. Regularly held prayers were also part of the curriculum. Furthermore, Schneller used the special aura and history of Jerusalem to make tours with his children to the Holy Places.33 Today one would speak of ‘event-pedagogy’ or ‘extracurricular ways of learning’, when a teacher walked the Via Dolorosa in Lent or visited Bethlehem around Christmas. The second and third Schneller generations also supported the ‘inculturation’ of Protestant faith in the Middle East, when they translated a hymn book into Arabic, which was published in 1928.34 Protestant identity was further stabilised by the making of a SyrO-

31

Cf. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 80f. Cf. the research project by the University of Leipzig on Canaan’s contribution to ethnology—www.uni-leipzig.de/forsch95/13000/13240_p.html. 33 Cf. Hanselmann, Deutsche evangelische Palästinamission, 91–94. 34 Cf. the protocol of the meeting of the SyrO board No. 183—28.11.1928, LKA Stuttgart K8/8. 32

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alumni network which covered the entire Levant, for which the Schnellers published their own German-Arab magazine.35 Expansion of the institutions in the second and third Schneller generations The second and third Schneller generations enlarged the institution. In 1908, the Philistaeic Orphanage was founded in Bir Salem near Jaffa—including a plantation with 28,000 citrus and orange trees. It was followed in 1910 by the Nazareth-based Galilean Orphanage and in 1929 by the agricultural farm Chemet Allah. The SyrO had become the largest protestant missionary institution in the Holy Land.36 The Jerusalem compound was modernised and extended. In 1923 the Schnellers owned a 53-hectare estate with 30 houses. In 1936—at the peak of the development—there were even 51 houses. In the first half of the twentieth century the industrial branch of the Orphanage had expanded enormously and included a great variety of workshops: printing works, a metal workshop, a tailor’s, a carpenter’s workshop, a cobbler, a tiled stove constructing unit, a brickwork’s, a fleet of vehicles, a power station, a petrol station, a construction team, a bookshop, a pottery, and two shops—one in the City and one on the Schnellers’ compound—to sell the institution’s own products. The SyrO started only with boys, but from 1869 it also opened a house for girls. It was run until the outbreak of the Second World War. The main responsibility for the education of girls was, however, delegated to the Kaiserswerth-run girls school Talitha Kumi. Since 1851 its headmistress was the Kaiserwerther Deaconess Charlotte Pilz, who, with her strong personality, marked the history of German Protestants in the Holy Land for five decades.37 The SyrO itself had

35 I am obliged to Mr. Arno G. Krauss (Fellbach near Stuttgart) for the information that some issues of the magazine are now located in the LKA Stuttgart (K8/77 and 78) as well as in the Archive of the “Institut für Auslandsbeziehungen” in Stuttgart. 36 See H.-W. Hertzberg, Art. “Syrisches Waisenhaus” in Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart3 Vol. 6 (1961), 583. 37 See J. E. Eisler, “Charlotte Pilz und die Anfänge der Kaiserswerther Orientarbeit,” in A. Nothnagle, H.-J. Abromeit, F. Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem. Festschrift zum 150jährigen Jubiläum von Talitha Kumi und des Jerusalemsvereins (Leipzig 2001), 78–95.

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co-educational schools, which was the result less of progressive educational ideas than a lack of teachers. The girls also got extra-curricular courses in needlework, housekeeping and other traditionally female subjects and were not registered for professional or commercial courses. The role model of the Schnellers kept in line with Evangelical mainstream. Furthermore, the Schnellers opened a school for blind children, for whom no education was normally available at the time. This branch developed successfully, and a workshop for the blind as well as print shops for literature for the blind were created. For decades, the diversity of supply was the secret of the success of the Syrian Orphanage. Apart from the traditional fundraising in the Germany, the profits of the industrial branch of the SyrO financed the entire organisation. Only during the time of crisis in the inter-war period did this plan not work out. If one analyses the Schneller institution from a social-historical point of view, it is obvious that the curriculum—again similar to Zeller’s conception—firstly aimed at the making of a class of Christian artisans and workers. In a second step Schneller tried to create an Arab Protestant, academically trained middle class. To reach this further aim, Johann Ludwig Schneller decided to open the schools for children from well-off families. They should become the ‘yeast’ necessary for the baking of a good ‘cake’ out of both poorer and richer children.38 Schneller’s statistics show that from 1860–1877 the school saw 210 graduates, out of which 88 came from fellahin, 64 from artisan, and 16 from merchant families. Twenty pupils were children of beggars, ten were foundlings. Only twelve came from well-educated families, two even from the family of an imam. The sociological composition mirrors the educational profile. If we look at the national and religious backgrounds of the graduates, we learn about the high social mobility of the lower strata of Arab society in the second half of the nineteenth century and the mixed, international and intercultural inhabitants of Jerusalem. Only one half of the students came from Palestine, 30% from Syria, 7% from Africa, and the rest from Turkish provinces and Armenian territories.

38

Cf. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 70.

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Those who graduated from the Syrian Orphanage had—in an underdeveloped country like Palestine at that time—much better chances to make a good career than even the students at Beuggen. An education in the SyrO was a high privilege, and became a trademark for Protestantism and German education in the region. With its concepts and its wide range of subjects on offer, the Syrian Orphanage—like other European missionary schools—was part of and at the same time shaped a comprehensive social and cultural process of transformation. Until the late nineteenth century a methodologically orientated education, like the French Lyceé, the German Gymnasium, or modern universities, was unknown in the Middle East. Because Schneller’s orphans were mostly baptised Christians, Schneller in fact proselytised among the Eastern Churches and was not a missionary in the true sense of the word. An important indicator for this phenomenon are the confirmation statistics, which illustrated Schneller’s successful campaign. Until 1911 the Orphanage educated nearly 1200 pupils. Only 11 were baptized, but 376 asked for the confirmation in the Protestant rite. Among them 171 had a Protestant background, but 151 originated from the Greek-Orthodox Church, 24 from Catholicism, the rest from other Oriental Churches.39 After a quarter of a century, the Syrian Orphanage could present remarkable results: it had started with 41 boys in 1860; 25 years later it trained 124 children. In 1939 the classes were filled with 400 pupils of both sexes. After 25 years the school counted 414 graduates, after 40 years 1200, and after eighty years even 3500. The central problem before the turn of the century was a legal one. The entire land- and real estate still belonged to the Schneller family. The size of the institution made a change of the legal status necessary. Therefore, the Evangelische Verein für das Syrische Waisenhaus was founded on June 12 and 13 in 1889. This foundation took over all the property as well as all financial and administrative obligations.40 The initial idea—to unite the SyrO with the other important Protestant missionary organisation in the field, the Jerusalemsverein—failed, due

39

Cf. Raheb, Das reformatorische Erbe, 74–76. For legal questions, cf. A. Hueber, “Vereinsrecht im Deutschland des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in O. Dann (ed.), Vereinswesen und bürgerliche Gesellschaft in Deutschland (München, 1984), 124f. and 130f. 40

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to financial, administrative, and personal matters. The chance to develop a ‘corporate identity’ for the German Palestine Mission was gambled away. The following decades saw a competition for funding and supporters between two miniature missionary organisations, which led the German historian Frank Foerster to comment that “in times when money was needed and difficult to get, the existence of two associations in the same field of work was an unhappy situation.”41 It was even more complex, because after the end of the joint bishopric the Evangelische Jerusalem-Stiftung was founded in 1889 as an umbrella organisation for all church-related institutions, but not for the missionary ones. In this period of transformation a split between church and mission took place, which marked and weakened Protestantism in Palestine for decades. It was, however, not a random act that the SyrO had chosen— like many church-independent missionary organisations—the legal form of an association.42 The Board of trustees was an example of a conservative-bourgeois organisation, in which clergymen and businessmen were the majority. The main office was in Cologne, where the president of the SyrO-association, Ludwig Schneller, lived. He took care of the management and fostered strong links to the Landeskirchen of Hannover, Wurttemberg, Bavaria, and the Rhine-Province. After the death of the founder in 1896, his son Theodor—brother of Ludwig —took over the leadership of the Jerusalem schools. The brother managed to establish a national and international network of friends and sponsors, and even found supporters in Switzerland and among the German-born Protestants of North America. Due to the very successful international fundraising the further expansion of the institutions could be financed. The end of the First World War brought a shock to the Schnellers. The British conquered Palestine, expatriated all Germans, and confiscated their property. From 1918–1921 the Syrian Orphanage was under the supervision of the Public Custodian for Enemy Property, which handed it over to the Near East Relief—an American welfare organisation to help the Armenians. The Near East Relief paid

41 Cf. F. Foerster, Mission im Heiligen Land. Der Jerusalems-Verein zu Berlin 1852–1945 (Gütersloh, 1991), 79. 42 Cf. Th. Nipperdey, “Verein als soziale Struktur in Deutschland im späten 18. und 19. Jahrhundert”, in Th. Nipperdey, Gesellschaft, Kultur, Theorie, Göttingen 1976, 174–205.

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rent to the Schnellers and kept the house going. In 1921 the Jerusalem compound returned—after negotiations and public pressure by the American SyrO friends—into the hands of the Schnellers.43 They decided to build up the institution quickly. The 1920s became such a successful decade that the SyrO-board decided to separate the industrial and the educational branches in 1927.44 The decision, combined with a further expansion of the institution, was risky. In hindsight it had been a management mistake to buy the farm Chemet Allah, which never re-financed the investment. The workshops were not able to make great profits in the 1930s and became an enormous burden on the entire organisation. In 1932 the actual profit was only 76 British pounds. When the German government put up extremely strict currency transfer regulations from 1932 onwards, which were intensified after Hitler came to power in 1933, the SyrO faced huge economical problems. The recession touched the SyrO, which by then could not compensate financial failures by the transfer of donations from Germany to Palestine. Deficit followed deficit: by 1938 the SyrO-budget showed a loss of £2244.45 The expenses were £6944, which could not be covered by takings of £4700, which consisted of donations from Switzerland (£2200), from the USA (£1800), £500 student-fees, £100 fees by “Journeymen”, £60 donations from Palestine and £40 rents. One thing is obvious: without the help of the Swiss and American friends the SyrO would have been totally ruined. They even continued their help during the Second World War. During the 1930s the Schneller Institutions employed about one hundred people; half of them came from Germany, and the other half from Palestine. 400 students were trained at that time. The more successful the institutions became, the more they turned into a modern social services enterprise and became—even before one state-run school in Haifa and a Catholic institute in Bethlehem— the largest professional education centre in mandatory Palestine. Among the trainees orphans had become a minority. The Schnellers of the second and third generations eagerly kept an eye out for good

43 Cf. the protocol of the SyrO Board meeting No. 147—12.1.1921, LKA Stuttgart K8/7. 44 Cf. Raheb, Das reformatorische Erbe, 154. 45 Cf. Lambeth Palace Library/Lang Papers 176.

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students from all social backgrounds. The idea of education of the poor had faded away from the late nineteenth century onwards. The workshops needed a high professional level of craftsmen and workers. Experts were by then hired for their expertise, and not on the basis of their personal faith. This caused serious problems. The workshops were run for the economic success of the entire organisation, but lost their missionary profile, as both Ludwig and Hermann Schneller, the late-1930s director sadly remarked. The German artisans would not even participate in services.46 He realised that the workshops had become an “alien element” within the SyrO.47 To keep the Protestant profile of the Syrian Orphanage and its branches, Herman Schneller suggested using the family’s good contacts with institutions of Social Protestantism in Germany. Thus, the SyrO-board recruited Deacons and artisans from the von Bodelschwinghsche Anstalten in Bethel and the Ludwigsburg Karlshöhe— the most modern institutions in this field. It is noteworthy that the Schnellers, across all generations, seemed to have a keen ability to establish solid working relationships with the strongest partners available at the time. Hermann Schneller himself had worked some months as an intern and ‘right hand’ of the famous director Pastor Friedrich von Bodelschwingh the Younger in Bethel, and learnt how to manage a large Social Protestant institution. Political attitudes of the Schneller family The Schneller family was always strongly royalist, patriotic, antisocialist and conservative. On the one hand this position was typical for mainstream Protestantism at the time. On the other hand the Schneller’s attitudes originated from a very close link to the House of Hohenzollern. The young Ludwig Schneller—son of the orphanage’s founder— worked as a curate at the court of Potsdam for the Oberhofmeister Graf Perponcher, and later on as “Hilfspfarrer” at the Potsdamer Garnisonskirche. In Potsdam he came to know—from a distance—

46 See the letters by L. Schneller to H. Schneller of 27th of September 1939 and to the SyrO board of 1st of October 1939, and H. Schneller’s answer of 22nd of August 1939, LKA Stuttgart K8/87. 47 Ibid.

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Prince and later Emperor William II.48 A deeper contact developed during the famous Oriental journey of 1898, when the Emperor opened the Church of the Redeemer on the Muristan. During this journey in Palestine, Schneller was a tour guide to William II, and also showed him the Syrian Orphanage.49 This laid the corner stone for a life-long positive relationship between the theologian and the Prussian king. However, already in 1884, William I had given a very generous gift—the bells for the new tower of the institution—to the then 25-year-old Syrian orphanage. And when the Protestant Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria Foundation and the Catholic Dormition Abbey were opened in 1910, and the 50th jubilee of the Schneller-Schools was celebrated, the party was opened by nobody less than Crown Prince Eitel-Friedrich of Prussia himself.50 For decades the Board of the Syrian Orphanage Association had sent its magazine—the Bote aus Zion—to William II. Even during the First World War at the Emperor’s headquarter in Spa, the Emperor found time to thank the SyrO for its magazine and in 1916 ordered a “gift of mercy”— 3000 Reichsmark—to be sent in order to enable the Jerusalem institution to continue its “beneficent work”.51 The special recognition by the head of state deepened the close relationship, and among the board members of the SyrO-association, William was seen as “friend and supporter” of the Schneller schools.52 During Imperial days the Schneller Family was—together with the German Consul-General— the driving force behind the celebration of national feasts.53 They 48 Cf. L. Schneller, ‘Unser Kaiser’. Achte Folge der Weihnachts-Erinnerungen (Leipzig, 1927), 7 and A. Katterfeld, D. Ludwig Schneller (Lahr-Dinglingen, 1958), 49f. He acquired the position in Potsdam with the help of Oberhofprediger Rudolf Kögel, who was fascinated by a patriotic speech of the young student during a dinner at the Berlin Wingolf Fraternity. 49 Cf. L. Schneller, Die Kaiserfahrt durchs Heilige Land (Leipzig, 71899) and Das Syrische Waisenhaus in Jerusalem. Seine Entstehung und seine Geschichte (Köln, 1927), 11; Katterfeld, D. Ludwig Schneller, 94–97; Th. H. Benner, Die Strahlen der Krone. Die religiöse Dimension des Kaisertums unter Wilhelm II. vor dem Hintergrund der Orientreise 1898 (Marburg, 2001), 314. 50 Cf. Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission, 119 and Niemann, Redet mit Jerusalem freundlich!, 26–30. 51 Cf. the protocol of the SyrO Board meeting No. 142—11.10.1916, LKA Stuttgart/K8/7, in which William’s letter is quoted. 52 Cf. Niemann, “Redet mit Jerusalem freundlich!,” 27. 53 The German-speaking Diaspora in Jerusalem continued the tradition of celebrating national feasts after 1918. The strained relations between German Protestantism and the Weimar Republic can be illustrated by the example of the Church of the Redeemer in Jerusalem. Widespread resistance to the new democracy resulted in

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also remained loyal towards the House of Hohenzollern after the end of the monarchy. After 1918, Ludwig Schneller even fought in public for the restitution of the monarchy in Germany and orchestrated a panegyric on the virtues of the late Emperor.54 For this, historian and journalist E. Roth once characterised him sarcastically as the “herald” of the house of Hohenzollern and “loudest voice of Protestant Germanness under Prussian leadership.”55 This might be somewhat exaggerated, because it overestimates Ludwig Schneller’s position inside German Protestantism. However, one aspect might be true: the president of the SyrO-association was one of the most active and successful authors of popular books with theological, geographical and royalist contents. Therefore, his elaborations captured and reflected the spirit of his times quite well. Among his manifold publications, two monarchist books received a special place: in 1927 Ludwig Schneller published the memories of his meetings with William II under the title “Our Emperor”, and in late 1932 and early 1933 he launched a partisan pamphlet with the programmatic title “Make the Emperor come back!”—which however could not change the course of history to any degree. The special relationship between L. Schneller and William existed not only on the level of public statements. It became very personal symbolic actions, to which national Diasporas abroad were naturally highly sensitive. In 1926, the cabinet of Hans Luther (DVP) allowed German consulates to hoist both the new flag (black-red-golden) and the old flag (black-white-red). This regulation did not concern churches abroad. In Imperial days it was common for churches to fly flags on religious holidays and the Emperor’s birthday. After 1919, German Protestantism had the problem of hoisting the “distasteful” new colours. To avoid any act in favour of the new political system, the Church created a flag of its own: a violet cross on a white background. In Jerusalem too, the German Lutherans were moved by the “Flaggenstreit” in 1927. Because all Christian institutions flew flags on Sundays, the Germans would have had to hoist the black-redgolden flag. A strong royalist attitude among the “Palästinadeutsche”, which was based on the strong interest of the Hohenzollern family in Jerusalem and the opening of the “Church of the Redeemer” by William II in 1898, hindered Propst Hertzberg to act in this way. The only possible compromise was to hoist the newly developed “church-flag.” Cf. the letter of Propst Hans-Wilhelm Hertzberg to the Board of the Evangelische Jerusalem-Foundation, Jerusalem, the 1st of June 1927, Evangelische Zentralarchiv Berlin 56/38. 54 Cf. the nationalistic and royalistic publications by L. Schneller, Holt doch den Kaiser wieder!, (Leipzig, 21933); Unser Kaiser; Allerlei Pfarrherrn (Leipzig, 1925); KönigsErinnerungen (Leipzig, 1926). 55 See E. Roth, Preußens Gloria im Heiligen Land. Die Deutschen und Jerusalem (München, 1973), 100f.

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when Ludwig took up the job to become his last pastor, travelling regularly from Cologne to Doorn in the Netherlands, where William lived after his resignation. Schneller celebrated services for the exmonarch, and baptized his grandchildren. The conservative political point of view was surely the reason why all socialist tendencies inside the workshops were attacked by the directors from the very beginning. Zionists—and later also German craftsmen—had imported social democratic and unionist ideas and spread them among the Arab employees.56 However, the Schneller family—who clearly sympathized with the Arab positions in the political conflict with Zionism—always tried to remain neutral in terms of politics. Thus, they did not support any national politics; they even forbade their workers to participate in any political activity.57 The fear that the Arab-Zionist-conflict would reach the SyrO was not unreasonable. During the late 1930s several bomb attacks—some from Zionist partisans—were made against the Protestant institution.58 When the general strike of 1936–39 broke out, with which the Arab National Movement wanted to press the British mandatory government to carry out certain favourable political decisions, but which also had a social political dimension demanding more cooperation and more workers participation, trade unionists provoked workers of the SyrO to participate in the general strike. The director, Hermann Schneller, reacted immediately and dismissed the strikers. But he also sent—due to the Awakened-Evangelical tradition of the house—an evangelist to convert the young workers from socialism and extreme nationalism back to the “love of the Lord Almighty.”59 For those who realised and regretted their failure, the way back to the Orphanage was open. The question of workers’ participation in the leadership of the workshops was not even worth a discussion for the Schneller family. 56 Cf. A. Flores, Nationalismus und Sozialismus im arabischen Osten. Kommunistische Partei und arabische Nationalbewegung in Palästina 1919 –1948 (Münster, 1980) and “The Palestine Communist Party during the Mandatory Period: An Account of Sources and Recent Research,” in Peuples Méditerranées 11 (1980). 57 Cf. H. Schneller’s letter to the German Consul-General from 8th of January 1938, Israel State Archive/RG 67/525/1383. 58 Cf. the letter by the German Consul-General to the Auswärtige Amt from 29.7.1938, Israel State Archive RG 67/525/1383. Also see Palestine Post Nr. 3691— 5.7.1938 und Nr. 3691—6.7.1938. 59 Cf. the protocol of the SyrO Board meeting No. 216—23.1.1935, LKA Stuttgart K8/8.

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It is not surprising that during the 1930s the SyrO developed some sympathies for National Socialism. Still, attitudes towards the Third Reich differed inside the Schneller family. While the president of the home-association, Ludwig Schneller, always kept a distance to the nazi authorities and never joined the party, his nephews Hermann and Ernst Schneller became active members in the NSDAPgroup in Palestine, and were even elected to the leadership of the Jerusalem-branch of the NSDAP.60 It is difficult to evaluate whether the younger members of the Schneller family did so out of personal conviction or simply out of political opportunism in order to safeguard the (at that time highly regulated and difficult) transfer of money from Germany to Palestine. To secure the future of the institution was always the first and foremost goal of the Schneller family, for which a good contact with political authorities was needed. A more or less neutral eyewitness like the religious socialist Heinz Kappes, who had chosen Jerusalem as his exile during the Third Reich, once said that his old friend Hermann Schneller was a clearcut nationalist, but not a Nazi.61 During the so-called “Kirchenkampf ” (Church Struggle) the SyrO never took sides publicly, but fostered discrete links to the Confessing Church. Most of the theological employees were recruited out of the illegal seminaries of the Confessing Church. These religious resistance movements against the Nazi regime were not of interest for the British mandatory government when the Second World War broke out. As at the end of the First World War, the British confiscated all German property. All Protestant missionary institutions were handed over to the Committee for the Supervision of German Educational Institutions, which was headed by the Anglican Bishop.62 Herman Schneller remained co-director of the SyrO until 1940. After the German attack on France, all Germans were interned in camps in Galilee, and then moved to Australia. Hermann Schneller lived through the war-years in an Australian prisoners-of-war-camp.

60

Cf. R. Balke, Hakenkreuz im Heiligen Land. Die NSDAP-Landesgruppe Palästina (Erfurt, 2001). 61 Cf. the remarks in M. Jacobs, “Religiöser Sozialismus und Mystik. Ein Blumhardtianer berichtet aus seinem Leben und Werden (Interview mit Heinz Kappes),” in A. Schindler, R. Dellsperger, M. Brecht (eds.), Hoffnung der Kirche und Erneuerung der Welt. Beiträge zu den ökumenischen, sozialen und politischen Wirkungen des Pietismus (Festschrift A. Lindt) (Göttingen, 1985), 318–344. 62 Cf. Foerster, Mission im Heiligen Land, 183ff.

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The Second World War marked the end of the Schneller schools in Palestine. The State of Israel expropriated the Syrian Orphanage and turned it into military barracks—called the “Schneller Camp”—, which are now in a desolate shape. In recent years, the Israeli architect and city-planner Gil Gordon has developed plans for a conversion into a lively new quarter inside Jerusalem’s New City.63 The tradition of the original institutions is continued by two Schneller Schools in Lebanon, in Khirbet Kanafar (1952) and in Amman (1966). Concluding remarks As one of the most innovative philanthropic and educational institutions of the country, the Syrian Orphanage has widely contributed to the modernisation of Palestine in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The period of setting up the SyrO and its flourishing coincide with an ambivalent period of political and cultural transformation in the Middle East, provoked by the end of the Ottoman Empire, the presence of Western influence and power in the region, the creation of the mandatory systems, and the start of the Jewish national project in Palestine. On the one hand, this contribution was functional, professional, religious and ethical. On the other hand, there was no direct input by the Schnellers to the making of democratic civil society or to workers’ participation. The Syrian Orphanage understood itself as a missionary institution, which in fact did not practise mission in day-to-day-life. This is typical for quite a number of Protestant Middle East Missions. The Syrian Orphanage was a Protestant philanthropic and educational institution with industrial and agricultural branches. Regarding the actual number of converts, the missionary approach totally failed— as was the case for more or less all missions to Muslims in the Orient.64

63 Cf. M. Waiblinger, “Johann Ludwig Schneller und das Syrische Waisenhaus in Jerusalem,” in Jahrbuch Mission (2000), 102; 108f. and G. Gordon, “Erhaltungsplan für das Gelände des Syrischen Waisenhauses,” in Mit Ehren ihr eigen Brot essen. Johann Ludwig Schneller. Begründer des Syrischen Waisenhauses in Jerusalem. Ausstellungskatalog zur Sonderausstellung im Ostereimuseum (Sonnenbühl, 2002), 33–35. 64 Cf. Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 305 and S. Akel, Der Pädagoge und Missionar, 5.

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The statistics on confirmation, however, indicate successful proselytism among the members of the Eastern Churches. The remarkable similarity in structure between the Schneller Schools in Palestine and the institutions of Social Protestantism in Germany contributes to the argument that the Syrian Orphanage is an example of the extension of the historiographical boundaries between home missions and overseas missions. The Schneller Schools were something like an institution of the home mission abroad. The close exchange and the similarity between the Social Protestant institutions at home and abroad are based on a transfer of ideas and willingness to reform from South Germany to Palestine—like the idea of conclusive social reform, the return to faith, a Protestant work ethic in order to convert the poor to useful members of society, and the fight against revolutionary socialism. As in the Social Protestant institutions in Germany, the success on the social level—but not in the missionary field—catalysed a subcutaneous self-secularisation process. In this process of transformation, the good reputation of the Schneller Schools remained intact. Until today, graduates of Schneller Schools are regarded as very well educated people and have good chances on the labour market. These days, the Schneller Schools have even extended their trademark. The Schneller-School in Lebanon has built up a vineyard, which cultivates great red cuvees from Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah grapes that have won a Vinalies d’Or and a Gold Medal at the International Paris Vine-Fair in 2004. Surprisingly—or not—the brand name of the Lebanese product is: Johann-Ludwig-Schneller-Wine. A strange ending for what started as a highly idealistic missionary project.

DIE DEUTSCHEN KURDENMISSIONEN IN MAHABAD IN IHREM KONTAKT ZU DEN ORIENTALISCHEN CHRISTEN Martin Tamcke Einleitung Zwei deutsche Missionen wirkten zeitlich aufeinander folgend in Mahabad, jener Stadt, die Mitte des 20. Jahrhunderts einmal für kurze Zeit das Zentrum des Experiments einer unabhängigen kurdischen Republik war. Zunächst hatte sich hier von 1903 bis 1908 die Deutsche Orientmission niedergelassen.1 Ihr folgte die Hermannsburger Mission 1910 bis 1941 gemäß einer Übereinkunft auf der Weltmissionskonferenz in Edinburgh.2 Aus der Wirksamkeit der zweiten Mission können wir hier aus Platzgründen aber nur ein Einzelbeispiel aus der frühesten Phase berücksichtigen.3

1 Die Geschichte der Deutschen Orientmission in Persien ist noch unaufgearbeitet. Wesentliche Hilfsmittel sind aber mit der Mikrofiche-Edition und deren Begleitbänden vom Johannes-Lepsius-Archiv in Halle zur Verfügung gestellt worden: Hermann Goltz, Axel Meissner, Deutschland, Armenien und die Türkei 1895– 1925 (München, 1998–2004). Die Geschichte der Deutschen Orientmission stellt dar: Richard Schäfer, Geschichte der Deutschen Orient-Mission (Potsdam, 1932). Die Stationen im persischen Aserbaidschan berücksichtigt auch: Uwe Feigel, Das evangelische Deutschland und Armenien, Die Armenierhilfe deutscher evangelischer Christen seit dem Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts im Kontext der deutsch-türkischen Beziehungen, Kirche und Konfession 28 (Göttingen, 1989). 2 Einen ersten Überblick bietet: Martin Tamcke, “Die Arbeit im Vorderen Orient 3. Die Kurdenmission,” in Ernst-August Luedemann, Vision: Gemeinde weltweit, 150 Jahre Hermannsburger Mission und Ev.-luth. Missionswerk in Niedersachsen (Hermannsburg, 2000), 534–541; vgl. auch: Martin Tamcke, “Die Hermannsburger Mission in Persien,” in Martin Tamcke, Andreas Heinz, Zu Geschichte, Theologie, Liturgie und Gegenwartslage der syrischen Kirchen, Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte 9 (Hamburg, 2000), 231–265. 3 Zur weiteren Arbeit der Mission vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Der kurdische ‘Fremdling aus Persien:’ Die Affäre Mirza Asis Medschid,” in Michael Buck, Holger Holtz, Ulrich Schoenborn, Brücken bauen, Festschrift für Wolfgang Günther (Hermannsburg, 2000), 117–126; Martin Tamcke, “Deutsche Missionare unter kurdischen Muslimen, Erfahrungen aus der Geschichte der deutschen lutherischen Mission in Sautschbulagh/ Mahabad,” in Walter Beltz, Jürgen Tubach, Regionale Systeme koexistierender Religionsgemeinschaften, Hallesche Beiträge zur Orientwissenschaft 34 (Halle, 2002), 307–322; Martin Tamcke, “Archivalien der deutschen Kurdenmissionen als Quellen zur

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Die Phase der Deutschen Orientmission in der Stadt ist identisch mit der Wirksamkeit ihres Missionars Detwig von Oertzen dort. Von Oertzen, zuvor schon in Khoi und Urmia für die Mission in Persien tätig, war im Dezember 1904 frisch vermählt dorthin zurückgekehrt.4 Nach Aufenthalten in den Stationen in Choi und Urmia zog das Ehepaar 1905 in die neue Missionsstation in Mahabad ein, gemeinsam mit ihrem syrischen Diener und dessen Familie und Schwägerin sowie einem zum Christentum konvertierten Juden.5 Die amerikanische Mission, deren im Judenviertel gelegenes Haus die Deutschen mieteten, hatte dort zuvor nur aus einem syrischen Mitarbeiter bestanden.6 Von Oertzen begann sofort damit, zunächst die persische Sprache zu erlernen und hatte Pläne für das Erlernen des Kurdischen.7 Es war sein erklärter Vorsatz, es mit seiner Mission besser machen zu wollen als andere der Missionierung der Muslime sich verschreibende Missionen es getan hatten. Wir waren uns darüber klar, daß wir durchaus nicht den Weg gehen wollten, der in der Muhammedanermission immer wieder den Missionaren als verlockend erschienen war, nämlich unter den einheimischen Christen, etwa unter den Armeniern, Syrern oder Kopten zu arbeiten, in der Hoffnung, so allmählich durch sie die muhammedanische Umgebung zu beeinflussen.8

Geschichte Kurdistans am Beispiel des Missionars Bachimont (1878–1921),” in Martin Tamcke, Koexistenz und Konfrontation, Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte 28 (Hamburg, 2003), 445–453; Martin Tamcke, “Les documents d’archives de la mission allemande au Kurdistan considérés comme sources d’informations sur l’histoire du Kurdistan,” Études kurde 5 (2003), 25–51. 4 Vgl. Hans Wilhem Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, Ein Christuszeuge im Orient, mit einem Geleitwort von Karl Heim (Gießen, 1961), 43. Bei dem von Hertzberg herausgegebenen Text handelt es sich um die von Detwig von Oertzen verfasste Autobiographie. 5 Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 46. D. von Oertzen und Frau, “Sautschbulak,” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 98–100 (es handelt sich um einen von Detwig von Oertzen am 26. Mai 1905 abgefassten Bericht), hier: 100. D. von Oertzen, “Einzug in Sauschbulak,” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 104–105. Einen deutschen Mitarbeiter für diese Aufgabe hatte die Mission zunächst vergeblich gesucht, vgl. Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 42. 6 Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 47; Von Oertzen und Frau, “Sautschbulak,” 100. 7 Von Oertzen, “Einzug,” 105. Vgl. D. v. O. [d.i. hier und im Folgenden: Detwig von Oertzen], “Sprachaufgaben in Kurdistan,” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 83–87. 8 Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 48. Die Quellenzitate werden hier in ihrer originalen Orthographie belassen.

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Neben den Kurden registrierte er in 60 bis 70 Häusern Juden, die alsbald einen unverkennbaren Schwerpunkt der Arbeit bildeten.9 Türkische und persische Kaufleute erwähnte er, daneben einige wenige Syrer, Kaufleute aus Mosul.10 Interessanterweise unterließ er in diesem Bericht jegliche Notiz zum Armenierviertel der Stadt, das von Anfang an als tragender Boden der Arbeit mit in Anspruch genommen wurde. Doch schon die Beschreibung der ersten Sonntagsgemeinden ist unmissverständlich: obwohl die Arbeit sich an die Kurden richtete, sammelten sich die ortsansässigen Christen dazu.11 Zunächst waren dies die Mitglieder der armenischen Gemeinde, sodann syrisch-protestantische Christen aus Urmia oder Mosul, die nur zeitweilig in der Stadt lebten oder die es hierher verschlagen hatte. Als im September einmal eine Reise von Mahabad nach Urmia gemacht werden musste, waren es drei armenische Kaufleute, die sich zur Verabschiedung der Missionarsleute einfanden.12 Dennoch sah von Oertzen die Arbeit unter Juden und Armeniern als von “geringer” Bedeutung an. Mit Klubabenden zu Allgemeinbildungszwecken erreichte er die männliche kurdische Jugend und gründete einen Bildungsverein und eine Gruppe von Abstinenzlern.13 Nur in zwei Ausnahmefällen aber gelangte er darüber hinaus in die Sphäre, in der es anhand der Bibellektüre ernsthaft um sein missionarisches Anliegen ging. Detwig von Oertzen widmete sich während der ganzen Zeit der Erforschung der kurdischen Sprache.14 Obwohl Kurdisch die Umgangssprache sei, entstehe Literatur nur in Persisch, daneben sei über die syrischen und türkischen Kaufleute aus Mosul Arabisch in Gebrauch,

9

Von Oertzen und Frau, “Sautschbulak,” 100. Vgl. D. von Oertzen, “Unsere Arbeit unter den Juden in Sautschbulakh,” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 136–140; D. v. O., “Die Arbeit unter den Juden in Kurdistan,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 26–29; Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 56–61 (Unter den Juden in Sautschbulagh). Von Oertzen knüpfte direkt an die Wirksamkeit des Judenmissionars Wolff an, der bereits mit demselben jüdischen Mitarbeiter, Mirza Schmul, an der Übersetzung einiger Bibelteile in den Dialekt der Juden dieser Gegend gearbeitet hatte, Von Oertzen, “Unsere Arbeit,” 138. 10 Ebd. 11 Ebd. Vgl. [D.] v. O., “Berichte aus den Missionsarbeit 3. Sauschbulak, 14. Mai 1906,” Der Christliche Osten (1906) 7, 105–106 (Bericht zu einer innerarmenischen Auseinandersetzung während einer Versammlung mit armenischen Christen). 12 I. v. O. [d.i. Juliette von Oertzen], “Von Sautschbulakh nach Urmia, Ein Reise-Idyll aus Persien,” Der Christliche Orient (1906), 7, 45–47. 13 Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 54–55. 14 D. v. O., “Sprachaufgaben,” 83–86.

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sprächen die Juden einen regional gesonderten Dialekt, während die Christen Armenisch und Syrisch sprächen. Von Oertzen war erfüllt von seiner selbstgestellten Aufgabe, “auch die kurdische Sprache einzufügen in den hundertstimmigen Chor der Zungen, die des Herrn Lob verkündigen.” Oskar Mann, den deutschen Philologen, der als erster eine Grammatik des in Mahabad üblichen Mukrikurdischen verfasste, hatte von Oertzen bereits bei seinen Erkundungsritten durch Kurdistan 1903 kennen gelernt. Von Oertzen engagierte denselben jungen Mann, Sohn des Richters am Ort, den Mann für seine Studien als Mitarbeiter gewonnen hatte. Dieser Sprachlehrer begleitete von Oertzen später auch bei seiner Rückkehr nach Deutschland und arbeitete dann in Deutschland weiter an Übersetzungen und der Erfassung der Sprache.15 Neben der Arbeit an einem kurdisch-deutschen und deutsch-kurdischen Wörterbuch sammelte er Heldengedichte, Liebeslieder, Märchen, Rätsel und Sprichwörter, um einen literarischen Fundus für die dann geplante Übersetzung des Markusevangeliums vorzubereiten.16 Die Übersetzung wurde später vom bedeutenden Göttinger Orientalisten Friedrich Carl Andreas überarbeitet und schließlich im bulgarischen Philippopel in der Missionsdruckerei der Orientmission gedruckt.17 Ganz selbstverständlich versorgte von Oertzen die priesterlosen armenischen Gemeinden. Dabei beschränkte er sich nicht auf die Stadt, sondern begab sich regelmäßig auch in ein Dorf mit einer größeren armenischen Gemeinde ohne Geistlichen, um dort zu predigen. So hatte die Arbeit von Anfang an Menschen, die sie trugen: die einheimischen armenischen und syrischen Christen. Sowohl die Geschichte der alten syrischen Gemeinden am Ort als auch die der armenischen interessierten von Oertzen nicht. Beide Kirchen und Gemeinden waren ohne priesterliche Versorgung. Die orientalischen Christen wussten in der Zusammenarbeit mit der Mission die für sie geltenden Grenzen einzuhalten. In einem Ort

15

Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 63. Teile der Sammlungen wurden veröffentlicht, z.T. mit dem kurdischen Text in Umlautschrift in: Detwig von Oertzen, “Etwas vom kurdischen Volk und Geist,” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 165–169. Zu den Hermannsburger Aktivitäten auf dem Feld der Übersetzungen vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Bibel und Übersetzung in Persien,” in Stephan Liebner, Bibel—übersetzen und verstehen (Hermannsburg, 2003, 2. erweiterte Auflage), 52–58 (1. Auflage unter dem Titel “Schnee in der Sahara,” Hermannsburg, 1999, dort: 44–48). 17 Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 63. 16

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stieg der Missionar zwar bei einem befreundeten Armenier ab und wohnte in dessen Haus, doch für die missionarischen Aktivitäten mochte der Armenier der Mission sein Haus nicht zur Verfügung stellen.18 Die Mission mietete also kurzerhand einen Laden in der Stadt an, von dem aus dann die Arbeit getätigt wurde. Das erschien den Beteiligten so beispielhaft zu sein, dass sie überlegten, ob man dies Verfahren nicht auch in Mahabad selbst kopieren sollte. Andererseits machte von Oertzen seine ersten Übersetzungsversuche zum Neuen Testament mit Hilfe von Armeniern eines Dorfes, die selbst Kurdisch sprachen. Er überschritt also die religiöse und ethnische Grenze. Als von Oertzen die so entstandenen Übersetzungsteile seinem kurdischen Sprachlehrer vorlegte, kommentierte der die Vorlage unter Rückgriff auf die ethnisch-kulturelle Differenz zwischen Armeniern und Kurden. Fehler seien nicht in diesen Übersetzungsstücken enthalten, “aber das haben sicher Armenier dir gesagt, ein Kurde würde so nie sagen.”19 Von Oertzen begriff hier anhand dieses Vorganges, dass Kurden und Armenier sich unterschiedlich in derselben Sprache ausdrückten wegen ihrer unterschiedlichen ethnischen Zugehörigkeit. Obwohl die Mission immerhin einen Artikel erscheinen ließ, der den plumpen Verunglimpfungen der orientalischen Christenheit im Zuge der Kaiserreise 1898 wenigstens moderat in einem Artikel “Sind die orientalischen Christen ein moralisch tiefstehendes Volk?” entgegentrat und auf die sozialen und psychischen Ursachen für deren äußeres Erscheinungsbild hinwies, zögerte Missionsdirektor Lepsius nicht, aufgrund der nach Europa wandernden Nestorianer, die hier um finanzielle Unterstützung nachsuchten, das Volk insgesamt moralisch ins Zwielicht zu setzen. Auf sie in der Missionsarbeit zu rechnen sei vollkommen verfehlt wegen ihres Hasses gegen die Muslime und deren hochmütiger Verachtung für die unterworfenen Christen.20

18

D. v. O., “Die Arbeit,” 27. Von Oertzen, “Etwas vom kurdischen Volk,” 165. 20 H.C. [Verfasser unbekannt], “Sind die orientalischen Christen ein moralisch tiefstehendes Volk?” Der Christliche Orient (1906) 7, 22–26. Der Artikel endet nicht mit einer Parteinahme für die orientalischen Christen. Es sei “keine einfache Sache,” die gestellte Frage zu beantworten. Doch die Schnelligkeit, mit der oft die Frage beantwortet werde, werde vielfach auf “Oberflächlichkeit des Urteils beruhen.” Der Artikel nimmt direkt Bezug auf die Kritik Friedrich Naumanns an der orientalischen Christenheit. Auch in Hermannsburg beschäftigten die kollektierenden Nestorianer die Mission, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Johannes Pascha (1862–1911): Der Leidensweg eines ‘kollektierenden Syrers’,” The Harp (1998/99) 11/12, 203–223; Martin Tamcke, 19

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“Europäer können das Vertrauen von Kurden und Persern gewinnen, eingeborene Christen vermögen die Kluft der Jahrhunderte nicht zu überbrücken,” hieß seine Schlussbilanz.21 Das Bild von einer sich scheinbar gut entwickelnden Mission zerriss jäh. In der Nacht vom 15. auf den 16. Februar wurde das Missionshaus von drei kurdischen Räubern heimgesucht, die den dort sich aufhaltenden Studenten und Sprachforscher Immanuel Dammann ermordeten und den Missionar von Oertzen verwundeten.22 Dammann hatte sich seit Sommer 1906 in der Stadt aufgehalten und arbeitete mit von Oertzen an dessen sprachlichen Studien. Von Oertzen meinte, hinsichtlich eines potentiellen Raubüberfalles die nötigen Vorkehrungen getroffen zu haben.23 Er hatte keinen Hehl daraus gemacht, dass er stets nur wenig Geld im Haus hatte, das er sich jeweils von einem Geschäftsfreund, einem syrischen Kaufmann, holen ließ. Dem Überfall war eine abendliche “Armenierversammlung”—eine Art Bibelund Gebetsstunde—vorausgegangen. Dann fielen die drei Kurden

“Pascha, Johannes,” Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon 18 (Herzberg, 2001), 1118–1119. Neben den kollektierenden Nestorianern waren ohnehin stets Bitten um finanzielle Hilfen zu beantworten, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Wie Kascha Ablachat zu einem Pferd kam, Eine Episode aus dem Jahr 1911 zur Mentalität des ostsyrischdeutschen Kulturkontaktes,” in Bärbel Köhler, Religion und Wahrheit, Religionsgeschichtliche Studien, Festschrift für Gernot Wießner zum 65. Geburtstag (Wiesbaden, 1998), 401–410. Außerdem führte das Engagement der Mission zu verstärkten Kontakten mit ostsyrischen Migranten, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “‘. . . damit die Unschuld und Ehre gerettet und das Recht geschützt und der Betrug offenbar und gestraft werde’, Ein Exempel aus der ersten Migrationswelle der Nestorianer im Südrußland des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in Martin Tamcke, Syriaca, Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte 17 (Hamburg, 2002), 449–455; Martin Tamcke, “Nach Rußland, Deutschland, ‘Ja über den Ozean in das Land der Freiheit und des Dollars’, Streiflichter aus den deutschen Akten zur ersten Migrationswelle der Ostsyrer (Assyrer/‘Nestorianer’),” The Journal of Eastern Christian Studies (2002) 54, 25–38. 21 Dr. [ Johannes] Lepsius, “Warnung vor kollektierenden Syrern,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 103–107, hier: 107. 22 Erste Anzeige: Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, Umschlagblatt innen der Rückseite; D. von Oertzen und Frau, “Eine schreckliche Nacht,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 33–36 (Brief aus Mahabad vom 20. Februar 1907); Hertzberg, Detwig von Oertzen, 61–63. Missionsdirektor Lepsius schaltete sich umgehend ein und schloss an den Bericht über den Tathergang einen Artikel an, der zu vermehrter Unterstützung der Arbeit angesichts der Gewalttat aufrief: Dr. Johannes Lepsius, “Nachwort an die Freunde der D.O.M.,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 35. Wenig später veröffentlichte er zu seiner Entlastung den letzten an ihn gerichteten Brief des ermordeten Immanuel Dammann, den dieser drei Tage vor seinem Tod an ihn geschrieben hatte: I. Dammann, “Ein Brief von Immanuel Dammann an Dr. Lepsius,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 41–42. 23 Von Oertzen und Frau, “Eine schreckliche Nacht,” 33.

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im Schutz der Nacht in die Mission ein und überfielen zunächst Dammann, dann die Schwester Paulat, und schließlich erschienen sie bei von Oertzen. Überraschenderweise zogen die Räuber nach Aushändigung der Wertsachen ab. Erst danach wurde die Leiche Dammanns gefunden, den der syrische Diener schlafend wähnte, ehe von Oertzen ihn mit Stichwunden übersät in seinem Bett liegend vorfand. Der herbeigeholte syrische Arzt konnte nur noch den Tod feststellen. Der Leichnam wurde dann nicht auf dem weit vor der Stadt liegenden armenischen Friedhof bestattet, der von Oertzen “trostlos” erschien, sondern gegen hohe Bezahlung auf dem Grundstück der armenischen Kirche unter einem Mandelbaum.24 Zur Trauerfeier in der Missionsstation sammelten sich die Christen aller Konfessionen aus der Stadt und einige Kurden, Türken und Perser. Die Mordtat zog eine tief greifende Verunsicherung in der christlichen Bevölkerung nach sich. Sie und die Ausländer empfänden ihre Existenz in der Stadt als gefährdet, wenn nun nicht gemeinsam seitens der deutschen und der persischen Regierung durchgegriffen werde und die Mörder überführt würden.25 Zwar verfolgte von Oertzen das Schicksal der Mörder und übernahm auch den Verdacht, dass der leitende Mollah der Gegend dazu angestiftet habe, die “Ausländer zu ermorden,” aber es erwies sich, dass der Vorgang als solcher in den Kontext der politisch instabilen Lage gehörte, die alsbald von der Revolution gekennzeichnet war und das Land erschütterte.26 In diesem Aufruhr war dann auch das Ende der Mission gekommen, und selbst der kurze Zeit später zu Verhandlungen in der Stadt weilende persische Gouverneur musste vor den Kurden, die sie besetzten, fliehen. Die Deutschen unterhielten während der Zeit ihrer Anwesenheit Kontakte zu ihrer Sicherheit lediglich zum Gouverneur, der diplomatischen Vertretung des Deutschen Reiches und den persischen Regierungsstellen. Der ausschließliche Kontakt zu den staatlich etablierten Kräften ließ sie die örtlichen Konflikte weithin aus deren Perspektive sehen, trotz des Engagements für die kurdische Sprache. Damit aber erkannten

24

Von Oertzen und Frau, “Eine schreckliche Nacht,” 35. Ebd. Die Beteiligten am Mord starben nicht aufgrund der Verfolgung durch die Justiz, aber die Umstände ihres jeweiligen Ablebens empfand von Oertzen als deren Bestrafung: D. v. O., “Die Strafe der Mörder,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 49–51 (Bericht aus der Stadt vom 8. März 1907). 26 [D.] v. O., “Die Lage in Persien,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 145–147; [Anna Harnack], “Unruhen in Persien,” Der Christliche Orient (1907) 8, 147–148. 25

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sie die realen Machtverhältnisse nicht. Und während die Mollahs gegen sie hetzten, erklärte von Oertzen dem Gouverneur unzweideutig seine missionarischen Ziele, die aber gerade nicht auf eine schnelle Missionierung ausgerichtet seien, da eine schnelle Konversion nicht substantiell sei.27 Die großen Aufgaben literarischer Art, Wörterbuch, Grammatik, Übersetzung des Neuen Testaments, ein Traktat zum Lebensgang Jesu, seines Todes und der Auferstehung, sowie die geplante Gründung einer kurdischen Schule auf Wunsch der kurdischen Honoratioren blieben in der Folgezeit unausgeführt. Die Hermannsburger Mission Die Hermannsburger erbten nicht nur die aufgegebene Arbeit von der Potsdamer Mission, sie teilten auch deren Reserve gegenüber den orientalischen Christen als potentiellen Mitarbeitern in der Mission, obwohl sie seit Jahrzehnten bereits ausschließlich mittels syrischer Priester in der Kirche des Ostens evangelistisch wirkten.28 Schon im Nachgang zu seiner Visitation der mit der Hermannsburger Mission verbundenen Gemeinden hatte sich das Vorstandsmitglied Karl Maurer, Pfarrer im elsässischen Büst, grundlegend für eine künftige Arbeit unter den Kurden eingesetzt und deutlich gemacht, wer diese zu leisten haben werde. “Die Christen sind in Persien das schwächere, besiegte Volk, sie sind auch durch einen langen Druck vielfach moralisch geschädigt. Meist ist der Mohammedaner zuverlässiger und sauberer als der Syrer. Unter europäischer Leitung aber würden gewiß auch Syrer [. . .] wertvolle Missionsdienste tun können.”29 Damit war die Richtlinie für die künftige Arbeit seitens des einzigen Verantwortlichen, der jemals selbst vor Ort sich aufhielt,

27

“Berichte aus der Missionsarbeit 3,” 106. Überblick dazu in Luedemann, Vision: Gemeinde weltweit, 511–548. Einzeluntersuchungen zur Frage konfessioneller und missionarischer Koexistenz: Martin Tamcke, “Die Konfessionsfrage bei den lutherischen Nestorianern,” Aram (1993) 5, A Festschrift for Dr Sebastian P. Brock, 521–536; Martin Tamcke, “Die Kontroverse um die Gültigkeit der lutherischen Ordination anstelle der Priesterweihe in der Kirche des Ostens (Nestorianer),” in Michael Kohlbacher, Markus Lesinski, Horizonte der Christenheit, Festschrift für Friedrich Heyer zu seinem 85. Geburtstag, Oikonomia 34 (Erlangen, 1994), 268–274. 29 Karl Maurer, “Bericht über die Visitation in Persien, erstattet am 27. Januar 1910,” 10. Circular des Vereins für lutherische Mission in Persien vom 28. Juli 1910, 4 (vorhanden im Archiv der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Mission in Hermannsburg). 28

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aufgestellt. Die Leitung kam nur Deutschen zu. Syrer standen unter dem Verdacht des “Defekts”.30 Sie kamen daher nur als Untergebene und Helfer in Betracht. Die Verantwortlichen in Hermannsburg teilten derlei Auffassungen und suchten entsprechend intensiv nach einem Kandidaten der Theologie, der bereit wäre, in die Missionsarbeit unter den Kurden einzutreten. Doch man fand niemanden. Zuletzt entschied man sich, zunächst mit einem syrischen Mitarbeiter allein und in Kooperation mit einer lutherisch-amerikanischen Missionsgesellschaft die Arbeit zu beginnen. Damit entsprachen die Hermannsburger ihrem Teil der Abmachungen, die sie mit ihren amerikanischen Kollegen während der Weltmissionskonferenz in Edinburgh getätigt hatten.31 Der Syrer, der zu diesem Dienst schließlich allein in Betracht kam, war der gerade in Freiburg sein Vikariat ableistende Lazarus Jaure.32 Als sich der Freiburger Vikariatsleiter nun ausführlich zu

30

Der wegen seiner Verunglimpfung der orientalischen Christenheit seitens der Orientmission angegriffene Theologe und liberale Politiker Friedrich Naumann sah die Dinge gar nicht so viel anders: “Die einmal überwundenen Christen sind kein Sauerteig im Muhammedanismus geworden. [. . .] Sie sind Salz, das dumpf geworden ist.” Er ging davon aus, dass nur die Europäer einen Wechsel herbeiführen könnten. “Der Muhammedaner fühlt, daß der moderne abendländische Christ sein Herr sein wird. Er grollt dem Europäer, daß er sein Haupt so hoch trägt, wie es der orientalische Christ nie wagen würde, aber ändern kann er es nicht”; Friedrich Naumann, Asia (Athen, Kostantinopel, Baalbeck, Damaskus, Nazaret, Jerusalem, Kairo, Neapel) (Berlin, 1899), 107/106. Vgl. Hans-Walter Schmuhl, “Friedrich Naumann und die ‘armenische Frage’, Die deutsche Öffentlichkeit und die Verfolgung der Armenier 1915,” in Hans Lukas Kieser, Dominik Schaller, Der Völkermord an den Armeniern und die Shoah, The Armenian Genocide and the Shoah (Zürich, 2002), 503–516. 31 Vgl. Karl Röbbelen, “Die Weltmissionskonferenz in Edinburgh,” Hermannsburger Missionsblatt (1910), 265–272. Bereits im Vorfeld hatte Röbbelen im Verbund mit den lutherischen Amerikanern das Programm für die Arbeit abgesteckt, es mehrmals öffentlich vorgestellt und schließlich als gesonderte Schrift herausgebracht: Karl Röbbelen, Die von den deutschen und amerikanischen Lutheranern betriebene Evangelisationsarbeit in Persien (Leipzig o.J. [1909]). Zu Röbbelen vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Röbbelen, Karl,” in Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon 8 (Herzberg, 1994), 503–504; Martin Tamcke, “Karl Röbbelen: Zivilcourage für den fernen Nächsten, Von einer frühen Beziehung des Missionsseminars zu den gefährdeten Völkern des Ostens,” Jahrbuch der Evangelisch-Lutherischen Mission (1994), 93–97. 32 Zu ihm: Martin Tamcke, “‘Eingeborener Helfer’ oder Missionar? Wege und Nöte des Lazarus Jaure im Dienst der Mission,” in Martin Tamcke, Wolfgang Schwaigert, Egbert Schlarb, Syrisches Christentum weltweit (Festschrift Wolfgang Hage), Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte 1 (Münster, 1995), 355–385. Zuvor war auch mit dem Syrer Luther Pera, später Priester der Kirche des Ostens in Urmia, verhandelt worden. Doch hatte der schließlich einen Einsatz in Mahabad abgelehnt, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Urmia und Hermannsburg, Luther Pera im Dienst der Hermannsburger Mission in Urmia 1910–1915,” Oriens Christianus (1996) 80, 43–65. Luther Pera wurde alsdann zu einem Brennpunkt des Widerstandes gegen

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Lazarus gegenüber dessen Vorgesetzten Röbbelen ausließ und dabei keinen Zweifel daran aufkommen ließ, dass ihm der junge Mann zu intellektuell und zu wenig fromm erschien, antworte ihm Röbbelen mit scheinbar einleuchtenden Erklärungen. Seine Fehler sind die seiner Nation. Diese Orientalen, besonders wohl die von semitischer Herkunft, haben eine Abneigung gegen körperliche Tätigkeit; es scheint, daß man diese im Orient gering schätzt, oder daß man körperliche Untätigkeit für Würde hält. Der Sinn für die Natur scheint dem Orientalen auch abzugehen, oder er ist ganz anders geartet als der unsrige, was damit zusammenhängt, daß ihnen das nicht in der Weise eignet, was wir Gemüt nennen. Der Orientale ist bei aller Phantasie doch vorwiegend nüchterner Verstandesmensch u.[nd] zeichnet sich durch berechnende Klugheit aus. In Persien ist das Schachspiel erfunden, die Araber haben die Mathematik gefördert, Mohammed war ein schlauer Diplomat. Nun ist der Orientale religiös angelegt, aber die Religion ist für ihn besonders Sache des Wissens, der Überzeugung, des Interesses, beliebter Gegenstand der Diskussion. Sie beherrscht viel weniger das sittliche Leben, als wir dies gewohnt sind zu verlangen. Zum Teil mag es uns auch nur so scheinen, als ob die Religion weniger sittlichen Einfluß bei ihnen hat, weil das morgenländische Sittlichkeitsideal etwas anders geartet ist als das abendländische.33

Lazarus befinde sich aber auf dem Wege wachsender Selbsterkenntnis und Selbstprüfung. Sorgen bereitete Röbbelen das Fehlen eines deutschen Missionars. Könnte man den mit senden, könnte der dort Lazarus an die Arbeit stellen. Auch die bereits abgesandten Amerikaner würden einen deutschen Missionar als Kollegen seitens des Vereins erwarten. Röbbelens Idee war also, den Syrer unter Anleitung des deutschen Missionars arbeiten zu lassen, den es aber nach wie vor nicht gab. Auf der Weltmissionskonferenz war vereinbart worden, dass die deutsche und die amerikanische lutherische Mission auf dem Arbeitsfeld die Union der Kirche des Ostens in der Urmia-Region mit der Russischen Orthodoxen Kirche, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Luther Pera’s Contribution to the Restoration of the Church of the East in Urmia,” The Harp (1995/96) 8/9, 251–261. Zur Person Luther Peras vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Pera, Luther,” in Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon 18 (Herzberg, 2001), 1138–1139. Luther Pera war der Sohn des die Bewegung der lutherischen Nestorianer begründenden Pera Johannes, vgl. Martin Tamcke, “Pera Johannes,” in René Lavenant, Symposium Syriacum 1992, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247 (Rom, 1994), 361–369; Martin Tamcke, “Pera Johannes,” in Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchenlexikon 18 (Herzberg, 2001), 1136–1138. 33 Brief von Karl Röbbelen aus Hermannsburg vom 13.1.1911 (Dossier Lazarus Jaure, Privatbesitz M. Tamcke).

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kooperieren würden. Dazu wurde nun Lazarus Jaure allein entsandt. Er schien gut vorgebildet. Im Studium hatte er sich nicht nur mit Syrisch, sondern auch mit Arabisch intensiv befasst, hatte Koranstudien betrieben und erste Kenntnisse des Kurdischen erworben. Aufgrund seiner umfassenden akademischen Vorbildung war Lazarus ein Ausnahmefall und in seinen Argumenten ist modernes europäisches Denken zu Rasse und Nation wirksam. Zugleich aber war er gerade aufgrund dieser Voraussetzung empfindlicher als viele andere und konnte schärfer die Konflikte selbstbewusst benennen, denen andere einheimische Mitarbeiter weniger selbstbewusst ausgeliefert waren.34 Die Arbeit des Lazarus Jaure unterschied sich erheblich von der der Amerikaner am Ort. Während diese die Konfrontation bewusst nicht vermieden—etwa durch Glockengeläut, das zu einem ernsthaften Tumult führte, der nur durch das militärische Eingreifen der Türken, Russen und Regierungsvertreter am Ort nicht darin gipfelte, dass die Mission gestürmt und die Missionare gelyncht worden wären— setzte Lazarus die Sprachstudien zum Kurdischen fort und unterrichtete Söhne der Noblen und einen Mollah etwa in der französischen Sprache, suchte also den Anschluss an die vorhandenen gesellschaftlichen Strukturen.35 Lazarus Jaure wirkte bereits in dieser Weise in Mahabad, als der Vorstand des Vereins für lutherische Mission in Persien darauf verfiel, ihn in die amerikanische Mission einzugliedern. Es war zu Unregelmäßigkeiten bei einem der syrischen Mitarbeiter der amerikanischen Missionare gekommen. Dies schürte das Misstrauen bei den Amerikanern, und diese übertrugen ihr Misstrauen auf ihre Partner in Deutschland. Von diesen Zweifeln umgetrieben erschien die Unterstellung des Lazarus unter die amerikanische Missionsleitung folgerichtig. Am 20. August 1912 reagierte Lazarus Jaure auf den Vorschlag des Vereinsvorsitzenden.36 Er erklärte sich einverstanden, “äusserlich in die amerikanische Missionsorganisation” einzutreten. Zugleich hatte er Bedenken. 34 Zum Studium des Lazarus Jaure ausführlich: Martin Tamcke, “Der schwere Weg zum Akademiker, Die Nöte des Lazarus Jaure während seines Universitätsstudiums in Deutschland,” erscheint im Sammelband zum Symposium der syrischen Akademiker 2004 (im Druck). 35 Vgl. generell dazu: Martin Tamcke, “Idee und Praxis der Islammission bei den ‘lutherischen Nestorianern’,” in René Lavenant, Symposium Syriacum VII, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 256 (Rom, 1998), 315–322. 36 Brief des Lazarus Jaure aus Gogtapa vom 20. August 1920 (Dossier Lazarus Jaure, Privatbesitz M. Tamcke).

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martin tamcke Aber durch die Erfahrung veranlasst will ich nicht unterlassen deutlich zu sagen: ich unterstelle mich den amerikanischen Missionaren als älteren Collegen, als erfahreneren Mitarbeitern; ich unterstelle mich ihnen nicht, weil ich Syrer und sie Amerikaner sind, nicht, damit sie Herren sind und ich Handlanger, nicht damit sie befehlen und ich gehorche, nicht damit sie mich beobachten und in jedem Brief ein Bild von mir zeichnen.

Lazarus setzte voraus, dass diese ausdrücklichen Bedingungen bei seinem Vorgesetzten Verwunderung und möglicherweise Unwillen hervorrufen könnten. Er hielt seine Forderungen dennoch für unumgänglich. Aber wer die Missionsbetriebe in Persien gesehen hat, der wird die Notwendigkeit solcher Vorbeugungsmaßregeln wissen. Rassenhochmut hat in der syrischen Urmiamission sehr viel verdorben, Rassenhochmut, nicht weil der innere Wert mehr war, sondern weil das Geld in der Tasche war. Derartigen Rassenunterschied möchte ich in unserer Mission nicht wahrnehmen.

Ausdrücklich ersuchte Lazarus Röbbelen darum, dass der ihm diese unverschleierte Meinung nicht übel nehmen solle. Im November befand er sich wieder in Mahabad und schien mit der Situation zufrieden.37 Sein Misstrauen wegen der Gerüchte über die Amerikaner wich. Es werde in Vertrauen verwandelt durch den von allen Mitarbeitern der Mission aufgestellten Grundsatz, “dass ein jeder gewertet wird nach dem, was er leistet und vor allen Dingen nach der Treue, die er seinem Berufe beweist.” In dieser Auffassung glaubte sich Lazarus mit den amerikanischen Kollegen und dem deutschen Missionsvorstand einig. Als er dann aus gegebenem Anlass jedoch sich dieser Grundlage bei einem seiner amerikanischen Kollegen versichern wollte, entgegnete dieser ihm, dass sich die Amerikaner als “foreigner missionaries,” ihn aber als “native worker” betrachteten, “dass sie also tatsächlich ‘Herren und ich Handlanger’, dass sie ‘zu befehlen und ich zu gehorchen’” hätte.38 Er fühlte sich in seinen Vorahnungen bestätigt, reagierte heftig und empfand sich “einfach niedergeschlagen.” Ihm sei das Herz zusammengepresst worden, sein Arbeitseifer sei lahm gelegt.

37 Brief des Lazarus Jaure aus Sautschbulak (d.i. Mahabad) vom 3. November 1912 (Dossier Lazarus Jaure, Privatbesitz M. Tamcke). 38 Brief des Lazarus Jaure aus Sautschbulak (d.i. Mahabad) vom 8. Januar 1913 (Dossier Lazarus Jaure, Privatbesitz M. Tamcke).

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Und warum das? Warum diese Schranke? Sie sind Amerikaner und ich Syrer—in dieser ‘nationalen Unterscheidung’ ist alles gefasst, und man sollte sie durch keine Wendungen und Drehungen zu beschönigen und umzudeuten versuchen.

Ausführlich setzte er sich mit der Begründung seiner untergeordneten Stellung auseinander. Weil er Syrer, sie aber Amerikaner seien, darum könnten sie ihn nur als “native worker” ansehen. “Ist das nicht nationale Verachtung und Geringschätzung? Soll auch in der Mission die vorgegebene nationale Vorzüglichkeit nicht weichen?” Der Geringschätzung der Amerikaner stellte er trotzig und selbstbewusst entgegen: “Im übrigen: mit Stolz bin ich Syrer und Gott sei Dank, dass ich es bin.” Sein Vater genieße als Priester der Kirche des Ostens hohes Ansehen. Daraus gewann er ein weiteres Argument. “Ferner: sind sie Amerikaner, so habe ich einen Vater, dem jeder, der zu ihm kommt, die Hand küssen muss.” Er, der stets von Unterstützungen anderer Geldgeber hatte sein Studium finanzieren müssen, wurde nun schmerzlich vom amerikanischen Missionsarzt Dr. Edman auf seine Armut hingewiesen. “Wir haben für unser Studium Geld bezahlt, Sie nicht.” Lazarus beschränkte sich auf die schlichte Mitteilung dieses Arguments, weil er glaubte, das Argument spreche für sich und dokumentiere die amerikanische Haltung zur Genüge. Dass derselbe Amerikaner gar davon ausging, dass die Amerikaner “mehr Fähigkeiten” besäßen, “die bei den ‘Eingeborenen’ nicht zu finden wären,” konnte Lazarus gar mit einem “relativ ist das ja ganz richtig” aufnehmen, um dann aber das Argument gegen seinen Gesprächspartner zu wenden, dessen Arbeit darunter leide, dass er sich nicht imstande sah, das Kurdische zu erlernen. “Ich, ein Syrer, musste ihm oft Dolmetscherdienste tun.” Auch ein Syrer könne amerikanische Fähigkeiten der schärfsten Kritik unterziehen. Amerikanische Fähigkeiten gestand er zu, aber anderen sollten deren Fähigkeiten doch nicht abgesprochen werden. Schwerwiegender war das amerikanische Argument, sie selbst seien treu, aber den “‘native workers’ gehe das Verantwortungsgefühl ab.” Selbst diesbezüglich musste Lazarus Jaure der auch ihm bekannten Vorfälle wegen ein relatives Recht zugestehen. Er frage sich aber: “kann man deshalb auch mir die Treue absprechen?” Es gehe ihm nicht einfach um die Befriedigung seiner Ansprüche, sondern sein Problem sei die “nationale Geringschätzung,” vor der er sich “grundsätzlich entschieden verwahren möchte.” Diese Geringschätzung sei es, die jede Zusammenarbeit unmöglich mache. Die Haltung der Amerikaner habe zur

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Folge, dass man in Urmia ganz allgemein Mission und Betrug in eins setze. Lazarus scheute sich nicht, die gleiche Stellung für sich zu beanspruchen, die ein Amerikaner einnehmen würde, der in die Region käme. Wie leicht hingegen Lazarus menschlich zu gewinnen war, zeigt eine von ihm selbst berichtete Episode, in der sich die Frau des Missionsarztes beklagte, weil er sich nicht die Zeit nahm, sich bei einem Besuch kurz zu setzen. Als er erwiderte, erst müsse aus dem Weg geräumt werden, was im Weg stehe, antworte sie lachend nur “all right, all right,” und er fasste wieder Vertrauen und fühlte sich wieder anerkannt. Solche Gespaltenheit war eine auch anderenorts feststellbare Konsequenz der Doppelorientierung im Blick auf die europäische Moderne und die Erneuerung des ethnischen Selbstbewusstseins.39 Im Hinblick auf die Europäer sehnte man sich danach, von ihnen anerkannt zu werden, und nahm dafür auch Überanpassung in Kauf; angesichts der eigenen Ethnie entwickelte sich ein Stolz, der einen fruchtbaren Boden für die werdenden Nationalismen abgab. Die Lazarus zugestandene Position als Lehrer überschritt er nunmehr eigenmächtig, indem er gegen Bezahlung der kurdischen Elite Unterricht erteilte. Die Einnahmen verweigerte er der Mission mit Hinweis auf seine Ausgaben für Forschungsliteratur und sein wesentlich kleineres Gehalt im Vergleich zu dem der Amerikaner. Auch dieser Umstand führte in eine heftige Kontroverse mit den amerikanischen Missionarskollegen und der deutschen Leitung. Der Konflikt ging einher mit den schon erwähnten grundlegenden Unterschieden in der Missionsmethode. Dieser Unterschied erwies sich als nicht an den Syrer gebunden. Er wurde der Anlass zum Bruch zwischen deutscher und amerikanischer Mission in der dritten Phase der Arbeit nach dem Krieg, als die Deutschen schwerpunktmäßig ärztliche Mission betrieben. Doch in dieser ersten Phase waren sich die deutschen Verantwortlichen dieser Dimension noch nicht bewusst und sahen das Problem vorrangig als das eines “einheimischen Mitarbeiters.” Lazarus Jaure wurde auf eigenen Antrag schließlich aus der Mission entlassen, weil diese seinem Wunsch, sich gegen die amerikanischen Missionsmethoden zu verwahren, nicht entsprechen mochte.40 39 Vgl. z.B. die entsprechenden Erscheinungen beim indisch-bengalischen Schriftsteller Rabindranath Tagore: Martin Kämpchen, Rabindranath Tagore (Reinbek, 1997, 2. Auflage), 8. 40 Vgl. Tamcke, “Eingeborener Helfer,” 375–376.

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Schluss Die sich ganz auf die Kurden konzentrierenden Missionen in Mahabad befassten sich nur beiläufig mit Selbstverständnis und Kultur der für sie arbeitenden einheimischen Christen. Fast nichts ist aus den Archivalien zu erfahren zur Geschichte der armenischen oder der syrischen Gemeinde der Stadt. Die Christen wurden ganz als Teil der lokalen Kultur betrachtet, deren religiöse Dominante eben der Islam war. Man bediente sich der alteingesessenen Christen, aber man diente ihnen nicht—zumindest nicht nach den eigenen Vorsätzen. Wo orientalische Christen eigenverantwortlich im Geist ihrer akademischen Ausbildung in Europa zu ihrer Geschichte angepassten Arbeitsstrategien fanden, erweckten diese das Misstrauen der in der Mission Verantwortlichen. Einer selbstbewussten Emanzipation orientalischer Christen gegenüber reagierten die Missionen desorientiert. So wenig die Missionen der Anlass für die anhaltende Gewalt am Ort waren, so wenig waren sie imstande, die verfestigten Strukturen aufzubrechen. Der neue Glaube konnte die überkommenen Strukturen nicht ändern, er förderte sie aber auch nicht und ist für die alsbald weiter wachsende Spirale der Gewalt zwischen muslimischer Mehrheit und orientalischen Christen nicht verantwortlich zu machen.41

41 Diese These vertritt auch in der Neuauflage seiner Arbeit John Joseph, The Modern Assyrians of the Middle East: Encounters with Western Christian Missions, Archeologists, and Colonial Powers, Studies in Christian Mission 26 (Leiden, 2000). Schon James Farwell Coakley stellte die einseitige Sicht der Missionen im Werk von Joseph in Frage (vgl. dessen Rezension in Hugoye (2002) 5,1 und die Antwort von John Joseph dazu in Hugoye (2002) 5,2). Zu den Gewalttätigkeiten in der Urmia-Region aus der Sicht der Hermannsburger Mission: Martin Tamcke, “‘Warum ist es so gekommen?’ (Karl Röbbelen), Die Hermannsburger Erfahrung des Nestorianer-Genozids,” in Wolfgang Günther, Verstehen und Übersetzen (Hermannsburg, 2000), 87–108; allgemein: Martin Tamcke, “Der Genozid an den Assyrern/Nestorianern (Ostsyrische Christen),” in Tessa Hofmann, Verfolgung, Vertreibung und Vernichtung der Christen im Osmanischen Reich 1912–1922, mit einem Geleitwort von Bischof Dr. Wolfgang Huber, Studien zur Orientalischen Kirchengeschichte 32 (Münster, 2004), 95–110. Aus der älteren Literatur verdienen Beachtung: Rudolf Strothmann, “Heutiges Orientchristentum und das Schicksal der Assyrer,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte (1936) 55, 17–82, sowie: Gabriele Yonan, Ein vergessener Holocaust: Die Vernichtung der christlichen Assyrer in der Türkei, Pogrom 148/149 (Göttingen, 1989) (anders als der Titel glauben macht, behandelt das Buch auch die Vorgänge in Persien/Iran, aus wissenschaftlicher Sicht ist es leider von erheblichen Mängeln gekennzeichnet).

GERMAN “HOME MISSION” ABROAD: THE ORIENTARBEIT OF THE DEACONESS INSTITUTION KAISERSWERTH IN THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE Uwe Kaminsky My paper presents the preliminary results of a wider research project on the change from the Kaiserswerth mission abroad in the nineteenth century, to the modern development aid in the twentieth century, using the example of the Deaconess Institution of Kaiserswerth. In my view the Deaconess Institutions of Kaiserswerth in foreign countries excellently illustrate the history of social and cultural globalisation. They contributed to the social infrastructure in German foreign politics and constituted a pioneering part of the German colonial mission. It is important to look at the development of the Kaiserswerth Institutions abroad to identify traditional patterns, changes, and differences with other mission activities. The concept of Orientarbeit The deaconesses’ house in Kaiserswerth (near Düsseldorf ) was founded by Theodor Fliedner (1800–1864) and his wife Friederike née Muenster (1800–1842) in 1836. It is said to be the “cradle of the female diaconate.” Fliedner and his two wives—after the death of his first wife Friederike he married in 1843 Caroline Bertheau (1811–1892)— trained women to work in education, nursing and in the parish. They became prominent in the foundation of Deaconess houses in Germany and abroad. Fliedner sent Deaconesses to work in hospitals and parishes in England and the United States back in the 1840s. In 1851 he started the Orientarbeit with the support of the Prussian King Friedrich Wilhelm IV. Two years earlier, Fliedner had stopped working as pastor of the parish of Kaiserswerth and concentrated on building up the Institution of Kaiserswerth in Germany and abroad.1 The Orientarbeit was comparable to several colonial and 1 I wish to thank Andrea Gáldy for her help in translating from the German original. All mistakes are my own. For further information see Uwe Kaminsky, “Die

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missionary activities in Palestine; however, it was one of the earliest of such activities to be started.2 On 7 December 1841 the negotiators for the Prussian and the British monarchs, Christian Carl Josias Bunsen and the Archbishop of Canterbury, agreed on the establishment of the joint Anglo-Prussian bishopric in Jerusalem (which lasted until 1886). That was the “starting point of the foundation of the influence of western countries in the Orient,”3 which was also a result of Protestant missionary interest. As to the political background, Palestine had been ‘opened’ to Western influence by the Ottoman governor of Egypt, Muhammad Ali, who conquered Syria in 1831. He had separated from the central Ottoman powers and tried to extend his sphere of influence. He allowed for the institutionalisation of religious and missionary activities. England, Russia, Austria, and Prussia helped the Ottoman Empire to defeat Muhammed Ali in 1840; because of their help the

innere Mission Kaiserswerths im Ausland. Von der Evangelisation zum Bemühen um die Dritte Welt,” in Norbert Friedrich, Traugott Jähnichen (eds.), Sozialer Protestantismus im Kaiserreich: Problemkonstellationen—Lösungsperspektiven—Handlungsprofile (Münster, 2005), 355–385; for an overview of the history of the Deaconess Institution Kaiserswerth see Ruth Felgentreff, Das Diakoniewerk Kaiserswerth 1936–1998. Von der Diakonissenanstalt zum Diakoniewerk—ein Überblick (Düsseldorf, 1998); Anna Sticker, Friederike Fliedner und die Anfänge der Frauendiakonie. Ein Quellenbuch (Neukirchen, 1961); 90 Jahre Kaiserswerther Diakonissen-Arbeit 1836–1926. Denkschrift zum 90. Jahresfest des Mutterhauses, hg. von der Direktion (Kaiserswerth, 1926); Johannes Stursberg (ed.), Jubilate! Denkschrift zur Jubelfeier der Erneuerung des apostolischen Diakonissen-Amtes (von Julius Disselhoff). Aus Anlaß der fünfundsiebzigjährigen Wirksamkeit des Diakonissen-Mutterhauses zu Kaiserswerth a. Rhein, durchgesehen und nach dem Stande vom 1911 neu herausgegeben, o.O. (Kaiserswerth, 1911); Julius Disselhoff, Der Rheinisch-Westfälische Diakonissen-Verein und seine Arbeitsstätten (Kaiserswerth, 1882). 2 Jakob Eisler, Norbert Haag, Sabine Holtz, Kultureller Wandel in Palästina im frühen 20. Jahrhundert. Eine Bilddokumentation. Zugleich ein Nachschlagewerk der deutschen Missionseinrichtungen und Siedlungen von ihrer Gründung bis zum Zweiten Weltkrieg (Epfendorf 2003); Martin Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten im Heiligen Land. Das gemeinsame Bistum Jerusalem (1841–1886) (Wiesbaden, 1998); Siegfried Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission. Handbuch ihrer Motive, Geschichte und Ergebnisse (Erlangen, 1971); Moshe Davis (ed.), Western Societies and the Holy Land (With Eyes toward Zion III) (New York, 1991); Antonie Wessels, “Christians in the Arab World and European/ American Colonialism in the late nineteenth and early twentieth Century,” in Klaus Koschorke (ed.), “Christen und Gewürze”. Konfrontation und Interaktion kolonialer und indigener Christentumsvarianten (Göttingen, 1998), 171–190; Y. Ben-Arieh (ed.), Jerusalem in the Mind of the Western World (Westport, 1997); Abdel-Raouf Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina 1841–1898. Aktivitäten religiöser Institutionen, wirtschaftliche und politische Einflüsse (Berlin, 1982); Erwin Roth, Preußens Gloria im Heiligen Land. Die Deutschen und Jerusalem (München, 1973). 3 Foerster, Mission im heiligen Land, 11.

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Ottomans had to tolerate the political, cultural, and religious influence of the European powers over Palestine.4 In Germany the result of the intervention of the European powers in this regional conflict within the Ottoman Empire was an increasing interest in the Holy Land. Their aim was a possible internationalisation of Palestine by means of emigration and colonisation. The first Bishop, Michael Solomon Alexander, was a “native Prussian of Hebrew origins”, a former Rabbi who had become a missionary of the London Missionary Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews and professor of Hebrew literature. The mission among the Jews was not very successful, and his interests turned to the evangelisation of the Christian churches in Palestine and Jerusalem.5 The German missionary activities were competing with those from the United States, England, France or Russia. Palestine as the birthplace of Christ and the place where the Great Commission originated held great intellectual and religious attraction. This “desire for Jerusalem” (“Jerusalemssehnsucht”) was particularly common among Protestants, who wanted to regain the Holy Land for the evangelical message of forgiveness by increasing their religious, cultural, and philanthropical influence.6 A few lines of the

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Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten im Heiligen Land, 11–49; Frank Foerster, Mission im Heiligen Land. Der Jerusalems-Verein zu Berlin 1852–1945 (Gütersloh, 1991), 21–40; Frank Foerster, Christian Carl Josias Bunsen. Diplomat, Mäzen und Vordenker in Wissenschaft, Kirche und Politik (Bad Arolsen, 2001), 149–162; Alex Carmel, Jakob Eisler (eds.), Der Kaiser reist in Heilige Land. Die Palästinareise Wilhelms II. 1898. Eine illustrierte Dokumentation (Haifa 1999), 23–26; Alex Carmel, Christen als Pioniere im Heiligen Land. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Pilgermission und des Wiederaufbaus Palästinas im 19. Jahrhundert (Basel 1981), 15–58; Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 1–44; allgemein siehe Alexander Schölch, “Europa und Palästina 1838–1917,” in Helmut Mejcher, Alexander Schölch (eds.), Die Palästinafrage 1917–1948. Historische Ursprünge und internationale Dimensionen eines Nationenkonflikts (Paderborn 1981), 11–46. 5 Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten im Heiligen Land, 243–245; Foerster, Mission im heiligen Land, 31. 6 Hanselmann, Palästinamission, 15; Karl Hammer, “Die christliche Jerusalemssehnsucht im 19. Jahrhundert. Der geistige und geschichtliche Hintergrund der Gründung Johann Ludwig Schnellers,” in Theologische Zeitschrift 42 (1986), 255–266; Heinz Gollwitzer, “Deutsche Palästinafahrten des 19. Jahrhunderts als Glaubensund Bildungserlebnis,” in Wolfgang Stammler (ed.), Lebenskräfte in der abendländischen Geistesgeschichte. Dank- und Erinnerungsgabe an Walter Goetz zum 80. Geburtstag am 11. November 1947 (Marburg, 1948), 286–324; Hendrik Buddeg, Andreas Nachama (eds.), Die Reise nach Jerusalem (Berlin, 1995); Frank Foerster, “Frühe Missionsbriefe und Reiseberichte als Quellen der deutschen Palästina-Mission,” in Ulrich van der Heyden, Heike Liebau (eds.), Missionsgeschichte, Kirchengeschichte, Weltgeschichte. Christliche Misisonen im Kontext nationaler Entwicklungen in Afrika, Asien und Ozeanien (Stuttgart, 1996),

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travel report of Theodor Fliedner from his “Trips to the Holy Land” published in 1858 may serve as an example: “Expect to learn about the Holy Land in more detail and to follow the footsteps of Christ, where he cried as a child, learned and worked as a young man . . .” Fliedner identified Palestine with the “Orient”, “where the sun of life was first lit” and where now “people sat in darkness and under the shadow of death, where Mohammed’s misleading moonlight gives them only a faint twilight, and where in particular the women live in deepest humiliation and neglect.” He underlined the “different Protestant missionary efforts for the hail of these countries and people, of which the sending out of our deaconesses is part (although only as a mustard seed).”7 Fliedner, who was part of a phalanx of powers competing for influence and power in Palestine, left an endless number of similar quotations behind.8 He generally followed a Christian topography, according to which Jerusalem was at the centre.9 Fliedner was strongly anti-Catholic in attitude, which was reinforced by his political antipathy to France. In 1857, Fliedner published his “Suggestion for the foundation of a German-Protestant missionary-society for the Orient.”10 This leaflet constitutes the key to his missionary efforts, characterising them as “home mission” (“innere Mission”) abroad. He said that he had tried to interest the Rhenish and the Basel missionary societies in the

89–104; idem, “Sinai und Golgatha—Die Heiliglandreise als religiöses Erlebnis und die Gründung des Jerusalemsvereins durch Friedrich Adolph Strauß,” in Almut Nothnagle, Hans-Jürgen Abromeit, Frank Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem. Festschrift zum 150jährigen Jubiläum von Talitha Kumi und des Jerusalemsvereins (Leipzig, 2001), 169–184. 7 Theodor Fliedner, Reisen in das heilige Land, nach Smyrna, Beirut, Constantinopel . . . 1851, 1856 und 1857 (Kaiserswerth [1858]), V–VI; Georg Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner. Durch Gottes Gnade Erneurer des apostolischen Diakonissenamtes in der evangelischen Kirche. Sein Leben und Wirken (Kaiserswerth 1910), II, 293–316; Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 191–209; Thorsten Neubert-Preine, “Fliedners Engagement in Jerusalem. Kaiserswerther Diakonie im Kontext der Orientmission,” in Andreas Feldtkeller, Almut Nothnagle (eds.), Mission im Konfliktfeld von Islam, Judentum und Christentum. Eine Bestandsaufnahme zum 150–jährigen Jubiläum des Jerusalemsvereins (Frankfurt/Main, 2003), 57–70. 8 Similar quotations fromf Fliedner’s letters to the Prussian King will be found in Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 295–299. 9 Silke Köser, “‘Denn eine Diakonisse kann = darf kein Alltagsmensch sein’. Zur Konstruktion und Rekonstruktion der kollektiven Identität Kaiserswerther Diakonissen im 19. Jahrhundert,” (Ms. Diss. phil. Erfurt, 2002), 97–98. 10 Armen- und Krankenfreund, Nov.–Dec. 1857, 1–12 (11 pages separately published). Martin Gerhardt, Theodor Fliedner. Ein Lebensbild (Kaiserswerth, 1937), II, 655–660.

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Orient. They, however, declared that because of their statutes they were only interested in “heathens” or non-Christians. Fliedner saw a “vocation for Evangelisation” for the German church, particularly in connection with the churches of the Orient. German liturgy (which Fliedner preferred to the “stripped down” American version of Protestantism), popular sermons, a variety of hymns, church life in general, and German theology, potentially more interesting to the Eastern churches than their own, were seen as the keys to a successful mission. In addition, Fliedner stressed the German ability to adapt to foreign languages and culture. The sending of missionary preachers and the founding of hospitals, orphanages, and schools would serve as tools in this enterprise. In these institutions German teachers would work according to their usual “thoroughness and informality” instead of “immature” and “half-educated” native teachers. This was a reference to the institutions of the London Missionary Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews. Thus he hoped to stop the ‘brain drain’ of oriental youths to Paris, not to mention the dangers of a “European Afterkultur” in France. Some Palestinians would become local missionaries. Fliedner hoped for a “reformation from within” of the local Christian churches, and did not intend to convert Muslims. He expected the Greek to dominate the Turkish in the Ottoman Empire, for he had a high opinion of Greek culture. Educational work “on a Protestant-Christian basis” for the Greek, Coptic, and Armenian women was important, because Fliedner saw the education of “future mothers” as the basis of education in general.11 These mission plans were put into practice only in the foreign institutions of Kaiserswerth. They did not strike a chord in any Protestant institution in Germany at that time. Fliedner’s attempts to found a “hostel for travelling preachers” (“Reisepredigerstift”) or an “evangelical teachers’ union in the Orient” did not work either. However, his plans to evangelise through home missions were already well-known and successful in Germany at that time. In 1849, along the lines set out by Johann Hinrich Wichern, a “central commission for home missions” (Centralausschuß für Innere Mission) had been

11 In a draft of the statutes of a German-Protestant missionary society for the Orient, Fliedner aimed at the “Evangelisation of the people of the Orient, preferably in European, Asian and African Turkey and at its borders” (quoted by Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 313).

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founded to coordinate all social work projects with missionary ideas within German Protestantism. Social and political circumstances should be changed by giving an example, by charity, by social work. Abroad as well as in Germany, this type of work should fill a gap in the life of local evangelical communities, which were seen as lacking in social services. Providing health care and education facilities enabled a building process of both parishes and German colonies. Fliedner’s requests to the King for pastors to be sent to the evangelical parishes, where the deaconesses worked, confirm this.12 The Deaconess Institution Kaiserswerth as a social infrastructure for the spreading of Protestant ideas in “Orient” The Orientarbeit of Kaiserswerth was an example of “home mission” abroad. The Kaiserswerth Institutions were not only the earliest in the region but also among the most long-lasting.13 The Talitha Kumi school in Jerusalem, which from 1975 onwards has been managed by the Berlin missionary society, still exists. In what follows the developments in Jerusalem, Bucharest and Beirut illustrate the growth of Kaiserswerth Institutions. Orientarbeit first took place in Jerusalem. In 1846 Fliedner travelled to London together with four deaconesses to take over the Germanevangelical hospital at the request of the Prussian diplomat Christian Carl Josias Bunsen. At Bunsen’s house, Fliedner met the missionary Samuel Gobat (1799–1879) whom the Prussian King had designated as the successor to Bishop Alexander in Jerusalem. Gobat and Fliedner discussed sending deaconesses to Jerusalem. It took four years, until April 1850, for Fliedner to send deaconesses and to provide the LJS missionary Heinrich Reichardt (a nephew of the very first deaconess Gertrud Reichardt), on his way to Jerusalem, with some material about Kaiserswerth. Gobat, whose parishioners suffered from all sorts

12 Berlin sent pastors not only to Jerusalem, but also to Smyrna, Alexandria, Cairo and Beirut (Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 297). 13 The Kaiserswerth projects can be compared to other German missionary projects like the establishment of a missionary colony in Jerusalem from 1846 by the “Pilgermissionsanstalt St. Chrischona” by Christian Friedrich Spittler, or to the “Syrische Waisenhaus”; Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 45–80; Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 165–190; Loeffler in this volume.

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of diseases accepted Fliedner’s offer. In September 1850, Gobat asked for two deaconesses as nurses for the next spring.14 After Fliedner met with the Prussian King, it was decided that the Sisters should act as nurses within the evangelical parish and in the missionary stations of the bishop. Furthermore, they were also allowed to teach girls. Fliedner wanted to create a training institution for female Christian nurses and teachers for the Orient.15 The building of a Deaconess Institution was seen as a first step towards covering the Orient with similar operations. This tallied with the King’s plans which focused particularly on the Prussian work in Palestine.16 First the programme was to provide some help for European missionaries, but from the beginning it was supplemented by special educational work in the context of the “home mission” in the Orient. In the spring of 1851 Fliedner arrived together with four (instead of two) deaconesses in Jerusalem. He settled in a house the King would buy for him some years later. The educational activities took place on the roof of the Deaconess house in Jerusalem, and was soon separated from the other departments in the house: the Prussian Hospice for German pilgrims and the Hospital. In 1868 the school moved to a new building and was called Talitha Kumi.17 This encouraged the foundation of nearly a dozen schools for girls run by other denominations until the First World War.18 The school still exists today under the same name in nearby Beit Jala (Palestine). 14 The story of the foundation, often repeated, was reported first in “Erster Bericht über das Diakonissenhaus zu Jerusalem von Mitte April bis 10. September 1851”, 1–8; Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 81–88; Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 191–202. 15 Erster Bericht über das Diakonissenhaus zu Jerusalem von Mitte April bis 10. September 1851, 1. Two additional deaconesses were financed by the “FrauenVerein für christliche Bildung des weiblichen Geschlechts im Morgenlande” (Morgenländische Frauenmission) which was founded in Berlin in 1842. Jakob E. Eisler, “Charlotte Pilz und die Anfänge Kaiserswerther Orientarbeit,” in Nothnagle, Abromeit, Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem, 78–95, in particular 79–84; 160 Jahre Morgenländische Frauenmission 1842–2002 (Berlin o.D. [2002]), 11. 16 Thorsten Neubert-Preine, “Diakonie für das Heilige Land—Die Gründung der Kaiserswerther Orientarbeit durch Theodor Fliedner,” in Nothnagle, Abromeit, Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem, 31–43; see further Lars Hänsel, “Friedrich Wilhelm IV and Prussian Interests in the Middle East,” in Haim Goren (ed.), Germany and the Middle East. Past, present, and future ( Jerusalem 2003), 15–25. 17 This quotation from the Bible (Mk. 5: 41)—“Young girl, arise”—refers to the mission in the Holy Land and can be seen as an appeal to the emancipation of women, of which educational work forms part. 18 Eisler, “Charlotte Pilz”, 78–95; Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 209.

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On his first trip to the Orient Fliedner also prepared for the employment of deaconesses in nursing and education in Constantinople (1852) and Smyrna (1853). In addition to the requests of local merchants it was also in the interest of the Prussian government to do so. In 1847 and 1849 the Prussian King had asked Fliedner to send deaconesses to the German hospital in Constantinople. Fliedner’s connections with these cities were the result of his very close relationship with the King’s family. The King provided Fliedner’s Institution with houses owned by the Crown or bought them himself. Fliedner’s idea of “home mission” thrived on the political interest in the deaconesses’ work.19 Usually such stations abroad moved from rented or donated houses to new buildings put up when the mission outgrew their first buildings (e.g. Talitha Kumi in 1868). Nursing in hospitals led to caring for parishioners (e.g. in Jerusalem 1851,20 Alexandria 185721 or Cairo 1885). These Institutions became ever more specialized. One of the best examples of this development is Talitha Kumi, which was put up as an orphanage and school for girls. The sisters very soon opened a school for needlework. At the turn of the century there was also an elementary school, a kindergarten, a nursery school, a school for domestic helpers and a school for female teachers.22 In all these places nursing was provided for the members of the Protestant parish, but other Christians and non-Christians were also interested in that service. In the first year of the Deaconess house in Jerusalem, out of 78 people treated there were only five Muslims, but in 1863 out of 473, 312 were Muslims.23 In Talitha Kumi it

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According to a report of the Prussian secretary for culture, Von Raumer, dated 1.7.1851, Fliedner’s suggestion to send a German pastor to Jerusalem not only to strengthen the reputation and the dignity of the Protestant church but also those of Prussia was successful (Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 297). 20 The development of the Deaconess hospital in Jerusalem is described by Norbert Schwake, Die Entwicklung des Krankenhauswesens der Stadt Jerusalem vom Ende des 18. bis zum Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts (Herzogenrath, 1983), 245–346; Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 198–202. 21 Deodat Disselhoff, Das Kaiserswerther Diakonissenhospital zu Alexandrien 1857–1907. Denkschrift zum 50jährigen Bestehen des Hospitals (Kaiserswerth, 1907); Stursberg, Jubilate, 115–120. 22 Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten, 206–209; Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 88–98; Hanselmann, Deutsche Evangelische Palästinamission, 109; 125 Jahre Talitha kumi. Evangelisch-Lutherische Mädchen-Internatsschule Beit Jala/Bethlehem (Berlin, 1976). 23 Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 293. Georg Fliedner misinterpreted these numbers

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was different. The number of Muslim girls was very low. The deaconesses concentrated their educational work on oriental Christians, which was more successful and not hindered by the difficulties that arose for Christian converts in Muslim society. Only in the case of orphans this proved less of a problem.24 In the year 1859 the Kaiserswerth deaconesses started to work in Bucharest. The Prussian General-consul, Karl Freiherr von Meusebach, Honourable Knight of the order of St. John, gave a donation to the Protestant parish of Bucharest for a hospital and an educational institution for girls. He first asked Fliedner to send deaconesses in 1855. At that time, however, no deaconesses were available. In 1856 two female teachers were employed “who were allowed to call themselves deaconesses and to wear a special uniform.”25 In 1859, the Deaconess Institution at Kaiserswerth was able to take over. Fliedner’s son-inlaw and designated successor, Julius Disselhoff, travelled with three deaconesses and two maids to Bucharest. A fourth deaconess, who was to act as their leader in Bucharest, came from Smyrna where Kaiserswerth had opened a Deaconess schoolhouse in 1853. Bucharest was close to the front of a slowly retreating Ottoman Empire. In the peace treaty concluded after the Crimean War in 1856, the principalities Moldavia and Walachia remained part of the Ottoman Empire even though they became more autonomous. In 1858 they united and in 1861 proclaimed the state of Romania. The reason for the Kaiserswerth Institution to work there was to maintain the German influence threatened by “French civilisation”, which would encourage the “traditional Wallach nature”, characterized by traits like “disloyalty and corruption.”26 Disselhoff noted: The honour of our German, particularly the Evangelical name requires that in this town, which is very important for the Eastern countries, the Protestant community becomes more and more independent. The pastor should not depend on the Wallach school board and the patients not on Wallach hospitals.27

as indicating missionary success. His interpretation was caused by the rush of German imperialism in these years. 24 Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 94–98. 25 Gerhardt, Fliedner, II, 640–643. 26 Reise des Pastors Disselhoff mit vier Diakonissen nach Bukarest, in Der Armenund Krankenfreund, März–April 1860, 3–6. [whose translation?] 27 Ibid., 6.

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The project expanded in 1873 when an elementary school was opened, in 1881 when a hotel was opened and in 1887 when a high school for girls followed. All Protestant girls of the capital of the kingdom of Romania (founded in 1881) were educated in these schools, Disselhoff proudly reported in 1881. This project in Bucharest was no branch institution of Kaiserswerth, but it was the largest of altogether five projects abroad for which 12 out of 27 deaconesses were working.28 In this example not only the political reason for taking over the work was obvious. The exchange of competent personnel between these projects abroad hints at increasing professionalism of the work of Kaiserswerth.29 The Prussian consul in law in Beirut already in 1851 asked Fliedner to send deaconesses to his town. At the time, Fliedner refused because of the lack of available sisters.30 In the summer of 1860, however, the conflict between Maronite Christians and Druzes pushed Fliedner to immediate action. Many Christian widows and their daughters moved to the coastal towns, Beirut in particular. Fliedner sent out a call for donations to finance humanitarian help for Christian orphans on 20 September 1860.31 In this, he suggested that the orphans should be taken to Jerusalem, Smyrna or even to Altdorf (Silesia) and Kaiserswerth. Disselhoff made a journey to Beirut to organise the relief effort. However, the mothers opposed the deportation of their children to other places, i.e. to Jerusalem, since they were afraid of their being sold into slavery. Therefore Disselhoff bought a house in Beirut (called Zoar) in which the education of orphans was started. Rooms to be used as hospital were rented on the second floor of a house in the town of Saida (later continued in Beirut) and in 1861 this, together with two makeshift soup kitchens, completed the charitable work.32 28 “For the German Parish in Bucharest is the biggest by far in these Eastern regions the importance of our deaconess projects for the maintaining and the spreading of German culture is clear.” Julius Disselhoff, Der Rheinisch-Westfälische DiakonissenVerein und seine Arbeitsstätten (Kaiserswerth, 1882), 84. 29 This project was shut down due to the lack of deaconesses in 1896. The German parish founded a deaconess house of their own, which was not connected with the “Kaiserswerther Generalkonferenz” (Felgentreff, Diakoniewerk, 119–120). 30 Gerhardt, Fliedner, II, 643–649. 31 Theodor Fliedner, Aufruf zur Versorgung christlicher Waisenkinder vom Libanon in den Diakonissen-Häusern zu Jerusalem, Smyrna, Kaiserswerth und im Waisenhause zu Altdorf . . . (Düsseldorf, 1860). The church congress in Barmen sent out a call for donations to the Syrian Christians on 13.9.1860 (Gerhardt, Fliedner II, 644). 32 Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 169–184.

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Rivalry in this field of home mission was great. French Jesuits reputedly bought the ‘freedom’ of some children by giving money to their relatives if they withdrew the children from the Protestant orphanage. A French committee fought against a German (later expanded to an Anglo-American-German) committee that supported the activities of Kaiserswerth financially. Even in Germany there was competition for the funds raised for the orphans in Lebanon. The order of St. John started a men’s hospital in Saida in 1861, in which brothers of the Berlin Johanneswerk (a branch of the famous Rauhes Haus, founded by Johann Hinrich Wichern in 1833) did the nursing. Fliedner encouraged opposition against this activity of his rival Johann Hinrich Wichern—he himself could not take part in person because of his illness—“in order to receive all the funds collected for his work in Syria.”33 Ultimately he was successful. The deacons of the Berlin Johannesstift finally had to retire due to lack of money after moving to Beirut in 1862.34 To summarise the above on the Orientarbeit of Kaiserswerth, one may conclude that educational work and nursing served as a social infrastructure for Prussian claims in the world. Fliedner’s “home mission” meant evangelisation of existing Christian churches, the building of German evangelical parishes and, as a long-term project, some form of mission to Muslims by means of true charity and the education of girls. Muslims were not allowed to convert in the Ottoman Empire.35 The very few instances caused grave problems with the Muslim society and with the officials of the Ottoman Empire.36 The 1850s offered a particularly good opportunity for extending the Prussian-Protestant efforts, since the English missions suffered from diminishing donations and lack of personal. Waning Russian influence as a result of the Crimean war furthered the Prussian

33

Gerhardt, Fliedner, II, 648–649. The hospital of the order of St. John in Beirut was newly built in 1866. From 1867 deaconesses cared for the sick. 35 In 1903 Pastor Pflanz underlined that Muslims converting to Christianity would be “in danger of their lives” and “trials of conversion are strictly forbidden.” Richard Pflanz, Verlassen, nicht vergessen. Das heilige Land und die deutsch-evangelische Liebesarbeit. Zum fünfzigjährigen Jubelfest des Jerusalems-Vereins (Neu-Ruppin, 1903), 80–81. 36 Examples are given by Sinno, Deutsche Interessen in Syrien und Palästina, 98–102. In 1884 the reception of Muslim girls in Talitha Kumi was prohibited (Sechszehnter Bericht über die Diakonissen-Stationen im Morgenlande vom 1. Juli 1882 bis 30. Juni 1884). 34

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expansion. The Kaiserswerth Orientarbeit overcame competition by the Greek-Orthodox, Russian-Orthodox and Roman-Catholic church and its projects increased enormously. When Fliedner died in 1864, of the 51 deaconesses working in the Orient, 12 worked as nurses in hospitals, whereas 39 were employed as teachers or educational personnel.37 Demand and supply—home mission and missionary work aimed at the “heathens” Demand of the services of Kaiserswerth deaconesses always outstripped the possible supply. In cases in which sufficient funds for the projects and personnel could not be gathered, the projects were shut down and the deaconesses were withdrawn, both in Germany and abroad. An example of this is the station in Bosnia (Sarajevo), the “most rotten province of Turkey” as Disselhoff said.38 Here two female English patrons wanted to provide care for Bosnian Christians. They bought a plot of land, built a house, donated it to Kaiserswerth, and had three deaconesses starting to work there. Soon, however, the maintenance of the project became difficult. Disselhoff went to Sarajevo and could not get further financial backing. So he “took the deaconesses back home.”39 The German Emperor Wilhelm II’s journey to Palestine in 1898, at which occasion he consecrated the Protestant Church of the Redemption in Jerusalem, raised the German public interest in Palestine and strengthened the bond between the Royal court and the Deaconess Institution.40 The unknown author of a booklet about 37

Fliedner, Theodor Fliedner, II, 312. Julius Disselhoff, Der Rheinisch-Westfälische Diakonissen-Verein und seine Arbeitsstätten (Kaiserswerth, 1882), 98. 39 Ibid., 99. One of the patrons continued to run the house herself. In the first 45 years of its existence Kaiserswerth withdrew its sisters from 63 projects. 40 Das deutsche Kaiserpaar im Heiligen Lande im Herbst 1898. Mit Allerhöchster Ermächtigung Seiner Majestät des Kaisers und Königs bearbeitet nach authentischen Berichten und Akten (Berlin, 1899); Die Kaiserfahrt nach dem heiligen Lande (Berlin, 1898); Karl-Heinz Ronecker, Jens Nieper, Thorsten Neubert-Preine (eds.), Dem Erlöser der Welt zur Ehre. Festschrift zum hunderjährigen Jubiläum der Einweihung der evangelischen Erlöserkirche in Jerusalem (Leipzig, 1998); Thorsten Neubert-Preine, “The Founding of German Protestant Institutions in Jerusalem during the Reign of Kaiser Wilhelm II,” in Haim Goren (ed.), Germany and the Middle East. Past, Present, and Future ( Jerusalem, 2003), 27–40; Thomas Hartmut Benner, Die Strahlen der Krone. Die religiöse Dimension des Kaisertums unter Wilhelm II. vor dem Hintergrund der Orientreise 1898 (Marburg, 2001). 38

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that journey praised the work of the deaconesses as “the birthplace of a new, more noble life.” Over 50 of the former boarding pupils worked as teachers, 23 became deaconesses, others became Bible women (“Bibelzeuginnen”), a large number became servants, and “most of the women pass on the blessing they have received.” The German deaconess is most efficient in doing the duties of the Protestant Christian Community in the Mohammedan world because of her quiet service of love and work without words, which will help the Cross achieve its victory over the Crescent.41

In Jerusalem and Haifa, the Kaiserswerth deaconesses opened schools and worked as parish-deaconesses in the years 1902 to 1904. Here, the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution founded an “oriental seminar for female teachers” and an “oriental school for deaconesses”, particularly “for the young sisters who are former boarding pupils of our orphanages in the Orient.”42 So it was seen at that time that Fliedner‘s old idea to found a “planting school” (“Pflanzstätte”, nursery) for the education of native sisters would be realised. The Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution and the Deaconess institutions which were unified in the so-called Kaiserswerth General Conference (1861) opposed the education of sisters for the “heathen” missions. Julius Disselhoff spoke against that on the ninth Kaiserswerth General Conference in 1888, and he agreed to train only nurses for the foreign missions.43 Nevertheless the Bethlehem Deaconess Institutions at Hamburg sent deaconesses to Western Africa from 1889, Neuendettelsau from 1895 and Dresden from 1903 to India.44 In general,

41 Quotations from Die Kaiserfahrt nach dem heiligen Lande, 174. Cf. also Some Account of the Deaconess-Work in the Christian Church (n.p., n.d., ca. 1870], 24–25. In 1901 the numbers of deaconesses that had been boarding pupils were as follows: 1851–1886: 12, up to 1901: 14; Fünfzig Jahre Kaiserswerther Diakonissen-Arbeit im heiligen Lande. Festschrift zur Jubelfeier der Diakonissen-Anstalten in Jerusalem am 4. Mai 1901 (Kaiserswerth, 1901). In 1911, 43 deaconesses are reported, of which 18 are still working (Stursberg (ed.), Jubilate, 112). 42 Stursberg (ed.), Jubilate, 111. E. Jakob Eisler, “Frauen im Dienste des Jerusalemsvereins im Heiligen Land,” in Feldtkeller, Nothnagle (ed.), Mission im Konfliktfeld von Islam, Judentum und Christentum, 45–56. 43 “‘Die Aufgabe der Diakonissenmutterhäuser gegenüber den Missionshäusern und der Heidenmission’ bei der neunten Generalkonferenz,” Der Armen- und Krankenfreund (Nov.–Dec. 1888), 167–168. 44 “Chronik,” Der Armen- und Krankenfreund ( Jan.–Febr. 1904), 27–29; “Diakonissenhäuser und Heidenmission,” Der Armen- und Krankenfreund ( Jul.–Aug. 1907), 148–151.

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however, the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution saw such a “pioneering service” in the “still underdeveloped regions” as the duty of missionary societies, not of Deaconess Institutions. Another reason for this was the fact that the missionary societies wanted the deaconesses to spend their working life in the field, but looked for education and provision for their old age by the Deaconess Institutions. In 1906 Georg Fliedner opposed the ideas on mission of pastor August Wilhelm Schreiber by underlining the peculiarity of his father’s undertakings based on “existing parishes from the start.” He did not want to convert non-Christians.45 Much later, in 1931, the Kaiserswerth Institution took part in the mission work of the Rhenish Missionary society by sending three deaconesses to Sumatra. But such work never became an integral part of the Kaiserswerth project. In 1932 the Institution answered to the request to contribute to an international Missions Atlas, “that we do not do mission in the sense of converting non-Christians.”46 The repercussions of the work abroad on the Deaconess Institution of Kaiserswerth What was the importance of projects abroad to the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution itself? The work abroad was financed by donations. Particularly the Prussian state, the King and special committees or associations for collecting money supported these works. The Jerusalemsverein, founded in 1853, was most famous for “supporting the Protestant Institutions and the German parishes in the Orient.”47

45 A.W. Schreiber, “Gewinnung, Eingliederung und Verwendung von Missionsschwestern. Auszug aus einem Vortrage auf der XI. Kontinentalen Missionskonferenz zu Bremen,” Der Armen- und Krankenfreund ( Jan.–Febr. 1906), 21–33 and “Bemerkung der Schriftleitung” (G.[eorg] F.[liedner]), Ibid. 34–36. August Wilhelm Schreiber (1867–1945) was the fourth pastor in the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution, from 1897 to 1903. His main task was to manage the Orientarbeit before he became missionary inspector of “Norddeutsche Missionsgesellschaft” in Bremen, cf. Michael Häusler, “Vermittlung und Beruf. August Wilhelm Schreiber (1867–1945)—eine Pastorenkarriere im Spannungsfeld von freiem Verbandsprotestantismus und verfaßter Kirche,” in Jochen-Christoph Kaiser (ed.), Soziale Arbeit in historischer Perspektive. Zum geschichtlichen Ort der Diakonie in Deutschland. Festschrift für Helmut Talazko zum 65. Geburtstag (Stuttgart, 1998), 39–66, here 42. 46 Disselhoff (Kaiserswerth) an Schlunk 9.11.1932, in FKSK (= Fliedner Kulturstiftung), DA 327. 47 Die Kaiserfahrt nach dem heiligen Lande, 169. Foerster, Mission im Heiligen Land;

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The first Zionsverein was founded in 1851 and until 1857 there were altogether 38 regional foundations of the Zionsverein to support the projects of Kaiserswerth in the Orient.48 The work abroad made the Kaiserswerth Deaconess Institution well-known in Germany, in addition to the effect it had on Palestine and other places. Fliedner published a book about his “Trips to the Holy Land” (1858). This was explicitly addressed to the “beloved youth”, introducing them to the Holy Land “geographically and ethnographically.”49 For that purpose many pictures and some maps of Jerusalem and Palestine were included. Furthermore, Fliedner published reports about the work abroad in the annual reports of the Institution, in the journal of Kaiserswerth, the Armen- und Krankenfreund (from 1849 onwards), in separate reports about the Institutions in the Orient, in 1851 and 1852 about the “Deaconess-house at Jerusalem” and from 1854 about the “Deaconess station in the Orient.”50 In these reports, one could read stories and eyewitness reports of sisters and patients. These attested to the international work of Kaiserswerth, the successful expansion, the easily understood “language of love”, and the gratitude and readiness to convert of the patients. In this way, the Institutions abroad became a very important part of the public relations work of Kaiserswerth. The number of sisters working in these places, however, was small. In the year 1857 there were 20 sisters (including those on probation) abroad compared to 257 in all, and in 1882 the number was 83 out of 576.51 Fliedner’s successor as leader of the Institution, Julius Disselhoff, justified the involvement abroad in 1882: Foerster, “Ein Verein für Jerusalem—Der Jerusalemsverein in seinen ersten hundert Jahren,” in Nothnagle, Abromeit, Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem, 44–77. 48 Lückhoff, Anglikaner und Protestanten im Heiligen Land, 208. 49 Fliedner, Reisen in das heilige Land, V. 50 “Erster Bericht über das Diakonissen-Haus zu Jerusalem von Mitte April bis 10. September 1851” “Zweiter Bericht über das Diakonissen-Haus zu Jerusalem von Mitte Oktober 1851 bis Ende März 1852, and from 1854 “Bericht über die Diakonissen-Stationen im Morgenland” (1.1854 to 23.1899), continued as “Dankund Denk-Blätter aus der morgenländischen Arbeit der Kaiserswerther Diakonissen” (1.1901 to 19.1919); furthermore Theodor Fliedner, Nachricht über die Schulen und anderen Anstalten der Diakonissen-Stationen im Morgenlande, zunächst an die Vereine und Freunde der Gustav-Adolph-Stiftung, und herzliche Bitte an dieselben (Kaiserswerth 1854); from 1885 to 1908 annually “Den verehrten und teuern Freunden unserer Diakonissenarbeit im Morgenlande.” 51 Disselhoff, Julius, Der Rheinisch-Westfälische Diakonissen-Verein und seine Arbeitsstätten (Kaiserswerth, 1882), 88, 97.

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uwe kaminsky This generosity did not damage the Institution or the poor and needy. The association [for the education of deaconesses] expanded its help from provincial to general, and so it became known far beyond the borders of the province or the fatherland.52

The work abroad increased the attraction of the deaconess work in Germany and within the Kaiserswerth Institution itself. The importance of the Institutions abroad to the sisters cannot be easily overestimated. These were opportunities for learning and proving oneself. The sisters grew with the tasks and proved themselves in foreign lands without even knowing the language.53 They grew up into the ‘heroines’ of a female diaconate, women who were not only trained in nursing and teaching but were able to collect money, to oversee employees, and to administrate institutions. One example is the “veteran of German evangelisation work in the Orient,” Charlotte Pilz (1819–1903), who lived in Jerusalem from the age of 34, first as mother superior of the Deaconess house, and from 1868 to her death in 1903 as director of Talitha Kumi.54 Another example is Elisabeth von Buttlar (1886–1956), who was the director of the German hospital in Rome from 1899 to 1910, and who was elected as mother superior of all Kaiserswerth deaconesses in 1913. The possibility to work abroad, particularly in Palestine, attracted so-called “Höhere Töchter”, women of higher social standing. At the end of the nineteenth century it became very difficult to find new deaconesses, since there were now other alternatives for women who wanted to work. Particularly educated women of higher social grade were less ready to become a deaconess because of the self-denial and subordination that was asked of them.55

52 Ibid., 56. In the 1880s, Disselhoff had to justify the Orientarbeit because “some of our friends still reproach us with sending our sisters overseas to far and alien countries despite the dire needs at home” (Mitteilungen 105 für die Mitglieder des Kaiserswerther Pfennig-Vereins, [1888], 34). 53 Examples of the reconstruction of biographies of sisters abroad in the nineteenth century: Köser, “Denn eine Diakonisse kann . . .”, 418–422. 54 “Diakonissin Charlotte Pilz, eine Mutter in Israel”, in Dank- und Denkblätter aus der Morgenländischen Arbeit der Kaiserswerther Diakonissen (Sept. 1903), 1–39 (separately published in the series “Geschichten und Bilder fürs deutsche Volk” (1904) 46/47); Eisler, “Charlotte Pilz,” 85–94. 55 Jutta Schmidt, “Die ‘Diakonissenfrage’ im Deutschen Kaiserreich,” in Theodor Strohm, Jörg Thierfelder (ed.), Diakonie im Deutschen Kaiserreich (1871–1918). Neuere Beiträge aus der diakoniegeschichtlichen Forschung (Heidelberg, 1995), 308–331; Schmidt, Beruf: Schwester. Mutterhausdiakonie im 19. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt/Main, 1998), 217–243.

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One of the few examples of a young lady of good family becoming a Kaiserswerth deaconess in the later years was Theodore Barkhausen (1859–1959). She and her father, president of the administration of the German Protestant Church, travelled with the German Emperor to Palestine in 1898. After the death of her father in 1905 she joined the Kaiserswerth motherhouse and became a successful and well-respected manager of the Orientarbeit of Kaiserswerth in Jerusalem.56 However, she was an exception, as attested by the background of her successor, Bertha Harz (1890–1982), who was the daughter of an employee. Bertha Harz joined the Kaiserswerth motherhouse at nearly the same time in 1909, working previously in “Krupp’schen Konsum”, a grocery store of the Krupp industries.57 She had to work her way up in Kaiserswerth. International experience became a an essential requirement for male and female heads of the Deaconess Institution at the end of the nineteenth century, after the charismatic rule of the Fliedner‘s family had ended.58 An example of this is Siegfried Graf von Lüttichau (1877–1965), head from 1925 to 1949, who had been a preacher at the German Embassy in Constantinople from 1906 to 1918.59 The qualification of the leading personnel of the Deaconess Institution had to adapt to the increasingly internationalised work of Kaiserswerth. Occasionally Arab and Armenian women, who had been educated in the schools run by the Kaiserswerth deaconesses in Smyrna, Beirut

In 1898, 23 out of 49 Deaconess houses were headed by Mother Superiors of noble birth (ibid., 190). 56 Ruth Felgentreff, “Diakonisse Theodore Barkhausen,” Mitteilungen aus Ökumene und Auslandsarbeit (2002), 51–56; Felgentreff, “Die Folgen einer ungewöhnlichen Begegnung. Kaiserswerther Diakonissen in Jerusalem und anderswo im Morgenland,” in Ronecker, Nieper, Neubert-Preine (ed.), Dem Erlöser der Welt zur Ehre, 72–80; Wilhelm Martens, Theodore Barkhausen in Jerusalem 1909–1950 (aufgez. nach ihren eigenen Erzählungen und nach Mitteilungen von Pastor D. Schneller)—Reutlingen, in FKSK, Gr Fl IVp 19/4. 57 Ruth Felgentreff, “Bertha Harz und Nalja Moussa Sayeg. Zwei Diakonissen— eine Aufgabe, ein Dienst,” in Nothnagle, Abromeit, Foerster (eds.), Seht, wir gehen hinauf nach Jerusalem, 96–121; Bertha Harz, “Lebenserinnerungen,” in FKSK, Lbd 237. 58 Jutta Schmidt, Beruf: Schwester, 217–243; Köser, “Denn eine Diakonisse . . .”, 122–156. 59 Harald Graf v. Lüttichau (ed.), Beiträge der Familiengeschichte der Herren Freiherren und Grafen von Lüttichau, 3. Teil, 1. Teilband: Siegfried Graf von Lüttichau. Botschaftsprediger und Pastor der deutschen Gemeinde in Konstantinopel 1906–1918. Tagebuchblätter aus dem Ersten Weltkrieg (Kirchheim/Teck, 1993).

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or Jerusalem, became members of the sisterhood. Although they were few in numbers,60 they were important for the survival of the Institutions, being intercultural intermediaries. Moreover, these nonGerman deaconesses represented most clearly the idea of worldwide deaconate by building a native sisterhood. Summary I will end this introduction to the Kaiserswerth Orientarbeit with a short summary of the main elements that characterize its work in the Middle East. First of all, the religious motivation was essential for the work of the deaconesses. Fliedner started his Orientarbeit in Jerusalem because he viewed the town as the centre of biblical traditions. This can be seen as a revitalization of existing ideas about the Holy Land. Secondly, with the building of Deaconess Institutions with a sisterhood consisting also of sisters from the local populations, Kaiserswerth aimed at supporting the development of native Protestant parishes in non-German lands. Thirdly, all locations of the Kaiserswerth Orientarbeit were established and extended in reaction to actual needs or requirements of local elites of German or European political representatives or merchants. In this way, Kaiserswerth created a social infrastructure for the spread of German Protestant culture on the fringes of the retreating Ottoman Empire. Without the political and financial support of the Prussian king and the German Emperor this would have been impossible. Fourthly, the sending of deaconesses with high religious motivations and a willingness to work for very little money was a successful model for expansion of the mission within the Ottoman Empire. However, it depended on winning new recruits in sufficient numbers, which at the end of the nineteenth century became more difficult. Despite these problems in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Kaiserswerth deaconesses stayed on in Palestine until the

60 After nearly 50 years, altogether 23 non-German deaconesses had served in Jerusalem, cf. Die Kaiserfahrt nach dem heiligen Lande, 174.

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last sister retired in 1974. The lack of new recruits and outdated teaching and administrative methods led to Talitha Kumi (Beit Jala, 1960) being handed over to the Berliner Missionswerk who run the institution to this day. But that is another story, which will be told on a future occasion.

AMERICAN PROTESTANT MISSIONARY BEGINNINGS IN BEIRUT AND ISTANBUL: POLICY, POLITICS, PRACTICE AND RESPONSE Habib Badr Introduction There exists today in Lebanon and Syria two small communities of Reformed Protestants that owe their formation to nineteenth century American missionary activity in the Middle East: one Arabic speaking and another Armenian. The Arabic speakers are of course the original inhabitants of the land who come for the most part from a Greek Orthodox background, while the Armenians migrated to Syria and Lebanon en masse from the Ottoman Empire after the massacres committed against them by the Turks, especially those after 1915. A notable contrast in religious attitude and piety exists between the Armenian and Arab Protestants living in Lebanon and Syria. Armenian Protestants are generally more conservative in matters of faith and social behavior. For example, Armenian Protestants require new church members, young and old, to give a “testimony of Christian experience” during a mid-week service, before receiving confirmation and first communion on Sunday. Committed church members rarely, if ever, smoke or consume alcoholic beverages, and they usually dress conservatively, especially the females among them. Armenian Evangelical pastors generally do not wear clerical colors, thus standing out in sharp contrast when in the presence of clergy from the Gregorian ‘mother’ Church. On the other hand, Arabic speaking Protestants tend to be theologically and socially less conservative. The piety of the average churchgoer is reserved and confirmation classes lead automatically to church membership. Pastors almost always wear clerical colors and are hence not distinguishable from priests when in public places. This difference is striking. The roots of it, it appears, lay in the manner these two communities responded to American missionary efforts back in the nineteenth century. Most telling in this regard is

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the way American missionaries themselves described and dealt with the actions and reactions of these communities before, during and after the organization of the first local Protestant churches—in Istanbul in 1846 for the Armenians, and in Beirut in 1848 for the Syrian/ Lebanese. What follows is an analysis of this history. Beginnings On September 23, 1818, the Prudential Committee of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Mission (ABCFM) took the following decision: Resolved that the Rev. Messrs. Levi Parsons and Pliny Fisk be designated for Jerusalem and such other parts of Western Asia as shall be judged eligible, that they be sent out as soon as shall be found convenient, and that in the meantime they be engaged for the Board at home.1

In February of 1819, the Board publicly announced its decision to send a mission to western Asia “with a view to its ultimate establishment at Jerusalem.”2 The decision to send missionaries to Palestine, and in particular to Jerusalem, was partly influenced by the “romantic prospect of establishing an American outpost in ancient Israel.”3 Palestine was attractive also because it witnessed the events of the life of Christ that led to the establishment of the Christian Church and the unfolding of sacred history. But the decision was also, and perhaps to a larger extent, influenced by the growing enthusiasm for the conversion of the Jews with its potential millennial overtones. Along with the Jews, the Board also aimed at reaching and reviving the Christian inhabitants of western Asia and, naturally, converting the millions of Muslims who ruled over that region. The Annual Report of the American Board for the year 1819, after acknowledging the fact that there are indeed a majority of Muslims in Asia

1 Abdul-Latif Tibawi, American Interests in Syria, 1800–1901: A Study of Educational, Literary and Religious Work (Oxford, 1966), 12. 2 Panoplist/Missionary Herald (MH heretofore) 15 (1819), 92. 3 Clifton Jackson Phillips, Protestant America and the Pagan World: The first Half Century of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, 1810 –1860 (Cambridge, Mass., 1969), 135.

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who must hear the gospel, went on to say that there are thousands of Christians in name who, . . . might be roused from their slumbers, become active in doing good, and shine as lights in those darkened regions. It is indeed to be hoped, that no small part of those, who bear the Christian name, would willingly and gladly receive the Bible into their houses, and do something towards imparting the heavenly treasure, as opportunities should be afforded, to the Jews, Mohammedans and Pagans.4

While it remains true, therefore, that settling in Jerusalem and converting the Jews were undoubtedly uppermost in the minds of the supporters of the Palestine mission in 1819, yet the revival of the so-called ‘nominal Christians’ of the East was, from the beginning, on the Board’s agenda. Contrary to popular opinion, this policy was not adopted at a later stage after the missionaries faced the realities on the ground in the Middle East.5 It is true that the mission to Oriental Churches later became the sole objective of the Board’s mission to the Levant. But this did not indicate a change of policy as much as a shift in priorities spurned by developments in the field. Once in the Middle East, the missionaries discovered that the conversion of a Muslim inhabitant of the Ottoman State to Christianity was extremely difficult, if not altogether impossible because of a possible death penalty. Furthermore, reaching the Jews of Jerusalem was not possible because permanent residence of foreigners in Jerusalem was not allowed by Turkish law.6 Phase one in Beirut: controversy with Eastern churches After several exploratory journeys in the Middle East, the Americans judged Mt. Lebanon and its immediate surroundings to be a promising field for missionary labor. In 1823, two newly-sent missionaries, Isaac Bird and William Goodell, with their wives, along with Jonas

4

ABCFM, Annual Report, 1819, 29. Curiously, it was the second generation of American missionaries themselves who first popularized this interpretation. In 1891, Henry H. Jessup wrote: “In the year 1819 the first American missionaries came to Western Asia, bringing the Gospel of Christ to the Mohammedans, but in their explorations they came in contact with these various Oriental Christian sects.” See his The Greek Church and Protestant Missions; Or, Missions to the Oriental Churches (New York, 1891), 6. 6 See Tibawi, American Interests, 79, 140–41, 189 & 204. 5

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King and Pliny Fisk, decided to make the small town of Beirut the main headquarters of American Protestant missions to the Middle East. It remained so for many years to come.7 The missionaries had had no opportunity to think systematically about matters of policy and organization between 1820 and 1823. These years were, by the nature of the case, exploratory and experimental. Things began to change, however, when, having settled in Beirut, they began their work and immediately met with opposition from ecclesiastical and governmental authorities. The first of these ‘battles’ that greatly occupied the missionaries during the early period, was a series of encounters with the Maronite hierarchy and clergy. Problems first occurred in 1823 when Fisk and King, while on an exploratory tour of Mt. Lebanon, were invited by Lewis Way (an English missionary) to join him and two others in a conference to be held in 'Ain Tûrah (of Keserwan, Mt. Lebanon) in the Fall of 1823. A few weeks earlier, the missionaries had called upon the Maronite Patriarch Yusuf Hubaich who was in his summer residence at Qannûbîn in northern Lebanon. He received them kindly and they left with him an Arabic Bible. The Protestant version of the Bible gave the Maronite Patriarch particular cause for concern.8 After news of the missionary conference in 'Ain Tûrah reached him, along with other stories that were spreading concerning the appearance of “English Biblicists” (“Biblishiyyûn” in Arabic) on various parts of the Mountain, he took action: The governor of Lebanon, Amîr Bashîr, upon the Patriarch’s instigation, ordered the 'Ain Tûrah premises closed despite protestations from the English consul in Beirut. This incident signaled the beginning of a series of disputes with local church authorities. The missionaries naturally felt constrained to respond. Soon their responses began to take on a polemical tone and they found themselves embroiled in controversy

7 Beirut also had an English consul, Peter Abbott. This was an important advantage because Americans had no diplomatic representation with the Ottoman government yet and were accordingly treated as ‘Englishmen’ by the local authorities. Thus, they needed British consular protection and services. Tibawi, American Interests, 20–21, 25. See also Leila T. Fawaz, Merchants and Migrants in Nineteenth-Century Beirut (Cambridge, Mass., 1983). 8 The Arabic version of the Bible, which English-speaking Protestant missionaries were distributing in the Middle East, was a reprint (published by the British and Foreign Bible Society in London) of the Catholic version printed in Rome in 1671. Naturally, the Apocrypha was omitted.

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and confrontation with the Eastern churches for a few years to come. In 1823, soon after the ‘Ain Tûrah incident, the Maronite Patriarch issued an encyclical letter condemning the Protestant version of the Bible and forbidding any of his subjects to associate with the ‘English’ missionaries. Early in 1824, Cardinal Somaglia, of the Propaganda Fide in Rome, wrote two letters to the Maronite hierarchy denouncing the missionaries and their version of the Bible. In February of the same year, Fisk and Bird were arrested in Jerusalem for “disturbing the peace” by distributing Bibles and tracts. In May, Pope Leo XII issued a papal Bull entitled Ubi Primium condemning a “certain Bible society” for printing a corrupted version of the Scripture in the vernacular and distributing it to the people. When faced with the Maronite Patriarch’s opposition to the Protestant version of the Scripture, Fisk wrote in defense of it, but without attacking or denouncing what he saw to be the errors of the Maronite Church.9 In 1825 Jonas King prepared a long Farewell Letter to his friends in Syria and Palestine that was in essence a polemic against the Roman Catholic Church as it was locally represented at the time. The importance of this letter lies in the fact that it was the first public and widely circulated document that the missionaries distributed, and which distinguished them confessionally from the other Christian communions in the country. Its polemical nature established a pattern for dealing with the local Christians that was to become paradigmatic for the mission over the next ten years.10 It invited immediate response and thus launched a succession of attacks and counterattacks from both sides. The man who was commissioned by the missionaries to edit the text and polish its Arabic, and who was determined to write a rebuttal to it, was instead—so the story goes—converted by it and renounced his Catholic faith.11 9 In 1846, Eli Smith (missionary from 1826 onwards) wrote a letter to the ABCFM secretary from Washington, D.C. in which he briefly reviewed the history of the Syria Mission. In it he mentioned a letter, which Fisk wrote in defense of the Protestant canon of the Bible. This letter seems to have been circulated in manuscript form and is not extant among the collection of the American Board’s archives now deposited at Harvard. ABC 16.8.1., vol. 3, d. 116. Smith to Anderson, Apr. 18, 1846. See also Tibawi, American Interests, 37. 10 The text of the letter, reportedly written in Arabic first and then translated into English, can be found in several sources. See “Farewell Letter of Jonas King to His Friends in Palestine and Syria, September 5th, 1825,” in Jonas King, The Oriental Church and the Latin (New York, 1865), 5–33. 11 As'ad Shidyâq, a Maronite layman and Arabic teacher employed by Fisk and King, became somewhat of a celebrity in the missionary literature of the period.

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The Letter was soon translated into Armenian by one of the local teachers of the missionaries and sent to Istanbul where it reportedly had a very significant impact on the ‘enlightened’ party of the Armenian Church. This took place before the Protestant missionaries had even set foot in the capital city.12 Isaac Bird, since his arrival in 1823, had also been engaged in polemics with the ecclesiastical hierarchy and local people. From July to October of 1827, Bird made an extensive tour of Mount Lebanon and kept a detailed journal of his activities. Whenever an opportunity presented itself, he engaged the clergy, especially of the Maronite Church, in disputes over matters of faith and order.13 In December of 1826, Patriarch Hubaich was on the move again. Provoked by King’s “Farewell Letter,” he issued another anathema against the “English missionaries” whom he labeled as heretics, enemies of the Catholic faith, and “Biblishiyyûn.” In 1830, Butrus Abû Karam, the Maronite archbishop of Beirut, published a pastoral letter to his flock, which he had been preparing, and which was aimed at refuting, point by point, King’s arguments against Catholicism. The missionaries obtained a manuscript copy of it in advance and Bird took it upon himself to reply.14 He decided to reply in Arabic. His “Talatha 'Ashrata Risalah” (Thirteen Theses) was first circulated in manuscript form and later published in Malta in 1834. The year 1833 found Bird again involved in a polemical exchange with a Jesuit priest who had visited him in Beirut. In this episode, Bird made extensive use of Greek and Latin Church Fathers in an attempt to discredit papal claims to supremacy and sole apostolic authority.15 At the beginning, therefore, rivalry with Catholic presence in Lebanon (both local and foreign) was a prominent feature of Protestant

Upon declaring his position, he was arrested by his Patriarch (Hubaich) and mysteriously died c. 1829, while in the custody of the Patriarchate. Rufus Anderson devoted a whole chapter to this man’s story in his History of the Missions of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions to the Oriental Churches 2 vols. (Boston, 1872), I: 2–72. See also, Brief Memoirs of an Arab Young Man, of the Maronite Church (Boston, 1834). See also in Arabic Qissat As'ad Ashidyâq (Ras Beirut, 1992). 12 Giragos H. Chopourian, The Armenian Evangelical Reformation: Causes and Effects (New York, 1972), 27–28. 13 ABC 16.5., vol. 1, d. 155. Bird to Evarts, Feb. 7, 1828. 14 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 01, d. 25. Bird to Anderson, Sep. 21, 1830. 15 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 01, d. 42. Bird to Anderson, Aug. 30, 1833. The letter contains a copy of Bird’s reply to his Jesuit visitor.

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missionary activity. Consequently, the first genre of literary production that the American Press (still at Malta at the time) put out in those early years was mostly theological in nature and was aimed at refuting the arguments of the opposition. This was in addition, of course, to the Bible and other religious tracts and pious stories that were printed for circulation among the people. Missionary activities conducted through the same confrontational approach, led to a wave of opposition from the Greek Orthodox Church as well. Orthodox children were withdrawn from missionary schools that had been founded in various parts of Lebanon; teachers belonging to the Orthodox community were prohibited from serving in mission-run institutions; and books, tracts and Bibles were burnt. A new Orthodox school was opened to counteract missionary influence. A pronouncement by the Patriarchs of Constantinople and Antioch, together with sixteen metropolitans and bishops, “denounced the Americans in very bitter terms, and directed the formation of a watch committee to protect the community against the mission’s ‘heretical’ books and to prevent the missionaries from “pouring the poison of heresy” in the ears of the children.”16 In the midst of these developments, a decision was taken by the American Board to open a mission station in Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire. William Goodell, who had been serving in Beirut since 1823, was transferred in order to begin work there, especially among the Armenians.17 Phase two in Beirut and Istanbul: confrontation halted Things began to change after 1833. Fisk died in 1825, King removed himself from Beirut permanently and Bird left the field never to return. Leadership of the mission passed on to the hands of Eli Smith in Beirut, and to William Goodell in Istanbul. Smith and Goodell were convinced that the confrontational approach of their predecessors had not proved fruitful. They therefore advocated abandoning the polemical tone and resorting to gentler and less provocative missionary methods. In 1830, Goodell wrote: 16

Tibawi, American Interests, 79. See also MH 33 (1837), 299, 397, 445. Soon the Istanbul station grew in staff and size. The mission spread throughout Asia minor and commenced work among the Armenian, Syrian and Assyrian communities scattered all over Turkey and parts of Iraq and Persia. 17

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habib badr I do not think that this is the time for controversy in these countries. There is, so to speak, no foundation. There is not knowledge enough. There is not conscience enough. There is not religion enough. We must labor to give the people knowledge, an enlightened conscience, and pure and undefiled religion, and controversy will then commence of course; but it will commence among themselves, and be carried on between themselves, and not between them and us who are strangers and foreigners, . . . Had a foreigner, possessing those views of the papal hierarchy and divine truth, which Luther had at the close of his life, made a vigorous attack upon the dominant religion in Germany, at the time Luther began the affair of indulgences, . . . the Reformation would probably have been crushed at its birth.18

Goodell’s argument did not shun controversy as such. Rather it advocated delaying it until that time when the local people might be ready and able to engage in it themselves. It was Goodell’s assumption that once these indigenous Eastern Christians were revived, they would, of course, rebel against their churches’ doctrines and customs as the German-born Luther had done in his national context in sixteenth-century Europe. Eli Smith also tried to avert doctrinal disputations and controversies. In 1836 the Beirut station, under his leadership, resolved to “avoid attacks upon the religious peculiarities of the native Christian sects, . . . as far as we can, and still effectively inculcate the doctrines and duties essential to salvation.”19 Both Smith and Goodell, therefore, helped redirect the policy of the Board and its missionaries toward a more irenic course with regard the Eastern churches. However, this did not mean a relaxation of the religious and theological orientation of the policy. The missiology remained the same; concern was still with the conversion of individuals to the evangelical faith through reading the Bible and encountering the word of God as it is preached, explained and lived. Mission policy in Beirut The following resolution was passed at one of the general meetings of the Syria Mission Station in Beirut in 1836: 18 MH 26 (1830), 18. The original of this letter is found among a special collection of letters from Goodell to the secretary of the Prudential Committee. See ABC 16.5., vol. 2, “Hints and Cautions Addressed to Missionaries Destined to the Mediterranean.” 13–14. Goodell to Evarts, Jul. 30, 1829. 19 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 8. Records of the Syria Mission. General meeting of 1836.

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Whereas peculiarities of church government and external forms of religion are of less importance than the renovation and sanctification of the heart—and, whereas experience has shown, that while, in our public ministrations, we decline attacking the religious peculiarities of the Christian sects of this country connected with external observances, we have abundant scope for convincing them of their sinfulness and lost state, and preaching to them the fundamental doctrines of the gospel in a positive form; in pursuing this course have constantly open before us appropriate fields of missionary labor wider than we can occupy: Resolved: First—That instead of despising the national customs of the people and endeavoring to change them—in things morally indifferent, we treat them with due regard, and have respect to them in our conduct. Second—That it be not an object with us to proselyte the members of the native Christian sects to our denomination. Though, according to the principles of the Churches which have sent us hither, when a member of any native Christian sect, giving satisfactory evidence of piety, desires the sacraments of us, we cannot refuse his request, however it may interfere with this person’s ecclesiastical relations. Third—That we aim to avoid attacks upon the religious peculiarities of the native Christian sects, especially such as are connected with external ceremonies as far as we can and still effectively inculcate the doctrines and duties essential to salvation.20

The missionaries, however, exhibited some awareness of the difficulty and oddity of this missionary task. They did not underestimate the ‘foreign’ nature of the conversion experience that Eastern Christians would have to go through were they to become Protestants. Thus, Eli Smith said, We stand almost in the attitude of visitors from another planet describing objects which our hearers have no senses to perceive, . . . To adopt our spiritual religion, seems to them like letting go [of ] the substance, to embrace a shadow, . . . an approbrium threatens them, should they change their religion for ours, such as is unknown in any case of conversion among us, bringing not only contempt upon themselves, but disgrace upon their families.21

20

ABC 16.8.1., vol. 8. Records of the Syria Mission. General Meeting of 1836. Eli Smith, Missionary Sermons and Addresses (Boston, 1833), 186. Smith did not explain the nature of the “disgrace” and “contempt” to which he made reference. But his correspondence with the Board’s secretary show him aware of the religious, social, economic, and political difficulties which the few converts to Protestantism were facing in Syria. 21

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habib badr Goodell’s “Hints and Cautions” from Istanbul

At the end of 1834, William Goodell sent to Boston a hand-written document entitled “Hints and Cautions Addressed to Missionaries Destined to the Mediterranean.”22 Many of the themes dealt with in this document had already been touched upon by Smith. By 1834, Goodell had been serving for almost four years in a new setting. The problems he faced in Istanbul as well as his policy concerns in these “Hints and Cautions,” therefore, naturally tended to be slightly different and more complex than Smith’s. Istanbul had been the capital of the Ottoman Empire since 1453. Like all metropolitan centers in that part of the world, it had a varied ethnic and religious mix of peoples and subcultures. The nonIslamic groups that were most prominent then were mainly the Armenian, Greek Orthodox, and Jewish communities. These were, along with the rest of the religious minorities of the whole Empire, governed differently from the majority of the Muslim Sunni subjects of the Sultan. This was accomplished through a type of politico-religious structure of self-government known traditionally as the “millet system.” This system essentially allowed all the religious minorities of the Empire (i.e., non-Sunni Muslims) to function as semi-autonomous societies allowed to apply their own canon laws in nearly all matters pertaining to religious, civil, and even some economic affairs.23 The Armenian Christian community in Istanbul, with a patriarch at its head, was one of the most prosperous.24 Before the American missionaries set foot in the capital, the Armenian Church and com-

22

ABC 16.5., vol. 2, 1. Goodell to Anderson, Dec. 9, 1834. This was essentially a collection of copies of correspondence that Goodell had transcribed mostly from his own letters to the corresponding secretaries and to missionaries in the Mediterranean in addition to copies of a few letters exchanged between missionaries other than himself. 23 The word millet means confessional or ethnic affiliation. Thus, even the expatriate communities residing within the confines of the Empire were known as millets. The much-debated Ottoman millet system has been carefully re-examined in Benjamin Braude and Bernard Lewis (eds.), Christians and Jews in the Ottoman Empire: The Functioning of a Plural Society (New York/London, 1982), 2 vols. See the introduction by the editors, 1:1–34, and Braude’s article “Foundation Myths of the Millet System,” 1: 69–88. 24 Ibid.; and Kevork B. Bardakjian, “The Rise of the Armenian Patriarchate of Constantinople,” in ibid., 1: 89–100; and Hagop Barsoumian, “The Dual Role of the Armenian Amira Class within the Ottoman Government and the Armenian Millet (1750–1850),” 1: 171–84.

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munity as a whole were experiencing a veritable cultural and literary renaissance similar to and, in many respects, influenced by the European example. One particularly influential figure in this renaissance was Krikor (Gregory) Peshtimaljian, who ran an advanced school for religious, academic and cultural studies. He was dubbed by the missionaries as the “Erasmus of the Armenians.”25 This phenomenon, according to the missionaries, was God-sent to help prepare and promote the cause of the evangelical reformation among the Armenians in much the same way that the European Renaissance helped pave the way of the continental Reformation.26 Early in his career, Goodell tended to entertain high hopes that the Armenian renaissance would metamorphose into a genuine evangelical reformation through the influence of the missionaries. Often these hopes were built on exaggerated reports of the spectacular impact Protestant mission activity was supposed to have had on the Armenians.27 Because he held on to these hopes, which were reinforced after he spent a few years in Istanbul, Goodell became adamantly opposed to the idea of controversy with the Armenian Church. He totally rejected all attacks on anything related to the doctrines of the Armenian Church itself. To Benjamin Schneider, a missionary working with him who seemed to be tempted to engage the people in controversy, he wrote: “Let the priests, the monks, the church and all its ceremonies entirely alone.” Goodell urged Schneider to show the people that his views were not sectarian; and that his business was “not with the church, but with men’s hearts. . . . Only let the people be enlightened, and let pure religion be revived, and these things will fall of course.”28 “We ourselves,” he said in 1834 in a letter to another missionary,

25 Much has been written about the Armenian “Renaissance” and its relationship to Protestant missions. See Leon Arpee, The Armenian Awakening: A History of the Armenian Church, 1820–1860 (Chicago, 1908). 26 Chopourian, The Armenian Evangelical Reformation, 58–61. See also Rufus Anderson, History of the Missions of the American Board . . . to the Oriental Churches, vol. 1, 91. 27 As early as 1826, Goodell wrote to Boston describing the effects of the translation of King’s Farewell Letter on the Armenians of Istanbul, commenting that “the high probability at present is, that not another Armenian will ever hereafter take the monastic vow.” ABC 16.5., vol. 1, d. 131. Goodell to Evarts, Sep. 29, 1826. 28 ABC 16.5., vol. 2, 56, “Hints and Cautions,” Goodell to Schneider, Dec. 2, 1834.

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have nothing to do with the church, its dogmas, ceremonies, and superstitions; nor do we ever think of meddling with the converts, the priests, the celibacy of the clergy, etc. etc. In fact, we stand nearly as aloof from what may be called ecclesiastical matters, as we do from political matters. We find we have no occasion to touch upon them, and we feel wonderfully relieved. . . . We direct men to their own hearts, and to the Bible.29

Goodell continued: Nor do we make any attempt to establish a new church, to raise up a new party. . . . We tell them frankly “you have sects enough among you already, and we have no design of setting up a new one, or of pulling down your churches, or drawing away members from them, in order to build up our own. . . . We have come to do you all the good in our power, and to assist in raising your whole population from that state of ignorance, degradation, and death, into which you have fallen.”30

Somehow Goodell expected that these “enlightened” Christians would remain members of what they now regarded as an ignorant, degraded, and degenerate church, and endeavor to reform it from within. But, like his colleague in Beirut, he was not totally blind to the underlying explosive element inherent in this policy. Thus he concluded the letter by pointing out: “To be sure, the time is coming, and it is certainly drawing on apace, when there will be a tremendous breaking up of these churches, and they will have to be entirely remodeled.”31 Like Smith, Goodell was convinced that these nominal Christians were in need of a living example of evangelical faith at work among them. The missionary’s role, then, would be to win them over “by love rather than disputation and public controversy.”32 The Reformation paradigm also figured prominently in these “Hints and Cautions.” The analogy between the challenges that faced the Protestant reformers of the sixteenth century and their nineteenth century descendants was too tempting to resist. Learning the history

29 Ibid., 15, Goodell to Thompson, Apr. 14, 1834. In a later correspondence with Boston, Goodell expressed his disapproval of a similar policy of controversy being pursued by missionaries to Roman Catholics in America itself. He felt that these missionaries would do well to learn from the Board’s emissaries in western Asia. Ibid., 189, Goodell to Anderson, Jan. 2, 1835. 30 Ibid., 18. 31 Ibid., 18–19. 32 Ibid., 44, Goodell to Schneider, Nov. 28, 1834. See also, 78, Dec. 3, 1834 and 89, Dec. 5, 1834.

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of the Reformation was a “profitable study for all missionaries among the relapsed and corrupted churches of these countries,” wrote H. G. O. Dwight (a missionary to the Armenians) to Eli Smith in 1834. The Oriental churches were similarly situated with respect to the need of a reformation. But the analogy, as noted earlier, was not to be made between the reformers and the American missionaries. The circumstances of the Reformation were different, as Dwight perceived. Americans came from a country of “light and knowledge,” he said, and the people in whose midst they now labored were not prepared like the Germans had been to reject their church’s tyranny right then and there. Luther was cautious and slow in the promotion of external changes in the church. According to Dwight’s reading of the Reformation, the reformers focused on “internal religion.” Unlike the impetuous Carlstadt, “Luther, for example, began his efforts at reformation very gradually.” Dwight, then, concluded the letter with these words: “I shall feel abundantly satisfied if He counts us worthy of contributing in any way towards instructing and preparing a few Armenian Luthers.”33 Boston declares its position In his instructions to Cyrus Hamlin, a missionary destined for work among the Armenians in Turkey, Rufus Anderson, the senior secretary of the Prudential Committee of the ABCFM in Boston, purposed to “explain the objects of the missions sent by the Board to the Oriental Churches, and the means which the missionaries are expected to use in prosecuting their enterprise.”34 The Ottoman Empire, Anderson began, is “the land of the Moslems,” but Hamlin’s labors were especially directed to one of the Oriental churches among the Muslims. In prosecuting his mission, Hamlin was to keep two objects in view: “first to revive the knowledge and spirit of the gospel among them; and secondly, by this

33 Ibid., 132–41, Dwight to Smith, Nov. 16, 1834. Dwight cited Johann L. Mosheim’s church history as his source. An Ecclesiastical History, Ancient and Modern, From the Birth of Christ to the Beginning of the Eighteenth Century (London, 1819), 6 vols. 34 The text was published in the Missionary Herald 35 (1839), 39. Editor’s introduction to Anderson’s text. (Italics mine).

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means to operate upon the Mohammedans. At the same time this does not preclude the idea of direct missions to the Mohammedans.”35 According to the senior secretary, any attempt to convert Muslims embraced a “system of efforts for the spiritual renovation of the oriental churches.” These churches have lost all knowledge and spirit of the gospel. Nonetheless, “the elements of reform are already within them. The evangelical doctrines, which are the basis of Christian duty, are found in their earlier standard writers.” Unlike Roman Catholics, these Christians have not substituted the authority of Scripture for that of the pope.36 Yet, in Anderson’s judgment, the Oriental churches had sunk too low to rise without external assistance. “They need to be reminded of things, which, amid ages of political revolution and degradation, they have forgotten.” They need to see—as Muslims also need to see—“living exemplifications of the gospel” with all its benevolent influences on society, culture, and the nation.37 The first movers of this great work, said Anderson, would be the foreign missionaries; “The first impulse must come from abroad.” But in the long run, the mission ought to be “accomplished chiefly by means of the native Christians themselves” by the “already existing and increasing body of evangelical native Christians.” The missionary would always be a foreigner, “an alien in those churches.”38 Eastern (Orthodox) Christians were perceived by the secretary as being nearer the point of reformation than the other “nominal Christians” of the world. They possessed the essential Christian institutions, doctrines, and biblical foundation. But their faith had been corrupted because they neglected these essentials and put too much weight on “decrees, councils and the writings of the fathers.” Yet, continued Anderson, they belonged to ancient churches that had endured tremendous persecution through the ages and had retained the name Christian. Of this, he remarked, “it would be the height of cruelty and injustice to deprive them.”39 The object of the mission, therefore, was “not to subvert them; not to pull down, and build anew. It is to reform them; to revive

35 36 37 38 39

Ibid., 40. Ibid., 41. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 42.

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among them . . . the knowledge and spirit of the gospel.” “It is no part of our object,” stressed Anderson, “to introduce Congregationalism, or Presbyterianism among them. . . . We are content that their present ecclesiastical organization should remain, provided the knowledge and spirit of the gospel can be revived under it.” The senior secretary reminded Hamlin that he was not being sent “among those churches to proselyte.” Their rites and ceremonies were “mere outworks, which it is not necessary to remove before you come to the citadel.” The Board, Anderson explained, cannot afford to spend much time, strength, or money on reforming externals. Hamlin’s “great business is with the fundamental doctrines of the gospel.”40 The means to be used in achieving these objectives, as Anderson saw them, were the same that would be used for “reforming a degenerate Christian church” anywhere it may be found. This can be done on a one-to-one basis or by impressing a few select minds. “Search for such minds,” Anderson instructed Hamlin. “The Lord’s anointed may be there—some Luther, Calvin, Melanchthon. . . .” The locus standi of this policy was the assumption—or perhaps the hope—that in fact a reformation of the ancient churches of the east was possible from within, an idea first advocated by Smith and Goodell. This hope was anchored in the distinction that the missionaries seemed to have drawn between matters “ecclesiastical,” and therefore secondary, and others that may be termed “soteriological” and, for the American evangelical mind, primary. In typical evangelical fashion, the American missionaries totally separated ecclesiology from soteriology. The church was for them that human-made society that previously-revived Christians voluntarily entered into after—and only after—their conversion experience. This was a totally new concept to the Oriental Christian mind. To an Eastern Christian, the Church, in its historical existence, in its liturgy and sacraments, in its tradition and authority, was the locus of salvation. When Eli Smith once asked a bishop of one of these churches “what must we do to be saved?” the bishop, remarked Smith, reacted “as if we had asked him a very unnecessary question.”41 The concept of ecclesial association for Christians, a principle fundamental for both the Western evangelical mind and the Eastern

40 41

Ibid., 41. Smith, Missionary Sermons, 47.

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Oriental tradition, rested on fundamentally different ecclesiological grounds. The central question for the evangelicals was and still is, “What must I do to be saved?” For the Eastern Christian, this question—if it arose at all—was by no means central. In 1832, during his journey through Armenia with H. G. O. Dwight, Eli Smith conversed at length with several Armenian ecclesiastics, one of whom was the secretary of the Catholicos (Patriarch) of the Armenian Church. The question of what constitutes salvation arose. Smith pointed to John 3:5 and the need for rebirth or “internal regeneration” by water and the spirit as the primary condition for salvation. Water, Smith said, was the external sign of spiritual rebirth “and not productive of it; nor necessarily accompanied by it.” The Armenian cleric, according to Smith, acknowledged that he had never read the passage in that light. Smith then commented that the Armenian Church, as were other Oriental churches, was “entirely ignorant of that great change of moral character, regeneration, . . .” At the end of that passage, Smith made the following observation: Questions respecting election and the kindred doctrines, which divide Calvinists and Arminians among us, have never been agitated in the Armenian church, nor do any opinions exist respecting them. Possibly something may have crept into its very oldest writers from St. Augustin [sic] and others; but almost, if not quite, all its theological works are entirely scholastic, and probably the Armenian language does not contain a clear exhibition of the doctrines of grace, out of the Bible.42

The American Board missionaries in the Mediterranean were truly convinced that the declared object of reviving the Eastern churches from within, without forming independent Protestant churches to accommodate those who might be thus revived was, in point of fact, achievable; that indeed there would be no need to “pull down” these churches, in spite of the alleged corrupt and degenerate state that they were in. This was a sincere belief that they hoped for, upheld, and practiced.43 To prove this, some American Board missionaries

42 Eli Smith, Researches of the Rev. Eli Smith and the Rev. H. G. O. Dwight in Armenia (Including a Journey Through Asia Minor, and into Georgia and Persia with a Visit to the Nestorian and Chaldean Christians of Oormiah and Salmas) (Boston, 1833), vol. 2: 125–26. 43 Eli Smith wrote to a certain John D. Paxton in 1837 that a convert from the Orthodox Church of Beirut whom he met in Constantinople told him that he would remain in his church as long as possible and would try his best to convert the bishop to the evangelical faith. Smith, although skeptical of the bishop’s conver-

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who were working with non-Christian groups within the Ottoman domains actually sent their converts into that Eastern Church that was nearest to the convert’s location. Thus, in Istanbul, for example, William Schauffler sent one of his Jewish converts, Isaac Ben Usiah, to join the Armenian Orthodox Church. More importantly, Schauffler was allowed to argue his case with eloquence on the pages of the Missionary Herald which reported the account of this incident with approbation.44 Thus, and for a period of time, the policy of refraining from organizing Protestant churches out of those Oriental Christian converts, was upheld in Beirut, Istanbul and Boston. Boston becomes impatient As time passed news reached Boston of the organization of evangelical Protestant churches in several mission fields where the ABCFM was active around the world, especially in the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii), East Asia and Africa. This delighted the mission supporters in the United States and rendered the Board in Boston impatient with the slow progress of the missions in Turkey and Syria/Lebanon. In 1842, Rufus Anderson, secretary of the Prudential Committee, presented a report to the Board further developing his policy towards Eastern Churches. It was consequently published in the Missionary Herald for all to read. Anderson began his policy statement along the same lines he had developed in his “Instructions” to Cyrus Hamlin in 1838. While still not pressing out right for the organization of an evangelical church in Istanbul or Beirut, he declared that “the doctrines of grace have ceased to be a part of the actual religion of the oriental churches.” Rather, these churches cling to the external and legalistic forms of piety and superstitious ceremonies.45 Consequently, every enlightened Christian must desire to see a “wholesome and enduring reformation” take hold in these churches. However, this can only be brought

sion, nonetheless totally supported this position. ABC 16.5., vol. 1, d. 174. Smith to Paxton, Jan. 24, 1837. This excerpt from Smith’s letter was published in the Missionary Herald, 34 (1838), 117–22. 44 MH 33 (1836), 134–40. See especially 138–39, under the subheading, “Reasons for directing Jewish converts to the Armenian and Greek Churches.” 45 MH 38 (1842), 430.

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about by a revival of religion, to which “there are well known, appropriate, and indispensable means.” The means being the “faithful preaching of the fundamental truths of the gospel.”46 But, Anderson remarked, “a revival of religion in a church which has long been sunk in ignorance and superstition, is . . . a distinct thing from that which is called a reformation. The two things bear a relationship to each other of cause and effect.” This was a new distinction which neither the missionaries nor the secretary had made before. Anderson was quick to point out the source of this distinction: “it may be found,” he said, “in the recent and admirable History of the Reformation by D’Aubigné.”47 According to D’Aubigné, revival precedes reform. Luther began to preach the doctrine of salvation by grace first, and later attacked the “constitution, ritual, and discipline of the church” which had undergone no alteration until that point. This gradual and logical move from revival to reform, from renewing the heart “within” before the forms “without,” was, in Anderson’s view, the key to Luther’s success.48 D’Aubigné’s distinction between reform and revival served two purposes in Anderson’s mind. The first was to use the historic example of the Reformation of the sixteenth century as a paradigm of mission work among the Oriental churches—a work that was unparalleled in any other part of the world in which missionaries of the American Board were operating.49 Secondly, the sequence of events in the Reformation, as documented by D’Aubigné, gave an authentic historical legitimacy for the now well-established policy of avoiding

46

Ibid. Ibid. Jean Henri Merle D’Aubigné was a Swiss historian whose History of the Great Reformation of the Sixteenth Century in Germany, Switzerland, Etc. (London, 1838–1841) 3 vols., was originally published in Paris in five volumes, beginning in the year 1835. It was very soon translated into three English versions and quickly became one of the most popular Reformation histories of its day. It was published by three different publishing houses in Great Britain and went through several editions. The first American edition was published in New York by Robert Carter, beginning in 1841–42. D’Aubigné’s history is narrated in a polemical, anti-Catholic tone, and it was translated into Arabic in an abridged form in 1878. 48 MH 38 (1842), 430. 49 Anderson also stressed what the missionaries themselves had been emphasizing all along, namely, that they [the missionaries] were not to be identified with the reformers. Rather it was the local converts who would lead the reformation and, therefore, benefit from the example of Luther and others. 47

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sectarian, indoctrinairian, and controversial mission activity among the Eastern churches, at least in the initial stages of the work. According to this understanding, revival was by the nature of the case a non-controversial and constructive approach aimed at the individual’s conscience, while reform necessarily involved destruction of old and decaying doctrines, practices, and institutions. This, it was assumed, would entail a “subversion” of sorts. Anderson at this stage advocated the use of the former and not the latter. This, after all, had been a well-tested strategy based on the presupposition that, once revived, these churches would of necessity reject their own external ceremonies and corrupt doctrines, and reform themselves. Thus, Anderson confidently affirmed that “even the doctrine of justification by faith alone, is enough, if generally received, to cleanse the corrupt ritual of a degenerate christian church.”50 But the analogy between the Lutheran Reformation and that of the American missionary enterprise to the Oriental churches had its limitations in Anderson’s view. Luther was . . . somewhat more conservative, than we should wish to see missionaries at this day. After having re-established the doctrine of justification by faith, . . . he was for retaining every thing [sic] in its constitution and modes of worship, that was not expressly forbidden in the Scriptures; thus seeking to connect the church of modern times with that of all preceding ages. And to this we are perhaps to attribute the existence of much that is now to be lamented in the constitution, ritual and discipline of the churches of Protestant Europe. On the other hand, Zwingle, the great Swiss reformer, who was contemporary with Luther, and through whom, and his great coadjutor Calvin, we, in an especial manner, received the fruit of the Reformation,—Zwingle was for abolishing every thing [sic] in the church, that was not expressly required by the Scriptures; and thus disregarding every intervening age, he sought to restore the church to its primitive condition.51

According to these standards, the mission to the Armenians, in Anderson’s estimate, had been the most successful thus far. The missionaries in Turkey “believe that their own labors should be wholly directed to the revival of religion . . . they preach a pure and spiritual

50 51

Ibid. Ibid., 431.

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Christianity, which demands an immediate renovation of the soul.” Preaching, after all, was, to Anderson’s mind, “the grand instrument employed.”52 The Prudential Committee received Anderson’s report, but still encouraged the missionaries in the Mediterranean to “shake the dust off their feet” and call the converts out of their churches when the time was right. Boston now seemed ready to receive news from the Middle East that churches may be organized. Otherwise, the Board hinted, material and human resources and support for the missions might decrease and eventually stop.53 Response in Istanbul To the surprise and delight of the missionaries and the American Board in Boston, developments amongst the Armenians in Istanbul appeared promising. The great “evangelical progress” that was exhibited by some Armenian converts greatly encouraged mission supporters in Boston.54 Relations of the American missionaries with the Armenian Orthodox hierarchy in the early period of their presence in Istanbul were good. Patriarch Stephanos (named “the Dove”) received the missionaries cordially. In 1832 he invited them to attend the ordination of fifteen graduates of the Peshtimaljian School and Goodell was even asked to pray during the ceremony. In 1835 nine high schools were already opened and a “Society of the Pious” was founded. Bible study meetings became commonplace. Soon after, a Temperance Union was founded and missionary stations in six regions were established. Converts became vocal and one of them named Apissoghom Khacadourian (Eutudjian) stood out as an able apologists of the Evangelical faith and expounder of biblical teachings. He greatly impressed the missionaries and was nurtured by them in the hope of becoming a leader of the local Evangelical community. In 1839 a new Patriarch took over who was very hostile to the missionaries and persecution began. Publications were banned and

52

Ibid. Ibid., 432. 54 For a fuller account of these developments than recounted herein, see Chopourian, Armenian Evangelical Reformation, 62–76. 53

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all who owned them were asked to give them up. Contact with missionaries was forbidden. Arrests were made and some of the converts were exiled. The converts, however, stood firm. They bravely bore their fate showing solid faithfulness to their newly found evangelical beliefs. But soon afterwards Patriarch Stephanos (the “Dove”) was restored and a period of relative calm prevailed from 1839 to 1844. Adherents to the evangelical community increased and missionary activity was indeed notably successful with continuous reports in the Missionary Herald of conversions and revivals. Response in Beirut Contrary to developments in the capital city, the years 1839 to 1844 witnessed one crisis after another in the Beirut station.55 Indeed the year 1842 ended in a crisis for the whole Syria Mission of the American Board. The prospects looked bleak. Jerusalem was not proving to be as hopeful a station as the missionaries had been led to believe some ten years earlier and was closed down in 1843. No new converts could be reported. The freedom of movement gained under the Egyptian rule of Lebanon (1830–1840) were lost,56 and some of the discontented new recruits from America were preparing to leave. The Mission Seminary was closed down. The Female Seminary was crippled by the death of its headmistress. The mission among the Druzes of Mount Lebanon that the missionaries had hoped would prove a great success, had produced very meager results, and the total number of converts from all the local communities did not exceed a dozen.57 At the annual meeting of the Syria Mission of 1842 the question of the continuation of the mission was discussed. Complaints received from new missionaries stationed in Beirut prompted the Prudential Committee in its meeting of November 1842, to instruct Anderson

55 See Habib Badr, “Mission to Nominal Christians: The policy and practice of the ABCFM and its missionaries concerning Eastern Churches which led to the organization of a Protestant Church in Beirut (1819–1848)” (Unpublished Dissertation, Princeton Theological Seminary, 1992), chapters 6–7. 56 Ibid. 57 Tibawi, American Interests, 103–04. See also Badr, “Mission to Nominal Christians,” 176–85.

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to examine the possibility of discontinuing the mission altogether.58 Accordingly, Anderson wrote a long letter to the Syria Mission in which he plainly laid before it what the Prudential Committee was contemplating in regard to its future.59 To complicate matters further for the Syria Mission, a group of some fifty men from the village of Hâsbayya, located at the foot of Mount Hermon in south Lebanon, came to Eli Smith in Beirut and declared their willingness to become Protestants.60 These men, all of whom belonged to the Greek Orthodox Church, gave two reasons why they desired to join the Mission. “They considered as oppressive the taxes demanded from them by the civil authorities, and felt disappointed with their religious leaders, who failed to remove the cause of their grievance.”61 Smith at first was very suspicious of their motives and quickly dispelled any hope they might have entertained of escaping taxation if they became Protestants. But he also assured them that if they were genuinely interested and serious about the Protestant faith, the Mission would consider sending someone to instruct them in the principles of evangelical Christianity. This incident occupied the missionaries for quite some time and exerted a certain pressure upon them that they did not know how to deal with precisely. On the one hand, they did not want to miss a golden opportunity of so many converts appearing at their doorstep unexpectedly, yet at the same time, there was no way of treating these men and women as “real” converts, especially when judged by American standards of evangelical Christianity and the requirement of “credible evidence of piety.” Beirut and Istanbul compared Apart from these pressures from Boston and from the Syria mission field itself, the missionaries experienced indirect pressure from their

58 The mission to the Greeks (in Greece), where Jonas King had transferred earlier, was facing difficulties and its closure was also under consideration. 59 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 8, part 1. Anderson to Syria Mission, Dec. 29, 1842. 60 According to one report, this incident happened on February 26, 1844. See Thomas Laurie and Henry Jessup (eds.), A Brief Chronicle of the Syria Mission (Beirut, 1901), 7. 61 Tibawi, American Interests, 108.

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colleagues working in Turkey, especially among the Armenians in Istanbul. The Missionary Herald often printed reports from Beirut and Istanbul right after one another on its pages, thus making the comparison unavoidable and the contrast too stark to ignore. In 1845, a report spoke of a convert in the capital city who was “humble, prayerful and penitent for sin. It would fill your heart with joy to converse with him. Even his enemies testify that he is wonderfully changed.”62 On the next page a report from Beirut read, Our audiences are usually attentive, but we are obliged to lament that we have had no tokens of any special influences of the Spirit. We can report no additions to the number of our communicants, and there seems to reign around us an almost universal spiritual death.63

More significantly, in September of the following year, the Herald printed a report from Syria which spoke of a hope that “a few individuals have been converted,” and which concluded with the general remark that “the mission has never before had so much liberty and quietness; nor has a spirit of inquiry been so widely extended.” On the very same page news of the organization of the first evangelical church in the capital city was announced.64 In Istanbul, persecution of the converts was resumed after 1844. By 1846, many of them were excommunicated by the Patriarch. When the crisis reached a climax in the summer of 1846, the converts, and the missionaries with them, saw no other choice but to organize an independent community. The British ambassador at the capital helped secure for them unofficial toleration. The organization of an “Evangelical Armenian Church” was reported with much enthusiasm in the Missionary Herald. This “native church” was organized on the first day of July in 1846 and a “native pastor,” the very same Eutujian mentioned earlier, was ordained to serve it a week later.65 In the December issue of the same year, the Herald printed a “Fraternal Epistle to the Patrons of the American Board” from the “First Evangelical Armenian Church of Constantinople” which glowed with praise for the American missionaries and their

62 63 64 65

MH 41 (1845), 202. Ibid., 203. Ibid., (1846), 397–98. MH 42 (1846), 317. Chopourian, The Armenian Evangelical Reformation, 87–92.

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patrons.66 In 1847, the Herald enthusiastically reported that three new churches had been formed among the Armenians in Turkey.67 On the other hand, from the Seminary in `Abaih, Mount Lebanon, the missionaries reported that several of the teachers were “seriousminded men, and attentive to the Scriptures; but none of them give satisfactory evidence of piety.”68 The mood of the Syria Mission was summed up in these poignant words: We cannot doubt that the Holy Spirit, with his reviving, renewing influence, has been among us, at times at least, in the course of the year. And we humbly hope that a few precious souls in our families have been born again. A few others have been more or less awakened. At times also there has seemed to be more than ordinary seriousness in our congregations. Individuals have sometimes, in private conversations, appeared to be seriously impressed by the truth. Still we are obliged to say, (and we say it with humiliation and sorrow before God,) that we have no decided, clear conversions, out of our own families, to record in this annual report.”69

The Mission in Syria was indeed showing signs of weakness and slackening in comparison to that to the Armenians. This was unacceptable to Boston. The senior secretary hurled the Syria Mission in Beirut with a barrage of letters pressing for similar action.70 The events between 1844 and 1848 betrayed a considerable amount of confusion and hastily made decisions on the part of the missionaries stationed in Beirut. The Hâsbayya incident presented a new challenge to the missionaries. This group of what they were accustomed to labeling “speculatively convinced” Christians, approached the missionaries on their own, and not because the missionaries had preached the gospel to them first. Excited as the missionaries must have been about the potential inherent therein, they were still operating under the traditional policy of not accepting any individual or group into the church without sufficient and credible evidence of piety, without a recognizable conversion experience, and without a

66

MH 42 (1846), 397–98. These were in Trebizond (with nine members), in Nicomedia (with fourteen members), and in Ada Bazar (with fourteen members). The membership at Constantinople had reached fifty that year. MH 43 (1847), 4. 68 Ibid., 183. 69 Ibid., 184. 70 See Badr, “Mission to Nominal Christians,” 275–80. 67

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visible outer change in their moral and social behavior. These, and not other signs of the authentic Christian life, accompanied true conversions as they had known them in America. It was precisely for this reason that they were unable to report, year after year, any progress in their Mission, whether at Hâsbayya, Beirut or elsewhere in Lebanon and Syria. Soon enough, this became a real source of frustration for them, especially when they compared their work with reports from other mission fields of the Board that they were reading in the Herald. However, with Boston’s incessant reminders to them of their promise and duty to make converts, to organize them into churches, and to ordain indigenous pastors to lead them, no wonder they were hardpressed to produce results of one sort or another. But when there are no conversions, there can be no churches; and when no churches could be organized, no ministers could be ordained to serve them. In the eyes of the American missionaries, the situation in Syria seemed to be going precisely in that direction: no local converts; no “native” churches; no indigenous ministers. From the fifty or so men, and certainly many more women and children, who applied to join the mission from Hâsbayya, only three adult males were judged pious enough to be admitted to communion in 1848—four years after the beginning of the whole affair. The missionaries stationed in Beirut had now two choices before them. Either they would continue to complain about the lack of conversions in the field and use that as an excuse for not organizing a church, or, to force their own hand, and somehow “put together” a church of some sort. They opted for the latter. For a church to be organized, however, converts were needed. Yet by their own confession, the missionaries had not been admitting converts into their own Mission Church in Beirut. In order to remedy this state of affairs, on August 10, 1847, and without previous notification, a letter was written to Boston to inform the secretary that seven persons had been received to the communion of the church and had partaken of the Lord’s Supper “last Sunday.” No mention of a conversion experience was made. The entry of seven members within a period of a few weeks, into the communion of a church, simply did not fit the image the missioinaries had been projecting of themselves. The whole affair was irregularly set up and rushed through in anticipation of the events in February and March of 1848 when a “native” evangelical church

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in Beirut was finally organized in the hope of satisfying Boston’s insistence on results.71 Even the location and makeup of the churchto-be was not sufficiently considered. It was founded in 'Abaih, (a small village on the hills east of Beirut), headquartered in Beirut, and consisted of members who resided in Beirut, 'Abaih, Hâsbayya, and even Jaffa in Palestine.72 The question is, of course, what other choice did the missionaries have? Those few individuals, indeed, formed the sum total of the available converts at the time. The fact that no “native” pastor was ordained to lead the church, as was the case in Istanbul, was another sign of the difficulty the missionaries faced in this regard.73 Conclusion How was the piety that Americans brought with them and attempted to transplant in Istanbul and Beirut understood and appropriated by the local people? The Armenian Orthodox seem to have responded in a positive way, at least partially. The Syrian and Lebanese Christians, however, who were mostly from Greek Orthodox background, seemed to have preferred a more “theologically-oriented” piety that American missionaries did not think highly of. In 1846, Smith noted in a letter to secretary Anderson that “in private conversation, the tendency to controversy is rather too strong; for the people much prefer it to earnest, searching addresses to their consciences and hearts.”74 What Smith considered controversy, the local Christians considered a living form of Christian piety.75 The heart of the conflict of pieties, however, was most evident in

71

See Badr, “Mission to Nominal Christians,” 283–91. This may be compared to the Armenians who, in 1846 alone, had formed four distinct churches in four different cities in Turkey. 73 See Badr, “Mission to Nominal Christians,” 291–97 74 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 3, part 1, d. 116. Smith to Anderson, Apr. 18, 1846. Underlining mine 75 There are no studies available on the relation between theology and piety in the Eastern churches in the nineteenth century. Studies on the relation between theology and spirituality are plenty. The monograph that touches most directly on the issues raised in this study is by Irénée Hausherr, Études de spiritualité orientale, Orientala Christiana Analecta 183 (Rome, 1969). See esp. his essay “Dogme et spiritualité orientale,” 145–179. 72

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the total unwillingness of the missionaries to accept what they called “speculatively convinced” believers into the Christian fold. Indeed, had they not been a little flexible in Beirut, this policy would have excluded their best and most hopeful converts. From the case of As'ad Shidyâq, the so-called “martyr of Lebanon” who became a “convert” (if that indeed is the right word to employ in this case), and who was convinced of the Protestant faith as he was attempting to answer King’s controversial “Farewell Letter” of 1825; to the case of Butrus al-Bustâni who, on his own, came to the Mission asking to become a Protestant;76 to the episode of Hâsbayya where a collective conversion of sorts took place without missionary preaching or prodding, the same pattern was being repeated over and over again. Yet the missionaries were unable to hear the “Macedonian call” of Acts 16:9 in any of these encounters with Eastern Christians. With the benefit of hindsight, however, we can safely say that there was no such call. If, indeed, there was a call being sounded by any of these “inquirers,” as they were labeled, it was more likely that of Mark 9:24, “I believe; help my unbelief!” Yet the missionaries were unwilling and unable to abandon their evangelical standards of piety by which they gauged the religious experience of others. How could something that had been tested and worked in America, and seemed to be working in Asia and Africa, not work in the Middle East? The relative success in Istanbul was ample proof. Indeed, the tenacity and single-mindedness with which the American missionaries in Beirut and Istanbul, with the constant prodding from Anderson in Boston, pursued their declared objective of reviving the Christians of western Asia in the same way in which they themselves had been revived at home, is truly remarkable. In fact, the gradual ignoring of all the theological, historical, socio-political, and ecumenical exigencies that they encountered on the way can only be explained by this unyielding determination. The theological questions that had consumed the hearts and minds of Eastern Christians (especially the Greek Orthodox) for centuries were considered external elements of the Christian faith by the Evangelical missionaries. The central question for the missionary was

76 See Abdul-Latif Tibawi, “The American Missionaries in Beirut and Butus AlBustani” in St. Antony’s Papers 16: Middle Eastern Affairs 3, edited by Albert Hourani (London, 1963), 136–82.

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“What must I do to be saved?” The three key words in this question were “I,” “do,” and “saved.” As has been demonstrated, the first and only concern of the missionaries was the question of salvation—personal, individual salvation. Soteriology preceded all other ideological concerns. This theological starting point acted as a dynamic that made other issues, such as ecclesiology, secondary. Salvation, moreover, touched the heart before the mind, and it influenced behavior before thought. There was an agreed-upon “progress” of the human soul in search for salvation that all the missionaries assumed axiomatically. There were recognizable patterns in the development of the life of any “nominal Christian” before, during, and after salvation—whether he or she be in America, Asia, Africa, or the Middle East. As we have seen, this partially applied in the case of the Armenians in Istanbul but totally failed in Beirut. Personal conversion, through a revival of religion, was considered the pivotal concern. But then, a visible change of life also had to be exhibited as the seal of a conversion experience. It was only after all of this happened that the regenerated person was fit to join a church. This was precisely what Anderson meant when he reminded the missionaries in 1850 that there is no mystery in the forming of a church, or in joining oneself to it. It is simply associating believers together under the brief constitutions provided by the New Testament, . . . The time of action is when the evidence of piety are satisfactory; . . .77

The total separation of ecclesiology from soteriology, which the American missionaries took for granted, dictated in fact all their decisions during the first twenty five-years of the history of the mission. It is true that they differed on questions of strategy, that is, on how to put their mission theory into action in the peculiar circumstances of the Middle East. However, they all shared one missiology, one theology of mission that guided their actions throughout the period under examination. It was only when revivalist fever subsided in the United States in the latter part of the nineteenth century that the great stress on conversion in the mission fields was relaxed. But the Armenian Evangelical community had already appropriated the early piety described herein and has generally held on to it. 77 ABC 16.8.1., vol. 8, part 2. Anderson to Syria Mission, Jun. 27, 1850. (Italics mine).

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For reasons that require further research, it would seem that the Armenians were better equipped to respond to the evangelical piety of the Americans than were the Lebanese or Syrians. This is especially interesting as now, and since the 1950s, a rush of similarly modeled conservative evangelical missionary activity has swamped the Middle East, and with relative success in many Eastern Christian communities, including the Lebanese and Syrian.

“MISSIONS IN EDEN”: SHAPING AN EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL PROGRAM FOR THE ARMENIANS IN EASTERN TURKEY (1855–1895) Barbara J. Merguerian American evangelicals commenced their work among the Armenians in the remote area of Kharpert province, eastern Turkey, in 1855, during a period when new philosophies, coupled with financial constraints, limited the role of missions to the direct preaching of the gospel. The American founders of the Kharpert station, who over the course of four decades built the mission into a widely recognized and admired model, initially championed these policies. Experience in the field altered their views, however; the transformation of the Kharpert mission from a narrow effort to “save souls” into a broad program to “cultivate minds” demonstrates the dynamics that were shaping American missions in an area far removed from the controlling influence of policy-makers in the United States. The evolution of the mission also sheds light on issues of cross-cultural connections and on the relationship between goals and unintended consequences of the American effort. The Americans fostered literacy and developed an educational system for the Armenians as a means to facilitate the conversion of individuals to their brand of evangelical Christianity. For the Armenians, the education provided by the missionaries represented the end or goal—they constantly clamored for more of it and on a higher level. This difference in the perception of ends versus means did not prevent the development of popular American-sponsored programs for the Armenian people, but it carried the potential for serious misunderstanding. On many issues the Armenians proved to be apt pupils who not only learned their lessons well, but carried these lessons to logical conclusions unanticipated (and often unwelcomed) by their American instructors. When the missionaries emphasized the belief that all people are created equal, the Armenians applied the concept to the political arena, where it had a decidedly democratic impulse (despite missionary protestations that their interests were limited to the religious sphere). The Armenians expected an

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education comparable to that of the missionaries, as well as equal social status. Taught the Protestant insistence on each person’s responsibility to read and interpret the Bible according to their own conscience and beliefs, Armenians wondered why they should not have the right to an equal voice in decisions impacting the community— something the missionaries refused to consider. The Armenians were eager to take advantage of the educational opportunities offered them, but they remained on the whole dubious about the Protestant critique of their Armenian Apostolic (Orthodox) church, which had retained their loyalty and devotion during centuries of oppression and foreign rule. It should have come as no surprise to the Americans that efforts by unknown foreigners to dictate religious beliefs were less than kindly received by a people who took great pride in the unchanging tenets of their ancient faith. The American work among the Armenians was on the one hand facilitated by a shared Christian tradition at the same time that it was harmed by the critique of the Armenian Church implied in the American insistence on the necessity for its reform. Contradictions stemming from a Protestant crusade to preach and teach to an Orthodox Christian population had beset relations between the Americans and the Armenians from the beginning. The original (and ostensible) purpose of the American mission to the Armenians was to precipitate a reformation in a national church that had experienced neither Lutheranism nor Calvinism. When that effort was vigorously opposed by the hierarchy of the Armenian Apostolic church, which anathematized Protestant beliefs and excommunicated their adherents, the Americans promoted the establishment of the first Armenian Evangelical church in 1846 in Istanbul. The ultimate aim of the mission, the conversion of Muslim and Jewish populations, was never forgotten; and the work among the Armenians was justified as preparing helpers for the larger task. Especially promising was the work among the rural population in the outlying districts, away from direct reach of the Armenian Patriarch in Istanbul. Many Armenians sincerely converted to the Evangelical faith, and many others accepted Protestant tenets without taking the explicit step of leaving the Armenian church. The major impact of the missionaries on the Armenians, however, was not in fostering evangelism but rather in promoting nationalism. Specifically, the missionary emphasis on the use of the vernacular Armenian language (as distinct from the classical tongue used in the church and understood

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only by only a small number of educated clergy) provided a strong impetus to the development of the modern Armenian language and literature that in turn was a major element in the nineteenth century Armenian national awakening. Nationalism prompted Armenian religious and lay organizations to establish educational institutions to compete with the Protestants and at the same time encouraged the population to remain loyal to the Armenian Apostolic church.1 Kharpert, the name of both the city and the province, was at that time one of the most remote mission stations, located 750 miles from the Turkish capital of Istanbul via a difficult route over the sea and mountain ranges. Known in missionary literature as Harput or Harpoot, the city was situated on a hilltop bordering a plain with over 300 villages, most of them inhabited by Armenians. Population figures for the province are unreliable; most estimates placed the figure at about 300,000 persons, with Armenians, Kurds, and Turks each accounting for roughly one-third of the total. The biblical associations that made the Near East so attractive to the romantics of the mission (and romanticism played an important role) were particularly prominent in Kharpert, with its proximity to Mount Ararat. The area was often described, probably for the benefit of patrons at home, as the site of Eden; or if not Eden itself, at least as the spot to which Adam and Eve had been driven when expelled. Not the least of its appeal to the American mission was the suggestion that its inhabitants had retained through the ages some remnants of early religious movements of the seventh to the ninth centuries (Paulicians) that had contained the seeds of Protestantism. Although non-committal regarding the claim of the native Armenians to be the oldest nation on earth and to speak “the language of Noah,” the missionaries were enthusiastic about the rich historical associations of the area.2

1 On the American mission to the Armenians see G. H. Chopourian, The Armenian Evangelical Reformation: Causes and Effects (New York, 1972); Leon Arpee, The Armenian Awakening (Chicago, 1908); Rufus Anderson, History of the Missions of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions to the Oriental Churches, 2 vols. (Boston, 1872); William E. Strong, The Story of the American Board: An Account of the First Hundred Years of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (Boston, 1910); and James L. Barton, Daybreak in Turkey (Boston, 1908). 2 Crosby H. Wheeler, Ten Years on the Euphrates, or Primitive Missionary Policy Illustrated (Boston, 1868), 54, 62.

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The establishment of the Kharpert mission came at a particularly critical time, when the leaders of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, an independent, ecumenical organization established in 1810 in Boston, Massachusetts, and made up of members of the Congregational, Presbyterian, and Dutch Reformed churches, were debating the theory underlying missions. The founders of the movement had assumed that their goal of converting the world to a Puritan-style, evangelical Christianity would be part of a “civilizing” effort that would include education, printing, and general enlightenment along with direct proselytizing. Efforts to more carefully define missionary activity followed the ascendancy of the Reverend Rufus Anderson, the powerful foreign secretary of the American Board. Anderson rejected any “civilizing” function for missions and insisted on limiting the work to direct evangelism. He was particularly scornful of efforts to provide education to native populations beyond the basics needed to read the Bible with understanding. The role of the missionary, according to Anderson, was to preach, and all other activities were of secondary importance. Students were to be limited to the families of the converted. Higher education was barred, as was instruction in English, both of which were considered by Anderson to be unnecessary, expensive, and likely to raise graduates above their station in life, leaving them dissatisfied and unfit for service among their people. Anderson believed that Christianity would bring with it a generally civilizing tendency, but he emphatically did not see it as the missionary’s duty to interfere with established patterns of life and customs, even less to introduce Western technology.3 The leading figure in the Kharpert mission, the Reverend Crosby H. Wheeler, was an outspoken disciple of Anderson’s and a proponent of the new philosophy when he and his wife, Susan Brookings Wheeler, set out in 1857 for what was to become a lifetime of service in the field. Stopping in the Turkish capital of Istanbul on their way to eastern Turkey, the Wheelers were able to participate in the debates then taking place over mission policy. Wheeler took direct

3 The foreign secretary’s views are summarized in Rufus Anderson, Foreign Missions: Their Relations and Claims (New York, 1869). The question of “civilizing” missions is discussed by William R. Hutchison, Errand to the World: American Protestant Thought and Foreign Missions (Chicago, 1987), Chapter 1.

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issue with the veteran missionary educator Cyrus Hamlin over the question of higher education and the teaching of English. Hamlin had been the founder of the Bebek Seminary in Istanbul in 1840, an institution that prepared the first generation of pastors for the newly formed Armenian Evangelical church (though open to all faiths, the seminary enrolled chiefly Armenians). Hamlin strongly supported the policy of teaching and preaching in the vernacular Armenian language, but he advocated a high level of education for potential pastors and teachers and emphasized the importance of teaching English in order to reach this goal. Since education marked the chief means of reaching out to the people, Hamlin could see no logic in limiting it to the children of the converted. His opposition to the new Anderson policies compelled him to resign from the American Board in 1860 and led to his subsequent fame as the founder of Robert College in Istanbul, the first American-sponsored college in the Middle East.4 Establishment of the Mission The first American to recommend Kharpert as a missionary field was the Reverend George Dunmore, who visited the region in 1852 and established the mission three years later. “There cannot be found a vaster or more promising field in Turkey than Kharpoot for evangelical missionary effort,” Dunmore reported. This initial enthusiasm was considerably dampened following incidents in which Dunmore and his Armenian associate were stoned by local Armenians, leading him to express the fear that “the Christians are so hostile that any day I may die like a dog in the streets.” The illness of his wife compelled Dunmore to return to the United States, but not before he had accompanied the Wheelers on a tour of the region in 1857. Wheeler quickly came to share Dunmore’s enthusiasm for the mission’s potential, and he determined to overcome opposition from the local population.5

4 On the Wheelers, see Barbara J. Merguerian, “Saving Souls or Cultivating Minds? Missionary Crosby H. Wheeler in Kharpert, Turkey,” Journal of the Society for Armenian Studies 6 (1992–1993), 33–60. 5 Records of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, Houghton Library, Harvard University, ABC 16.7.1, Mission to the Armenians, vol. 9, Dunmore Reports, April 1855, no. 92, and April 1857, no. 95; Susan Anna (Brookings)

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Accompanying the Wheelers on their trip to Kharpert were the Reverend and Mrs. Orson P. Allen (Mrs. Allen was Crosby Wheeler’s sister). Two years later they were joined by the Reverend Herman N. Barnum and his wife Mary (daughter of the pioneering missionary in the Middle East, William Goodell, who was continuing his service in Istanbul). The three couples were to form a mission circle in Kharpert which was to continue unbroken for four decades and which was unique in its longevity. In Kharpert the missionaries found themselves dealing with a largely agricultural and impoverished population. On the one hand fascinated by the local way of life that had not changed significantly since biblical days, the missionaries at the same time became exasperated with the prevailing conservative frame of mind that distrusted innovation of any kind. The Turkish government’s hostility to proselytizing among the Muslims left the missionaries to concentrate their attention on the Armenians. The local population was interested in the Western dress and lifestyle of the Americans, but skeptical, if not hostile, concerning their motives. Slowly, with persistence, however, especially as they became fluent in the Armenian language, the missionaries learned to take advantage of the curiosity of the local population in order to gain a hearing for their teachings. For example his spy glass, Wheeler wrote, was an effective tool in attracting the attention of a crowd and arousing their interest in listening to a sermon.6 The basic tenant of the missionaries’ evangelical faith, that salvation is to be gained on an individual basis, by reading and following the truths found in the Bible, required a literate public. The Americans reported that, when they arrived in Kharpert, probably not one in a hundred Armenians knew how to read, nor did they have any desire to do so. “What! Am I to become a priest,” many a man told Wheeler, “that I should learn to read!” And the idea that females could or should be taught to read was greeted with incredulity and ridicule. Despite initial misgivings, the local Armenians soon found the prospect of learning how to read attractive. After

Wheeler, Missions in Eden: Glimpses of Life in the Valley of the Euphrates (New York, 1899), 21. Upon his return to the United States, Dunmore volunteered as a chaplain in the Civil War and was killed by a stray bullet (Missionary Herald [1862], 321–22). 6 Wheeler, Ten Years, 145.

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studying the Armenian language themselves, the Americans adopted a number of ways to spread literacy, many of them developed by earlier missionaries: Armenian was taught directly by the missionaries in their own small schools, by women who had been taught how to read and were then encouraged to teach their children and their neighbors, and by small boys from the schools sent from house to house to teach reading, receiving from the missionaries a small payment for every lesson.7 Teaching literacy was facilitated by the accomplishments of the earlier American missionaries, who had provided the major impetus for the development of the vernacular Armenian (ashkharhapar) into a literary language. The missionary press, first in Malta, then Izmir, and finally Istanbul, churned out a deluge of religious literature, including editions of the Gospels and the Bible, in the native languages.8 Wheeler boasted that in his first decade, besides distributing many tracts, he had sold 35,091 volumes, of which 11,607 were scriptures, 2,758 hymn books, and 7,315 primers.9 The missionaries began by holding religious services on the ground floor of their house, but it soon became so crowded that a small chapel was built, with rooms on the second floor for Bible classes. A modest building constructed with local materials, the chapel had for the time and place a technologically advanced feature: two solar panels on the roof that provided a small pulpit light. A primary school for boys having been already established, the vacated ground floor of the missionary home became the girls’ school.10 The Americans saw the Evangelical church in Kharpert grow: in 1860, five years after the establishment of the mission, the first Armenian pastor was ordained; in 1865 the Kharpert Evangelical Union was established, with eleven churches, six pastors, and 325 members; on its 25th anniversary, in 1890, the Evangelical Union had grown, albeit slowly, to include twenty-five churches and almost 2,000 members.11 The presence of independent, self-supporting churches in this poor

7

Ibid., 114–15, 117, 120–21, 139. Barbara J. Merguerian, “The ABCFM Press and the Development of the Western Armenian Language,” Printing in the Mission Field, special issue of the Harvard Library Bulletin 9:1 (Spring 1998), J. F. Coakley (ed.), 35–49. 9 Wheeler, Ten Years, 121. 10 Susan Wheeler, Missions in Eden, 77–78. 11 Missionary Herald (1891), 23–24. 8

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and remote corner of Turkey was possible only by the acquisition of simple church structures and by payment of low salaries to the pastors. Wheeler’s name is associated with the concept of “self-help,” i.e. payment, no matter how modest (and often in kind), by the local population for the missionary services (accepted as tuition payments were such items as knitted socks, wheat, bread, milk, yogurt, eggs, hens, etc.).12 The invitation to pastors to serve in the churches depended largely on a religious calling, but pastors expected to be paid enough to maintain a minimum standard of living. The Americans however struggled constantly to keep salaries down. The insistence on low salaries (and therefore modest living conditions) was much resented by the Armenians. These differences of opinion over salaries and payments were part of a larger debate over the expenditure of missionary funds; official policy provided for the mission and its superiors in Boston to be largely responsible for budget decisions, while the local population considered themselves more knowledgeable of their own needs and better able to fairly distribute missionary resources. This became a major issue in Istanbul in the early 1880s, and its echoes could not fail to be heard in Kharpert.13 Education Both the tenets of the Protestant Evangelical faith and the interests of the local population dictated an emphasis on education, but always with a biblical and religious focus. As the mission in Kharpert grew, the Americans developed a network of schools. Secretary Anderson’s requirement that education be provided only to the children of the converted proved impossible in practice; education remained the chief means of attracting the local population. Other aspects of Anderson’s philosophy were given a trial in Kharpert, particularly the dictum that the native clergy did not need an advanced level of instruction. The theological seminary that opened in Kharpert in 1859 represented a modest effort that offered an elementary three-year course, soon expanded to four years. In 1861 there were twenty-four pupils

12

Wheeler, Ten Years, 301. “Memorandum for the Missions in the Turkish Empire, and Recommendations,” Annual Meeting of the American Board (1882), lxvii–lxxvi; “Report of the Special Committee on the Turkish Missions,” Annual Meeting of the American Board (1883), xv–lviii. 13

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in the Kharpert Seminary, the next year the number grew to thirtynine pupils, and by 1868 there were thirty-two graduates in service as pastors or helpers. Able students deemed unsuitable to serve as preachers were encouraged to become teachers.14 The curriculum was based on the Bible as the basic text. Students studied the Armenian language and grammar, mathematics, geography, astronomy, chemistry, church history, and natural, mental, and moral philosophy. In the third year they concentrated on theology and in the fourth year on preaching.15 The major aim, according to Wheeler, was to imbue the pupils with a Christian and earnest spirit. Reflecting Anderson’s opposition to higher education for local populations, Wheeler explained: Next to this, our greatest care has been not to educate them too much, so as to raise them too far above their own people and destroy their sympathy with them . . . It is impossible to educate them into the position and feeling of educated men in enlightened communities; and the attempt to do so only fills them with conceit, which is all the worse because acquired at foreign expense.16

During his first decade in Kharpert, despite the strong desire of Armenian students to learn English, Wheeler strongly opposed this study. We believed, too, and have acted upon the belief, that the necessary training should be given in their own vernacular, and not in a foreign tongue. Notwithstanding the earnest desire of students to acquire the English language, no instruction in it has been given in the seminary, and we have felt that to teach it would do harm rather than good. Besides consuming time which could be more usefully devoted to other things, it would expose them to greater temptations.17

Passing through Istanbul on his return to the United States on furlough in 1867, Wheeler gave a public lecture in which he repeated his opposition to higher education for Armenians and stressed his concept of self-help. His talk elicited an angry letter to the editor published in a local Armenian newspaper asking:

14 15 16 17

Wheeler, Ten Years, 182. Ibid., 164–67. Ibid., 176–77. Ibid., 178.

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barbara j. merguerian What has become of the missionaries’ splendid promises, made to us when they exhorted us to take the first step? They are now afraid of our knowing too much; they have shut up the schools—they persecute intelligent, useful, and popular laborers, and they have put us in an abject and suffering condition, and now Mr. Wheeler caps the climax, by calling us “beggars.” If we venture to claim our rights, they say to us, you have no rights but to obey; humble yourselves, claim no more rights, give up your wills, your perceptions, your mental faculties, and then only shall we consider you to be pious people, and shall cease to call you beggars.18

Upon his return to Kharpert at the end of 1868, Wheeler confronted the consequences of the success of the mission education programs. It was clear that students who had been taught the basics now wanted to learn more, and that literate parishioners and parents were demanding ever more highly qualified teachers and pastors. Wheeler’s firm belief that the long-range purpose of the missionaries should be to create self-supporting local institutions dictated a new emphasis on secondary and higher education to prepare the personnel to staff these institutions—an emphasis Wheeler had earlier opposed. To meet the pressing demand, the Kharpert station in 1869 took the first steps to establish a teachers’ school along with a women’s seminary.19 Both enjoyed great success from the start. During the 1870s the Americans continued to expand the educational system in Kharpert, with its network of community schools, the teachers’ school, the female seminary, and the theological seminary. It is not clear precisely when or how the idea arose of placing a college at the head of this network. The first mention of a college in Kharpert appears in a station report for 1873, which rejected the idea.20 A short two years later, however, the same station approved of a plan for Wheeler to return to the United States in order to oversee the legal arrangements for the organization of Armenia (later Euphrates) College and to raise an initial $60,000 endowment. The incorporation of the college (in the state of Massachusetts) proved

18 The article was signed “The Protestant Armenians” and a footnote explained that its statement referred “only to the younger missionaries, and not to the first or older missionaries of the Board.” ABC 16.9.7, Eastern Turkey Mission, vol. 1, no. 125. 19 Kharpert Report for 1869, excerpts printed in Missionary Herald (1870), 288. 20 “Annual Report of the Eastern Turkey Mission,” June 16, 1873, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 3, no. 39.

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easier than raising the endowment, but in 1878 sufficient funds had been committed to permit Wheeler to return to Kharpert in his new capacity as president of the college, a role to which he devoted his considerable energies during his remaining years, until his retirement in 1893.21 In practice, therefore, by the mid 1870s conditions in Kharpert had convinced the educator Wheeler to advocate a program far different from his earlier beliefs. While the educational level of the college cannot have been very high at first, it was constantly increasing.22 There was now no question about the importance of teaching English. Not only was English in demand by the students, it was the most practical means of providing higher education. Armenian-language textbooks were either non-existent or inadequate for many of the subjects taught, and preparing such textbooks was beyond the capability of a limited missionary force. While Armenian continued to be the basic language of instruction, the teaching of English gradually expanded, reaching finally into the lower grades. Recognition of Wheeler’s accomplishments came from an old adversary, Cyrus Hamlin, who wrote in 1880: The first, consistent, persevering opposition of the native element compelled Marsovan and even Kharpert, after years of useless and injurious resistance, to abandon “vernacular education” as the highest to which men may aspire. Mr. Wheeler’s conversion is one of the remarkable events of Missionary labor. It seems to be genuine and thorough, but it costs too much. This long contest over education, although the native brethren have won the field in principle, has left a root of bitterness, which has not been eradicated to this day. It is still believed by many that the mission is hostile to education, and the present change is hypercritical!23

The college in Kharpert was distinct from others being established at the time by missions in the Near East in two respects: first, it was coeducational, and second, it encompassed a complete system with four departments: primary, secondary, preparatory, and college,

21 Wheeler’s letters written during his return to the United States in 1875 to 1878 are found in ABC 16.9.7, vol. 5, nos. 239–333. 22 Wheeler, Kharpert, letter dated Feb. 27, 1884, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 9 (part 2), no. 446. 23 Letter from Hamlin to J.R. Bradford, Esq., dated January 3, 1880, and printed as an appendix in “Extracts from the Minutes of the Fourteenth Annual Meeting of the Bithynia Union, Held at Constantinople, May 12–25, 1881.”

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for a total of fourteen years. A guiding principle was to engage Armenian professors and to use the older students to instruct the younger ones, thus providing useful experience (and saving money). In the male department, President Wheeler was the only American on the faculty (except for theological classes); the others were all Armenians except for the Turkish language instructor. The female department was headed by a woman missionary who usually had at least one American assistant in addition to Armenian teaching aides. The college was the apex of a regional educational system which included high schools in all of the major centers of the Eastern Turkey mission.24 Social programs The attitude of the missionaries to the social customs they observed posed a dilemma. Missionary policy was to preach and to educate as much as necessary for evangelism; it barred efforts to improve social conditions. Reluctant to interfere in the social habits of the population, the Americans nonetheless considered it impossible to remain totally silent. The treatment of women in eastern Turkey, for example, was considered both morally wrong and harmful to the cause. It is true that the missionaries themselves placed their women in a subordinate position, denying them the right to speak during church services or to vote at meetings, but both missionary wives and single missionary women worked hand in hand with the men in their various projects. The elevation of women came to be considered an integral part of missionary programs, an endeavor blessed by the creator and a mark of civilization. The advocates for foreign missions were often the same people who supported women’s rights in the United States.25 Establishment of elementary schools for girls, teaching women to read, and Bible-study sessions were among the early projects to carry out “women’s work for women.” To expand these efforts, missionary

24 Frank Andrews Stone, Academies for Anatolia: A Study of the Rationale, Program and Impact of the Educational Institutions Sponsored by the American Board in Turkey: 1830–1980 (Lanham, 1984), chap. 8. 25 See for example Amanda Porterfield, Mary Lyon and the Mount Holyoke Missionaries (New York, 1997).

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wives accompanied their husbands on tours of the countryside. Soon pairs of single women began touring themselves, accompanied by a male missionary and/or an Armenian helper. As additional single women entered the field, touring became a major activity. The tireless energy and resourcefulness of these women became famous in missionary literature. Caroline E. Bush and Hattie Seymour, out of Kharpert, were inveterate travelers. In her report for 1890–1891, Bush, who had just marked her twentieth year of touring, reported that the two had just completed a trip of fifty weeks that took them to forty-four out of the fifty-nine outstations and covered 1,350 miles to visit 1,400 families. During the tour the women visited the local Protestant schools, looked for promising students for the higher schools, attended women’s meetings, supervised the work of Bible women, and visited as many homes as possible. The excitement and curiosity aroused in remote villages by the arrival of these American women, in Western dress, with their religious literature, storytelling from the Bible, and tales of life in America, can well be imagined. The reception was as likely as not to be hostile; stoning the missionaries, though less frequent, continued into the 1880s and 1890s in the outlying districts.26 The touring gave the American women a unique opportunity to observe at first hand the everyday life of Armenian families, and the Americans were often shocked by the treatment of women. A young bride was at the mercy not only of her husband, but of her motherin-law and any male in the family, even the youngest boy. For years she was not allowed to speak without permission in the presence of her mother-in-law. As a sign of their mute status, women were required to tie a handkerchief over their mouths in public. They performed much of the physical labor, not only in the household but out in the fields. Often the missionaries found the women too busy to pay any attention to them. Seymour, visiting a home where the women were busily engaged in household chores, began to read a Bible story aloud when one woman interrupted: “It’s fine for you to read, you have nothing else to do. But if we did it, what would

26 Women’s Work: Harpoot Station, 1884–1891, ABC 16.9.9 (new), Eastern Turkey, Miscellaneous, vol. 1, no. 1:20; Annual Report, Kharpert, 1887, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 6, no. 86; Light and Life for Women [publication of the Womens’ Board of Missions] (1882), 47.

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become of the mending and the children and the cattle?” The Americans would remind their listeners of the Bible teaching that one must seek first the kingdom of heaven and then all things shall be added. They should not have been surprised, then, that some of the Armenian took this teaching literally; and having learned to read, would eagerly ask the missionaries when they would have better clothes, or a new house—questions even the quick-witted missionaries had difficulty in answering.27 While unable to keep silent concerning the deplorable condition of the women, the missionaries hesitated to do anything to upset the existing social fabric. As Susan Wheeler put it: We were not sent to change the customs of the people, or to make sport of them because they were unlike our own. Our customs were just as strange to them as theirs were to us. In fact we did not go to Americanize the people; we soon learned that many of their customs were better for them than ours would be.28

Wheeler is referring to the fact that some of the earliest efforts to introduce Western ways in the Middle East had been counterproductive. For example, the American women were, at first, appalled at the custom of the Armenian mothers of swaddling their babies “like mummies,” as they described it, and of using sand under the swaddling to keep the babies warm and dry. The Protestant Armenian mothers were encouraged to copy the ways of the missionaries, and began clothing their babies with dresses. It was quickly discovered that, dressed that way, in the drafty homes in the winter or outside with their mothers in the summer, babies were much more susceptible to colds and to the many diseases that were prevalent. They were better off swaddled.29 The policy in Kharpert was to go along with the local customs unless these were considered positively harmful. The living arrangements for the boarding students in the female seminary, for example, were designed to “conform as far as practicable to the customs of the country.” In other words, students were to wear native dress, sleep on mattresses rolled out every evening, and eat their meals

27

Light and Life (1873), 33–37, and (1874), 263–64. Susan Wheeler, Missions in Eden, 50–51. 29 Maria A. West, The Romance of Missions: or Inside Views of Life and Labor, in the Land of Ararat (New York, 1875), 171–72; Susan Wheeler, Missions in Eden, 51. 28

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seated on the floor and without utensils.30 And although they did not approve of arranged marriages, especially when the agreements were made when the parties were 3 or 4 years of age, the Americans found this custom so deeply entrenched that it was futile to oppose it; they did however try to establish the rule that no marriages could take place unless both bride and groom gave their consent. They also attempted to raise the marriage age for girls from the existing 11, 12, or 13 years.31 While not disputing the general rule that women should be obedient to men, the Americans obviously interpreted obedience to be something quite different from the servitude they observed among the Armenian women. But they constantly faced the obstacle of men who feared that educating women would make them difficult to control. Susan Wheeler, trying to persuade a reluctant husband in Kharpert to allow the women in his household to learn how to read, assured him, “I can read; yet I am obedient to my husband, and I can do more work. The Bible tells women to be obedient.” It is interesting that she felt she had to use as a selling point the argument that literacy somehow enables women to “do more work.” The man replied, “Let them read if they wish, but let none of them speak to me”; in other words make sure that women keep their place.32 Cautiously the missionaries also encouraged the women to be more assertive. Wheeler recalls with approval an incident that took place one day in the Evangelical church, where the women sat on the left side and the men on the right, with a railing separating the two (in the Armenian Apostolic churches at the time the women sat unseen behind curtains or in galleries). One day, when the church was overcrowded, a man arose and said, “Let the women go out and make room for the men,” only to be told by one of the women present, “Let the brother go out himself.” And whereas the men formerly filed out of church first, custom now ruled that the women should go first.33 Gradually education for women came to be not only accepted,

30 West, Romance, 407–8; “Minutes of the First Annual Meeting of the Mission to Eastern Turkey, June 1861,” ABC 16.9.7, vol. 1, no. 28. 31 Crosby H. Wheeler, Odds and Ends; or, Gleanings from Missionary Life (Boston, 1888), 98. 32 Light and Life (1874), 196. 33 Wheeler, Odds and Ends, 154–55.

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but prized. In addition to preparing suitable women for native pastors, the female seminary had been designed to convince public opinion in favor of women’s education and also to help meet the need for teachers. As in all the missionary schools of higher education in Turkey, annual public examinations were held to demonstrate the progress of the pupils; all of these examinations were popular, but especially the public examinations of the Girls’ Seminary. So many people wished to attend these examinations in 1878 that it was found necessary to issue admission tickets, to control the crowd.34 The distinguishing feature of Euphrates College, that it was coeducational, did not signify that the sexes were mixed in classes—quite the contrary, they were allotted separate buildings with the president’s residence as a buffer in between—but that women’s education was integrated into the overall structure. A notable breakthrough came in 1881, when for the first time in the Kharpert field, in the village of Yegheki, a woman was appointed to teach a coeducational primary school.35 In 1888 Wheeler observed that the greatest change taking place during his three decades in Kharpert had been the increase in local support for female education.36 The social relations between the Americans and the Armenians were harmonious on the surface, but underlying tensions were undeniable. While preaching a religion that assumed a common parentage of humankind, the Americans nonetheless clearly perceived themselves as distinct from (and by implication superior to) the indigenous people among whom they lived and worked, an attitude that did not escape attention. The missionary compound in Kharpert encompassed two cemeteries: one for the local Protestants and the other for the missionaries and their families (the refusal of the Apostolic church authorities to permit the burial in their cemeteries of those who espoused Protestant views had been a major impetus for the formation of the Evangelical community). The missionary children, when little, as a rule did not play with the Armenian children and when older were sent to the United States for their secondary education. Arabella Babcock, the first single missionary woman to be assigned to Kharpert, in 1862, to superintend the girls’ boarding

34 35 36

Missionary Herald (1878), 78. Wheeler, Kharpert, letter dated Feb. 10, 1881, ABC 16.9.7, no. 400. Wheeler, Odds and Ends, 151–55.

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school, startled her colleagues by adopting native dress and after a year caused an uproar when she announced her engagement to the Armenian pastor in nearby Diyarbekir. Faced with the stern disapproval of her colleagues, Babcock saw no choice but to resign from the mission and return home. The official explanation was that she had become deranged; but to the extent that this was true, one cannot escape the suspicion that her fellow missionaries drove her to this state.37 Three decades later, these attitudes remained unchanged; when marriage overtures were made to missionary Theresa Huntington in 1900 on behalf of a local Armenian doctor, she considered it an insult. Huntington understood the contradiction. “I feel inclined to resent it,” she wrote to her mother. “Well, there’s no use in feeling insulted. You see it is our pride which is insulted really, because they should consider themselves our equals, and yet we always try to treat the Armenians as equals.”38 Political and economic realities The final decades of the nineteenth century were marked by changing conditions in the field and different missionary philosophies. The end of the Civil War eased the financial difficulties faced by the American Board at the same time that new leadership altered its priorities. This period saw the creation of the auxiliary Women’s Boards of Missions, which brought new impetus to fundraising, increased numbers of women to the field, and a greater stress on programs for women. The American Board now placed less stress on direct proselytizing and adopted the concept of social missions, with an emphasis on educational, medical, and other forms of humanitarian work. At the same time it was becoming increasingly clear that the missions were not immune from the prevailing economic and political pressures. Though it had never flourished commercially during the

37 A. Babcock to her mother, Kharpert, Jan. 2, 1864, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 1, part 1, no. 182. See Barbara J. Merguerian, “Social Relations in the American Mission to Kharpert: The Story of Arabella L. Babcock” (in press, University of California Press). 38 Great Need Over the Water: The Letters of Theresa Huntington Ziegler, ed. Stina Katchadourian (Ann Arbor, 1999), 208–9.

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nineteenth century, Kharpert experienced an economic decline during the Russo-Turkish War (1877–1878) from which it did not recover; adding to the problem were years of famine. Typical of reports from eastern Turkey at the time, Wheeler noted in 1882 that he had never before seen such poverty and distressing conditions.39 One result was the so-called “American fever,” the desire of Kharpert Armenians to emigrate to the United States. The missionaries deplored the departure of the young, most intelligent, and enterprising to seek their fortunes in the New World, though this movement was no doubt encouraged by the missionary presence.40 Exacerbating the situation was increasing lawlessness; missionary nerves were shattered when their servant, Manazar, who accompanied as far as Trebizond the Wheeler party in its way to the United States in 1875, was murdered on his return trip to Kharpert. At no time had the countryside been so unsafe, the missionaries reported.41 Interference by the Turkish government, especially in the operation of Euphrates College, now became increasingly intense. Despite frequent friendly visits to the campus, government officials harassed the college in numerous ways. In December 1884 an official order to close the college within three months was received. When the order was ignored, Wheeler was awakened one night with “what purported to be an official order for immediately closing the school,” only to find that “a more careful reading of the document revealed the fact that the bearer was mistaken.” This continuous threat of official interference was “not quieting to the nerves,” Wheeler admitted.42 It took four years of negotiations, most of them taking place in the capital, for the college to receive its official permit from the government in 1887. Approval came only after the Americans agreed to several concessions, chief among them that the name of the college be changed from “Armenia,” a geographical designation Ottoman Turkey refused to acknowledge, to “Euphrates,” referring to the

39

Excerpts from the Annual Report for Armenia College, Missionary Herald (1882),

63. 40 Annual Report, Kharpert, 1889, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 10, no. 4; Wheeler, Letter written in 1880, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 5, no. 359; Report of Euphrates College, Sept. 18, 1889, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 10, no. 6. 41 Allen, letter dated Dec. 30, 1875, Kharpert, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 3, no. 135. 42 Wheeler’s correspondence, especially letters dated Dec. 10, 1884; July 23, 1885; and July 31, 1885, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 9, no. 458, no. 467, no. 468.

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nearby river. The native teachers were increasingly harassed, and several textbooks were prohibited by the censor and had to be burned. The thriving printing establishment at the college was shut down. And in 1891 the government issued a new requirement that all essays and written addresses on public occasions be submitted in advance to censorship for approval.43 The difficulty in obtaining permits for new college buildings was an irritant, but it did not appreciably hamper the expansion program of the 1880s that resulted in a new women’s college facility, an addition to the college itself, and a new theological seminary building.44 But external circumstances would not permit the college or the American mission to continue its advance. Upon Wheeler’s retirement as college president in 1893, James L. Barton proved to be a most able replacement, but the illness of his wife forced him to resign and return to America. The new president, Caleb F. Gates, arrived in 1895, only to be caught up in November of that year in the death and destruction that marked the massacres of the Armenians perpetrated by Sultan Abdulhamit’s government. The violence took the lives of faculty and students alike and destroyed eight of the twelve mission buildings. No deference was shown to the terrified missionaries because they were American citizens; they survived by locking themselves up in College Hall.45 One can only imagine the sentiments of the Wheelers during those frightful days, when their home and all their household goods had been destroyed. In the aftermath of the violence Euphrates College was rebuilt and prospered, and the mission continued to grow, now with the addition of medical staff and a hospital, only to be finally destroyed in the Armenian Genocide of 1915.46

43

Missionary Herald (1887), 93–95, and (1891), 414–15. James L. Barton, “Euphrates College, Its Possessions and Its Needs,” Missionary Herald (1888), 16–18; Theological Seminary Report for 1888, ABC 16.9.7, vol. 6, no. 85. 45 Eyewitness accounts of the 1895 massacres by Kharpert missionaries Herman N. Barnum, Caleb F. Gates, and others can be found in United States, Department of State, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1895 (Vol. 2), 1370–81, and 1896, 888–92. 46 Barbara J. Merguerian, “Kharpert: The View from the United States Consulate,” Armenian Tsopk/Kharpert, ed. Richard G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, Calif., 2002), 273–325. 44

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The Armenian experience in Kharpert demonstrates the vulnerability of the mission to political forces beyond the Americans’ control. Much as they spurned involvement in politics, it was shortsighted for the Americans to establish missions in the Near East in the nineteenth century without consideration of the political consequences. In the first instance, they would not have been allowed to operate within Ottoman Turkey or to form a Protestant community without the support and protection of Great Britain. As conditions in the Turkish countryside deteriorated (and as American relations with Britain became strained during the Civil War), Americans looked increasingly to their own government for protection. But although the United States began to look overseas during the latter part of the century (largely as a result of missionary activity), it remained a minor power whose priorities lay in the Western Hemisphere and the Pacific. Not until 1901 did the missionaries succeed in pressuring the government to establish a U.S. consulate in Kharpert. The Americans could only look on helplessly while the Armenian liberation movement grew and the “Armenian Question” became a major diplomatic issue. The effect of missionary programs in Kharpert had been to enlarge the horizons of the Armenians, to raise their intellectual level, to foster a philosophy of individualism, and to encourage aspirations for a more democratic society in which they could shape their own lives and determine their own destiny. When the Armenians translated these dreams into a concrete political program, they were disappointed that the missionaries failed to support them officially (though many individual Americans sympathized), on the grounds of a strict separation of church and state that barred any interference in politics. In disseminating their ideas, the Americans became in a sense the victims of their own success. The impetus given to Armenian learning and literature as a result of the development of the Armenian vernacular language in the missionary press and schools was a strong element in the national awakening of the Armenian people in this period. The resulting growth in nationalism, however, inclined the Armenian intellectuals to reject missionary teaching as foreign to the Armenian tradition, and to interpret acceptance of Evangelicalism as disloyalty to the Armenian heritage. (A similar process can

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be observed in other Near East missions.)47 Besides, the Americans had taught Armenians to question all forms of established authority and to think critically and logically. When the Armenians then began to question both the authority and the teachings of the Americans, the latter were not consoled by recognizing how well their students had learned their lessons, but rather considered the phenomenon a sign of ingratitude and betrayal. The new missionary emphasis on higher education and social service, though it continued to focus on evangelization and Protestant Christianity, succeeded in reducing somewhat the barriers between the Armenian Apostolic community and the Protestants erected in earlier, more divisive times. Massive relief aid by the Americans following the 1895 violence also brought the communities closer together. By now it had become clear that basic reform in the Armenian Church would not take place any time soon. Another indisputable fact was that, however much evangelistic teaching and the Armenian Protestant churches were supported, the percentage of Protestants within the Armenian community continued to be very low. With the new missionary philosophy, however, the fact that large numbers of their students came from families who were not members of the Protestant church became a source of pride for the Americans. A Protestant education would leave an enlightened mark on its students, even those who were not converted to the Evangelical church, the missionaries reasoned.48 With characteristic optimism, the missionaries of the 1890s no longer measured success on the basis of the numbers of the converted. Instead they professed satisfaction that the graduates of their schools were successfully entering business and the professions, and playing a role in local institutions—thus spreading enlightenment to the people in the area. With their indifference to the conflicting political forces emerging around them, it was perhaps inevitable that the American missionaries failed to foresee the violent transformations that were being unleashed by the Westernization that they were helping to propagate.

47 For an analysis of a similar situation in the Bulgarian mission, see Barbara Reeves-Ellington, “A Vision of Mount Holyoke in the Ottoman Balkans: American Cultural Transfer, Bulgarian Nation-Building and Women’s Educational Reform, 1858–1870,” Gender & History 16:1 (April 2004), 146–71. 48 See, for example, Barton, “Euphrates College.”

EVANGELIZATION OR EDUCATION: AMERICAN PROTESTANT MISSIONARIES, THE AMERICAN BOARD, AND THE GIRLS AND WOMEN OF SYRIA (1830–1910) Ellen Fleischmann Introduction In 1823, under the auspices of the nondenominational American Board of Commissioners of Foreign Missions (ABCFM), two young American Protestant missionaries landed on the shores of Lebanon, establishing the first American mission in the Arab world, the Syria Mission. One of the earliest acts of this mission was to establish a small girls’ school, out of which ultimately evolved the first women’s college in the Arab world. The Syria Mission went on to build other major educational institutions, inaugurate an Arabic press, and arguably exert considerable influence on many generations of men and women in the Middle East, particularly through its prestigious schools such as the American University of Beirut (initially the Syrian Protestant College), and the American Junior College for Women. The American missionary institutions are credited with producing the “intellectual effervescence which marked the first stirrings of the Arab revival,” and “spearhead[ing] education for girls,” among other achievements.1

1 George Antonius, The Arab Awakening (Beirut, 1937), 43; James Batal, Assignment: Near East (New York, [1950]), 111. There are differing opinions on the question of the Mission legacy. Critics of the missionaries contend that “the role of missionary education in the national-political enlightenment of the Arab youth in the second half of the nineteenth century has been greatly exaggerated.” Adnan Abu Ghazaleh, American Missions in Syria: A Study of American Missionary Contribution to Nationalism in the Nineteenth Century Syria (Brattleboro, 1990), 11. For an interesting discussion of various positions taken on the legacy of the Mission, see Faith M. Hanna, An American Mission: the Role of the American University of Beirut (Boston, 1979), 15, quoting Zeine Zeine, from The Emergence of Arab Nationalism With a Background Study of Arab-Turkish Relations in the Near East (Beirut, 1966), 46–47. Hanna discusses the arguments of Antonius, Antoine Zahlan, Elie Kedourie, Zeine Zeine, Constantin Zurayk, Fuad Sarruf, A.L. Tibawi, and Albert Hourani, as well as some AUB administrators’ writings on the subject of American influence, or lack thereof, over the Arab nationalist movement in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, 13–19.

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It is this educational legacy which has left the most significant impact, according to many students of the Mission.2 Female education, in particular, was considered noteworthy and of “special notice.”3 The rhapsodic words of a hardly disinterested writer, the Reverend H.H. Jessup, a board member of the Beirut Female Seminary, are instructive: I felt that the future of Syria depended on the education of its girls and women. . . . I regard this as one of the best labors of my life that I carried this darling school on my shoulders and on my heart for nine years. It has been a blessing indescribable to Syria and the East.4

Yet notwithstanding the commitment and even passion of the missionaries in Syria toward their projects and charges, their initial overseer back home in the United States, the ABCFM, was less enthusiastic about the missionaries’ emphasis on education. The ensuing tension between the missionaries in the field, and the Board back home ultimately contributed to the transferral of the Mission5 to the Presbyterian Board of Missions in 1870. In this contribution, I examine how female education became entangled in the conflict between the American Board and the Syria Mission. I address the following questions: how did conflict develop between the Board and the Mission over education in the field, and what were its consequences on female education? What role did gender play in the dynamics? How did the missionaries in the field reconcile disparate desires of two constituencies: the Board back home and “Syrians”?6

2 A.L. Tibawi, who otherwise provides a fairly scathing assessment of the American mission enterprise in its first 65 years, states that its work in the educational field constituted its “most enduring success.” A.L. Tibawi, American Interests in Syria, 1800–1901: A Study of Educational, Literary and Religious Work (Oxford, 1966), 311. 3 Antonius, Arab Awakening, 37; Tibawi characterizes the founding of the first school for girls as a “pioneering experiment” which had “far-reaching social significance,” American Interests, 83. 4 H.H. Jessup, Fifty-Three Years in Syria (New York, 1910), vol. I, 280, 225. 5 From hereon in, I capitalize Mission to refer specifically to the Syria Mission, following the practice in the primary sources. A non-capitalized mission refers to the more general and abstract sense of the word. 6 “Syria” refers in this paper to the pre-nation state area comprising the contemporary states of Lebanon, Syria, Israel, Jordan and the Palestinian territories, following the usage in the primary sources. Similarly, “Syrians” was used rather loosely to refer to any “natives,” including Armenians, Arab Christians and Muslims, but not, usually, Jews. I use quotation marks in this case to highlight the ambiguities of this usage.

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Although the dispute that developed between the Board and the Mission involved the question of education overall, and included all of the schools associated with the Mission in the nineteenth century, at the heart of the controversy were the schools run by the American missionaries, not the “native” institutions, sometimes also known as the “common schools.” The latter were numerous local elementary schools loosely associated with the American Mission effort, and founded by Protestant converts, former students of the Americanrun schools, and others in the mid to late nineteenth century. Most were located in villages and rural areas.7 For my purposes—and because it was itself at times at the center of the whole dispute—I focus here on the Beirut Female Seminary, which was staffed by and under direct control of American missionaries. I start with a brief sketch of the history of the school, and then move onto addressing the questions raised above. The Evolution of the Beirut Female Seminary, 1834–1914 8 The first Mission school for girls was hardly worthy of the name, in that it consisted of Mrs. Ann P. Bird and Mrs. Abigail P. Goodell, wives of two missionaries, Isaac Bird and William Goodell, teaching young girls sewing and reading in their homes. Other missionary wives continued the practice until 1834, when a somewhat more formal arrangement resulting in an actual school was established in Beirut by the legendary Sarah Lanman Smith, the wife of missionary Eli Smith, renowned for his work in translating the Bible into Arabic. This institution, according to numerous accounts (which repeat this refrain in multiple sources) was “the first regular girls’ school in Syria,” (or the Ottoman Empire, depending upon the source).9 Under Mrs. Smith’s auspices was erected “the first edifice

7 For an account of some of these, see Abu-Husayn, Abdul-Rahim. “The ‘Lebanon Schools’ (1853–1873): A Local Venture in Rural Education,” in Thomas Philipp and Birgit Schaebler (eds.), The Syrian Land: Processes of Integrating and Fragmentation in Bilàd-al-Shàm from the 18th to the 20th Century (Stuttgart, 1998), 205–219. 8 Much of what follows is taken from Rao Humphreys Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Schools in the Levant: A Study of Purposes (Ann Arbor, 1965). 9 This claim is found not only in Mission and other written sources, but has been adopted by contemporary Protestant Arabs, as part of their history, as well. In the fall of 2005, while doing research in Beirut on the female schools, I heard

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ever built in the Turkish Empire for the education of girls.”10 It had an enrollment of forty, with average attendance of “about twenty,” consisting of girls from mixed religious backgrounds, including two Jews, ten Muslims, one Druze, and “the rest Christians.” Mrs. Smith recruited American Rebecca Williams, “the first single woman and the first teacher sent to the Mission” to assist her in the school in 1835.11 By the time of Mrs. Smith’s demise, a mere two years after the founding of the school, in addition to its enrollment of forty pupils, it had “a specially constructed classroom on the mission’s ground” and a “native assistant.”12 This institution, called the Female School, did not last much beyond several years. But it is significant in Mission chronicles, as it highlights how, early in its history, the Mission attached great importance to its role in promoting female education. This is evidenced by the record of correspondence, which consists of numerous pleas for recruits and attempts to extract resources for this effort. In 1835, missionaries wrote to the Board, “We hope . . . that the Board will keep female education always in mind when they

this refrain repeated by administrators, former students and teachers I spoke with when I visited the schools (now under local control), more than 170 years after the Smith girls’ school was founded. 10 Jessup, Fifty-Three Years, 54. The issue of erecting an edifice seems to have been an important marker from the missionaries’ point of view. The question of buildings and the missionaries’ relentless requests for funding, as well as raising money themselves for, school buildings is a distinctive, ongoing theme in their correspondence with the home boards and in their communications with supporters back home (in missionary journals such as The Missionary Herald, the ABCFM’s journal, and later, the Foreign Missionary, the journal of the Presbyterian Board of Commissioners of Foreign Missionaries.) This preoccupation is intriguing and hints at a number of factors, one of them being the significance the missionaries attributed to creating a manifestly physical presence on the missionary field, as well as the Mission’s competing with other foreign missions in establishing this very visible presence through erecting buildings. One of the appendices to Jessup’s book is a list of mission schools of the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, in the vilayets (provinces) of Beirut and Damascus. It lists the town, type of school, date of establishment, date of erection of a permanent building owned by the Americans and the vilayet where the school was located. Lindsay also observes the importance of buildings, commenting on the 1866 erection of the Beirut Female Seminary’s building: “The 1866 report noted that this building ‘produces the impression that Protestantism has become an established fact.’ This . . . is one of the first openly admitted indications of the dependence upon the physical plant to demonstrate the worth and value of the Americans’ work. This contrasts sharply with the origin of the Dodge and Thomson girls’ school [missionary wives] in 1833 which was held in Mrs. Thomson’s room to avoid calling attention to it.” Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Schools, 137. 11 Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Schools, 120. 12 Tibawi, American Interests, 83.

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send reinforcements to this mission.”13 In 1838, on the heels of this request, the Mission resolved, “in view of the great importance of a Female Boarding School in Beirut, that this subject be laid before the [Prudential?] Committee and that they be requested to send . . . a mission teacher as soon as may be.”14 Indeed, this trope of female education constituting “one of the most important departments of [their] work,” and a great Mission achievement, is reiterated constantly in the records.15 The hyperbolic Jessup comments, (after providing the statistic that, out of 600 pupils in 1827, “one hundred and twenty were girls! ” [sic]): “that statement is more remarkable than almost any in the history of the Syria Mission.”16 The modest beginning in female education as exemplified by the Female School, was significant for a number of reasons, not the least of which was its role as the progenitor of a long line of illustrious educational institutions for women which ultimately metamorphosed into the American Girls School, which itself gave birth to the first women’s college in the Arab world, the American Junior College for Women (f. 1924).17 This first school in Beirut was, to a great extent, a model and inspiration for the establishment of a number of other important and enduring Mission schools for girls outside of the Beirut area, notably, the Tripoli Girls’ School (f. 1872) and the Sidon Girls’ School (f. 1862). It is no mystery as to why the Mission early on stressed the importance of female education. The Syria Mission, analogous to other foreign missions in this period, targeted women and children as part of an endeavor to influence the young and build a foundation for

13

Ibid., citing a report dated 31 December 1835 (ABCFM Archives), 83. American School for Girls, Report, Apr. 25, 1838. Presbyterian Historical Society (hereafter PHS), RG115–3–1. It is not clear from the wording in the document (passive voice with no actor) who or what Mission entity, exactly, made this recommendation. 15 Female Education, 1841, Jerusalem, Whiting, PHS 115–3–1. 16 Henry Harris Jessup, The Women of the Arabs, edited by C.S. Robinson and Isaac Riley (New York, 1873), 49. Emphasis in original. 17 The junior college became a four year college named the Beirut College for Women in 1950, undergoing two more successive name changes, partially as a result of its becoming coeducational in 1974. In 1974 the name was changed to Beirut University College, then in 1993 it was again changed, to the Lebanese American University. “Important Dates in the History of the Lebanese American University,” undated, unpublished paper. See below for more discussion on the “genealogy” and metamorphosis of the school into other incarnations. 14

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the future. Although the Syria Mission’s efforts at conversion focused on the “nominal” Christians, hope never entirely died of somehow indirectly approaching the “non-Christian” population.18 Young women were crucial to reaching both groups, since, as future mothers of children and, if properly educated in solid Protestant values, they would be instruments of socialization and the potential founders of homes established on Christian virtues and principles. In this theory can be seen the influences of the American ideology of Republican Motherhood, which stressed women’s contribution to the public good (in the American context, by helping to produce patriotic citizens through their influence as mothers). This ideology translated well into mission theory, and “proved conducive to belief in the compatibility of religious faith and higher learning,” as it “justified advances in female literacy and higher learning by invoking women’s maternal responsibilities” to a broader community and a greater cause – in this case, spreading the faith, as opposed to creating good citizens of a new republic.19 In Syria (and also, other mission fields), boarding schools were considered the best means for “[bringing] forward a clan of intelligent pious, and efficient female helpers in the great work of evangelizing [the] community.”20 Another, equally important motivation for educating females was to provide native pastors with correctly educated, Protestant wives. The students would be trained to be “helpers,” either in their role as wives of pastors and mothers of children, or (to complete the circle), to become teachers in the village schools to train the future wives and mothers, and act as instruments for evangelizing on the local level. Boarding schools, since the missionaries lived with their charges, enabled the missionaries to develop a “close relation” to, and “exert the maximum influence upon,” their pupils.21 18 Much has been written on the Syria Mission’s emphasis on “reviving Christianity in the land of its birth” and its inability to directly evangelize among the Muslim population. See Arthur Judson Brown, One Hundred Years: A History of the Foreign Missionary Work of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A. (New York, 1936), 976–977; further also Tibawi, American Interests, and Usaama Makdisi, “Reclaiming the Land of the Bible: Missionaries, Secularism, and Evangelical Modernity,” American Historical Review 102, no. 3 (1997), 683–693. 19 Amanda Porterfield, Mary Lyon and the Mount Holyoke Missionaries (New York/ Oxford, 1997), 13. See also Patricia Hill, The World Their Household: The American Women’s Foreign Mission Movement and Cultural Transformation, 1870–1920 (Ann Arbor, 1985). 20 School Report, Female Seminary, 1853. PHS 115–3–1. 21 Brown, One Hundred Years, 982–983.

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Thus it was that the first real “boarding” school was opened in 1847 in the home of one of the missionaries, Dr. Henry A. De Forest. This was conceived of as the continuation of Smith’s efforts, and later evolved into the Beirut Female Seminary, sometimes called the Female Seminary, Native Seminary (when it was run by “Syrians”, see below), or the Beirut Seminary.22 Young girls were taken into the De Forest home and taught scripture, Arabic, arithmetic, geography, history, and English. In 1850, the school had thirteen students, including two student teachers.23 The 1850s witnessed fits and starts in the school’s evolution and progress. Loss of missionary staff due to ill health, death, and marriage; sectarian violence in the 1840s and again in 1860; competition from British missionaries; and financial problems all contributed to the school’s being suspended at times, and transferred out of Beirut for a period. For reasons that are not entirely clear, almost all sources consider 1862 the year of the establishment of the “Beirut Female Seminary,” born from the roots of the previous efforts just described.24 But, interestingly, this incarnation of the school was established and run from 1862–1868 by a married “Syrian” couple, Michael Araman and his wife, a graduate of De Forest’s school, with the assistance of a “Syrian preceptress,” Rufka Gregory.25 Although the school was nominally independent of the Mission until 1870 (see below), Araman’s and Gregory’s salaries were paid by the Mission.26 In the late 1860s, two developments provided a certain element of stability to the school: the erecting of a permanent building (1866) funded by donations from the United States, and the arrival of Eliza Everett as principal (1868). Not only was Everett apparently an excellent teacher and administrator, but

22 The missionary sources (and even the usually meticulous Tibawi) were rather casual in their use of names for the Beirut Female Seminary; all of these names (and others) are used interchangeably in the sources until it was renamed the American School for Girls in 1904. Lindsay disputes that the Beirut Female Seminary “[grew] out of the Smith day school and De Forest boarding school.” He does admit that “its independent founding by native teachers and leaders was possible only because of the pioneering efforts of the earlier mission schools.” Nineteenth Century American Schools, 134. 23 Tibawi, American Interests, 125. 24 Tibawi, American Interests, 163; Beirut Seminary, report written by Alice Barber, 1902, PHS 115–3–2; Brown, One Hundred Years, 982. 25 Beirut Seminary, 1902, PHS 115–3–2. 26 Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Schools, 135.

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she also produced textbooks in Arabic.27 Everett’s taking over from the Aramans signified the reversion of the school back to “American” from “native management.”28 The records are silent as to why this change took place, considering that reports from the field heaped effusive praise on the work of the Aramans from 1863 until 1867. In 1870, as part of the reunification of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A.,29 authority for the Syria Mission was transferred from the American Board to the Presbyterian Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. According to Jessup, at the same time, the Presbyterian Women’s Board of Missions “adopted” the Beirut Female Seminary and maintained it from thereon, but it remained under local Mission control and a part of the Mission.30 (Below I discuss in detail the circumstances of this change.) From the 1870s until the turn of the century, the Seminary soldiered on. Enrollment in the boarding department averaged around 45 students; the number of primary and day students fluctuated between anywhere from 110 to around 50.31 In 1904, the Beirut 27

Jessup, Fifty-Three Years, 222–223; Tibawi, American Interests, 179 n. 2. Tibawi, American Interests, 162. 29 The Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A. divided into the “Old School” and the “New School” in 1838 over issues of doctrine and policy. The church divided further into northern and southern branches during the civil war in the United States. In 1870 the church was reunited. Missionary boards and committees had been formed by the various divided groups of the church in the course of these nineteenth century splits; they were also merged and reunited as part of the overall reunification of 1870. “The New School Robert churches affiliated with the American Board” [of Commissioners for Foreign Missionaries], which was ostensibly nondenominational, but dominated by the Congregationalists. The Syria Mission was thus under the jurisdiction of the ABCFM. E. Speer, Presbyterian Foreign Missions: an account of the foreign missions of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A. (Philadelphia, 1901 or 1902), 16–17. 30 Fifty-Three Years, 223; “Beirût Female Seminary,” by Alice S. Barber, March 13, 1902; PHS 115–3–1. This report discusses a “recommendation to the Presbyterian Board [by the Mission in late 1871] that the Seminary should continue to remain independent,” but the Board voted this down, “deem[ing] it inexpedient to separate the Seminary from the Mission.” Thus the institution, apparently, was funded independently by the Women’s Board, but supervised and a part of the Syria Mission. 31 These figures are culled from schools reports from 1874–1904, PHS 115–3–1. The figures are probably not entirely reliable, but give a general idea. Furthermore, due to gaps in records, these reflect only 8 years from this period. (The missionaries apparently could not add. In annual reports, they provide totals for the school, and for the individual departments. Rarely do these two sets of figures add up to the same amount, for some reason. Tibawi cautions (rightly) about discrepancies between reports from the field and the ABCFM figures. The missionaries had incentives to inflate figures.) 28

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Female Seminary was renamed the American School for Girls. A history of the institution written in 1902 chronicles “epochs” in its past, detailing its chronological development, and highlighting its achievements. By the turn of the century, it had produced many teachers, who ended up in positions throughout the region: in all the major towns and cities in Egypt, a number of towns in Palestine ( Jaffa, Nazareth, Jerusalem among them), and all over Syria/Lebanon. Some of its graduates went into medicine: one became a physician in Cairo, and another traveled to England to study nursing. On the eve of World War I, the school’s enrollments had stabilized, and grown, to the extent that it needed a new building for additional classrooms; the old one was enlarged to include a small gymnasium and more living space in 1912–1913. It had not only three separate and fully defined departments in addition to the boarding students (primary, intermediate, and academic), but also extracurricular activities such as basketball.32 Enrollment of Muslim students gradually and steadily increased. In 1914, for example, it had 27 Muslims students (17%) out of a total enrollment of 161. Eighty years after its rocky beginnings, the school, it seems, was on solid ground. The “denationalization” crisis, and the break with the American Board In the 1850s, the Beirut Female Seminary became entangled in a growing dispute between missionaries in the field and their ostensible supervisory institution, the Boston-based ABCFM, as represented by its influential Secretary, Rufus Anderson, who visited the Mission three times, in 1829, 1843–44, and 1855. The source of dissension between the Syria Mission and the Board back home was the issue of “denationalization.” In the course of Anderson’s long association with the ABCFM, he became embroiled in a debate in mission theory over “civilization versus Christianization” of the heathen. He strongly opposed the “civilizing mission” of the overseas missions, and “the imposition of Western cultural and religious patterns,” in favor of an approach which focused on “the gospel alone.” In his view, the mostly New

32 “Beirût Seminary,” 1902, PHS 115–3–2; Reports of the school, 1903–1904; 1909–1910; 1910–1911; 1911–1912; 1913–1914, PHS 115–3–1.

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England-based missionaries identified Christianity with “‘education, industry, civil liberty, family government, social order, the means of a respectable livelihood, and a well-ordered community.’” “He warned, ‘hence our idea of piety . . . our idea of the propagation of the gospel’ are clothed in social and doctrinal forms that we mistakenly associate with the Gospel itself.” English language instruction came to symbolize for him the dangers of denationalization, which would result in deviation from the main message, the gospel. Anderson believed that “‘those who acquired the most knowledge of the English language seemed the farthest from embracing the gospel.’”33 The main aim of the missionary schools was to produce native pastors to evangelize and preach, and all educational approaches were to be oriented toward this goal. Anderson’s evaluation of female education in the Syrian Mission schools was strongly shaped by this overall objective, these views, and by the Board’s and Mission’s goals to “raise up ‘pious and intelligent’ wives for the native evangelists and teachers.” He asserted, “A native pastor, with an ignorant, heathen wife, would be greatly embarrassed and hindered in his work.” After Anderson’s visit to the Mission in 1844, the Board “was very insistent that the girls be dressed in native style and that a plan be followed that would ‘fit them’ and not ‘unfit them’ to be both happy and useful in the domestic and social relations of the country.”34 He initially supported the idea of the boarding schools for girls as an instrument to achieve these objectives, as long as they conformed to polices aimed at preserving native “customs” and language. Theory and practice soon came into conflict in the Syria schools, however. The issue of teaching English in the schools became the hot point and a major bone of contention in the denationalization struggle. Commenting on his 1844 visit to the Middle East, Anderson wrote, “I found in Syria, that the pupils of the old mission Seminaries at Beirût were so anglified in their ideas and tastes that they became disgusted with their countrymen, and even with their noble Arabian

33 William R. Hutchison, Errand to the World: American Protestant Thought and Foreign Missions (Chicago, 1987), 80–83. The first quote (82) is Hutchison citing Anderson, “The Missions to the Heathen,” from R. Pierce Beaver, To Advance the Gospel: Selections from the Writings of Rufus Anderson (Grand Rapids, 1967), 73–74; the second (83) his citation of Anderson, Foreign Missions, Their Relations and Claims (New York, 1869), 97–99. 34 Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Education, 127.

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tongue, and were unfitted in great measure for doing good to their people.”35 He vigorously promoted his views in all the mission fields, but he often singled out the Syrian schools for criticism, writing that the schools’ “effect on the Syrian students had been ‘on the whole . . . to make them foreign in their manners, foreign in their habits, foreign in their sympathies; in other words, to denationalize them.’”36 The American missionaries, in fact, early on attributed a kind of “national” identity to the Syrians with whom they worked, which is interesting, considering that in almost all accounts of nineteenth century Ottoman Syria, this kind of identity barely, if at all, existed among the population. The missionaries’ rather loose conception of a national identity seems to have associated nation with “customs” and culture. The Beirut (Mission) Station in 1836, for example, adopted at one of its meetings the resolution that “instead of despising the national customs of the people, and endeavoring to change them in things morally indifferent, we treat them with due regard, and have respect to them in our conduct.”37 The goals and principles of the Seminary at its inception apparently coincided with, and perhaps, were reflective of the Board’s and Anderson’s policies. The school’s aim, as “one of the agencies for evangelizing Syria, was designed to give an education to girls, adapted to the wants of the class most advanced in civilization and refinement, and thus directly to benefit intellectually and spiritually the pupils brought under its instruction, and indirectly to carry light and blessing through them to their homes and the circles of their influence.” In order to achieve these goals, it was to be a “native institution,” self-supporting, and “not a Mission and charity school.”38 The latter clearly reflects the “Three Self ” program supported by Anderson of raising up “native churches that would be self-supporting, selfgoverning, and self-propagating, thus laying the foundation for the development of an indigenous Christianity.”39 Missionaries’ fears of Americanizing and alienating their charges from their own communities also seem to reflect Board (Anderson’s)

35 As cited in Paul William Harris, Nothing But Christ: Rufus Anderson and the Ideology of Protestant Foreign Missions (New York/Oxford, 1999), 75. 36 Hutchison, Errand to the World, 83, citing Anderson, Foreign Missions, 97–99. 37 PHS RG 115–9–12. 38 “Beirût Seminary,” 1902. 39 Harris, Nothing But Christ, 4.

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policies, and probably, their own experience. In 1853, the (male) principal of the Beirut Female Seminary wrote, “we have ever kept in mind the necessity of not denationalizing these Syrian children and we believe that the desired result has been attained.” This was achieved through the “preponderance of Arabic studies.” And yet, in the same report, he writes, both proudly and defensively, “the older pupils have attained to a considerable knowledge of English, giving them access to books suitable for girls to read, and yet the language of the schools and the pupils are Syrians still.”40 Within two years, however, the missionaries in the field were squarely toeing the Board line, and had changed their tune on teaching English. In 1855, the writer of the Report of the Female Seminary stated: “It is the opinion of the Mission that . . . the instruction given should all be in the Arabic language, and English should not be taught in the Seminary at all.”41 The date of this comment is significant, coming as it does in the middle of Anderson’s third trip to the Mission, as part of a larger “tour of inspection” to other fields as well, in 1854–1855. The English-language issue was at the forefront of his agenda. As a result of this “tour of inspection,” a number of ABCFM foreign mission schools were “closed, aborted, or forced to continue without Board sponsorship; while many more were induced to alter their commitment to English-language instruction.”42 The Female Seminary was one of these schools, and became itself the center of conflict between Anderson and the Syria Mission. Dr. De Forest, who had established the first boarding school version of the seminary, retired in 1854, after “struggl[ing]” with it since 1847. Tibawi speculates that his retirement may have been connected to

40 Dr. Henry De Forest, the principal of the Beirut Female Seminary, in the School Report of the Female Seminary, 1853, PHS RG 115–3–1. 41 Female Seminary, 1855, PHS RG 115–3–1. (Anonymous. The Presbyterian Historical Society has the reports of the Seminary from 1837–1955. Some are signed by Mission staff. There are gaps in the record group; the reports from 1856–1873, 1892–1896, 1905–1908 are missing. I have not yet been able to locate some of them. It is possible the ABCFM has the reports from 1856–1869, when the school was still under its jurisdiction; however, the PHS has earlier ones from the ABCFM era. It is also possible, considering that many of these years were ones of violence and civil war, that the reports were missing, lost or not even produced. A final possibility is that during the time when the Aramans ran the seminary, that they did not report to the home board, as the school was considered nominally independent. See below) 42 Hutchison, Errand to the World, 84.

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an “ultimatum” which Anderson delivered to the Mission in 1854.43 This ultimatum is worth quoting at length, as it reveals the tension which built up over the issue of denationalization, and the significance attributed to this particular school by both the Mission and the Board: The Prudential Committee have been informed that the English language is cultivated, and has become to a considerable extent the medium of instruction in your Female Seminary. Assuming that they have been correctly informed, they have felt constrained . . . to put the following declaration on record, namely: Unless the school be made strictly Arabic in the methods and results of its instruction, teaching the pupils through the medium of the Arabic language, making that the language of conversation, and securing the pupils from adopting Frank manners and customs to such an extent that they will be rendered unfit by their expensive tastes and habits to become the wives of native preachers and pastors living on small salaries, the Prudential Committee will feel bound to withhold the means of sustaining the institution on its present scale, and the new female teacher is to be engaged and sent with a distinct knowledge of these conditions on the subject.44

And yet, the ultimatum was defied. Once again, the Mission’s position fluctuated; it insisted on offering English language instruction (as well as French) in the Seminary, breaking with the Board over this issue regarding this institution, specifically. (The dissolution of ties between the Seminary and the Board preceded the shift of the Mission from the American Board’s jurisdiction to the Presbyterian Board’s by nine years.) Jessup, a Mission apologist and hagiographer (albeit an interesting source), provides a window to the Mission’s attitude on the break in his version of events. He describes the strong and growing demand in Syria for education and foreign languages in the schools, and how the latter had “proved a priceless boon” to the young women educated in the De Forest school; however, the “strictly vernacular policy enjoined by the American Board of Missions,” proved an obstacle to the teaching of English and French. “The question was reopened” after De Forest’s departure. Jessup writes, rather laconically, “As it [the teaching of English and French] could

43

Tibawi, American Interests, 133. Ibid., 134. Citing ABCFM Archives, series ABC: 2.1.1, vol. xx, letter dated 5 July 1854. 44

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not be done in a school supported by the Board it was decided in 1861 to open a girls’ boarding-school in Beirut independent of the Board. . . .” Later he adds, grandiloquently—describing the period up until the school’s “adoption” by the Women’s Board: “The burden of supporting this school rested on me. The American Board declined to help it as it taught English and French. This school was carried on faith. At times we did not know where the funds for the week’s expenses were to come from . . .”45 But the conflict with Anderson was clearly about more than teaching English (and French) in the schools. It was also about resources, and competing ideas about what role education should play in attempts to achieve the overall Mission goals. The whole dispute highlights the pressure the missionaries in the field experienced, as they struggled to simultaneously reconcile the religious mission as determined by the Board back home, and the desires of their constituency in the field for a certain kind of education, which increasingly expanded beyond mere dissemination of the gospel. Ultimately, the Mission chose to satisfy local demands for an education which was increasingly secular in content, and included foreign languages. This decision may have been a product of several interrelated developments in the late nineteenth century mission field in Syria: the pressures of competition from growing numbers of Protestant and other groups, particularly the British and French Catholics; and the financial pressures, stemming both from this competition, but also from the fact that the American Board was drastically reducing the Mission’s funding for educational endeavors, as the American Civil War crippled its budget for foreign missions. (In 1864, the educational budget in Syria was cut from $2,587 to $787). All of these pressures came on the heels of the Mission’s having to respond to and deal with the outbreak of intercommunal violence in Mount Lebanon in 1860. The Mission was responding to social and political transformations in late Ottoman Syrian society which the American Board, in its remove back in Boston, could not understand or experience in the same way as the missionaries in the field, who felt the pressure of a local constituency and competition for its loyalty. As Lindsay notes, 45 Jessup, Fifty-Three Years, 222, 225. It is interesting that he continually stresses his own role as a supporter of the school during a time when, by other accounts, the “Syrians” were engaged in the real labor of the institution. See, e.g., Tibawi and Lindsay.

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The growing wealth of some Beirut families, coupled with an increasing realization of the value of an education led many girls to seek one. They were willing to pay for their education but hesitated to do so when so much Protestant religion was included. They could attend other girls’ schools and frequently did.46

The Mission was attempting to maintain a balancing act. Seeking an outside funder for the Seminary, and continuing to attract feepaying students who were willing to pay for the “kind of education we are endeavoring to give,” (as one later principal put it), may well have been a cold, rational decision about survival, which left theories about “denationalization” in the dust.47 Assessment and conclusion How did this struggle and devolution affect female education at the Seminary? Ultimately, it contributed (ironically) to a gradual secularizing trend in the school, for one. Although elements of secular education existed from the start in the Seminary, up until the late nineteenth century, there is a marked preoccupation in Mission reports on the spiritual development (or not) of the students, and strong emphasis on monitoring religion, church attendance, and conversions. Much ink is spilled in stoic commentary about the rather slow pace of religious awakening. The “outpouring of the Spirit for which [we] have longed has been withheld,” lamented Eliza Everett, in 1874, but “we have had almost constant tokens of the Spirit working among us.”48 The long “season of sowing and not of reaping” large-scale conversions in the school eventually produced an entirely different product than the desired awakening, however.49 By all accounts, demand for education among all religious and ethnic groups, and for both sexes, increased dramatically in nineteenth century Syria. It is hardly surprising that the school’s own legacy of teaching secular subjects resulted in whetting the collective appetite for more. Indeed, the academic offerings at the Seminary from the start

46

Lindsay, Nineteenth Century American Education, 135. Report of the American School for Girls, 1910–1911, Rachel Tolles, Nov. 28, 1911. PHS RG 115–3–1. 48 Report of the Beirut Female Seminary, 1874, Eliza Everett, PHS 115–3–1. 49 Report of the Beirut Seminary for 1897, PHS 115–3–1. 47

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were rather impressive for the time. De Forest reports in 1853 that the students were reading a book on “moral philosophy,” and during their history class, an atlas was “always open before them.” Included in the school’s possessions in 1852 were 220 schoolbooks, 148 small reading books, maps (including astronomical maps), and a pair of globes. By the turn of the century, English was not only taught but was considered crucial to the success of the schools. As Jessup (reflecting on the Seminary’s break with the American Board) wrote, somewhat defiantly, in 1910, “The demand for English is one of the facts to be confronted in the opening of the twentieth century . . . No school can succeed without it.”50 In its annual report for the year 1903–1904, the principal writes “the use of English is not a mere accomplishment but rather a medium whereby [the Syrian of today] may bring himself [sic] into contact with the living thought of his time. . . .” She highlights the English language proficiency of the typical girl student, commenting that she “reaches such a point in the study of English that in the Academic course her history, sciences, etc. are taken in that language.” In fact, by this time the school had a number of English societies which were “charged with the responsibility of encouraging the use of English in general conversation out of school hours . . .”51 By this time, academics had become quite rigorous, and the curriculum was strongly secular, although by no means completely so. The 1903–1904 curriculum included arithmetic, geography, English, history and sciences (taken in English), physiology, natural philosophy, general history, chemistry, and astronomy. The name change from the Female Seminary to the American School for Girls and the continued and increasing academic orientation are emblematic of a transition. The school’s emphasis gradually and almost unconsciously changed from training girls to be good Christian wives rooted in their own “nation” and culture, to reaching young women (“for Christ”) by providing them with the modern education which increasingly became a kind of commodity much in demand. The Mission school, ironically, had played a role in creating this demand as well as trying to position itself to fill it. The 1902 retrospective history

50

Jessup, Fifty-Three Years, 223. Report of the American School for Girls, October 1903 to July 1904. PHS RG 115–3–1. 51

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on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Seminary reveals some of the internal contradictions and tensions experienced in this transition period, and a change in the institution’s identity. After a full page of praise and fulmination over the numbers of graduates placed as teachers throughout the Middle East (with mention of graduates in other professions), the writer, Alice Barber, hastens to add: But it is not alone as teachers that our girls are occupied. . . . If the roll of the last fifteen years were called, it would be responded to by wives and mothers throughout Syria, from Mardin, the United States, the West Indies, Brazil, Egypt, and the Soudan. Over fifty of our married students are settled in Egypt . . . They are the wives of preachers, teachers and helpers, physicians, pharmacists, journalists, editors and business men. They have been found conducting women’s meetings, serving classes, and clubs, as well as teaching their ignorant servants, and engaged in house to house evangelistic work, while being at the same time true home-makers.52

In the first two decades of the twentieth century, the school increasingly attracted young women whose main motive for attending the school was not necessarily to become good Christian wives and mothers, but rather, to train for a paid position. There is less and less in the records about “wives” and more about the individual achievements of professional women. Anderson’s stress on “the gospel alone” seems to have completely gone by the wayside. And yet, vestiges of Anderson’s influence can be detected, even as social and political change continued apace in Syrian society. The “civilization versus Christianization” debate in which Anderson had been so significant a player did not entirely disappear. Up through the 1920s, missionaries struggled against the desires of the population with whom they worked to become “American.” A major worry was that the residual association of Protestantism with America or Americanism denigrated the spiritual aspects of the work and instead promoted materialism.53 The missionaries continued to be anxious about alienating Syrians from their own culture and inadvertently encouraging emigration to America, which would depopulate Syria of “the very best of Syrian manhood and womanhood.”54 American 52

“Beirût Seminary.” This was an enduring theme from the nineteenth century. In correspondence between Anderson and the Mission, the former criticized the Mission for encouraging “temporal aid” to the converts. Quoted in Tibawi, American Interests, 101. 54 Margaret McGilvary, Story of Our Syria Mission (New York, 1920), 17. 53

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women missionaries in the school battled this by instead emphasizing their own, supposedly universal identity as Christians and downplaying their American nationality. The comment of the writer of the 1918 annual report for the American School for Girls exemplifies this. She noted that many of the parents of their students, when sending their daughters to the school, said, “Yes; we want English, but we want more than the language, we want American manners and spirit instilled into our daughters.” The principal then emphasized, “Now is the time and opportunity to show them something more and better than the American spirit; now is the time to show them Christ and his spirit.”55 The struggle to maintain the Christian religious identity and focus of the school as an instrument for evangelizing by producing Christianizing “agents” in the form of Christian wives and mothers was ultimately lost, despite the fact that up through the 1940s, the American School for Girls, and its offspring, the American Junior College for Women, never abandoned their Christian religious orientation and identity as institutions. The detachment of the Female Seminary from the American Board, and the position the Mission staked out in adamantly refusing to abide by Anderson’s educational policies, contributed to hastening the process of secularization of female education, but even more importantly, resulted in the Seminary inadvertently becoming an agent of social change, albeit on a modest scale. The mission’s educational institutions ultimately played a disproportionate role in producing female educators, secretaries, doctors, social workers, writers,56 and even a nuclear physicist,57 and not primarily “cultured and intelligent Christian wives and mothers.”58

55 Biennial Report, American School for Girls, Beirut, Syria, December 1916– December 1918, PHS, RG 115–3–1. 56 Writers Warda al-Yaziji (1838–1924), Labiba Hashim (1882–1952, and Farida 'Atiyya (1867–1917) were all educated in American missionary schools in Lebanon. Labiba Hashim was the founder of the women’s newspaper, Fatat al-sharq, published in Egypt from 1906 until the eve of World War II. Joseph T. Zeidan, Arab Women Novelists: the Formative Years and Beyond (Albany, 1995), 56, 67, 70; Beth Baron, The Women’s Awakening in Egypt: Culture, Society, and the Press (New Haven, 1994), 26–27. 57 Salwa Nassar (1913–1967), a 1933 graduate of the American Junior College for Women, earned a doctorate in physics from the University of California at Berkeley in 1945. Beirut College for Women Alumnae Bulletin, vol. 2, no. 1 (December 1950), 3. 58 W. A. Stolzfus, “The North Syria Schools,” Syria News Quarterly, vol. I, no. 3 (Apr. 1931), 40.

MUSLIM RESPONSE TO MISSIONARY ACTIVITIES IN EGYPT: WITH A SPECIAL REFERENCE TO THE AL-AZHAR HIGH CORPS OF 'ULAMÂ (1925–1935) Umar Ryad Introduction The history of Christian missions has been written predominantly from a Christian, missionary perspective.1 Missions have been scarcely studied from the viewpoint of the people the missionaries worked among, in the case of the present research: the Muslims in the Middle East in the early twentieth century. The available studies on the history and thought of missions among Muslims are in fact incomplete, for they do not give detailed accounts of the reactions and interpretations of the people they had been sent to. Moreover, they do not tell us whether the missionaries themselves were aware of the Muslim positions and writings, and the influence of their movements on mutual Muslim-Christian perceptions and misperceptions. However, there are only a few accounts of what the missionaries did and how Muslims reacted to them. We still need to examine how Muslims, in various regions and under different circumstances, perceived the missionaries and their work. The following article is an attempt to study the response of Hay"at (or Jamâ"at) Kibâr al-'Ulamâ, the Corps of High 'Ulamâ, to the missionary work in Egypt.2 Although the main theme of this volume is

1 See, for instance, Erich W. Bethmann, Bridge to Islam: A Study of the Religious Forces of Islam and Christianity in the Near East (London, 1953), Kenneth Scott Latourette, A History of the Expansion of Christianity: The Great Century A.D. 1800–A.D. 1914 in Northern Africa and Asia, vols. 4–6 (London, 1945), Julius Richter, A History of Protestant Missions in the Near East (New York, 1970, reprint from the first edition of 1910), Dennis H. Phillips, “The American Missionary in Morocco,” The Muslim World 65/1 (1975), 1–20, Lyle L. Vander Werff, Christian Mission to Muslims: The Record (South Pasadena Calif., 1977). 2 The Corps was founded as a result of the Al-Azhar Organization Law of 1911. This law strengthened the position of Sheikh Al-Azhar in supervising the individual conduct of the 'Ulamâ and Fuqahâ connected with educational and religious establishments. It was also committed to discussing theological, religious and social

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chronologically limited up till 1914, I would argue that the reaction of Al-Azhar scholars during the 1930s came as a result of the missionary activities (social, medical and schooling services) in the foregoing decades. The missionary question reached its peak in Egypt and other Middle Eastern countries in the late thirties after the abolition of the Capitulatory System. Historians often identify the period from approximately 1882 to 1932 as the heyday of mainstream Anglo-American Protestant missions, in which some missionary leaders took a militant, confrontational approach to Muslim evangelization insofar as they invoked a language of battle-readiness, conquest, and warfare to describe their work and to rally supporters.3 The choice of Al-Azhar is due to its prestigious religious position, not only in Egypt, but also in the whole Muslim world. Al-Azhar’s stance was, however, severely criticized as being feeble and incapable in defending of Islam against Christian missions. Even though Al-Azhar rector and conservative Sheikh al-Ahmadî al-Zawâhirî (1878–1944)4 requested the Corps of 'Ulamâ to constitute a committee that would collect missionary works and publish replies to them,5 the Egyptian press (especially Al-Balâgh and al-Siyâsa) condemned him, his institution and the government for their lenient attitude towards missionaries.6 Although the group of High 'Ulamâ of Al-Azhar was founded in order to carry the burdens of the desired religious reform, to shoulder intellectual endeavour in Egypt and the East,7 they were heavily criticized by other 'Ulamâ for not performing their lofty aims as they were only concerned with useless debates about doctrine: “What types of waters are permissible for ablutions and what are not,

subjects. For more, see Muhammad Abdel-Mun"im Khafâjî, Al-Azhar fî Alf 'Am (Cairo, 1474 AH/1955), 127–131. Jakob Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam for the Egyptian State: Muftis and fatwas for Dâr al-Iftâ (Leiden, 1997), 146–150. Bayard Dodge, Al-Azhar: A Millennium of Muslim Learning (Arabic Translation), trans. H. Fawzî alNajjâr (Cairo, 1994) 140. 3 Heather Sharkey, “Empire and Muslim Conversion: Historical Reflections on Christian Missions in Egypt,” Islam and Muslim Christian Relations 16/1 (2005), 43–60. 4 For more details about his life, see Khafâjî, Al-Azhar fî Alf 'Am, 165–169. 5 Khâlid Muhammad Na"îm, Al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya li Irsaliyyât al-Tansîr al-Ajnabiyya fî Misr 1756–1986: Dirâsah Wathâ"iqiyya (Cairo, 1988), 228. 6 B. L. Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel to Egyptians Sitting in Darkness: The Political Problem of Missionaries in Egypt in the 1930s,” Middle Eastern Studies 20/4 (1984), 22. 7 Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 148.

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confirming or denying the miracles of saints, or whether the strata of the heaven are made of silver or gold etc.”8 The confrontation between Christian missionaries and the Al-Azhar 'Ulamâ took place in the early thirties when the 'Ulamâ met to investigate the matter.9 Al-Azhar 'Ulamâ thereupon convened two consequent meetings (26 June and 17 July 1933) in which they published their manifestoes to the Muslim community. The response of the Al-Azhar 'Ulamâ came as a direct reaction to some news about incidents in missionary institutions. The press attack against missions reached its height during the late twenties and the early thirties. The news of missionary behavior in their institutions was a hotly-debated issue in the Egyptian press. Missionaries were charged of using hypnotism, torture, bribery and jobs, enticing children by sweets, kidnapping, adoption of babies, abusing the Prophet Muhammad, burning the Qur"ân and using it for toilet paper etc.10 The main source of the study will be the religious journal Nûr AlIslâm (Light of Islam), the mouthpiece of Al-Azhar Sheikhdom. Nûr al-Islâm was firstly published in al-Muharram 1349/1930 during alZawâhirî’s rectorship of Al-Azhar under the supervision of the Department for Preaching (Qism al-Wa"z), which was established by Sheikh Mustafâ al-Marâghî (1881–1945), one of the reform-minded Azhari scholars.11 The response of Al-Azhar is mostly studied in the context of Egypt’s political situation of that time. In her study, Barbara L. Carter concentrates on the political background of missionaries in Egypt in the 1930s.12 The article gives important details about the anti-missionary press campaign 1932–1933. The materials chiefly depend, inter alia, on the Foreign Office archive and various Egyptian

8

Ibid. A. Chris Eccel, Egypt, Islam and Social Change: Al-Azhar in Conflict and Accommodation (Berlin, 1984), 354. 10 “Current Events: ‘The Anti-missionary Campaign in Egypt’,” The Muslim World 24 (1934), 84–86; “Contro l’attività dei Missionari protestanti in Egitto,” Oriente Moderno 13,7 (1933), 373–375. 11 More about his life, see, Anwar al-Jundî, Al-Imâm al-Marâghî (Cairo, 1952). Khafâjî, Al-Azhar fî Alf 'Am, 169–181. Muhammad 'Izzat al-Tahtâwî, “Muhammad Mustafâ al-Marâghî,” Al-Azhar Magazine (1414/1993), 715–722. Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 152–53. When al-Marâghî took the office for the second time in 1935, the name of the mouthpiece of Al-Azhar Sheikhdom was changed into Majallat AlAzhar, which is still being published in Cairo under the same title. 12 Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 18–36. 9

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newspapers which led the anti-missionary press campaign, such as the three Wafdist periodicals: Al-Balâgh, al-Jihâd and Kawkab al-Sharq, as well as the Liberal Constitutionalist al-Siyâsa and al-Kashkûl, and others. According to Carter, by 1930 there were 450 foreign missionaries in Egypt with an Egyptian native staff of about 1500 and an annual expenditure of $700,000. She argues that missionary work became a hot item in the press, when an American missionary passed out tracts out to Al-Azhar (1928).13 Carter does not mention the name of this American missionary. Other sources indicate that it was Samuel Zwemer, the American missionary, who entered AlAzhar two times to distribute missionary pamphlets among the students (to be discussed below). According to Carter, the 'Ulamâ were not only understandably concerned with missionary activity but also felt themselves to be threatened by the vigorous stance of the Committee for the Defense of Islam.14 In another political study, the Egyptian writer Târiq al-Bishrî has briefly commented on the stance of Al-Azhar in his work on the relationship between Muslims and Copts in Egypt.15 The Egyptian press was not only concerned with the missionary activities in Egypt, but also with other missionary activities in other Muslim countries. According to Al-Bishrî, for example, there was a missionary incident in Turkey (1928) that was widely discussed in the Egyptian press in particular and in the Muslim world in general. It is reported that the administration of a missionary Protestant school for girls once compelled some Muslim pupils to kiss the cross every day, and made an attempt to distort the image of the Prophet Muhammad in front of the girls.16 In its comment on the act, Al-Balâgh (6 March 1928), a Wafdist newspaper, did not only fight against the missions in Egypt, but it was highly concerned about “the [. . .] effect of them on young generations with converting them from their parents’ religion [. . .]. Oriental countries suffered a lot from the pains resulted from missions, which work hard to demolish the national culture and spirit inside youngsters.”17

13

Ibid., 20. Ibid., 26. 15 Târiq al-Bishrî, al-Muslimûn wa al-Aqbât fî Itâr al-Jamâ"ah al-Wataniyya, 2nd ed. (Cairo, 1988), 517–520. 16 Ibid., 454–455. 17 Ibid., 454. 14

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In his study on the Wafd opposition party, Leland Bowie briefly hints at the response of Al-Azhar against missions. He claims that the opposition parties in Egypt, including the Wafd, seized on the issue and used it to berate the dictatorial Sidqî regime for alleged laxity. The Wafdists demonstrated certain opportunism on the question of foreign mission work in Egypt. In addition, Bowie suspects that the Wafd party decided to play on the religious sentiment of political advantage. His suspicion is based on the assumption that the multireligious Wafd articulated a much harder line than the Committee for the Defense of Islam (discussed below).18 The present approach is an attempt to highlight the confrontation of Al-Azhar with missionary activity as a religious response to a non-Muslim religious movement in the Muslim world. It presents the speeches which the scholars signed as manifestations for their meetings. Other critical Muslim groups to Al-Azhar started to launch their anti-missionary campaigns distrusting the role which Al-Azhar and the government as well were supposed to play in this regard. As compared to their approach, we shall study other voices raised against missionary work in order to understand the response of AlAzhar high scholars in relation to that of other religious responses in Egypt during that time, such as those of Al-Manâr, the Muslim Brothers Society (founded 1928), and the Committee for the Defense of Islam, headed by Sheikh al-Marâghî. Sheikh Muhammad Rashîd Ridâ, (1865–1935), the founder of the famous salafî journal Al-Manâr, accused Al-Azhar and al-Zwâhirî of “making a poor defense against unbelief and the attacks of the Christian West.”19 As a salafî movement, the Society of Muslim Brothers laid the blame on Al-Azhar for being unable “to oppose the state and its colonial wire-pullers.”20 Missionary incidents (1920s–1930s) In 1921, an international missionary conference was held in Hilwân, a province at the outskirts of Cairo. The purpose of the conference was to discuss the future of missionary work in Egypt in the light 18 Leland Bowie, “The Copts, the Wafd, and Religious Issues in Egyptian Politics,” The Muslim World 67,2 (1977), 123–124. 19 Daniel Neil Crecelius, “The Ulama and the State in Modern Egypt” (Princeton University, PhD dissertation, 1967), 314. 20 Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 156–57.

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of the internal political developments in view of the new Egyptian constitution, and the modernization of the society as an important factor influencing their activities.21 The period 1925–1935 witnessed an observable increase of missionary work in Egypt. The anti-missionary press campaign culminated during the period 1931–1933 with the coming of the unpopular and undemocratic regime of Sidqî. The reaction of Al-Azhar to missionary activities was pointed out in light of the political conflict between Sidqî’s regime and other opposition parties. In February 1930, a Coptic Roman Catholic gave a lecture at the American University in Cairo in which he was critical of Islam and the Prophet. At the same time, Kâmil Mansûr, a convert from Islam, defamed the Prophet in a meeting at the American Mission in Ezbakia.22 In April, Al-Azhar students went on strike, and Sheikh Al-Azhar (alMarâghî) told the Acting Minister of the Interior that the government should punish Kâmil Mansûr. He also, however, noted his gratitude for the zeal the government had shown for defending Islam.23 In 1926 the founder of the Arabian Mission, Samuel Zwemer (1867–1952),24 attempted to distribute missionary publications among Al-Azhar students. Like many Orientalists of the time, Samuel Zwemer had a free license from the Egyptian Ministry of Awqâf (Religious Endowments) with which he was entitled admission to mosques, monumental places and museums.25 Sheikh Abdel-Wahhâb Khallâf, the Director of Mosques, warned him that he could lose the license in case he repeated the action.26 On 17 April 1927, the anti-missionary sentiments ran high after he for the second time entered AlAzhar mosque to distribute missionary tracts among the students,

21

Na’im, al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya, 194–197 Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 21–22. 23 Ibid., 21. 24 About Zwemer’s life, see Alfred DeWitt Mason and Frederick J. Barny, History of the Arabian Mission (New York, 1926), J. Christy Wilson, Apostle to Islam: A biography of Samuel M. Zwemer (Grand Rapids, 1952), Id., “The Epic of Samuel Zwemer,” The Moslem World 42,3 (1953), 79–93, Id., Flaming prophet: The Story of Samuel Zwemer (New York, 1970), Vander Werff, Christian Mission, 224–267, Alan Neely, “Zwemer, Samuel Marinus,” in Gerald H. Anderson (ed.), Biographical Dictionary of Christian Missions (New York, 1997), 763. 25 M. Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib fî Misr: 1922–1952, (Cairo, 1996), 303–304. 26 Al-Balâgh (19 and 22 April 1928), quoted in Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 456–458. See also: Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 303–304; Na"im, al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya, 100–101. 22

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accompanied by three other foreigners, including a woman. They attended the class of the tafsîr given by Sheikh Surûr al-Zankalûnî, while he was explaining some passages of Sûrat Barâ"ah. Zwemer clandestinely distributed three missionary tracts: “Da"wah ilâ al-Qibla alQadîma” (A Call to the Old Direction of Prayer), “Sharh Asmâ" Allâh al-Husnâ” (Commentary on God’s Beautiful Names), and “Tafsîr âyat al-Kursî” [155:9] (The Interpretation of the Throne Verse).27 Understandably, the students and teachers reacted strongly against the Christian mission within their institution, and provoked by Zwemer’s actions, about three thousand Azharîs went on strike and tore up his missionary publications.28 The public opinion was preoccupied by the incident for a while. As a result, a group of Al-Azhar 'Ulamâ were delegated to meet the then Prime Minister Mustafâ al-Nahhâs demanding him to stop all missionary activities in Egypt, and ban the distribution of such missionary treatises and tracts on streets, clubs and public transports. Zwemer was deprived of his license. The American Commissioner had also officially apologized for the incident, and the Commissariat ordered Zwemer out of Egypt. He left on a steamer to Cyprus, but two weeks later he returned on the same steamer.29 Many Egyptian writers were alarmed by the incident. The prominent Egyptian writer 'Abbâs Mahmûd al-"Aqqâd (d. 1964) ridiculed Zwemer’s act as: [. . .] a scene from an American movie [. . .]whenever the Americans interfere in something, they turn it from ‘seriousness’ into ‘jest’, and from ‘sobriety’ into ‘childishness’. The Americans, who were unknown during the appearance of Christianity, come to the birthplace of Jesus in the East in order to ‘save’ his religion, and in what way! Through such ‘monkey business’.30

The problem was also discussed in the Egyptian Parliament. In one of the parliamentary sessions Khalîl Abû Rihâb, Abdel-Hamîd Sa"îd and Mahmûd Latîf interpellated both the Prime Minister and the Minister of Interior to investigate the government’s role in protecting

27 About the tracts, see, Summer 1914 Edition of the Descriptive Guide to the Nile Mission Press and other Publications suitable for Work in Oriental Lands among Moslims, Jews and Christians (Cairo, 1914), 13–14. Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 457. 28 Ibid. 29 Wilson, “The Epic,” 89. 30 Al-Balâgh (20 April 1928), as quoted in Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 457.

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religious institutions against such missionary attacks. The president of the Young Men’s Muslim Association (Y.M.M.A) Abdel-Hamîd Sa"îd, a member of the National Party, mentioned that “American missionaries spread the ‘germs’ of strife and disorder in Egypt through their lectures and publications.” He commented that “what encouraged the missionary work was the silence of the government being afraid of the ghost of the Capitulatory System. Missionaries are hired forces working for the sake of Colonialism in the East. And it is not enough to get the license back from the priest [Zwemer]. Those people, however, ought to be put under surveillance, and banned from entering mosques.”31 In his comment, Mahmûd Latîf, another MP, demanded that the American Commissariat should help Egypt to expel Zwemer altogether.32 The government’s reaction came as a disappointment to the critical MP’s. In his reply, the Prime Minister spoke about the immunity given to the foreigners, including missionaries, by the Capitulatory System, and how it imposed many confinements on the government. In this respect, he tried to calm down the situation stressing his government’s concern about the case of Zwemer promising that such acts should not be repeated. Meanwhile, he mentioned the apology of Zwemer and the Commissariat, and praised the wise position taken by the Azharîs.33 Also some of the Copts expressed their discontent with the incident. Kalîm Abû Yûsuf, an Egyptian Copt, commented on Zwemer’s act, undermining the English claim that their presence in Egypt was to protect the Christian minority. Had such an act been committed [by a Muslim] in a church, he said, Britain would have used it to support its allegation about Muslim fanaticism. In conclusion, he addressed the Muslims saying: “You should never think that the Copts’ censure is not less than that of the Muslims. We, Copts, are very concerned about our brotherhood and sympathy with you [Muslims].”34

31

Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 518. Ibid., 518. See also: Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 304. Sulaymân quotes the information he used from the Parliamentary archives: 3rd Parliamentary Group, 3rd Term, vol. 2, session 50 (23 April 1928), 762. 33 Ibid., 457–458. 34 Al-Balâgh (April 25, 1928), quoted in Ibid., 457. Cf. Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib., 304. 32

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Anti-missionary poems were also composed by Egyptian poets. AlSâwî Sha"lân, an Egyptian poet, wrote a very critical poem after the departure of Zwemer to Cyprus, in which he accused Zwemer of atheism and riot-making. He also reminded him of the Inquisitions and that Al-Azhar would remain “a strong fort.”35 Mahmûd Ghunaym, another poet, composed a poem under the title “Traders of Doctrines,” in which he described missionary work as “danger permeating in the name of Jesus and Mary” fearing that it would “disintegrate the bond of love” with Christians in Egypt. In his poem, he maintained that “any ingratitude to Egypt will be ingratitude to both Muhammad and Jesus. For him “Jesus is too great to be used as a ladder to greediness; and while his task was to disseminate peace, blood had been shed in his name.”36 The news had also dealt with the missionary behaviour in their medical institutions. The English missionary hospital in Old Cairo enjoyed wide popularity. According to Sulaymân, the hospital focused on the treatment of tropical diseases, such as bilharzia, with which most of the Egyptian farmers were infected. Sulaymân notes that the treatment in the hospital was for free in the early morning. After 8:00 a.m., tickets were to be made out to patients for 5 piaster in order to attract poor people to come early and attend the morning religious sermons before having treatment.37 In the hospital, missionary tracts were distributed among the patients. Some missionaries also helped illiterate patients to understand the contents of the publications. It is further reported that before giving any medical

35

As quoted in Na"im, al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya, 204

‫ أﺑﺖ اﻟﻘﻔﺎرا‬٬‫ﮐـﺄﻣﺜﺎل اﻟﻈﺒﺎ‬ ‫ﻓﺘﺒﻌﺚ ﻓﻲ ﻓؤ ادك ﻣﺎ ﺗﻮ ارى‬ ‫ﺎ اﻧﺪﺛ ــﺎرا‬,‫ودك ﷲ ذروﺗ ــ‬ ‫ـﺎقدارا‬,‫ﺗﺤﻄ\ دوﻧ ـ‬ ‫أﺟـﺌﺖ ﺗـﻈـﻨـﻨـﺎ ﻗﻮ ﻣﺎ ﺳﮐــﺎرى‬ ‫وﻻ أﻣﻨـﺎﺗﺮـﺪ وﻻ ﻗـﺮارا‬ 36

As quoted in Ibid., 205

‫ﺑﺎﺳم اﻟﻤﺴﻴﺢوﻣﺮﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﺑﻴﻨﻨـــــــﺎ أن ﺗﻔﺼــــﻤﺎ‬ ‫ﻤﺎ‬,‫ﺪواﻟﻤ ـــــ ـ ــﺴﻴﺢ ﻛـﻠﺒ‬ ‫ن إﻟــﻰ اﻟﻤـﻄﺎﻣ ــﻊ ﺳﻠﻤﺎ‬ ‫موﺑﺎﺳﻤﻪ ﺟﺮ ت اﻟﺪﻣﺎ‬

37

Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 294–295.

‫أﻻ أﻧـﻠـﻎ زوـﻤـﺮوﻤﺮ واﻟﻌـ ـ ــﺬارى‬ ‫ﺎ ﺻـﻼة‬,‫ـﻨﺎﺋﺴ ـ ـ ــ‬T ‫ﺗﺮ ﺗﻞ ﻓﻲ‬ ‫ﺑﺄن ﻣﻌ ــﺎﻗﻞ اﻟﺘﻔﺘﻴﺶ وﻟــﺖ‬ ‫وأن اﻷزﻫﺮ اﻟﻤﻌـﻤـ ـ ــﻮردار‬ ‫ﺳﻜﺮ ت ﺑﺨﻤﺮ ة اﻟﺘﻀﻠﻴﻞ ﻃﻴﺸﺎ‬ ‫وأﻧﺖ ﻣﻠﺤﯩ ﻻ ﯨﻴﻦ ﺗﺒﻐﻲ‬ ‫ﺧﻄﺮ ﺗﻐﻠﻐﻞ ﻓﻲ اﻟـﺤﻤ‬ ‫إﻧــﻲ أﻋـــﻴﺬ ﻋﺮا اﻟﻤـﻮدة‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﻋﻖ ﻣﺼﺮ ﻌﻖ أﺣﻤ‬ ‫أﻛــﺒﺮت ﻋﻴﺴﻰ أن ـــــﻜﻮ‬ ‫ﻓﻠﻄـﺎﻟﻤــﺎ ﻧ ـــــــ ــﺸﺮاﻟﺴﻼ‬

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treatment, physicians would ask the patient about the religious sermon delivered in the morning. Patients had to attend religious sermons inside the hospital, while receiving treatment.38 The same was true for other missionary hospitals in other towns. In Munûf (North Egypt) there was another English missionary hospital. In this hospital, the tickets had Christian phrases in the Egyptian dialect written on them, such as “Jesus Christ has come to the world to save sinners. Death is the return for sin, but God’s reward is eternal life [. . .]. We are your servants for the sake of Jesus.”39 During the graduation ceremony of the American University in Cairo (AUC) in 1931, the Palestinian revolutionary Abdel-Qâdir Mûsâ Kâzim al-Husaynî (1908–1948)40 was among the graduates receiving their diplomas. When his name was called to receive his diploma, al-Husaynî torn it out on the stage shouting at the face of the President of the University: “I am in no need of a diploma from your imperial and missionary institute.”41 Al-Husaynî started to shout in the name of Palestine and its people. The act astonished all attendants. The impact of Al-Husaynî’s stance extended to a wide discussion in the press, especially after it was reported in the press that the Egyptian government had expelled al-Husaynî out of Egypt to Palestine.42 Early in 1932, the Egyptian newspapers (especially, alBalâgh, al-Jihâd al-Siyâsa, al-Kashkûl and Kawkab al-Sharq) intensified their campaign with publishing more details about al-Husaynî’s incident and other alleged reports of kidnapping Muslim students by missionaries at the AUC. Al-Siyâsa (6 February 1932), for instance, reported that “a Muslim student has been kidnapped by missionary

38 Ibid., 295; quoted from the Parliamentary archives: 8th Parliamentary Group, 1st Group, vol. 2, Session 32, 1487 (19 August 1942). 39 The passage in Arabic Egyptian dialect: “al-Masîh Yasû" Gâh lid-Dunyâ 'Alashân Yikhallas al-Khâti"în. Ugrat al-Khatyyah hiyya al-Mût, Ammâ 'Atiyyatu Allâh fa hiyya Hayâh Dâ"imah [. . .] Wi Ihnâ Khaddâminkum 'Alashân Khâtir Yasû,” Ibid., 289, as quoted from al-Balâgh, 3157 ( July 4, 1933). 40 He was born in Jerusalem, and received education at the AUC. He participated in revolutions against the British government. In 1937 he had been wounded and transferred to Damascus; then he moved to Baghdad where he received training at the Military College. He was employed for some time at the Iraqi Army. He was killed during war 1948, and buried in the Jerusalem Mosque. Khayr alDîn al-Ziriklî, Al-A"lâm (Beirut, 1979), 4, 47–48 41 Na"im, Al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya, 222. 42 Ibid., 222.

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members of the AUC after being hypnotized,” while missionaries rejected such stories altogether.43 Al-Kashkûl strongly attacked the AUC as a “hidden source of missions.”44 Al-Salâm school and orphanage, directed by Miss Marshall, an English missionary, constituted a popular missionary center at Port Said. The administration of the school were said to have used different means to attract the pupils to come to their school. They were said, among other things, to use the investigation of the conditions of poor families to try to convince these families to enroll their children in the school. Al-Salâm school had two other branches, in Manzalah and Dikirnis (two towns in al-Daqahliyya province, nearby Port Said).45 It is reported that around seventeen Muslim girls were baptized there.46 Among the girls baptized were Nazla Ibrahîm Ghunaym (who was later married to a Christian, whose name was Zakî Israel), 'Aydah Nu"mân (who later had the Christian name, Marta Bolous), and Jawhara 'Allâm (later, Laylâ 'Abdel-Masîh).47 The case of Nazlah preoccupied the focus of public opinion (April-August, 1933). Muslim writers severely criticized Tâha Hussein, when he wrote: “it is sure that Islam will not weaken, nor Christianity will be strengthened due to the conversion of Nazlah Gunaym.”48 Following this incident, one of the judges of Tanta Shar"î Court publicly stated that “those apostates had two choices [. . .], either to return to Islam or to be stoned to death,” a declaration that had shocked Egyptian secularists.49 In 1933, another cause clélèbre occurred in al-Salâm orphanage. A fifteen-years-old girl named Turkiyya Hassan al-Sayyid Yûsuf was beaten up by her missionary instructor. It was claimed that this had happened as an attempt to convert the girl to Christianity by force. The girl adopted Christianity, but very soon recanted her faith. The girl then went to the police to file a case against her teacher for having beaten her and having compelled her to adopt Christianity. The teacher denied this accusation by saying that she had beaten

43

Ibid., 223. Ibid., 223. 45 Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 295. 46 Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 459. 47 Al-Siyâsah, 3138 ( June 15, 1933). As quoted in, Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, passim, 289–304. 48 Na"im, al-Judhûr al-Târîkhiyya, 224 49 Ibid., 245 44

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the girl because she did not study her lessons well. The girl, nevertheless, maintained that the teacher punished her because of her rejection of the teacher’s statement: “Jesus has chosen you. I am not beating you, but I am trying to kill the Satan, which prevents you from believing in Jesus.”50 The act provoked Egyptians against all missionary activities in the country.51 Some missionaries rejected the story as having been invented by the girl. F. F. Johnston, a chaplain of Port Said, maintained that the teacher rebuked her with mild disciplinary punishment for pedagogical reasons.52 Petitions and protesting telegrams were sent from everywhere in Egypt to King Fu"âd and the government, asking them to close all missionary schools. The problem was also vigorously argued in the Parliament, bringing forth a statement of facts by the Minister of Interior (14 June 1933). It is reported that a group of men with clubs attacked the house of a Protestant pastor in Cairo (25 June 1933). Even though the accident, according to the press, was slight, it was yet symptomatic of the Muslim aversion to missionary work.53 In Parliament, the Minister of the Interior claimed that Turkiyya was beaten solely because she had been rude to her teacher. However, the teacher was expelled from Egypt. The government also ordered that Muslim girls at the missionary school had to return to Muslim institutions and that the government should take care of orphans and needy children. The Minister announced a grant of 70.000 Egyptian pounds to start establishing new governmental orphanages.54 Two manifestos of the Corps of Al-Azhar High 'Ulamâ In response to all these missionary activities in the 20s and 30s, the Corps of Al-Azhar High 'Ulamâ held two successive meetings at which they deliberated on possible proper solutions of the question of missions. After both meetings the Corps issued a manifesto to the

50

Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 305. Cf. Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 34. See “Hawla Hawâdith al-Tabshîr,” Majallat Nûr al-Islâm (1352/1933) 4/3, 210; “Current,” 85; “Contro,” 372–373. 52 “Contro,” 373. 53 Ibid. 54 Al-Ahrâm (15 June 1933), quoted in “Contro,” 373. Cf. Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel”, 24. 51

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Muslim community stating the Islamic rulings towards the problem as well as what steps the whole Muslim community should take. On 26 June 1933 the Corps, presided over by Sheikh al-Ahmadî al-Zawâhirî, for the first time convened to discuss missionary work. In the meeting they discussed a detailed report of the news circulating in Egypt about the missions of that time.55 After the deliberation on missionary activities in the country, the Corps decided to send an appeal to the government demanding them to take strict measures to “eradicate such evil” in order that Muslims would feel assured about their religion and the Qur"ân, and that Muslim children may be safeguarded against any missionary attempt to entice them away to Christianity. The 'Ulamâ came out with practical steps for solving the problem: they decided to start donating money for a project against mission. According to the report, Sheikh al-Zawîhirî contributed 200 pounds, Sheikh Abel-Majîd Salîm (1882–1954), the then Muftî of Egypt (1928–46),56 100 pounds, Sheikh Muhammad Abdel-Latîf al-Fahhâm (d. 1943), the then deputy of Al-Azhar Mosque,57 50 pounds, Sheikh Husayn Wâlî (d. 1936), the head of Al-Azhar Fatwâ Council,58 50 pounds, and many other high scholars other sums of money.59 Meanwhile, the 'Ulamâ issued the following statements to the Muslim community. Manifesto to the Muslim Ummah O Muslims! Be aware! The news of those who call themselves mubashshirûn (missionaries) has become widespread in the whole country. And you have become acquainted enough with their terrible means to evangelize Muslim children and the weak-minded. They are not even ashamed of those peculiar and notorious activities they follow to convert Muslim youngsters who are not aware of their religion. When they are at the end of their wits, according to the press, they resort to hypnosis and sometimes to terrorism and torture. With astute tricks, missionaries spread in cities and villages: they

55 Majjalat Nûr al-Islâm, 203–208. See also a detailed report about the meeting and its declaration in “Manifesto del Corpo dei grandi ‘ulama’ contro l’opera dei Missionari protestanti,” Oriente Moderno 23,7 (1933), 373–375. The translation of both manifestoes from Arabic is mine, except the Qur"ânic passages which are quoted from the Translation of the Meanings of the Holy Qur"ân by Abdullâh Yûsuf 'Alî (Saudi Arabia, 1410 A.H.) 56 For his biography, see Khafâjî, Al-Azhar fî Alf 'Am, 1, 188–89. 57 Ibid., part 2, 25–26. 58 Ibid., 23–24. 59 Majallat Nûr al-Islâm, 208.

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umar ryad cunningly appeared in the shape of “the messengers of mercy.” They have established hospitals for treating the poor for free, and schools where they teach poor children without payment, and orphanages where they keep the needy; such work is double-edged “from out mercy is shown, whereas deception and dishonest are embodied alongside.” Unaware of their scheming, the weak-minded and the poor come to their hospitals, schools and orphanages, but they do not know their real dangers. O Muslims! They try to trick the poor and the needy through these institutions. Missionaries at their hospitals, make use of the poverty and illness of some Muslims to keep them away from Islam. They also teach Muslim children things at their schools against the Qur"ân and the Prophet Muhammad. The Prophet was described to the children in a very terrible and fearful form. They trump up against Islam and the ever-Glorious Qur"ân what they wish. They also compel the children to observe the Christian prayers, employing the weakness of the children to make them doubt Islam so they may finally convert them to Christianity. Also in the orphanages they seize the opportunity and get the poor, who are hard pressed, giving them shelter and food; then missionaries can have a free hand over their religious doctrines and push them away from Islam. When they [missionaries] fulfill their purpose, they spare no effort to sever the relationship between the christianized person and his family, or sometimes they send him away to another country. O Muslims! It is the duty of the 'Ulamâ to remind you of the obligations of Islam and what you should do against such activities, which are harmful for your religion, children, brothers and community. It is obligatory upon you to foil the missionary work and keep your dear children away from them. Islam obligates all of you to desert everyone who lets his children learn in such noxious places and misleading environments. Whosoever allows his family to go to such notorious places, after their terrible acts have been exposed to everybody, will deviate from the way of Islam, if he is aware and accepts the results missionaries aim at. You must abandon him. You must not even feel inclined to him. Consequently, he would feel guilty for what he has committed against his religion and his family, and refrain from transgression, getting his son out from “darkness to light.” O Muslims! Do you accept your children to follow a religion other than Islam, while Allah says: “If anyone desires a religion other than Islam [submission to Allah] never will it be accepted of him; and in the Hereafter he will be in the ranks of those who have lost.”60 Do you accept them to convert them from Islam, while Allah says:

60

The Holy Qur"ân, Sûrat Al-"Imrân [3:85].

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“And if anyone of you turns back from their faith and dies in disbelief, their works will bear no fruit in this life and in the Hereafter; they will be abide in the Fire.”61 Do you accept to be deceived by the tricks of missionaries and leave your children in their hands, and Allah says: “O ye who believe! If ye listen to a faction among the People of the Book, they would [indeed] render you apostate after ye have believed.”62 Do you accept to give your daughters in marriage to those who adopt a religion other than Islam, at whose disposal their religion and life will be. Be aware of your dignity and enthusiasm towards your religion and good lineage! O Muslims! Behold! You will be brought before Allah in the Hereafter, so do not neglect your religion. O Muslims! You have been informed that the missionary work is based on [their activities] in the hospitals, schools and orphanages, which they establish in villages and towns in order to trick the unlucky and poor people everywhere. Islam, however, urges you to eradicate this ‘epidemic’; you should establish similar hospitals, schools and orphanages in order to safeguard your religion and prevent the poor and the needy from going to such ‘epidemic’ places. Allah says: “And spend of your substance in the cause of Allah, and make not your own hands contribute to [your] destruction; but do good; for Allah loveth those who do good.”63 And He also says: “And spend something [in charity] out of the substance which We have bestowed on you, before death should come to any of you and he should say ‘O my Lord! Why didth Thou give me respite for a little while? I should then have given [largely] in charity, and I should have been one of the doers of the good’.”64 And Allah also says: “The parable of those who spend their wealth in the way of Allah is that of a grain of corn; it groweth sevens ears, and each ear hath a hundred grains. Allah giveth manifold increase to whom He pleaseth and Allah careth for all and He knoweth all things.”65 O Muslims! It is the duty of the whole Muslim community—the government, the people with all classes and the 'Ulamâ—to establish hospitals, schools and orphanages similar to the missionary ones so as to safeguard Islam and Muslim children, every one according to his financial ability. It is also the duty of the scholars to share with money, and to give advice and guidance based on clear-cut evidences to the people according

61 62 63 64 65

The The The The The

Holy Holy Holy Holy Holy

Qur"ân, Qur"ân, Qur"ân, Qur"ân, Qur"ân,

Sûrat Sûrat Sûrat Sûrat Sûrat

al-Baqarah [2:217]. Al-"Imrân [3:100]. Al-Baqarah [2:195]. al-Munâfiqûn [63:10]. Al-Baqarah [2:261].

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umar ryad to the Islamic rulings. The government also has to protect the religion, to preserve the people and safeguard children from the ‘claws’ of missionaries. They should prescribe strict laws in order to root missionaries out of Egypt. “Who is better in speech than who calls [men] to Allah, works righteousness, and says, ‘I am of those who bow in Islam’.”66

On 17 July 1933, the Corps of the High 'Ulamâ assembled for a second time at Al-Azhar Mosque. They proposed to organize a campaign in order to protect Islam and Muslims against the “danger of mission,” in which many of the high scholars took part. The campaign had an executive committee presided by the Grand Sheikh of Al-Azhar. It also had a committee that was in charge of preparing a draft law for the work of the organization, while there were also affiliated committees to support the objectives of the project in other larger towns, such as Alexandria, Tantâ, Zaqâzîq, Dusûq, Demiatta, and Assyût.67 At the end of the meeting the Corps issued another manifesto for the Muslim community. Manifesto to Muslims O Muslims! You have already known about the earmarked money, assembling groups, plotted tricks, and cunning means, which the socalled missionaries take up as an attempt to corrupt Islam and breach its bond. Everything has already been disclosed; and no carelessness is excused. You have proudly rejected the movements of those misleading missionaries [. . .] Due to their religious obligations, the 'Ulamâ amongst you have formed a group for organized work and well-contrived plans. The group [of the 'Ulamâ] has started work, seeking the Divine Providence and the Prophetic guidance; and it is certain about your Islamic enthusiasm and your religious munificence that you will give your money in the way of Allah according to your capability, answering Allah’s call: “Whatever ye shall spend in the cause of Allah, shall be repaid unto you, and ye shall not be treated unjustly.”68 O Muslims! It is shameful of you if you do not work; and such missionary groups spend their efforts and money, and establish their edifices [i.e. missionary institutions] in order to dissuade and mislead people

66

The Holy Qur"ân, Sûrat Fussilat [41:33]. Majallat Nûr al-Islâm (1352/1933), 4/4, 276–280. The report also mentions a list of the names of the grand scholars having worked for the organization. The secretary of the fund was Sheikh Ma"mûn al-Shinnâwî (1880–1950), the then head of the Faculty of Sharî"ah. 68 The Holy Qur"ân, Sûrat al-Anfâl [8:60]. 67

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from the way of Allah. After [their] attacks, we have to start working as a sign of solid faith and firm belief, proudly holding them up to ridicule for their futile attacks and abortive attempts; and Allah’s saying [in the Qur"ân] will come true: “The Unbelievers spend their wealth to hinder men from the path of Allah, and so they will continue to spend; but in the end they will have regrets and sighs; at length they will be overcome.”69 O Muslims! The 'Ulamâ are very concerned with the defense of Islam. However, they never prefer riot; they advise you to be patient and remind you that any violence or impudence in this respect will impede the fulfillment of the 'Ulamâ’s work: “Invite [all] to the way of Lord with wisdom and beautiful preaching.”70 O Muslims! The world is witnessing a struggle between the truth and the falsehood; and the attack of the falsehood can never be more determined than the resistance of the truth. You will never accept their spending to be more than what you should spend so as to protect your religion, preserve your dignity and safeguard your children against the loss of Islam. “Let the man of means spend according to his means: and the man whose resources are restricted, let him spend according to what Allah has given him. Allah puts no burden on any person beyond what He has given Him.”71 The 'Ulamâ know perfectly well that you need not be urged to spend, but they only remind you that “Those who spend their wealth in the cause of Allah, and follow not up their gifts with reminders of their generosity or with injury,—for them, their reward is with their Lord: on them shall no be fear, nor shall they grieve.”72

In the two manifestoes, the Al-Azhar High Scholars attempted to stress their role as ‘protectors’ of Islam against foreign missionary activities. The Corps showed a thorough opposition and a considerable deal of unhappiness with missions, exhorting Muslims not to approach any missionary institution. In their manifestoes to the Muslim community, the High Scholars quoted extensively from the Qur"ân. In their response, the 'Ulamâ showed patent rejection of all missionary endeavors among Muslims. Their position was very strict towards what they perceived as reprehensible missionary behavior, in order to mitigate the public resentment among Muslims. In these, they also asked the government to take legal measures so as to “uproot” mission work and safeguard Islam against “insidious missionary

69 70 71 72

The The The The

Holy Holy Holy Holy

Qur"ân, Qur"ân, Qur"ân, Qur"ân,

Sûrat Sûrat Sûrat Sûrat

Al-Anfâl [8:36]. al-Nahl [16:125]. Al-Talâq [65:7]. al-Baqarah [2:262].

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attacks.” However, one still wonders whether it is true that the AlAzhar 'Ulamâ (in their reaction to missions) “had no weapon [. . .] except a tongue of refined eloquence and a pen of sharpened style”!73 The heavy criticism laid upon Sheikh al-Zwâhirî made him head the Governmental Anti-missionary Committee, which collected a lot of money for the purpose of combating missions. But after the resignation of its head the committee was dissolved with no real results; and its collected funds were spent for other purposes. After the campaign died down in September 1933, Sheikh al-Zawâhirî, the head of the Corps, issued a fatwâ that strongly condemned Muslims who enrolled their children in missionary schools. The Foreign Office was unhappy about the fatwâ.74 The statements of the first manifesto can be clearly discerned as more severe. According to Carter, the British Residency found the manifesto of the Corps “violent and yet the government had argued with the ‘Ulamâ for three days in an apparently successful effort to get them to tone it down. A somewhat docile committee of 'Ulamâ was then set up to study the problem, while other 'Ulamâ were busying themselves with directing fundraising activities for establishment of orphanages and schools.”75 Other responses to missionary activities Sheikh Rashîd Ridâ, the founder of the famous journal Al-Manâr and a close disciple of Muslim Egyptian modernist Sheikh Muhammad 'Abduh (1849–1905), devoted much of his writing to defending Islam against missionary attacks.76 In the present paper, it is difficult to discuss all the details of his views and reactions to Christian mis-

73 Daniel Crecelius, “Nonidelogical Response of the Egyptian Ulama to Modernization,” in Nikki R. Keddie (ed.), Scholars, Saints and Sufis: Muslim Religious Institutions in the Middle East since 1500 (Berkely, 1972), 219. 74 Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 26. 75 Ibid., 26–27. 76 About Ridâ’s views on Christian missions, see Charles C. Adams, Islam and Modernism in Egypt (London, 1933), 196ff., Ayoub, “Muslim Views,” 49–70, Albert Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age: 1789 –1939 (London, 1962), Christine Schirrmacher, Mit den Waffen des Gegners, (Berlin, 1992), Eliezer Tauber, “Rashid Ridâ as Pan-Arabist Before World War I,” The Muslim World, 79 (1989), 104, Umar Ryad, “Islam and Christian Missions: Missionary Activities and Muslim Responses in Egypt (1895–1935)” (unpublished MA thesis, Leiden University, 2000).

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sions. The following part focuses on the criticism of Al-Manâr to AlAzhar’s mild criticism to missions, and on the conflict between AlAzhar and Al-Manâr during the period under discussion, especially with regard to missionary activity. The conflict started after the resignation of Sheikh al-Marâghî, who was a good friend of Ridâ’s and a staunch disciple of Muhammad 'Abduh as well.77 After the appearance of the first issue of Majallat Nûr Al-Islâm, Rashîd Ridâ commended it in his journal. Ridâ, furthermore, wished that the magazine would fulfill its objectives of propagating the Islamic values, the same as he had been doing for many years in his Manâr. One of these objectives, according to him, should be the combat against the increase of missionary activities in Muslim countries.78 However, after a few years of the publication of the magazine, Ridâ expressed his disappointment with the lax position taken by Al-Azhar and the Corps of its High 'Ulamâ. In his criticism of Al-Azhar’s attitudes towards missions, Ridâ claimed that although the Egyptian press in the 1930s was preoccupied with the news of missionary events in the country, the Al-Azhar scholars, who were supposed to be the religious leaders of the community, had not taken a proper stance against missionary activities.79 The background of the conflict between al-Manâr and Al-Azhar with regard to missions goes back to the discussion between Rashîd Ridâ and the anti-Salafî Sheikh Yûsuf al-Dijwî (1870–1946), a member of the Corps of Al-Azhar’s High 'Ulamâ (1932)80 on the understanding and interpretation of many Islamic themes. Al-Dijwî was the first Muftî in Nûr al-Islâm.81 He was one of Rashîd Ridâ’s greatest protagonists in Al-Azhar. Al-Dijwî gave a number of fatwâs attacking the Wahhâbî kingdom in Saudi Arabia; Rashîd Ridâ was one of the Wahhâbî regime’s supporters.82 Nûr al-Islâm defended itself

77 Muhammad Sâlih al-Murrâkishî, Tafkîr Muhammad Rashîd Ridâ min Khilâl Mijallat al-Manâr 1898–1835 (Tunisia and Algeria, 1985), 420–21. 78 Rashîd Ridâ, “Bâb Taqrîz al-Matbû"ât al-Jadîda,” al-Manâr 31,2 (Rabî" al-Awwal 1349/24 August 1930), 155. 79 Idem, Al-Manâr wa Al-Azhar (Cairo, 1353), 15 (Quoted below, Azhar). Cf. Abdullâh al-Najdî al-Qusaimî, Shuyûkh Al-Azhar wâ al-Ziyâdah fî al-Islâm (Cairo, 1351 AH), 12–13. 80 About his life, see, Al-A"lâm (1979) 8, 216–217. See his work, Rasâ"il Al-Salâm wâ Rusul Al-Islâm (Epistles of Peace and Apostle of Islam), written of the people of America (Cairo, n. d.). 81 Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 152–53. 82 Ibid., 153.

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bitterly, but soon lost the prospect of the issues in the exchange of insults and countercharges with Al-Manâr. It moreover accused Ridâ of unbelief.83 The debate between both sides was very intense and serious. It later developed into hostility and serious friction between the two men. Their controversy was mainly about religious issues. The issue concerning us here is the question of the status of Muslim pupils at missionary schools. Dijwî maintained that Ridâ had a completely mistaken opinion, when he issued his fatwâ for the Muslim students at the American College in Beirut. In this fatwâ, he allegedly allowed them to attend the prayer with the Christians in the church. According to Dijwî, Ridâ forgot that “this would implant these Christian rituals in their [Muslim students] pure hearts, and that what they would hear from missionaries and priests there would be engraved in their naïve minds.”84 The problem goes back to the fatwâ published in al-Manâr in 1909 (12, 16–29 and 637–640) with regard to the refusal of Muslim students at the American College in Beirut to attend the Christian religious classes. In his reply to Dijwî, Ridâ claimed that Dijwî’s words were quite different from what he declared in his fatwâ. Dijwî, according to him, falsely interpreted the statements cited in al-Manâr.85 In 1909, Ridâ issued a fatwâ to Muslim students of the American College of Beirut, who were obligated to attend Christian religious classes and that they would remain in the school while keeping the Islamic bond firmly. He stressed the academic significance of such Christian institutions in the Muslim world. Due to their societal benefits in spreading science and technique among Muslims, Ridâ accepts the need for such schools, even when they are sometimes harmful for one’s belief. Those who were in need of the advantages of such schools let their children join them; but those who were concerned about the doctrines of their children never trusted them.86 He held the view that Muslims must leave such schools if they have schools like the Christian ones, or they may remain there, if they could avoid the disadvantages of any instructions incompatible with

83

Crecelius, “The Ulama and the State,” 314–15. Yûsuf al-Dijwî, “Sâhib al-Manâr,” Majallat Nûr al-Islâm 3:5 ( Jumâda al-Ulâ 1351/1932), 337. 85 Ridâ, Azhar, 106. 86 Ibid., 107. 84

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Islam. As it is impossible to leave such schools, Muslims could remain there till similar Muslim educational methods exist. He advised Muslim students to accomplish other important acts so as to overcome any religious side effect, such as: 1) to study Muslim books explaining the truth of Islam and the differences between Islam and Christianity, 2) to study Muslim works refuting the doctrines of the Bible, 3) they should preserve all Islamic acts of worship at these schools, such as the five daily prayers, and to fast on the days they are required to attend the Christian religious classes, and 4) to keep their concern of competition with those people, trying to combine both religion and science, and to establish schools as such. Despite Ridâ’s acceptance of Christian schools, he continued to warn the people that they should carefully watch the religious education of their children. He also attempted to convince the Muslims of Beirut to take their children out of the American College and other missionary schools, and raise funds for the establishment of an Islamic College that would replace such institutions.87 In 1928, Hasan al-Bannâ (1906–1949) founded the Muslim Brothers Society in Egypt. He had frequented the circle of Rashîd Ridâ in his youth, and tried to carry on al-Manâr after Ridâ’s death.88 The Islamic message (da"wâ) was one of the most important tasks of the Muslim Brothers. In his early stage of activism, Hasan al-Bannâ expressed his admiration of the short-lived Dâr al-Da"wâ wâ al-Irshâd (Society of Da"wa and Guidance),89 established by Sheikh Rashîd Ridâ in 1912 when he moved to Cairo.90 The idea of such a society first occurred to Ridâ when he was a student in Tripoli-Syria, where he used to frequent and read the literature provided by the American missionaries in that city, and he wished that the Muslims had had similar societies and schools.91 On many occasions, the Muslim Brothers expressed their disappointment that Al-Azhar had not been able to defend Islam, or to

87

Ibid., 113. Hourani, Arabic Thought, 360; Khalîl 'Alî Haydar, Mudhakkarât Hasan al-Bannâ (Kuwait, 1989), 161–64. 89 Brynjar Lia, The Society of the Muslim Brothers in Egypt: The Rise of an Islamic Mass Movement 1928–1942 (Lebanon, 1998), 57. 90 The Society of Da"wâ and Guidance was inaugurated in March 1912. The study started immediately on the second day of inauguration. See Hasîb al-Samarrâ"î, Rashîd Ridâ al-Mufassir (Baghdad, 1397/1977), 304. 91 Adams, Islam and Modernism, 196. 88

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convey “the appropriate message of Islamic faith” to Muslims. In the early part of his life, al-Bannâ joined the Sufi Hasâfiyya Society for Charity based in his birthplace Al-Mahmûdiyya (northwest of Cairo) with a twofold aim: to fight for the preservation of Islamic morality, and to resist the work of Christian missionaries in the town. After his move to Cairo, al-Bannâ “suffered a profound shock at the religious state of the city; eventually he found his way to the leaders of the Al-Azhar and poured out his anguish over the debased condition of Islam and Muslims. His revulsion at the sense of futility in Al-Azhar in the face of the currents battering away at Islam can be said to mark his disenchantment with it as a citadel of the defense for Islam.”92 The 'Ulamâ of Al-Azhar were accused by the Society as being servants of a foreign occupation and “oppressive economic and political overlords”; the Brothers viewed the scholars of Al-Azhar as civilservant ulamâ and agents of the Egyptian government. The Society, besides, bemoaned the state of stagnancy of Al-Azhar as a great Muslim institution. They accused Al-Azhar to be a leading voice of the Muslim world which failed to play its role as the spokesman for a living and dynamic Islam. Al-Azhar had not been vigorous enough in its resistance to encroachment on Islamic preserve by foreign ideas and values.93 Al-Bannâ brought his own anxiety to the Sheikhs of Al-Azhar, and bitterly disputed the futile resistance and evident resignation in the face of “the missionary and atheistic currents” disrupting the Muslim society.94 During the first five years after the establishment of the Muslim Brothers, fifteen branches originated in different towns. Most of these branches were established in areas where missionary centers were found. The Muslim Brothers warned Muslims not to contact missionary establishments.95 According to the Muslim Brothers, a missionary was a major agent of cultural imperialism and therefore a chief object of their criticism. “It was natural,” remembers al-Bannâ, “that there should be a clash between the two [Brothers and mis-

92 93 94

Richard Mitchel, The Society of the Muslim Brothers (London, 1969), 211–12. Ibid., 212. Ibid., 5. See also Haydar, Mudhakkarât Hasan al-Bannâ, 22 and Bishrî, al-Muslimûn,

471. 95

Haydar, Mudhakkarât Hasan al-Bannâ, 78–79.

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sionaries] in view of the fact that one of them defends Islam and the other attacks it.”96 In the early 1930s, the Society of Muslim Brothers organized a campaign against missionary work in Egypt. The goal of the campaign was to discourage parents from Christian missionary schools. The Society, therefore, publicized the incidents of Muslim girls mentioned above as “forcibly converted to Christianity.”97 Secondly, they sought to influence government policy.98 The First General Conference of the Society of Muslim Brothers (May 1933) concerned itself primarily with the issue of Christian missionary activity and the means of combating it. A letter was sent to King Fu"âd outlining the Society’s belief in the necessity of having a grip on the activities of the foreign missionaries.99 Thirdly, practical measures were taken by appointing affiliated committees in various districts over the country. The committees were meant to warn the inhabitants of villages and areas where missionary services were said to exist, especially the Canal Zone and in Al-Bahr al-Saghîr area.100 The Society embarked upon creating small-scale projects for Muslims. Immediately after the case of conversion at Salâm Protestant School in al-Manzala, a small town nearby Port Said (mentioned above), the society’s branch in the town interfered to get the girl out of the school.101 Since the girl had converted for economic reasons, the Society thereupon organized a workhouse-school (mashghal) for women, in an attempt to provide a livelihood for the destitute of the area.102 The weekly magazine and mouthpiece of the Muslim Brothers Majjalat al-Ikhwân al-Muslimîn was founded according to the recommendations of the Second General Conference.103 The magazine followed the anti-missionary efforts of the Brothers all over Egypt. It attempted also to arouse the zeal of Muslims through the publication of news, essays and poetry against missions.104 The Muslim

96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

Mitchel, The Society, 231. Cf. also Skovgaard-Petersen, Defining Islam, 155. Lia, The Society of the Muslim Brothers, 112–13. Ibid. See for the text of the letter, Haydar, Mudhakkarât Hasan al-Bannâ, 79–80. Lia, The Society of the Muslim Brothers, 113. Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 472. Mitchel, The Society, 247. Mitchel, The Society, 247. Haydar, Mudhakkarât Hasan al-Bannâ, 161–62, Mitchel, The Society, 13. Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 472–73.

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Brothers’ resistance against missions was one of the factors that earned the Society more credibility and ‘special status’ among the Muslim public of this time.105 As a reaction to the missionary incidents cited above, two different meetings in Jam"iyyat al-Shubbân al-Muslimûn (Y.M.M.A) in Cairo were held by around more than four hundred scholars (including some Azharîs who were not members of the official Corps of Al-Azhar) and other intellectuals concerned with the Islamic affairs. The two meetings were held in reaction to the missionary activities. In the meetings, they decided upon some general resolutions, which could be applied by a committee. The committee was convened under the name of Jam"iyyat al-Difâ" 'an al-Islâm (the Committee for the Defense of Islam). The Committee was headed by Sheikh Muhstafâ al-Marâghî. It gained wide popularity in the whole Egyptian country.106 Muhammad Husayn Haikal, the editor of Al-Siyâsa (one of the newspapers that led the anti-missionary campaign) and Hasan al-Bannâ were members of the Committee. Several committee members held seats in parliament.107 The Al-Azhar High 'Ulamâ convened their assemblies immediately after the establishment of the Committee ( June 1933). As a former rector of Al-Azhar at that time, al-Marâghî was very critical of the role of Al-Azhar. The British Residency noted that al-Zwâhirî, the rector of Al-Azhar and many other scholars felt that their role as the ‘public defenders’ of Islam was being undermined by alMarâghî.108 The Committee statements called the missionaries “wolves in sheep’s clothing” and missionary activities “criminal and abominable.”109 The Committee raised funds and soon established branches in different provincial cities over Cairo.110 In July 1933 an orphanage run by French nuns in Kafr al-Zayyât (al-Gharbiyya province) was besieged.

105

Ibid., 473. Cf. Lia, The Society of the Muslim Brothers, 113. About the meeting see “Muqâwamat al-Mubashshirîn wa Takhûdhul alMuslimîn,” al-Manâr 33,4 (Rabî" al-Awwal 1352/June 1933), Bishrî, al-Muslimûn, 459, Sulaymân, Al-Ajânib, 307–308. Sulymân quotes his information from al-Siyâsah Newspaper, June 23 and July 7, 1933. Cf. “Ancora contro I Missionari protestanti in Egitto,” Oriente Moderno 13,7 (1933), 375–376. 107 Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 26. 108 Ibid. 109 Times (24 June 1933), as quoted in ibid., 26. 110 Ibid. 106

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The French Legations complained and appealed to the Capitulations. A large anti-missionary demonstration was held in Tantâ (another town in al-Gharbiyya province). The British Residency also intimidated the King that the British had the right to protect foreigners in Egypt and could well be pressed by other foreign governments to take action. As a result, the government forbade anti-missionary gatherings including the meetings of the Committee for the Defense of Islam. The High Corps of 'Ulamâ was the only organization which could safely continue the work of collecting donations.111 Carter claims that the Committee advised people to boycott all missionary institutions but also begged them, in at least one sentence—it is not clear which sentence—to remain calm.112 The assumption of the Committee was that doing mission involving peaceful persuasion could be accepted, but no Muslim would willingly be enticed to convert to Christianity. Only coercion could bring about such a change.113 At the propositions of the meetings, the members passed some recommendations to be carried out by the Committee: 1) to submit a petition to King Fu"âd about missionary activities, stressing the importance of diminishing the missionary attacks against Islam and the Muslim community; 2) to send another similar petition to the Egyptian government, asking them to take strict decisions towards the ‘illegal’ missionary work; 3) to send messages to the ministers plenipotentiary, to attract their attention to the danger of the consequences of missionary activities and asking them to use their influence to stop the missionary arguments against Islam and Muslims; 4) to publish a public announcement to the whole Muslim community, warning the people against the enrollment of their children in missionary schools, as well as entering their hospitals and orphanages; 5) to appeal for public subscription in order to establish Muslim institutions instead of that of missionary institutions; 6) to hold a committee, consisting of Muslim scholars and writers for the Islamic propaganda and publications; 7) to write messages to the Christian Patriarchs, stating that the resistance is only directed against missionary attacks on Islam, and the Committee is keen on maintaining a good relationship between Muslims and other religious groups

111 112 113

Ibid., 28. Ibid., 26. Bowie, “The Copts, the Wafd,” 123–124.

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living in the same country on the basis of the national mutual understanding. A similar position was taken earlier by the Jam"iyyat al-Shubbân alMuslimîn (Y.M.M.A), which was founded in 1927–1928. One of the main tasks of the Association was to distribute a publication exhorting Muslims to promote the native schools and to put Muslims on their guard against missionary schools.114 In summer 1930, the central branch of the Association published an article in which it is held that the Egyptian law allows the missionary societies to expound the beauties of their religion, but does not forbid them to attack the religion of the overwhelming majority by insults and criticism. Such attempts create disorders and undesirable dissensions between the two groups of the Egyptian people. In a letter to the Minister of Interior it is added that the movement of reform and revival is disturbed by such attacks on the foundations of Islam.115 Conclusion The public role of the scholars of Al-Azhar as ‘protectors’ of Islam was threatened. As becomes clear from their statements, the scholars were trying to uphold their religious responsibilities towards the Muslim community. The attempts of Al-Azhar against missions can be seen as a response to other anti-missionary religious endeavours. The meetings of Al-Azhar, for example, were held immediately after the establishment of the Committee for the Defense of Islam.116 The petition sent by the Muslim Brothers to King Fu"âd (May 1933) became the forerunner of many such communications to Egyptian heads of government in the name of Islam.117 In the resolutions of their first assembly, Al-Azhar Corps of High Scholars demanded that an appeal be sent to the Egyptian government to take strict measures to save Muslims from the ‘claws’ of missionaries.

114

About the Association, see H. A. R. Gibb, Wither Islam, A Survey of Modern Movements in the Moslem World (London, 1932), 102–170. 115 Ibid., 121–122. 116 Fakhr al-Dîn al-Zawâhîrî, Al-Siyâsa wa Al-Azhar (Cairo, 1945), 315. As quoted in Carter, “On Spreading the Gospel,” 34. 117 The most notable of these is a letter addressed by al-Bannâ in 1936 to King Farûq, his prime minister Mustafâ al-Nahhâs, and the heads of Arab governments, Mitchel, The Society, 13–15.

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In the second manifesto there is no mention of such an appeal. The Committee for the Defense of Islam followed the same line and sent a similar petition to the government. In my view, they too tried to establish affiliated committees to support their anti-missionary campaign in other Egyptian big cities, in an effort to gain the reliability other organizations, such as the Muslim Brothers, had started to earn among the Muslim public. It was the very idea of the Muslim Brothers and the Committee for the Defense of Islam to establish such affiliated branches. Rashîd Ridâ was very critical of the delayed response of Al-Azhar in defending Islam against missionary allegations and attacks. However, his criticism also included scholarly and theological discussions with Al-Azhar. Unlike many of Al-Azhar scholars, Ridâ was not a rejectionist, but he was ready to discuss and argue with missionaries. Moreover, he opened the pages of his Manâr to their questions and inquiries about Islam.118 The Committee for the Defense of Islam had a more moderate position towards the whole affair. The recommendations of the Committee to a great extent reflected nationalistic feelings in Egypt of the time, as did their calls for the national unity between Muslims and Copts. It was of importance for the organizers of the Committee to send messages to the Christian Patriarchs, indicating that the idea of establishing such a committee was an attempt to combat missionary arguments against Islam, and that it was never meant to ruin the relationship between Muslims and the other religious communities living in the same country.

118 See Umar Ryad, “Rashîd Ridâ and a Danish Missionary: Alfred Nielsen and Three Fatwâs from Al-Manâr,” Islamo Christiana 28 (2002), 87–107.

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INDEX OF NAMES AND PLACES Geographical names beginning with al- have been alphabetized under al-, otherwise this prefix has been disregarded. General epithets like Muslims, Christians, Protestants and Roman Catholics have not been included. 'Abaih 234, 236 Abbot, Peter 214 n. 7 'Abdel-Masih, Layla, cf. Jawhara 'Allam 'Abdu, Sheikh Muhammad 298–9 Abdul Hamid, Sultan 149, 259 Abdul Mejid, Sultan 27, 76 Abraham 51, 55, 59 Abu Ghazaleh family 138, 141–2 Abu Karam, Butrus (Maronite Archbishop) 216 Abu Rihab, Khalil 287 Abu Yusuf, Kalim 288 Acre 36 Ada Bazar 234 n. 67 Adam 243 Adrichomius (Christian Cruys) 30, 35 Adulis 99 n. 19 Africa 164, 203, 227, 237–8 Agathangelo, Father 96–7 Aggiuri, Ignazio, bishop of Zahle 104 Aintab 44 'Ain Tura (Antoura) 22 n. 13, 214–5 Akhmim 97 n. 14, 16, 102 n. 27, 107 Al-Azhar (University, Sheikhdom, High Corps of Ulama) 281–307 Al-Bahr al-Saghir 303 Al-Mahmudiyya 302 Al-Salam School and Orphanage (Port Said) 291, 303 Aleppo 24, 30–1, 38, 67–70, 72–3 Alexander, Salomon 87, 193, 196 Alexander, Miss 118 Alexandria 34 n. 66, 69–71, 75, 94 n. 6, 95–6, 98, 100–2, 106–7, 196 n. 12, 198, 296 Ali, Muhammad 69, 99–100, 104–7, 192 'Allam, Jawhara (Layla 'Abdel-Masih) 291 Allen, Mrs. Orson P. Wheeler 246 Allen, Rev. Orson P. 246 Altdorf 200

America (North), American(s) 1–2, 5, 7–9, 11, 14, 43–45, 47 n. 22, 48–9, 55, 59 n. 66, 61–2, 166–7, 176, 185–8, 191, 193, 195, 211–239, 241–61, 263–280, 282, 287, 301 American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM) 5, 7, 9 n. 17, 13, 44–5, 61 n. 72, 62, 211–239, 241–61, 263–280 American Dutch Reformed Mission 8 n. 14 American Mission in Egypt 286 American Press at Malta 217 American School for Girls, cf. Female Seminary (Beirut) American University in Cairo (AUC) 286, 290–1 American University of Beirut (AUB) 162, 263, 300–1 Amman 173 Anatolia, cf. Turkey Anderson, Rufus 13, 216 n. 11, 223–5, 227–32, 236–8, 244–5, 248–9, 271–6, 279–80 Andreas, Friedrich Carl 178 Anglican Bishopric of Jerusalem 147 Anglo-Prussian bishopric 6, 11, 76–7, 154–6, 192–3, 196 Anna, Church of St. ( Jerusalem) 27–8 Anthony’s, St., monastery (Egypt) 25–7, 34, 96 n. 12 Antichrist 35 Antilebanon 38 Apostle’s road ( Jerusalem to Ethiopia) 155 Apostolic Vicariate of Aleppo 67–70, 73, 77 Apostolic Vicariate of Egypt 67–8, 77, 84, 93–111 Apostolic Vicariate of Jerusalem 67–8, 83–5 Aqqad, 'Abbas Mahmud al- 287 Arab Pasha 75

330

index of names and places

Arab Revolt (1936) 130 Arab National Movement 171 Arabia/Arabian Peninsula 8 n. 14, 68, 72 Arabian Mission 286 Arabic language 16, 31, 69–70, 81, 96 n. 12, 115, 126, 147–8, 161–3, 177, 185, 214–6, 265, 269–70, 272–5, 293 n. 55 Araman, Michael 269–7 Ararat, Mount 11, 243 Armenian(s) 7, 9 n. 17, 164, 166, 176–9, 195, 211–239, 241–61, 264 n. 6 Armenian language (incl. the vernacular ashkharhapar) 16, 178, 216, 226, 242–3, 245–7, 249 Armenian Genocide 259 Armenian Question 260 Armenian (Gregorian/Apostolian) Orthodox Church 211–239, 242–3, 255–6, 261 Armenian Protestants 211–239, 241–61 Arminians 226 Artas 116–7, 125–6, 220 Assyrian(s) 8 n. 14, 9 n. 17, 13, 217 n. 17 Assyut 296 Athanasius, Coptic bishop of Jerusalem 98 Athens 24 'Atiyya, Farida 280 n. 56 Aubigné, Jean Henri Merle D’ 228 August, Johann 155 Augustin 226 Australia 172 Austria 1, 90–1, 109, 192 Auvergne, Jean-Baptiste 67, 69–73 Avignon 34 Baalbek 104 Babcock, Arabella 256–7 Babel, Tower of 23 Babylon 38, 52 Badour, Father 32, 38 n. 84 Baghdad 50 n. 30, 290 n. 40 Bailey, Dr H.J. 133–150 Bailey, Mrs. 136 Balfour Declaration 129–30 Banna, Hasan al- 301–2, 304, 306 n. 117 Barber, Alice 279 Barkhausen, Theodore 207

Barnum, Mary Goodell 246 Barnum, Rev. Herman N. 246, 259 n. 45 Baronius, Cardinal 30 Barton, James L. 259 Bashir, Amir 214 Basle Mission (Basler Missionsgesellschaft) 5, 155–6, 194 Basle 155–6, 158, 160 Baschi, R. 101, 103 Bavaria (Landeskirche of ) 166 Bayle, Pierre 31 Baylis, F. 138 n. 15, 139 n. 17, 143 n. 28, 30, 145 n. 33, 146–8 n. 36, 37–42, 44 Bedouins 47 n. 19, 125–7, 129 (Ta"amri), Beersheba 59 Beirut 5, 7, 13 n. 23, 14, 22, 23 n. 17, 24, 32 n. 61, 43–4, 50, 55 n. 50, 58, 142, 144–5, 149, 162, 196, 200–1, 207, 211–239, 263–280, 300–1 Beit Jala 197, 209 Ben Usiah, Isaac 227 Benedict XIV, Pope 98 Bensuef 102 n. 27 Berlin 154, 196 n. 12, 197 n. 15 Berlin Johanneswerk/Johannesstift 201 Berlin Treaty (1878) 136 Berliner Missionswerk 209 Besson, Joseph 19 n. 2, 20 n. 7, 22–26, 28, 30–31, 34–5, 38 Bethel (Germany) 168 Bethlehem 56, 89, 125–7, 162, 167 Bethlehem Deaconess Institutions (Hamburg) 203 Beuggen 158–9, 161, 165 Billotet, P. 23 n. 17 Bir Salem 163 Bir Zeit School 131 Bird, Ann P. 265 Bird, Isaac 213–7, 265 Bodelschwingh, Pastor Friedrich von (the Younger) 168 Bodelschwinghsche Anstalten, Von 168 Bollandists 94 n. 6 Bollandus 30 n. 47 Bolous (Marta), cf. 'Aydah Nu"man Bosnia 78, 84, 86, 202 Bossu, Father Arnauld 67

index of names and places Boston 220, 227, 230, 232, 234–7, 244, 248, 276 Bouillon, Godefroy de 36 Bourquenoud, Father 29–30, 32–4 Bradford, J.R., Esq. 251 n. 23 Brazil 279 Brimond, Albert-Jules 78–9 Bristol 127 Britain, Great (England), British/English 1–2, 7–9, 11, 30 n. 48, 56 n. 52, 75, 81, 91, 113–132, 153–5, 166, 191–3, 201, 214, 233, 260, 271, 276, 282, 288–90 n. 40, 291, 304–5 British and Foreign Bible Society 214 n. 8 Brüderhaus ( Jerusalem) 156 Bucharest 196, 199–200 Bulgary 78, 178, 261 n. 47 Bunsen, Carl Josias von 154, 192, 196 Bush, Caroline E. 253 Bustani, Butrus al- 237 Buttlar, Elisabeth von 206 Bythinia Union 251 n. 23 Byzantine 98 Cadolini, Cardinal 79 n. 18 Caesarea 60 Cairo 23–4, 69, 94 n. 6, 96, 101–2, 104, 107–8, 196 n. 12, 198, 271, 285, 292, 301–2, 304 Calvary 57 Calvin 225, 229 Calvinism/Calvinists 226, 242 Canaan, Dr Taufik 162 Canal Zone 303 Candia 22 n. 9 Canestrari, P. Luigi 106 Capernaum 51 n. 32 Capellari, Mauro (Cardinal prefect) 102–3 Caprano, Archbishop Pietro 103, 105, 107 Capuchins 66, 90, 96 Carey, William 10 n. 20 Carlstadt, Andreas 223 Carmel, Mount 22 Carmelites 66 Carpenter, Rev. F. 143 n. 31 Caucasus 5, 8 Cerri, Urbano 66 Chalcedon, Council of 93 Champion, Vice-consul 109

331

Chasciur, Abramo 104–7 Chateaubriand, François René vicomte de 31, 33 Chemet Allah 163, 167 Chevreuse, Duchesse de 76 China 56 n. 55, 84, 90 Church Missionary Society (CMS) 5–8, 11–12, 50 n. 30, 76 n. 13, 133–150, 155 Church of England 8 n. 14, 77, 135, 192 Church of the East 182 Churchill, Colonel Henry Charles 31 Civezza, Marcellina da 75 n. 12 Civil War (American) 257, 260, 270 n. 29, 276 Clement VIII, Pope 95 Clement, bishop of Baalbek 104 Collegio Urbano 101 n. 25, 102, 104, 106 Cologne 171 Committee for the Defense of Islam 285, 304–7 Confessing Church (Germany) 172 Congregational Church (North America) 244 Cooper, Caroline 115–6, 118, 121–23 Coptic Church, Copts 29, 34, 37, 71, 176, 195, 287, 307 Coptic Catholic Church 6, 93–111, 286 Coptic (language) 94 n. 6 Corboli-Bussi, Giovanni 68, 88–7 Creasy, Mathilda 6, 11–12, 14, 113–132 Cremsirio, P. Giacomo da 97 n. 14 Crete 136 Crimean War 199, 201 Cross, Convent of the ( Jerusalem) 113, 125–7 Crusader period/Crusades 1, 4, 11, 17, 22–3, 35–6, 40, 95 n. 10 Cyprus 22, 68, 73, 96 n. 10, 287, 289 Cyril II 81 Cyril Makarios, Coptic patriarch 107 n. 35 Czech 30 n. 48 Damas, Father A. de 21 n. 8, 24, 27–8, 31 n. 55, 36–40 Damascus 22, 24, 31, 75, 89, 266 n. 10, 290 n. 40

332

index of names and places

Damascus Gate ( Jerusalem) 121 n. 27 Damietta 95 n. 10, 102 n. 27, 296 Damman, Immanuel 180–1 Dan 59 Dandini, J. 22 n. 9 Daniel 52 David 47, 52 De Forest, Dr Henry A. 269, 274–5, 278 Death Sea 47, 50 Demetrio, P. 108 Deutsche Orientmission 175–82, 189 Deutschen Christentumsgesellschaft 155 Dijwi, Sheikh Yusuf al- 299–300 Dikirnis 291 Diocesan School (of the Bishop of Jerusalem) 114 Disselhoff, Julius 199–200, 202–6 Diyarbeker 257 Dodge, Mrs. 266 n. 10 Dominican(s) 4 Doorn 171 Dormition Abbey 169 Dovara, Giovanni 67 Dresden 203 Drovetti, Bernardino (French Consul) 106 Druzes 32, 38–9, 75, 77, 200, 231, 264 n. 6 Dubernat, Father 94 n. 6 Dunmore, Rev. George 245–6 Dusuq 296 Dutau, A. 29 n. 45, 33 n. 64, 34 Dutch 30 n. 48 Dutch Reformed Church (North America) 244 Dwight, H. G. O. 223, 226 Eden 40, 241, 243 Edinburgh (World Missionary Conference) 175, 183–4 Edman, Dr 187 Edwards, Jonathan 45 Egypt 6–7, 8 n. 14, 9, 11, 15, 23, 26 n. 35, 29, 31–3, 67–73, 75–7, 85–6, 93–111, 147, 149, 153, 231, 271, 279, 280 n. 56, 281–307 Egyptian College in Rome 95 Eitel-Friedrich, Prussian Crown Prince 169 Eliano, Giovanni Battista 93–4 Elijah, St. 22

Eliya, Ni'mah E. 147 n. 42 Emery, Susanne Pearce 132 Emmaus 29 En Gedi 46 En (Ain) Karem 89 English language 244–5, 249, 251, 269, 272, 274–6, 278, 280 Esau 47 Erasmus of the Armenians, cf. Peshtimaljian Ethiopia (Abbysinia) 40, 94 n. 6, 96 n. 12, 97, 99 n. 19, 155–6 Euphrates College (Kharpert) 250–2, 256, 258–9 Evangelical Armenian Church 230–1, 233, 242, 260–1 Evangelical (Armenian) Church in Kharpert 247, 255–6 Evangelical Church in Beirut 235–6 Evangelical Lutheran Church of Jordan 162 Evangelical Palestine Mission 151, 166 Evangelische Jerusalem Stiftung 166 Evangelischen Vereins Syrischen Waisenhauses e.V. 151 n. 1, 165 Eve 243 Everett, Eliza 269–70, 277 Ezbakia 286 Ezekiel 49, 60 Fahham, Sheikh Muhammad Abdel-Latif al- 293 Fallscheer, Rev. Christian 135–8, 141–2, 147 Farciut 102 n. 27, 107 Farshft 97 n. 14 Faruq, King (Egypt) 306 n. 117 Female Seminary (Beirut) 14, 231, 263–280 Female Seminary (Kharpert) (also Girls’ School/Seminary, Women’s Seminary) 247, 250, 256–7 Ferretti, Mastai 87 (cf. also Pius IX) Fermo, Bernardino da 75 n. 11 Filonardi, Archbishop die sua Santità 105 Finn, Elizabeth Ann 114, n. 5, 115, 118, 120–7 Finn, James 113 n. 3, 114 n. 4, 6, 123–7 Fiske, Pliny 45 n. 8, 212, 214–5, 217 Fliedner, Caroline née Bertheau 191

index of names and places Fliedner, Friederike née Muenster 191 Fliedner, Georg 198 n. 23, 204 Fliedner, Theodor 11, 191–202, 205 Fleuriau, Father 20 n. 7 Florence, Council of 93 Forster, Miss 118 Fouches of Chartres 30 n. 47 France/French 1, 9, 26 n. 34, 29, 35–6, 56 n. 52, 76, 80–1, 87–91, 106, 136, 164, 172, 185, 193–4, 199, 201, 275–6, 305 Francis, St. 95 n. 10 Francis Xavier 24 n. 24 Franciscan(s) 4, 6, 11, 14, 24, 65–92, 93–111 Franciscan Custody of the Holy Land 4, 6, 65–92, 96 n. 10 Fransoni, Cardinal 77–9 Frauen-Verein für christliche Bildung des weiblichen Geschlechts im Morgenlande (Morgenländische Frauenmission) 197 n. 15 Frederick William IV (Friedrich Wilhelm) 154, 191–21, 196–8 Freiburg 183 French Revolution 5 Fu"ad, King (Egypt) 292, 303, 305–6 Fulayfil, Coptic Archbishop Anthony 98 Gabriel VII, Coptic patriarch 94 Gabriel VIII, Coptic patriarch 94–5 Galilean Orphanage 163 Galilee 24, 34 Gates, Caleb F. 259 Gaza 50, 52 Germany/German 1, 8, 10–13, 30 n. 48, 89, 151–174, 175–189, 191–209, 218 German Hospital in Rome 206 Gerusalemme, Giuseppe Maria da 97 Gethsemane 57 Ghali, Basilio 103–4 Ghali, Francesco 101–4 Ghali, Gregorio 103 Ghali, Sergius 101, 103 Ghali, Tobio Cirillo 103 Gheregziabhier, Abune Tobia Ghiorghis 99 n. 19 Ghunaym, Mahmud 289 Ghunaym, Nazla Ibrahim 291 Giard, Luce 20 n. 5

333

Girge 97 n. 14, 101 n. 26, 102 n. 27, 107 Giuaid, Apostolic Vicar Maximus 99–111 Giusti, Constantino 88 Gobat, Samuel 6, 7, 87, 114 n. 6, 156, 196–7, Gobat, Mrs. 127–8 Godet, Father 25 Golden Gate ( Jerusalem) 35 Gondar 97 Goodell, Abigail P. 265 Goodell, William 213, 217–8, 220–2, 225, 230, 246, 265 Göppingen 156 Göttingen 178 Gordon, Gil 173 Goudard, J. 32 n. 60 Gracia, daughter of Vida 121 Grant, Asahel 45 n. 8 Greek 57, 81, 195, 216, 232 n. 58 Greek Catholic, cf. Melkite Greek Orthodox Church 165, 202, 211, 217, 220, 225, 232, 236–7 Gregory XIII, Pope 94–5 Gregory XVI, Pope 73 n. 9, 110 Gregory, Rufka 269 Groves, A.N. 50 n. 30 Guasco da Solero, Perpetuo 68, 71, 100 Guedella, Jemima 115 n. 9 Habdelgadus, Cirillo Giorgio 101 n. 26 Haddad, dr h.c. Daoud 162 Haifa 50, 55, 132, 167, 203 Haikal, Muhammad Husayn 304 Hall, J. R. L. 138 n. 15, 140 n. 20, 143 n. 28, 30, 146–8 n. 36, 37–41, 44 Hamburg 203 Hamlin, Cyrus 223, 225, 227, 251 Hammad family 138 Hammad, Hajjah Layla 150 Hanauer, Canon J. E. 113 n. 2 Hannover (Landeskirche of ) 166 Harding, Lucy 114–5 Harz, Bertha 207 Hasafiyya Society for Charity (Sufi) 302 Hasbayya 232, 234–6, 237 Hashim, Labiba 280 n. 56 Hawran 23 Hazor 51 n. 32

334

index of names and places

Hermannsburger Mission 13, 175, 170 n. 20, 182–89 Hermon, Mount 232 Hermopolis 107 n. 35 Herod 151 Herodot 31 n. 53 Hilwan 285 Hitler 167 Hohenzollern, House of (Von) 170 Holy Land (cf. also Palestine) 4, 10–14, 17, 19–41, 43–63, 65–92, 113–132, 151–174, 191–209 Holy Sepulchre, Church of the 56–7, 89 House of Industry for Jewesses ( Jerusalem) 116 Hubaich, Yusuf (Maronite Patriarch) 214–6 Husayn-McMahon Correspondence 129 Husayni, Abdel-Qadir Musa Kazim al290 Hussein, Taha 291 Hutington, Theresa 257 India 203 Ignatius of Loyola 19, 24, 28, 31 Ignazio Gatan, Greek-Melkite patriarch 104 Ingoli, Franceso 66–7 Iraq 8 n. 14, 217 n. 17, 290 n. 40 Isma"il ibn Hajj Ahmed Lifta 126 Ismain, Sheikh 126 Isna 97 n. 14 Israel, Zaki 291 Israel/Israelites (Biblical) 47, 51, 55 Israel (modern state) 173, 264 n. 6 Istanbul/Constantinople 7, 44, 80, 89, 109, 135, 138–9, 142, 144–5, 149, 198, 207, 211–239, 242–8 Isaac 51 Italy/Italian 26, 28 n. 40, 30, 89–91, 99 Izmir, cf. Smyrna Jacob 47, 51 Jacob, son of Vida 121 Jael 47 Jaffa 35, 50, 55, 89, 136, 163, 236, 271 Jaffa Gate 126 Jaure (Yaure), Lazarus 13 n. 23, 183–7 Jericho 46, 50

Jerome, St. 22, 31 Jerusalem 6–7, 11, 14, 24–8, 34–6, 50, 52–3, 55–60, 67–8, 75–83, 87–91, 96, 98, 103, 113–132, 147, 151–174, 191–209, 212–3, 215, 231, 271, 290 n. 40 Jerusalem and East Mission ( J&EM) 132 Jerusalem Literary Society 114 n. 4 Jerusalemsverein 165–6, 204 Jessup, Henry H. 213 n. 5, 264, 266 n. 10, 267, 270, 275–6, 278 Jesuit(s) 4–6, 10, 14, 19–41, 66, 71, 90, 93, 94 n. 6, 216 Jesus Christ 21, 35, 37, 40, 45–6, 48, 53–8, 66, 75, 94, 95 n. 10, 123, 156, 161, 182, 194, 212, 278, 280, 287, 289–90 Jews/Jewish 6, 8 n. 14, 11–12, 14–15, 22, 34, 38, 45, 49, 52, 53 n. 45, 56, 60, 62–3, 76 n. 13, 94 n. 5, 100, 113–132, 152, 154, 173, 176–8, 193, 212–3, 220, 227, 242, 264 n. 6, 266 Jirja 96 n. 12 Job 23 John, Kingdom of Priest 41 John, Lateran Church of St. (Rome) 26 John, St. Climacus 31 John, St. of Damascus 22, 31 John, the Order of St. 199, 201 John XI, Coptic patriarch 93 John XIV, Coptic patriarch 94 John XV, Coptic patriarch 96 John XVI, Coptic patriarch 94 n. 6, 95 John XVII, Coptic patriarch 99 Johnston, F. F. 292 Jonah 29 Jordan 23, 162, 264 n. 6 Jordan River 50 Joseph of Paris, Father 96 Josephus, Flavius 31 n. 53, 34, 49 n. 25 Judean desert 60 Judaism 53, 54 n. 48, 118, 123 Jullien, M. 22 n. 14, 23, 26–7, 31–4, 36 n. 78, 39 Jûne 58 Kafr al-Zayyat 304 Kaiserin Auguste Viktoria Foundation 169

index of names and places Kaiserswerth 3 n. 1, Kaiserswerth Deaconesses 6, 11, 163, 191–209 Kappes, Heinz 172 Karey, El- (Al-Kirrah), ”ukri 143–4 Keserwan 214 Khacadourian (Eutudjian), Apissoghom 230, 233 Khallaf, Sheikh Abdel-Wahhab 286 Kharpert (Harpoot) 7, 14, 41, 241–61 Kharpert Evangelical Union 247 Kharpert Seminary (cf. also Euphrates College) 248–52 Khashur, bishop Abraham 100 Khirbet Kanafar 173 Khoi 176 King, Jonas 213–7, 221 n. 27, 232 n. 58, 237 Kisrwan 39 Kitto, John 50–1 Kollek, Teddy 151 Kurds/Kurdish 175–189, 243 Ladino 115 Lamartine, Alphonse de 31 Lammens, H. 28, 33 n. 64 Latif, Mahmud 287–8. Latin 30 n. 48, 57, 67, 74, 85, 98, 99–100, 110, 216 Latin patriarchate of Jerusalem 6, 11, 68, 74, 85, 87 Latroun 30 n. 47 Lazarist(s) 5–7, 14, 67, 71, 157 Lebanon/Lebanese 5, 29, 31–3, 50, 58, 102, 104, 136, 157, 173–4, 211–239, 263–280 Leo XII, Pope 100, 103–5, 215 Leo XIII, Pope 107 Lepsius, Johannes 179–80 Litani Valley 28–9, 32, 34 Livorno 106 Lodi, Paulo di 95–6 London 120, 154–5, 196, 214 n. 8 London Missionary Society 76 n. 13 London Society for Promoting Christianity among Jews (LJS) 76 n. 13, 155, 193–6 Loreto 26 n. 35, 28 Louis, St. (King Louis IX) 22, 35–6 Lubeck, Arnold of 30 n. 47 Ludwigsburg Karlshöhe 168 Luther, Hans 170 n. 53

335

Luther, Martin 157, 218, 223, 225, 228–9 Lutheran/Lutheranism 87, 242 Lutheran American Mission(s) 183–8 Lutheran Church in Jerusalem 169–170 Lüttichau, Siegfried Graf von 207 Lydde 30 n. 47 Macarius, Monastery of (Egypt) 96 n. 12 Mahabad 12, 175–189 Maimbourg, Louis 36 Malik al-Kamil, Sultan al- 95 n. 10 Malta 5, 22, 50 n. 30, 99, 216–7, 247 Manazar 258 Mandate Period (Palestine) 128–32, 171–2 Mann, Oskar 178 Mansur, Kamil 286 Manzalah 291 Masada 49 n. 27, 50 n. 31 Maraghi, Sheikh Mustafa al- 283, 285–6, 299, 304 Maraghi, Yustus 97–8 Mardin 279 Mark, St. (Church of ) 95 Mark VII, Coptic patriarch 99 Maronite Church, Maronites 36, 102, 200, 214–6 Marseilles 88 Marshall, Miss 291 Marsovan 251 Martin, Father Maurice 20 n. 7, 32 n. 60 Martinis, R. de 71 n. 6 Mary, the Virgin 21–23, 289 Matthew III, Coptic patriarch 96 Matthew IV, Coptic patriarch 95 Maurer, Karl 182 Maximus Giuaid (Zuwayd), Apostolic Vicar 99–111 McCaul, Miss 118 Mea Shearim 152 Mecca 52 Melanchthon 225 Melkite (Cairo) 101, 108–9 Mesopotamia 4, 23 Metoualis/Metualis (Shiites) 32, 39 Meusebach, Karl Freiherr von 199 Miami University 44 Milan 30 Milani, Serafino 76 n. 13

336

index of names and places

Millerites 49 n. 25 Minor, Clorinda 49 n. 25 Moab 23 Mohammed 31, 194, 283–4, 286, 289, 294 Moldavia 78, 199 Montaldo, bishop of 106 Montana 89 Montefiori, Lady and Sir 115 n. 9 Moscou 80 Moses 47 Mosul 44, 177 Moriah 57 Munuf 290 Muristan 169 Muslim Brothers Society 285, 301–4, 306–7 Nablus 8, 11–12, 133–150 Nacchi, Father 22 n. 10–11–13, Nagade 107 Nagadi, Rosa Sad 101 n. 26 Nahhas, Prime Minister (of Egypt) Mustafa al- 287, 306 n. 117 Naples 24, 89 Napoleon 153 Nasser, Salwa 280 n. 57 National Socialism/NSDAP 172 Nativity, Church of the 56 Nau, Michel 19 n. 2, 20 n. 7, 22 n. 1, 22 n. 12, 24–6, 30–2 (nts. 47, 50, 58), 35, 39 Naumann, Friedrich 179, 183 n. 30 Nazareth 23–4, 33, 35, 47, 50, 128, 163, 271 Near East Relief 9, n. 17, 166–7 Nebo, Mount 23 Néret, Charles 22, 25, 30 n. 47, 36 Nero 34 Nestorian Christians, cf. Syriac Christians Netherlands 171 Neuendettelsau 203 New York 43 Nicodemus 22 Nicolayson, Rev. J. 126 Nicomedia 234 n. 67 Nicosia 89 Niebuhr, Carsten 31 Niemann, Hans 151 n. 1 Nile 100 Noah (language of ) 243 Nogent, G. De 31 n. 53 Nu"man, 'Aydah (Marta Bolous) 291

Oertzen, Detwig von 176–182 Olivet/Mount of Olives 57, 60 Pacific 260 Palestine/Palestinian 4–7, 11–12, 21–39, 43–63, 65–92, 96 n. 10, 113–132, 151–174, 191–209, 212–3, 215, 264 n. 6, 271, 290 Paris 174, 195 Parisian Augustinian Fathers 128 Parsons, Levi 45 n. 8, 212 Parvilliers, Adrien 25, 26 n. 34 Paul, Apostle/St. 22, 54, 60 Paula, St. 22 Paulat, Sister 181 Paulicians 243 Paxton, John D. 226 Perponcher, Graf 168 Persia/Iran 5, 7, 8 n. 14, 9 n. 17, 14, 44, 175–89, 217 n. 17 Peshtimaljian, Krikor (Gregory) 221 Peter, Apostle/St. 60 Pflanz, Richard 201 n. 35 Philippines 9 Philippopel 178 Philistaeic Orphanage 163 Phoenician 33 Pietism 153 (South German) Pilgermissionanstalt St. Chrischona 155–6, 158, 196 n. 13 Pilz, Charlotte 163, 206 Pius IV, Pope 93 Pius VI, Pope 99 n. 19 Pius VII, Pope 67 Pius IX, Pope 68, 87 Poiresson, Nicolas 20 n. 7, 22 n. 9–13–16, 24 n. 26, 25–6, 31 n. 52, 33, 35, 37–8 Polish 30 n. 48 Port Said 291–2 Portogruaro, Bernardino da 75 n. 11, 76 n. 13 Potsdam 168 Potsdamer Mission 182 Presbyterian Board of Missions (American) 7, 9 n. 17, 264–280 Presbyterian Church (North America) 244, 270 Princeton Theological Seminary 44 Procida, Daniele de 107–110 Propaganda Fide (Congregatione de) 4, 14, 65–92, 93–111, 215 Protestant congregation of Nablus 141, 143–4

index of names and places Protestant congregations of Palestine 147–8, 165, 198 Protestant parish of Bucharest 199 Prussia 154, 169, 192–3, 196–8, 200–1, 204 Prussian Hospice ( Jerusalem) 197 Prussian Union 154 Qannubin 214 Quaresmius, Francesco 30, 31 n. 53, 35 Quien, Michel Le 31 n. 53 Rama 24 Ramleh 61, 89 Rauhes Haus 201 Raumer, Von 198 n. 19 Reclus, E. 31 Reformation 221–3, 228–9 Reichhardt, Gertrud 196 Reichhardt, Heinrich 196 Renan, Ernest 31 Red Sea 29 Redeemer, Church of the ( Jerusalem) 169, 202 Rhenish Missionary Society 194, 204 Rhine 158 Rhine Province (Landeskirche of ) 166 Rida, Sheikh Muhammad Rashid 285, 298–301, 307 Righet, Matta 101, 106–8 Rignon, Fulgence 74 n. 10 Röbbelen, Karl 183–4, 186 Robinson, Edward 50–1 Rodriguez, Christoforo 93 Rogers, Mary Eliza 126 n. 50 Rogers, Thomas, Edward 126 Romania 199–20 Rome 22 n. 9, 26, 65, 72, 89, 93–111, 206, 214 n. 8, 215 Rosetta 96, 102 n. 27 Rousset, Father 22 n. 13 Rundall, J. W. 140 n. 20 Russia 80, 91, 154, 185, 192–3, 201 Russian Orthodox Church 80, 202 Russian Orthodox mission(s) 2, 3, 80–1, 87 Russo-Turkish War (1877–1878) 258 Ryllo, Father 23 Sacy, Sylvestre de 31 Sa"id, Abdel-Hamid 287–8 Saida 200–1

337

Salafi movement(s) 285, 299 Salemi, Francesco Maria da 97 Salim, Sheikh Abel-Majid 293 Salt 144 n. 32 San Stefano de Mori 107 Sandwich Islands (Hawaii) 227 Sarah Society of Jerusalem 113, 115–125 Sarajevo 202 Sardinia 90 Sarepta 22 Sasso, François 94 Saudi Arabia 299 Saydnaya 22, 30 n. 47 Schauffler, William 227 Schmul, Mirza 177 n. 9 Schneider, Benjamin 221 Schneller compound 152 Schneller, Johann Ludwig 7, 11–12, 14, 151–174 Schneller, Ludwig 151 n. 1, 166, 168–72 Schneller, Theodor 151 n. 1, 166 Schneller, Hermann 151 n. 1, 168, 171–2 Schneller, Ernst 172 Schreiber, August Wilhelm 204 Scottish (Presbyterian) Mission 8 n. 14, 12 Sephoris (Saffuriya) 128 Seymour, Hattie 253 Sha"lan, Al-Sawi 289 Shidyaq, As'ad 215 n. 11, 237 Shinnawi, Sheikh Ma’mun al- 296 n. 67 Sicard, Claude 20 n. 7, 25–7, 29, 30 n. 47, 31–2, 34 n. 66, 37, 94 n. 6 Sidon 22, 24, 26 n. 34, 35, 47, 50 Sidon Girls’ School 267 Sidqi regime 285–6 Silesia 200 Siloah 57 Simeon Stylites 31 Sinai 33 Smith, Eli 215 n. 9, 217–9, 223, 225–6, 232, 236, 265 Smith, Sarah Lanman 265–6, 269 n. 22 Smyrna (Izmir) 196 n. 12, 198–200, 207, 247 Social Protestantism (Germany) 158–60, 168, 174, 196 Society for Promoting Female Education in the East (FES) 114

338

index of names and places

Solero, Bonaventura da 74 n. 10 Sollerius, Jean Baptiste 94 n. 6 Somaglia, Cardinal 215 South Korea 9 Spa 169 Spain/Spanish 26, 30 n. 48, 89–91, 99, 115 Spittler, Christian Friedrich 155–6, 196 n. 13 Stanhope, Lady Hester 58, 63 Stephanos, Armenian Patriarch 230–1 Sterry, Miss 117–122, 125 St. Chrischona, cf. Pilgermissionanstalt St. Luke’s Hospital (Nablus) 133–150 Suakin 96 n. 12 Sudan 279 Sumatra 204 Sunni 220 Suruya Pasha 125–7 Switserland/Swiss 6, 11, 155–6, 166, 167, 228 n. 47 Sykes-Picot Agreement 129 Syria/Syrian 4, 5, 11, 14, 21–39, 44, 47, 50 n. 31, 61 n. 72, 62, 68, 72, 75 n. 10, 77, 85, 96 n. 10, 136, 157, 164, 192, 201, 211–239, 263–280, 301 Syria Mission (ABCFM) 263–280 Syriac (Classical) 185 Syriac, Modern (Modern Aramaic) 16, 178, 185 Syriac Christians (Church of the East, see also Assyrians) 176–8, 182–8 Syriac Protestants 177 Syrian Orphanage (Syrische Waisenhaus) 6, 14, 151–174, 196 n. 13 Syrian Orthodox (Church) 9 n. 17 Syrian Protestant College, cf. American University of Beirut Ta"amri Bedouin 125–7, 129 Tahta 97 n. 14, 101 n. 25, 102 n. 27, 107 Talbiyah 124–5 Talitha Kumi 163, 196–9, 201 n. 36, 206, 209 Tanta 296 Tanzimat Reforms 149 Teague, Heather 130–1 Teague, John 130 Tiberias/Lake Tiberias 8 n. 14, 50, 53 n. 45 Titov, M. 80

Titus 34 Thebes 107 n. 35 Theodore Abukarim, Coptic patriarch 99 n. 19, 101–3 Theodore of Cyrrhus 31 Thomas, Mary 127–8 Thomson, Mrs 266 n. 10 Thomson, William McClure 11, 43–63 Thomson, William Hanna ( Jr) 44, 47–8 Tournebize 32 n. 57 Trapani, P. Giuseppe da 109 Trebizond 234 n. 67, 258 Trente, Council of 72 Tripoli 301 Tripoli Girls’ School 267 Tukhi, Rufa"il al- 97–8 Turkey, Turkish, Turk 4, 7, 11, 38, 52, 75, 164, 177, 181, 185, 195, 211, 217 n. 17, 227, 229, 234, 241–61, 284 Turkish language 252 Tyre 49, 50 Unitarian(s) 127 United States, cf. America Uniate movement/Uniate churches 4, 6, 16–17 Urbanus VIII, Pope 95–6, 99 Urmia 7, 44, 176–7, 188 Urlsperger, Samuel 155 Uspenskji, Porphirji 80 Van Lennep, Henry J. 45 n. 9, 48 Vansleb, Jean Michel 31 n. 53 Vatican I, Council of 81 Vendôme 96 Venice/Venetian 22 n. 9, 24, 89, 96 Via Dolorosa 162 Vida/Violah 121, 123–4 Virguletta, Friar Antonio da 96 n. 12 Vitry, Jacques de 31 n. 53 Volney, Constantin François de Chassebœuf, comte de 31 Wafd Party (Egypt) 285 Walachia 199 Wali, Sheikh Husayn 293 Walid, Sahyun 97 n. 16 Way, Lewis 214 Weimar Republic 169 n. 53

index of names and places West, Maria A. 254 n. 29, 255 n. 30 West Indies 279 Wheeler, Susan Brookings 244–5, 247 n. 10, 254–5 Wheeler, Rev. Crosby H. 244–52, 255–6, 258–9 Wichern, Johann Heinrich 195, 201 William I (Wilhelm), Emperor 169 William II (Wilhelm), Emperor 169–71, 202–3, 207 Williams, Rebecca 266 Wilson, Hilda M. 131 Weiss, Liberato 97 Wolff, Joseph 177 n. 9 Women’s Board of Missions (American) 257, 276 World War I 8, 9, 166, 169, 271 World War II 167, 172–3, 280 n. 56 Wright, Dr Gaskoin 135–150 Wurttemberg (Landeskirche of ) 156, 166 Yaure (Lazarus), cf. Jaure Yaziji, Warda al- 280 n. 56 Yegheki 256

339

Young Men’s Muslim Association (YMMA) 287, 304, 306 Yusuf, Turkiyya Hassan al-Sayyid 291–2 Zaccheus 46 Zahle 104 Zankaluni, Sheikh Surur al- 287 Zaqaziq 296 Zawahiri, Sheikh al-Ahmadi al282–3, 293, 298, 304 Zeller, Christian Heinrich 158–60, 164 Zeller, John (1891) 134 n. 2, 136 n. 10 Zion 57, 59 Zion, Mount (Protestant Cemetery) 85, 125 Zionism 34, 129–31, 171 Zionsverein 205 Zoar 200 Zuwayd, cf. Giuaid Zwemer, Samuel M. 15 n. 25, 284, 286–9 Zwingle 229